#little mini stream of consciousness fic

[paddockbunny]

It Wasn’t Supposed to be like This

Summary : You were married. You were supposed to be happily married to the man of your dreams and YET, you just cannot seem to quit Daniel f*cking Ricciardo, no matter how hard you seemed to try. Rating : 18+ Pairing : Daniel Ricciardo x Reader Word Count : 1,140 Trigger Warnings : female reader cheating, oral female receiving, betrayal themes.

💞 Authors Note: I hope this is ok. I’m writing at 5:30 due to insomnia while on vacation! although this isn’t intended as a fic it’s maybe going to be a quick mini fic! Please read till the end so you can see the reader participation!

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Truthfully, you didn’t even know how you ended up here in this position. One thing lead to another. Missed opportunities to bring things to a close and stop before you were no longer treading water but suddenly you in far over your head and struggled to hold on anymore.

Daniel was supposed to be just a little bit of fun. Harmless, innocent flirting wasn’t supposed to go beyond that. But as his hand slid across your stomach and pulled you tighter into him while he slept soundly (and nakedly) beside you, it made me feel like this was all too real, too dangerous, too much.

Trying to slip out of the bed without him noticing was harder than you ever would have thought. The soft snores escaping him weren’t as much of an indication of deep sleep as you thought they were. Daniel stirred almost immediately as you tried to slither further away from him. His grip on your bare naked side tightened and he asked where you thought you were going.

“I have to leave, Dan.” The following words were on the tip of your tongue and you hated it but they needed to be said - he needed reminding that you were in fact, not his - “he will be wondering where I am.”

He relinquished his grip simultaneously. The change in atmosphere washed over your body and you felt a sudden echo of shame and guilt begin to descend upon you. With your body free you managed to remove yourself from the bed you had spent most of the night fucking in and the groan that left Daniels frustrated mouth was enough to make you want to vomit. “Fuck!” He swore unexpectedly loudly. “I hate that you run off back to him.” He had never vocalised it with so much anger before. He always just sounded despondent and full of distain before but now his voice was filled with nothing but pure anger.

“Let’s not do this, Daniel.” You summoned the strength deep down inside of you to order him not to go there. You found your still damp panties and pulled them on and you knew he was watching you intently as you redressed. Bathed only in the slither of moonlight streaming in through the still open curtained windows. “Why? You know I can’t stand the thought of his fucking hands on you. The thought of him kissing you makes me feel sick.” “Because it doesn’t help.” You snap at him. He never understood why this was so hard for you. He had it easier. He wasn’t the married one. He didn’t have to deal with the the pangs of consciousness hit him in relentless waves. The countless times since this thing started that Daniel begged and pleaded with you to choose him, to end your marriage, replayed over and over in your head. Every heartfelt word and promise he would treat you better and declaration that you completed him flashed before your eyes and still you continued redressing.

Realising he wasn’t getting through to you, Daniel changed tactics. As you pulled on your jeans and went to button them, his hands pulled them away from their task. His name fell from your lips so effortlessly and yet you couldn’t bring your eyes to meet his gaze which you knew he would scold you for. His eyes always told you everything you needed to know. That old quote about them being a window to a persons soul was inherently true about Daniel’s. They were captivating.

“Look at me.” There it was. And yet when you refused he only repeated himself and added your name to the end. You finally caved, gave into him, gave him what he wanted and as soon as you did, his fingers undone the button again on your jeans. “Daniel….” His name came out of you in nothing but a whisper “I have to go.” His body stepped closer, his searing hot temperature almost burning you. “I can’t stay…” his hands tugged on your dark blue denim. Firm yanks to get them back down your thighs. Daniel’s mouth connected to the flesh in between the valley of your breasts before trailing lower in their pursuit. Featherlight, ghosting kisses followed the removal of the garment you had only just put back on. Trying to remember to breathe was harder than you expected and you didn’t want to give into him (again) but your shaky breaths were all he needed to continue. A smirk played mercilessly upon his mouth.

“Do you still want to leave? Do you still want to go back to him?” The words left his mouth as he made you step out of the apparel he had finished removing. His scorching hot breath lapping at the flesh of your bare thighs as he settled down on his knees before you. You knew what he was going to do, how he was going to convince you to stay. You were so weak for it. He was beyond good at it, no one had ever made you climax harder from it, and Daniel was beginning to look like a man possessed as his hands needed the skin of your round, peachy ass waiting for your vocal agreement that you wanted - no, NEEDED - him to continue. His voice calling your name snapped you back.

“Do you want to go?” He held the power right now and he knew you were too weak to lie to him. You thought fleetingly of your husband - probably sitting there in bed or pacing the floor wondering why you hadn’t answered his texts and how possibly a dinner with friends could extent this far into the morning - and as Daniel’s fingers hooked around the skinny sides of your scrap of lace you called underwear you found your head slowly move from side to side before an almost inaudible; “no” escaped your lips.

Daniel wasted no time making sure you knew your decision to stay was the right one. Like a man possessed he made quick work of bringing you to orgasm with his tongue, your leg flung over his shoulder and working on your slick folds with complete and utter ease. Your fingers laced in the mop of brown curls that you loved so much while he never tore his eyes from your face the whole time. He enjoyed holding eye contact as the tip of his tongue flickered and lapped at your highly sensitive bundle of nerves. He liked knowing that only he could make you cum like this, that he could confidently say your pussy belonged to him and not the god awful man that gave you the ring that sat upon your finger.

You were now his. You were now Daniel’s.

You just had to trust him enough to believe it.

You just had to leave your husband.

*

*

*

Thank you for sticking with me! Now to the “fun” bit….I want you the reader to tell me who “you” (the reader) is married too!!!!! In the comments of this post please tell me who you’d have at home while you were having a full blown affair with Daniel. It can be anyone in the F1 universe. It can be a current or ex driver, a principle, a presenter (I’m looking at you Jenson and Nico haha) or whatnot. Please think about the age range too (obviously somewhere around the 21 - 35 mark is where I usually picture most of the “you” lead stories to be so keep this considered x)

[solarmorrigan]

aaaaaaaaaaand Bob adopts Steve!! 💕

Hm. This one is a little tough to describe without giving the entire thing away, because it's really more like a couple of stream-of-consciousness posts and an attached mini fic?

But a little while ago, I read a fic on Ao3 where, in the midst of S2, Bob clocks that Steve needs a hug and gives him one (Not on your own anymore by TargetForce, very sweet), and the idea got stuck in my head - what if Steve gets to meet Bob even earlier than that? Right around the end of S1, maybe?

I was mostly spitballing at a friend at that point, so I was thinking what if maybe Steve and/or his friends damaged some of Bob's property, so Bob became part of Steve's apology tour, and Bob took one look at this beat-up kid and went "Oh jeez" and took him inside for a glass of water and, like, an actual ice pack, maybe. Steve offers to help fix whatever was damaged and decides he actually kind of likes hanging around Bob

Sure, he's lame, but in a really solid, kind way that Steve didn't realize he needed

So Steve keeps coming around, offering to help with whatever--because, y'know, he's got some free time, or whatever, don't read into it--and Bob sort of adopts him because - I mean, come on. Kid's obviously starved for positive attention, how's he supposed to say no to that? Besides, Steve's a good listener and a good helper, and Bob likes him

THE THING IS, the reason I got so hung up on the idea is that I didn't imagine the events of S2 really changing. So Steve, like Joyce, gets Bob - he just doesn't get to keep him

(So it's definitely a hurt no comfort thing, unless maybe you stop reading after the first installment...)

[likelightinglass]

Fic Stats Tag Game

Rules: Give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words.

Thanks for the tag @danpuff-ao3 this looks fun!

Most Hits

In which Severus is stressed and needs Daddy to treat him like a dumb little cumdump. We're both gay and obsessed with tender, intimate kink; moved, we wrote this fanfic

Summary:

Severus spends a morning serving Daddy like a proper little cockslut, since that's what he's good at. Lucky for him, Daddy loves him that way.

Yeah I see all you perverts out there. So many hits on this one and comparitvely so few comments and kudos--and twice as many private bookmarks as public!

I think this may be the fic of mine people seem most ashamed to have read. But I hope people enjoyed it nonetheless haha.

This was so fun to write and it was a hoot to explore some very niche kinks. It was a blast to cowrite with the wonderful alhaz and that excellent naming convention was my crazy idea. I still get such a kick out of it whenever I see it.

Second Most Kudos

World Enough, and Time

Summary:

Soulmate clocks start ticking when you first lock eyes, and count down until your time with them is over. Harry’s starts ticking on September 1st, 1991. He has only six years, eight months, and one day.

This is secretly my favorite fic. I wrote it all at once stream of consciousness style while out shopping. This fic brought to you by eating fast food in my car in a parking lot.

I love the soulmate trope and I loved this take on it. And I am quite pleased with myself that I took the angst and managed a happy ending anyway!

This one had a recent popularity spike due to the amazing podfic by Cailynwrites!!! I am so grateful for it.

Third Most Comments

What Comes Next (and How to Like it)

Summary:

A choose your own adventure fic!

You are Severus Snape. You survived against all odds, and now it's time to take life into your own hands. What will you do with this gift of a second chance, and how will you find your happy ending?

Your happy ending is pretty much always Harry Potter, but there's so many fun ways to get there.

I was so inspired by @lizzy0305 's Choices that I just had to write my own choose your own adventure fic. I am so insanely proud of this one although the plotting was a bear haha. It was very fun writing basically a bunch of mini fics and using so many different tropes. And I got to give Severus over a dozen different happy endings. It's what he deserves.

I feel like this one doesnt get as much love--maybe the interactive nature of it can be off putting? But its one of my favorite things that I have ever wrote and the fic i tend to self rec the most. Most of the comments on this are telling me what their favorite endong was and its so nice to see! Especially since several have been recieved unexpectedly.

Fourth Most Bookmarks

So actually World Enough, and Time again but it is SO CLOSE to More Than Dark, I'm cheating a tiny bit in order to pimp this one out

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31757209/chapters/78608503

More Than Dark

Summary:

Severus is imprisoned in solitary confinement in Azkaban with no idea of who won the war. He is ill, underfed, and slowly losing his mind.

When Harry eventually takes him in and nurses him back to health, he can scarcely believe it's real.

My white whale. My magnum opus. My only published WiP. It haunts me every day that it remains unfinished. I promise its not abandoned, I love it so much and I've written and outlined so much of it but its going to be novel length (in a thousand years when its done) and its been over a year since the last update. I am pouring my heart and soul into this one and its jjst taking a really. Really. Really long time. But if anyone likes WiPs, please try it. I think its one of my best.

Fifth Most Words

Sly and Songful

Summary:

One of the those animagus fics, in which our heroes would rather secretly spy and pine instead of just have an honest conversation.

But where would the fun in that be?

Everyone lives AU, in which you will encounter birds, foxes, pining, stubbornness, falling in love, and scars.

This was one of my first ever fics and it was a birthday present for the magnificent @bleedcolor .

