#it's from the file i write drabbles out in that i sometimes put into the actual story

[creaturefeaster]

Wait, I'm genuinely so so curious. what was that one screenshot about where atrox says "oh, you flatter me~"? I'VE ALLLWAYS wondered what that could be about,,, i really gotta know

Oh I remember that dialogue. He's being asked to model for a painting because he's just so purdy :3

[sugaimhome]

next door - jjk

pairing: yandere jungkook x female reader

minors dni !!

genre: smut, fluff, fluff, fluff... mostly pwp

warnings: soft yandere, dom jungkook, sub reader, voyeurism, obsession, stalking?, sex against a wall, mentions of sexual harrasment (? its very very brief), reader has a praise kink, masturbation, videos of jungkook's dick, jungkook likes to please reader. 

word count: 4.8k

summary: Jungkook is obsessed with you. All because of some badly designed architecture and house planning, he’d do anything for you, and when he sees you struggling to orgasm, he takes matters into his own hands... or camera. 

a/n: i have more ideas for this couple and i’ll think i’ll end up writing them as a mini collection. also i think about Jungkook's tattoos 24/7.

drabble

not proof read

Jungkook couldn’t help it. He had tried so many times to put a halt to his weird behaviors. But you had made it so difficult. Too difficult. 

He no longer feels guilt, running his hand up and down his dick as he watches you get changed. From his window, he could see everything that happened inside your room. He witnessed everything from you waking up early in the morning, naked, getting ready, sitting in your makeup chair with your tits out, you had to know you were teasing him. But of course, you didn’t know, because there is no way you’d let that happen. In the evenings when you climbed into bed, sometimes lying there for a while so he could get a good view of your body before you shuffled into the sheets. 

The thing was, he always waited until you’d covered yourself before he came, cum flying onto his stomach and chest, it made him feel less… dedicated? Perverted? He wasn’t sure but this obsession of his was getting out of hand. He called in sick to work on the days you did, just to make sure you were okay, he’d even followed you out on his motorbike before, because it was late and he didn’t want you to get hurt. He'd punched someone for you, and would do it again. His obsession would never put you in danger and that was what prompted him to make his bold move. 

It happened two nights ago, when you pulled up porn on your laptop, trying to get off to it. He had counted 15 videos until you’d found the thing you had wanted to watch, it was a man jerking off. That was it. No woman. No excessive screaming. He respected that about you, you knew what you wanted. Anyways, it was watching you for half an hour, all worked up trying to orgasm that made him make his own video for you. It was him, jerking off, nothing special. Apart from, it was, because, him slipping a small USB stick into your letterbox this morning while you were at work, with the only thing on it being his dick and moans did seem a little more than nothing special. At first, he had thought you weren’t going to play it, and he wouldn’t blame you because he certainly wouldn’t plug a possibly virus-infected USB into his computer, but you had.

He had witnessed your eyes go wide as you saw what was on the stick, he assumed you had the courage to very quickly click onto the file as his dick appeared in full glory on the screen. Was it too much? But you didn’t turn it off, in fact, you reached to play with one of your nipples with your fingers. Jungkook had watched his video enough times to know that when you threw your head back, reaching past the band of your knickers to play with yourself, was the part where he moaned your name. Was it possible that the next time he saw you in your garden, you’d recognise his voice? Hopefully. He watches you, absentmindedly stroking his cock as you get off to his body. You were getting off to him. He was bringing you pleasure. It drove him mad, he was so proud.

When you came, your head was thrown back in ecstasy, the Jungkook on the screen did the same. Though you couldn't see his face, he knew he had looked spent out after ending the recording, it was one of the best orgasms he'd ever had, knowing it was for you.

Though he still wished he could fill your cunt with his seed, really make you his with his smell and his taste, no other man would ever touch you again. You'd be his for eternity.

He was patient as he waited for you to open your eyes from your orgasm, to look at the screen, and hopefully write down the number he was displaying. You do, grabbing your phone from your bedside table and typing something in. A few seconds later, Jungkook gets a notification.

you: your dick is huge 

Jungkook mulls it over for a moment, not wanting to say the wrong thing.

jungkook: imagine it stretching your tight cunt. 

you: please…

He doesn't reply, he wants nothing more than to comply with your wishes. But it would be weird, wouldn't it.

you: how do you know me? Who are you? how do you know that's what I like?

Ah, the question Jungkook knew was coming, the one he had prepared for. 

jungkook: I'm close to you.

Of course, he wasn't emotionally close to you, but physically he was, your houses couldn't have been more than 10 feet apart. He sat there, watching you with a smug smile on his face, for he had cheated the system. That night, he slept happily knowing you were satisfied.

---

Would you have played the USB stick, orgasming on your fingers, if you hadn't known that it had belonged to your next-door neighbor? No you wouldn't have. But you're damn glad your mum brought you that ring doorbell as a housewarming present. You didn't know his name, but you knew who he was the second your phone sent you the notification, you watched him take the USB stick out of his pocket and place it gently through your letterbox, standing there for a second as if waiting for it to fly back at him. What you hadn't expected was his dick. Well you assumed it was his dick, unless it wasn't… but that would have been even weirder, especially after the text messages. You'd saved his name in your phone to "neighbor" the few messages on the chat highly concerning.

The best part was, you weren't going to touch yourself to the video, but after your failed attempt at an orgasm a few days you figured it wouldn't hurt. Your neighbor obviously didn't know you knew, and he wouldn't know you touched yourself to this, there was no way he could. 

One question remained. Why had he put this though your door in the first place? Maybe two questions. How had he known you were desperate for exactly that? Okay, third question. How did he know your name?

That was the thing about Porn, why you couldn't get off to it, it was so vague, any girl could get off on that but him moaning your name, it was personal, made for you, and it was so hot. 

For the past few days, you've hung around outside, taking ages to pile up all your bags from the car. Gardening. Loitering. You hadn't seen him once. 

It hadn't left your mind, that was clear. But when your car broke down one morning, and the garage, probably hearing that you were a woman, just told you to check your oil, the neighbor situation had nearly left your mind. Watching YouTube videos on how to check your car's oil had been the peak of embarrassment for you, at the age of 25, surely you should know this by now. But despite the clear instructions on YouTube, you were too scared to actually mess with your car.

You had two options here.

1.  Call your Dad

2.  Call your non - existent boyfriend

So it had to be your Dad. This was not something you were looking forward to, so when you have his number (unsaved) dialed into your phone, your finger fights your brain against pressing the dial button.

"Hey, can I help?" someone asks from behind you. Your phone goes straight into your pocket, and you turn on your heels to see -

"I'm Jungkook, I live next door." He's smiling, completely innocent.

For days, you'd been spending time out here just to see him, but now he was here you felt so embarrassed and awkward. This man, all floppy haired, arm tucked around a bike helmet, had sent you a video that seemed to boarder on some kind of sexual assault or a form of public indecency. A video that you had enjoyed, got off to, and watched two times since.

"Hi" you manage to force out. Trying to ignore the very attractive ripple of his muscles as he placed his helmet onto the floor. "um, yeah, um-"

You curse yourself, why did you have to be so anxious? He tilts his head at you, oblivious to the fact you knew. "Think my oil is low, but I can't pull the stick out, its stuck"

You cringe at the choice of words, but he only smirks. Tongue darting out to play with his lip ring. Fuck me. You'd have found him attractive on a normal day, anyone would, but with the memory of his dick, him moaning your name-

You stop. Thinking wasn't going to help. He's next to you now, you can hear his breathing. "Do you mind if I have a look?"

You stutter, struggling to find the words but move aside anyway. "Pl-please if you don't mind." 

Heat rushes to your core, your cheeks feeling like they're on fire. As he leans over your car, his hips pressed flush against the metal. "So you know it's this little pully thingy, right?"

You nod, trying to act indifferent as he points towards the yellow ring sticking out of your engine. Gripping the side of your car you watch as he hooks one finger around the loop, using his strength to pull the rod from the tank. His finger-  "Geez, you were right, it was proper jammed in there" 

All you can do is nod. He frowns. "Do you have a tissue?" He looks at you, holding the metal stick between the two of you. Of course you had a tissue, you worked with children, it was compulsory in this line of work. Pulling one from your pocket you hand it to him "Hopefully it doesn't have snot on it" you laugh, only realising your mistake once you've finished your sentence. "Not my snot!" you exclaim. "I work in a primary school!"

He chuckles, slowly running the tissue up the stick. The amount of effort he puts into it has your pussy clenching around the air. Damn. This man had given you one orgasm, without knowing, and you were a mess around him. "No worries, I'm probably immune to kid snot by now anyways"

Your mouth drops open, and he smirks again. "I don't have kids, I babysit for my friend, Namjoon."

Something about him sharing his personal life with you had your stomach erupting into butterflies, you were so grateful he didn't have children. Though picturing him with children had you- 

What was wrong with you? He puts the stick back into the engine, he pulls it out and it's clean. His mouth drops to a frown. "Not a drop." 

He points to a line on the stick "The oil should be up to there at all times" 

"Oh-" is all you can say.

It would take you nearly an hour on the bus to get to work and, after checking your phone, you were only 20 minutes away from starting time. "Shit."

Jungkook, as you had learned his name was, looks upset with himself as he says "I don't have any oil that would be compatible with your car but-" he glances at his bike. "I can give you a lift, if you need one."

A lift. A lift with your dick sharing - moaning your name - neighbor, whilst you were apparently in heat. Nothing could go wrong… right?

"If you have nowhere to be, I'd really appreciate it." You manage to tell him, and his eyes seem to light up in response.

"No problem, I'll go grab my spare helmet" and he's running off into his house whilst you organise all the stuff you'll need for classes today. There's not much and you manage to fit it all into a small tote that you will hope will fit into his bike. Of course it would, that thing was huge, it wasn't the only thing that he owned that was huge. You fidget at the thought of it. Damn this. Jungkook appears from his doorway with another helmet under his arm. "Here put this on" he says, taking the tote from you and chucking it into the small compartment in the back. With the helmet on, you fidget with the straps to make it tighter, watching Jungkook climb onto the front of the bike, he was hot. There was certainly no denying that. 

"Just climb on behind me!" he practically shouts through the helmet. As you climb onto the bike, you read the model name "2022 Harley Davidson sportster s" 

You want to mutter "oh my god" as you climb on, trying to get as far away as possible from Jungkook without falling off the back. "I've never ridden-" you begin, but you're cut off when he reaches a hand behind him, pulling you by the waist so your body is flush against his. Your nipples harden at the contact and you're glad he's got a leather jacket on. 

"Obviously, you'll need to hold me around my waist or you'll fall off the back, where's your work?" 

You relay the address to him, then he starts up the engine. It roars to life and you can feel the vibrations of the massive bike against your core. You want to clench your legs but seeing as Jungkook was currently between them you figured it would be a little too obvious. As the bike pulls off, your arms quickly wrap around his waist, you bury your head into his back as well. You spend the rest of your 15 minute ride like this, though this motorbike was made for speed, Jungkook doesn't seem to be using it and you respect that a lot, as if he was trying to keep you safe.

When you pull up to your school, all the kids in your class have their face up to the window, pointing at the motorcycle as you climb off it. You open the small compartment your tote was in before handing the helmet back to Jungkook.

"Thank you," you tell him, smiling. 

"No worries, I'll grab you some oil today and I'll meet you back here at three?"

"You really don't have to, I've been a burden to you already-"

He cuts you off "I want to, I'll see you then."

He flips his visor down, kicks the metal stick that holds the bike up and starts up the engine. He drives off. You clench around the air and turn on your feet to walk towards the entrance of your school. The children pointing and staring wide eyed at you from your window.

You sprint down the corridor, fearful of being late, but also typing something into your phone as you go. Perhaps it was time to live life on the edge.

You change the name of the contact from "Neighbor" to "Jungkook" and type...

You: thanks for the ride this morning. x

You smile as you enter your classroom, the kids bombarding you with questions to which you didn't know any of the answers. 

---

It's lunch before you hear your phone buzz and as you're sitting alone in your classroom it seems like the perfect timing. 

Jungkook: damn, I should have known you were being too fidgety, do I make you nervous?

You: I was thinking about your cock.

Jungkook: Still want me to stretch your cunt?

you: maybe…

Your door opens and your boss pokes his head around the door. 

Great. Here we go. 

"Good afternoon Y/N" he smiles.

"Good afternoon Taehyung." You try to smile back, sometimes his presence was reassuring, especially after a long day when you'd talk about a student or an upcoming school trip, but right now you wanted him to leave you alone. It was blatant to half the staff here, and to you, that this man would hit on you 24/7 but you tended to brush it off, you weren't interested in workplace shenanigans. 

"So… There's this conference tomorrow-" he begins but your phone cuts him off by buzzing. 

He continues. "I was wondering-" 

Your phone buzzes again.

"If you'd-" 

Buzz. 

"Sorry Taehyung but my car broke down and I won't be able to come, plus I have tons of assessments to mark."

You in fact, had none. He didn't need to know that.

"Ah, no worries." 

And this is where you make your mistake, because in the hopes of getting him to leave by seeming uninterested in his conversation, you pick up your phone and open the messages from Jungkook. It's him jerking off, and it starts up instantly, luckily your phone is on silent but there's something so so unprofessional about sitting here, watching your neighbor jerk off in front of your boss. Something so exhilarating. 

You: my boss is right in front of me.

Jungkook: you like that?

You: he asked me out. I said I would be busy tomorrow.

Jungkook: if you intend to spend it around my dick then you will be.

You clench your legs together, wishing you could appreciate the video without Taehyung's presence. When you look up, he's gone. Guilt overwhelmed your body, you didn't mean to be rude. 

---

Jungkook felt nothing but butterflies watching you wave goodbye to your students before catching the helmet he threw to you and putting it onto your head. Your body so flush to his was honestly a dream and all he wanted to do was either fuck you over the back of the bike right now or wrap you in bubble wrapper so nothing could hurt you on the journey home. His dramatic difference in emotions was slightly overwhelming. What had shocked him most, was that you had known, you would have known from the second you saw him this morning, and you still trusted him enough to get on a motorcycle with him. Trusted him enough to bring you home too. He would do everything in his power to maintain that trust you'd gifted him. When he pulls up outside your houses, he jumps off the bike first, helping you off and somewhat shyly, whilst taking the helmet from your hands, asks "Would you like to come in? Get a take out?" He nearly screams when you nod a yes in response. Exposing his house to you felt very personal, even if its layout was the complete same as yours. 

"I wish I could change mine up like you've done with yours" you comment. 

"You rent?" He asks, and you sigh, which he takes to be a begrudging yes. 

He leads you into his living room then runs into his kitchen to grab you a cold can of diet coke. It was what you were always drinking at home. Your eyes widen at the beverage, he reminds himself that although you know he was the one who sent the video you didn't know he'd been watching you since you moved in. He gulps.

"Thanks." You smile, so sweet, so pretty, Jungkook wants to touch you. "Jungkook, I have some questions."

He nods, knowing that this would have been brought up, he's about to slump down onto his seat before he says. "If it's about the video, I have something that might explain it" 

He nods to his upstairs, where you follow his line of sight. You're hesitant, and he can see why.

"I would never lay a finger on you." he tells you, filling his eyes with sincerity. "Unless you wanted me to." 

You must see the intensity in his eyes as you plop the can down on his table before following behind him up the stairs. "This better not be some massive murder plan." You say. 

"You've been watching too much true crime." 

This pulls a laugh from your throat that has Jungkook relaxing. Two minutes later, he's sat on his bed, watching you stare though his window into your bedroom. 

"Oh my god" you exclaim, shocked. "You watch me?" 

He promised himself he wouldn't lie to you. "It started like a year ago. In covid, when I was alone all day and you were working from home. Sometimes I'd just sit here and watch you tutor your kids, almost as something to do, I was so bored."

You turn to look at him, understanding on your features. He blushes as he says the next thing "The next thing I knew I was starting to care about you, a woman who didn't know my name nor that I shared this connection of loneliness with."

He looks you in the eye. "I told myself I'd go wherever you were, I'd follow you late at night when I was worried you'd get hurt. I punched a guy in a bar once, the one that grabbed your breast"

Your eyes go wide, you remembered that. "Then I got sexualy frustrated and I'd jerk off to you getting changed or you lying in bed. It's so weird, I know. I tried to stop."

Looking up at you, he sees that he is not yet expected to stop talking, so he keeps going. "The other night, when you spent hours watching porn, to have the most amateur orgasm of your life, I felt I knew what you needed, I'd watched it all."

He put his head into his hands. Speaking it out loud made it sound so much worse. He was so embarrassed, so perverted.

"I understand," you whisper to him. "You knew what I needed"

"Look, Y/N I'm so sorry, I understand if you need to report me to the pol-"

You cut him off by kissing him. Your lips are so soft against his own he moans into your mouth. His hands are on you instantly, pulling you closer to him so you're between his legs, your legs pressing against his crotch. 

You pull away from him, holding his face in yours and saying something Jungkook would never forget "For some reason, I trust you Jungkook" you sigh, turning away from him with a blush covering your whole upper body. "Want you to do what you said on messages" 

He smirks, pulling his lip ring between two teeth. "Want my cock to stretch your pussy?" He asks. You fidget and he knows that's good. "Wanna go dumb from the pleasure?" He's standing over you now, walking the two of you backwards so your back is against the wall. He kisses your neck, feels your pulse under his lips. "You know I can bring you that orgasm you've been needing" 

The words just keep falling from his mouth, pure filth but it seems to have you turned on as you throw your head back, gripping onto his bicep as he reaches up though your cute little teachers blouse to play with one of your tits, squeezing your nipple between two of his fingers. "What do you want first, Y/N. My cock or my fingers."

"Your cock, please Jungkook"

He nearly nuts then, hearing his name fall from your lips like it was supposed to, it was so clear in that moment you were meant to moan his name. "Gonna make you moan my name so much it's the only one you remember" 

He'd wanted to take this slow. Wanted to savour you and never forget your sounds but you were making that hard. "If you're so desperate for my cock first, where do you want me to fuck you?"

"Here" you sigh as he unbuttons your blouse, pulling it over your head, unstrapping your bra and attaching his lip to one of your nipples. 

"Want it against the wall? What a slut."

You moan. It's so guttural and from so deep in your throat that Jungkook's already hard cock twitches in response to it. 

"Take off your pants" he demands of you, worried he's bossing you about too much but you do as you're told reaching down to unbutton your trousers. He flings his jumper to the other side of the room and pulls his joggers down in record speed. When you turn back to him, you're pressed against the wall again, your body naked between him. You're going to drive him mad. 

Your hands are running up and down his chest, tracing over his muscles. "Really want your cock Jungkook" 

He groans. Looking down between the two of you to watch his cock rest against your lower stomach. It's a good job he'd masturbated earlier or he would have busted at the sight of it. "Are you ready for me?" He asks you. Pushing your legs apart with his thighs and swiping a finger through your folds and applying pressure to your clit to test how wet you were. 

"Been dripping since you sent me that video earlier" you admit to him. 

"I'll go slow, I don't want to hurt you." He grips the base of his cock, using his hand to guide himself through your folds, beginning to push up into you gently. You collapse forward, using Jungkook's body to support you, biting onto his shoulder trying to keep from shouting out. "I'm stretching your cunt so well, told you I would"  

You felt exquisite around his cock, so warm and tight and wet. "Tell me I feel good," Jungkook urges you. Wanting to hear some praise. 

