#please send me fanfic asks

[ticklishprincey]

I'm Home!

Very short fic, I’m sorry! This one’s for @iburntgewater because they asked for art and I could not deliver so here’s a fanfiction instead. Warnings: Tickling (obv), brief not being able to focus/frustration but not much, tooth-rotting fluff (if there’s anything else lmk) Moxxie sat at his desk, head in his hands. He had long forgotten what he had sat down to do, the words on the page in front of him swam across the desk in his dazed state. He had been unable to focus for about an hour now. Crumpled balls of paper littered the floor, each with only a few words on them, balled up in frustration and tossed onto the ground. His right leg began to bounce as he looked up at the clock on the wall for about the eighth time. 8:00pm. Millie’s home. His sour mood evaporated as he heard the familiar sound of the front door opening, his beloved wife announcing her arrival cheerfully. “Mox! I’m home!” Moxxie couldn’t fight the smile creeping onto his face as he got up from his desk and ran to the front door, nearly tackling his wife in a hug. “Millie! I missed you!” Millie giggled and returned the hug, sweeping her husband off his feet and smiling at the surprised squeal that escaped him. “Missed you too, hun!” She wrapped her tail around her husband, hugging him tightly and squeezing his sides playfully, chuckling at the bubbly giggles it caused. “Millieeeeee-” The smaller imp squirmed in his wife’s arms as she laid him gently onto the couch, pinning his arms above his head and continuing to squeeze his sides and tummy. “What? Does this bother ya?” “EEK! Yehehes!” “Ooo, that’s too bad for you then, ain’t it?” A bright red hue overtook Moxxie’s face as he giggled, Millie’s hands continuing to explore his sides, creeping up to his ribs and scribbling her nails against them. A loud squeal escaped the smaller demon, followed immediately by bubbly laughter, not unlike that of a small child. Millie found this adorable, of course, but Moxxie was mortified to say the least. “MIHIHILLIE!” “Yes, Moxxie baby? She teased as her head dipped down to blow a raspberry on his stomach, earning a loud shriek followed by frantic giggling. “FUHUHUCK WAHAHAIT! REHEHED!” As soon as the safeword was spoken, Millie stopped. The tickling was replaced by gentle cuddling as she ran her fingers through his hair, rubbing his back soothingly. “L-Love you Millie-” “Love you too, Mox.” SORRY IT WAS SO SHORT I HAVE NO INSPIRATIONNN PLEASE GIVE ME IDEASSSSSSS

[artdcnaldson]

NEED art and patrick to find out I'm a virgin and offer to teach me how to kiss and how to fuck and use eachother as examples and guide me and tell me I'm doing a good job and reward me for being such a good student and come back later and quiz me to see if I remember everything they taught me ugh obsessed with them individually and as a unit

This has lived rent free in my mind for literally forever. I can’t stop thinking about it, it haunts my every waking moment.

Rating: E (18+)

Warnings: Making out, Handjob lessons, guys being pervs, not a love triangle they just all want to fuck each other

A/N: unedited bc I wrote this while on the clock okay whatever. Enjoyyyy and if u want me to continue this lmk >:)

“I think it’s sweet,” Patrick said, and you could hear the amusement in his voice, practically dripping from every syllable. “The last American virgin. You belong in a museum.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed your empty Taco Bell cup at him— the ice rattled and it leaked a puddle of condensation onto the ground. “You could try not to be a dick about it.”

Art’s dorm room was hot and sticky thanks to a faulty AC, which meant the three of you lounging on the floor by his open window, sucking down soda watered down by melted ice cubes. You were down to a T-shirt and shorts, they were down to their boxers. It wasn’t lost on you that it was an intimate situation to be in— barely dressed, crammed into the shoebox of a dorm. And of course Patrick had dug his fingers in until you admitted your secret— you had made it all the way to college totally unfucked.

Patrick leaned forward, smiling the smarmy smile that tended to wear at your last nerve. “So you’re a virgin, but like,” he leaned in, so close you could feel body heat radiating from him. He dropped his voice, just above a whisper. “How much of a virgin, really? You’ve at least gone to third, right?” You glared, but shook your head.

“Second?” Art supplied, suddenly jumping in with an eager sort of curiosity.

“What? No, I don’t even know what that means,” you admitted. You sighed before you spoke up. “I’ve only ever kissed one guy and one girl, and it was during a game of spin the bottle, like, junior year.”

“How?” Patrick asked.

Your brows furrowed. “How? I spun the bottle, it landed on the person, I leaned in, put my lips against theirs, and that was it.”

Patrick sighed. “Just fucking show me how.” He looked at you expectantly, inching even closer.

With an annoyed sigh, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his— mouth closed, lips firm. When you sat back, Patrick and Art were both grinning.

“What?” You asked with a frown.

“That’s how you kiss on the playground in elementary school,” Art said, unable to contain his laughter. “C’mere.”

You crawled forward, stopping in front of the blond. His hand settled on your jaw, coaxing you forward.

His lips met yours softly, sweetly. It was easy to lose yourself in the feeling of Art’s mouth, in the gentle brushes of his lips against yours and the way he held your face so tenderly.

The feeling of his tongue pressing against the seam of your lips was strange, but you welcomed it, letting him lick into your mouth.

Each pass of his tongue against yours drew you deeper and deeper into it, into him. You moved into his lap without realizing it, kissing him with sweet, timid laps of your tongue.

Art pulled back first, his cheeks soft and pink and so pretty. “See? That’s how you’re supposed to kiss someone. That was really good.”

You laughed softly, and moved off of his lap sheepishly. Patrick leaned forward, brushing your hair back, holding your face in his hand.