I loved working on this and feeling like I was finally writing a "real" fic with a plot and everything. Its got nightingale animagus Harry and fox animagus Snape and gnarly scars and its very soft and probably a little out of character and amateur but I love it very much.

Theres also a sequel to this, A kind of love called maintenance that I am particularly proud of.

I also commissioned art of this one from Madfantasy! I will reblog it now so it appears right above :)

Fic with the Least Words

AITA for not going down on my boyfriend?

Summary:

Severus takes to the internet to determine if he is, in fact, the asshole.

This was inspired by my obsession with Reddit's Am I the Asshole? And a conversation with Zalil after her spectacular fic where we agreed her fic's Severus was an incredibly selfish lover. It still makes me laugh, I added a couple "in charachter" comments and encouraged others to do so, got some hilarious ones back! If anyone reads this, please comment in the style of AITA hahah.

Tagging: @bleedcolor @perverse-idyll @coconutice22 @givereadersahug @lizzy0305 and absolutely anyone else who wants to!!!

[bromcommie]

Hiiii, I’m here with some ask game things!

🦴🌸 pretty please!

Hiii, tysm for the ask! <3 🦴 ⇢ is there a piece of media that inspires your writing?  Oh god, this is such a fun and insanely difficult question. I truly apologize in advance for how long this is about to get because I'm blanking and also can't pick a single thing to save my life. I feel like I'm still in the beginning of trying to figure style out so inspirations keep changing, but right off the bat Richard Siken was a big one that's recently made a comeback. Pretty revelatory to little me at 15 and still very much an influence many, many years later, especially when it comes to poetry. There's just something to how he weaves his wording from tender to violent + that dream-like, stream of consciousness structure, striking visuals about relatively mundane things and a consistent thread of hope and wonder despite the darkness throughout that I find just lovely. Kurt Vonnegut is also a big nostalgic classic from those formative years. Still very much love the tongue-in-cheek humor and the roundabout storytelling of an eccentric old uncle used to address very real and often grim topics in a very human, grounded way. Just about anything that deals with non-linear time, dreams and memory, too. Everything by Tarkovsky, even though I feel like an absolute asshole bringing his genius up while talking about my writing hobby, let alone my silly little fics, but listen, I was a film major. What can you do. Forever enamored with that man's work.

(Dialing it back a little: I'm also rewatching Russian Doll which does memories and trauma reconciliation and the surreal really well while also juggling humor. It's still somewhat painful, but at least it's also very fresh and funny and very full of life. Would love to be able to write a script with that combo one day.)

In terms of some of the general stuff that extends to fanfic-inspiring as well, I'll always have a soft spot for Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay for many, many reasons. It's beautiful, it's sharp, it's creative! It's a (very) sprawling love letter to the Golden Age of comics and the very ongoingly relevant origins of Captain America! To New York in the 30s-50s! To youth and ideas and intersecting identities and illusions of escape and found family! To coming of age and hope and grief in the face of a rapidly complicating world! To meticulous, meticulous historical research! Michael Chabon, I'm in your goddamn walls. Throw in some basic staples of the WWII mini-series genre, + Babylon Berlin and Chernobyl and a bunch of MKUltra paranoia thrillers for fun times with WS-centered darker undertones and political elements re: the '30s and Cold War era, and there you have it. So that is... way too many things off the top of my head and none of them are necessarily all that reflected in my writing yet, however! They do inspire me. 🌸 ⇢ do you have any pets? if you do, post some pictures of them

yes I do! They’re dumbasses in two completely different ways (can you tell?) and the absolute bane of my existence. And I would die for them, I really would.

wish I had some better photos but I cleared out my phone recently :(

[just-jordie-things]

your writing is so so good do u have any tips? hope u have a great day! ^^

i’ve never been asked this before! i had to think about it!

a biggie take your time finding your style- as you can see on my masterlist i have a looot of shit on there from years of writing fanfic and experimenting. getting out of my comfort zone can be kinda hard for me personally, but with writing it was so worth it bc you can really see a metamorphosis there of when i was writing just to write and when i was writing with a drive.

don’t be afraid to ignore the rules of grammar. run on sentences are beautiful. i’ve found that especially so when the plot is driven by someone’s stream of consciousness as though they’re narrating it. thoughts are messy, they’re long and sometimes awkward and there’s no such thing as grammar in your mind !! of course spelling and punctuation are important and i’d recommend editing tho (idk her 😳) but get creative with it!!

thesaurus.com is my bestie 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 i often find myself using a lot of the same words and i don’t want to bore readers with repetitiveness! and also it’s just an easy way to expand my vocabulary too. (in person i stammer and have the reach of a fourth grader lmfao so i always want my writing to be concise and make the reader feel exactly what i want them to with my language)

also something i’ve started doing recently !! when i’m away from my wip and daydream about it, i write it down right away! in my notes app or on sticky notes or even my hand hehe. sure if it’s a significant enough plot point i’ll probably remember… but there’s no time like the present!! i want A to look at B a little differently in that one quick scene? i want to make them eat something different for foreshadowing? little details like that can be huge in your writing !! something a reader might gloss over but then realize later it was all a part of a greater scheme?? yes. so take note of those thoughts and daydreams you have !! even if you don’t end up adding it to your work, it’s better than having a profound, fic changing idea that you forget before you get the chance to write it!

this one is simple but a biggie- think about what you would want to read. i’ve been trying to keep this in mind as of late, especially when writing longer pieces where i want to make y’all suffer. find new ways to build the tension in your plot. give us different points of view, give us an untrustworthy narrator that thinks they’ve got it all figured out. throw in extra conflict. fanfiction is the melting pot of whatever the fuck you want !! so go stupid go crazy and make it something you love, and you should be good to go!! not to be cheesy but as long as you love it then you’re solid. doing something you love over and over will naturally lead you through growth and finding your style. don’t be wrapped up in notes right away (yes it can be a bit of an issue on this app- but none of has have control over how people enjoy your work- so you might as well focus on enjoying it for yourself) because as long as you’re doing something you’re passionate about and sharing it with us, more people will soon flock to enjoy it with you <3

lastly i just enjoy making mini playlists for whatever i’m currently working on. they don’t have to correlate completely with your plot. sometimes the sound of a beat is good enough for me to throw it on. if it gets me excited and planning out scenes i haven’t gotten to yet then it’s good enough for me!! i will listen to the same song on repeat in the name of ✨vibes✨ even if the words themselves have nothing to do with the plot i’m writing. that’s probably lazy basic advice but it works well for me and i love listening to music so !!

i hope this helps, and i wish you all kinds of luck as you explore this hobby for yourself !! it can be so freeing to get lost in your own work, and tbh sometimes i feel a little cringe about writing fanfiction but… i just adore it. it’s my favorite thing to do and when i think like that i stomp it down bc i’m proud of my work! i’m proud of how far i’ve come and i’m eager to see what i can push myself towards next!!!

happy writing, happy reading, and if you ever need more help i’m happy to do the best i can for ya! this goes for anyone, please always feel free to reach out even if you just want to talk brainrot. making friends thru this hobby is amazing bc like-interests are 💞🩷

xoxo ~ jordie

[nullsleepy]

Merry Christmas Everyone, may you all be gifted with a little bit of love! May you enjoy my gift, in the form of a fanfic.

Marinette shrugged off the snow from her jacket as she shut the mansion door. Even as the warmth of the house scratched at her chilly skin, Marinette could not find it in herself to smile.

“Miss Marinette?” Alfred walked into the corridor, a cup of hot chocolate in his hands. Marinette nodded at him, staring at the ground. Alfred’s eyes softened at the action, before he helped the girl to the living room.

“-And then Chris just ran off, leaving me to fight off all the villains, as usual and-” Marinette slid into the room, trying not to interrupt the family. She looked around the room, trying to spot them.

“Mars?” They whispered behind her, a batch of fresh cookies in hand. Marinette wasted no time to wrap them in a hug, snuggling her face in their shoulders.

“Hard day at work?” Marinette nodded, tears streaming down her face. She relaxed into their hood as they reached around her, pulling tight. She could barely hold back from sobbing as they brought her to the couch.

“Yeah so then she just- Mari?” The bat family turned to her, glancing at her tired form. They took in the small scratches adorning her face and her almost ice blue lips, before they formed a little pile around her. Snacks laid abandoned as the family all snuggled onto each other, leaving next to no room on the couch.

Marinette could feel the warmth of her family as she huddled into a ball on them. She grasped at their sweater, holding onto them tightly. Her tears slowly subsided as she could feel herself lose consciousness. They ran their fingers through her hair in an action of comfort. She let out a soft, content sigh.

No matter how terribly her day was, she could always return to this. To them, to her family. Nothing could ever beat that, Marinette decided as she drifted to sleep. Nothing.

“Merry Christmas, Mars. Merry Christmas.”

-

NOTES: Merry Christmas everyone, I hope you enjoyed this small mini Christmas fic. Sorry if it sounds a little rough, I just thought of the idea about 30 minutes ago and was like- I finally have time let’s do this! And so spawned this lil thing. Anyways, Merry Christmas everyone, and to all, a good night!

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

I just want to see a regular grocery trip with Scully and Mulder while they're stuck finishing up a long, boring case in the middle of nowhere and decided they don't want to eat out again, maybe sometime in s3?? and they're just puttering around the store and Scully's like Hm how much longer will we be here and how much can we fit in the minifridge while Mulder, who's kinda bored, keeps trying to sneak candy into the basket until Scully finally looks at him with a spark in her eye and grins a little bit and grabs a carton of ice cream that they'll eat later on one of their hotel beds, straight from the container, while good-naturedly bickering over the sound of an old B&W film on the TV. anybody else in the little local supermarket probably thinks they're a married couple — the tall, gangly boisterous one and the firecracker he's teasing and poking and looking at Like That — and she's just quietly playing along but she's really having just as much fun because the case has been frustrating her and they'd fought about it earlier that day, but now they're more relaxed and having fun again and taking a break and the store is an unfamiliar, familiar, comfortable setting for the strange little ways they make the road home

[bluebellefox]

It is a Far, Far Better Thing

When he first begins to regain consciousness, he is aware only of the sense of darkness blanketing around him, allowing his body to float along the gentle waves of a softly rolling black sea. It is not oppressive darkness that surrounds him, but rather a soothing one, one that brings none of the weight that being alone in the dark has brought him these past few years. One that reminds him of summer nights under a tree shared by unassuming children ready to take on the world or rainy mornings spent with tea cooling in its chipped mug and dog-eared and creased worn pages. Or the gentle pressure of a wizened hand laying on his shoulder and the echo of a lilting laugh that shone brightly in emerald eyes and always seemed to staunch the deep ache in his very soul that has haunted him since he could remember. It is peaceful and for the first time in a long time, Severus feels calm.