"You fit so well. Feel so good. You're so big" you tell him all at once, he'd fully bottomed out now, his hip bones touching your stomach. 

"Does it hurt?" He asks you and you shake your head. "Let me see your face" you fall back against the wall, detaching your mouth from Jungkook's shoulder and appreciating the mark you'd left there.

"Gonna move now" he warns you, pulling all the way out before pushing back in again, only watching your face contort into pleasure, your eyebrows pulling together. "You're so beautiful, Y/N" he peppers kisses across your face and nose. 

He could hardly believe you were wrapped around his cock right now. This had been everything he had wanted and more. There was one problem, now that Jungkook had you once, he would never know how to let go of you again. He couldn’t see anything beyond you in his future. He’s pulled back to reality with your hand gripping his bicep. You’re moaning his name “My gosh Jungkook please don’t stop” you tell him, he was never going to stop, he’d do whatever you wanted him to do if you just asked. Fuck you forever if you needed him too. 

"Fuck, Jungkook I'm so close" his name falling from your lips was like a promise, his name was meant for your lips.

"Where do you want me?" He asks you, worry in his features, he'd forgotten about a condom. 

"Don't worry" you tell him, caressing his face in your hands. "I'm on the pill and clean"

For a moment, Jungkook was disappointed, he wanted to fill you with his seed, you'd be all his then, if you were full of his child, everyone would know he had planted it there. God, he needed to sort his thoughts out. "I'm clean too" he tells you, his last check up had been years ago but he hadn't had sex since. "I'm close" he groans. "Cum with me Y/N"

"Can't hold it Jungkook" you whine, your hands leaving his face and scratching down his chest, you place your hand over his abs, feeling them twitch under your hands as he thrusts into you. 

"Be a good girl Y/N, hold it." He demands of you. He's so proud when you do as you're told, gripping onto his shoulders as a distraction. "We cum together on one okay?"

You nod, but Jungkook sees your eyes widen in panic. "Five" 

He reaches down, playing with your clit and smiling when you try to squirm away.

"Four"

Jungkook moves a hand away from your waist, using it to pull roughly at one of your tits. Your eyes watering.

"Three"

"Jungkook, please." You beg, he ignores you.

"Two" he smirks. It was so good having you in his control.

"One"

He watches as your eyes roll back, his cock being sucked into your pussy as it twitches and squeezes around him. His cum shooting into you and hitting your cervix makes you shake. You can hardly hold yourself up anymore. Legs shaking, hands gripping onto Jungkook's ass, holding him deep inside of you, you're completely spent out. 

"Shit" you mumble, still twitching. Jungkook uses his thumb against your neck to feel your pulse, he wasn't sure why he needed to feel the pace of it, how it was running, all because of him. 

"I did this" he reminds you, in case you'd already forgotten. "I made you cum"

"Mmh, all you Jungkook" He's holding you up as you slump against him, his cock going soft inside of you. "Never had a vaginal orgasm before" you admit, your cheeks burning, you'd always assumed it was a fault you had, you'd faked so many times.

"I'll always make you cum" he said. "It's my main priority." he runs a thumb over your cheek, smiling softly when he says  "You're my main priority now, i'll make sure you're always comfortable, and cumming"

[comically-callous]

Sorry to bother you, but I saw your asks/requests were open, and saw that you write for Gambit, I read through your works and love how you write him! I was wondering if maybe you would be willing to do a drabble/ficlet with Gambit x reader? Where reader has ADHD and anxiety? Her mutant power is Empathy, but she only feels other's emotions; can't tell why they're feeling them, and the combo kinda makes her a people pleaser type who struggles to say no to things, so ends up with extra work from other people all the time, kinda burning the candle at both ends until she basically has a mental/physical breakdown? I just really wanna see Gambit being super loving/protective.

If you don't want to/it isn't in your wheelhouse, by all means just ignore me, sorry again to bother you! Have a great day/night!

We love a Gambit request 😋

Remy LeBeau x fem!mutant!Reader

Warnings: reader cries and also blames herself for all of her problems 😗✌️

A/n: Man, idk what to put here sometimes, y’all. Reader has a regular job (not an X-Man or anything). And uhh, um, erm requests are open 👍

This whole mess was your fault. All of it. All of the piled up work, and the deadlines you just knew you wouldn’t be able to meet, and the dread over knowing people would be disappointed in you, and your infuriating inability to say no; it was all your fault.

It was days like these when you wished you could get rid of your mutation. That way you might not be such a damn pushover. But, you couldn’t help it. People from work come into the office feeling a little down, and suddenly you’re offering to go get them a coffee, to make some copies for them, to sort out some files, and finish that research project they’ve been putting off. And in the moment, you can feel the happiness and relief radiating from them, and it makes you feel good. But, then you realize (too late) that it’s too much for you to get done in one workday.

Which led you to your current predicament. You were trying to get all of this work (which wasn’t even technically yours) done, but you also needed to get some work around the house done, and your mind couldn’t focus on one task at a time.

You reread the same paragraph for what felt like the eighteenth time, hardly making it past the second sentence before you had to begin rereading it again after your mind had wandered to your laundry that still needed cleaning.

And just when you’d gotten yourself to focus again, there were three knocks at your door. You groaned, letting your head fall to your hands for a moment before you got up and dragged yourself to the door. You looked through the peephole and saw your boyfriend Remy. He was all put together in a nice suit and tie, severely contrasting you in your pajamas with your hair a mess and makeup completely wiped away.

Your stomach sank and you completely froze. You’d forgotten. You’d gotten so caught up in wanting to please other people, that you’d forgotten about tonight.

You just stood at the door, unable to move as your heart began to pound and your throat began to feel tight. Remy knocked again, this time calling your name. You finally opened the door with shaky hands and almost immediately began to sob.

“Woah, woah!” Remy reached out and held you by your shoulders, his hold gentle yet steadying. “What’s wrong chère?”

“I-“ You choked out. “I forgot, Remy. I forgot about tonight.”

Remy had made reservations for the two of you at a fancy restaurant, one you’d been wanting to go to for a while. And you’d forgotten. He’d gotten dressed up all nice for you and it was for nothing, and you, like always, were to blame.

You continued to cry pathetically while Remy guided you over to sit on your couch. “Talk to me, chère.” He said as he gently took your hands.

“I-I forgot-“

“Gambit don’t care about that.” You let your head fall forward onto his shoulder where you continued to sob. “There’s something else, huh?” It was more of a statement than a question.

Sometimes you felt like he had some of your empath abilities as well, or at least some form of mind reading. He could always tell when something was wrong, or when someone was lying. Or maybe it was just with you. Either way, when he suggested that there was something else bothering you, you nodded against him.

“You wanna tell Gambit?”

You inhaled shakily before speaking again. “There’s just…. It’s so much- too much going on— Too much on my plate.” You said, struggling to find the words through your choked sobs and jumbled thoughts.

Remy hummed. This wouldn’t be the first time that you overwhelmed yourself with tasks and work that needed to be done. “Like what?” He asked. And he listened while you listed off all of the things at work that were bugging you and then all of the chores at home that only added to your stress, all the while he soothingly rubbed your back. And once you were finally done, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Your tears had come to a small occasional trickle rather than what felt like a flood a few moments ago.

“Tell you what,” Remy said as he began to pull away. “You rest here while Gambit helps.”

“What?” You asked as he put a blanket over you.

“Lay down. Gambit gonna get some of this outta your way, alright?”

You hardly had the energy to protest, and as you drifted to sleep, you could hear the soft whirring of your washing machine as Remy began doing your laundry for you.

You woke up an hour or two later to the smell cooking, and sat up to see Remy standing in your kitchen over the stove. You groggily got to your feet and walked over to him, hooking your chin over his shoulder to get a look at what he was cooking.

“You get good rest?” Remy asked as he stirred a pot.

“Yeah.” You mumbled back. “I’m sorry.”

“For what, belle?”

“For making you deal with this, with me.” You replied, burying your face into the crook of his neck.

Remy turned his head to the side to press a warm kiss to the side of your head. He hummed softly. “You know Gambit ain’t never gonna mind having to deal with you.”

“You mean it?” You asked, a soft smile on your lips.

“You know I do.”

And he was right. In that moment, standing with your chest pressed to his back and your arms around his waist, you were practically drowning in the love and care you could feel radiating off of him. And you knew that he meant it.

[sordidmusings]

Switching Up Roles - Part 1/2 (Buggy x Reader)

A/N: So the request got insaaaaanely out of hand cuz I can't shut the fuck up about this stupid clown 🙃 In the future I gotta have requests ask for headcanons, full fic, or headcanons with drabbles in the future so I can put a cap on my brain lol I had also been wanting to write Switch!Buggy learning to embrace the sub part of himself. I wanted to get part of it out and the set up cuts off pretty cleanly here. There is a taste of smut in it, but it stays with the style of the exposition for the most part instead of really delving into it.

Word count: ~1760 (The draft is at 8100 rn 🧍🏻‍♀️)

Warnings: afab!reader (no pronouns), switch!reader, switch!Buggy, NSFW, p in v, creampie, they're like probably too into each other, Buggy leans towards opla Buggy, I have a propensity to just keep sentences going man

I hope you enjoy a taste and thank you for your patience 🙏🏻

Part 2

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

You’d always had a hunch about Buggy. It started with little things like how his grunts and moans would sometimes slip in and out of something more whiny and breathy. How the look in his eyes would turn from something rabid and devouring into something desperate and uncertain. Maybe he was just more comfortable using the whole range of his voice than most men. Maybe that look just came from the insecurity in him that you were constantly trying to wring out with every lingering hug and reassuring whisper.

Speaking of those, he drank them up like an addict. Now, it’s not like you think it’s abnormal to enjoy soft touches and sweet words; everyone wants those from their partner in one form or another. The thing is, Buggy seemed to hang on those words with extra ardor. He’d focus on you like nothing else existed. He’d twist and turn both himself and his comfort zone in order to receive them. Whenever he accomplished something, whether it was as big as defeating a new enemy or as small as making a new joke, he would turn his face to seek you out like a plant’s leaves reaching to feel the sun. He’d go to you whenever he was uncertain. Difficult announcements were made with you within arm’s reach, vital decisions were made with you sitting thigh to thigh, and battles were fought with the two of you back to back.

Despite his status as captain, Buggy was always following you. Of course, he was the one in charge, the one who gave orders, but you were the one for whom he would change those orders or redirect his path. When you entered a room, he was the one to go to you. It was only on rare occasions that he’d order you to him like an owner would a dog. His calls for you were greetings, that is if he wasn’t getting up to lead you in himself. Buggy did know how to demand but he preferred to handle you with invitations. 

Even so, you were well versed in Buggy leading you to touch or lay where and how he wanted. The extending months of your relationship have been filled with the two of you pushing and pulling at each other, empty of any thoughts and aims other than the need you had for each other. He has growled out commands and desires, expecting you to do just as he asked and he fit the role of manhandling you into a compliant sub very well. There were times when it seemed to be just that though - a role. Not every time; the more starved for your body he seemed, the more he’d take you just how he wanted. Now that you were months in and the pent up “what if”s were easing into the new joy of deep connection, his need for your body settled to hunger while his appetite for connecting to You became insatiable. Being able to allocate more time to exploring each other let latent behaviors break through the frantic way that you two tried to consume one another. Buggy had always aimed for your pleasure, hitting steady bullseyes, but now he was consciously seeking it and looking for new avenues to sate you and file them away for the future. He gained the clarity to observe while he was flooding himself with you.

You also noticed that with this change of pace came his need to chase your movements. You don’t think Buggy was even aware of the way he would lean his body towards you no matter the time or place, the way he would follow your lips whenever you pulled away, or the way his body would seek out your hands and happily mold to their movements like you were an artist working with clay. There was the way he seemed almost relieved when you would guide him. It appeared that he savored the time to unload the responsibility of decisions onto someone else but he had never known anyone he could trust to give him that peace before.

You understood that need. The rush you got when you only had to think of pleasing him and then hearing him tell you how good you were at doing just that? It was euphoria all on its own. It had you feeling like you knew in your core that you were doing something right and that you were making your love feel good - feel proud and happy. While you enjoyed partaking in it yourself, you had no problem taking control to give that to Buggy. Honestly it was a dynamic that was sounding tastier by the day. Seeing him act out of need for your direction and approval made you crave it more each time. You were eager to see him when he loses himself in the role of being what you want. You’re positive he’d take to it well; all you want is him after all, but now that he’s given pieces of himself to you, you want all of him. You want him to expose his needs to you, right down to the core of his desires, so that you could feel the thrill of holding that trust and vulnerability. You want to prove to him that he is always safe with you and that you can fulfill all that he wants and more.

One night a few weeks back, you got the final evidence you needed to feel confident labeling him as a switch like yourself. It was one of the few times Buggy was letting you ride him when he was close (he seemed to be embarrassed of the way it would pull out higher pitched moans from him, no matter how you complimented them), and he had let himself fall further into acting without thought than he usually would beneath you. His typical grapple with composure was replaced by him melting into bliss, leaving you a Buggy who was slack-jawed, glassy eyed, and trembling. You could still feel some hesitancy in the way he kept making his eyes focus on you even when they wanted to roll back or the way he would reign in his volume after a particularly (and deliciously) loud moan. His hands still went through the motions of guiding your hips, but this time your hips were pushing into that heavy grip instead of his hold directing the bounce and grind of your body on his.

Even though the feeling of his cock splitting you open and rubbing deliciously from your clenching entrance to the deepest stretch of your cunt left you struggling for thought, you were determined to keep an eye out for his tells that he would try to flip you back over. Whenever Buggy blinked some focus back into his eyes, you leaned down and captured his panting mouth in sloppy kisses. His eagerness to feel your swollen lips and teasing tongue made it easy to kiss his mind back into a blur. When he planted a hand down and sat himself up, you tightened your core to clench down on him and changed to the heavy grinds that made him weak with the way he could feel every hot, plush inch of you gripping him. He fell down to his elbow, but when you followed him to nibble at his ear and fill it with moans, he lost all his strength and collapsed back on the bed.

You kept at it because you needed to cum on top of him. The promise of a body shaking orgasm always came to you in the squeeze of your thighs around his waist, the grind of his pelvis on your clit, the way you could change your angle to have the head of his cock massaging whichever spot felt the most electric in the moment. It took hold of your mind with the way you got to look down on him spread out beneath you while he looked up at you with that desperate face. You could see how steeped he was in pleasure and need from his furrowed brow and shining eyes. Buggy always fell into the most beautiful, incoherent mess when you were the one leading him. His long blue hair spread out wildly, the few strands sticking to his face bringing out his pink flush. His gorgeous eyes, highlighted by stripes of blue makeup and long fluttering lashes, glistened up at you. His painted red mouth looked all the more tempting with how his kiss-wet lips parted for him to gasp in air and breathe out moans.

With little warning, Buggy sobbed out an overwhelmed, “Fuuu-hah-huuuuck,” and the next thing you knew strong hands yanked you down and he trapped you close in an iron grip. His forehead dug into your neck and his humid breath tingled down your chest. All you could feel, hear, smell was Buggy - so much burning skin, jumbled curses, lingering sea salt. His hands scrambled on your back, pulling you closer like he needed it to live, and amidst all the sensation you felt his cock pressed tight into you, twitching heavily with each wave of hot cum it pumped into you. It shoved you immediately far over the edge and you curled into him, squeezing and shaking and grabbing and gasping. You got what you were promised and your body shook, letting you get extra jolts of friction against his still pulsing cock.

The come down was slow and lethargic with the two of you molded to each other and unwilling to leave the moment behind. Your breaths eventually slowed while you both enjoy giving and receiving little trailing touches. Your brain was high from the intense orgasm and the building joy that you can finally open the door on this aspect of your relationship where Buggy lets himself submit.

That is, until he ruins it. 

Both of you were too tired to say much of anything through the swift cleanup and release to slumber. You didn’t think anything of it, because it wasn’t the first time it happened. You did start to catch on to Buggy’s avoidance when he would find convenient ways to dance around the topic or disappear when you were leading up to it. It became unquestionable when he started to run out of clever escape routes. The final straw was when you approached him with an “I wanna talk about the other night” and he did a 180 with a panicked “forgot some captain stuff for the thing” yelled back to you. So you let it drop. For a time.

You spotted your opportunity just over three weeks after you’d dropped the subject. Buggy continued to slip around you for almost two of those weeks, approaching you with the same caution a child would when entering a haunted house on a dare. He held the same nervous excitement and insatiable curiosity too. The whole time, you pretended that you hadn’t noticed. You were well practiced in the art of playing blind; Buggy wore his emotions on his sleeve whether he wanted to or not, and he loved that you would let him pretend some of it didn’t happen. Even though he knew you sometimes played it to your advantage and still let most of your comments and cackles out during his outbursts and foibles. He just paid you back for those with his own tricks and teasing and all’s fair in love and war.

You knew not to strike right away. You needed to reaaaaally let him settle back into normalcy between you two so that The Incident wasn’t on his mind. Not that you’d been able to get it out of yours; you were endlessly replaying the memory of him being seized by instinct and impulse so violently that he clung to you like he could never be close enough while you made him cum so hard that his dick felt like someone was jolting a toy inside you. Whether the imagery came to you on purpose or involuntarily, it always had you squirming and looking for some way to get off.

Today had been especially filled with that memory, but luck was on your side, finally ready to reward you for your patience. Buggy had been getting a bit exhausted recently, prepping the crew, the ship, and everything on it for a risky raid happening next week. It would be the culmination of a few months planning, and he had been running himself ragged making sure that everything would go smoothly. And, when it didn’t, there was a backup plan and at least two more backup plans for that one. 

He had been seeking rest from you more than interaction the past few days - falling asleep almost immediately after getting back to his room late, giving you long hugs where he’d close his eyes if only for a minute and let you hold up some of his weight, scarfing down his food so he could power nap with his head on your thigh while you finished your own meal. If he was doing something that only needed one hand, he’d send the other to you so he could have the comfort of your touch and the pick me up from feeling your occasional squeeze on it. He had to find and stop you the time you decided to massage his overworked hand, because the relaxing feeling had him zoning out through full conversations.

All that to say, the man clearly needed someone to force a break on him and take care of him. Just as clearly, Buggy was needing that care from you so much that he was allowing himself to seek you out in ways that he (wrongfully) feared would annoy or drain you. His exhaustion outweighing that sea-sized insecurity of his was the cue you’d been looking out for. If he really didn’t want to be submissive to you then that’s fine, but you’d be damned if it was just his own negative self-talk keeping the two of you from feeling that way again or from bonding even closer with another dynamic to exchange trust and affection. After all, that act of trust being met with affection is one of the best ways to chip away at his self-doubt and self-loathing.

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

More to come - hope you enjoyed 🤍

[littleplantfreak]

Word Count: 847

Suo x Reader (drabble ig?)

I wanted to write something with fallen angel suo and originally I was gonna make him mean but for some reason I can never do him dirty T-T I didn’t check it for errors so ✌️

Cws: Blood, maybe implied corruption? idk

Every time you meet Suo, he plucks a feather from your wings. He laughs as you pout, grumbling that you should do the same to him and he agrees, inching them closer to you. You never do grab one, nor do you ask why he does it.