“Okay, show me what Art showed you,” he instructed, then leaned in.

Kissing Patrick was different than kissing Art. He was hungrier, more insistent. His tongue pressed into your mouth like he wanted to chart every inch. You did your best to match what he offered, to kiss the way Art had just shown you, sweetly, like you really meant it.

And you did mean it. Patrick’s hands moved along your side, up until they cupped your tits through your shirt. You moaned softly into his mouth— the sound was muffled, met with a moan of his own. He gave an experimental squeeze of your tits and you whined softly. So he did it again, amused by the pretty, sweet noises you mewled out.

Patrick was getting hard, pressing against your thigh. It was a new sensation that you were hyper aware of as you unconsciously ground yourself against him.

You pulled back first, cheeks burning hot after you remembered Art was right beside you. You tucked unkempt hair behind your ear, smiled bashfully. “How was I?”

“Good,” Patrick said.

At the same time Art supplied, “So good.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Okay. Cool.”

Art was squirming, fidgeting, holding a pillow over his lap. Patrick was less covert— opting to openly adjust himself, drawing more attention to the fact that he was hard. You rolled your eyes and stole the nearest cup you could find, sipping at watered down Mountain Dew.

“Do you want me to leave?” You teased, raising an eyebrow. Your teeth dug into the plastic straw as you looked between the two of them.

Art stammered, mortified, but Patrick just smiled dizzyingly over at you. “I can teach you something else. You got to first base, so why don’t you steal second?”

You rolled your eyes, but heat flared behind your cheeks. Jesus Christ, he was such a smug asshole. “I still don’t know what that means,” you said, feeling a little embarrassed.

He grinned and mimed jerking off. Your eyes widened, and you laughed softly. “That would be weird,” you said, half-believing it. “Like, if I did jerk one of you off, that leaves one of you just watching.”

You glanced at Art, who looked just as interested as Patrick did, and your heart stammered nervously. “What if I show you how you do it on Art? Look at him— he’s the perfect little practice dummy.” Patrick reached over, pinching at Art’s cheek until the blond kicked his shin.

“Show me?” You echoed. “Like… you’re going to do it to him, and I do it to you?”

Patrick nodded, leaning into Art’s side, his smarmy smile dissolved into something needier. Art swallowed hard, lips parted slightly as he looked over at Patrick.

Patrick’s lips met his slowly, hungrily. You watched wide eyed as Patrick deepened the kiss, as Art eagerly accepted the other boy’s tongue into his mouth.

Patrick threw the pillow out of Art’s lap and sent it careening into the desk on the opposite side of the room. Your eyes widened at the sight of Art, hard and tenting his boxers. Patrick palmed him in his large hands making the blonde whimper into his mouth and buck up, seeking friction.

You swallowed hard, biting down on the straw as you watched Patrick tug at the elastic of Art’s boxers. Art lifted his hips to allow Patrick to tug them down his thighs, just enough to expose his cock to both of you.

“See,” Patrick gasped, leaning back from their kiss. Art chased his lips fruitlessly, mouth ajar, waiting for more. “He’s so fucking easy. Come feel.”

You moved closer, looking at Art for permission. When he nodded, you reached out, letting your fingertips graze the soft skin of his shaft. He exhaled a shuddery breath, eyes fluttering shut. Patrick’s hand covered yours, guiding you to squeeze around his length.

He was warm under your touch, silky soft, pulsing in your grip. Your heart hammered just at that— at the feel of him in your hand. “Feels nice, huh? Knowing how much he wants you.” You nodded, then slid your fist up, testing the waters. Art moaned softly, throbbed in your grip, aching for more. Patrick smiled like the cat who got the cream. “Hands off, just watch me.”

Patrick spat into his hand and replaced your hand with his own. The second Patrick curled his fingers around Art and started stroking him slowly, the blond was mewling for more. “Fuck,” he moaned, his forehead knocking against Patrick’s, mouth open, panting. “That’s good, feels good.”

You watched Patrick rub his thumb over Art’s tip, eyes widening as Art really whimpered for it, hips thrusting up into Patrick’s fist, chasing more of the pleasure the brunet offered.

“You get it now?” Patrick asked. You nodded quickly, and he tugged down his own boxers. “Fuck, okay— fucking show me.”

Your heart hammered with nerves, but you nodded. You held your hand out and spit into it, mimicking what Patrick had done before you wrapped your hand around his cock.

He felt bigger in your hands, but you didn’t say that. One, you worried it might piss Art off, and two, he didn’t need the ego boost. And he was slick, beading precum at his tip so each pass of your hands felt slicker and slicker.

And you couldn’t help but want to be an asshole. “You’re wet like a girl,” you said with a smirk, gliding your thumb over his tip.

And he was shameless, nodding with a sly grin. “That means I like you.” He panted, moaning softly. “Besides, I bet your fucking panties aren’t dry right now.”

Well, fuck. You tried to ignore the rush of heat in your belly that those words caused, to focus only on the glide of your hand on Patrick’s cock— up and down, copying his pace on Art, copying the ways he’d squeeze and twist his hand.

Art was moaning, rutting up into the tight sheath of Patrick’s fist, the muscles of his abdomen tensing and relaxing in unsteady jerks beneath his soft skin.

“Fuck— switch, switch,” Patrick said quickly. Art whined when Patrick stopped touching him, but it was ignored. “Want you to feel it when he comes.”

He guided your hand back onto Art’s cock and nodded for you to move. “Fuck, your hand’s so soft,” Art groaned. “Faster, faster, fuck—“ He was practically begging. You swallowed, increased the pace, squeezed him a little tighter.

