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cer-rata · 6 months ago

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I did it, I finished the fic.

Cover by the amazing @nicodrawings

It's 109k and fully complete, welcome to my oc's first cursed, sappy adventure.

"Heart of Gotham"

Fandom: Detective Comics

Rating: T M

Summary:

Conrad Bishop thinks he knows who he is: A nerd, a goof, a coward. But heartbreak comes along to destroy that version of him. As he shatters, an alien ring decides that the depth of his pain has the potential to forge him into a potent Star Sapphire. While grief may be a devastatingly powerful form of love, can he survive on it alone? Maybe not. But it’s what he thinks deserves.

Everyone thinks they know who Damian Wayne is: A prince, a pariah, a hero. The truth is worse. No one thinks he’s easy to love, and he agrees. It’s fine. He doesn’t need it, he’s got duty and a body to spend in service of it until there’s nothing left to hate. But sometimes? Sometimes he wonders if that’s all he can be.

By chance they share the same science class, and--for better or worse--that's all it takes to send them on a path that neither of them would have ever dared to consider.

Love conquers all.

...Maybe

Excerpt:

Damian started changing out of his uniform and Conrad awkwardly looked away. He cleared his throat. “Hey, so, I’ve been thinking…”

“Hmm?” Damian grunted as he unclasped and slid his tunic off.

“Well, you used the ring to save me, right? But you know...the whole bit is that if you want to heal someone you have to…uh. You'd…you'd have to love--"

“Philia.” Damian cut in quickly.

“Did…did you--was that a slur?”

“…No! Philia is the Greek concept of love between friends. That’s what the ring was pulling from.” It was mostly true. It was mostly philia. Mostly.

Conrad considered that for a moment, then beamed. “Oh. Oh! So you admit it? You think we’re friends?”

Damian finished pulling a hoodie on and turned to squint at him. “How are you this stupid.”

“Oh my god you do!”

“If you’re like this for the entire ride back, there is a high likelihood that I will change my--oh come on!” Damian complained fruitlessly as he had to endure yet another hug. “I should have let you bleed out.” He hissed, and Conrad just laughed.

“I love you too, buddy.”

A tip of the hat:

Before I get into anything else, again the cover and reference sheet were done by the amazing @nicodrawings. She's terrific, professional, easy to work with (and I am ANNOYING), and I think the quality speaks for itself. Her art is tremendous and her covers are maybe the highest quality I've seen from an indie artist.

And those colors.

Her commissions are open right now and she's making a fan comic that looks so cool, and she does all this other cool stuff. Check her out, okay?

Concepts, Themes, and Character Focus

The core questions I wanted to ask were:

"Can two broken people ever be good for each other?"

"Can you actually move past the pain of loss?"

"How do you love someone?"

I love Lantern lore, and Star Sapphires specifically. Maybe too much

I was fascinated by a Corps that represented love but was usually fueled by despair and anguish instead, and wielded one of the harder to control colors of the Emotional Spectrum. So I decided to create one from scratch and place them in Earth's most notorious tragedy factory: Gotham City.

Conrad is shamelessly emotional and ruled by his affections, and was like that even before the ring. The only son of a pair of Haitian immigrants, Conrad grew up feeling very loved, and even his parents terrible handling of his attempt to come out wasn't enough to shake that. But his parents never really pushed him, and his easy-going nature meant he didn't develop a lot of self determination. Then he suffers an incredibly traumatizing loss, and suddenly his carefully laid carpet of normalcy and avoidance is torn up to reveal some structural problems underneath.

Damian is emotional and ruled by his affections, and is a little ashamed of it. He also felt loved when he was growing up, but unlike Conrad, much of the love he received was in the form of praise for his success, which had the unfortunate effect of making him seek approval in ways that were often unhelpful, most often to himself. He's tried so hard, and done so much work to be a better person, and he's even accumulated a group of peers who adore him. But he's still lonely, has trouble accepting his own progress, and the guilt he carries making new connections difficult.

Everyone is a couple of years older than they are in canon, which I did to make the content more appropriate, and also so I could play with the ambiguity of those three undocumented years, and hand wave away some of the more...uncharitable parts of canon without having to rewrite everything. This is Damian still on his early Rebirth character track, before the many resets to his character development. He's still harsh and somewhat antisocial, but he's also older, more mellow, and has worked through a couple of things. He's settled enough to allow for some honest introspection.

I didn't initially plan for this to be a love story, but their internal conflicts were complimentary and their deepest wishes slotted together so neatly that the direction felt natural. They cover many of each other's weaknesses and blind spots, while making some of their other hangups worse.

The romance isn't even the critical part really, it's just the way they end up expressing emotional intimacy. They are friends first, and that's what holds everything together. It's all about them showing up for each other in ways that are sometimes difficult, and the fact that they always will, regardless of whether they're in a relationship or not.

It's an awkward, intense, teen relationship, and it's not always a good thing for either of them--even before factoring in cosmic super weapons and secret identities.

Also, there are... a lot of cameos and odd side characters.

#dc comics #dc fic #damian wayne #dc oc #original characters #batfamily #green lantern comics #star sapphire #star sapphire oc #my fics #tkaa au #green lantern #batman #conrad bishop #heart of gotham

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arrolyn1114 · 7 months ago

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Next update for "Why Can't You See What You're Doin' To Me?" Coming soon!

Hey y'all!! First off, I'm so sorry this next update took so long but my life has gotten crazy busy these past few months. This next upload though is actually going to be 2 chapters because as I was writing I realized it was better divided up, you'll see why. Hopefully that will make up for the fact that it's been since like February I think since my last update.

The reason my life has gotten so busy is at the end of July when my lease is up I will be moving in with my other half so I've been consumed with moving related duties. After this next update I may not get the next chapter up until after I am moved and settled. I really appreciate your patience in advance and I love all of my readers, you guys are the best! ❤

I just have to do my final proofread of these 2 chapters and then I hope to have them up on AO3 by the end of this week if not sooner.

Also, as we approach the end of the courtroom battle I plan to wrap this story up and start a brand new document for Elvis and Jane's adventures afterwards. Seems like the best plan to do a whole new story after that point. I can't wait for him to enjoy his world tour and everything else he should have had in real life.

I did some updates to the tag list which is under the cut. I hope I got everyone who wishes to be on it but as always, if any changes are needed please do let me know. Sometimes user tags on here work, sometimes they don't cause Tumblr can be buggy at times which is why I highly recommend subscribing or bookmarking on AO3.

Thanks all!!

@thatbanditqueen, @be-my-ally, @ellie-24, @whositmcwhatsit, @vintageshanny,

@from-memphis-with-love, @xanatenshi, @peskybedtime, @alienelvisobsession, @louisejoy86,

@artlover8992, @windsofthesea, @gayforelvis, @notstefaniepresley,

@lovininapinkcadillac, @dkayfixates, @jaqueline19997, @presleyenterprise,

@crash-and-cure, @literally-just-elvis-fics, @wildhorseinkansas,

@tacozebra051, @lookingforrainbows, @spooky-hazex,

@powerofelvis, @ashtag6887, @myradiaz, @richardslady121,

@elvisrealgf, @genetakovicluvr, @thetaoofzoe, @mydarlingelvis

@j-v-9-2

@mspoisonivey

@aaron57070

@rainyday10-4

@rocknroll50sep

@dream-in-x-dream2

@sasural

@satisfy-the-crave

@velvetelvis

@sillybookmarks

@everythingelvispresley

@elvisgirly

@1dluver13xx

@thedaisymaisy

@amydarcimarie

@p0lksaladannie, @oh-my-front-door, @fallinlovewithurlove,

@shantellescrivener, @i-r-i-n-a-a, @stargirllily19, @laura23elvis,

@meetmeatyourworst, @rachelljeann222, @precious-lil-scoundrel,

@peaceloveelvis, @returntopresley, @tupelomiss, @archival-ep

@pinkcaddyconfessions, @gatheraheart, @rachel-snider19,

@tina2345678, @annapresley8 @deniseinmn, @elvispresleywife,

@elvispresleysslut, @lovemoonsstuff, @sfull12345

@rosarodrigues, @all-hookedup-on-elvis, @queenheartz

@little-laamb, @pixiedustcosmos, @indiatuck, @sabovanhalen, @obsessionisthecure,

@hooked-on-elvis, @aprilbluey @laurenoned

@epthedream69 @underthememphissun @presley72elvis @m-s30 @eapep

@rjmartin11 @dreamingofep

#Elvis presley #elvis #Elvis Presley fanfiction #Elvis fanfic #Elvis x oc #Elvis Presley x oc #why can't you see what you're doin' to me

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ihavethedreamies · 8 months ago

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Strawberry | Juicy Fruit | Chenle

Zhong Chenle - NCT Dream

Rating: M (18+) MDNI

Word Count: ~2.1k

Pairing: Chenle x AFAB!Reader

Genre: Reader-Insert, Smut, Established Relationship, Porn without Plot

!!This is smut…if that much isn't clear you should probably leave now!! MDNI!

Warnings: She/Her Pronouns used, Swearing, Kissing, Dom! Chenle, Sir Kink, Spanking, Fingering, Squirting, Unprotected Sex (Don’t!!)

Summary: Your boyfriend likes strawberries a bit too much...

Author's Note: This series was supposed to be of drabbles, didn't happen.

This is only vaguely based off of Smoothie…I say this because I got the idea for a fruit theme, but past that its unrelated.

PS. Chenle is my bias so this is just me living vicariously through my writing…

-> Series Hub <-

🍉 Mark 🍉

🍇 Renjun 🍇

🍌 Jeno 🍌

🍒 Haechan 🍒

🍑 Jaemin 🍑

🍍 Jisung 🍍

I am cross-posting this on Archive and Wattpad. Please reblog! If you know anyone that would like this or future fics but they aren't on here my name and icon are exactly the same on the other sites. Happy reading!

"Oh, my god, stop!" You slapped Chenle's hand again so he would leave the berries alone. You were trying to make a strawberry cake from scratch, even the sponge would be flavored and pink. Your boyfriend kept eating your ingredients though!

"Just one more~?" He widened his eyes into his best version of a puppy stare, and you almost gave in.

"No!" You hardened your tone more for yourself than at him. He pouted, casting you a pitiful look and you clicked your tongue. If he was really desperate, he knew what to do, but it didn't seem he was that eager to get more strawberries.

"I just like fruit…" He drifted off and you huffed.

"I know, Lele." He watched as you mixed the batter for the cake, eyes glancing back to the fruits every so often.

"If I have some left over you can eat those." You told him, using a rubber spatula to fill the cake pans.

"I still don't understand how Jaemin doesn't like strawberries." He tilted his head, so it rested against his shoulder, elbows resting on the counter where he sat on a stool.

"No one will ever understand anything about Jaemin." You countered and your boyfriend laughed in agreement.

"At least he's not afraid of them." You tossed him a defeated look and he laughed harder. While the sponge baked you made the frosting, Chenle watching in defeat as more and more of the berries disappeared from the container. Finally, you were cutting the last of the ones you needed to decorate the cake, and you had only one left.

"Here." You held the berry up to the side of your head, Chenle had sidled up behind you, resting his chin on your shoulder, arms loose around your middle. You felt his hum of delight from his chest pressed into your back as hip lips wrapped around the strawberry, his mouth brushing the skin of your fingers. Before you could pull your hand back down, his tongue flicked to lick the juice that had stuck there from your cutting.