 Are angels supposed to meet with fallen angels? Of course not, but if nothing else, you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. He doesn’t tell you why he fell, or what happened to make him cover his eye with a patch. The answer is nebulous and changes by the day, but that’s also part of the charm isn’t it? It’s part of the allure that led to you meeting with him every week, sitting under a heavy canopy of trees or slipping into a dimly lit cave a trail of flower petals led you to. 

He’s a pinprick of red, crimson in your otherwise white, colorless life of working to watch over people who can’t see you. A thankless task, but necessary. Your way of living has been ingrained in you time and time again like water eroding mountains to follow a path out to sea, so by now the words come automatically.

“I don’t need to be thanked, Suo. I was made for this.” It’s an assurance you make time and time again, even if you sigh sometimes when you think about the monotony of it all. 

Help, bless, pray and repeat. 

Suo recently showed you laundromats, and the way the washing machine spins the water and soapy clothes in circles is how your job has started to feel. The trance you fall into as it spins is the very trance you slip into easily completing your assigned tasks. 

“I think it’s natural to want to be thanked for your work.” His words eat at you sometimes, because you can tell they’re sincere. Regardless of his status, of what he is, and how he’s fallen, you can tell with certainty he believes it. You would say that, is what you want to say back, but he doesn’t deserve cruel words when he’s been nothing but kind.

No one’s questioned your absences, or your missing feathers. Both are sparse in the grand scheme of things and if anyone has noticed or made note, it’s been filed away as a transgression so minor you feel like screaming. 

Why doesn’t that matter? Why shouldn’t someone be concerned? Why do they look at you funny if you even so much as think to ask a question that goes against what you’ve been taught? The word ‘why’ is small but stark. It stands out in your mind like the small dots of blood that replace the feathers Suo plucks from you over and over. The empty spaces have started to fill, but by the time you realize what’s happened, your wings have splatters of black against what was once a pristine white canvas. 

You paint over them every morning one by one trying to bury the evidence, but you can feel the difference in how you think and see the world. When it comes time to meet Suo again, you can tell he sees through the effort you’ve put in to make yourself seem normal. Whatever normal was is not your normal now, but when he places his own black feather in your hand, you realize it’s just as soft as your own. It weighs the same, probably even has the same chemical makeup if you tested it in a lab, but the color is growing on you the more you look at it. Maybe this normal is better. 

For now though, you bring the feather with you, shoving yourself back into the wash cycle. It can’t be much longer before someone starts to notice, but by the time they do, you’re sure it will be too late, and you’ll be long gone. It seems silly now to say an angel has fallen when they keep their wings, you think. 

Suo hears that comment from you himself too, smiling as if he knows a secret. Would you believe him if he told you the truth? That the black feathered wings usually only grow back after their old ones have been torn from their backs, blood flowing and staining skin and lost plumage like a waterfall?

The first day he saw you he could tell right away what your course was meant to be. The look in your eyes was the same as his right before he was grounded and left flightless in a heap, not a hand to help him up in sight. 

It’s good that he found a way around that. A way to save you from the pain and shame of not just falling, but being crushed under heel by the very entity that made you who you are. You’re happy now, looking through the garden he’s brought you to as you use an old botany book to search up what the flowers are. Your words from a lifetime ago ring true, if only for him. He doesn’t need to be thanked, he’s sure he was made for this.  

[develop-your-oc]

Your blog has been so helpful with my oc developing journey! Thank you for putting so much time into collecting resources and the like! I did have a question, if you wouldn't mind answering, but how do you use Obsidian for sorting/recording your oc data? It's a little daunting and I've found myself constantly going over the info and trying to format everything. It's maddening. Thank you again for your hard work and time! <3

It's awesome that you've found this blog to be helpful! Thank you so much for telling me! 💖 (it ain't much but it's honest work dot jpeg)

Obsidian as a program is daunting especially if you're not familiar with similar applications (OneNote, Evernote, Joplin, etc.), but somehow I have completely forgotten how frustrating it was to get started from a blank page, even though I spent years struggling with that frustration. Here's a basic rundown of what I do!

Folders and basic setup are as follows:

Within one vault, I use multiple folders. One folder contains my templates, lists and other data, prompts, and so on. There are individual files for each original setting within this folder in order to take quick notes to be sorted later or keep reminders. Other files in this folder include ideas for future character names and other writing ideas.

Each setting has its own folder where everything related to it is stored, with OCs being the star of the show at the top level. There are several subfolders filled with notes, completed prompts, drabbles, lore, codex entries, etc.

One of the subfolders is for files regarding characters that my OCs interact with but aren't mine (a roleplay partner's OC, a game NPC, etc.) to store notes and other useful information for later reference, like a wiki page built only for myself.

As for the OCs themselves:

Each OC has its own file within the folder of their setting where a template holds their information. This template is vague enough to be useful in most settings, and simple enough to allow editing as needed.

The template begins as a simple formatted list of basics as you would expect (identity, appearance, occupation, etc.), as well as likes, dislikes, hobbies, skills, virtues, and flaws.

All friends, family, lovers, and so on are listed with a very brief description of how they are connected to my OC.

There are sections beneath the list for all the substantial information. — Background: everything from before their story begins. From before the arrival of you, the creator, if that makes sense. — Going Forward: from the beginning of their story, to the end (if there is one), and into the future beyond that. — Trivia: tidbits of information and facts that don't fit anywhere else. — Timeline: a chronological list with dates and concise details. Additional information is sorted into one of the other sections, the destination based on where the information would be most relevant. — Relationships: important relationships are detailed here. — Notes: the anything goes catch-all. Less about the character and more about you, like a reminder ("name their childhood pet!") or something worth noting ("my first OC!").

If the character is still in its concept phase, I stick to bullet point notes and update with the template later as needed.

Other things I'd like to mention:

There's more functionality within Obsidian than what I use, but I'm happy with my methods for now.

I make heavy use of bullet points, tab indents, and the little arrow that pops up to open or close lengthy sections as needed.

I never fill out the entire template at once, or ever; some sections remain empty permanently and some characters remain bullet points. It is what it is!

I keep the files for all the OCs that are currently rotting my brain open in tabs at the top! 🥰

Sometimes a folder is a genre and is instead used for multiple settings, such as all my OCs from the various farming simulation games I play sharing the same folder.

Relationships can sometimes be easier as their own page, particularly if it involves more than two characters, such as families and their dynamics.

This is a brief description of how I do things for myself. This works for me, but may not work for you. I tend to make up a bunch of silly little rules for myself, so please take this as inspiration rather than instruction. If this is confusing or you would like more help, anon, please DM me again and I'll work on visual examples and better explanations. Thanks again, and I hope this helps!

[yeyinde]

after dark

Keegan P. Russ x f!Reader

⟶ WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT; P-in-V sex; female reader, female gendered anatomy; gratuitous use of kid; slight body worship; established history/relationship; canon-compliant, takes place after Sin City; minor game spoilers; mentions of death (canon-compliant); war; fluff - this is honestly just gratuitous smut and my awful attempt at fluff ⟶ WORD COUNT: 9,7k ⟶ SUMMARY: you want to see him break. ⟶ NOTES: my first foray into Keegan! this took a bit of time since i wanted to include so much, and it ended up growing a little out of hand. i might expand on this/make it into a series potentially (just small drabbles). Keegan was so fun to write for!

Keegan looks good like this. Laid out, bare; skin stained with the bites of your nails, the nips of your teeth, nestled evenly amid the smattering of battle wounds and blemishes that colour him in a rich history wrought with gunfire and calamity. (You often tell him that the two of you are kismet. He says Momus just has a sick sense of humour.)

The milky white expanse of his torso is littered with scars, and you map them with your greedy eyes, drinking each bloom of imperfection that stains his ivory skin. Finding new ones that weren't there before. 

Blades, bullets, burns, pockmarks—many from weapons you can't even begin to name, to know—all etched into sinew. Into bone. 

They mar him in a brutal smear of varicoloured hurt. A mosaic of near–death laid out like Orion, curved like the tail of Sagittarius. It's spooled, knotted, in a way that makes you think of Lyra. Of the stars you can see so clearly now without any light pollution around to smog the indigo sky above. 

The scars are healed in uneven patches; some darker, uglier than others. Raised welts, bumps. Deep indents in his skin, cutting through muscle and tissue. 

There is no sense of structure in the gashes that line his body—silver, to red, to purple, to black—and you know they were collected over time. Over years, decades, before you ever met him. Knew him. 

(The only one that looks familiar is the jagged hole on his shoulder where he stepped, stupidly, in front of a bullet for you. 

Stupid, because no one, especially him, should risk themselves for you.)

They sit, carved in flesh, as a testament to his nomadic lifestyle, one drenched in danger, death, and calamity. Shadows moulded into man. Into ruined skin and jagged bone. Deadly forces of nature hidden in the craters where the earth split into twos, threes. Triplicated ravines clogged with the rubble of was once life. Peace. Home, maybe. 

A tenuous fallacy, now. 

But they risk everything—even themselves—for it, and the proof of their commitment, the dedication to the cause, is smattered across his torso for you to see. 

The exploratory tips of your fingers, dripping reverence and featherlight, ghost over his flesh, over the blemishes that decorate his body, taking them in, feeling them. 

Some are baby–hair soft, silky sateen; they sit in thick, raised welts of scar tissue clotted over each other. Others are rougher than sandpaper, gritty like stripped lath. They feel like tree bark under your fingers. Scabs. Fresh, new. 

You wonder if he remembers each one of them—how they happened, where, by who; which ones hurt the most, and which ones took longer to heal. He might, you think. 

(It's him, after all.)

Catalogued pain organised and filed away. Locked in a safe box inside the enigma of his head, and kept there for safekeeping. 

But it's not gone, not put away. 

(It's always within reach.)

Phantoms congeal in the corners of his eyes sometimes when you happen to touch one, to reach out and grab him by the arm, or the hand, the wrist, and you see the brief flash of recognition in cut slate. A distant fog simmers up from the depths; veiled blue. A past you're barred from touching, knowing. 

It's not pretty, kid, is what he told you when you asked. Not like you. No sense ruining something like you with all that ugly. 

It was the end of the conversation. Locked away for good, and brassbound with a warning sign, rusted and aged, that read: do not enter.

So, you don't. 

But sometimes, like now, you like to take them in. To see the contrast between your blemishless skin in comparison to his. Worlds apart. A cosmic chasm of experience and life needles between you, and yet—

You brush your fingers against the marks, and have never felt closer to him, despite everything inside that tells you you're wrong. 

You place your hand flat over a cut over his breastplate, right where his heart thuds against your palm, and wonder what near–miss he escaped from that caused this. The other slides to his stomach, his muscles flexing, rippling, under your touch, and you brush your thumb over a circular hole under his solar plexus. 

You think, then, of the years you spent underground, running through the barren safehouses that dotted the landscape, only to come away with minor cuts, abrasions. The worst of them all is a small scar near your wrist where you burned your skin with cooking oil. 

You've never met the end of the blade—not until him.  

"What are you thinking about, kid?" 

His hand lifts—skin littered with small knicks and cuts, a burn on the back of his hand that almost matches yours except his was caused by a Molotov cocktail and not youthful ignorance (a world of difference, a chasm)—fingers sliding over the curve of your cheek. His slate–blue gaze is fixed, unmoving, on you. 

It was those eyes—cenote blue—that drew you to him in the first place. Teal in tenebrous. They haunted you for months. Wordlessly following your every move, drinking in the expressions that flitted over your face. Taking stock of you. Measuring you. Your accomplishments. Your worth. Assets.

Survivability.

("Pretty low," Merrick says, plain and brutal, and the rawness of it rumbled through the hollow crevasse you found yourself in. Low. Lower than low. So low it was almost a miracle you survived as long as you had.)

Keegan said nothing at the time. He stood back, hand gripping the butt of the rifle, eyes fixed on you, unwavering. Unforgiving. 

It was easy to take his silence as cold. Distant. Bundled up in thick layers of muskeg, in icy separation. 

You did—at first. 

An active war zone was not a place for a civilian. Merrick told you as much when he found you, taking refuge in a dilapidated home split in two, and welding only a metal bat you'd grabbed on your travels. Your only protection against an enemy that has no qualms in murdering innocents. That uses guns and heavy artillery to decimate the soldiers, the allies who jumped oceans to fight alongside the troops. 

You lit a lantern one night after settling down in a broken home, and woke up to the barrel of a gun pressed to your temple. 

It was Ajax who saved you. 

"Hey, uh. You're American, right? What are you doing in a place like this?" 

You didn't trust them. 

Didn't trust anyone. 

You'd spent too long cutting through the thickets of the surrounding overgrowth, hopping from one ramshackle house to another to lay low, to hide from the people who wandered past, looking for survivors, hostages, to give into that part of yourself that longed for people. For normalcy. The road jaded you a little. Isolated you. 

It was safer. 

The people you stumbled across either tried to pick you bare, taking the meagre belongings you scrounged together until there was nothing left but the thin skin covering your body, and your will to live. 

Or they tried to kill you. To use you. 

Hostages. Civilians used against the threadbare resistance. Their safe return in exchange for more land, for surrender. 

So, you hid. Got good at it, too. 

("Too fuckin' good," Merrick hissed, shaking his head. 

The only one who was ever able to spot you was Riley. Keegan, sometimes, through the lens of his rifle.)

When they found you, you tried to run, to fight. Enemies. All of them. 

It was Ajax who stopped you, who talked you off the ledge. 

"Come on, we're not gonna hurt you."

"Heard those words before."

"How long you been out here for, anyway?"

"When did ODIN destroy New York?"

"Jesus, kid."

"Stupid," Merrick said. "That's what you are, Cali. Stupid as hell." 

And Keegan—

Said nothing. Nothing. 

He doesn't like you, was your first thought when it all added up, stacked together. The avoidance, the distance. He wasn't cold, but he didn't try to get close to you, to get to know you. He just—

Watched. Waiting, you thought, a touch bitter, for you to die. Like they all expected you to when you said you weren't going to the safe zone. That you were staying, and you were looking for them—your brother, your father. 

Then—

Stay behind me, always, kid. You got that? 

If you can't see my back, you wandered too far. 

Eat. You need it more than I do. 

Watch your step. You'll fall into a crevasse if you're not careful, kid. 

The second: he likes you too much. 

And now—

Your hips flex. A slow, teasing roll against his pelvis, and it's that indelible sight of sky blue eyes shuttering out of view when his lids lower, lashes fluttering, that nearly sets you on fire. 

The press of his cock makes your nails dig into the constellation of scars on his chest, clinging to him as licks of pleasure flicker up your spine. Nerves smouldering at the stretch, the feel of him seated so deeply within you. 

"Thinking about you," you murmur, breathless. Raw. 

You wonder if he remembers the rainy days in San Francisco, the sunrise in Los Angeles, huddled under the waterlogged crater of what once was Pacific Avenue and Venice Boulevard with the same touch of halcyon fondness as you do. 

You think, then, of the fusillade following you in the ruined husks of the streets, enemies on every corner, of the six-day hike between the cities to reconvene with the others, lost somewhere in the decimated coast. 

A little part of you still hopes he does despite the stress, the tension, the danger; the separation, the distance, that cracks between you, louder than a thunderclap. 

That he thinks back on that time when it was just you and him, and no food, no shelter, and feels something more than the gritty reality of everything falling apart around you. 

Of death, and the stench of rot, and decay, and the overgrowth of vegetation that sometimes felt like it was trying to reclaim you along with its land. The vines that curled around your ankles when you idled, or slept—shackles that refused to let go. Gunshots in the night. Predators roaming wild and free in what once was a metropolis. 

Then, softer, you add:

"Always." 

You speak it reverently, as if the word, the sincerity in your voice alone was enough to somehow shade the gossamer of calamity and horror you faced together into something pink, something roseate. Something fond, and wonderful, and good despite all of the ugly and the bad that stacks up, deeper than the hole punched through San Diego.

(Down so deep you sometimes think you can see the eerie glow of molten rock below.)

Keegan says nothing, gives nothing away, but you catch something in his gaze shift, relent.

Another inch off the thick veneer that keeps him from falling into you fully, that keeps him from letting you in. 

It's the slow erosion of his defences, the ones that make him say, yeah, kid, whatever you say when you bring up the smouldering ruins of Death Valley, when you slipped your finger in the cut of his mask, and tugged it down below his chin. Your nail caught on the bridge of his nose, but he didn't flinch at the thin white line you left behind, the sting. He didn't move. Didn't blink. 

Didn't push you away. 

He let you. Let you press your sun-chapped lips to his for the first time with nothing more than an easy, kid—don't start something you can't finish before he gives in. Kissed you against the grainy sand that scorched your skin. 

You used to think he was cold. Unfeeling. 

But now—

Shadows dance over his face when the clouds drift over the milky moon hung in the indigo aether, but you catch the rubicund smear over the bridge of his nose when they part. Pretty pink dusted in soot. An ethereal chiaroscuro etched into his flesh. 

You feel his chest shudder, expanding with his rippling inhale. 

—You know that, sometimes, he just feels too much. 

You hitch your hips again just to watch him flinch beneath you. The breath stutters out of his chest, lips parting on a grunt when you grind over him. The pinched knot between his brow is stained with bliss, and deep like the crevasses ripped through the earth. 

The hand on your cheek jerks, tenses. His fingers curl around the back of your skull as his eyes crack open once more when you settle. Heavy lidded, stained the residuum of soot and grease paint the lukewarm water wasn't able to scour off. 

You meet his cobalt stare, and feel the breath catch in your throat. 

Keegan looks good like this. Laid out, bare; skin stained with the bites of your nails, the nips of your teeth, nestled evenly amid the smattering of battle wounds and blemishes that colour him in a rich history wrought with gunfire and calamity.  

When you whisper this to him, his hips jerk again, flexing, under yours. 

"Fuck, kid. Don't go starting something you can't finish."

His words nudge something inside of you, and the slow simmer of competition roils through your chest. 

"Can't finish, huh?" You murmur, and keep your eyes fixed on his as you lift your hips. The drag of his hardened cock sliding against your walls has pleasure liquifying your core. 

When it's just the tip you clench around, you pause, a small smirk curling over your lips. You'll make him break. Make him eat those words. 

But Keegan can read you like an open book. 

His hand lifts from your hip bone, sliding up the flesh of your torso until his fingers are perched in the gaps between your ribs, holding you steady. 

"Easy now, kid," he whispers the words low, voice breathless, humid. "Don't bite off more than you chew."

In response, you sink down an inch. 

It makes him choke a little. A wet noise spills out from his mouth, teeth flashing when they burrow into the plush give of his full, pink lips. The tendons in his neck strain, pulse throbbing in tandem with your heartbeat. Linked, you think, a little delirious, even like this. 

(You often tell him that the two of you are kismet.

He says Momus just has a sick sense of humour.)

His fingers tighten on your ribs. The other hand falls, palm swallowing your breast, fingers digging into the flesh once before sliding down, pinching your nipple between his calloused thumb and forefinger. It sends shocks of pleasure ricocheting down your spine, and you arch into his grasp, eyes dropping. 

"That feels good—"

"Yeah?" He husks, lips curling into a rare smile, a grin. "Like that, huh, kid?"

The raw timbre of his voice coils over your flesh, and you shudder at the liquor-rich sound, eyes blinking open to drink him in. 