Art was touching Patrick— jerking him off while you brought him closer and closer to finishing. Patrick leaned in, kissed you deeply, pulled Art in too until the three of you were a mess of tongues and lips and spit and hands.

Art came first— coating your hand in warm, slick cum, throbbing in your grip. He was panting into your and Patrick’s mouths, moaning softly as you continued to slowly work him through it. Patrick came next, once Art redoubled his effort, focused on making Patrick add to the mess covering your hands.

Patrick was loud, pornographic, messy. Art brought a cum covered hand between his lips, cleaning it up. Your eyes widened.

“Art, c’mon, you’re scandalizing her,” Patrick said, like you weren’t even there.

“Shut up,” you said, shoving him. He laughed and pulled his boxers back up. Art followed suit, and the three of you were left gross and sweating in the heat. You wiped your hand off on one of their discarded shirts and gave a sheepish smile.

They sat there, expectantly. Waiting for you to make the next call. There was a level of want in you, need, but the thought of asking for them to take care of it was mortifying. “Do you want to watch a movie or something now?”

[ebodebo]

Can you perchance write a smut fic about being married to Ghost and he has to take a phone call in the middle of the deed

The Bet

NSFW CONTENT

—ghost x f!reader

—1.6k+

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You and Ghost were at Laswell's house celebrating her recent promotion to Station Chief. The party wasn't Kate's idea, but her wife insisted on honoring her massive accomplishment. 

Before you both went inside Laswell's house, you made a bet with Ghost. You bet that he couldn't stay the entire dinner, and he bet you couldn't stay the entire dinner. The loser was in charge of doing the dishes for the next few weeks.

"Ready to forfeit, big boy?" You whispered to Ghost as you sat alone on the couch in the living room with a glass of champagne in hand. "You wish." He muttered. You chew your lip slightly. "Well, in that case.." You reach into your sweater pocket and pull out a bundle of lace. "Took them off in the bathroom." She leaned closer, her hot breath grazing Ghost's ear. "They're dripping." His eyes widened. "Fuckin' hell." He breathed out. 

"Can I have someone's help in the kitchen, please?" Laswell's wife proclaims. You swiveled your head to the kitchen. "Of course." You turned your attention back to Ghost. "Keep them." You slipped the piece of lingerie into his hand. "On the house." His breath hitched as you stood up to go help in the kitchen. He eyed you as you walked, slightly salivating at the thought of you with no panties on. Your bare cunt was only covered by a short skirt that could easily ride up at any given moment. He silently cursed under his breath.

"This smells so good." You chime as you carry the roast chicken to the table. "Thanks. Took forever to cook." Laswell's wife remarks. You smile and go to your seat as everyone else follows suit.

Ghost pulls out his chair next to you and takes his seat. He leans closer to you. "You better not try anything else." His voice drops lower, so low you almost don't hear him. "Or I'll bend you over the table right now." Your breath hitches at his words, your core becoming impossibly wetter. 

It was 40 minutes into the dinner. Everyone was laughing and telling stories; they were all a little tipsy. The food was demolished, signaling that the dinner was almost coming to an end and you and Ghost were still in attendance. You cringed at the thought of losing to Simon and having to wash the dishes for a month straight. You decided to do something drastic. Something that would have to make him come up with a stupid excuse to leave. 

You use your hand that's drink-free to reach for his hand, that's resting on his knee, under the table, making sure not to look too suspicious. You nod your head along to whatever the hell Kate is talking about. 

You slowly bring his hand to your knee. You glance at him, though he looks completely unfazed. You steadily drag his hand up your knee, moving towards your inner thigh. He still appears unfazed. You maneuver his hand up even higher, his hand now grazing your dripping, needy cunt. His face is still stone-cold and serious. His lack of a reaction made you question if he even cared about what was happening. That was until you felt his pointer and middle finger curl into you. Your eyes widened in shock as you spit your drink out into your glass. 

Everyone at the table directed their attention to you. "You okay?" Ghost questioned, his fingers still in your sensitive region, raising an eyebrow. "Yes. I'm sorry. I just swallowed my drink wrong." Your face slightly pink as you go to set your champagne down. Everyone resumed their conversations. 

You narrowed your eyes at Ghost. "Did you think I wouldn't play along?" He murmured as he drew lazy circles with his fingers. Your eyelids closed briefly, taking in his movements, and then you opened them rapidly, remembering where you were.

You tried to keep your breathing steady as he slid his fingers up and down your swollen clit. You eyed him again as he casually took a sip of whiskey from his glass. 

He leaned into you once again, whispering, "So tight." Before you could reply, he promptly pulled his fingers out, wiping your arousal off on his jeans. 

Your body winced at the loss of his fingers. You recoil at the words that leave your mouth. "Let's leave." His lips quip at the lust in your eyes. He nods, taking one final drink from his glass. 

"We better be on our way." He stands up, and you follow suit, pushing your chair in. "Thanks for coming." Laswell remarks as her and her wife follow you both to the door.

"Are you sure you can't stay longer?" Her wife begs. "I wish we could. Got a long day tomorrow." You say, nudging Ghost out the door. You both say your goodbyes to everyone and step out the door. You are all but running to the car. 

Once you enter your house, Ghost's hands instantly wrap around your waist, smashing his lips into yours. He threads his fingers through your hair to deepen the kiss. You let out a moan as he nips at your lower lip, seeking entrance. 

He roughly backs you up against the wall. "Surprised you didn't leave a spot on Laswell's chair from how fuckin' wet you were." He murmurs against your neck. You let out a quiet whimper. "Fuck. And those little noises you make." He presses wet, sloppy kisses on your neck. He grabs one of your hands and places it on the growing bulge forming in his jeans. "Make me so fuckin' hard." You catch his mouth in another deep kiss. "I need you. Right now." He groans.