"Hey! Now I gotta wash my hands again!" You clicked your tongue, bonking him softly on the head with a wooden spoon. He yelped much louder than was necessary and pouted at your side as you washed your hands once again. They were getting dry from the repeated cleansing. You put your boyfriend to dish duty as you got the cake sponges out and let it cool. You cleaned the rest of the kitchen up as much as you could, and you both got done by the time it was time to ice and decorate. He watched quietly (for once) while you finished the cake, eagerly taking the frosting bowl when you were done to eat the remnants. You had offered to get him a spoon, but he refused, just using his finger. Once the final decorative berry was placed on the top you sighed in relief, back a little sore from leaning over the counter like you did. It was simple, but that was the only way you could still make it look good. Chenle helped you rearrange stuff in the fridge to fit the cake in so it could fully set by the time you went to your friend's housewarming that evening. Untying your apron, Chenle came up to with the bowl, swiping the rest of the frosting onto his finger and holding it out for you. You gave him a fake glare, but still took his digit between your lips to lick the pink sweet off his finger. He smiled cockily, pressing down on your tongue and you had to make a choice. Do you bite him or play along? You recognized the look on his face, it had been there since you fed him the strawberry.

"Ow, you bit me!" He pulled his hand back rapidly, flapping it in the air and you giggled, taking the now empty bowl from him to put it in the sink. Trying not to giggle too much, you started to wash the rest of the dishes, feeling him come up behind you. You were expecting a hug and whining request, so you squeaked when one arm wrapped tight around your middle at your ribs. The other came over your chest, his hand pressing against your throat, thumb on your jaw. He held your head in place, mouth so close to your ear you could feel his breath fluttering your hair. He smirked at your instant stiffened posture, his hand at your jaw clenching a bit harder.

"You know that one strawberry really wasn't enough…" His tone was casual, but lower than his normal voice. Your mouth went dry, and you licked your lips, hands stilling. When he didn't do anything else, you shut the water off and dropped the dishes you were holding, then waited for his next move.

"Good girl~" Chenle chuckled, his normal cheerful giggle had lowered about two or three octaves.

"Le-"

"Who?"

"Chenle-!" His hand tightened again, pinky curling even tighter to press against your throat.

"Who?" He reiterated and you didn't reply, swallowing hard. Glancing at the clock you were worried if he did everything he normally did, you wouldn't have time to get ready.

"Please, sir. I need time to get ready-" His hum cut your sentence short, his lips vibrating from the noise as they pressed to the skin between your shoulder and neck. You instinctively, submissively, turned your head to the side to let him have better access.

"Maybe I shouldn't let you go? Then I can have you and the cake for myself…" You shivered as he kissed the skin lightly, his grip on your jaw contrasting with the gentle act. You would be really freaking pissed later if he did that, and you both knew that. Luckily for you, your phone started to ring, and he begrudgingly completely let you go, resting grumpily against the island as you grabbed your device.

"Come early?" You glanced at the clock on the oven again, then back to your boyfriend. He sneered but nodded, going pouty again.

"Yes. I will be there in thirty." You hung up and Chenle shuffled to the couch so he could angrily stare at the TV as if he was actually watching it. When you came out of your room in a cute little dress that looked like a big button up with a belt around the middle, he watched you dance around the kitchen getting the cake in a holder. It wasn't as cold as you would have liked, but it would do.

"Bye, Lele~" You gave him an air kiss as you left and he grumbled to himself, crossing his arms.

When you finally got back later that night, you smelled like booze, but you didn’t look like you had partaken.

"I need to change, this dress smells like chicken." You grumbled. Chenle was still on the couch, as if he hadn't moved at all in the last three hours. He had, but not much. The only difference you noticed was that he had a pillow in his lap he was hugging to his chest, but he was still pouting. When you reached the door to your room , you turned to face him, hand behind your back on the knob.

"I don't have to take this off by myself, right?" Your tone lilted playfully, and you giggled as he shut the TV off and got up so fast you were worried his socked feet would slip on the hard wood floor. He eagerly chased after you as you dashed into your room, squealing in delight when he easily lifted you up as he caught you.

"Ah, Le!" You gasped when he spun you as he lifted, slinging you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. When did he get that strong? He didn't do it very hard, but his hand smacked your butt after he flipped the skirt of your dress up. You squeaked and he huffed a laugh, practically throwing you onto the bed. His hand wraps around the belt of the middle of your dress, yanking you down to the end of the bed by it, the rapidly taking it off. He clatters on the floor as he throws it behind him, fingers undoing the buttons fast. He really wanted to just tear it open, hear the little pieces clack against the floor and wall as they fly off the garment. But he knew after you would not be too pleased with that. When it was all undone, he let the side flop open, revealing your nicest set of black lace lingerie.

"Fuck." Chenle groaned as you smirked yourself. You started to help him get the dress off, but once the first sleeve was off, he tugged on the fabric so hard it flipped you over onto your stomach.

"Chenle!" You tried to scold him as he rapidly removed the dress. To obedient to flip back over and watch, you heard him discard his own clothes, the garments thumping slightly as they hit the floor. You let out another yelp when his hands gripped your hips tight, hauling you back toward the end of the bed. You bring your legs down, so your feet touch the floor, already having an idea what he was doing. Your boyfriend was much more careful with your panties than your other garment, swiftly pulling them down and off. He chuckled when your body shivered as his fingers came to your soaking folds. His skin was cold, especially compared to your hot core. Your breath hitched when he immediately buried two fingers inside your cunt, all the way to the last knuckle. He loved the little mewls and whimpers you let you as he roughly wiggled his fingers, adding a third then pumping them hard against your back wall.

"Sir-" You tried to protest when his fingers left, but his hand came down hard on your ass. Your whine made his cock harden even further, the skin turning red in the shape of his hand.

"You left me hanging for hours, (Y/N)." He spoke derisively, "how many hours, hm?"

"Th-three."

"Then how many do you get?" He asked and you tried to do math quick. He liked to do an even number of spanks on each cheek, but six wasn't enough.

"T-twelve?"

"Hm…okay." His hand came down again on the opposite side and you squeaked.

"T-two." You had to think for a second, hoping your answer was right. Chenle didn't say anything in protest, laying another smack. Each time you let out a yipe, though the slick dripping from your cunt revealed how much you liked it.

"Twelve." You gasped out, legs twitching, the skin of your ass just as red as the strawberries you deprived him of. He wondered how red your cute pussy could get if he smacked it, but he wasn't going to just do it without asking you.

"S-sir, please~" Your request turned into a moan as his cock met your entrance and he slowly eased in. You couldn't see his smirk, but he licked his bottom lip and fucked the last inch of his cock in hard, his hips meeting your still stinging ass. You yelped, fingers digging into the bedding above your head, eyes nearly crossing at the delicious pain, not just from the stretch of his cock but your stinging butt. Chenle leaned forward over your back, chest pressed to your back, his mouth right by your ear. His fingers linked with yours and he nibbled the crest of your ear, letting you adjust some. He huffed, then rolled his hips hard, instantly pulling out nearly all the way then slamming home. Your walls fluttered and he chuckled as his next thrust threw your over the edge, your release coating not just his cock but the skin of his groin as well. He didn't let up as your orgasm rolled through you, continuing to relentlessly fuck his cock into you. He gripped your hands tighter, helping you get some leverage. It was good the bed was beneath you, holding you up, the pleasure wracking through you sapping all your strength. His right hand left yours, curling around and under your stomach, pulling your hips up. This forced you onto your tip toes but changed the angle and his cock got even deeper, the head battering your cervix as he picked up the pace. He loved the squeaks it eked out of you, and your cunt clenching his dick brought him closer to the edge as well. Chenle brought his finger to your clit, rubbing over it so you came again. You tried to milk him to completion as well, but he held back, and once yours had subsided, he pulled out and came all over your butt and lower back. You slumped down, shivering and he admired the sight. He would have that any day over even the most perfect strawberry.

-> Series Hub <-

Master-Master List

NCT Master List

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strawwritesfic · 2 months ago

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Joel x Female!Amputee!Reader: (Don't) Hold Your Breath [Ch. 12]

Summary: You’ve made a lot of monumental mistakes in your life. Cutting your arm off isn’t even at the top of the list. Now you’re about to learn a lot of life lessons at the hands of your savior and her brute of a guardian–and they’re not about to let you learn them the easy way either.

Challenge: "#32 in His Rulebook" by Edible Heart Monster on Lunaescence Archives

Rating/Warnings/Tags: M (post-The Last of Us; excessive swearing; sexual references; violence against children; infected children; references to abortion; references to cannibalism; references to starvation; references to riots; implied domestic abuse; implied grooming; implied sexual relationship between an adult and a minor; death of a parent; violence; gore; blood; gun use; ableism; amputee!Reader; enemies to lovers; not canon compliant)

Pairings/Relationships: Joel/Female!Reader; Tommy/Maria; Reader/Male!OC; Ellie & Reader; Ellie & Joel; Ellie & Maria & Tommy

Tag List: @imaginesfire

Master List (with important note!)

Rule #12: If you can't swim, tell me beforehand. Otherwise I won't notice if you start drowning.

Tommy took the scanners, but he didn’t do anything with them. He just thanked you for the box before he shoved it somewhere out of sight. Ellie didn’t care; Joel must not have either. Neither so much as tired to ask where he was going to leave them. But you hadn’t trekked around for an entire month with an aching arm nearly getting yourself killed—or worse—for nothing. You asked.

He didn’t answer, not really. All he said was, “I just need to figure out how to introduce them to people without having a riot on my hands. Don’t want ‘em thinking their vote didn’t matter.”

Needless to say, this did not reassure you. So what if they thought their vote didn’t matter? It hadn’t, had it? Did Tommy want his people to be safe or dead? You followed him around asking questions for days after your return. It was not as though you had anything else to do with your time. But somehow you must have managed to push even easygoing Tommy too far. He rewarded by letting you accompany Maria around Jackson.

She appreciated your company even less. You couldn’t aim a gun; you couldn’t use a knife; you could barely open a door. In a word, you were useless, and Maria didn’t have the time or inclination to baby you. The gesture might have been refreshing and appreciated, if not for what you ended up doing instead: spending a lot of time with Ellie. Whenever she wasn’t in school, she was with Maria, and Maria took every opportunity to ditch the two of you and let Ellie babysit.

One such afternoon, most of Jackson was empty. Winter would soon be drawing to an end, but the nights weren’t getting any warmer, and much of the firewood stock had been depleted. Every able-bodied villager not on guard duty left the walls to help gather more. Inside remained only adults ready to shoot at the first sign of danger, the children deemed too small to fell a tree, and you. No one would trust you with an ax.

Since the day was nice despite the chilly air blowing in from the north, Ellie insisted on staying outside. She didn’t have school—both of her teachers were out with the rest—so you got the “honor” of hanging out with her all morning, listening to her constant chatter about some friend of hers that got bit and where she’d first learned to ride a horse.

“Uh-huh…Uh-huh…Uhhhh-huh,” you found yourself muttering on repeat as the sun dipped in the sky. Where the fuck was everyone? Sitting in huffy silence in the woods would have been preferable to this torture.

“Are you even listening?”

“Uh…huh.”

Something popped loudly against the wall you leaned against. You sat up with a high-pitched “shit” to see Ellie sitting in front of you, her brow furrowed. “You know, losing an arm doesn’t make you deaf, bitch.”

“I told you not to call me that,” you said with a scowl.

Her eyebrows lifted. “If it’s the only way to get your attention, I’m gonna call you bitch.”

Clearly, Ellie was not in the mood to bicker. Or maybe she as and you weren’t. The cold seemed to aggravate your ghost limb. You sighed and tugged your legs closer to your chest. As you did, you took another look at your hand. If there was one positive thing you could say about just about anything, it was that the scarring from your burns could have been worse. At least it hadn’t ruined that hand, too.

“What the fuck did you just throw at me anyway?” you asked.

Ellie answered by throwing another. A tiny spark shot up from where whatever it was hit the wall. “It’s a snapper,” she explained. “Some kind of old-timey firework. Doesn’t do jack shit, though. I’m seeing if they’d make a good distraction.”

“Why do you need a fucking distraction? Can’t you just shoot whoever’s attacking you in the head?”