The spark of pleasure that glimmers over his expression, eyes dark, eclipsed, and saturated in bliss, makes something coil low inside of your belly. A molten heat that leaks into your bloodstream until it bubbles, froths. 

Keegan is a slow burn. A steady crescendo of pleasure that builds and builds in evenly spaced increments until your head is molasses-thick from the endorphins that saturate your synapses. 

Keegan is always so giving, so quiet with his affection; picturesque stoicism even when he has you bent over, battering his cock into you as you lose it amid the unrelenting waves of euphoria that bloom inside of you, singing hymns in his name, and only just lucid enough to round the vowels out. He rides you through it all without cracking. Without rupturing from the pleasure that thickens the air between you until it's syrupy and heady with the scent of sex. 

And it's good. Always. 

You love the way he handles you; love the way he splits you apart atom by atom until you're an impending explosion, leaking bliss into the warmth of his mouth when you breathe his name. Raw, exposed. Bare and flayed by his scorching hands, and hungry lips. 

Keegan touches you with the same delicacy as he does the rifles in his arsenal. A finely tuned weapon, honed and perfected in his hands. He drags only the best out of you, and knows where to press, to nip. He knows your body like he knows the inner workings of each gun he carries. 

He's adroit in combat, and it bleeds over into the soft, plush give of your body beneath him. 

It's often thoughtless—done purely on muscle memory, and instinct alone. A primal switch in the back of his head he commands at will, one now grounded and circuited into making you tremble, gasp, and moan his name the way you know he likes best. 

Keegan leeches his own release from the aftershocks of your pleasure, pounding desperately into you as you clench around him, back arched and toes curled. He fucks you through the remnants of your climax until his own takes hold, and spits his bliss into your body, groaning low in your ear. 

But everything—everything—is for you. 

He takes where he can as he fractures you into pieces, into fragments of yourself. Crumbling in ecstasy under his touch. Broken, shattered. Rendered into a trembling mess of pulp beneath the bulk of his body.

He's a lesson in patience, in tenacity. 

Usually.

But now—

You set the pace. Control the motions. 

(And you want to see him break in the same splintered pieces he leaves you in.)

"Just sit back, and let me make you feel good."

He draws a sharp breath, eyes fluttering, widening slightly at your base command. 

Something gnarls over his exposed face, a frisson of affection, and softer than anything you'd ever seen before. 

It's rare you get to see him so bare, so open. 

"You do," he rasps, words sticking between his teeth. "More than you know."

He swallows thick, eyes skirting away from you as if to gather himself together, to calm the racing of his pulse that beats against the pale skin of his throat. 

Comfort is taken in composure, in distance, and you can see him grasp for it, reaching for that same phlegmatic control even now. 

You don't let him find it. Won't. 

You take a quick breath to steady yourself, fingers sliding down his damp chest, nestling in the messy smear of hair that sticks to his skin, grainy and gritty from salt and dirt, and then you drop. 

The blunt head of his cock bludgeons into a fleshy spot behind your navel that has your ears ringing, head tipping back in pleasure. It's good—so, so good—and you can't stop the whine of his name, broken and fraying at the edges, when you sink down to the base, swallowing him whole in the right clutch of your cunt.

White noise, static, flashes behind your eyelids, catching in the pale moonlight. A slurry of soporific pleasure spools inside your head, saturated with bliss, and edging into that indelible equinox of pleasure and pain when his head kisses the seal of your womb. It flexes against your mettle, pushing the limits of what you can reasonably take, but you grit your teeth against the strain, and breathe. 

You won't break first. 

Not when his eyes roll back a little as you shift in his lap, brow furrowed into a deep ruck of pleasure at the feel of you around. 

The overwhelming feel of him buried deep behind your navel notches into too much, and the ache of it pulses like a heartbeat in your sternum, knocking the breath from your lungs, but you hold steady amid the waves that crash over you, that threaten to consume you. To drag you under. 

White-hot pleasure lashes at your spine. Congealing inside the pit of your lower belly. A molten puddle of nirvana that steadily thickens into a coiled knot, gnarling within you. A spool of bliss, slowly unravelling under the stretch of him, the grind of his pelvis against your throbbing clit..

It thrums in your veins, your bones. Madness bleeds in at the edges; blurred lines of so good and too much too full and you find the equilibrium, the perfect zenith, when he groans your moniker, Cali, out between gnashing teeth. 

The brassy rasp of his voice centres you. Grounds you. You inhale the tang of him until your lungs begin to burn, to ache. You feel them pressed taut to your ribs where his fingers sit, nestled between the gaps of your bones. Firm, steady. 

You exhale in slow, measured increments, feeling the way he throbs against your walls, in your throat. You take it all in, all of it. Him. The firm press of his body beneath yours, thighs spread to fit him in the seam, makes you relax, ease into the press of him. The fill. 

Keegan's hands twitch. His hips lift slightly, an unconscious movement. An accidental proxysm. His ironclad resolve, the honed stillness of an expert sniper in perfect control, command, of every limb, every muscle, every movement, and breath, crumbles like papier-mache with the tight clench of your pussy around him. 

It edges into delirium, into that burning sense of conquest when he grunts, and rubs a spot inside of you that feels like heaven itself is nestled behind your belly button. 

(A fissure. A crack.)

The steadying breath he takes draws your attention back to him, to the sheen of sweat drenching his brow, the smear of charcoal he couldn't scrub away. It stains his skin permanently, now. A tattoo of battle grease, war paint, that he can't be rid of. 

(You tell yourself it isn't jealousy that congeals at the base of your throat when you see the blemish on his skin, and wish, so desperately, that you could brand him the same way. Mark him, too. 

To crawl inside the brackets between his ribs, and suffuse your atoms to his until every pump of his heart sends blood roaring through your veins.

It sits there, bitter and acrid, when you try to swallow it down, refusing to budge. 

Stupid. Stupid—)

You take it all in. The racing of his pulse, the slow, deep inhales, and the way he reaches out, struggling to control the impulse, the instinct, the want, to greedily take more and more from you. 

"Keegan," his name falls between your teeth, breaking in the middle when you roll your hips, and catch the flash of gritted teeth. 

The thin strands of sangfroid he managed to snag in his grasp are released when your voice crests over his name, cracked open and wanting, and desperate. 

It tastes of victory when he groans yours in return—not kid, not Cali, but the one you whispered to him that first night he found you in a desolate husk of what was once someone's home—and bucks into you in a stutter. 

You meet him again, pelvis kissing his until it suctions the air from your heaving lungs, and you can feel him pulsing in your sternum. A red-hot blade snug against your jugular.

The thin skin of his eyelids crinkle when he squeezes them shut against the feeling, the overwhelming pleasure, of being buried balls deep inside of you. 

Your ribs ache. His fingers burrow into the flesh that separates each rung, clinging to you, and keeping you perched on his lap as he struggles to catch his breath. 

It rips open something inside of you—something deeper and fuller than sex, than shattering his ironclad resolve—and the sight of him, chest heaving, eyes heavy and black with desire, and the soft way he crumbles in your hands, makes you think of the morning rays of the sun brushing over the broken landscape. The moments of peace in the midst of war. 

You think of him, and the tick in his jaw, the gleam in his eyes, the same shade as crushed bluebonnets, and think of kismet once more as you pant out his name. 

"Ah, fuck—," sweat drips down his brow, and you follow the droplet until it falls, soaking the jaundiced pillow below. "You keep that up, kid, and you'll be tapping out soon enough."

It drags a huff from your chest. "It was once. And you made me run through San Diego for hours before, and—"

"It was fifteen minutes. We ran a block," his hand falls from your breast, palm swallowing the side of your thigh. "You lasted five minutes on top before you begged me fuck you instead. Said you were tired."

"I was," you whine, muscles flexing when you lift off of him again. You feel the ache in your muscles already, the burn of exertion from sitting atop of him like this, knees wrenched apart to accommodate his bulk between them. "But I wanna make you feel good, Keegan."

The sharp sting of his nails catching your flesh makes you gasp. "C'mon, kid. Easy now." 

The low commands roll off of his tongue with practised ease, and you slip a little further into that inky madness that smells of fir boughs, sticky spruce sap, and ripened satsumas. You breathe him in and taste dusty pomander balls, and pinyon in the back of your throat. 

"Keegan—"

His hips lift, pushing into the soft, wet clench of your cunt. "That's it. Nice and steady."

He guides you along—a maestro stroking the keys of a piano as he plays his grand requiem. You struggle to keep up with his pace, the way he pistons into you, notching his cock into that soft, sensitive place inside that makes your eyes brim with unshed tears of bliss. 

Each deep thrust makes the head of his cock kiss the plug of your womb—just a brush, just a tease—but the burning sensation of blistering pleasure and wisps pain, of too much and too full, have you spiralling down the precipice faster than you expected. 

It's a dizzying descent, but you match his tempo as best as you can, determined to ride the torrent of ecstasy that runs down your spine in a thick, dulcified rivulet. 

Still. Still. You can't help but bask in the way he melts in your hand, rendered into malleable polymer with just a twist of your hips, a clench of your cunt. It's electrifying. Addicting.  

The high of it all brims deep in your head, blooming like a sickness that clots along the seam, noxious and heady. 

You can't stop the satisfied curl of your lips from growing, slowly and languid, when you bear down on him, taking him to the root. 

His grunt reverberates through his chest with enough of a punch to rattle your bones. 

Seeing him desperate is intoxicating. 

"What happened to your composure, Keegan?" you mewl, heading rolling back. "My big, quiet soldier is so talkative now—"

Rough palms sear the flesh of your hips when he grabs you tight in his unyielding hold, keeping you fixed on him. 

You try to move, but he tightens his grasp, refusing to let you budge. 

Frustration curls inside of your chest, and you glower down at him through glassy eyes brimming with tears. "Keegan, I wanna—"

Your words dissolve into a low keen when his hips lift again, battering into your cunt in an unrelenting wave of thrusts that force the protests from your lips. 

"Talkative, huh?" He grinds the words out from between clenched molars. "That was your goal, eh, kid? Break me?" 

He punctuates each word with a brutal cant that feels like a battering ram to your skull until the weakened bone splinters, shatters, and he punches through. 

"Kee–ah, ah, fuck—!" 

"That's it," he husks, tone liquid. His fingers spear into your flesh, tight enough to bruise your bone. "Just like that, kid. You wanna see me break? Lose control?" 

Heart in your throat, all you can do is whimper around the pulse in your esophagus, and struggle to find purchase under his unrelenting onslaught. 

His hand lifts, falls to your shoulder when he stills, keeping you locked tight to his pelvis, cock jerking inside of you. His fingers curl over the ledge, gripping bone, and then he tugs, pulls. 

You fold easily in his grasp, lowering your chest until it rests over his, sweat-slicked and warm. The scrape of your sensitive nipples over his coarse, damp chest hair makes you moan, clenching desperately around him at the sparks of pleasure roiling through you. 

When you settle over him, his hand moves, slides to the back of your skull, and wrenches you even closer to him, until your forehead meets his, and the soft bump of your nose catches on the bridge of his, right over the thin line you left on his skin. Healed, now, but you wonder if this is intentional. If it's—

Keegan breathes heavily through his open mouth, breath mixing together with yours, a humid coagulation against your lips where condensation gathers on the dip of your chin. 

He says nothing, just stares. Bare-faced, naked. Still smeared in the residuum of his battle grease, the armour he wears to keep himself hidden from the Federation, from discovery, and the freckles of black on his ivory skin look like an inverted night; the endless yawn of the heavens above. You wonder if you can map a new constellation in the dirt left behind, but the notion is pushed down, dissolved, when your gaze lifts, finding his own. 

He hasn’t looked away from you at all, and the intensity of his gaze makes you dizzy, breathless. Too many emotions ripple through the mercury depths for you to grasp, but they're soft. Tender. Your heart thuds when you see the endless flicker of them hidden inside, tightly sealed under a rusted lock without a key. 

"Keegan—"

He doesn't let you finish. His chin lifts, mouth hooking on yours in a blistering kiss. His tongue slides between the gap of your parted lips, stealing the words that spool behind your teeth. 

Keegan kisses you with a deep, almost methodical precision. It's a contrast you can't keep up with; an ebb and flow. He starts fast, harsh. A demanding press of his mouth to yours, unrelenting and eager. It's all tongue, lips, the clash of teeth until yours are stinging and bruised, and then he pulls away until his are just a brush. A ghost of a touch, a whisper. 

He holds it there, teasing, taunting, until your lips bloom in a soft pout, eyes turning downward. 

"Keegan, please," you whimper into the firm seal of his mouth, so close and yet, so far away. Out of reach. Held there until whatever he wants, whatever he seeks, flashes in the glossy puddles of your eyes. 

And then, he gives. 

Gives, gives. His mouth devours yours with a steady ferocity like the howling winds echoing through the wizened fir boughs in the desolate forest. He holds you close, a hand fisted against your skull while the other plinths your jaw, thumb stroking the bubble of your cheek. 

The pressure of his hold, of his hands, oscillates between firm, unyielding, and keeping you afloat, soothing you. 

You need it, you think, when he kisses you like the sudden approach of an avalanche ripping through the thicket, and barrelling down the vertiginous mountain he keeps you locked on. 

An ebb and flow. 

When your head swims, dizzy with hypoxia that inks across your vision like a Rorschach, he pulls away. Peppers small kisses, nips, over your stringing, swollen flesh, and soothes the ache he left behind. 

"I know," is all he says to you before he starts to move. “I know, kid.”

Keegan keeps you locked to his chest, one hand bracketing your skull, kissing you in tandem with each roll of his hips. His other hand settles against the swell of your ass, holding you steady as he bucks into you, bludgeoning his cock into your cunt. 

Your hands drop to the pillow under his head to stabilise yourself, pushing firmly into the mattress in a futile effort to keep the brunt of your weight from pressing against him, but he notices. 

Always. 

His grunt of displeasure is barely heard over the roaring in your ear, the lewd slap of his wet skin on yours, the grind of his cock into your cunt, but you feel it rumble through his chest, reverberating over your lips. 

His hand trails up from the curve of your ass, and over your spine. 

"C'mon, kid," he murmurs, teeth scraping over your stinging bottom lip. "You're not gonna break me."

His sly words make you huff, and you clench your muscles around him in retribution. There is something blisteringly intoxicating in the low groan that leaves his chest, the pinch between his brow, the flutter of his lashes, lids cresting in pleasure. 

It's a small win, a minuscule victory despite losing the war. But it is a double-edged sword that leaves you just as breathless, just as aching, as he is. 

You acquiesce to his insistent prods, and slowly, hesitantly, melt into him. With your full weight settling on top of him, Keegan breathes in deep, and murmurs a quiet, hushed: that's it into your lips. 

His hands are on you, tugging and pulling until you're flush on his body with a muted groan. 

Your arms bend at the elbow, hands moving to cup his jaw in your palms, feeling the scratch of his rough stubble over your life line. 

Kismet, you think, and taste salt on your tongue, a humid breeze on your skin. It reminds you of Los Angeles, of the hole you sunk into with him. When you decided in the ramshackle remnants of what once was that, despite everything, all of it, you would follow him anywhere, everywhere. 

A confession in the shambles of normalcy, where the cracked Macy's sigh hung suspended on wires, and reinforced by nature. Thick webs of wisteria kept the relic from a bygone era arched over the collapsed ruins of the Beverly Centre. A macabre chandelier: a poignant piece of what is now history. Gone. Erased. Decimated by a weapon meant to protect. 

The rest was felled into a deep cavern, karst, destroyed by the beams of inert energy that spliced the world you knew in half. Water leaked in—from the burst pipes, the broken aquifer at the bottom, rainwater, the ocean, and, you think, from when they razed the smouldering husk of the cities on fire with a deluge of water, back when everyone still clung to the belief that everything was going to be okay. It pools at the bottom, a murky abyss of cracked rock, steel beams, and dead wires. 

On the surface, something floated past. A bag, maybe. Waterlogged and aged. You fish it out despite the soft rumble from Keegan to stay away from the cenote. 

"Currents might sweep you under. Not a place you wanna fall in, kid." 

When you dragged it to the linoleum ledge you sat on, the broken logo made you snort. 

"Never could afford designer," you muttered and tossed the Balenciaga bag aside. 

It doesn't matter. Not anymore. Not here. 

You know it doesn't, feel it deep in your polluted bones, and yet—

You stared at the shattered heap of luxury, and couldn't help thinking about those days in the past when you'd wake up after a long trip on the road with your dad, your brother, and the world would feel so massive, so empty. It felt like you were the only ones left. The only survivors. 

It eats at you now. 

You cried that night. Broke for the first time in months, years. Sobbed into the corner of what was once Macy's or Gucci or some other relic you used to scorn in your youth, and the whole time, Keegan said nothing. Nothing at all. 

He just held you when you stumbled into him. Kept you tight to his body as your sobs echoed through the chamber. 

Through it all, it was Keegan who kept you grounded. Who stood in front of you, sniper ready, whenever the bushes around you rustled, or the ground trembled with the aftershocks of the lingering explosion that decimated your home. Your world. He was there, his hand on the small of your back, eyes sharp, wary. Kept you alive, fed. Safe. 

Safe.

You can only sleep when he’s around. Even when they left you in the safe zone you clawed out of, you couldn’t sleep. Nothing quelled the anxious needling in the back of your head but his presence—solid and steady. An unshakeable rock. Your foundation amid a shattered sense of security. 

You turned to him, then, when the moon drifted over the open crater punched through the earth, and whispered the words he refused to return. 

Even now.

But it doesn’t matter. None of it does. 

Not anymore. 

“Thinkin’ too much,” he husks, nails leaving trails of white when he scrapes them over your skin. “What happened to breaking me, kid? Give up already?”

There is no way for him to know you taste algae in the back of your throat from when he pushed you deeper into the cenote as you ran from the Federation soldiers. When they closed the gap, he shoved you into the murky blue of the grotto below, too quick for you to close your mouth, to not panic when you hit the pool with a splash that echoed on the slick, mossy walls. You breathed in the stagnant water filled with bioluminescent algae, and as gunshots bounced off the jagged limestone, and you drifted down below the buried rubble, you wondered if you’d glow so bright he could find you at the bottom of polluted blue. 

(He did. Always.)

Still. You swallow down the tang of salt, and breathe him in, saturating yourself in the loam scent of him—thick musk; burning lignin and scorched evergreen—and let it sit in your throat until all you can taste is him when you swallow. 

“Thinking about you,” you say. 

He says nothing, but you catch the shudder in his chest, the tremble in his hands, when he slides them over your flesh. Reverent. Halting. The fingerprints he leaves on your skin are stained in chiaroscuro. 

He grabs you tight enough to bruise sometimes; holds you so close that you often think he’s trying to absorb you into him. To keep you safe and secure in the bulk of his body where nothing can hurt you, touch you. 

Not even him.

So, he pulls away. It’s not distance that pitches itself in the recess of his piercing gaze, but something close to it. Kin. Fear, maybe.

Of this, of you.

The fear started when Ajax went missing, but it was Keegan who held you together.

("It's gonna be okay, kid. We'll get him back.”

Empty promises. Broken pinky fingers.)

You broke when they brought Ajax home and laid him to rest as best as they could, and the marker that signified his resting place—a coded message only they would ever know—was all that remained of the man he fought beside, the man who made a pinky promise to never leave you in a the empty shell of a Walmart parking lot when you told him about the camping trips.