He grabs ahold of the back of your ass and picks you up; you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist. He almost breaks a lamp, a picture frame, and a flower pot on his way to your shared room. 

Once you make it to your shared room, he gently sits on the edge of the bed as you straddle his lap and thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. He slips one hand under your sweater and gently grazes your nipple through your lace bra. You moan into his mouth, which causes his dick to twitch. 

His hand skims down your waist until it reaches the hem of your sweater. His fingers curl under the hem and swiftly pull the thick fabric over your head. Once the material passes your lips, he instantaneously reconnects his lips to yours. 

You start to unbutton each of the buttons on his shirt, quickly pulling it off his body. He bends down to connect his lips to your collarbone, slowly moving around your chest as you thread your fingers through his light hair. 

As he plants slow kisses on your chest, one of his hands reaches behind your body and unsnaps your bra, making your breasts fall out, which he is quick to capture with his hot mouth. "Fuck." You whine. 

He picks you up once again and positions you on your back. "Take that pretty little skirt off fer'me." He eyes you as your finger gently sweeps down your body, slowly circling your nipple. 

"Stop teasing..." He warns. You seductively grin at him as your fingers reach your skirt, slipping it off your legs. "That's not fair.." You say. He cocks a brow. "You still have your pants on.." He slightly grins as he undoes his belt and slips off his pants and boxers, causing his erect cock to spring out. "Better?" He questions, stepping in between your legs. "Mhmm."

He pushes you back on the bed and lays on top of you. You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him deeply, your teeth scratching his own, and your fingers reaching for his cock. "Greedy one you are.." He whispers into your mouth.

He gently slips his cock into your wet cunt. "Fuck. You are tight." He grits. He slowly moves in and out of you, causing you to moan and him to grunt. Right as he finds a comfortable pace, the sound of a phone ringing bounces off the walls.

He peers over to look at his phone. "Fuckin' Price." He grunts. You wrap your arms tighter around his neck. "Call him back later. Don't stop." You whine into his ear. "Wouldn't think about it." His pace fastens as he reaches over to grab the phone.

"Captain." He says cooly as if he's not balls deep in you. Your eyes go wide and he gives you a warning glare. He continues pumping in and out of you. 

"Ghost."

"Problem?"

"Nothing too serious. I need to go over the briefing from last week. Do you have time?"

"Sure." 

Price recounts the last briefing to Ghost as you try your best not to make any noise as his cock pounds into you.

You cover your mouth as Ghost brings his finger to your aching clit and begins rubbing soft circles. The friction causes you to let out a soft moan. "Quiet." He drawls. "Or I'll stop."

"Everything okay, Lt?" Price questions.

"Fine. Continue."

Price continues talking as you feel your peak nearing. "Simon..I'm going to.." You choke out. His pace is picking up. "Come.." He commands quietly.

With that, you both come, and Price finishes talking as if right on cue. 

"Thanks for the heads up, Price." He breathes out, hanging up. 

"I can't believe we just had sex with Price on the phone." You say, out of breath.

"Don't act like you didn't like it." He gestures to your arousal covering his cock and dripping onto the sheets. "Because, clearly, you did like having an audience." 

You slowly get up and head for the bathroom. As you’re in there, you hear Ghost yell, “Don't forget you still lost the bet." 

"Technically, we left at the same time."

"That's not how it works."

"Then, pray tell, how does it work?"

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[sweetnothingtm]

Can you write biker fem reader x ghost or könig?

okay wait - i had an idea that you ask simon how to ride and his only response is that "if you wanna learn how to ride, you gotta practice on me first" 🤗 🥵️

does this appease the people?!? i'm literally kicking my feet and giggling about biker!simon

[robinsdearest]

What some circumstance stole

Jason Todd x Reader

(idea brought to you by "Orpheus" by Vincent Lima)

What does a human do at the feet of a god?

As a child, he had spat at the withered man’s feet. Granted, Jason was eight when he first met Hades. 

The throne room was small, no bigger than the apartment he shared with his mother. The throne seemed so large in comparison, almost as if it weren’t made to be there. There were cracked and crumbling columns on either side of it, and two more barely standing behind him. Jason felt a little claustrophobic- there was more breathing room in an alleyway. 

So many questions had run through his head, but he knew where we was. He remembered counting a few sets of ribs just that morning; he didn’t remember the last time he had eaten something, or the last time he had seen his mother. 

Jason was a smart kid. But just a kid: he didn’t understand why he had died but she hadn’t. 

A swirling mist descended from the ceiling, materializing into the form of a body on the throne. The form seemed much larger than the average human. 

“Kneel before the King of the Underworld.” A voice boomed from seemingly all directions, but Jason stood tall. He was a thief and a street rat. His mother was a drug addict and had not rightfully taught him manners. He would not be bullied. 

The being stared at Jason, and Jason stared right back. More smoke drifted around the body, a man fully emerging from the shadows of it. He had appeared much older than Jason, nearly ninety years old. He had red eyes that gleamed like the rubies Jason had read about in books from the dumpsters. 

The man, or the King as he called himself, would not budge. He was probably waiting for Jason’s compliance. 

The King would have anything but compliance. 

“Send me back.” Jason demanded. 

“You starved, boy.” His voice croaked and creaked with age, and it grated against Jason’s sensitive ears. “A promised soul does not get sent back.”

Jason scoffed. “I could have lasted another day or two. I would have gotten something from the old lady across the hall.”

The old man tutted, standing to his full height. Jason had seen the Batmobile a few days ago in the alley, and this thing was definitely larger than that. As the man moved, the scent of decay and death rushed through Jason’s small nose. It smelled better than his mother’s apartment, he knew for sure. 