“If you’d been listening to me earlier, you’d know I’m looking into methods that don’t involve shooting things for, you know, when people can’t shoot.”

“I didn’t ask for your help, you little shit.”

Ellie blinked at you, then threw a second snapper at your face. It sailed by so close to your cheek that you felt the paper brush your chin there.

“Fuck!”

“Don’t be such a baby,” she said, rolling her eyes and tossing four more of the tiny white things at the wall behind your head. “Besides, I wasn’t talking about you specifically. Don’t take everything so fucking personally. God.”

“Who else needs shitty fireworks to take out infected, jackass?” you demanded. That only earned you another roll of the eyes. If you hadn’t been so exhausted from the morning’s chores, you might have attempted to backhand her. But Ellie, as always, knew she was safe.

“As I was saying,” she said as she lifted her eyebrows, practically begging you to interrupt, “we’re not gonna have bullets forever. It’s not like there are people making them anymore. The military’s practically gone, after all. Eventually, we’re all gonna be stuck without firearms. I figure, why sit around on our asses ‘till we’re forced to adapt?”

She had a point not that you were in any mood to admit it. “So I guess I’m just lucky enough to be your guinea pig?”

A grin flashed across her face. “And lucky enough that you’ll have an edge on everyone else when guns become useless.”

“Lucky me,” you muttered. Then you gestured at her small pile of snappers with your chin. “Where’d you pick those up, anyway? Tommy got those in storage too?”

“I dunno,” she said. “Maybe. But I snagged these on the way back here. They were in a garage. Joel says fireworks came in bigger varieties though. Maybe I can find some of those, or I can make them or—”

Ellie broke off, suddenly alert and looking at something to your left. Heavy footsteps echoed from the nearby doorway. You tensed, though you didn’t bother to look at who was making their way toward you. If it was anyone other than a member of Ellie’s family unit, you’d need to take off without warning. You wouldn’t put it past one of the other Jackson citizens to try offing you while your shepherds were away. A moment later, Ellie’s genuine smile answered your question.

“Done with the lumberjack business already?” she asked.

“I got some time off,” Joel answered. When you finally deigned to look up at him, you saw that he was carrying his heavy pack normally reserved for scavenging trips.

Ellie must have noticed that, too, because she perked up considerably. “Is Tommy sending us out?”

He shook his head as he adjusted the well-worn straps. “Nah. I just got a few hours off to do something I’ve been meanin’ to do for a bit. Might need some supplies if we run into anything, but I don’t think we will.”

“We? I get to come?”

“You’re the whole point, baby girl.”

Joel waved his arm in the direction of the closest exit. Ellie hastily crammed her remaining snappers into her pack, shoved one arm into a strip, and jumped to her feet. When Joel started to walk away, she followed.

“Field trip,” she said. “Cool.”

You watched them leave, relieved. With Ellie gone, you might be able to sneak in a nap before dinner. Or even sleep through dinner, depending on how late the two of them stayed out. That was one day where your desire for sleep was definitely greater than your desire for watery, bland meat and whatever canned vegetables Jackson still had left. Maria was busy on patrol and likely wouldn’t care to find you and ask you to better yourself.

These pleasant plans were rudely interrupted by Joel coming to a stop so suddenly that Ellie nearly walked straight into him. She took a wide step backward. Then he turned and stomped back toward you.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Sitting,” you answered.

“Wrong answer. Get off your ass and come along.”

“Why do I have to go on your fucking errands?”

“You think anyone is keen on leaving you here alone?”

“What, because I’ll run off?” you demanded. “I came back with you two, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, maybe that’s the problem.”

Joel watched you for a long moment before thrusting his hand out in your direction. All you did in return was scowl. You were sore enough that the help was tempting, but not quite tempting enough. He didn’t really need to know how drained you felt after a morning spent following Ellie around and scrapping the decades-old graffiti off the inner walls. You shoved his hand away and got to your feet yourself. After another thirty seconds of staring, Joel rolled his eyes and marched off again.

You followed, but you didn’t have to be happy or quick about it. Both Joel and Ellie made it to the gates before you caught up. Once you did, one of the guards on the wall nodded. If you expected an explanation once your little group got outside, you were sorely disappointed. Joel led the way through the naked trees in silence, and for once Ellie didn’t seem to feel the need to fill that silence with chatter. At first, her uncharacteristic lack of yammering made you nervous, but then you remembered that she hadn’t got to leave the settlement since getting back three and a half weeks ago either. Stir-crazy was an emotion you could sympathize with.

Whatever was up with Joel, though, you couldn’t say. After he’d finished icing your hand, he’d gone back and reheated your coffee. As much as you’d wanted to throw it back in his face, it was coffee and you’d had to accept it and offer him a cup for “being nice.” Since returning to Jackson, you hadn’t seen him much outside of when he came to relieve Ellie from guard duty, but when you did see him, things were different. He wasn’t as much of an asshole, and somehow you didn’t like it. Worse was Ellie, who had taken up smirking on the occasions she found you and Joel together. You didn’t understand the smirk, but you did understand that it made you want to hit her even more than you usually did.

It was late afternoon by the time he stopped in a wide clearing. No movement. No sound. Not a one of the firewood-seekers were around.

“Uh…is this it?” Ellie asked.

“Yep,” said Joel. He watched her expectantly. What he was expecting, you had no idea. There was literally nothing there except a mostly-thawed pond. Ellie let out a gasp when she noticed this feature herself.

“Wait a minute,” she said, quickly backing away. “You’re not—You wouldn’t—”

“It’s time, baby girl.”

“Fuck no.”

“You’ve got to learn some time.”

“Not today.”

She was nearly to the trees; Joel started to go after her, slowly, with one hand outstretched. “It’s not that deep.”

“I don’t care. I’m not getting in that. I’m not going to—” While Ellie was busy protesting, Joel got close enough to snatch her. Ellie shrieked as he walked back toward the pond. “Joel! No! I said fucking no, Joel!”

“Sorry, kid,” Joel said in a tone that indicated he was really more amused than repentant. Though she continued to scream obscenities, he let her go. She hit the shallows with an impressive splash.

“Joel!” Ellie howled.

“What, you the Wicked Witch of the West now?” he asked as she glared up at him from the water. “You melt in water? You’ve never acted this way before.”

“Because getting in the water always had a point! And I had a raft! You want me to fucking…to fucking learn how to swim!”

He spread his arms out in front of him. “Ya caught me. Anyway, now that you’re all wet, you might as well get started.”

You’d never seen Ellie look quite as pissed off at someone other than you before. To his credit, Joel didn’t seem the slightest bit intimidated, or so you thought until you remembered that Ellie was a teenager and shouldn’t have been intimidating to anyone. Fuck, you were getting soft. Probably because the people that kept insisting on keeping an eye on you also insisted on constant displays of familial bonding while you were present.

Scowling, Ellie stood, peeled off her pack, and dumped it on the shore. A ghost of a smile tugged at Joel’s lips as he set his own pack next to it. She looked somewhat surprised when he waded past her into a deeper section of pond.

“I’m not gonna let you drown, baby girl,” he said. “We’re just going to do a few strokes.”

Suddenly her anger turned to nervousness so palpable even you could see it. “I, uh…”

“Come on. What’s going to happen if something happens to me? You want to get stuck out in the middle of a lake? Or fall off a building and drown? There’s not always going to be someone around to carry you.”

“I don’t want carried,” she muttered.

“Then do you want to die?”

“No. I…” She trailed away and shot an embarrassed look at you. Joel noticed this. He laughed.

“Oh, don’t worry. [Name] has to learn, too.”

“What?” you barked. Joel chuckled harder. “Oh, I don’t fucking think so. I took swim lessons decades ago.”

Joel nodded as though he agreed with your logic—then: “You tried swimming now that you only have one arm?”

You and Ellie froze at the exact same time for entirely different reasons: You because fuck you hadn’t thought of that; Ellie because now she had a rival she had a pretty good chance of winning against.

“You brought me here to make fun of me,” you said.

He shrugged. “I brought you here to make Ellie feel more comfortable.”

“Same thing.”

“If you want to look at it that way. ” He shrugged again before pointing toward where Ellie stood. “Now get going.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? That water will be freezing. I’m not getting in in my clothes.”

“You want to go back and get your swimsuit?” Joel asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You fall in the water during a fight—or, I don’t know, just walking, you’re so graceful—you don’t get to pick what temperature it is or what you’re wearing.”

He had a point. Why did everyone keep having those today? You were losing ground every which way, and your hope for a nap was fading quickly into the distance. Joel rolled his eyes and ran a hand down his face before he looked for a moment at both you and Ellie in turn.

“You need to learn this. If you start drowning in the middle of things, no one is going to notice.” Joel kept his eyes on you the longest. Anger broiled just underneath your skin. It would take you the longest to learn, you knew. Ellie didn’t have to retrain herself to swim a different way.

“We do this here,” Joel continued, “I’m not going to let either of you drown. And we’ll go slow. Real slow.”

Ellie watched carefully for your reaction. It was thus: You rolled your eyes massively and dumped your coat onto the dry ground. Without saying a word, you tramped over to where she stood, took a massive, shuddering breath, and stepped into the water. It soaked you up to your hips. You’d been absolutely right before, too. The pond was freezing. As you shivered beside her, Ellie smirked and pushed deeper in.

“I’ll go first,” she said. “So you can acclimate.”

To get a head start, more like. Your teeth were chattering too hard to retort. But, hey. Things would warm up eventually, wouldn’t they? And participating beat the shit out of sitting around all day watching Joel and Ellie have fun.

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snips2112 · 2 months ago

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That Familiar, Yet Unfamiliar Feeling - Part 16 & Epilogue

Summary: Lost and adrift after the events of Order 66, Ahsoka and Rex struggle to find their place in this new reality. Both need to deal with the loss in their own way; as they help each other in this shared struggle, their relationship blossoms into something neither expected. As the threat of the Empire grows, can such a tentative, new connection be sustained? Or will they be torn apart by their duty to fight?

Fandom: The Clone Wars

Pairing: Rexsoka

Rating: M

Chapter 16 Word Count: ~7,000

Epilogue Word Count: ~700

Ahhh the fic is finally finished!! Thank you to all my readers for all your love and support! This fic was a major labor of love, and I am so excited to finally share the finished product with you all.

On a related note, I had originally planned to do a sequel to this fic... if this is something people would actually be interested in reading, please let me know!

Thank you everyone for all the love and support! This has been quite the journey <3

#star wars #my writing #fanfic #fanfiction #the clone wars #captain rex #rexsoka #star wars ahsoka #ahsoka #ahsoka tano #tcw fanfiction #tcw #star wars tcw #finished #done and dusted

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cosmxc-ars3hol3 · 6 months ago

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Oh, ashes, ashes, Dust to dust

Title - Oh, ashes, ashes, Dust to dust

Rating - General Audiences

Archive Warning - No Archive Warnings Apply

Category - M/M

Fandom - Keeper of the Lost Cities - Shannon Messenger

Relationship - Councillor Bronte/Fintan Pyren

Characters - Fintan Pyren, Councillor Bronte

Additional Tags - Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 03: Everblaze (Keeper of the Lost Cities)

Summary - ‘After Fintan burnt Oblivimyre down during his healing, he sneaks his way into Bronte’s Castle in Eternalia so he has somewhere to stay. Bronte decides to help him stay hidden/keep people thinking he’s dead.’

Chapter 2 time!!!

The punch knocked Fintan off his feet, landing with his back against the hardwood flooring of Bronte's lounge room. ‘Why are you here?’ Bronte demands, ‘How are you not dead?’ Fintan takes a moment before responding, ‘I had nowhere else to go. As for how I'm not dead? Maybe I will tell you, but not today.’ ‘not enough,’ ‘Well then, what can I do to make it enough, Bronte?’ begged Fintan.