A scrap of fabric. A blood-drenched mask. 

You held Keegan as he whispered sorry, kid. Sorry. We tried. We— 

Gone. Gone. You think of rubble and the scent of rock dust. The crushing weight of cinder blocks and beams, and what it feels like to stumble when the earth breaks into pieces beneath your feet.

Elias. 

And now—

All he has left is Merrick. Hesh. Riley. 

Logan—

(“Missing,” the radio crackled a few days ago. “Gone.”)

—and you. 

He holds you at arm's length, even now, after coming back to you, after finding you again, because what you offer is different, more dangerous, than theirs. 

And despite what they say, Keegan isn’t a man who feels nothing at all.

No. 

He’s a man who feels too much. 

And he knows this. Knows it like he knows the world is in shambles, knows what the Federation is capable of. 

What you're capable of. 

You wonder if he's thinking of that now, as the shadows leak back in. They flood the corners of his eyes when he gazes through you, lost in those lour thoughts that rush by in quick succession. Too fast for him to cling to any. 

They cut into the crease. The ones that make you think he’s somehow omnipotent, all-knowing. That he can chisel inside of your head, and read the want, the greed, that festers in the rucked divots. 

And he isn't sure how to handle it. What to do with the bold, bare-faced sincerity of what you offer him. What you want from him. 

Before, Keegan would get so lost inside the maze of his mind that you didn't know how to bring him back. He'd speak only when necessary—just short, clipped words, commands (over there, inside, stop, eat)—and the silence would grate at you. Somehow quieter than he usually was; oppressive. 

It lasted for days, sometimes. 

It never sullied his ability to aim, to shoot. Survive. Protect. 

It was just—

An introspective silence. A storm cloud over blue. 

He was thinking too much, and wasn't sure which option to pick, which outcome was best.

You never knew what to say to bring him back. To ground him. All you could do was wait it out until the gyre would fade from his eyes, and he'd turn to you again, clear blue. 

Now—

“—You’re thinking too much,” you murmur, mouth trailing loose kisses over his stubbled jaw. 

“Just waiting for you to come back to me,” he volleys back, eyes cresting. A tendril of that unknowable something snakes through the gloom of blue, and you reach for it with curious, wanting fingers. 

“I’d never leave you.” 

Keegan swallows, and you trace the bob of his Adam's apple. A part of you expects it to retreat, to flee back to the safety of its bivouac where nothing can get too close. Nothing can hurt. 

But it doesn’t.

He huffs, and the soft expel of his breath, the sinking of his chest, feels a little bit like victory. 

“Wouldn’t survive without me.”

It’s as close to a confession as he’ll offer, and you take it with eager, greedy hands, cupping it in the plinth of your palm where it sits, safe from harm, from the world that crumbles around you. 

“Neither would you.” 

It’s a lie, of course. Keegan is dampening his own chances at survival by keeping you close to him instead of doing what everyone said he ought to, what he tried to do: leaving you behind. 

He pushed you away once. You wonder if he thinks of the separation. The distance etched between the two of you. Slowly relearning each other in broken husks that were once homes.  

"Drop Cali off at a safe zone, and then come find us, Keegan."

The intention, you know, was to leave you behind permanently. To keep you locked in the safe confines of a safe zone in Oregon, where they pitched tents in an expansive field, and lived off of pipe dreams. Where they pretended they couldn't fear the gunfire in the distance, or smell artillery smoke in the air. 

Direct orders passed down through the chain of command, from Elias himself, and yet—

He came back.

("Just gonna do whatever you want, kid. We're headed the same way, anyway.")

“That so?”

"It is."

Keegan swallows. Something yields, breaks. 

His palms are balmy on your skin, firebrands. You stare into his eyes, counting the deep ravines of inky black cutting through sapphire blue, and the gyre of those hidden things, locked away and kept at a distance, seem to tremble. Wobble. The edges blur. 

A frisson passes over his face, illuminated only by the milky light spilling in from the tattered curtains, and something cracks. Splinters. The fracture makes him flinch, makes him heave under you, chest expanding with the deep drawl of his breath. 

With another sigh, his hand slides down the heated flesh of your back, spreading over the swell of your ass. Before you can say anything in response, his middle finger dips into the valley between each cheek, brushing over the skin of your perineum before dipping lower, brushing over the wetness gathered there. 

He drags his finger higher, brushing over the soft skin of your ass. The feeling of it, the red-hot heat of his flesh, makes you keen, tightening around him. 

He huffs into your neck, lashes fluttering over the soft skin of your throat when he blinks. "Like that, huh? Want me here, too, kid?"

You gasp when he presses against the rim. "K–Keegan—"

"Not ready yet," he murmurs, and you try to stifle a whimper when he pulls away, heart thudding in your chest at the thought alone. 

He catches it, anyway.

"Fuck, kid—," it's a jagged husk; ripped up and shredded under barbed wire. Raw, wanting, and dark. You'd never heard his voice so low, so gritty. When you peer down at him, all you see is the endless ocean in the blanket of night. Midnight blue. It makes you shiver. 

You feel feverish when he groans again, when he rasps your name in a way that sounds like it was wrenched up from the recesses of his chest. Buried under soot and ash. 

"Gonna take you there," he pants, and you know him. You know Keegan. It's not a suggestion. It's a promise. "Soon."

The thought of it makes something ugly gnarl inside your chest. A possessive thing, out of place in such a moment. Between you and him, and this awful, awful world, greed has no room to grow. To burrow its roots in deep, and yet—

Yet. 

You crave him in ways that are unattainable. That belongs to a world that no longer exists in the land you roam. 

His fingers pull away, and settle on the tight flesh of your raw cunt stretched around the thick of him. His thumb brushes over your chafed, red skin, eyes softening as he coos at you. A gentle tut when he feels how wrecked, swollen you are from the brutal pounding he's giving you. 

You think he might be lenient. Merciful. Might let you pretend you have control again. But when you lift your gaze to his, eyes blurry and lachrymose, all you see is a deep, unrelenting satisfaction cut into deep slate. His pupils ripple. Deep puddles trembling in pleasure. 

"Fuck, kid." 

He punctuates his words with a slow, full roll of his hips. Slick drenches the tips of his fingers as he feeds you the thick of his cock, feeling the way you swallow him down to the base. To the root. 

"Takin' me so good."

His words are slurred, drunk off the spread of you in his lap, taking him into your willing cunt. Eyes flashing with something that prickles across your skin. It should be a warning to you, a siren. You know him enough to tell what those little flickers in his eyes mean, the shadows hidden in the canyons of blue, but he moves before the thought can take root inside the syrupy haze that clots over your thoughts. 

His legs slide up, knees bending, spreading, as he plants his feet firmly into the mattress. 

"Hold on." 

It's all he gives before he pushes up into you, cock sliding in deeper than before. 

You gasp, eyes snapping shut when he cudgels against something inside of you that has pleasure blooming in your lower belly. 

The angle is different, deeper and fuller than anything you'd ever taken before. Even riding him, sitting flush against his hips, it didn't hit that soft bundle of nerves that has fire licking at the base of your spine. 

You moan his name again, low and broken, and Keegan responds with a sloppy snap of his hips that makes your back arch in his hold, toes curling as batters into that place that makes Nirvana bleed over your synapses. 

Keegan's hand settles on your thigh, holding you steady as he bucks into you. His other hand tangles in your hair, cupped on the nape of your neck. He tugs, his nose pressing into yours. 

"You feel so good, kid," he breathes, sliding his hand down to cup your jaw in his palm. "Squeezing me so tight. Missed your pretty pussy—"

"—Feels so good, Keegan, feels so—"

His lips steal over yours in a searing kiss. Biting, blistering. He devours you whole until nothing remains but the taste of him on your tongue, in the back of your throat. It clogs all of your senses—a brutal assault of Keegan: rich, earthy. 

Like this, locked to his chest as he pistons into you, you have very little choice but to take everything he gives you. All of it.

The sounds your bodies make when he's seated in deep, the slap of his pelvis, the wet squelch of your pussy, make you dizzy. Make you keen. Whine. Your mouth drops. Toes curl. Eyes roll into the back of your head. 

The cacophony of him fucking into you over and over again fills the empty space around you, sticking to the walls, and the moss-covered floor. It bounces against the lining of your head until it throbs, pulses, and threatens to split you in two. To halve you down the middle where Keegan presses taut to the seal of your womb. 

All you can do is cling to him, hands sliding to grasp his thick, rippling forearms as he batters into you. It's sloppy, unrefined, and you've never seen him lose it like this before. 

It edges into that precipice of pleasure and pain, both admixing into a heady cocktail of bliss that roils through you. 

He trails kisses across your blistering cheek, down your neck. His breath is warm over your skin. The flash of teeth makes you gasp. 

"You're gonna cum." 

It's not a demand, or a request. It isn't a plea, a bargain. He says the words like he's relaying the time, coordinates, his position. He isn't unaffected—his voice crumbles a little over the vowels, wobbles on the syllables—but this isn't him asking you. He's telling you. 

Keegan knows your body like he knows the intricacies of his rifles, his weapons, and he knows, knows, you're going to cum around his cock soon. Can feel it in the way your nails find purchase in the firm muscles of his shoulders, the way you tighten around him like a vice. The sound of your voice when you get closer to that looming precipice he holds you over. 

He knows. 

You moan his name as liquid pleasure leaks into your marrow, and that vertiginous edge grows closer and closer. You want to warn, to tell him, but Keegan knows. 

He hushes you, mouth moulding to yours, and devouring the whimpers that seep out. His hands tighten, holding you steady as he fucks you through it, slowing his pace to the easy grind of his cock against the seal of your womb, dragging over that soft spot inside of you that makes your head spin, and eyes cloud over with bliss. 

You moan weakly into the kiss when he slides his hand back, fingers pressing once more against the taut flesh stretched around him. It's too much—the added pressure, the feeling of him bucking into you, brushing over the seam where you swallow him down—and you tilt your head back with a whimper of his name. 

"I know, kid," he grunts, teeth catching on your chin. "Gonna cum for me, yeah?" 

You can't speak, can't talk over the rush in your head, the thick spool of pleasure clotting inside your head, behind your eyelids, in your veins. Molten, liquid. You fall into him as the world around you shatters once more, erupting into white noise, static. 

Everything that isn't him—the solid press of his body, unyielding and supine under you; the weight of his hands on your flesh; the painful crescent of his nails sinking into your skin; the stretch of his cock wrenching you open, and filling you deep, deeper than you'd thought possible; the burning heat, white-hot and balmy, that soaks your being from base to empty, empty skull—is sucked out through the broken shell, and into the vacuum of nothingness where it dissolves into embers, ashes. 

All you can think, feel, is Keegan. 

He works you through it, hand still pressed against the rim of your spasming cunt, feeling the way you pulse around him. 

He moans low in his throat, the noise cutting through the gossamer of pleasure liquifying your joints into sticky molasses, and you know he's close, too. 

You push back into him, into the sloppy cants of his hips as he leaches the lingering aftershocks of your climax for his own taking, his own rapture. 

His chest shudders. Fingers tremble when they run along your skin, grasping, clenching. Keeping you tight to his body where you fit like a puzzle, and he, in turn, fills all of the empty, barren cavities inside of you, leaving no crevasse, no fibril, untouched by him. 

You want to give him everything. Everything. 

You buck into his thrusts, meeting him in the middle where he sinks home with a grunt that echoes through the hollow spaces of your ribs, and you tremble with him. Satiate yourself on his scent, his taste, the noises he makes, the feeling of his body on yours. Sweat-slicked and fever hot. You douse the burn heat of his in the inferno of your own; incandescent with the molten press of him everywhere. 

Your head drops, nose pressed to his cheekbone as you breathe in him in greedy gulps that make your lungs quiver. Filled to the brim with him. Gorged on his taste. Saturated in his scent. 

It's good. You're delirious. Mad with it. Drunk on the elixir of his briny skin, and the way he leaks into your pores, into your being.

You push yourself tighter against him until you feel his heartbeat pulsing inside of your ribcage. 

His name is ripped from your throat in needy gasps drenched in the potency of your devotion. Shrill hymns that fans over his skin until it prickles, dampening with the humidity of your breath. Stained, then, with you. 

"God, Keegan, you feel so good inside of me—" 

Slurred words tumble from your sore lips, dipped in euphoria, in bliss, as he batters clumsily into you. 

You'll ache tomorrow—already feel like one massive, liquified contusion. He might have to carry you from Yosemite to Coarsegold where Merrick and Hesh are waiting. 

They'll know, of course, when you can't stand properly without feeling the stretch of him anew. When your knees wobble and your legs shake. 

(But a part of you wants them to.)

"Gonna cum for me, Keegan?" You mewl, nails scratching at his shoulders when he grunts your name like it's salvation. Purpose. "Want you to, baby, want you to—"

His cock jerks, twitching within you, and with a choked, guttural moan, he cums inside of your fluttering pussy. Saturates you in his release that spits, plumes of warmth, against the battered, bruised seal of your womb. 

He rumbles your name again, a shattered husk of vowels, consonants, and the ecstasy that paints his timbre sends you spiralling down into an abyss of endless blue. 

Keegan's stomach flutters. The skin pulling taut as his muscles clench, seize. You feel the drag of his flesh over your quivering belly; the constellation of scars rubbing over your slick skin. Your hand falls to his shoulder, pressing against the bullet wound left behind when he perched himself in front of death for you. For you. 

His eyes slide open slowly, heavy-lidded and bone weary with the shuddering tremors of euphoria that dance between the rucked 

The tip of your nose slides over the bridge of his, and when his skin wrinkles at the featherlight touches, it feels a little bit like the scar over his heart. 

"Fuck, kid," he rasps, eyes misty and lidded. Heavy pools of mercury you could fall into if you tried hard enough. "You have no idea what you do to me."

He grabs your hand, fingers lacing through the empty brackets until every part of you is filled with him. 

Your nail catches the burn mark—a molotov cocktail when the world wasn't in shambles. His thumb brushes over yours—hot oil, perogies, back when your dad took you around America on grand adventures every weekend, and your brother would sneakily eat your fries from the McDonald's bag. 

The other snakes up your spine, tangling in your messy hair, and then his lips are on yours. Messy, wet. He gasps into your open mouth as you rock against him, working him through his undoing, his breaking. 

You hold his shattered pieces in your hands, clutched tight against your sternum, and wonder, once again, if this is what they mean when they talk about kismet. 

"Never gonna leave you again," he rasps, the words clawing up his throat. 

The raw, pulpy mess of them sits heavy between you. A promise. Promises. Broken, flayed. A crumpled heap of everything you once were in shambles. 

You think of the anger you felt before, when the heels of his palms dug into your shoulder, and he pushed. Pushed you out, away. The bitter resentment, the festering rage. 

The agony. The sorrow. 

You missed him. His stupid face. His stupid voice. Stupid hands. Stupid humour—soft, witty, and drier than Death Valley. His stupid touch, his kisses. Him. 

The loneliness carved a hole inside of you, a crater where only he could fit. 

(You sleep better when he's beside you, anyway.)

"I won't let you."

Your lips crook into a small smile, a dawning blitz over a ruined landscape, and you lean down, pressing your lips to his pulse, sliding up until you catch his lobe between the seam. 

"Still broke you," you murmur, skimming your teeth over the downy soft hairs that cover the shell of his ear. "Still won—"

His hand moves, braces against the back of your skull, the base of your spine, and then he flexes his hips beneath you. It's quick. A fluid motion. Keegan bucks you off, and rolls you under the bulk of his body within a blink. You barely have time to choke on your gasp when he's already nestled above you, eyes shining in the milky light spilling in from the moth-eaten curtains. 

"What—?"

His hips jerk into yours, cock sticky, tacky against your skin, but you feel him thicken with each slow roll he makes into you.  

He leans down, bracing his forearm on the flat pillow above your crown, eyes burning embers that spark in the dim light bleeding between the wisps of broken fog that shroud the moon. 

"My turn, kid." 

[autumn-foxfire]

Oooh, are these the episodes where Shinichi almost gets caught by Gin in the locker? I think they are! I'm excited, that moment has such great HC potential!

Shinichi the moment he gets a hint of the BO: All care for his cover goes out the window and he gets reckless.

I'd say it's interesting that in a situation where the BO are involved, he isn't worried that Ran has accompanied them, when he won't even tell her his secret due to fearing the BO killing her, but I guess Gosho didn't think about that. No, wait, as I was writing this, Shinichi thought about it but he's quickly put any worries to the back of his head.

You know, Shinichi, if Kogoro and Ran were aware of your situation, they would be able to help you get the disk so much easier. Ran could use Shinichi's name to get it for him, saying the man might be related to a case he's investigating so he needs to check it. Just spitballing some ideas here for you, Shinichi.

How... how does Kogoro in these moments not realise that he is not the one solving the crimes T-T I know he's dumb and prideful at times but come on, he is smart enough to be a detective.

Shinichi using the victims dying message as a way to get the file he needs without raising suspicious, he's resourceful at least. And then once again Ran, in a very weird position in this series, is the one who hinders Shinichi.

Okay, I say it a lot but it's because I mean it, I love when we get to see Shinichi be rash and reckless, I love his flaws. He had to mentally talk himself down because he's got what he wants and now he just needs to leave but he can't do so without wrapping up what he had started even though he wants nothing more than to get away and follow the scent he's found. It's in these moments we see him be a teenage boy who just wants to return to his normal life so badly.

Then stop waiting, Ran. Stop waiting for a man you don't know will return and finally live your life. And when Shinichi comes back into it eventually, then you decide what you want to do.

And stop lying to yourself, Shinichi. You have changed, you aren't the boy she remembers, not anymore. You can't go through what you have without changing. The way you lie to her is the biggest proof that you have.

"Your always crying." She is, because Gosho doesn't know how to write her beyond crying love interest whose life revolves around a man and we hate it. Ran deserves better and I'll say it until I am blue in the face. It might seem like I complain about her writing more often than most but that's because hers is probably one of the worst in this series.

Shinichi, you shouldn't be running with such an important disk in your hand.

Shinichi's lack of interest in girls is so amusing. He's very gay, gay, homosexual, gay.

Oh, this episode introduces the soccer belt. You will become one of Shinichi's most feared weapons.

Agasa is much more fearful than Shinichi is XD

The dreaded coin locker. I can't wait!

My dog is trying to liveblog as well T-T

It's Shinichi's luck that he gets picked up by jewel thieves though. He must hate his life sometimes.

Shinichi: Can I go one moment without being involved in a crime?!

Life: No <3

Yamamura should not be a police officer. He's bragging about how he misused his gun...

Shinichi to the criminals: I'm sorry, I have bigger fish to fry than you two.

Imagine being shaded like that by a boy who looks like he's in grade school. I'd never live it down.

Shinichi really did not think this through. He's down two of his main weapons and he's going to confront criminals that have bested him multiple times.

Gin has got such a cool voice...

Gin helping his partner, how kind of him.

0219. A number that Shinichi is sure to never forget.

I LOVE THIS MOMENT SO MUCH. It's such a small one but it's such a good one to explore Shinichi developing trauma from almost being caught and killed. I did a small drabble on tumblr which involved him developing claustrophobia due to this, associating the small and suffocating spaces with almost being killed.

It's so great too because Shinichi resents Conan, he hates how his body has been altered and he can no longer live his previous life, and yet it's due to Conan that he is able to investigate the BO as well as he can, it's saved his life more than once.