He wakes slowly, for the first time in months, years, decades… There is no rushed sense of duty that usually accompanies him and spurs him to action the second he is aware of the waking world. There is only the feeling of a warm spring breeze lofting over his face, pulling playfully at his hair as it dances across, well wherever he is. Normally finding himself in an unknown place after being so deeply wrapped in the arms of Morpheus would alarm him, even send him into a whirlwind of abject panic but strangely enough, the familiar anxiety isn’t present. Instead, he allows himself to relish the sounds of leaves rhythmically swaying in the wind, the prickles of untrimmed ryegrass through the fabric of his robes, the pleasant warmth radiating from the traditionally more traitorous English sun. He hasn’t been allowed to just exist in this simple capacity since he was a small child before his life was so convoluted and controlled by the decisions of more powerful men before the weight of the fate of all wizard-kind across Britain fell upon his shoulders, bowing his back and making him more Atlas than man.

There was something pulling at the back of his conscience, he can feel it pulsing through the severe fog that's invaded his senses. Not unlike when he uses his occlumency to bury his emotions when they overwhelmed him, or when it was imperative the Dark Lord not see the thoughts that ravaged his mind during Death Eater meetings. However, unlike those occasions where occlumency was the only option to halt an oncoming nervous breakdown, he couldn't wave away the haze. The longer he laid there, poking around at this inexplicable barrier around the parts of his mind that had ruled supreme these past few years, the spymaster, the renegade, the ruthless Death Eater, the protector, they all fell away. Hidden behind walls, not of his own construction and remained unreachable through the thick shroud of hazy quiet. Until suddenly even that muted feeling of alarm was swept away in the breeze and floated gently in the wind along with the dandelion seeds. Far, far away from him, and he finds he doesn’t bemoan the loss.

Severus supposes he should care, waking up in a strange place and so far removed from his own mind and thoughts. He should care, but he doesn’t remember ever being this tired. His eyelids feel so heavy that even thinking about prying them open takes an insurmountable amount of energy that he does not possess. The grass and weeds feel good against his back, far more comforting and soft than even his bed at Hogwarts and certainly his moth-eaten and unbalanced one at Spinner’s End, somehow feeling like the glimmers of contentment and peace of his childhood. The breeze a nice change from the howling winds of the Scottish Highlands, he thinks as it settles across him like a warm blanket. He supposes it’s not a bad spot for a bit of a nap, and he is so very tired. There are much worse places to drift away in.

That thought breaks through the veil in his head, just for one moment but it’s enough to bring the muted pressure of rotting wood up against his spine, a sharp, coppery scent replacing the smell of wildflowers in his nose, a cold voice breaking the peace he’s found. Severus tenses, his fight against the haze in his mind redoubles and twice as savage as before, panic and desperation by his side once more. Until he catches sight of green eyes in the unpleasant memories flowing by him, solemn but bright enough to burn away the flashes of images of a familiar-seeming, dilapidated house. That green fills his mind, gently carrying him away from whatever horrors trying to claw and scratch their way back into his awareness, pulling him gently away from an office with numerous paintings lining the walls and a high-backed chair, from the darkness clinging to a sprawling manor even it’s elegance could not override, from a smoky and underground lecture room, from a cramped, angry house by a polluted river.

Severus is distantly aware that these places hold some great significance to him, he feels the subdued emotional ties to them but is unable to articulate what they are or explain where they came from. He can’t bring himself to care and gladly follows that green back to the peaceful weightlessness of before, because somewhere he knows with a bone-deep surety that those eyes are home.

“Hey, Sev.”

Despite his previous weariness and weight of his eyelids, Severus finds it extremely easy to open his eyes. He is greeted by the pale blue sky of a warm spring evening, streaks of white clouds held in place above him, and the swaying branches of an old oak tree. It feels familiar, like greeting an old friend after a time apart. He slowly pulls his arms from his stomach, and props himself up on his elbows, and looks in the direction of the voice. And sitting amidst the knots and gnarled roots of the oak, chin casually resting in the cradle of her hand, sits Lily.

Red hair floats down around her shoulders, a few strands following the breeze as it makes its way through the field again. Her freckles scattered along the bridge of her nose, curling around her cheekbones just as he remembers. An easy smile splits her lips, one that speaks of fond and long-held affection, the very same as the one that haunts him in his dreams. But here she sits before him, solid and real in a way her presence hasn't been to him in many years. And those green eyes that he sees every time he closes his eyes, are looking at him with a gentle sort of mirth and a warmth he hasn’t felt in a long time.

There are a thousand words he wants to say, hundreds of apologies laying at the tip of his tongue, but they stick in the back of his throat. There is something in the way she reaches her hand out to him and sweeps the hair out of his face that makes them unnecessary, a sense of causal affection that tells him that she requires no explanations. They would break this wonderful moment of reprieve, so he’s content to spend the remainder of forever in this comfortable silence.

A million memories spill forth from the dam in his mind, some fuzzy with a deep fondness and peace, others sharp with a deep-set pain and desperate loneliness. They swirl around him in branching streams and he runs his fingers through them. The sudden sound of a cracking branch, biting retorts flown in reckless abandon, a betrayal by a glass-green lake. They flit about the edges of his mind, too quick to hold fast to and they slip from his grasp and dissipate into the lovely spring air. A small hand clasped in his, a peal of musical laughter, and those green, green eyes are the only things left. Home, Severus thinks, this is home.

“Hey, Lily.”

She closes her eyes for a moment, and Severus thinks she is every bit as bright and lovely and magical as she has ever been. She cups her hand around his cheek, and he can’t help but lean into her touch, feeling every bit like the grumpy cat she always compared him to. She gives him an affectionate glance and turns her eyes back to the field in front of them. The sloping hill, the grasses and the weeds, the wildflowers, all much more numerous and beautiful than their spot in Cokeworth but it feels right, familiar all the same.

Lily slowly rises to her feet and takes a moment to brush off the dirt collected on her trousers. She holds her hand out to him with a look of patient expectancy. He looked at her hand and then back up at her face.

“You ready to go?”

Severus closes his eyes for a moment, taking in the quiet and the lovely weather a final time, and stands. When he reaches for her hand, she opens it readily and grips him with a comfortable tightness. Here they stand again, hand in hand, after everything that's happened and against all odds. Joy fills him in a way that he hasn’t felt since he was that nine-year-old boy, bathing in her warmth and secreting away what happiness he could afford.

“I think I am.”

When they take their first steps together, he can feel Lily swinging their joined hands between them. And for the first time in a long time, Severus smiles.

[pancakehouse]

ok! i need to see 16 please! give me GUN

(send me a siken line and i'll write a mini fic inspired by it)

hi i LOVE u and you're my hero and a goddess and here is a gun just for you annie emmeline!!!!!

16. someone’s pulling a gun and you’re jumping in the middle of it. 

A voice drags Remus into consciousness. A shouting voice, to be specific; one that manages to cut through a strong dose of healing potions and the heavy sleep of a boy who’s just finished nearly clawing himself to death. 

It’s impressively loud, really, and if Remus currently had any control over miraculous things like moving his mouth or speaking, then he’d definitely be telling the posh prick to kindly shut the fuck up right about now. As it is, he can’t do much more than lie there and listen.

“I’m not fucking doing this every month, James,” the voice is saying. Shouting. “He- he’s just - do you know how this fucking feels? To have to stand by, and watch the person you… fuck, I mean look at him! What if- what if he-” 

The voice chokes off, and Remus frowns (or tries to). Something rattles painfully in his ribcage, right near the spot where bones are trying to mend themselves back together, where purple spreads across tender flesh. Where this voice, Sirius’ voice, hoarse and rough and cracked-open, tucks itself right into the mix. 

It takes herculean effort, but Remus manages to force his eyes half-open, right as Peter’s voice sounds from somewhere to his left. “Maybe we shouldn’t, erm-” he’s saying, shaky and nervous.“D’you guys think when we, you know, change…what if he…” 

The room goes quiet, and Remus’ stomach drops. Not because he fully understands what Peter’s talking about, but because he can feel it when Sirius tenses, even from across the room.

“What?” demands Sirius. His jaw is clenched, eyes blazing like he’s a sparked fuse ready to blast the whole castle down around them and delight in the wreckage. “What the fuck does that mean, you useless, spineless little-” 

“Okay, that’s enough!” James cuts in. Bravely (stupidly), he puts a hand on Sirius’ shoulder. If it were anyone else, they might’ve walked away with a torn-out bite of flesh, but as it is, Sirius only sighs, and shakes him off in a manner that’s not-quite-gentle. “Sirius, none of this is Peter’s fault. I know you’re scared, and we’re all tired, but you yelling isn’t helping Moony. And Pete…just, well- the point is that we are going to help him, alright? We’ll be there, and this won’t ever happen again, okay?”

Grey light streams through the curtains, and Remus wonders idly what time it is - what day it is. And he wonders what kind of person it makes him that he’s almost grateful for this, the ache in his body. For the moon and the bandages and the new scars and old. 

Because those are all things he has, and this is also a thing he has: Sirius, here, cheeks damp and shoulders trembling, here, for him. 

And he has James, pacing the floor. And Peter, twitching in the chair by his side. And Sirius, who’s so painfully beautiful even with dark circles and a rumpled shirt, turning to glare at Peter every few seconds, like he’s daring him to move even an inch closer, like he won’t be so forgiving as he was with James. 

Secretly - on days when his joints aren’t so bruised and the moon isn’t an echo rattling his skull - that look sends a spark through Remus. It’s something like his lazy smirk before mouthing off in class, or the easy flick of a smooth, pale wrist before his duelling partner is sent flying across the room. 

It’s like a warning, maybe, written in stocky bold letters: Get out now, before it’s too late. 

But it’s already too late for Remus. Has been for ages - going on years now. And he still remembers the exact moment he realised it: 

Third year, a Hogsmeade weekend, and a cushy buffer of two weeks on either side of the moon. They were all packed inside the Three Broomsticks, crammed in a sticky booth, sipping butterbeers, and cheering over the luck of a free day off. 

Remus remembers Sirius sitting across from him. He remembers watching Anya Patil and her pretty green eyes press her thigh into his, and the way she leaned in too close whenever Sirius spoke, laughed too loud when he made a joke. The way her hand trailed up his shoulder, in a way she undoubtedly meant to appear subtle. 

He remembers Sirius’ knee knocking against his own under the table. The sharp, swooping feeling that went through his stomach. He met Sirius’ gaze across the table, and they’d looked at each other for a long, silent moment. The sounds of the bar, their friends, it all dulled to nothing. 

There was something coiled and tense in Remus’ ribs, then. In the same spot Sirius has always held, from that moment on. Remus thought love was supposed to be slow and gradual - like in the sappy romance novels Lily’s always giving him. A soft fall, like into a riverbed or a pile of grass.

But this was Sirius Black. Everything from his cheekbones to his grin to his words were sharp like a knife. So it stands, Remus supposes, that loving him would be like a gut punch to the stomach. A reducto to the chest. It was someone pulling out a gun, and Remus thinking - Well, what’s one more shot to the ribs? For him? Alright, go on then. 