Bronte took this as an opportunity to take a deep breath and look over the scene of his lounge room and, on a larger scale, his castle. His bodyguards were downstairs; they couldn't hear them. Bronte made sure when his castle was built that upstairs was soundproof. Fintan guaranteed that they couldn't tell he was there. Hell! They probably walked right past him while they were searching the house. They were free of interruptions. He then chose to look around the room, leaving Fintan in suspense, waiting for his answer. He looks at Fintan, nose bloody from where Bronte had punched him; he could feel the blood on his fist. not a lot of it, but enough to be noticeable. Bronte took another deep breath through his nose, taking in the ashy smell of smoke from the fire Fintan had set, one that Bronte and everyone else had just gotten out of, everyone but Kenric. Bronte considered holding hope that he was alive, but he knew it was foolish. Fintan was only alive because he knew a way out. Kenric didn't.

‘I need to sleep; my head is still spinning after the healing.’ ‘Your head is spinning? How do you think I feel, Fintan!’ Bronte started to yell, ‘You KILLED a councillor! I thought you were DEAD! I thought you had DIED!’ His voice went small. ‘I'm sorry, Bronte, really I am,’ he said, sounding genuine.

Bronte looked at him. Fintan was standing there, his eyes displaying a diverse mix of emotions; sadness, grief, and fear were the first he saw, but he could also see, albeit a smaller level of tenderness and affection was also present. Did he really care that much about Bronte? Surely not…

‘It was the only way I could get out without being arrested again.' Fintan started to explain ‘Then why on EARTH did you come here?’ Bronte was starting to become confused again. ‘I knew you wouldn’t arrest me’ Fintan reassured ‘How did you know I wouldn't?’ Bronte questioned, but he felt like he already knew the answer. ‘I know you’ he said tenderly.

Was there something there? Or was Bronte just assuming too much about his old friend. Was he picking up something that wasn't there? He finally could tell what he felt.

‘My duty is to the council first, personal life will always. come. second.’ Bronte said, his voice cracking ‘you should know this’ ‘but it’s me, Bronte,’ he said softly I know. that's why i won't arrest you’ he reassured ‘i won't tell anyone you’re alive. I just need you to promise me you wont go doing anything too stupid.’ ‘I wouldn't’ Fintan reassured, although that response wasn’t what Bronte wanted from him ‘You did. That's how we got here.’ he reminded him gently, a reminder to what Fintan has done, what he has risked for what he perceived to be the ‘right’ thing. What Bronte has done for what he knows is right. ‘Promise me, Fintan. Promise me you wont do anything to stupid. Promise me you wont actually die, i cant lose you again, my love,’ Bronte pleaded with Fintan, not realising at first what had slipped off his lips. ‘i promise, i wont do anything stupid, darling.’ responded Fintan, with an amused but reassuring smirk. Bronte could feel a warm flush travelling to his face, betraying his reaction past his usually cold facade.

Bronte, said after he cleared his throat ‘did you get hurt by the everblaze?’ ‘i got a few burns, nothing to worry about though, if you want to sleep, i can take care of them myself.’ ‘if youre so sure? don’t feel bad if you have to wake me up,’

Bronte and Fintan lock eyes for a moment before Fintan looks away, about to walk off before having to ask - ‘where’s the bathroom and first aid kit?’ ‘just down the hall and to the left, and all the elixirs and other first aid items are all labeled.’ he responded ‘thanks, good night Bronte’ Fintan said, ending the conversation.

Bronte wished he had used a nickname for him again, but he knew that with his topic change, he had made it too awkward with his reaction. he felt bad about that. but he still walked to his room, planning on sleeping off the embarrassment caused by his accident of calling Fintan ‘my love’

Fintan had found his way over to Bronte’s bathroom, not shutting the door. he didnt need to, Bronte’s asleep. he took off his fire-ruined shirt, back to the mirror, looking behind his shoulder.

a massive burn covers majority of his back and parts of his arms. he could feel similar burns to his arms covering his legs. Fintan reasoned that his back was the worst because his clothes must’ve caught fire slightly and started to burn his back. now that he was aware of his injuries, adrenaline worn off, made it hard for him to try to treat the extensive burns covering his back and arms. every time he tried to reach back and put some of the burn cream he found in Bronte’s massive first aid kit, it hurt to try and reach his back, a few tears slipping out, silent at first but then growing to pained sobs. at first, he tried to keep his crying quiet, not wanting Bronte to hear him, but as he kept trying, the pain would get worse and worse.

Bronte never really fell asleep, stuck thinking about everything that happened in past few hours. Fintan’s healing, Kenric dying, thinking Fintan died, Fintan showing up in his house, realising that he might like Fintan. he cant though, hes a councillor. then again, councillors arent meant to harbour fugitives and thats what hes doing. thats what Fintan is. but he cant step down, hes a councillor, a pillar of example, what people should aim to be like. its all a facade. he just hopes the cracks dont show. if he steps down now, there would be repercussions. when youve served as long as he has, watched so much happen, to the many past and current councillors, to the elven population, and society, finally showing its cracks. hopefully that doesn’t happen with him. he cant afford to be found in cahoots with a leader to a rebellion, trying to bring down what he has been fighting for, for millennia. no one can afford to have to elect multiple councillors right now, and there is no guarantee that they will do what is right for the world.

his train of thought is disrupted when he hears gentle cries coming from another room. it has to be Fintan, unless he has another visitor.

Bronte rises from his bed, leaving his room and going down the hall, stopping right beside the open bathroom door. his heart saddens at what he sees. Fintan sitting on the floor, attempting to treat his burns. even worse, the extent of his injuries was underplayed by him, sending Bronte off to bed, making him deal with them on his own.

Fintan’s back is covered in burns, probably second or even third degree, his arms up at the shoulders are covered in the same burns and further down the limb, the burns look less serious but theyre still there.

Bronte stood silently for a moment, taking in the sight of Fintan's pain. Without a word, he stepped into the bathroom, kneeling beside him. "Let me help," he said softly, reaching for the burn cream and gently applying it to Fintan's injuries. "You shouldn't have to endure this alone."

#kotlc #fintan pyren #keeper of the lost cities #kotlc fintan #koltc #keeper of the lost cites fan fiction #fanfic #writing #kotlc fanfic #fintante #councillor bronte #cursesAU

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fandomfluffandfuck · 2 years ago

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Please do the Chris Evans pottery fic! I legit have always thought about for years! Like him taking a night class or a private class for anxiety or hobby (that Scott guilted him to take) so he doesn’t get recognized and the reader (please preferably male) vaguely knows who he is and doesn’t care and teaches him and he falls in love with reader. Like a slow burn. Bro please I’m on my knees begging 🙏 your writing is god tier for Chris fics

related to this

First and foremost I have to say, goddamn, you really went back into the archives to find that post 💀💀 don't get me wrong, I appreciate the hell out of you for that but, also, oof, have I already been on Tumblr for 3 fucking years!?

What? When?

Second, I actually never thought too much about that idea haha. I just couldn't get past the idea of Chris using his hands in that way 🥴 because look, I'm much more of a sculptor than a potter, but it has never been lost on me (a) how much skill it takes to throw on the wheel, and (b) how fucking hot it can look lmao

So, because I never thought too deep about the idea beyond the look, I have to say That's A 👏🏻 Top 👏🏻 Notch 👏🏻 Idea 👏🏻

I love that idea, like:

Chris rolls up to a night pottery class with a baseball cap pulled down real low, trying not to be noticed, squeezing his shoulders in to be less big and noticeable.

You notice him though--he looks a little funny, trying so hard not to stand out and obviously not realizing that a long sleeve, chunky cardigan is 100% the wrong thing to wear when you're about to be playing with clay. But, you don't care about him being Mr. Movie Star (or dressed badly for this activity lol) because, obviously, if he's here for a class, he wants to learn

(Later you'll learn that Scott was the one to push him into it, telling him, lovingly, to quit just talking about beginning to work with his hands and actually Do It)

and so, he's gonna learn.

You are the teacher though, so... it's your duty to keep the secret that Captain America is in their midst.

(But that won't keep you from teasing him subtlety by asking him if he'd perhaps like a blue or red or clear glaze)

Chris might not pick up the skill of throwing as quickly as some of the others (mostly because he's never messed with clay before while many of the other students have even if it was years ago in high school or college or wherever), but he's dedicated.

He puts his all into learning throwing.

You learn quickly, instructing Chris, that he has this tendency to squeeze a little too hard and over-correct the clay. The strength he's got comes in handy with wedging clay and assisting in reconstructing the electric kilns by putting in the heavy shelves, but, when on the wheel, it's not about how hard you can press the clay, how hard you can squeeze it, or anything like that (unless you're working on huge, HUGE projects with massive amounts of clay... but, these students are not there yet). It's about letting your hands glide over the clay, it's encouraging the clay to stretch and compress delicately.

Pottery very much more finesse than force.

And you tell him that a lot in the beginning, "relax, for now, don't try to control it too much. Try to let go and just feel. Keep your elbows anchored in your hips and thighs, but, otherwise, stay loose and relaxed. Breath out. Sink into it, y’know? Relax."

Chris laughs, looking up at you from the little mound of clay he's been centering on his wheel head, "I didn't know this would be so... spiritual? I mean, shit, this feels like therapy."

"Ha," you say, "just be glad it's therapy and not Ghost."

Chris chuckles, "are those my only two options?"

"Right now, rookie? Yes." You point back at his unattended and still spinning wheel, "now, please put your nose back to the grindstone before I'm forced to saddle up behind you. I don't need to be shot in the streets before I get hands-on with my teaching"

You swear, under that cap and beard, Chris blushes. But. He also gets back to work, so... you can't be sure you're not just seeing things 👀

There are a lot of little moments like that throughout the class. Flirting. Maybe. Maybe not. Chris might just be that charming. You can't be too sure.

It's very charming to watch Chris pick up his wobbly creations after they've been put through the bisque kiln and laugh at their unstable bumps and lumps as he tries to set them flat on the table. Plus, when he sands his pieces, he murmurs to himself, talking about all the silly mistakes he finds. Nail marks. Dips. Bulges. Extra bits of clay he missed when trimming. You swear you hear him call himself a "meatball" once...

That is a challenge to not laugh at, but, you don't because you don't want him to know you're paying such close attention to him. (You can't have favorite students after all 😘)

And later, it's very sweet to watch him admire his first glazed pieces. He's very gentle with them, running his fingers back and forth, back and forth, over the smooth glaze. He seems to enjoy the smooth sensation.

Also, listen, I have no proof but I feel like Chris is gonna be the type of potter that gets Really Messy. Like, clay and slip all over his hands, of course, but also all up his forearms and flecks of it on his face and in his hair. His poor apron and shoes.

Also, I think Chris would be the type of potter that wipes their hands on their thighs over their apron 😮‍💨

Chris takes one class then another and another. He's getting much, much better.

But, he still looks like he's watching you perform magic when you quickly throw a vace or pie platter for a demonstration. It's really endearing. You'd love to see more of his face while watching you work, but, no matter how good you are at pottery, you can't do it without looking. Not yet... maybe someday, if you keep practicing.

And eventually, I'd like to think that you exchange numbers. Chris no longer takes your class and so it's fair game.

He comes over to your place and you cook a meal together because you already know each other well enough. So, you skip the more public dates that are better for strangers.

Chris seems mystified by the fact that ALL your plates, bowls, mugs, etc. are things you've made. Thrown on the pottery wheel. He just thinks it's very cool and personal. Also, he swears because of taking your class that he can't look at a factory-made plate or bowl or mug the same. They look so plain and lifeless now. In return, you tease that you'd offer to make him a set for his own home as a present (maybe for his birthday or Christmas) but, you're gonna insist that he at least try to make a set himself first.

And, hey, if he needs more encouragement maybe that Ghost option could come true...

Sorry, this is so short but I just had to get some real quick thoughts out between study sessions lol

Thank you so much for bringing this up again and thank you for reading!!