“Do you know who I am?”

Jason crossed his arms. All those other adults in the slums of Gotham had tried to get Jason to answers questions like that, tried to make him look stupid. He never answered them, and he wasn’t about to answer this guy. It didn’t matter though, because the man seemed more amused than anything.

“My name is Hades: Ruler of the Dead, eldest son of Kronus, the Rich One, the King-“

“I don’t care.” Jason interrupted in utter defiance. “It doesn’t matter who you are.”

Hades chuckled to himself and murmured a few words too low for Jason’s ears to hear. Rather, he heard a hissing noise from behind him. He turned in circles to try and find the source, but the marble floor was only filled with smoke, dense and gray. The noise grew louder as Hades walked closer to him. Jason would always stand his ground. He would always fight if given the chance. 

“Answer my riddle, boy.”

“Jason.” He corrected, indignant until the very end. 

“Jason.” The old man parroted and then smiled. A grotesque thing: a gummy mouth with few yellow teeth. “Some will hide, others will cheat. I can be of pride, or I can be of defeat. What am I?” 

The hissing noise seemed to creep along his spine, a slick bug crawling along his skin. Jason tried to swat at it while Hades loomed over him, watching with his ruby eyes. Jason refused to cower, refused to give in. 

“You’re Death.” Jason announced with a deep-seated courage. He was Jason Todd, and he would not be afraid. 

Hades smiled again, the yellow of his teeth becoming more prominent while hair fell from his scalp. “That I am.” 

More smoke descended from the ceiling, wispy and thin, this time only surrounding Jason. An icy cold washed over his body, threading through the skin between his fingers, like someone holding his hand in a winter night. The hissing and the bug disappeared, and the smoke blurred his vision until he only saw Hades before him. 

“I will see you again soon, Jason.” Hades’ voice boomed, a thunder clap and a lightning crash, and Jason was swallowed by the mist. 

____________________________________

What would a human do at the feet of a god for the second time?

As a teenager, he folded into himself and waited to wake up. Jason was fifteen; his sixteenth birthday wouldn’t have been too far away from this second death. He knew he was still a kid- the Joker had told him plenty of times behind a crowbar. 

He was still seated upright against a wall, arm slung over his eyes. He brought his knees to his chest, cradling his body while the shaking of his bones subsided. 

The throne room was bigger somehow, shaped like a crumbling warehouse with onyx columns and ivy plants stretched thin across the walls. The old man sitting on the throne was smaller now, as if more of his muscle mass had deteriorated. He was now more bones than body. Jason recalled the many names the man gave himself, the riddle he answered as an eight-year-old. It didn’t matter where he was, who he was with. Bruce was going to get him from here. 

Right? 

“Do you remember me, boy?” The man asked. 

“Jason.” He corrected in a small voice he failed to recognize as his own. His eight-year-old self had more courage than his present self. He had no more courage left to give. 

“I have no riddles for you this time, Jason.” 

Jason nodded his head. His bones ached, his entire body still thrumming with aftershock. His throat was sore from screaming, asking for forgiveness he might not have deserved. Tears stung at his eyes as he tried to blink them away. He hadn’t cried once during his time in that warehouse. Now, sitting on the cold marble floor of the Underworld, Jason was more embarrassed than anything with a sickening realization. 

Bruce wasn’t coming at all. Bruce never made it to the warehouse in the twelve hours the Joker had held him. Some detective, that bat. He didn’t care about Jason, just as his mother hadn’t cared. He was a thief and a street rat; he didn’t deserve that kindness, that love. 

Jason let out a long sigh. He knocked his head back against the wall to stare above him. There wasn’t a ceiling, but a silent, star-filled sky resting above his head. The columns disappeared into the inky night, fading away into the blackness such as death does. 

By this time, he remembered the story of the Greek Gods from Diana, remembered where dead souls wander to. 

He had broken each of the bones in his right arm, his collarbone, and his shoulder blade in a fall during a mission. The fourth time Jason was caught trying to sneak out of the mansion while Bruce was on patrol, Alfred had called in red, white, and lasso reinforcements. Diana had sat with him for the next few weeks describing the stories and history of Greek Mythology. She brought her sidekick, a small aspiring hero created in the same way Diana was created: formed of beach clay and brought to life by Zeus. Hippolyta had wanted a child, and so Diana also wished the same. You were small and frail, but you looked at Diana like she had hung the moon, and you looked at Jason like he had drawn the stars. 

Diana told the two of you that the gods were in fact real. She emphasized the importance of the gods and their jobs, how they interacted with mortals, how they dealt with them. She told the stories of the Harpies and the Fates, the trials of the demigods, and even the bards of the Argonauts, led by his namesake and the descendent of Hermes, Jason. 

You had hated the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. A death no one prepared for and how Orpheus failed his test; the gods playing with the lives of mortals they didn’t care about. 

“It’s not fair that for all their love they still failed at the end. I thought stories were meant to have happy endings?”

Jason had huffed out a breath. “Not everyone gets a happy ending.” You chucked a water bottle at his head in response. 

Diana had a soft look on her face as she patted your head. “To love is to look, young ones. Orpheus loved Eurydice so much he lost her. It is not a happy ending, but a warning to those who would follow in the footsteps that Orpheus made. He was never going to win.”

Diana refused to tell him if the tales of heroes and demigods were true. 

Jason blinked, the star-studded ceiling coming back into focus. He rubbed the tears away from his face with the back of his hand. The room smelt of jasmine and siena-colored earth, much more comforting than last time. 

He forced himself to stand. He’d just get this over with, go shake Hades’ hand and accept his death or whatever the god wanted. He was tired. Too tired.