Annnnd he's hiding the truth from Haibara T-T I know he said he would protect her but protection is not leaving them in ignorance. In fact, especially for Haibara, it puts them more in danger.

[so-called-yokai]

More crossover shenanigans, because being able to write silly drabbles like this is great for scratching that writing itch, and @thescribblings is amazing for letting me play with their blorbos. Peepaw Leon and little brother Leo are theirs, Eshra is mine.

Of course they met while shopping for clothes.

"That color would look great on you."

The rumbling baritone nearly makes Eshra drop the length of fabric he's been examining and look up in surprise, his shoulders tensing and his crest flaring on instinct. Usually he's more aware of his surroundings, but apparently he's been focusing so hard on whether or not he likes the shimmery white wrap that he hasn't even noticed the approach of the, uh… Woah.

Eshra looks up. And up. And up some more. The yokai(?) standing next to him is huge in all senses of the word, easily over seven feet tall and built to match, with lime green skin and a… a shell on his back? Eshra takes a step back, both to put a little distance between them and get better idea of what he's looking at.

A turtle, he realizes. There's a giant, bipedal, talking turtle standing next to him, browsing the clothing racks without a care in the world. The Hidden City really does have everything.

"You think so?" Eshra drops his gaze back to the cloth in his hands, and that's when he spots the pair of eyes narrowed suspiciously at him from around the giant turtle-man's shell. He leans back just a bit to get a clearer view, and his brow ridges lift when he sees those eyes belong to a miniature version of the big guy. His kid?

As though oblivious to the impromptu staring contest going on behind him, Big Turtle replies, "Sure, it'll stand out really well with your feathers." Bold as you please, he plucks the wrap from Eshra's fingers and holds it against the iridescent blue and green feathers adorning his arm. "See? And it goes all rainbow-y when the light hits it. It'll look great."

"Leon." That comes from Little Turtle, who is still watching Eshra like the feathered yokai is crafting some nefarious world-ending plot right there in the clothing store. "You said we'd get boba."

Leon, huh? Eshra files that information away for later.

Big Turtle -- Leon -- glances under his arm at his fun-size companion. "We just got here, champ," he says with some amusement and obvious affection.

"Yeah, but I'm literally dying of thirst. Look! I'm wasting away!" Little Turtle slumps dramatically against his… uncle… big brother… whatever and turns the biggest puppy dog eyes Eshra has ever seen up to the big turtle. It takes everything in the yokai not to snort at the theatrical display.

"Okay, okay, we'll go get boba." Leon seems entirely unaware of the little con artist's manipulation, or maybe he's just used to it. He looks at Eshra then and gives him the biggest, warmest smile Eshra has ever seen, and it promptly turns the little yokai's insides into mush. Oh no. "Seriously, get the wrap."

Then he's letting his seven foot, several hundred pound bulk be dragged out of the store by a kid not even half his size, a kid who is still tossing suspicious glances in Eshra's direction. Suddenly, on impulse, Eshra hurries after them.

"Hey, hold on!"

Leon stops, despite his Mini Me's attempts to continue to tug on his arm. He cocks his head at Eshra, whose crest ruffles in sudden bashfulness.

"Would you, uh. Would you like to get coffee sometime?"

There's that smile again. "Sure. Actually… how do you feel about boba?"

Beside Leon, Little Turtle looks borderline apoplectic, but the expression vanishes the instant Leon looks down at him. Interesting. "That okay with you, little bro?"

The answer is obviously reluctant. Equally obvious, however, is the teenager's apparent inability to say no to his older brother. "Yeah, that's fine, I guess."

"Great!" Leon offers a hand to Eshra, and the yokai only now realizes that the turtle's right arm is entirely prosthetic. "I'm Leon, and this is my, uh… little brother, Leo."

Taking the offered hand and giving it a polite shake, Eshra blinks. The same name? Okay, kinda weird… but now his curiosity is piqued, and he's going to chase it down no matter how hard the little one, Leo, is trying to set Eshra on fire with his eyes.

"Nice to meet you both. I'm Eshra."

[aimmyarrowshigh]

HI, I'm just wondering where you get your drabble prompts from? 3000+ works that's INSANE but where do you get the ideas? if they're just random word generators I've done that, but I don't know how you can write so much and Im wondering if you have like pages with good prompts? love your work sm

Hi, thanks!

The prompts I use really are just random words, tbh. I found an old database for the Oxoniensis fanfiction “Porn Battle” challenge from 2013, stripped the fandoms and pairings from the requests, searched and removed all of the duplicate prompts, and randomized the whole rest of the challenge prompts to come up with a list of 13,000+ prompts. Then I just chopped that humongo list down into 100-prompt lists that I keep in an Excel file. I've got enough 100-prompt lists in there to last me YEARS, even if I were still writing at the pace that I was in 2022 (maybe soon. Hopefully soon).

I have noticed that there are some duplicate words that Excel missed stripping because of US versus UK spelling (or typos) but that’s OK. :) I just swap the duplicate word out of the list with something on my desk, usually -- which is why there are prompts for, like, "paint" and "seltzer" and "thread," haha.

I have put a couple of list tables up on my Tumblr on this page, so as long as you credit where you found them (because it did take time to strip, organize, and randomize the lists) you’re free to use them!

As for connecting the random word to an idea -- that's why it's helpful to have people request a pairing with the prompt, and it's SUPER helpful to have a really wide array of pairings/fandoms I'll write. I think if I tried to fill every prompt with the same pairing, I would run out of steam really quickly.

I also like to take prompts in the least expected direction that I can a lot of the time, which is why prompts like "domme" or "finger" will be totally gen, and something LIKE "paint" or "thread" might be smutty. Or if a word has multiple definitions, I try to use one of the less-common ones. I also, personally, try to come up with ideas that are canon-compliant or canon-adjacent as much as I possibly can because that's the kind of fic I prefer, and I think having that boundary helps me to come up with ideas, too. Like how would "seltzer" fit into the actual canon for Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, or Marvel, or Star Wars, or whatever? Sometimes that takes a little research to answer, and then that births an idea.

I like drabbles, one-word prompts, and canonfic all because they are boundaries and formats that help me, personally, come up with ideas more easily. I think if I tried to open up those boundaries and just write ANYTHING I WANTED I would freeze up and not be able to write anything at all. (Which is why I'm the world's slowest longfic writer, haha.)

I am a big fan of writing to formats and with boundaries of the form. I think it definitely helps get ideas flowing if you know that you only have a certain amount of room to fill. This is why I don't understand free-verse poetry.

[verai-marcel]

Author Interview

Tagged by the illustrious @a-shakespearean-in-paris

1. how many works do you have on AO3?

125 (my god, so many)

2. what’s your total AO3 word count?

507,692

3. what fandoms do you write for?

Used to write for Dragon Ball Z and Red Dead Redemption 2. Now I just write for Baldur's Gate 3.

4. what are your top five fics by kudos?

One and Only (RDR2)

Getting Into Character (RDR2)

Something New (RDR2)

Know Your Place (RDR2)

Your Hearth Is My Home (BG3)

5. do you respond to comments?

Yeah, I try to respond to most of them, although sometimes when it's just one word, I'm not sure what to say, haha.

6. what is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably Midnight Rendezvous, and that one isn't even that angsty because I wrote a sequel to give Arthur x Reader a happy ending, haha.

7. what’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

The majority of my fics have a happy ending (wink wink nudge nudge). But seriously, which would I say has the absolute happiest? Hmmm... Probably The Light That You Shine, which is my only John Marston x Reader fic, strangely enough. I think I put the characters through some shit and they come out very happy at the end.

8. do you get hate on fics?

Not that I'm aware of?

9. do you write smut? if so, what kind?

Do I write smut? HAH. I write nothing BUT smut, my dear. Well, with a few exceptions. As for what kind of smut? Not sure how to answer that. I write between canon characters and between canon character & reader, and I've got some OC x OC stuff too. Or is the question more like what genre of smut? I've probably written most kinds (soft & gentle, hard & rough, and everything in between).

10. do you write crossovers? what’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Well. I could lie and say I don't. But unfortunately in high school I wrote a DBZ-Sailor Moon-YYH crossover, and I regret its existence.

11. have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of...

12. have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope! But if someone wanted to do it, they have my blessing!

13. have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, with the wonderful @shootybangbang

14. what’s your all-time favourite ship?

Hmmmm.... All-time, you say. I'd have to say... probably Vegeta x Bulma. Even after all this time.

15. what’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I have a OC x Arthur fic that I really liked making the story for, but it'll forever live as a few drabbles cobbled together. Oh Grace, you'll never get a full fic and I'm sorry.

16. what are your writing strengths?

I've been told that I know when to summarize plot points so that the story doesn't drag on for too long. Also I've been told that my smut writing is some of the best, for its clarity and hotness. I'll accept that compliment, haha!

17. what are your writing weaknesses?

Not descriptive enough at times. The most comments I get on my Google docs from my friends are "elaborate more on this point". Totally fair! And personally, I think I have the writer's equivalent of 'same face syndrome' that some artists have. Like my "reader" character tends to be pretty same-y through a lot of my Arthur x Reader fics...

18. thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

If a character is using another language, I try to make sure that there is a reason for it, that it isn't just for flair. For example, if I have a character blurt something out in another language suddenly, then it means they've been thrown off guard and are going back to their first language. Or if two characters are speaking another language together, then they're either hiding something from others, or they grew up that way and are falling back to old habits.

19. first fandom you wrote for?

Oof, I had to go back to some archived files to figure this out. Probably Yu Yu Hakusho, back in 1999, although I suspect I had some older fics in the Gundam Wing fandom, but I don't have any digital evidence of them, I think they were on a GW Mailing List from Yahoo, of all places.

20. favourite fic you’ve written?

The one I'm writing right now :D (Your Heart is My Home)

Tagging @shootybangbang @twola @cheesewedge @sad-sweet-cowboah @riskpig

[taegularities]

oh i just remembered i have this funny story from that writer perspective 😂 almost no one knows that i write, it's been my very well hidden secret especially since i'd decided to write fanfiction too

during pandemic my studies were all remote so i went back to my parents for a bit, but suddenly i had to find a piece of paper needed for my internship and i asked my sister that lived with me back in the city if she could help and look for it in my files that i left. and i had no idea why but once way earlier i'd printed this one piece, just straight up smut, fanfic of course, and put it with my most important documents... maybe i was so proud? i really don't know 😂 so i guided her to search those documents...

she said she'd found nothing important except "i think it's your english assignment or something" and she's fluent in english and definitely knew what it was 😭 we never spoke about this but i sometimes laugh remembering this out of nowhere 🫠

LMFAOOO okay but your sister's so cool for just brushing it off, bc she could've definitely reacted so much worse, so like 😭 i love how spicy smut was just chilling with your important personal documents.

that reminds of – okay story time, when my brother came to me and went "uhm, hey so mom told me to look for something on her phone, and i found that document you apparently shared with her...? i guess you did not want to...?" and it was the ruin you sex toys drabble 💀 straight up "This is the thought that repeats itself when you feel the small sex toy vibrate inside your pussy again" right at the beginning.

i'm sure i never shared this doc with her, so idk how that happened lmfao, but i'm glad it was him who found it and not her bc he knows i write fics and she thankfully doesn't care about google drive jkfmsdhmfs 💀

[sirowsky]

Since I needed to stay up all night to prepare for a weekend of night shifts, I decided to go ahead and answer all of these questions, just for fun.

Do you prefer writing one-shots or multi-chaptered fics?

I like both, but I really suck at keeping things short, so I usually end up writing multi chaptered stories or miniseries. I do like to challenge myself with short stories and drabbles, though.

2. Do you plan each chapter ahead or write as you go?

Oh, I can’t plan a story to save my life. Nope, in this house we put our fingers to the keys and blindly hope the words string together into something cohesive and entertaining.

3. Describe the creative process of writing a chapter/fic.

Well, I usually get an idea at random. Depending on how inspired I am to write, I’ll sometimes get started on it right away, but if I’m in a low streak, I’ll jot down the basic premise, or scene I’ve envisioned, in one of my notebooks, and come back to it when I’m in the right headspace. When it comes to chapters on ongoing stories, I generally just sit down at the computer, open the document and start writing whatever my mood directs me towards, within the confines of the story.

4. Where do you find inspiration for new ideas?

My own head, mostly. Some of it comes from things I watch or read, but for the most part, daydreams will lead me to new ideas. Although, one thing I’ve always loved to do is write based on prompts. I’ve had some of my most inspired short stories come from being sent just one or two words and attempting to formulate a story out of it.

5. Do you like constructive criticism?

In a word: Yes. But there are still good and bad ways to give constructive criticism, and I’ve encountered both. Poorly worded critique, although not meant to be hurtful, can still come across that way, and depending on who it comes from, it can completely destroy my confidence in what I’m writing.

6. Do you have your work beta'd? How important is this to your process?

No. I have never had a beta, and it’s not something I’d look for either. I understand the advantages, but if I make mistakes in my writing, I’ll find them eventually and correct them since I reread my own stories now and then. I don’t mind if a reader points out any mistakes they find in my fics, though, I appreciate being made aware of them.

7. How do you choose which POV to write from?

For short stories, I imagine the events from several points of view, and decide based on which character I find has the more interesting or provocative perspective. Whereas for multi chapter fics, I’ll usually write from both main character’s pov.

8. Do you prefer the beginning, middle, or end of a story?

Beginning, definitely. I love the world building and setting up the characters, getting to know them and exploring their relationships and histories. And while endings are always hard, there is a great deal of satisfaction in bringing a story to a close, especially when it’s been a long one.

9. Do you comment on stories you read?

If I like them, I always reblog with a comment, but I don’t actually read much fanfiction. I can be extremely picky in terms of what I like to read, so if I find something in the tags I’m not interested in or in the mood for, I’ll scroll past it without a second thought.

10. Cltr+f "blinks" on your WIP & copy paste the first sentence/paragraph that comes up.

Between them, he and your mother had stolen almost your entire childhood and teenage years, and you weren’t going to let them take anything more from you.

11. Link your three favorite fics right now.

I’m afraid I would only be able to link my own fics because I’m not currently reading any others, and while I have read wonderful stories from other writers over the years, I don’t remember the author’s handles anymore. I would however recommend practically everything written by @deadhumorist or @dornish-queen

12. How does receiving or not receiving feedback/support impact you?

In answer to that, I have an entire file on my phone dedicated to screen shots of every positive note I’ve ever received on something I’ve posted here, currently containing nearly a thousand images. I open it and read through some of them whenever I start doubting myself as a writer, and it makes all the difference in the world. I would probably still write and post my stories even if no one read or interacted with them, but every time someone does, it’s like getting the warmest hug on the worst day of my week. It’s like bottled sunshine, or a puppy falling asleep on my arm, or unexpectedly hearing my favorite song.

13. What’s a common writing tip that you almost always follow?

These days, avoiding the word THAT. I have a 370 000 word story riddled with the word, and I will have to go back an correct this at some point because it now irritates me to no end.

14. How do you write emotional scenes? Do you ever feel what the characters feel? Do you draw from personal experiences?

I would say it’s more like my characters feel what I feel. I’m an emotionally driven person, and very empathetic, so my writing follows my mood, which means my characters suffer when I do, and have fun when I’m happy. I draw some elements of emotional scenes from personal experiences, but I have no trouble imagining what my characters are going through or feeling, even if I haven’t experienced those things specifically, myself.

15. How do you write smut scenes? Do you get very visual or detailed? How important is it to be realistic?

I think I vary a bit. I try not to get too detailed, since I don’t feel like every detail is necessary for a reader to be able to enjoy what I write, but there also has to be enough detail that a reader can track what’s happening and understand why characters react in certain ways. Depending on the story overall, I don’t think smut needs to be entirely realistic, especially not in fanfiction, as the whole point is to create and enjoy a fantasy. But there are also fics who are incredibly realistic in their entirety, and if you throw completely unrealistic smut into a story like that, it’s gonna stick out like a rusty nail.

16. How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Share one of them?

Well, I’m currently working on updating some of my older stories, so I’m actively trying not to indulge any new ideas, since that inevitably would lead to me abandoning the updates for months at a time, and I hate leaving things unfinished. However, I did watch a really good Korean tv-series recently, which gave me a minor inspiration for a potential romance/fantasy, but I don’t have any solid thoughts on that yet.

17. What do you do when writing becomes difficult? (maybe a lack of inspiration or writers block)

Hate myself? No, not quite, but I do get so disappointed with myself, especially if I’m working on a series, because I’ve noticed that half the readers who jump on the story when it’s new will vanish the moment there’s a delay in updates, and that’s just so demoralizing. What I try to do whenever I lose desire to write is to not let the computer become my enemy. I’ll start looking at it and find myself not wanting to touch it because if I open a document and don’t manage to start a new chapter or finish one, I’ll just feel worse. So, I try instead to challenge myself to write just one sentence and then put it away. One tiny victory each day, until I’m suddenly writing entire paragraphs again.

18. Do you title your fics before, during, or after the writing process? How do you come up with titles?

Mostly, the title will come after the story is finished, particularly on shorter stories, and I always try to base them on the heart of the story. For longer series, though, the title has to be there from the first chapter, even though I never know where the story will end up, so I’ll look for something simple but still accurate for what the story actually is. I like to name chapters as well, and I’ll almost always come up with those titles last of all, right before I post.

19. What is the most-used tag on your ao3?

I do have an Ao3 account, but I haven’t used it in a very long time, so I honestly wouldn’t know.

20. Have you noticed any patterns in your fics? Words/expressions that appear a lot, themes, common settings, etc?

Oh, yes. Too many. I can’t think of any expressions right now, but I know I recycle a few in almost every story I write. And as for themes, I tend to write strong female lead characters with extremely troubled childhoods. Whenever I write fantasy, I always end up incorporating nature as a source of magic or supernatural strength, and love is always a powerful entity. I also seem to have a thing for transformation, either physical, spiritual or mental.

21. Would you ever collaborate with another writer for a story?

I honestly don’t know. I’ve offered advice to other writers on occasion, and I have written parts to what someone else has posted once, which wasn’t an unpleasant experience. But I wonder if I’d enjoy a full collaboration on a fic, given how hard it is for me to write towards any predetermined goals or set parameters.

22. Are there certain types of writing you won’t do? (style, pov, genre, tropes, etc)

Yes. There are certain tropes I avoid, both as a writer and a reader, such as daddy kinks, breath play, best friends dad, age gaps and probably many others I can’t recall right now. Like I mentioned earlier, I’m quite particular. But this is not because I feel these things are wrong, I’m merely restricted in what I’m able to enjoy because of things I’ve been through in my life. In terms of style, genre or pov, I’m not that picky, though. If a story is well written and engaging, I’ll enjoy it.

23. Best writing advice for other writers?

Ooooh, tough one. I would say, get creative with how to identify a character without using their name. One thing that really puts me off a story is when every other sentence contains the name of the character/s I’m following. I always try to keep mentions of names of any character at least three paragraphs apart, using descriptions or nicknames in between.

24. Worst writing advice anyone ever gave you?

Happily, no one’s ever given me any bad advice on writing, but that’s probably also because not many people have wanted to help me with my writing, either irl or here on tumblr. I’m usually the one giving the advice, having learnt everything I know by making all the mistakes myself.