#asks #fandomfluffandfuck #chris evans #x reader #chris evans x reader #chris evans x male reader #chris evans x gender neutral reader #chris evans x you #rpf

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junemermaid · 9 months ago

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writer interview

I was tagged by @vaynglories, @lynne-monstr and @la-muerta all at one point or another. Thank you all kindly, sorry it took me so long! 💗

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

120 unique works. I have two double entries from when the old Yuletide archive was imported to AO3, so the total on my author page is 122. It's missing any fic I wrote before 2005 but honestly I'm fine with those being lost in the mists of the internet. If you know, you know.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

1,004,161.

I didn't actually wait to do this meme until I passed the one million words mark, but I also kinda did.

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

bodies full of untold stories (malec, E, Shadowhunters) / 1,343

an act of faith against the night (malec, T, Shadowhunters) / 1,037

House of Ash and Salt (dorian x bull, M, DA:I) / 995

Walkers of the Winding Path (malec, E, Shadowhunters) / 933

Talking With Strangers (malec, E, Shadowhunters) / 930

4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I used to and it's my one continuing regret that I haven't been able to catch up with my inbox! The greatest reason why I currently seldom reply to comments is that I have such a backlog. The other reason is that I will either answer comments or write more fic, and I'm sure everyone rather that I do the latter. Still, I miss the conversation around fic that replying to comments often generated.

I mean: I need more writing friends and goddamn, please talk to me because I feel detached from fandom and it's the worst thing.

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

Probably to make the saints attend them long (malec, T, SH) which ends with extremely heavily implied MCD.

I tend to write hopeful to bittersweet endings, so this was a rarity for me.

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

Define happy ending? I do have one, all souls sheltered, (dorian x bull, T, DA:I) which IS the soft epilogue I wanted those two characters to have after all their toils and troubles.

These two questions mostly tell me that most of my endings don't fit well on the happy to sad scale. I tend to leave characters at points where they can look forward to the future and any acute crises are over, but I really wish "happy for now" or "a happy middle" would stick as ending descriptions because that's where I live.

7. Do you write crossovers?

I write fusions? Not traditional crossovers but I have a very niche fic thing where I take Alec and Magnus and stick them into the worlds of videogames I love. To wit, the Witcher (Walkers of the Winding Path) and Final Fantasy X (Servant of the Spiral).

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yep. Didn't much care for it.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I do! I've written my share of PWP but more typically the process goes something like this:

I find a kink/trope/sex situation I want to try writing

the fic grows copious amounts of plot/worldbuilding/interpersonal drama (exhibit A: the tentacle porn that came with 3,000 words of, uh, creature logistics so I could have tentacles)

I spend two years working on bullet point two before the characters ever get naked in each other's company

My smut fic tends to the tender/longing/emotional, though. I use sex mostly as a vehicle for character exploration or to drive the drama of a story, so most of my sex scenes pull double duty to also move the overall story forward.

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge. I'm a pretty niche writer in most of my fandoms, I don't think you would make either much fandom fame or big bucks with my writing.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes! to make the saints attend them long is translated into Italian.

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No. I'm a slow writer and I have to hew out writing time from the bedrock of my RL, so it wouldn't be very conducive to sharing a creative project, even though the basic idea appeals to me.

13. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

I was gonna make a joke about being asked to rate my children, but tbh I would rather not refer to fictional characters by any family term. However! I have changing obsessions and there's always some ship or canon that is eating up my brain at any given time, but I don't really get over ships. The details of canons fade with time but characters live forever in my heart.

Back in the mists of time, Ichigo and Rukia changed who I was as a person. (Then I added in Renji and It Got Better.) I adore Alec and Magnus but the fandom was categorically A Lot. Same with Dorian and Bull. Josephine and Cassandra were a total crack ship in the sense that there's no canon but I still love the idea of an f/f lady/champion pairing.

And right now I have two competing wuxia ot3s vying from my attention so. This is not a question I can answer.

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

My general fic writing philosophy is "whatever you can, whenever you can". I've made my peace with the fact that sometimes I'll start a thing and post a bit and then it simply won't get finished. Fic is free and no one has to click on a WIP (much as I love those people who will!)

So, unfortunately there's a few old WIPs on my ao3 that I don't think will ever get wrapped. The older the fic, the less likely it is. I keep them up as testament to the process, I suppose, or in case anyone likes the idea enough to read whatever I managed of it.

15. What are your writing strengths?

Putting canon under a lens until I have a mental Wall of Crazy with ten thousand interconnecting red strings and obscure notes, and then wringing story out of elements in the text that might not seem to connect on the surface.

I know sometimes you have to just wholesale go "this makes zero sense" and drop a bit of canon, but what I enjoy is taking bits and pieces and adapting them to fic. My current project is writing all the Mu Nihuang POV she really kind of doesn't get in Nirvana in Fire itself, and I am having a blast.

Also: character voice, action scenes, evocative description, setting up an emotional punch and taking you out with it 2,000 words later

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

I'm slow, picky, and obsessive. I have to be In A Mood before I can put words to paper (I'm trying to combat this by becoming more of a garbage goblin about my first drafts. All words are good words! Hissss!) I'm bad at humour unless I'm accidentally funny.

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

It can be used to good effect but it's best used sparingly. I would generally always prefer that plot-relevant or important dialogue were simply, "This is the murder weapon," she said in French. Don't withhold information or emotional impact for the sake of showing off.

And oh god, never, ever put dialogue through MTL and expect it to come out right. If you absolutely need dialogue in a foreign language, consult an actual person that speaks it.

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Very technically, ElfQuest. For actual published fic, Rurouni Kenshin.

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

Mysterious Lotus Casebook tickles my brain but I don't yet quite know what I want to write about! I have enough trouble herding the rowdy cats that are my NiF ideas right now.

20. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Always the one I'm working on. So much of the joy of fic is bound up in the good creative rush of making it happen. Just as so much of the woe of fic is in the fucking toil of making it happen.

Anyway! Flowers in Dreamland Weather (jingsuhuang, E, Nirvana in Fire) got me out of a slump and gave me new characters and relationships to rotate in my head, and I love it for that.

Talking With Strangers (malec, E, Shadowhunters) actually got finished in a satisfying way, and I love it for that.

Maybe those are my current answers.

I will no-pressure tag — @theotherjax, @electricshoebox, @faejilly, @sinni-ok-sessi, @ladymatt, and anyone that still wants to do this! I've seen this doing the rounds, so if you haven't yet, please feel free to blame me for enabling you!

#meme me #june does a meme #june answers #june rambles #my fanfic #I've forgotten all my fic tags #the writing life #writing is the best hobby #writing is the worst hobby

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ashyronfire · 11 months ago

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Consequences || Chapter 06: Memories Coursing Through My Veins

Title: 06 - Memories Coursing Through My Veins Rating: M Characters: Grimm, The Pale King Warnings: Disturbing Content, Horror, Gore, Unreliable Narrator, Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Read On Ao3: Beginning || Current Chapter

Summary:

He was silent for too long. Those antennae curled around and angled toward him in interest. “You’ve scratches on your face, stranger.” She held one hand out toward him. “I run a shop nearby with my husband. Come. I’ll help you get cleaned up.”

Author’s Notes: I'm trying to remember if I've ever written Iselda or Cornifer before and I don't think I have, or if I have it was like one or two lines here or there. :sippy:

CHAPTER 06: MEMORIES COURSING THROUGH MY VEINS

There was an eerie chill in the air as the Pale King stared at the tent flap where Grimm departed. From behind it, he could faintly hear accordion music, until that too winked out. There were two beasts in front of the tents, and from a neighboring one, the wyrm could faintly hear the whispering of a female voice. Her words were lost to distance, but did it matter, really? None of them were real. Or, if they still were, it was only a matter of time until the musician playing the song, until the voice in the distance, until the two figures resting curled up together as companions, winked out into nothing.

Flames faded out and left behind ashes. Empty. Hollow. Unfeeling.

Ashes, ashes, ashes.

He brought his upper set of hands up to his face and raked his claws down further, until shell tore beneath them. Something oozed. Cloying sweetness knotted at the back of his throat, strangling breath, but when he looked at the curving chitin, there was no tell-tale orange of infection, no lingering warmth staining ivory with sunlight. Just faintly amber-tinged, clear fluid – hemolymph, then.

Shadows cast on the fabric before him. They stretched and tangled, unnatural forms; one was Grimm’s silhouette until it was not anymore, or perhaps it still was – something formless, something large, something with wings and then total, complete darkness, the scarlet flame extinguished for the night… or for his benefit. A showman that one would always be, after all.

“Do you” —the voice caught the Pale King so off-guard that he nearly lost his balance on the spin to locate the speaker— “intend to wait for him all night? Our Troupe Master rises with the morning sun, but we see little of him once night envelops Dirtmouth.”

She was a tall bug, the one who approached, her antennae twisted back behind her head and twitching at the very tips in interest. She reminded him, strikingly, of one of the Five –

— white armor, stained in infectious orange hemolymph as she was slain upholding her charge to protect his Root; they shared in common a fierce, unwavering love for her, and he knew beyond all shadow of doubt that if nothing else, she would lay down her life not out of duty but out of devotion —

– but she could not have been. Far too much time had passed. Hallownest may yet have stood eternal, but those who would remember Dryya could be counted on one hand, and the thought tore at his heart. She would have killed him, too, if she thought that he meant their Root a threat, and for that, he’d trusted her the most of his knights. The others were loyal to him beyond a shadow of doubt, would follow his instructions unto ruin if need be, but not she. No, Dryya’s loyalty was to Hallownest’s Queen and so was his own.

She was not Dryya. Dryya was long dead, and she’d died to do what she’d always promised.

Scratches on his face were all that she commented on. Civility was not dead, it seemed. The Pale King followed her, a ghost drawn to the living, each step withering the tiny wisps of grass. She peeked at him periodically as she led the way through the ailing village, disturbingly quiet. His memories of Dirtmouth were poor, having only visited once or twice, but he seemed to recall it being more lively than this, even in the evening hours. Time had stolen the travelers who would come to the town to visit the kingdom below; all that visited now were grave robbers, come to ogle the decaying corpse.

There were so few bugs left standing about. There were so few candles burning in the glass panes, in windows barred shut as though to keep out burglars – or something more sinister.

The stag station was illuminated. The second vessel had done that, he knew. It’d been an avid user of the stags.

There was another building lit, and an elderly bug sitting on a bench beneath a particularly large streetlight. He was looking at one of Grimm’s posters, expression unreadable, and the sight sent a pang of concern through him that he could not suppress.

“Do not trust the Troupe Master,” the Pale King blurted out. His voice was wrong, off, so it did not surprise him when his companion stopped to regard him. She lifted her eyes toward the tents, as though considering. “What he offers is not what he grants. No matter what he may tell you. His is a web of lies, and by the time you recognize that, you are ensnared, tangled, and woven so tightly as to never escape. He is like those of Deepnest, who feast upon you once captive, but without their kindness; peace does not come for those granted his tender mercies. Do not trust him.”

The female bug chuckled, her head bowing. “They were interesting, at first—but there is something…off about their leader. The little traveler was a frequent visitor and seemed to be friends with them, but they have not returned in some time.” She crossed her arms. “My husband was going to go look for them—they were a frequent patron of his; we are cartographers and I suspect they were an explorer—but that strange bug went down first. And came back with you.” She looked down at him. “I would have thought you friends.”

The traveler. She meant the second vessel and he had not the heart to tell her that it was little more than a reanimated corpse acting on the impulse of the spells that had helped to create it. All vessels were compelled to seek the light, to fulfill their purpose: that was why he’d created them. The vessel did not possess the capacity for friendship.

Did it?

There was something wrong about Grimm’s behavior. He’d seemed very determined to make the wyrm climb, to drag the Pale King through the monuments to his every failure, in a show that had felt malicious.