“I have to go,” Sirius had said then. He jumped up from the booth, Anya’s hand sliding awkwardly off his shoulder, and Remus’ stomach had sunk to the floor. 

This was worse than a moon; he’d take the broken bones and bruises and clawed-open flesh any day over losing Sirius’ friendship. He almost took it back, then, and said: Wait, I’m sorry, it doesn’t matter. I promise. It’s nothing - I’m nothing, we can just - 

But then: “We have to go,” Sirius amended. And then he’d grabbed Remus’ arm, yanked him up, and dragged him all the way out the door. Pushed him up against a cold brick wall, and kissed him with pillow soft lips and warm fingers that slipped under his jumper, curved into his side; right into the weak, tender spots between brittle bones and aching lungs and every ounce of reckless want Remus would allow himself to have. 

More than he should, probably. But then Sirius looks over at him now, and when he sees he's awake his face shifts from the glare he reserves for Peter, and the fear he reserves for James, and softens into something he maybe reserves for Remus alone. And when he grins, razor-sharp, it really doesn’t feel dangerous at all.

[fandom-space-princess]

fic writer interview

tagged by @sinaesthete - thanks boo 💕

How many works do you have on AO3?

18. Somehow. I only started posting them in January, which means I've been averaging more than 2 per month?! Granted, most of them are one-shots, but still. Bonkers.

What’s your total AO3 word count?

79,889. I have contributed one novel's worth of questionable fandom content to the greater ecosystem. Joy unbounded.

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

The only fics I've published where anyone else could see them (or finished, for that matter) are for Supernatural. Others exist. I may even dredge them out into the light one day. Especially the Dragon Age ones, when DA4 comes out and inflicts some inevitable violence upon my poor little heart.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

In descending order:

- Wayward Family: (T, 31589 words/26 chapters) Sitcomnatural, aka Seven Fools In A Bunker AU. Stream-of-consciousness first drafts from the beginning of the year, when I was starting to catch up on the show again after having dipped out sometime around season 6-7ish originally. I honestly expected zero readership for this, and was pleasantly surprised that so many people responded so well to it. Because I was definitely still knocking the dust off my writing skills at that point, lol. Maybe one day I'll go back to it and make it better - there's definitely stuff I'd do differently next time around.

- Some Live Like Orpheus: (T, 6193 words/1 chapter) Adam rescues Michael from the Empty, featuring Adam as Orpheus and Michael as Eurydice, with special appearances from Jack and the Shadow. The first thing I wrote that I was really, genuinely pleased with myself over.

- Vox Celeste: (E, 1909 words/1 chapter) Midam smut. PWP, in fact. Lyrical, pretty smut (or at least, that's what I was going for), but all the same.

- The First Day of the Rest of Your Afterlife: (T, 4558 words/1 chapter) Sequel to 'Orpheus'. Michael and Adam having their happily-ever-after together. This might be the most utterly self-indulgent fluff I have written. I love it.

- Two Weddings and an Engagement: (T, 7812 words/1 chapter) Written for the tumblr Midam wedding day. The Love Is Requited, They're Just Idiots - truly the most trope of all time. Featuring background sabrileena, because I am a joyful polyamorous disaster bisexual and I think they should all get to be, too.

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Uh. To my great shame, I mostly don't. I always want to - the fact that people take time to comment on my writing is not lost on me as an act of love involving effort, and I can't express how much it means to me. I read and cherish every single comment I get. But interacting on AO3 takes a lot of spoons for me for some reason - and usually I just. Don't have it in me.

I'm working on it.

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

I don't write much angst, because I am first and foremost a cinnamon roll in need of fluff and comfort. But it does happen occasionally. I think the angstiest fic is Reliquary - more of a ficlet, really, since it's only about 600 words. But they're 600 words of Major Character Death, and I made myself cry writing it, so probably that one.

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

Nah. Not really my jam.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

No direct hate! The closest I've gotten was someone getting rude about characterization, which was more funny than anything else. What a strange thing to pick a fight over.

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Quite happily, yes. I find physical intimacy to be very fulfilling, personally, and writing about my characters having those experiences themselves is fun.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge...?

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Also not that I'm aware of.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have not. I kind of suspect I'd be a nightmare to co-write anything with. My writing brain works when it wants to work, not when I want it to work necessarily. And I have no way of predicting when that will be.

What’s your all time favorite ship?

I have a terrible time choosing favorites of anything, so I aggressively multiship. That said, in spn? Michael/Adam. Very closely followed by (exclusively S5 & earlier) Lucifer/Sam.

Outside of Supernatural, it's kind of a tossup. Probably the DA2 OT5 polycule (Hawke/Anders/Fenris/Isabela/Merrill). I'm aware this is a ship for insane people; I will not be accepting criticism at this time 💀

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

As of now, I actually plan to finish all my current WIPs! Pyrphoros was in very real danger of ending up in WIP purgatory for a while, but fortunately or unfortunately for everyone involved, Sin read the first chapter and gave me a pile of compliments. So now I am honor-bound to finish it (<creature brain> Friend liked fic must write more fic must please the Friend </creature brain>). It's getting worked on, bit by bit around my other projects, but still. It's happening.

What are your writing strengths?

I think I'm decent at getting emotions across? I'm also good at vivid visualization - in my head, I can usually see very clearly what I'm trying to describe, and I feel like that's helpful in getting it down effectively. Beyond that, I'm honestly not sure what you'd call my strengths.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I have close to zero control over when I'll have both time and motivation to write. Some of that is just the reality of balancing a more-than-full-time job with my hobby. Some of it is the executive dysfunction. But it does mean that when I'll finish anything can be... unpredictable.

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

I can't do it, and I don't love reading it. If I have to go looking for a translation somewhere in the notes, it wrecks my immersion in the story. No shade to people who do enjoy it; languages are gorgeous, and translations are imperfect at the best of times. Often the language something is written in is inseparable from the tone and cultural context it is meant to convey. But if given the choice, I don't seek it out.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Like I said, Supernatural is the only fandom with anything published. I think the first fandom I ever actually created anything for was Buffy. (Is that cringe? Yes. But consider: I live free of the shackles of shame. I am cringe, and I am happy).

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Probably one of the mini Midam week ones from earlier this year. Tie between Radio Silence and Every Day's Most Quiet Need, both of which turned out much better than I expected.

Not tagging anybody this time because my brain is currently scrambled eggs, although if anyone wants to do this please consider yourself tagged and feel free!

[peachesnjim]

where the petals fall  | prologue

⤷ kth x reader | dark themes, gardener!tae, neighbors!au 

✏ mini a/n: my old banner for this fic is on my old laptop, so please bear with me for now as I use this one! hopefully later on I can do some digging and reuse the old one!                                                                         

There’s a new neighbor in town and it doesn’t take much for you to notice the handsome young man next door.  Every day you spot him gardening, marveling at the beauty that he and those beautiful hands of his have created. “How could his backyard look so beautiful?,” you’d wonder. Now, let’s just say you’ve caught yourself up in the unpleasant misfortune of ever finding out.

 Loud chirps disturb you from your deep slumber. Something is pounding, almost hammering in your head as you slowly begin to gain consciousness. Your eyes flutter open as you lift your head up slowly squinting at the little flecks of light streaming throughout the room, vision slightly blurred. The room starts to spin and you squeeze your eyes shut. Once you begin to balance out the feeling in your head, you manage to flutter your eyes open and blink a few times.

Your vision becomes clear.

Your eyes roam around the dark space around you as your hair hangs into your face. As you go to brush it away, you’re unable to lift your arm almost as if your paralyzed. A brief moment of panic flickers through you as you see the black duct tape wrapping your two wrists together, arms limp from falling asleep. Instinctively, you attempt a scream.

“Mmmm” a high pitch squeal fills the room only to be muffled by the cloth stuffed into your mouth.

You look down at your feet, tingling from the restraints of the rusted metal chains around your ankles that continued to turn black and blue from the loss of circulation.

Your breathing becomes heavy, heartbeat banging out of your chest. Head winging from side-to- side you come to realize that this room just wasn't any room. It's a basement.

Your eyes scan the thin random slivers of sunlight that are able to illuminate certain parts of the basement. The small window above you to your right is covered by blinds allowing the morning sun to trickle in.

What the hell is this?

Your eyes scan every inch of the basement and immediately landing on the tools gathered by the stairway. The gardening tools were gathered neatly into a bin, a chainsaw and random blender were hidden underneath the empty slot. Before the empty space, there was a shovel covered in what appeared a red substance. You immediately think it’s blood, but you’d rather not think of the details of that one.

You squirm in your chair, figuring to try and free your hands at least. You twist them in a back and forth motion in hopes of somehow ripping your hands apart. The duct tape was too thick, creating a squishy noise every time you rotated your wrists. Anxiety courses through you when your arms easily become sore. It was useless.

Your heart speeds up as you remind yourself to spare whatever amount of energy you may have and stick to your senses since the reality is you’re stuck in the dark, in someone’s basement, with things you most definitely don’t want to know about. Looking around you spot a table to your left covered in soil, in the middle basket filled with red petals until you spot it. A hammer, leaking with what you can assume is your own blood.

You groan out a sob shaking your head at the situation you somehow managed to get yourself into. It's unbelievable, a scene from a horror movie. You hop up and down in your seat, doing the best that you can to fall out of it, but your arms won't allow it staying twisted behind you.

Footsteps sound in the ceiling above you and you stare up when you hear it. Someone’s humming.

Soon enough, the footsteps make their way from above your head leading towards the staircase. Heavy breaths escape your lips as you hear the door creak open. The humming continues when the door's shut. You can't stop the thumping in your chest as you watch a shadow appear about halfway down. You watch as the only lightbulb visible to you flickers on in the middle of the room. The shadow draws nearer until he's finally making his way down the last step and onto the split platform of two stairs in front of you.

Taehyung.    

He smiles eerily, holding a plate of seemingly fresh food and a glass of water.

“Oh, you’re awake. Good morning, y/n,” he practically sing songs in a low tremble as you shutter in your seat. Time stands still as he bares a boxy grin, taking long strides towards you. His eyes are dark and transfixed on your state. He makes his way towards the middle of the room, getting closer and closer as you narrow your eyes screaming into the cloth that fills your mouth.

“Shhh, shhh, there, there,” he tuts as you continue to lose your shit. You immediately pause as he slowly reaches a hand out to you, tugging and sliding the wrap under your chin. You choose to be silent glaring at him and watching him walk behind you. There's another chair against the wall. You hadn't noticed it until he's pulling it up, taking a seat in front of you. He sticks a fork into the meat on the plate. “You need to eat. I made this for you.”

He begins to lean the fork towards you moving it towards your mouth until you decide to take the chance and spit in his face He drops the fork and flaunters backward in disgust.

“You bitch!”

“You sick asshole!” You growl, satisfied that you’re able to speak. He's glaring at you now, wiping angrily at his face. “Why did you do this? Why the fuck am I here?” You’re infuriated. You’re in pain. You’re in the most fucked up of places you never even knew your mind could go before. For the first time you feel it. You want to kill him.