Hades still sat on his throne, a solid black seat that reached into the mist above. Two hellhounds sat on either side of the god, both watching Jason’s every movement. Hades held out a hand, beckoning Jason to come forward. Black mist poured out from behind the throne, the smell of it overwhelming with rotting fruit. 

Jason took a single step before halting. A green mist, viscous and murky, sprouted from beneath his feet, the smell of briny water pouring with it. He spun in a circle, his mind racing. Was this one of Hades’ tricks? He didn’t want to play any of the god’s games. His head whipped towards Hades, whose face mirrored his own confusion. Jason tried to take another step but couldn’t. He could feel something along his back: not a bug but a tether, some type of chain attached to the middle of his spine that stopped him from moving forward. 

The green mist quickly clouded his vision, climbing up his body and painting everything in an emerald hue. Jason watched as Hades stood from his throne and thrust a hand forward. The black mist and the hellhounds raced forward in a feeble attempt to grab Jason. He was too far away from the throne for it to matter. A warm breeze swept against the scruff of his neck, the feeling of someone calling his name, calling him back. 

Something had grabbed on to the chain and yanked. His body folded in on itself, the tether to his spine wrenching him backward. Jason went flying through the air, pulled sideways and up and down, and Hades could do nothing but watch as his prize was taken from him. 

Bruce hadn’t come to save him then. But something else had snatched Jason from the hands of Death, and Death would neither forgive nor forget. 

____________________________________

What would a human do at the feet of a god for the third time?

As an adult, he would beg, if need be. He was now twenty-six. Matured, stronger, wiser than the previous times standing before the lone throne of the empty room. 

The room was larger than he remembered, deeper and more menacing. The onyx columns surrounding him were twice as thick as he was now. The ceiling was still a starry night sky, the throne still thrusted itself upward, not breaking the inky picture. And instead of an old man sitting on the throne, Death appeared to him as a ghastly skeleton clothed in tattered robes. 

“You come before me now, Jason? After years apart, you wish to stand here of your own free will?” Hades clicked his tongue, or whatever the skeleton kept in his mouth. “That’s not like you at all.” 

Jason had escaped Hades twice before. He would do whatever Hades asked of him this time. 

Jason shook his head. “I’m not here for my soul.” 

“Whose soul would you like to bargain for then?”

Jason didn’t hesitate before saying your name. The second it left his lips, the King of the Underworld smiled. A genuine smile, as if your name was funny to him. As if this moment was going to be amusing. Nothing about losing you from the Land of the Living was amusing. Nothing. This third time, it wasn’t his soul that needed saving. It was yours. 

Yours: child to Diana, fellow hero, fellow friend. And you were so much more than that. Brilliant, beautiful, steadfast, passionate, selfless, and helpful. Sunlight personified. A friend to all and stranger to none. Taken, stolen from this life as if you weren’t the most important in Jason’s. 

He didn’t get the chance to say goodbye to you, he didn’t get the chance to tell you how much you truly meant to him. 

You had been friends since you were pulled into his room with Diana. Diana and Bruce’s friendship meant the two of you would always be seen together, but it was more than that. 

You were the calm to Jason’s storm, you mellowed him out in ways he never dreamed anyone could. The two of you worked seamlessly together on missions, where he failed you succeeded, the perfect dynamic duo. 

Dick had joked several times how in a room full of people, you would only smile at Jason.  

Jason would tell you that he was sorry more than was needed, he would fix this. You were coming home, sweet home, and he swore home had never been so sweet before you. 

He had begged Diana for a traditional obol, an Ancient Greek silver coin used as payment to cross into the Underworld. You were already buried with one, but Jason needed his own. He needed to bribe the ferryman, yet Diana had told Jason it wasn’t worth it. 

“You do not play games with Fate, and you most certainly do not play games with a god.” She had said. 

She refused to hand it to him. He wanted to yell, to scream at Diana for not wanting to do anything to get her child back. Maybe she knew better than to fight this way; maybe she knew better than to play games with your soul. 

It was a good thing he used to be a thief and a street rat. You’d probably never forgive him for this, but he had to try. He stole the obol the day of your funeral. He wouldn’t attend something he could make right. He would bring you back. 

“A mission gone wrong,” every other hero seemed to call it. Everyone except for Jason. 

He felt the weight on his shoulders, forced to carry the burden of your death, a mirror image of Atlas holding the world and the heavens. A story made real. Bruce and Diana told him it wasn’t his fault, but Jason couldn’t shake the guilt.

If only he had been stronger, faster, more proactive rather than reactive. If he weren’t a loose cannon and had been more reliant on waiting, more patient. If you hadn’t taken that shot that would have been placed directly over his heart. If only you weren’t something some unfortunate circumstance stole. 

You had told Jason for years how important he was, how his life, his soul, had purpose and meaning. You showed Jason all the kindness and love he didn’t think he deserved. The look of hope in your eyes as you tried to convince him. He had just started to believe you. 

In those final moments, you acted as if his life were more important than yours. You wasted your last breaths telling Jason that you were in love with him, always had been. It wasn’t fair you didn’t last long enough to hear him tell you the same. 

And Jason would soon rectify that mistake. 

“What do you wish to bargain?” Hades’ smile seemed to grow more menacing, as if he was expecting Jason to offer his own soul as a trade. 

You had hated the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. The dedication of his love, the hubris of believing he had won, the failure of his one goal. The loss of trust that Eurydice was behind him. The panic that ensued- what if it were a lie? Is it true ‘to love is to look’?