“No. We are far from friends. As he will be happy to confirm, if you would like to ask him.”

He could not have been friends with the vessel, either. The vessel was following the spells that created it. The vessel was doing as it was told. The vessel—

—“You could do it, if you had the will. But could you raise your nail once knowing its tragic conception? And knowing yourself?”… —

—was incapable of friendships; it had strict magics holding it in place, binding it to the reasons for its creation. Something was missing; something was off. They could not have been friends. The vessel was not capable of being friends with anyone and yet his own daughter had seen in it something that he himself did not. She’d seen fit to help it, to guide it to the corpse of who he’d once been, to lead it into the Abyss, and it had come out changed, but nothing about its fate had, except for her.

“Hmm,” the female bug said. She’d fallen back into stride, and he instinctively followed her, as had become his new role: led by veritable strangers.

The void had responded to Grimm. The void recognized him with a familiar affection that it did not acknowledge anyone else with. He’d watched the butterfly bargain with it, listened to it repeat his name, a mantra in the thousands of voices that made up that shadow sea, and he’d been unnerved.

The vessels could not have friends.

But the void, that nothingness where everything began and everything ended, that traversed everything in between – life, death, joy, sorrow – recognized and spoke to nightmare.

Fear and death are old friends, his mind supplied. He’d heard that before, but he could not place the location. And yet… it felt… strangely apt.

A building of carved shell and stone loomed in front of him, windows lit by candlelight rather than lumafly, though it did little to reduce the blue cast that the long-stained fossils added to the village. His companion stopped at the door and then turned toward him. “I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Iselda, and my husband is Cornifer. He’ll be eager to meet you,” she explained. “What is your name, stranger?”

His name. He had no name. He hadn’t ever bothered to use one. What need had a god for something so mundane? In the ages past, he’d been called so many things. Hallownest’s Godking. The Pale King. The Wyrm. The Pale Wyrm, by those being specific, who knew of the Battle of the Blackwyrm and had survived to speak of the tale.

Another had called him usurper.

And many others, a cacophony of sound discordant, called him ‘father.’

How he wished that they wouldn’t. They’d learned that word from the eldest among them, and they’d all borrowed it, clinging desperately to the term. It was and wasn’t accurate. He was not their father. He was not its father, either, because it was not alive.

But if it had been truly hollow, truly empty, truly not a living thing, it would never have thought to call him that.

He thought to lie. He’d already lost his composure in front of her, and she no doubt thought him weak for the display of emotion, but in the end… what care had he? He would be returned to the void, to that descending hell, to relive the final moments of those that he’d condemned to agony over and over again – so making a bad impression on a mortal meant little, in the grand scheme of that.

“…I do not have one.”

“Ah.” Iselda looked at him for a long moment, then opened the door. “Well, it is nice to meet you, stranger. We will put something on your jaw, on those scratches, avoid them getting infected. It must hurt.”

His whole body hurt. Not just his jaw, not just the scratches. Where the shell peeled away to expose tissue and blood, arteries tangled over tendons, it ached, and she did not acknowledge it; she did not acknowledge any of the wounds, and he found himself unable to ask why. Fear paralyzed him. He followed Iselda into the shop and was greeted by a weevil peering down from a bunk above their merchandise, watching him with too-wide eyes.

“Ah, you’ve brought a guest! Hello. Oh—you look. You look startlingly familiar,” the other bug—Cornifer, she’d said his name was—offered. The Pale King cast his gaze downward. “I am certain—have we met?”

“No,” the wyrm answered. Iselda motioned with one hand, bidding him sit, and he looked down to avoid meeting the weevil’s gaze. “We have not.”

“He’s injured, Corny. Can you get some antiseptics for us? I’d like to clean the scratches, put some creams over the ones that remain.” She looked him over. “Will you molt out of this?”

“I do not think that a molt would correct this,” the wyrm answered, aloof.

His gaze snared on a compass charm on the shelf behind the counter, and on the numerous scrolls that collected dust on the one beneath it. There were quills and pins, an ink well shiny-black from being freshly filled, and atop the counter, he could make out a crudely drawn map of what appeared to be the Kingdom’s Edge. Cartographers, she’d said. The parchments certainly suggested that was so.

Iselda scoffed. “Don’t be so dramatic. This will heal just fine,” she scolded.

“She does so disdain the theatrics over injuries,” Cornifer offered, climbing down from the bunk. “She is right though, my beautiful Iselda. Those are surface level nicks. It might not even take a molt to get rid of them.”

Surface level nicks.

“…might I trouble you for a mirror?” the Pale King asked. Cornifer stopped, then picked up a small charm from on top of the counter and handed it to him. The weevil distracted himself with looking for further supplies, while the wyrm opened the charm and was presented with –

With his face.

Unharmed. Unmarred.

He moved the mirror back and forth, nausea rising as a storm within his chest, tightening the muscles beneath until every single part of him felt as though it was made of lead. He was sinking beneath the feeling of being crushed. His jaw was darkening with hemolymph pooling under the shell from where he’d been kicked and there were little angry lines from the work of his own claws, but the rest of him was –

His wings were intact. His shell was intact. There was no sign of infection, nor any of decay. He looked as he ever had, the pristine picture of ivory light, pulsing with faint luminescence, and as he stared, he heard it –

Whispers from around him, the thoughts of the villages. Iselda, wondering if he was okay, and what had been done to him. Cornifer attempting to identify who he was, and why he looked so very familiar—the weevil was perilously close to landing on that explanation; his mind returned, time and again, to what he thought of as the Ancient Basin, but he could not summon up the image of the fountain to fill in the gaps. Further still, he heard thoughts like a melody that burned to listen to: how prettily shadows and flames danced together, and closer, a familiar wrongness drowning in fear.

One of Grimm’s Troupe had figured out that what he’d bargained for was a higher price than what he’d received.

But he hadn’t been able to hear thoughts. He’d lost that power.

Hadn’t he?

He’d been rotting.

Hadn’t he?

“Hold still now,” Iselda offered, jarring his thoughts. Cornifer had returned and given her some supplies and was looking at him with the same silent intensity.

The second Iselda touched him, the overwhelming sense of worry that washed over him chased his own anxieties away. Pride had him wanting to recoil, to growl, to bite: I need not your aid, want not your help. Your pity is wasted on one such as me, he would argue. He did not. He held very still, focusing to keep the soul that illuminated him in perpetual glow in check. But he loathed physical contact and her worry drowned out all of his own emotions, left him adrift in a sea of the unfamiliar and unwelcome.

And Iselda noticed none of it. She dabbed his face with little cloths, cleaning the scratches with next to no delicacy. Hers were a warrior’s hands. He envisioned her caring for her own wounds on travels through the treacherous wastes, with no need to be kind, no need to be gentle, and certainly no need to keep in mind that the very blood she was handling might be dangerous. But his… might have been.

He could not bring himself to ask her to stop.

The last person to touch him with such kindness was his Root. The retainers were not allowed and at the end, he hadn’t let them into his throne room. He’d died alone.

He’d died alone.

He’d died –

Nothing in the void ever really died, though. Not him. Not his children, ever. He’d underestimated that terrible force and what it gotten him? What had playing at creation earned him in the end? Pain for himself. Pain for his loved ones. And a Hallownest that was dead but could not die.

“You must be more careful,” Iselda scolded. Her mind bubbled with wondering what Grimm had done to him, to cause him to inflict harm on himself. Immediately she held the nightmare butterfly accountable and his worries that she might have been one to fall into the trap of despair dissipated; this bug was strong enough to resist the song of the Nightmare Troupe. Her husband was, too, though she worried that he was too friendly, and the Pale King could hear that, too. But Cornifer, while intrigued about their guests, had an iron will and sense of adventure. He did not long to escape death. He longed to understand the world around him.

There was beauty, wonder, in that feeling.

Was it Grimm’s doing, the rotting he’d felt, had seen? Was he the reason that whenever the wyrm stretched his wings, there were still phantom aches? Had he thought to punish him somehow, with images of what he thought was worthy of his crimes?

He could not hear Grimm.

He could hear his Troupe members. He could hear a familiar mind, in the nearby shops, a voice long ago that should have been dead and yet somehow lived—the nailsage, Sly. He could hear the stag below, waiting for the wanderer’s return. He could hear Iselda, he could hear Cornifer. He could hear another voice, loud and incoherent, full of anguish and sorrow—there was a female bug in one of the houses, distressed at her missing knight—but not Grimm.

The astringent fluid on the end of Iselda’s rag burned, though. His shell ached, recoiling from the tenderness. She finished wiping off and then swiped on some kind of thicker cream that was vibrantly green.

“There. We will get you something cool to rest on your jaw,” she finished.

“Do you have somewhere to stay, stranger?” Cornifer did not wait for a response. “You can sleep on our floor. It’s not the most comfortable of beds, but it’s better than being out in the elements. It’s safe. Iselda’s just about the most dangerous person left in town.”

The weevil cast his wife a pleasant smile that she did not respond to.

He was wrong, but the Pale King did not feel as though arguing further about the nature of the nightmare god in the tents was conducive.

He settled instead for saying, “Your hospitality is kind. We appreciate your generosity.” The ‘we’ drew lingering stares from the couple, the wyrm realized, so he quickly amended, “Thank you. I do not… have other accommodations.”

Cornifer nodded at him, then went to retrieve blankets. Iselda was staring at him and he could hear her discomfort, her disapproval: she was fine with tending to his wounds, but letting him sleep in their home was another matter entirely. He wanted to tell her that he posed little threat in his current state, but natural bugs would not have known the source of her worry.

“I would rather not intrude,” the Pale King settled on. “But if you would be willing, I would find a blanket most amenable for using the bench outside.”

The relief that washed over Iselda was near palpable. Cornifer offered him a woven silk thing, tattered from age and obviously well-loved. The weevil turned his head, adjusting his glasses. “Oh? Well, the little wanderer always found that bench particularly comfortable, so you probably will too. Good luck then, stranger.”

“Thank you…again.” He took the blankets and handed back the mirror. “Sleep will do me worlds of good. It is… heartening. To know that Hallownest yet has good people.”

Iselda folded her hands and leaned on the counter, watching him depart. He could feel her apprehension as he left, and though he couldn’t hear her words out loud, her thoughts echoed them clearly enough: “Cornifer, you are half-mad. He is a stranger. You would invite him to sleep in our home? You do not know what kind of danger he might pose to us – to you!”

Cornifer lapsed into apologies that drowned out the further that the Pale King drifted from their shop, and when he approached the bench, the elderly bug had abandoned it; he was left by himself. He climbed onto it and wrapped the old blanket around his wings, slowly lying down onto his side, and exhaled.

Sleep might help. Sleep might also make it worse. He knew not what to expect.

But as he lay drifting into unconsciousness, he could make out clear scarlet in the distance and long, tapering white horns. He could make out shambling, could hear the sound of a needle dragging across the ground, and the smell of infection was heavy in his throat and his mouth. Each step the figure took was shuddering, cracking chitin and shell, sickly pus dripping from shell down to the ground with wet little plip-plop-plips.

It couldn’t be her. She was sealed within the Temple of the Black Egg. It could not be her.

But he pulled the blanket up over his face to drown out the sight of it nevertheless, and he was certain that he felt claws ghost over his shoulder. His heart thudded in his chest, the rapid beating of a prey animal faced with a hungry predator. He hissed, deafeningly loud in the quiet of the town.

“It was not supposed to be you,” he told his daughter’s ghost. “It was never supposed to be you. Why did you go inside?”

She did not answer, because she was not there, but he knew the reason without hearing it given voice.

She’d gone inside because she wanted a better future. She’d gone inside because she needed to believe that an alternative path was possible, a path that saved her kingdom and the siblings that she’d been told not to love, but could not fully convince herself weren’t alive.

She’d been right and it cost her everything.

And how was he meant to apologize for that?