Taehyung is dumbfounded.

“What do you mean?” He cocks his head every-so-slowly as goosebumps rise onto your skin. “Didn’t you want to see my garden?”

Hesitation fills you as you immediately feel the regret wash over you, but not wanting to admit it.

“Wha—?” “—My garden,” he deadpans, his expression turning to stone, tone becoming harsher. "You said it was beautiful, y/n.”

“I—“

“—think about it, y/n,” he begins leaning his face towards you, “how the hell did you even manage to end up here?”

You furrow your brows, faintly recalling any memory that could've led you to this...

--

'Why are there rose petals?' you'd asked pointing over the small metal gate. 'It's not a rose tree and I'm pretty sure you taught me about the deciduous trees. You said that was a yew," you pointed.  

Taehyung blankly stood there tapping his finger on his chin.

'You have a good memory,' he chuckled. 'But you're always so nosy, y/n,' he teased. You smiled shyly at him, Taehyung clearing his throat dismissing the question.  

'Can I take a look?' he pauses. 'It's just the tree is beautiful and it's a little bigger than the ones that are around here.'  

Taehyung shoots an arm out in front of you. 'No!' he snaps as you look up at him confused. 'I mean,' he puts his arm down darting his eyes around anxiously. 'Another time.'

x

The darkness of the night wavered over your street as you sat huddled in the corner of your bedroom, hovering over your desk. You were irritated at the endless amount of reports unexpectedly thrown at you that day. Pressing at the 'enter' key in frustration, you leaned back in your seat stretching out your arms in front of you and rolling your neck. A heavy sighed filled into the silence of the room. You needed fresh air.

With a swift close of your laptop, you made your way towards your bedroom’s balcony. Unlatching the lock, you slide the glass door open taking in the light breeze and the darkness of the night. The moon lit up the sky, stars shining brightly overhead. It was beautiful really. A first in a long time to be able to enjoy the stars without the company of the comfort of the city lights. You marveled in the peace and quiet of the night, until you started to hear someone humming.  

You lean forward into the balcony's railing, sneaking a glance over to your neighbor’s backyard. It wasn’t long until your eyes focused on a dark figure moving back and forth from the tree to your neighbor's shed. Moments pass as the lowly lit lights surrounding the backyard allowed your eyes to get a clear hold on the moving figure.

Taehyung? you mumble to yourself, rubbing at your tired eyes.

It was odd. Why was he gardening at this time of night?  

'you're always so nosy, y/n.' his voice echoes. You shake your head at the most recent and embarrassing encounter you had with him. Though he was right, curiosity was in your nature.  

The slamming of the shed's door brings you back to your senses as you catch him bring out what seems to be a bucket? A basket? Whatever it is, he’s throwing the containments underneath the tree; the tree he’d always forbade you to go near.  

You listen in as he continues to hum, the ‘things’ he’s littering onto the ground appearing to be... petals? They were red, and he’d thrown a bunch of them onto the small mounds of dirt already. How long had he been doing that for?  

That’s strange. You place your chin into the flatness of your palm. What is he hiding underneath that tree? Why was he littering petals everywhere?  

No, y/n. Something’s off. you tell yourself.  

Taehyung begins to make his way back inside the shed, presumably cleaning up the space. You continue to look on as he closes the shed behind him, whistling his way back into his home. As you watch the lights of his balcony signal off, you still can’t help your curiosity.  

You release another sigh, reluctant to return back to your workspace. You’re about to make your way back inside your bedroom, until the soft creaking of a gate lingers. The soft breeze flows by as if to signal to you to glance back over at the tree again. The gate was open. He must've forgotten to lock it.  

I should go close that for him.    

You bustle into your room, throwing on your robe and slipping on some sandals. You close your front door as you make your way towards the first gate to Taehyung’s backyard. Walking slowly and cautiously towards the tree, the petals fly off the mounds of dirt. You begin to close the gate and that’s when you see it.

A flash of white from beneath the dirt, more petals being wiped away by the wind. You tip on your tippy toes catching a closer look as you recognize the white object. A ring pokes up from the dirt as you begin to realize it’s a body.  

Oh my god!  

—

Your head begins to throb again your gaze meeting Taehyung’s as an evil smirk now graces his face. He slams the plate down, shattering it onto the floor.

"I told you not to be nosy."

--

**This work is protected under this license. DO NOT translate, re-post, plagiarize or re-work ANY of the following stories! Any copy-written content will result in legal action!** © 2020

[peantbutter-honeycombs]

The Hollowing Series: Part II

Title: The Boy and His Companion

Word count: 3,339

Characters: The 11th Doctor, Amy Pond, ocs

Warnings: Platonic fic not romantic.

Notes: Originally the story was going to be completely told from the point of Sophia but after a few drafts I decided it should follow Oliver. My college friend who sometimes beta reads my work used to hate the boy but now she likes him. He used to be mean and dismissive toward Sophia but clearly I changed things. Even I quite like his character now.

Speacial Thanks to @underskaro for beta reading this chapter. I know your busy and this really meant a lot to me. So thank so much.

Figured I tag @mirkwoodshewolf because they kindly edited the first chapter and I want them to know I finally got around to the second.

———

The rain had ceased, leaving a heavy blanket of grey white on the hills. It hugged the rain-soaked ground, dancing around each of the kid’s heels. The late day fog controlled the landscape, making it blur in the same way as the opening credits of Mary Poppins.

The entire walk home, the two walked in silence. Oliver, in one hand, held the middle bar of the bright green trike. The metal was ice in his palm. He gripped the bar so tight his knuckles were turning a ghostly shade of white. He held Sophia’s hand in the other, though not nearly as tight. However, still tight enough to make the little girl uneasy.

Sophia would have “said” something if it wasn’t so woefully clear Oliver was cross. His soulful hickory eyes were hard as stone. Instead of their usual boyish spark, there lingered a disdainful flicker. She could swear he was muttering something bitter. Now and then she’d fear a foul word, he’d probably later scold himself for saying.

Whoooooooooo.

He stopped, eyes narrowing. He took a deep, rather stiff breath and sharply exhaled through his nostrils. Adrenaline surged through his system so fast he felt it burn a path through his veins. He spun around, pulling Sophia behind him. Oliver had a glacially callous glare on his face, eyes fixed on the horizon.

The wind tore at the collar of his slicker, and his damp mess of blonde curls. Their surroundings were clouded, hidden, shrouded by the thick veil of fog. Oliver stood silently, the only sound coming from the ferocious flapping of his jacket. He scanned the stretch with the careful eye of a concerned mother.

The fog is not the mist. The fog is not the mist.

The second they arrived home, Oliver condemned Sophia to the time-out chair. She quietly settled in on the stool, positioned in the far corner of the dead end down stairs corridor, without protest. It was an older item. The hand carved mahogany always felt stiff on her bum. But she thought it better not to whine.

Oliver, he sat alone in the living room. A damp, worn out mess of a human being. He tiredly sunk into the couch. He ignored the clammy feeling of his rain-soaked clothes. He completely collapsed across the cushions. Every muscle in his body just surrendered to gravity. He could feel the tiredness pressing on his chest, weighing him down, draining his energy, exhausting his patience.

Why would she think?… Especially now. He rolled off his side onto his back and focused his eyes on the ceiling. She can’t just… Ugh!

He brought a pillow to his face and screamed.

The seconds ticked away into minutes; in the isolation of the sitting room, Oliver let the world around him fade into silence. The minutes ticked into half an hour; Sophia absentmindedly twiddled her thumbs, humming a familiar song in the back of her head; Oliver had been awake for sixteen hours. His consciousness was grasping at straws.

One sniff and Oliver’s eyes are open. He rolled on to his side. Immediately his face fell into irritation. Oliver locked eyes with a familiar pair mere inches from his face.

“I’m not done with timeout. Go back.”

Sophia blinked, processing the instructions she’d just been given. Her eyes darted around, searching his face for any traces of sarcasm or falsehood. Nothing.

Sophia lightly pecks his cheek in the sloppy little kid way. It left a little wet mark, one he’d wipe away once she’d left the room. Oliver chuckles softly, carefully bumping his forehead against Sophia’s. The little ginge giggled, stumbling back, whilst raising a palm to where her temple had been nudged.

“Ten minutes?”

Sophia nods and politely shuffles off.

The landscape blurred, clouded, the fog lingered hovering above the cool streams and the crowned hills. The brilliant greens and vibrant patches of rich wildflower were poking through the fleeting fog. Soon the sun would begin its descent. Lowering, lowering until it was nothing more than a single sliver of gold vanishing on the horizon.

Eyes closed, arms folded over his chest, which rhythmically rose and fell with each dozy intake of breath, Oliver laid quietly on the couch. The father clock at the top of the stairs ticked, the pendulum swung from side to side. Quarter till four, it read.

Sophia sat in her timeout chair, continuing to hum her melodic tune. In these moments of boredom with no toys to play, no stuffy to “talk” to and no Ollie to cling to, all Sophia could do was wait. She sighed, blowing up a long strand of hair that kept dipping, falling between her eyes.

Oliver stuck his head through the white Tudor arch way that separated the sitting room and entryway corridor. Sophia, having somehow positioned herself upside down on the small stool, gave the boy a dopey smile.

Oliver rolled his eyes, pulling at the fabric of his shirt.

“Hey Soph a loaf,” Oliver softly sing-songed, sitting against the wall directly beside the timeout spot. Being upside down, her auburn hair fell in waves suspended centimetres above the rough and stained planks. She was holding her shirt down, preventing it from exposing her stomach.

“You… Wanna make a pillow fort?”

The quiet of the house is shattered by Sophia, letting out a blaring squeal. In moments she somersaults off the bench, landing clumsily on the floor. She’s up on her feet in a heartbeat, bouncing, squealing, stomping.

Oliver chuckles lightly. “Sophia, Sophia, Sophia.”

Sophia poked her head through the arch at the call of her name.

Sophia whined, tilting her head as if to ask ‘what?’

“Nothing. Just… love you Soph a loaf. Lots and lots.”

The pillow fort took longer than expected, given that they both took the construction of fort building oh so seriously. They rushed through putting on their pjs, then moved on to making dinner. No one could tell them not to eat under the bedclothes.

“You can’t put peanut butter on grilled cheese!”

Just as it did every day, the sun set. The shadows of the trees and the aging building stretched up the hills, as the golden ball of orangish yellow began its descent.

Beneath navy blue blankets, patterned with rocket ships and sea creature stickers, sat the two children. Oliver had built much of the fort; Borrowing cushions, towels and blankets from around the house. While Sophia had eagerly decorated their cloth kingdom; twinkle lights, stickers, and scribbled drawings decorated the walls and ceilings.

“So her dad was killed-- Ow. By the same agent trying to recruit her?"

Cuddled firmly against his side was Sophia, her body glued against his similar to Double Pops. Every time she moved, her knees or feet would buck, nailing Oliver in the ribs or hip. He had an arm wrapped around her neck, functioning as both a pillow for her head, and one support for the tablet he was holding.