Would he make the same mistake for you? He’d like to believe not. There was no doubt that Orpheus loved Eurydice; he loved her so much he lost her. But Jason hadn’t been given the time to show you that same love. He lost you before he could love you.

Grief was a terrible, funny thing. 

“I request Orpheus’ trial.”

The smile instantly vanished from the god’s face. The withering sack of bones pointed a finger at Jason, no muscles or tendons, just a sapphire ring that sucked in the surrounding light. 

“Fool.” The slithering voice was both booming and soft, old and young, singular and many voices at once. A god who had lived for thousands of millennia. Was Death itself. Jason might have forgotten that fact until now. “It is not a trial but a blessing. Do you believe that you, a mortal, could bear the weight of a god’s blessing that so few demigod’s have managed to achieve- winning against me?” 

“Well, maybe being a demigod was their downfall to begin with.” 

The hissing air might have been a laugh, it could have been a chastisement. 

The two stared at one another for what felt like eons. A flash of the memory of eight-year-old Jason also staring down the god. Jason’s resolve was concrete, he would not back down, he would not be afraid. You were taken from him too soon, too early. He would fight for you. He would do anything for you. 

The resolve must have shown in his face. Hades rapped his fingers against the arm of the throne, contemplating, thinking. Jason wouldn’t put it past the god to be scheming. 

“I shall grant you the trial of Orpheus. Make it to the Land of the Living without looking, and I shall restore to you what was taken. You have my word that no harm will come to your loved one while you walk the path. This oath I swear.” Hades smiled at Jason again, this one not as genuine. Ruby eyes sunken into a gray and brown skull, rotting teeth coated in grime and misery. Gold flecks could be seen between the gaps, as if the creature couldn’t help but dine in the assumption of his wealth. 

No questions, no more bargaining, and no other promises. And so Jason turned and began walking. 

It was easy, at first. He knew that you were there. He knew there was no other option.

He trusted that you were there, but he still pleaded with any deity that would listen just in case.

What had Diana told him years ago? Orpheus was never meant to win? He wouldn’t allow history to repeat itself. Diana was wrong. To love you was to save you, to fight his urge to look. He would not look.

But, he had to make sure; Jason shouted your name. His voice bounced off the walls- the only answer was the echo of his voice. He hoped that you could hear him. Jason shouted your name again. He hoped that you would just say something to ease his racing heart. Yet he was met with silence. 

He trusted that you were there, but you never responded. He could trust that you were there.

Right? 

What if it were a lie? What if your soul couldn’t be fought for? What if the trial was to look, to follow Orpheus’ footsteps? What if Hades had tricked him and you were- no. Jason remembered the story Diana had told him. Hades had sworn an oath that no harm would come to Eurydice. It was Orpheus’ fault for not staying the course. Jason would do it. He would stay the course and not look back for you. 

If only you would respond to him. 

Why weren’t you responding to him? 

Could you not speak? Had Hades done something to you? Had the god hurt you- tortured you? Jason remembered his own torture all those years ago, and his blood ran cold. 

The panic was rising faster, harder, more incessant now. Jason finally understood Orpheus. He finally understood the hopelessness of not knowing, of needing to ensure your presence. Just to be sure. 

To love you was to look. He could ruin his resolve to be sure. 

No. 

It felt like days, weeks, as he walked forward. His resolve was concrete. He had spat at the feet of a god and had escaped Death before. He could do this for you. 

Sunlight peaked out from the mouth opening. He heard rocks falling as if someone had tripped. He gritted his teeth. 

Jason kept walking. 

Jason stood on the green grass, the proof of the Land of the Living. The sun was beautiful- it was setting, your favorite time of day. He knew you would be thrilled to see it. But Jason would not turn. Both of you needed to be out of the Underworld for this to work. He took a few more steps, distancing himself from the cave, and he would wait for you to stand next to him. He had to take every precaution. 

So Jason waited. Tears coated his cheeks as a soft wind twirled around him. He pictured the life he would give you, how he would love you every day for the rest of his life. His vows to protect you would never be broken. He needed this torment to be over, he needed to hold you, to kiss you, to give you the time to be loved by him. 

A hand softly brushed across his neck. The light breeze brought your smell to his nose- perfect and alive and- Jason had never been happier. He would tell you every day how happy he was. He would buy you anything, say anything, do anything- 

He finally- finally- turned around to see your face, tears blocking most of his vision. 

But you were not there. 

Jason’s head swiveled from the Land of the Living to the cave to the Underworld. There were only his footprints. He had waited. He did not look back once. He had done what was asked and now-

Howling laughter echoed from the cave to the Underworld. As if a hundred crows were cackling at him and his failure. A black mist crawled along the cave floor. It inched past the mouth and into the grass. Where the smoke touched, grass died and a trail of brown made its way towards Jason. As the mist gathered in mass across the walls of the cave and onto the ceiling, two glowing red eyes could be seen. Jason could just barely make out the silhouette outline of the death god. 

“Liar!” Jason bellowed. He reached for a gun holster that was not there. “You swore an oath!” He would tear Hades to pieces- no matter if he were a god, this creature would be mauled by his bare hands. 

“You thought you were clever all those years ago. Escaping the death that was rightfully mine to take. Now, I will keep the soul you thought was rightfully yours. Forever now promised to me.” Hades taunted. 

Jason raced forward to the cave. The mist receded with each of his thundering steps. Hades was mocking him. Hades had tricked Jason just as he thought the bird had done so many years ago. 

“A walk from the depths of a world down below, in which you failed. You escaped me years ago, boy. Even if you had looked, you would have failed.” A yellow smile broke through the smoke, the red eyes glinting in the setting sun. “Give Diana and Bruce my blessings.” Then Hades disappeared. Jason pushed himself harder, ran faster. 