#ashe writes #consequences fic #hk the pale king #hk grimm #troupe master grimm #nightmare king grimm #hollow knight #hollow knight fanfic #hk fanfic

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chlorinewriter · 9 months ago

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Chapter: 1/?

Pairing: Shanks/Mihawk

Rating: M

Word count: 5k

Summary:

Mihawk is a Redeemer of the Holy Church, terrifying and powerful. He has spent almost the entirety of his life tracking down and eradicating demons and heathens and people living in the murkiness in between. When the Holy First himself commands Mihawk to find and kill Shanks, an unrepentant sinner whose strength rivals the Church, Mihawk accepts the divine orders despite their strange circumstances.

However, Shanks is not so easy to label a heathen or a devil. Meeting him opens far more doors than it closes in Mihawk's mind, especially when the two are forced to work together to confront another formidable threat. Mihawk starts to wonder about the Church, their morals, his life's purpose... about the man with the red hair and the devilish smile who is no devil at all.

☪☪☪

“I am pleased to honour you with the addition of my conviction – His conviction – to aid you in this endeavor, but you do not require my faith. You will do your duty.”

Your duty. The Redeemer knows what the First is telling him to do. Kill Shanks as soon as he is found and not a moment after. No need to bring him to the Holy See to stand trial, or even offer the choice to surrender, as is Church law. Take away the choice. The fact that the heathen will not willingly choose to come if given an option is irrelevant. The choice is at least a moment to let Mihawk’s quarry prepare, and fight as well as he might.

To give Mihawk a sliver of time where redemption is a possibility and not a sword.

But the Holy First trusts him. The way he withdrew the Conqueror’s faith proves that. This is Mihawk’s purpose, writ large across the room, across the awed aides and the still faintly glowing First. Serve the Church. Hunt down demons. It feels like there is still a touch of the golden divinity on him, firmly shaping his uncertainty into a harsher, steadier form. An almost tangible reminder.

From Mihawk’s hands the only kind of redemption possible is a sword.

Beset by the weight of the friction crushing him, Mihawk looks away, curls his fingers, one at a time, like each tiny movement might in aggregate release the oppressive tension.

“I trust you to do the Lord’s will, Redeemer.”

The Lord’s will. The Holy First wants Mihawk to snatch the life away from Shanks. To turn Mihawk from a Redeemer into an assassin. Why is that such a black mark compared to the flush of gold still saturating his mind?

Overt tremors are shaking Mihawk’s body as his soul recovers from its instinctive effort to resist the command before it was lifted. The Holy First politely ignores the shudders. Prelate Markeith is scowling off to the side, but he scowls most of the time and Mihawk tries to ignore him.

“I will, Most Holy. Thank you for your command. I will not fail.” When he kisses the cross around his neck, he actually means it. An unusual earnestness from Mihawk, and even more unusual because he is still conflicted. The wanted poster is so insistent in his head, with that heathen’s stupidly wide grin. It’s like the Holy First’s golden glow splashed a bit too far. Coloured Shanks with it, too. He will receive swift and righteous justice, Redeemer. The swift righteousness of murder, which is no righteousness at all.

#mishanks #one piece #mihawk x shanks #mihawk #shanks #one piece au #my fic #thank God I'm finally posting this!!#Oh it has been a struggle

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ao3feed-kiribaku · 27 days ago

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Strong Enough

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/hvmTW8t by Hopelesslyinlove19 Kiri gets hurt, like really hurt, in the line of duty and Bakugou is not prepared to experience the feelings that come with losing his best friend that he's been in love with for the better half of a decade. Saw this Pinterest thread and the story almost wrote itself. Words: 3373, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia (Anime & Manga) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Bakugou Katsuki, Kirishima Eijirou, Ashido Mina, Kaminari Denki, Sero Hanta, Shinsou Hitoshi, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Kirishima Eijirou Additional Tags: Kaminari Denki is a Good Friend, Ashido Mina is a Good Friend, Bakusquad (My Hero Academia), kiri gets hurt, Bakugou Katsuki is Bad at Feelings, Protective Bakugou Katsuki, Characters Are Pro Heroes (My Hero Academia), Characters are in their early 20s, Major Character Injury, Injury Recovery, Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia Manga Spoilers, Best Friends to Lovers, getting togther, Ill Link the Pin Below, pinterest made me do it, No Beta We Die Like Toga(RIP girl), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Bakugou Katsuki-centric, Bakugou Katsuki Needs a Hug read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/hvmTW8t

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #bnha #mha #kiribaku #krbk #kirishima eijirou #bakugou katsuki

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indulgencecentral · 2 years ago

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Pomegranates and Cream

An Aladdin AU

Pairings: Satoru Gojo x f!bodied reader, implied Suguru Geto x f!bodied reader, implied Kento Nanami x f!bodied reader, implied Sugur Geto x Satoru Gojo, implied Kento Nanami x Satoru Gojo

Genre: Heavy smut with a tiny bit of fluff.

Warnings: Established relationship, dom/sub undertones, bondage, nicknames (sugar drop, sultana, beloved), exhibitionism, voyeurism, the reader is a princess, Gojo is a prince, oral(m!receiving), handjobs, blowjobs, boobjobs, aphrodisiac cream, humiliation kink, praise kink, male orgasm, dacryphilia, implied knife kink, dubcon (if you squint), discussions of threesomes.

MDNI

Link to the Archive.

Link for request page.

A/N: This was requested by the lovely @princeasimdiya12! Thank you for the request! I had a lot of fun working on this; it turned out so much better than I thought it would. Subby Gojo is the best. If enough people enjoy this, I might even write a second part... Let's hope the mood hits though.

When the news of the princess choosing to marry a commoner had first spread through the sultanates of the desert, many had mocked her decision to sully royal blood. Some thought her foolish, choosing love over a political alliance, and some thought her cunning to strengthen the bonds she held with her people.

To fight the rumours, or perhaps enhance them to her liking, the sultana-in-waiting plunged herself into her work, pouring blood, sweat, and the brine of her tears into creating a formidable reputation for herself.

Meanwhile, the prince consort, freed from the title of street urchin now indulged in every delight of the palace, hosting lascivious parties and grand feasts, pleasing guests of the nations that hoped to exploit his princess, twirling them in dizzy circles till they could no longer tell friend from foe.

And when the newly made royal couple retired to bed each night, they put their skills new and old to use. Surviving in the streets had not been an easy task for Satoru, and he boasted many skills in his arsenal, the honey of his tongue that had been useful in situations one and all now used to bewitch his princess alone.

On the night of their marriage and maiden tryst, his princess had shown Satoru that she was no blushing virgin, and her royal authority had shone through the first time she had climbed atop him, a beringed hand tightening around his neck.

His princess’ life had grown taxing since, and Satoru had decided that his duty to the sultanate would be performed by keeping his princess stress-free — which is how he found himself here, bound hands and uncovered feet tugging at the scarlet rope securing him to the posts of their marital bed in his princess’ chambers.

“Comfortable?” she crooned in his ear, the beads and jewels strung around her neck beating against the soft skin of her breast.

“Yes, my sultana,” Satoru breathed, and his princess smiled brightly at the title.

“My good little prince,” she whispered, leaning down to tuck a lock of pale hair behind his ear. He always loved when she touched his hair, how she’d compare it to the snow of the mountains he’d never seen, to the downy plumage of owls from her fantastic stories. “How obedient you are.”

“I am enchanted by who gives the orders,” he rasped, arching upward in search of her mouth. He only found the skin of her collarbone, pressing a chaste kiss to the dip beneath the sharp plane, right above where the weight of her breasts swung heavily, where the heart he loved beat sharply. “How could I not be obedient?”

She tsked at his action, pulling his hair slightly, a moan drawn from his throat now streaked with the salty dew of his sweat. “Do you remember what we spoke of?”

Satoru nodded, biting his lip in anticipation of the gag that would soon rest against his tongue. “Two hooked fingers if I need to stop, sultana.”

His princess traced a sharp nail over his jaw. “Good.”

Satoru exhaled shakily, watching as his princess pulled the long strip of satin that secured her hair and bundled it to place between his lips, saliva pooling to moisten the soft cloth scented of the jasmine milk she bathed in. The bindings of her breasts followed, securing his gag in place, and he glowed at the sight of her unfettered bust.

His princess showed him a copper bowl then, warmed over a candle, its contents liquid and creamy. Smearing some over her hand, she reached for the semi-stiff heat of his cock, a lewd sound issuing as she slicked her hand up and down, smearing the cream over the skin beneath the pretty mushroom head of his sex, the soft pad of her thumb pressing into his sensitive slit.

Unable to help himself, he bucked into her touch, a slobbery whimper leaving his breathless mouth. His princess was so ravishing it drove him mad.

She pushed herself to her knees, drawing the shimmery pale curtains around their bed. A spike of desire and panic coursed through him. Did she have more plans for him? A secret she had deigned to tell him of? He hadn’t the slightest clue, but couldn’t help a sliver of pride; sultanas ought to be good at manipulation.

The blush-blossom-dyed curtains obscured Satoru from the room, but his princess’ gaze found him regardless, a sly smile on her plush berry lips. “Be silent, my prince.”

A shiver went through him, but not from the breeze that had swept in through the wide balcony. No, the cause was entirely something else.

His princess made sure to check the quartet of ropes that secured him to the bedposts, pulling a raven feather-stuffed coverlet over his long, bare limbs. It did little to hide his swelling length, forming an embarrassing peak, but he appreciated the warmth nonetheless.

“Listen closely, Satoru.” He moaned softly at his name on her tongue. “There is something I have neglected to tell you. The Sultan of Kalasahn requested to meet with me a few weeks ago, and I did accept his invitation. He arrived half a sandglass ago, and it would be rude to not grant him an audience, even if it is an informal one.”

“Whmm?” Satoru felt himself tremble with jealousy at the thought of his princess granting any sultan a private, informal audience — but his princess had taken his words from him, and his helplessness struck him most severely.

It was a shame his wife was so adept at reading his expressions, and her lips pressed into a line. “I can see you are displeased, so I will make you a deal. Be good, Satoru, my dear, and I promise to make it up to you.”

The suggestion in her voice was enough to undo the bound prince, and he nodded so hard the bed shook with his vigour. Then a knock came on the door, and a slow burn heated his cock, and Satoru realised the gloriously terrible fate he had doomed himself to.

“Sultan,” his princess greeted the strange man, bowing in deference.

A wicked smile was on his lips as he regarded Satoru’s wife. “Princess,” he did nought but incline his head, his eyes finding the sumptuous valley that the cut of her decadent amethyst blouse displayed.

Rage, hot and crimson pulsed through him, but instead of passing as it usually did, Satoru felt the heat go straight to his stomach, enhancing the slow burn warming his cock. The effect of the cream was strange, disconcerting and so incredibly sultry all at once, the way it felt like his princess’ mouth around him but with an extra, secret edge.

The gag kept the worst of his sounds at bay, but a little mewl broke from him, his legs tangling restlessly in the coverlet.

His princess indicated the spread of jewel pillows, striped rugs and furred throws on the floor. “Do find your comfort,” she smiled her tigress’ smile, reclining on the spread herself, casting a subtle look at her lover.

“I have come here to discuss politics,” the man said, but his gaze drifted to places only Satoru had the privilege of touching. He felt himself leak at the thought.

“There is no shame in being comfortable when we do.”

The man tossed his bilious robes. “Your method of business is refreshingly… different, I must say, princess.”

She let her gaze find her hidden prince, blinking to reassure him as she checked his hands. Satoru’s cock burned at the eye contact, the cream now ramping up to a sensation that felt similar to being sheathed inside his beloved — nothing could truly compare to that heaven, but the cream was trying really hard.

“I am to be sultana regnant, the true heir to my father’s kingdom. If I do not define myself, then who will? It is better to be different than forgettable.”