“That’s quite coinc-- Ow! Sophia!”

Sophia bit the edge of her lip, trying to contain her giggles. Her giggle was a violin playing the open string G (Sol), alluring and dulcet. Considering she burst into a mini giggle fit with each jab, Oliver’s face crumpled like a discarded wad of paper.

He could feel Sophia wiggling against him. Her legs squirmed in a boyishly wild fashion. Her knees curved, beating him in the ribs.

“Ow!" Oliver sat up.

“Okay.” He inhaled sharply. His body was stiff from high levels of irritation. Sophia calmed herself, gently curling her toes. Her brown eyes followed Oliver’s movements, becoming larger, curious.

“Sophia, do you have to use the toilet?”

Sophia drew in her lip. She bent her knees, so she grabbed her toes. She stared, thinking hard. He watched as her face became still, eyes blinking frenziedly. Within fifteen seconds, she nodded.

“Let’s go then.” He stood, helping Sophia up.

He crawled out of the fort’s entry tunnel, it was barely big enough for him to squeeze through. They’d run low on pillows, while building some part of the structure had to be sacrificed.

He heard the soft scuffling of sock padded feet against the old wooden floor. “Sophia?” He looked back over his shoulder, realising Sophia was making more noise than necessary.

“No! Soph, you’re not bringing a blanket to the loo.”

“We lay my love and I…” Oliver sang.

Oliver sat on the third step of the stairs. Beating his hands against his thighs. He was a child. His rigid posture had been replaced by a chill slouch. Sophia had taken her time correcting the blanket as she shifted. She was just now clambering out of the blanket fort.

“Beneath the weeping willow…”

Sophia shuffled past him into the next room, across the corridor from the sitting room. As she passed, Oliver gently took hold of the back of her shirt. Sophia backtracked, then turned on her heels to face him. Oliver had a focused look, his eyes fixated on the ginger like a surgeon during brain surgery.

“Sophia. Where are you going?” He asked.

Sophia wrinkled her nose, pointing in every direction. Oliver simply rolled his eyes.

“Then go find your sweater.” He instructed. Sophia points to the room she was headed toward. “No. It’s not in the drawing room. You left it in my room. Upstairs.”

Sophia let out a pout huff, making Oliver chuckle. She looked past him at the stairs, eyes narrowing to a thin line. Nonetheless, she began her slow ascent upwards. A downside of wooden stairs. If you’re not wearing shoes, instead socks, it's easy to slip. Her sock covered feet slipped and slid, making her ascent up the stairs look clumsy.

“One foot in front of the other.” Oliver teased. Sophia, her face only inches from his ear, blew a spitty raspberry. With the satisfying feeling of retaliation, Sophia pressed on.

“Remember to use the toilet.” Oliver reminded, wiping the flecks of spit from the side of his face.

Oliver patted his thighs and then stood. Standing rather motionless, in his sharp black and orange KTM Factory pyjamas, he distinguished himself amongst the rustic clutter of the foyer. After a moment of stillness, he leapt from the third step, landing on the floor with a hard thud. He resets himself, brushing a hand through his mop top of dirty honey blonde hair.

He wanders around the corridor, gently running his fingers across the wall, over the knickknacks and along the edges of the chair rail.

"But now alone I lie..." he quietly sang, “...And weep beside the tree...”

The house was old. Ancient. It looked like it had been plucked from an autumn-aphile's Pinterest board. Time had been kind to the country home. While the creepers crept along the worn grey cobbles, the inside was a monument to times long gone by.

Thump, thump, thump.

Sophia. She was moving around upstairs.

His mother was a collector. Her husband called her a hoarder. She called herself a dreamer. She was a traveller. When she had been young, before the children, she'd seen the world collecting baubles and knickknacks that now cluttered the home.

Thump, thu, thu, thum.

"Your feet aren't drums!"

A single overhanging lamp dimly illuminated the foyer, mirroring the glow of candle light. Their neighbour had once asked why they didn’t store all their tchotchkes away in the shed. Stacks of completed books left careless about rough wood carvings from around, antique finds nestled beneath blankets of dust, dried flowers, and colourful drawings from Oliver’s younger days.

Thump, thu, thu, thum.

The house, so full of things. Some would shudder at the chaos of it all, others would be queasy because of claustrophobia, and rest would be quietly fascinated.

Oliver stood himself in front of Credenza, pushed up against the left wall. He eyed the reflection staring at him through the distressed mirror mounted about mahogany sideboard.

He’d forgotten a lot rather recently. Thirteen. He’s thirteen. His eyes are a weak shade of brown, not like Sophia’s, the colour of almond coffee. His dirty blonde hair softly curled and tucked, just barely overhanging his sunken eyes.

Thump, thu, thu, thum.

“Singing ‘Oh willow waly’…” he sang, “… by the tree that weeps with me.”

Oliver retreated, leaning against the sloping stair posts. He checked the clock hanging above the front door. Four minutes had passed since Sophia had gone upstairs. Standing there with nothing to do but listen to the creaky footsteps from above.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

“Singing—”

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

His nerves abandon him quickly. His breathing becomes shallow and erratic. He couldn’t hear his rapid breathing, the chaotic beat of his heart dominated. His fingers curl into a fist, nails piercing the tender skin of his palm.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

His eyes dart to the clock. 6:11.

It’s as if his hidden sixth or seventh sense activates. Every tick of the clock is a threat, every creak of a floorboard is a risk. His fingers twitched as he defensively moved toward the door. His body stiffens, trying to shut him down before he can reach the front door. He keeps moving.

His hands tremble and his skin becomes rough with goosebumps as he reaches towards the door handle grip.

No one knocks. No one could would.

He grips the handle tightly thumb pressed on the thumb-place, the metal would surely leave a mark on his palm. He finds it hard to swallow, lungs betraying him. Slowly he presses down on the thumb-place, pulling on the handle.

“Hello!”

Oliver’s blood ran cold. He tightened his jaw.

“You followed us?” Oliver murmured. His grip on the door handle tightened, to where he could feel the cool metal dig into his palm. Standing square, shoulders defensively strained back, he felt a knot forming in the back of his throat. Fear sat quietly, waiting like a vulture, ready to claim him.

“You followed us home?” His eyes darted to the Moors, where a small cloud of mist was slowly forming. He wasn’t quite scared. His eyes showed more of a wary concern. After all, he was all that stood between two mysterious strangers and his world.

“Yes. We did.” As he spoke, Oliver observed the Doctor with slight aversion. When he spoke, he’d move his hands about. A little unnerving. Still Oliver held his ground, preventing the Doctor, still a stranger, from entering his home. “We have some questions…”

“Questions?”

Thump, thump, thump.

That’s when Oliver jumps. A pump of adrenaline surged through his system almost triggering his flight or fight instinct. Without his support “system”, it would have been flight. Oliver shook his head, pushing down his panic.

Thump, thump, thump.

He was the barrier between his world and trespassers. A wave of boldness washed through him, demanding he be bold and shielding. However, a light gust of embarrassment from his jump made his cheeks glow.

“You-- you have questions?” he stammered.

The Doctor seemed to take this as an invitation. He moved to enter the cobblestone house. Oliver slammed a hand across to the other side of the door frame, so he couldn’t enter.

The Doctor’s brows pressed together, his shoulders slumped, and his mouth hung slightly open and loose. His expression gave way to his confusion. A hard stone glare carved into Oliver’s tired eyes. A warning. The doctor took heed and took a careful step back.

His lighthearted manner returned within seconds.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m the Doctor, this is my friend Amy. What’s your name?” He asked as he extended a hand out for Oliver.

Oliver shook his head, smiling a little, as he gently pushed the Doctor’s hand down and said.

“Can’t tell you that.”

“Why not?”

Just because someone introduces themselves, they aren’t any less of a stranger. Though most of what he observed of the Doctor seemed safe, suspicion and caution still governed his mind. He’d be more trusting in different circumstances. But there weren’t many people worth trusting, at least not anymore.

“You’re still a stranger.”

The Doctor nods, scratching at his chin. “Fair enough.” Something about the grown man’s cluelessness. The right corner of Oliver’s lip twitched, threatening to curve upward. He started gesticulating again, moving his hands about as he spoke. “Answer me this then where is everyone else?”

His brain stuttered for a moment, his face fell, and the blood drained from his face, leaving him as pale as a sheet. He recomposed himself, adopting a more stoic expression.

“Home,” his tone was cold, cold as ice.

“Home?”

The Doctor observes Oliver’s shift in manner with calculative eyes. He leans back, arching a brow. Oliver only nods in response. However, he could see it. The Doctor could see it, the fear trying to hide in the corners of the blonde child’s eyes.

He’d figure that out later, for now…

“Tell me, why should we be wary of the mist?”

Oliver scratched the back of his head. His eyes struggled to focus on one point. Again, they settled on the Moors. His stomach twisted and sunk with his nerves, as he gripped the fabric of his shirt tightly, wrapping it around his hand.

“Hard to see, you could get lost.”

The Doctor squatted, so that his eyes were level with Oliver’s. He carefully studied Oliver’s face as he lowered his mouth. He went to speak, but Amy, she spoke first.

“Have people gotten lost?”

Thud.

This time his muscles become tense. “I-- I better get inside,” he stammered, gesturing with a thumb over his shoulder. His unsettled eyes shift down to the ground, avoiding the watchful looks of the Doctor and his companion. Oliver cleared his throat and then croaked out.

“You should get back home, before it’s too late.”

Without another word, he shut the door, leaving the Doctor and Amy in the chill of dusk.

Oliver was silent as he fell back against the front door. The tick of the grandfather clock at the top of the stairs felt louder than before. As the full realisation of his conversation sank in, he ran his hands down his face. A loud groan of frustration flowed past his lips.

It’s foolish to trust, he reminded himself, for no one knows what the mist does hide.

A small whine snapped him out of his stupor. He immediately stood. Sophia stood one step from the top of the stairs. She wore a puzzled expression. Oliver rolled his eyes, his brows creased, and he put on a fake smile.

“It was no one,” he lied, dismissively waving a hand in the air. Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “It was no one Sophia, leave it alone.” He insisted, trying to laugh the matter off.

“Now, I have some work to finish.” He said as he moved toward the drawing room. As far as he was concerned, the matter of who was at the door was finished. His mouth twitched into a genuine smile, and his tone softened. “If you’d like, you can color at the desk while I work.”

Sophia shook her head, gesturing with an arm toward the entire upstairs. “No? Just going to play in the upstairs?” He asked. She nodded, making her ginger tresses bounce. “By yourself? Are you sure?” The way her one dimple crinkled, the shifting of her freckles, gave him his answer.

“Fine, have fun, bed in an hour.” Oliver brushed his fingers through his hair, strolling into the drawing room.

Sophia brought a hand to her mouth, then blew him a sloppy kiss. Hearing the noise of the peck from the other side of the archway, Oliver bent an arm back through the doorway to catch it. He cast his head back through the opening, a goofy grin plastered on his face.