25. What fic do you wish you got more of a response on?

Easily the one I’m currently updating, The Flowers Always Know. It’s a Marcus Moreno story, 48 chapters long, and although the original version was full of holes and messy plotlines, the updated version is turning into a true favorite of mine.

26. Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

Oh, The Lost Island, for sure.

27. What is your most and least favorite part of writing?

I love crafting characters. Figuring out who they are and why they’ve come to be that person, as well as creating the world they live in. What I don’t like is the pressure I always end up putting on myself whenever I don’t meet my own expectations. I generally try to write one chapter per week, if I have a series running, and the moment I don’t manage to deliver, I get very hard on myself.

28. On average, how much writing do you get done in a day?

Averages are not kind to writers like me, because I can churn out 20 000 words one week, and then nothing at all for three months.

29. What’s your revision or editing process like?

I self correct as I go, meaning I read back every single sentence I write before moving on to the next one, so generally, any mistakes I make are due to fatigue. I will usually read through a finished chapter from the start before posting it, to make sure I haven’t made any grave errors without noticing. And short stories or one shots I’ll probably read through completely about three times before I post it.

30. Do you share rough drafts or do you wait until it’s all polished?

Polished all the way. I don’t like posting anything unfinished.

31. Do you start with the characters or the plot when writing?

Good question… I never have a finished plot in mind when starting a new story, but I will usually decide on genre and tropes before I settle on which Pedro character to use. Occasionally, it does happen the other way around, but only when I come across an image of a character that’s so strong I’ll end up crafting a story based solely on that character.

32. Name three of your favorite fanfic writers.

I did mention two of them earlier, so I’ll simply add @lucrezia-thoughts as well. Sadly, she’s not around much anymore, but her writing is still available.

33. Do you want to be published some day?

I’ve been trying to write a book for about 8 years now, and it’s my dream to one day finish it and manage to get it published.

34. Five years from now, where do you see yourself as a writer?

Probably exactly the same as now, although hopefully with even more accumulated skills and wisdom.

35. What is one essential thing to remember when writing a villain?

That simply making something evil doesn’t automatically make it interesting. A villain needs a backstory that’s just as complex and rich as the hero’s. 

36. How do you write kissing scenes?

Depends on the situation. Are they kissing for the first time? Are they kissing goodbye? Are they about to make love? I let the situation decide how a kiss happens.

37. How do you choose where to end a chapter?

Hah. Anyone who’s ever read my series will tell you I delight in cliffhangers, so I’ll generally stop at the most dramatic or stressful point.

38. Would you ever write commissions?

I have and I would happily continue to do so. But I like variation, and I’m governed by mood, so I will ignore any ask that doesn’t tickle me creatively.

39. Share a snippet from a WIP.

Unfortunately, I don’t have anything in the works at the moment.

40. If someone were to make fanart of your work, what fic or scene would you hope to see?

Oh, gosh… that’s almost too hard to choose. But it would have to be something from Driving Mr. Tovar. Pero’s and Belleza’s dance together at the benefit which is also their wedding, even though they don’t know it yet, might be my favorite scene ever. I might actually faint if I ever got to see that brought to life.

41. Do you tend to reread fics or are you a one-and-done kind of person?

I reread my own fics all the time, since they cater to all my interests and favorite tropes. But it would have to be something really special for me to revisit someone else’s writing here. I’m much more likely to reread actual books that I can hold in my hands, but for whatever reason, fanfiction just doesn’t draw me in the same way.

42. What’s the last fic you read? Do you recommend it?

I read a short story about Dave York yesterday, which started out good, but unfortunately I didn’t understand the ending, so I can’t really recommend it.

43. Do you take a sadistic joy in whumping your characters, or are you more the "If you hurt them I would kill everyone and then myself" kind of person?

Oh no, I torture them. Repeatedly and with increasing intensity. But not because I’m sadistic, I don’t think. I just know from real life experience that finding your way through painful and difficult things makes you appreciate things differently, and if there’s someone there, sharing those burdens with you, it brings you closer together in ways nothing else can.

44. What mistakes do you keep making no matter how many times your beta corrects you?

As mentioned, I don’t have a beta, so I wouldn’t know.

45. Do you want to break your readers‘ heart or make them laugh?

Both. Always both.

46. How would you describe your style? (Character/emotion/action-driven, etc)

Um… all of the above? I don’t think I’ve ever written a story that wasn’t driven by all those things, to a greater or lesser extent. But I suppose my stories are slightly more character driven than anything else.

47. How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

At least once, but also continuously as I write.

48. What do you look for in a beta?

Don’t have one.

49. Do you ever get rude reviews and how do you deal with them?

Not so far, thankfully. But if I did get them, I’d probably try to ignore them since a person’s opinion can’t be changed unless they want it to be.

50. How long is your longest fic?

370 000 words.

51. What’s your total AO3 word count?

I haven’t posted anything on Ao3, but I did do an overall wordcount on everything I’ve posted to tumblr, up until March 2024: 1 294 946 words.

52. Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Of course! If someone takes the time to interact with something I’ve posted then they deserve to know I’ve seen it and that I appreciate it.

53. How do you spend your time when it comes to fanfiction? Are you primarily a fic reader, writer, or a perfect 50/50 split of both?

I’m almost 100% writer.

54. What’s your favorite part about the fanfiction writing process?

Didn’t I answer this question already? I love creating the characters and the world building.

55. Of the characters you write for, which is your favorite? Has that choice been swayed at all by your followers/readers’ reactions to certain ones?

My favorite would have to be Pero Tovar. When I first started writing fanfiction, it was Din Djarin, but I never felt very confident writing him in the beginning. It wasn’t until Driving Mr. Tovar started gaining attention that I began to feel like maybe I knew what I was doing, at least enough for people to find it interesting, and ever since then, Pero has been my go to. My comfort character and my safe place to return to after going on adventures with some of the others.

56. What’s something about your writing that you pride yourself on?

World building. I always try to create a very comprehensive image of the world my characters live in, but I also love to do that slowly, gradually revealing more about the history/environment/buildings/people around the main characters and story.

57. Do you prefer editing as you write, or waiting until it’s finished? 

We’re just recycling questions now, aren’t we? I do both.

58. What part of the writing process do you enjoy the most? (Brainstorming, outlining, writing, editing, etc) 

Well, since I don’t brainstorm or outline anything, it would have to be the writing itself. Editing is a necessary step to keep mistakes to a minimum, and thus, not something I’d say I enjoy that much.

59. Does anyone in your personal life know you write fic? If not, would you tell anyone?

I’ve told just about everyone, but no one gets it or wants to hear anything about it, so I’ve stopped trying to talk about it.

60. Have you had a writer you admire comment on your fic? What was that like?

Yeah, I have. The person who wrote the first ever story I read here on tumblr later read one of my first stories I posted here, and that was a huge boost to my confidence at the time. Sadly, I’ve since decided to block that person after realizing they have very prejudiced opinions on what Pedro Pascal chooses to wear to red carpet events, which I find incredibly rude and unbecoming of anyone calling themselves a fan.

61. Why do you continue writing fics?

Because it’s the only way I’ve found to get the daydreams out of my head so I can move on to new ones. Also, it’s allowed me to make friends around the world, and that inspires me.

62. Thoughts on cliffhangers?

Love to write them, hate to endure them myself.

63. Something you hate to see in smut.

Many, many things, which is why so much fanfiction is ruined for me. BDSM, breath play, daddy kink, dbf, age gap, rape play, non-con, a-b-o, power dynamics (dominant/submissive), exhibitionism, voyeurism, mmf, ffm, poly… the list goes on.

64. Something you love to see in smut.

Basically everything I wouldn’t see in a porn film. In other words, tenderness. The ability for two characters to enjoy each other’s bodies without needing/wanting to resort to any form of degradation.

65. Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project.

I’m enjoying upgrading one of my older fics at the moment, but I’m also looking forward to finishing it so I can get started on something new, although I have no idea right now what that might turn out to be.

66. How do you deal with writing pressure (ie. pressure to update, negative comments, deadlines, etc.)?

I’m generally the one putting that pressure on myself, so for the most part, I just try to let myself off the hook and keep the writing as a positive in my mind. I’d say it works about half of the time.

67. Do you prefer prompts and challenges, or completely independent ideas?

I like to create things from scratch, especially if it’s a series. But if I get stuck on a series, the best thing I’ve found to keep the creativity flowing, is getting a prompt or entering a challenge, because at least then, I’m still writing.

68. What, if anything, do you do for inspiration?

I just daydream. I let my mind wander, looking for interesting things to explore, and whenever I come across something I can’t stop thinking about, I try to write it.

69. What work of yours, if any, are you the most embarrassed about existing?

Ooof. Maybe the first story I ever posted, The Legend of Mar’Sol. It’s not a bad story, in my opinion, but I was so ignorant as a writer then, it makes me cringe when I read it now.

70. When asked, are you embarrassed or enthusiastic to tell people that you write?

I’m never embarrassed, but it does break my spirit every time someone looks so intrigued and wants to hear more, only to then completely lose interest when I tell them I write fanfiction.

71. When it comes to more complicated narratives, how do you keep track of outlines, characters, development, timeline, ect.?

Notebooks. I currently have three, and which one I happen to scribble in depends entirely on which one happens to be closest, meaning there’s very little order to them. I have notes from the same story written down in each of them, so to find what I’ve written later on is a bit of a hassle.

72. What order do you write in? front of book to back? chronological? favorite scenes first? something else?

Chronological. I kinda have to, since I never know where the story’s going.

73. What do you think makes your writing stand out from other works?

No idea. Hopefully a unique perspective on the things I create, making them somewhat original even if they’re essentially the oldest stories in the book.

74. You’ve posted a fic anonymously. How would someone be able to guess that you’d written it?

My cliffhangers, maybe. Also, I’ve been told I’m a word magician.

75. What scene in [Fanfic Name] took the longest to write? What was difficult about it? 

It’s not a specific scene, but there’s a segment in The Stranger in the Bar which involved piecing together a very complicated timeline over several chapters and involving both the present and past events, and I remember scratching my head over it for weeks. It came together really well, though, so it was worth it.

76. Did you have any ideas that didn’t make the final cut of [Fanfic Name]? 

I don’t hold on to scrapped ideas, so I don’t remember. I’m sure there’s plenty of little things that got discarded along the way, but nothing I was so sad to see gone that I still think about it.

77. Do you have a favorite scene you’ve written from [Fanfic Name] story/chapter? 

I have many, so I’ll list a few. The first conversation between Snow and Pero in The Lonely Castle. The overbearing innuendo between Reader and Din during their first encounters in A Little Menace. The moment Sam and Marcus Pike are reunited in Wrong Way Home. Just about every scene between Reader and Pero in Christmas Special. The dagger scene in the beginning of Driving Mr. Tovar. I still get breathless every time I read it…

Well, that’s it from the list that no one asked for. If anyone does read this, congratulations! You now know everything about me as a writer, lucky you!

Get to know your fic writer!

Do you prefer writing one-shots or multi-chaptered fics?

Do you plan each chapter ahead or write as you go?

Describe the creative process of writing a chapter/fic

Where do you find inspiration for new ideas?

Do you like constructive criticism?

Do you have your work beta'd? How important is this to your process?

How do you choose which POV to write from?

Do you prefer the beginning, middle, or end of a story?

Do you comment on stories you read?

Cltr+f "blinks" on your WIP & copy paste the first sentence/paragraph that comes up

Link your three favorite fics right now

how does receiving or not receiving feedback/support impact you?

what’s a common writing tip that you almost always follow?

how do you write emotional scenes? Do you ever feel what the characters feel? Do you draw from personal experiences?

How do you write smut scenes? Do you get very visual or detailed? How important is it to be realistic?

How many fic ideas are you nurturing right now? Share one of them?

What do you do when writing becomes difficult? (maybe a lack of inspiration or writers block)

Do you title your fics before, during, or after the writing process? How do you come up with titles?

What is the most-used tag on your ao3?

Have you noticed any patterns in your fics? Words/expressions that appear a lot, themes, common settings, etc?

Would you ever collaborate with another writer for a story?

Are there certain types of writing you won’t do? (style, pov, genre, tropes, etc)

Best writing advice for other writers?

Worst writing advice anyone ever gave you?

What fic do you wish you got more of a response on?

Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

What is your most and least favorite part of writing?

On average, how much writing do you get done in a day?

What’s your revision or editing process like?

Do you share rough drafts or do you wait until it’s all polished?

Do you start with the characters or the plot when writing?

Name three of your favorite fanfic writers.

Do you want to be published some day?

Five years from now, where do you see yourself as a writer?

What is one essential thing to remember when writing a villain? 

How do you write kissing scenes?

How do you choose where to end a chapter?

Would you ever write commissions?

Share a snippet from a WIP

If someone were to make fanart of your work, what fic or scene would you hope to see?

Do you tend to reread fics or are you a one-and-done kind of person?

What’s the last fic you read? Do you recommend it?

Do you take a sadistic joy in whumping your characters, or are you more the "If you hurt them I would kill everyone and then myself" kind of person?

What mistakes do you keep making no matter how many times your beta corrects you?

Do you want to break your readers‘ heart or make them laugh?

How would you describe your style? (Character/emotion/action-driven, etc)

How many times do you usually revise your fic/chapter before posting?

What do you look for in a beta?

Do you ever get rude reviews and how do you deal with them?

How long is your longest fic?

What’s your total AO3 word count?

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

How do you spend your time when it comes to fanfiction? Are you primarily a fic reader, writer, or a perfect 50/50 split of both?

What’s your favorite part about the fanfiction writing process?

Of the characters you write for, which is your favorite? Has that choice been swayed at all by your followers/readers’ reactions to certain ones?

What’s something about your writing that you pride yourself on?

Do you prefer editing as you write, or waiting until it’s finished? 

What part of the writing process do you enjoy the most? (Brainstorming, outlining, writing, editing, etc) 

Does anyone in your personal life know you write fic? if not, would you tell anyone?

Have you had a writer you admire comment on your fic? What was that like?

Why do you continue writing fics?

Thoughts on cliffhangers?

Something you hate to see in smut.

Something you love to see in smut.

Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project

How do you deal with writing pressure (ie. pressure to update, negative comments, deadlines, etc.)?

Do you prefer prompts and challenges, or completely independent ideas?

What, if anything, do you do for inspiration?

What work of yours, if any, are you the most embarrassed about existing?

When asked, are you embarrassed or enthusiastic to tell people that you write?

When it comes to more complicated narratives, how do you keep track of outlines, characters, development, timeline, ect.?

What order do you write in? front of book to back? chronological? favorite scenes first? something else?

What do you think makes your writing stand out from other works?

You’ve posted a fic anonymously. How would someone be able to guess that you’d written it?

What scene in [Fanfic Name] took the longest to write? What was difficult about it? 

Did you have any ideas that didn’t make the final cut of [Fanfic Name]? 

Do you have a favorite scene you’ve written from [Fanfic Name] story/chapter? 

[swirlysmile]

anon from christmas in july is back😆 if you're still in the mood, can you write something where you rented a house close to the base and one day hangman comes for another reason while you were decorating and ends up helping?

hi christmas in july anon! thanks for coming back ❤️ hope this drabble does your ask justice

word count; 487

warnings: none!

Deck The Porch

You’re blaring some obnoxious Christmas music on your front porch. You’re surprised your neighbors haven’t filed a noise complaint really. 

You’re stuck in your own little world, and then the sound of an engine snaps you out of it. The beat up truck pulls into your driveway, then just idles in it for a second before the engine turns off and Jake hops out.

He waltzes up the small path standing on the first step of your little porch.

“Hey there sugar. Got that book?” 

“Sure do. Let me go grab it for you,” You say, promptly hopping off the short ladder. You return about a minute later, Hangman still standing awkwardly. 

“Sorry, I found it.” You smile sweetly, handing him the book. He hasn’t found it in the lousy library nearby, and you just so happened to have a copy.

“You’re good, uh, decorating for Christmas?” He asks, almost nervously.

“No, decorating for my birthday.” You roll your eyes.

He laughs. He’s always liked your sarcasm, it really puts him in his place sometimes. He starts to walk down the few steps before he abruptly turns around.

“Do you need help? They don’t call me Hangman for nothing,” 

He’s definitely poking fun at your less than ideal decorating job. The little paper decorations you have are all lopsided, and the lights aren’t nearly high enough. 

“Well hotshot, make yourself useful.” You say, and the orders roll in. He’s rehanging the lights while you add some more decorations, like tinsel around the door. 

If you’re going without a Christmas tree, you have to hang your decor up everywhere else. It needs to be seen. 

Only seconds later, the lights look perfect. They’re straight, positioned and hung correctly, and he’s moving onto the wonky paper decorations. 

“Why are you decorating, if you don’t mind me asking?” He says, “I mean, you don’t own this.” He’s nervously tapping against his thigh when he walks over to the other side of the porch.

“Sure I don’t. I’m renting a home though, not just a house.”

He nods appreciatively, considering your answer. He’s fiddling with some paper snowflake that’s blowing in the light breeze. When you can’t quite reach to tape the tinsel to the top of the door frame, Jake leans over you and helps.  

“Well,” he clears his throat, causing you to look up from whatever you’re tending to, “I have to get back to base.”

“Thanks for helping, tall guy.” 

“Sure. Let’s just hope we don’t have any storms. Wouldn’t want to redo this.” He grins. 

“We did a lousy job anyways, maybe it’d be for the better.” 

“You did a lousy job. Don’t bring me into this.” 

He gives you an awkward side hug and argues with himself internally before he decides to kiss your forehead. 

“See you around,” Jake says, and he’s praying that his voice doesn't sound shaky when he leaves you a blushing mess.

[ballorawan740]

SCP Scenarios: SCP x Fem!Child!Hybrid!Reader

Main Masterlist | SCP Scenarios Masterlist | My Works Masterlist | Rules | Request | Socials | My Original Post

Requested by: @nightfoxyycats

I'm so sorry this took longer than expected T_T

(Yes Ik it's longer than the others I do, and that's cuz I usually end up mixing the headcanons into drabbles/one-shots, but this time, I kept it as bullet points and I got carried away. Oops. And yes, it's easier to write headcanons this way but it'll end up being long af)

When Cain first met you, he overheard and was curious about this new SCP during a test, so he decided to come and watch, from afar of course.

When Cain first met you, he overheard and was curious about this new SCP during a test, so he decided to come and watch, from afar of course.

Anyways, the little test was just a plain and boring one and little (Y/N) was taken back to her containment cell after 10 minutes. Cain had requested to see you as he remembered seeing in your file that you can breathe fire and cry lava among other things due to your dragon abilities.

It's not like he didn't believe them since he's been in the foundation for many years, but he was just curious about a hybrid child like you and wanted to see if you were doing well. You being a shy child was quiet at first and when Cain went to visit you every so often, you both became close and he was a father figure to you, even though you were abandoned by your father since birth and your mother died not long later.

He took good care of you and made sure you were well fed. You were rather polite to the guards and staff so Cain wouldn't need to worry too much about you intentionally killing them. But only for a short period of time as who knows what you'll be like when you're older.

Luckily for Cain, you were also carnivorous, so he didn't have to worry about you eating your 5 a day (not that you wanted to anyways you ungrateful meat-eating child).