The man laughed, watching hungrily as she bit into the red flesh of a pomegranate, the ruby seeds splitting beneath her teeth, juice dripping down her throat. Satoru’s mouth watered at the sight; how he wished he could lick up that crimson dribble.

“Princess,” the man sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He had not dared take a seat. “As a sultan, I am bound by both a man’s honour and a king’s honour. Let us speak tomorrow when the sun shines on secret things.”

She had expected this, had relied on it. The sultan was already in her jaws, and he did not know it. She sucked the juice from her fingers, and Satoru almost revealed himself then, his desire too strong to hold back.

“As you wish, sultan.”

When they reached the door, the sultan turned abruptly, his eyes wandering to rest on the curtained bed. Satoru’s heart sped up as he felt the man’s gaze burn through the veil that separated the two halves of his princess’ life, which threatened to expose the risks she liked to take if drawn.

His princess kept her calm as Satoru tamped the urge to wriggle under the weight of the man’s gaze, blood rushing so quickly to his cock that he was left dizzy, the heat of the lotion reaching a level that was excruciating and delectable, his hips fucking up into nothing.

“You certainly keep a host of secrets, princess,” the man said, tucking a loose strand of his long hair behind an ear. Had he seen through to the heart of the power dynamic that was playing out in the bedroom, or just Satoru’s splayed, desperate form?

“Just as any good ruler does, sultan.”

The sultan laughed at her silver tongue. “Indeed.” He placed a chaste, respectful kiss on her knuckles, and Satoru felt tears of humiliation leak from the crystal eyes his princess loved so much. “And please, princess, when we are alone- '' another surreptitious glance at the bed, one which did not go unnoticed. “-call me Suguru.”

His princess raked her eyes up and down Suguru, raising a curious brow. “I shall endeavour to, next time.” Satoru’s spit streaked his chin, his gag drenched.

Sultan Suguru’s hand on the doorknob, he threw one last smile over his shoulder. “Perhaps, in time, princess, you will invite me to indulge in your secrets.”

She placed her hand over his, pushing open the door to her chambers. “I think I am tempted by that offer, Suguru.” The way she said his name made Satoru whine, the sound doing nothing to shatter the electric atmosphere of the room, now stuffy despite the open balcony doors. “Goodnight, sultan.”

“Goodnight, princess.”

Finally, finally, the sultan had left, and Satoru had his princess all to himself again. “Flee-ashe,” he cried, aching for even her eyes on him. His garbled plea made him all the more pathetic.

“In a minute, my prince,” she called, rifling through the neat pile of scrolls on her desk, concealing the copper vessel from earlier in a locked drawer.

A genteel knock sounded on the chamber doors, and Satoru’s heart thumped wildly. Had Sultan Suguru returned? Was his invisible torment to continue? Would he have to watch as he took his princess up on her offer? More tears slipped from his stained-glass eyes.

“Who calls at this hour?”

“Captain Nanami, princess.”

Satoru shivered at the guard captain’s baritone. He was a stoic man with hair of straw and eyes of molten bronze. What if he came upon Satoru in his dishevelled, damp state?

His princess swung the door open to reveal the captain’s broad shoulders, business-like demeanour, and intense gaze. “What business, captain?”

“Pardon my intrusion, sahiba, but the tabib sent me here on urgent business. She says you hold a document, one which has the formula for a new medicine.”

His princess raised a hand to silence the captain. Perhaps she would send him away? Satoru prayed she did, for he could not take this exquisite torture anymore, the heat of his sex now fever pitch.

“I know what Ieiri speaks of, but I have some tasks to finish.” Was that what Satoru was, a task? His pride smarted, but he couldn’t deny the thrill he felt at the humiliation. “You have leave to enter my chambers. Search as I finish tonight’s work.”

Saluting, the captain began his search, leaving not a surface untouched, his careful hands and careful gaze scanning every drawer, every nook, every cabinet, every corner as his princess read at her desk. Satoru wriggled, resenting the ease with which he moved through the space, his feet finding well-worn paths.

Nanami had been here before, for what purpose, Satoru could imagine but was afraid to. His cock dribbled further at the vision, now forming a stain on the coverlet.

“I’m afraid I cannot find the scroll, sahiba,” he spoke, regret tinging his tone.

“I think, in my forgetfulness, I may have left it on my bedstead.” Satoru held back a scream. “Would you check?”

“Sahiba, I am your guard and your servant… I would not dare think to cross the boundaries of royalty.”

“I have asked you to check, Nanamin.” The captain’s cheeks reddened at the endearment, and his hand grasped the edge of the curtain. Satoru’s heart leapt into his throat, his sex making fun of his fear by giving another aching throb.

What Nanami saw upon his liege’s bed, concealed by curtains, was not what he had expected. To see the street urchin he had loathed and longed for, trussed as a snack upon his liege’s bed was a shocking sight that shouldn’t have aroused him so.

His calloused hands went to the knife at his belt, one that had kissed the skin of Satoru’s throat too often to call the knife his own anymore. What a vision the snow-haired boy was, his cheek and gall vanished, his chest flushed and covers tented, ecstasy writ across his face. Nanami felt his knees buckle, spit pool in his mouth, wishing he could watch it splash against the lips that had taunted him so often with impetuous smirks.

“Kah-ah-pten,” Satoru mumbled, the delicate bones of his cheeks bright with shame. That the guard captain he had once toyed with saw him this way, this weak.

Despite himself, Satoru moaned like the whore he had once been. He still remembered the weight of the guard’s cock in his mouth, the fine he had avoided by swallowing Nanami’s length, those hands pulling at his hair.

“Forgive me, captain, the scroll was on my desk all this while.” Shaken from his stillness by his princess’ voice, Nanami took care to smooth his features and draw the curtains around Satoru before taking the scroll from the liege’s hands.

“Thank you, sahiba, and once again, my apologies.”

His princess led the man to her doors, her expression speaking volumes. “Before you take your leave, captain, answer my question.”

“Anything, sahiba.”

“I have come to understand that a soldier’s job is very frustrating… Have you ever felt the need to release those frustrations?”

Nanami swallowed, his fingers clenching around the scroll. “Yes, sahiba.”

“Next time, you will tell your princess when you have frustrations you wish to expel. That is an order.”

Nanami bowed deeply, his genuflection poorly concealing the ravenousness in his bronze gaze. “As you wish, sahiba.” The guard left without another word, the tightening in his loins too strong to ignore.

His princess parted the curtains, sidling up to curl beside Satoru, softly stroking his mussed hair. “Did my prince miss me?”

“Ye-ash, ye—” he cried, craving her touch where he burned. She drew the coverlet down to expose his cock, and it frightened him, how vigorously it pulsed with desire, the violent red colour of his head, the filthy mess of his weeping tip, the painful throb of his balls, the pulse of the thick vein that threaded his cock.

Before he could beg further, his princess’ mouth was on his cheeks, kissing the tears from his petal-soft skin. “My sweet boy,” she comforted, peppering his face with kisses. It hurt to be loved so dearly, and he whined quietly at the attention. “My sweet, scrumptious ‘Toru.”

She ventured to the bridge of his throat, already so sullied with teeth marks and hickeys administered by his princess herself. “Sul-mph!” he cried, when her teeth teased at a pebbled nipple, swirling it in her mouth with the expertise of a woman who had spent her entire life eating strange delicacies. Her sharp nails kneaded the firm swells of his chest, leaving half-moons to redden as she licked her way down his stomach.

His princess was happy to bite into the little pudge of his stomach, a sign that he was happy and well-fed, the sculpture of his physique still present beneath the weight of his joy.

“My prince, remind me, we had a deal, yes?”

He bit into the satin stuffed inside his mouth, his hands fisted above his head to keep his composure. “Ye-ash, plin-shesh.”

“How would you like me to make it up to you, beloved?”

“Tusch me, phleashe!”

She looked up at him through her lashes, and he almost came undone right there, such as the craving in her gaze. “I will do as my prince wishes, then.” He gasped, shuddered and felt himself cry when his princess’ soft palm drew up his length.

He was so utterly close, the tension of the evening and the effect of the cream heightening the ferocity of his pleasure. His princess’ hands, with their sharp nails and dainty knuckles, looked so pretty wrapped around him, and the dollop of spit that fell from her loving mouth to slide down him was so utterly obscene that his eyes rolled to the back of his head, his hair pasted to his forehead from sweat, his mind an empty place overwhelmed by the presence of his princess, his beloved, his wife.

When she undid her top, he knew he wouldn’t last long. Spreading more cream over her skin, she gathered her soft mounds and slid his cock between them, the pillowy smooth sensation and the kisses of her mouth as it sucked merrily on his tip every time it emerged from between her breasts making him tighten and tense all over, his orgasm sneaking up on him, sinking its claws into him.

Noting the shift in his demeanour, his princess decided to free him of his torment, cupping the weight of his balls softly before engulfing him in the heat of her mouth. He went limp then, thrusting once into her, her teeth scraping lightly along the skin of his cock, his soul leaving his body as she swallowed all he had to give.

He felt ropes of his cum streak into her mouth, the muscles of her throat fluttering around him as he sobbed through his orgasm, watching as she let the last feeble spurts of pearly white fall across her cheek, as she collected his release with fingers still ruby-red and licked them clean them with sordid relish.

Undoing his ties and ropes, she let Satoru pull her into his arms, her hands soothing against his scalp, running down his back in consolation as he trembled, still coming down from his high. He gasped and sobbed further when she undid his gag, burrowing into her shoulder to stave off the delicious tremors that racked him.

“‘Toru, sugar drop, are you alright?”

He looked up, reaching to press a kiss on her nose. “That was wonderful.”

She brushed a hand over his cheek to wipe the tear tracks that streaked his skin. “I’m glad. Rest, and I will have a bath drawn for you.”

Before she could call for her servants Satoru grabbed his princess’ hand, pressing a kiss to where the man had, wishing to wipe a trace of him from her body. “Sultana?” he asked, unable to meet her eyes.

“Yes, my prince?”

He hesitated. “Were you serious about letting that man indulge in your secrets?”

With a mischievous glint in her eyes, his princess tipped his chin up to look him in the eye. “Listen well, my prince.” Her voice was low, seductive, and oh-so convincing. “I would do nothing that would hurt you, upon your body or in your heart. If allowing another to indulge in these delights with us is something that repels you, I shall not speak further of it. You make me happiest.”

His answering smile was shy, precious and most beautiful, and his princess said as much to him, causing Satoru to blush. “But I shall not deny that it is something that interests me, both in terms of politics and pleasure. So, I would like you to think it over. But never doubt, you will always come first, in my heart.”

Satoru thought over the night’s second encounter. “Sultana, did you wish for the captain to find me as he did as well?”

She raised a brow. “If I did?” She traced the curve of his lip. “I understand that Captain Nanami and you have had such an encounter before. Do not think I don’t know what goes on in my lands.”

Mollified, Satoru hid his face behind his hands. “So, if he wishes to release his frustration as he has done before, would you let him?”

“If you wanted such a thing, I would. Only if you wanted. Why my prince- “ she pulled his hands away. “-I would steal the moon from the sky for you if that is what you desired.”

“Would you enjoy it?”

“Very much… The thought itself floods me,” she smiled to herself, the hair on her arms rising. “Will you think about it?”

How could he say no to her? “I will think it over, my sultana,” he rasped, his insides gone liquid at the fantastic visions that plagued him.

“That’s my good little prince,” she said, moving away to arrange for his bath. Leaning back on the pillows of their bed, Satoru felt his pulse flutter.

Sultan Suguru was a beautiful man, close to rivalling his wife… How curious it would be, to let him indulge, have him watch as Satoru licked pomegranate juice from the hollow of his princess’s throat.

He recalled the music of Captain Nanami’s groans when he had devoured him in the streets… How curious it would be, to watch his composure dissolve, have him make those sounds again, have him press a knife to his skin.

Curious indeed.

Original Work

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