“Love you too Soph a loaf. Lots and lots.” he gently laughed. “You be good,” he reminded moving into the drawing room.

“And Sophia,” His tone became serious, and resigned. “Let's stay out of the master room.”

[stefciastark]

Metal Arm ~ Webpril Day 7

A/N: Here is Part 1 of what will be a 2 part mini-story. Doombots threaten Manhattan, but with a significantly reduced team and some bad luck, things don't go so smoothly for Peter. It only briefly touches on the 'metal arm' prompt, but this is also inspired by a request from Hannah on AO3 to write a bit of 'post-battle injured Peter hides his injury and won't admit anything is wrong.' I'm really excited to write Part 2 tomorrow, had a lot of fun writing this first part!

~Read on AO3

~Read on FFN

Peter had never really been strangled, yet today it had happened not twice, not thrice, but it was bordering on his fourth time being on the receiving end of a chokehold. The Doombot cutting off his air circulation ended up being at the wrong place at the wrong time however, as three out of its four limbs were obliterated and sent to mecha-heaven. All except the one heavily bicep-ed metal arm that clung to his throat like shit to a shovel.

“Get. OFF,” he gritted through his teeth, tearing the appendage off of his throat and tossing what was now just a torso, head and forelimb onto the growing pile of Doom scrap metal.

He had to take a breather for a moment and remind himself that these were robots and not real people. Despite how convinced their A.Is were that they were in fact the real Doctor Doom, their suicide missions were nothing more than a result of malevolent - albeit skilled - programming.

“You good, kid?” The Ironman suit hovered a few feet away from Peter, appearing to dance slightly in the air as Peter’s brain started playing ‘catchup’ with oxygen. He felt himself nodding in response, muting his comms momentarily so that what was present of the Avengers wouldn’t hear his breathing; he was pretty sure the exhaust pipe on the old Vauxhall Cavalier his uncle used to own sounded healthier.

The team was small today; Thor was offworld, Bruce didn’t feel like having another near miss after almost levelling another city during an incident the week prior near Seattle, and Clint was - as Tony put it - too busy ‘playing house’ in the country. That left Tony, Peter, and Natasha Romanoff on the mission. Peter was unsure whether to call her Nat, Romanoff, or use her Black Widow alias, and instead anxiously settled for using none of the above and simply avoided using any moniker to address her whatsoever. It had worked out for him well so far.

While it was by no means a three person job, they would have to make do, and so far, they were making...something happen. The showdown had initially begun in Hell’s Kitchen and was progressively and concerningly migrating towards the Lower East Side. The closer the action got to the east side of Manhattan, the closer it got to Brooklyn, and the closer it got to Brooklyn, the more there was a chance of the threat moving to Queens, and Peter wanted to keep the rough and tumble away from his neck of the woods if he could. So far they had left in their wake twelve office buildings turned to rubble, eleven burst sewer pipes, and at least ten separate fires that he was pretty sure were still burning. All they needed now were nine civilian casualties and they were almost halfway to rewriting ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’.

Tony didn’t have time to follow up with Peter’s uncharacteristic lack of a verbal response as two Doombots that had split from the herd attached themselves to the red and gold armour, their green capes combining with the suit to make a metallic caricature of a Christmas tree. Tony had a whole three seconds of warning before their self-destruct protocols were activated, and everything within a 300-foot radius erupted in a shower of rubble, flames, and smoke.

The suit - for the most part - diminished Tony’s impact with the building adjacent to the Tenement Museum. Peter didn’t quite have the luxury of inches-thick armour, and as he sailed diagonally across Delancey St through the glass window of Double Chicken Please, he made a personal vow to make them his new go-to fried chicken joint as a form of apology.

“Stark, was that you?” Nat (Peter decided that was the name he felt most comfortable with) queried over the comms, the distant sound of shots being fired and the purring motorcycle beneath her leaking into the background.

A stream of expletives from the man in question poured in through his suit’s speakers. Peter found it funny that if it were anyone but Tony in any other situation other than their current predicament, the frankly obscene amounts of swearing would be concerning.

“How many left on your end, Rushman?” There was a groan and the uncomfortably familiar sound of shifting rubble. “I think we’ve just about wrapped up here.”

Peter had been working on gently extricating himself from where he lay in a supine position behind the bar, struggling to hold onto consciousness through a haze of pain. The wall between Double Chicken Please and Subway had collapsed, half of it inconsiderately laying across his chest. He noted wryly that he didn’t expect himself to be battling unconsciousness behind a bar until he was at least twenty-one, yet here he was, five years too early.

A large bang went off from what sounded like only a block away, which was then followed by a moment of complete and utter stillness.

“I think our last guests just left the party,” offered as an explanation from Nat, finally breaking the silence.

“Don’t you hate it when you have company and they don’t even offer to help clean up? I am sickened by the youth of today.” Tony had managed to disentangle himself from what could now barely be called a building. The engineer was able to identify the date of manufacture on the most recent wave of Doombots - they were only three months old. “Speaking of, Spiderling, let’s get this cleaned up. I have a date with takeaway and my favourite sweatpants waiting for me at home.”

“Try not to wreck any more buildings while I’m gone, boys,” Nat said, immediately beginning her commute to the Avengers facility.

Natasha had become the face of the Avengers during the inevitable PR followups that seemed to accompany any and every brush with threat since the Chitauri attack on New York. She was level-headed and presented well, and so far had the least amount of tallies on the “PR Fuck-ups” chart that hung in the communal kitchen in place of a calendar. It was the team’s personal inside joke that S.H.I.E.L.D didn’t approve of, which of course made them double down their efforts if it meant ruffling Nick Fury’s feathers.

“Try not to wreck my public image, it’s what funds those luxury bath bombs you keep ordering,” Tony shot back, no venom in his teasing words.

Peter was otherwise occupied during his teammates’ little exchange. He had his arms arranged in an upside down tricep pushup position, palms pressing against the sizable concrete slab that occupied the space from his waist to his sternum. As he lifted the offending cement off of him, he very nearly dropped it back down as the air rushed out of his lungs. Something in his chest shifted sickeningly, followed by a stabbing pain that burned everything from his ribs to his airways. Failure never an option, he persevered, relieved when the hunk of wall finally slid gracelessly down the pile of debris.

He thought having a literal chunk of concrete off his chest would feel better.

“Pete?” His name was said with such a mixture of impatience, exhaustion, and concern that Peter found his nerves standing on red alert. This would be the first hour of many on cleanup duties

Taking a wavering breath, afraid to breathe too deeply, he steadied his voice and activated his comms. “Sure thing Mr Stark, on my way!”

Peter winced; he definitely overdid it on the enthusiasm. With every step he took his discomfort grew until the pain from his chest radiated down to his hips and he had to stop himself from hunching over and limping his way back to the Delancey St intersection. There were only two of them now, a whole lot of city to tidy up, and not a whole lot of time to spend fussing over what was probably just some deep tissue bruising. Plus, this was his first call to action since July, and it was now approaching the end of November.

Bracing himself for the amount of suckthe next few hours would entail, he gritted his teeth against the throbbing that rolled like waves from deep within his chest, and prepared to put on his best Oscar-worthy performance he’d titled: “I’m Fine - A Teenager’s Pledge”.

There was no way he was going to let Tony down.

A/N: There we have it! Things didn't go so smoothly for Peter, and I know he has superior healing and all but this poor boy needs some more safety built into his suit. Tomorrow will be the Part 2 fill for this mini-story, so check back in for the concluding part :) Thank you for all your continued support, kudos, and comments. Please feel free to send any fic requests into my Asks! Sending hugs to you all <3

[just-jordie-things]

i dont know if you were asked this before, sorry if i am bothering you! Do you have any writing tips? I don't have anything specific but just any in general. I really admire your work!

you're so sweet!! i feel like i'm the last person who should be giving writing advice as i just blindly go into a brainrot induced stupor and spout off into docs as if i'm screaming into the void-- i have been asked this before but it's no trouble to copy it!! <3

a biggie take your time finding your style- as you can see on my masterlist i have a looot of shit on there from years of writing fanfic and experimenting. getting out of my comfort zone can be kinda hard for me personally, but with writing it was so worth it bc you can really see a metamorphosis there of when i was writing just to write and when i was writing with a drive.

don’t be afraid to ignore the rules of grammar. run on sentences are beautiful. i’ve found that especially so when the plot is driven by someone’s stream of consciousness as though they’re narrating it. thoughts are messy, they’re long and sometimes awkward and there’s no such thing as grammar in your mind !! of course spelling and punctuation are important and i’d recommend editing tho (idk her 😳) but get creative with it!!

thesaurus.com is my bestie 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 i often find myself using a lot of the same words and i don’t want to bore readers with repetitiveness! and also it’s just an easy way to expand my vocabulary too. (in person i stammer and have the reach of a fourth grader lmfao so i always want my writing to be concise and make the reader feel exactly what i want them to with my language)

also something i’ve started doing recently !! when i’m away from my wip and daydream about it, i write it down right away! in my notes app or on sticky notes or even my hand hehe. sure if it’s a significant enough plot point i’ll probably remember… but there’s no time like the present!! i want A to look at B a little differently in that one quick scene? i want to make them eat something different for foreshadowing? little details like that can be huge in your writing !! something a reader might gloss over but then realize later it was all a part of a greater scheme?? yes. so take note of those thoughts and daydreams you have !! even if you don’t end up adding it to your work, it’s better than having a profound, fic changing idea that you forget before you get the chance to write it!

this one is simple but a biggie- think about what you would want to read. i’ve been trying to keep this in mind as of late, especially when writing longer pieces where i want to make y’all suffer. find new ways to build the tension in your plot. give us different points of view, give us an untrustworthy narrator that thinks they’ve got it all figured out. throw in extra conflict. fanfiction is the melting pot of whatever the fuck you want !! so go stupid go crazy and make it something you love, and you should be good to go!! not to be cheesy but as long as you love it then you’re solid. doing something you love over and over will naturally lead you through growth and finding your style. don’t be wrapped up in notes right away (yes it can be a bit of an issue on this app- but none of has have control over how people enjoy your work- so you might as well focus on enjoying it for yourself) because as long as you’re doing something you’re passionate about and sharing it with us, more people will soon flock to enjoy it with you <3

lastly i just enjoy making mini playlists for whatever i’m currently working on. they don’t have to correlate completely with your plot. sometimes the sound of a beat is good enough for me to throw it on. if it gets me excited and planning out scenes i haven’t gotten to yet then it’s good enough for me!! i will listen to the same song on repeat in the name of ✨vibes✨ even if the words themselves have nothing to do with the plot i’m writing. that’s probably lazy basic advice but it works well for me and i love listening to music so !!

hopefully the copying of a previous ask isn't annoying and ya find this helpful! just my thoughts and processes tho, you gotta find a style that's best for you! and remember its a hobby. if you get stressed take a break and come back later! you're on your own schedule, and you don't owe anyone anything, so just have fun!