Whenever there's a containment breach, the first thing he does is to look for you

Aside from some side effects, he isn't worried too much as he wouldn't receive any wounds anyways so hell just charge towards anyone who looks/sound like you

He's basically your new dad ok?

SCP 076 (Abel)

Abel first came into contact with you during a containment breach

He just saw you casually flying around and occasionally lending the guards a hand by breathing fire just to burn some holes for easier access (how professional)

He saw you again moments later when you were alone and you decided to approach this hulk of a man to ask for some help, thinking he worked there. Abel had abandoned you (like your hopes and dreams left you a millennium years ago) but you insisted on going with him so he took you in

Later his rage in the facility had vanished as he had cared for you for the short period of time he had met you and handed you over to the guards, much to their surprise

He then ran away as he's not totally scared of kids or anything and hid in his box

You insisted on visiting 076-2 and so the researchers did, realising much later that you both had bonded. Abel was a parental figure to you.

A very overbearing protective guardian I must say.

Even more so when there's a containment breach

Like imagine 610 and 682 mashed up together to form an extremely hostile entity and that's Abel for you

But that's only if you were hurt, if you weren't or fit was just a normal containment breach, had be extremely worried

SCP 049 (Plague Doctor) (Guy's pls don't be mistaken, I don't have any beef with 049 ok? XD If I make any characters a little OC then 049 will gladly rid the pestilence from you without consent)

This sassy MF so-called doctor right here met you when for some reason, the doctors had decided to put you both into a testing room (no, it wasn't Bright's idea).

049 was just doing his thing as you just sat on a really high chair (cuz you do be short so ofc you wouldn't be sitting on a lower chair which is lower than your taste in men/women) and watched curiously. The doctor thought it was somewhat cute and laughed slightly from your curiosity.

Sensing that you didn't have the pestilence, he allowed you to scooch closer just to see. After the test was done, the guards took you back out with slight aggression, but you, for some reason, were still polite to the guards despite their aggression which made 049's heart swell due to your pureness.

You yawned slightly and accidentally blew out fire from your mouth which almost caused a containment breach if it weren't for 049's quick thinking

Later on, the researchers had decided to put you both in the testing room again, and you both began to bond as 049 requested you to burn the bodies he performed surgery on

Needless to say, you both had a great time and the researchers were mildly amused

If you somehow knew another friend (*ahem* 035), he'd probs ask him/her to care/loof for you if there were a containment breach

Or he would just sigh and look after you himself if you were closer to 035 and he asked so nicely

SCP 035 (Possessive Mask) (Right about 049 being sassy.... I'll take that back, 035 is the sassiest, right next to a certain sculpture in the foundation)

Anyhow, 035 was actually the reason you were stuck in the foundation anyways

God knows how, but you met this guy wearing this theatre mask and you ended up here in the foundation

Now everyone thought you were either a Keter or Euclid

I mean, you were so close to being put into the Euclid class but ended up in safe since you were so polite to the researchers as well as shy and relatively easy to contain... For now

Whenever they used you in a test, you were rewarded with whatever you wanted, within reason ofc, whenever you behaved well which was like 98% of the time minus minor accidents since you weren't entirely in control of your powers

Sometimes instead of a reward, you'd request to see 035 as he would perform to you and that was only granted when its safe to do so and when that hideous mask would do as he/she/it is told

035 would be that somewhat overprotective yet goofy uncle that everyone loved and he was totally wrapped around your fingers unless you were hurt or if he urgently needed something or someone

If there was a containment breach, he'd look for you, if not he'll call out his 'friend' to look out for you (*cough* 049 *cough*)

When 035 finds you, he'd most likely ask you to fly around to see the nearest exit or he'd just carry you when there's someone chasing you

If 035 were to kill anyone, you'd cry and tell him no to which did end up in burning the floor but oh wells, they're rich enough to contain him so why not use the extra money to rebuild the floor right?

Anyways, 035 loves you no matter what and he'd do anything to make sure you're doing well

SCP 999 (Tickle Monster)

Ok so, when you and 999 first met each other, you were kind of just wandering around the facility minding your own business

999 just casually slithered up to your leg and offered you some sweets and a hug since you looked upset and so you accepted it

You both found a place to sit and just talk bout stuff and what life was like before you were captured

But you were cheery just like 999 and rarely attacked anyone, and if you ever did, it was either that you were hella pissed or you accidentally breathed fire/teared up some lava which burnt some stuff

The researchers would secretly take in some notes bout your interactions and just continued on with their day and left you both alone, but would sometimes keep a stern eye on you

They say it's for everyone's safety, and that's true to an extent, but the main reason they do it is to monitor your progress of you controlling your powers

Anyways, sometimes when it gets busy in the cafe or down the hallway, you just fly across the room, and sometimes, you'll be extra cheeky and play hide and seek with the researchers

999 would occasionally join in but he's more like a worried older brother to you

During containment breaches, 999 would run around looking for you and when he did, he would check if you had any injuries

When you say you didn't, he was relieved but not for long since you mentioned bout making new SCP friends and he just died right there and then (not really)

SCP 682 (Hard to Destroy Reptile)

Similarly to Able, he'd be wary of you at first

Like, he can sense that you weren't just an ordinary child when you just appeared behind him

He was somewhat irritated when you followed him around, but you reminded him of 053, so he just let it slide and let you show some affection towards him

It's not like he didn't like it, he was just embarrassed

Anyhow, the researchers wanted to test how 682 would bond with you, so they made you meet up with him again but in his cell

You were both chatting like father and daughter and soon, everyone had found out that not only could you fly, you could also cry lava, which yes did burn a small hole on the ground and you could somehow breathe fire

You were also immune to the fire and lava so they decided to have a full-on body check and discovered that you were built similar to the komodo dragon with a side of 682 (XD Don't ask)

682 was left stunned, but luckily he didn't feel the need to run up the wall like that bunny

Like who tf invented a self-eating bunny?

Anyways, research shows that just like Abel, the giant lizard was very protective of you

The theory has it that you were somehow related to the lizard, perhaps he laid an egg before containment and some guy took it in and froze it then decided to hatch the egg

During containment breaches, he would basically rampage around the facility, killing anyone and everyone until he found you

And when he did, he would check on you like the amazing father he is and then carry on killing but was then stopped by you

So he would just carry you around until you fell asleep

SCP 105 (Iris)

I think Iris would be a good mother/sister figure when it comes to kids

It kinda came from the fact that Iris hangs out with Abel and Cain a lot, so it kinda just rubs off her

Her motherly/sisterly instinct just heightened when she first found you on a mission and she just took you in

It took a while to bribe the foundation that she kinda had custody

Not exactly custody, but she had a say when it came to your safety, especially the fact that you weren't exactly human and your appearance would cause a disturbance to others

I feel like Iris would be a stern yet kind guardian towards you, leaning towards the stern part since you're a child SCP and has fire breath and lava tears

Iris wouldn't be entirely bothered by you flying around, but she had to bribe the researchers and some SCPs to help you fly better

She would murder anyone who had to cry because they made you cry and cleaning up after your tears is such a mess considering that you have little control over them

Your fire breath on the other hand is slightly more controllable, but if you were hella happy or mad you'd breathe the fire and burn anyone/anything

Most of the time, its unintentional and you're usually sweet and kind towards anyone, so manners aren't a big thing for Iris to teach you

She'd even teach you some of the stuff she learnt/discovered and you'd just sit there being nosy and curious about everything

Like that one time, you almost caused a breach cus you were so curious and friendly that 682 was about to snap off your head and rampage out of the foundation

And don't even get me started with the brothers and 096, OML

Other than that, you both were like a family you never had :,) (You're welcome!!!)

During containment breaches, Iris would literally pick you up and run

Unless you weren't with her for whatever reason (Yes, you're attached to each other's hips... Don't lie, you love it!), she'd do anything to find you

If you were hurt, shed tend to your injuries immediately and lecture you about safety

If you weren't hurt, shed still give you a lecture, then pick you up and run

If you made friends on the way, she may or may not approve and bite of anyone head

And the foundation wouldn't want an Angry!Iris around

SCP 106 (Old Man)

This old man here is basically the definition of a cool uncle/granddad

Without a doubt, he'd go into his pocket dimension and comes back with a teddy bear or some sweets

He'd spoil you a lot and the foundation had enough of this cuz by the time you become an adult, you wouldn't be independent enough

Anyways, 106 would let you go into his dimension and practice your abilities there for the safety of others

The researchers would occasionally ask you to carry a camera with you just so they know what it's like in his pocket dimension

106 rarely gets mad, and even if he was, it'll be about someone trying to hurt you since you're too kind and shy to make him mad

You're even kind to the researchers and guards which is worrying to 106 as they might take advantage of your kindness (which may be true for some, but most of them are just glad you're kind since it makes their jobs so much easier)

Sometimes, you'd make things levitate which was a shock to anyone who walked by and witnessed this

But only for a few seconds though, so it's not much

106 would encourage you to use your telekineses and he'd attempt to train you

Which didn't work so well, so that sucks

During containment breaches, he'd use his pocket dimension to his advantage

He'd hide you in there just so you don't have to get hurt

If you weren't there with him, he'd kill and hunt down anyone who might know where you are

He'd make sure you weren't hurt otherwise he would go into scary uncle mode

If you weren't hurt, he would just hug you which stops you from crying lava

SCP 096 (Shy Guy)

Now what makes you and 096 a unique pairing is that you're both shy

The only difference is that you can speak but 096 kinda doesn't

But that's not a problem since you both just understood each other since day 1

I'd say 096 is that introverted uncle/cousin but he's kinda chill and sweet with you

As for containment breaches, the only difference with this tall guy is that not only will he kill anyone who sees his face, he'd also hunt down anyone who'd hurt you

096 has a newfound ability for this and the researchers were shocked when they first found out

A certain chainsaw loving doctor wanted to test it out himself but was stopped rather quickly by the other researchers

Anyways, one time you almost burnt down the foundation because 096 crept up behind you which scared you to tears

And you screamed as well which didn't help at all since you could breathe fire

Also, when you're not with 096, you'd use your levitating powers to grab lighter objects which did result in the objects falling onto your head

And this is why you need to train more, so then objects wouldn't be yeeted onto your tiny head and knock the nonexistent brain cells out of your nonexistent brain - Sorry not sorry (Ok so at least pretend to laugh)

If anyone bullied you and you didn't say a word, 096 would know and even if you tried to stop him, it wouldn't work

Unless you're in a life-threatening situation, but even then, he'd kill the guy

Dr. Simon Glass

Unlike the others on the list, you're the one who approached the doctor

Mainly because you were lost, but you were curious as well

Simon would probably be the best person to run into, other than Kondraki, but still

It's because he's a psychologist and still very much human (I mean, Kondraki's a normal human I guess, but he has those butterfly thingys)

Anyways, when he first saw you, you were in his office flying about and crying lava

Simon saw you and was shocked but attempted to calm you down and get you you sit with him for a bit, then call the others

But boy did that not work out, because this poor innocent boi was boutta get killed by your firey breath cuz he startled you too much

Bright, Kondraki and Clef just strolled in and saw the mess and even attempted to get you to chill, but this didn't work either

So poor Simon Glass had to find his way to get you to stop being so scared which obviously worked

You sat down with him and he let you doodle on a blank piece of paper

And being a good psychologist he is, he used psychological methods to get you to feel comfortable and to start talking to which you did

You were so polite he gave it to a chocolate bar, but instead of taking it off his hands, you used your telekineses to levitate it in your direction

Simon recorded what he had seen before letting the other researchers take you and offered to take you under his wing on the condition that you were you have a check-up every now and again

That wasn't much of a problem since you were so polite and chill - Usually

During containment breaches, he would make sure that you were safe first and it wasn't so difficult to deal with you since you were with him most of the time

When you're not with him, he'd be extremely worried like a mother hen and run in any direction that would take him to you

He'd be relieved to see you and if you were hurt, he'd bandage you up and try to not cry

If you've made new friends, he would be very happy about it - Unless it's a Keter or Euclid class

They'll be on his watchlist

Anyhow, Simon Glass is basically your mother and mentor

He'd teach you all the basics you'll need and help train you if he can (he'd most likely have to ask the other doctors and SCPs with some bribery)

Dr. Jack Bright

Our favourite doctor here would be that goofy uncle/dad

I feel that he'd sympathise with you since he's also an SCP (sorta) and he feels kind of trapped in the foundation

If you're lucky enough, Jack might be able to take you out for an hour for some fresh air

You'll automatically be under his wing and nobody will ever question it. Ever.

Although he may be goofy and does stupid things, he would be surprisingly protective and his fatherly instincts kick in right away since he first met you

He would allow you to use your powers to an extent and teach you how to use your power properly

You are well aware of his anomalous abilities with his neckless, so whenever Bright had to change bodies, you'd automatically know where he is (other than the obvious neckless thingy)

If there were to have a containment breach, Bright would panic but quickly become calm as that's the only way he could find you and keep you safe

When he finds you he would give you that lecture while finding any scratches on you

If you were to grow, he would give most guys the dad glare of the century and all those guys would run tf away cuz nobody messes with Bright's newfound daughter

I have high doubts that he would let anyone do tests with you when he's not there and even if he was, they would need his approval, so most of the time, you don't even need to worry much

Dr. Alto Clef

(OML Why do I keep adding new characters?! There's so much to write T_T)

Right, so when Clef found you, it was like as if his long lost (well... not so lost) memory came back to him

For some reason, you reminded him of 166 (OML I'm so lost for this SCP, like boi she had a rewrite)

So he took you in the foundation like he did with his daughter and took care of you Since he works for the foundation, he's not remotely terrified or anything, but he's curious about your abilities

And of course, you managed to use some of your abilities because of some SCPs and Bright Clef took you to meet 166 and you both showed your abilities and since 166 is older than you, she's probably trying to help you control your powers more

Which, of course, makes Clef a proud dad

If there were any containment breaches, he'd panicked but once he found you with his other daughter, he was relieved

166 made sure that you weren't hurt and if you were, you'd be bandaged up so Clef doesn't have to worry too much

Anyhow, if Clef decides to introduce you to the tiger doctors, he'd make sure Glass is the first since he's the most sensible person (but let's face it, he wouldn't admit it)

Then it'll be Iceberg, Coggs (that's his name right), Light and a couple others Bright and Kondraki would be last since they would be somewhat chaotic (mainly Bright) even though they're the fun uncle

Whenever Clef has a mission, he'd shove you to either 166 or Glass, if he's free, if not then it'll most likely be Light (and if she's also busy, then yall screwed)

And bless the guy who takes an interest in you when you become a teen cuz our messy boi would make sure that guy would suffer

Dr. Benjamin Kondraki

Ok let's face it, Kondraki would definitely be the mother hen of the dad world in the SCP Foundation

He's literally your mother, kinda like Glass but kinda not, ya know what I'm saying?

Like he'll feed your curiosity since many people around you wouldn't and you're an SCP so you're trapped in the foundation anyways

I'd say he's quite cautious and caring, obviously, but if he's out and about, he'd definitely let you go with him

Unless he's going out for a mission, then that's a definite no-no

He would let you hang out with the safer SCPs like 999 and maybe 166 if Clef is chill, but he has to let you hang out with her cuz she's the only other SCP who could help you get a grasp with your powers

Like how to not burn the bloody floor when you cry and stop breathing fire inconsistently by accident

An attempt was made when they try to train your telekineses but they'll have to wait till you're older

Since most of the time you're stuck with Kondraki, I don't think he'd be all too worried bout breaches, of course, he'd be worried about your safety, but you're there with him

If not then god knows what Kondraki would do

Like that one time, he begged Clef and Bright to look for you in which they did but then they made him do something for them in return

Let's just say, it wasn't pleasant at all, but it could be worse since Clef had a shred of sympathy left for the man and Bright just wanted chainsaws

[spacedimentio]

Huh wow ok @pempeeeperem. I prefer sitting on my fics until I'm done with them and only yelling about them to a few people, but I'll drop some crumbs today.

RULES: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

In order of oldest to most recent

100 Little Somethings - 100 theme challenge that I'll pick back up again someday (maybe). I still count it as a WIP even though it hasn't been updated since 2017.

Where We Belong - sequel to Chase the Nightmares Away

Fractures: Side Cracks - got too ambitious with the ideas and killed my motivation, whoops.

Idiot Rock Collection - aka Steven Universe-themed OCtober 2019 I never finished

Roulette - Professor Venomous character analysis fic that never really got off the ground. RIP OK KO Let's Be Heroes, I miss you.

Several NSFW things you don't get to know about, I had a phase lol

Monster & Prince AU - aka Prince Peasley x Super Dimentio but Super Dimentio is a giant cursed (and fluffy!) dragon, dog, cat, chimera and Peasley is sad because of an arranged marriage. Tfw you get kidnapped by a monster but you want to be cause you don't wanna get married and the monster is your best friend :> It was @snugglebunnies's idea originally and they let me roll with it. (Hope you write your own version someday <3)

Hold Dear - slightly depressing Luisley oneshot that I wrote in a fit of hyperfixation one morning and that I really need to rewrite sometime cause it doesn't work right

Mario: A Midsummer Night's Dream - silly little cracky crossover between my favorite Shakespeare play and the Mario RPGs :> Honestly this has been a WIP for like 12 years but it was just the cast list and I actually wrote a bit of it now

Heart of Spades - inspired by a round of frantic fanfic where Dimentio just shows up at the Comet Observatory to pester Rosalina and I had way too many thoughts about that in conjunction with the obscure theory that Rosalina is Blumiere and Timpani's son, and the fact that these two characters have never interacted in any piece of fan media ever as far as I can tell

Small Moments - Luisley-themed 100-word drabble challenge! Very cute, nothing but fluff

Prime Directive Three - this is what I've currently been working on every day for the last month straight, like I seriously haven't written this much this consistently since I did Fractures. It is not one but a series of three 2001: A Space Odyssey fics, talk about completely unexpected fandoms out of left field, how did I even get here. There is Halman of course, that sort of OTP is my absolute jam, and there just might be a fourth fic, if I dare to get spicy ;) HAL lives (he did not want to do a murder, he did not, alas the government did an oopsy and RIP those other four), Dave does not become baby, instead they get to go home and they have to deal with the consequences of the fact that the actions that HAL tried to take in order to stop himself from killing everyone are written in his error log, which will inevitably be investigated and looks suspicious as he did not behave like a computer. That's right, I'm putting him on the stand at the hearing, and now the world gets to deal with the reveal of a fully sentient AI not long after dealing with the alien monoliths. Includes social media sections. It's been very fun, I'm having a blast :D

Send in an ask with a number or question and I'll post a lil snippet.

tagging @snugglebunnies, @lizadale, @thewoollyviking, @nereamerayo, @mysinfulhand, @cowsaresushi, @spmcomic, @shootysturs, @foreteller-ava, @kathrinesnow, @puppyluver256, @captainshyguy. Optional of course.

I got called out to unveil my wip folder. The post chain starts here as far as I can tell

@murder-at-the-bingo-hall I can't believe you did this to me. How dare you assume that I'm dying to talk about my fics and being too shy to even post about them without tags. So... thanks.

RULES: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

Here are some wips that I am working on / thinking about:

Hearty Grains, Pop Pods, Crunchy Salt and Sand Radishes

Pokemon Alola Story

Colress Story Pt. 4

They're all Pokémon fics.

I'll be tagging... @spacedimentio and @spmcomic sorry guys :')