[manyreblobs]

OH! For the mini fic thing: Allen60 + 18 :)

oh leo :) look what u created

18. Things you said when you were scared 

Leo u evil, evil bb, u know the only outcome out of this was angst…

“STAY THE FUCK AWAY!” sixty screams, backing away more and more.

He’s panicking too much, Allen can see his breaths fogging up with the extreme cold, his frame is trembling from cold and adrenaline and fear and his eyes-

They are wild with fear, but foggy. He’s here, but at the same time not.

The closer Allen tries to get the farther away sixty gets and he needs to do something.

And he needs to do it now.

“Sixty-” Allen starts, taking one step closer.

“STAY AWAY!”

Sixty hair whips with the wind and he stumbles with the next backward step he takes.

Allen's heart leaps to his throat.

“Sixty baby listen!-” he pleads. ‘God fucking dammit!’ he screams internally, he’s starting to panic, but he can’t panic he needs to stay focused! He’s trained for this! Sixty needs him!

“NO!” he cries, tears streaming down his face.

“Sixty I know-”

“You do-don’t know s-s-shit!” he stammers, his chest raises up and down faster and faster with each choked breath he takes, “stay away, please!” Sixty pleaded, voice sounding small and fragile.

Vulnerable.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he pleads again and again, with those tear filled eyes, once more taking one more step backwards, “pleas-”

His foot slips.

He gasps.

Allen watches him fall in slow motion.

His world stops.

He just moves.

Before Sixty can even process what’s happening, his gasp turns from one of surprise form one of pain as his arm is grabbed roughly and he slams full force against the building.

With his other arm Allen grabs Sixty shirt and hauls him up back to the safe ground of the rooftop.

The moment Sixty touches the floor Allen is enveloping him in his arms, tugging him as close as he can against himself and away from the ledge.

Safe, safe he’s safe now.

Holy shit.

“I’m so s-s-sorry. Sorry. I-I, please I was- she was. Hurt- hurt- she-” Sixty rambled frantically wheezing and clutching, almost tearing Allen’s t-shirt, desperately trying to burrow closer.

“Sixty. Sixty, baby, shhhh,” he soothes, rocking them both, running a hand through Sixty’s head, anything to calm him down.

Sixty’s heart is beating so hard Allen can feel it against the hand he has on his back, he can feel the warm tears that slip down onto his shoulder, tears and something more, and Allen can smell the familiar smell of thirium. Fuck did he hit his head that hard?

Looking down at him quickly he searches for possible injuries.

His right arm is completely limp besides him and there is some apparent damage in his head.

Not good.

He’s hyperventilating badly.

Certainly, not good.

God he needs him to calm down, somehow.

Calm him down before he passes out and makes himself wors-

“S-s-she w’s goin’ to hu-hurt…. you,” Sixty slurs against his shoulder.

His body starts to get heavier and heavier, leaning all his weight against Allen’s shoulder.

“Sixty?” Allen shakes him frantically, “Sixty, baby, c’mon don’t pass out on me,” he pleads.

Allen hears him muttering something inaudible before he loses consciousness completely.

Suddenly his breathing stops all together, ventilation biocomponents going offline after emergency stasis took its course, his heart though keeps beating hard and fast against his frame, making his whole body tremble.

His LED glares red, sluggishly against his jaw. Moving him slowly he looks down at his tear stained face and the blood that runs down his forehead. He needs to call an ambulance.

He pulls him closer and takes a deep breath.

Fuck...

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

Haha :D

For those wondering sixty was hallucinating Amanda yes :)

I might utilize this idea in some other fic cus I liked it a lot

Thank u Leo u sweetheart :)))))) have some bb suffering

I think this one came out a little wonky but oh well ;D

[galadrieljones]

writer’s review

tagged by @ma-sulevin and @a-shakespearean-in-paris. thank you! i’ve never done this one before.

I will tag @thevikingwoman @shallow-gravy @littleblue-eyedbirdchirps @roguelioness @pikapeppa and anyone who’d like to do this. Please tag me if you do!!

Rules: Post two snippets of your writing. The first should be one of the oldest examples of your work that you can find (the older the better!), and the other has to be an excerpt from something more recent. Compare the two side by side to see the difference between what your writing looks like now and how it did then.

Since I have way too much old writing from my life, I am just going to stick with my fanfiction. I chose to compare an excerpt from my older Solavellan work The Dead Season (2016) to my current The Last of Us fic As You Were (2020). 

I put this under a cut, as it’s a little long!! 

From The Dead Season - Chapter 8: The Emprise du Lion

For the first three nights, they’d had to camp in a quarry surrounded by the dead lit veins of red lyrium. The lyrium glowed through the fire, illuminating the snow, keeping everyone awake, bandaged and bruised, all four of them piled into the Inquisitor’s tent where nobody wanted to be alone. Death was too nearby, they decided. Things were better together. Exhausted, hardened, dirty, cold to the bone. Drinking warm ale brought in by Scout Harding’s people, gnawing pieces of rabbit Sene had hunted herself and then cooked on a spit. Iron Bull tried entertaining with mad stories from his stranger youth. He and Solas played whole games of chess through the power of memory alone, and Sera braided Sene’s hair, and asked her all kinds of questions about her childhood and her love for the elven man. She told her about Dagna, that the two had started a quiet affair, and she had such stories of Red Jenny and her foreign life as an elf of the city. Sene listened eagerly, all the time, finding Solas with her eyes, and he would give a small touch. Security in a place of death and blood in the snow.

Despite Sene’s dreams, whenever they slept in the Emprise du Lion, Solas held her with serious possession. He slept deeply when he drifted, without stirring, and his arms hardened around her as stone. A carefulness and new severity imbued them, each movement guessed and exchanged as mind-reading. Somehow, it felt new. Sera noticed one morning, as Solas helped Sene into her jacket: “You do that like it’s all you’ve ever done,” she said to him.

“Perhaps it is,” said Solas. “Perhaps each night I help Sene out of her jacket, and then each morning, I help her back in again. Would that shock you?”

“The two of you,” said Sera. “Like green on sky. Eggs on toast.”

“Interesting perspective,” he said.

From As You Were - Chapter 6: La Crosse (Pt. 1) / The Lapp Farm (Pt. 1)

Joel and Noah drove until they hit what looked to be the town. They parked at an O’Reilly’s Auto Parts, hauled their backpacks onto their backs, and loaded their guns. The signs continued, most of them nailed to other kinds of signs: COTHS, they read. C.O.T.H.S.

C O T H S.

La Crosse had never been a big city. Joel didn’t know a lot, but he could gather as much. It wasn’t big, but it was a college town, and that college was big enough to have a football team. It would have been home to a lot of people during the initial Outbreak, probably forty or fifty thousand, and it was probably a metro-hub for these little Driftless, farming towns, too, with a good hospital, warehouses, factories, and some semblance of a retail industry. It would have been a lot of meth, he thought. Maybe not so much in the city proper, but in the outskirts, in the tin cans and the trailer parks. As a city on the banks of the Mississippi, it would have pretty pockets but mostly, it was just franchises and mini-malls, like anything else.

But this was strange, thought Joel. The goddam of it was, it seemed empty. Really empty. Like, god no longer smiled upon this place, as if something evil had given up on this place, gone on its way. There was nothing. Nothing bad, nothing good. Just the trees, and the nature noises, the grasses, which had grown so tall, they engulfed the cars abandoned at the side of the road. There was a McDonalds sign, growing out of a massive, twisted heap of vines and bramble and it made Joel think of small things that still broke his heart from childhood. He pushed it down.

“This is fucking weird,” said Noah. The air smelled ripe in some places. Rotten. Like an overgrowth of mold in the washing machine. “What the fuck is that smell?”

“Something bad happened here,” said Joel.

“Hey, look,” said Noah. He was headed toward another one of the signs. It said: COTHS.       

“Yep, another sign,” said Joel.

“No, look,” said Noah. He got closer. He had to snap a couple saplings to get to it. This sign was on the ground, leaning against a tree. He pushed back the tall grass, and the milkweed to reveal the rest.

Comparison: I settled on these excerpts because they are both descriptions of places and situations that are new to the characters involved. The biggest difference between my writing in 2016 and my writing now, as shown here, is that I have hugely simplified my prose and my approach to descriptive writing. Four years ago, I was still very flowery, and the dark, magical setting of Dragon Age only encouraged my dreamy, expansive sensibility. I used a lot of adjectives, figurative language, and fragments, and I tended to write big, sweeping descriptions of situations, rather than setting simple scenes. Tbh, I hadn’t really figured out scene-writing yet, at that point. It took me a while to realize how to make scenes do a lot of work in a short amount of time. Notice how I barely enter the scene in that first excerpt. It’s vague. It’s all happening at once. There is not really a specific scene being set in a specific setting at a specific time. I try to avoid that sort of thing now. While I don’t hate my old writing, and I think sometimes I do a nice job of hitting on the right atmosphere, my unwillingness to just enter the scene concretely is a little sophomoric and noncommittal here. Setting scenes is actually hard as hell. In doing this, I was avoiding the hard stuff without even realizing.

Now, I will say that while I am still improving, my writing has become much more concrete and to the point. I use figurative language, but I am much more judicious with my metaphors and similes. I prefer realism, it turns out. I want to describe true things, not ideas. Most of what I describe is there to build setting, whether it be through concrete description of place or a character’s actions in a place. Sometimes I will use my language to evoke a certain kind of atmosphere, but I try not to go overboard. I want my language to be practical, not tricky and overblown. I like strong, complete sentences (with the occasional fragment) and descriptions of specific actions and scenes in real time, rather than fragmented, dreamy language or a style that is overly stream-of-consciousness. I still use Free Indirect Style at times, and I will narrate thought, because I like going into my character’s heads, but I now practice much more stoicism. I do not let my readers know too much directly about what my characters are feeling. I find that this is much more true to what I want to evince with my writing. I now try to imply thought and emotion via what my characters do, what they don’t do, what they say, and what they see. Moving away from Solas, a very “talky” and intellectual character has helped me do this. While I love Solas, writing Joel and Arthur really improved me tenfold, as they tend to speak very little. They are not terribly ponderous in all they decide. They choose their words wisely and let their actions speak most of the time, helping me do the same.

In the past, my focus was almost always on language, ideas, and atmosphere. I wanted to evoke bigness at every turn. Drama, beauty, unfolding abstract ideas and feelings made of synesthesia, using my language to elevate simple feelings and ideas into something epic. But now, and maybe it’s just because I’m getting older or I have less time, idk, but I just want things to be what they are. I want to reveal feelings and themes, not evoke them through force. I want the scenes to speak for themselves. I let the reader do a little more work. I withhold much more. In fact, I rarely write interiority these days. Inner-monologue and emotions come sparingly. One sentence here and there. Never in rambling, abstract, unfurling paragraphs, which The Dead Season is full of. I am always reaching for economy now, and efficiency. It is better for me! Though I do play around still, from time to time, with my language. I will always be a little playful.