Your silhouette could be seen through the mist, your hand reaching out to Jason’s as he dove for you. He would grab you and take you far away and- 

Jason slammed into a wall of rock as the cave was sealed before him. He pounded his fists, screaming until his voice gave out. 

Jason bloodied his hands as he continued to hammer on the rock, praying to his strength that he would break through. It wasn’t fair- Jason knew the gods did not play fair, but they had rules. A god would not break their oaths by committing perjury. Hades believed he had righted a wrong done on to him all those years ago when Jason was brought back to life from the Lazarus Pit. Your soul for his was not a fair trade.

You were kind, and good, and everything Jason wasn’t. You had loved him for years, mourned him during his death, and welcomed him after his rebirth. You brought the sun and the moon and the stars to him, how your love for him was sacred and needed to be explored. You accepted all of him and made him a better human. The mere human that he was. 

Jason slid to his knees before the rock, blood pooling as his aching fists rested on the grass. His lungs were on fire, his breaths coming in short spurts. The air smelt of burnt sugar, like nitroglycerin waiting to explode. His head emptied out all thoughts besides you. His blood was mixed with electricity, the adrenaline- the anger- still pumping through his system. 

He was a human, not a demigod. 

Jason no longer cared what a human would do at the feet of a god. 

Jason had escaped Death twice before. He had completed Orpheus’ trial, had walked the entire route from the Land of the Dead to the Living without looking back. To love was not to look, but to fight. He fought for you, he would always fight for you. He was just a human, but he would do anything to get you back. His resolve was concrete. But now? His resolve was steel. 

That anger pumped harder. Jason was wrath, he was fury. 

What will a god do at the feet of wrath and fury?

[regular-gnome]

How did you get into owl house and the titan/archivists story in general?

Pretty normal way I think, I knew about TOH from some art and as dumb as it sounds the one thing that convinced me to watch the show is how irises in eyes are drawn. Set in like inactual eyes, not just on top of the eye

the titan archivist story is a bit more random. I love environmental storytelling, so figuring out stories from backgrounds, overanalyzing shots, and implications of things are my jam. Later on tumblr I saw a short fic of end of the war about Collector confused walking next to the sea as it began to boil, with structures crashing into the water that kinda made me do more fanart around the titans and archivists. That spiralled into spamming ma freindo with theories and them cursing me with hyperfixation about this part of the lore. Some asks gave me ideas for short comics and concepts that evolved into writing down au and here we are, my sketchbook is pretty monotematic these days

[goddammiteverythingstaken]

so stranger things has been scratching my brain again. Surprise surprise. Anyway does anybody have any fics where Mike is just like REALLY gay panicking over will

[riiviir]

Terrible, horrible, angsty idea that has not left my brain:

Yk how you can get narinder from the mystic seller if you don't spare him?

imagine the lamb refuses to be sacrificed and then narinder later on gets to bring the lamb back from the mystic seller, and at first he's ofc like "they tried to usurp me why would I bring them back" but then he brings them back anyways because he's lonely

meanwhile the lamb, an unwilling sacrifice who has, as far as their memory is concerned, just experienced a death that is debatably the most traumatic death they've ever experienced, is very unhappy and the angst is just immaculate

please send me asks about this I'm begging you

[arenabreadandbiscuits]

What Phobias do you headcanon, Vox , Lucifer and Alastor have.

I myself headcanon

Lucifer has a phobia of Heights

Vox has a Phobia of Spiders.

Alastor has a Phobia of Dogs

Phobia Headcanons

Vox - scoptophobia (the fear of being stared at), pathophobia (fear of disease), mysophobia (fear of dirt and germs)

Lucifer - Ataxophobia (fear of disorder or untidiness, Atelophobia (fear of imperfection), and atychiphobia (feel of failure)

Alastor - philematopphobia (the fear of kissing) and/or philophobia (the fear of love) bonus points for Aphenphosmphobia (the fear of being touched)

I think it was canon that Alastor doesn't vibe with dogs. Either that or a headcanon in the fandom that got big but it makes sense so I can get behind it. Of course there's the intimacy issues he has so I listed those here.

~

Lucifer carries a lot of stress on his shoulders trying to take care of Charlie but he has such a history that of course he worries from time to time if he could have done things slightly differently to help his daughter more. That plus he hates his own perfections but he also hates seeing them in others when it holds people back from their potential. He was the "number one fuck up", he doesn't want his daughter to accidentally follow similar thoughts that could mess her up later. He's always so worried about it honestly..

Vox has a reputation and I've mentioned before in posts that he's definitely sold himself out before just to get things he really wanted. I feel like him being a germaphobe is interesting. Like he likes to keep clean and tidy especially for TV so he dislikes when he's not. A good example of the not liking to be stared at part would be him having one of those nightmares where people go to school naked or little clothes. Like yes he's a business man but imagine like Valentino tries to dress Vox in things before he's fully ready and he gets mad because everyone has seen him dressed professionally, what will they say and think of he changes that even to just put on lingerie? Or something silly like that..

Most likely he views himself too differently in his head when he does have to do those things.

(he'd do it for Alastor in private).

Considering Alastor's sexuality and considering the fact that I myself am on the aspectrum, I feel like these fears we share. It takes a lot of energy and care to be close to people in such a way and every time it threatens to pop up he tends to freeze up. It's a dreadful feeling for him whether that be for how much his dislikes it or the fact that love has and seems to always will be something Alastor will never grasp. Meant to live an eternity alone to rot. In the ships I put him in he's capable of finally being comfortable with SOMEONE enough to truly be himself.

[damfangirl08]

Im still working on the little legend and Mask fic (still undecided on the name of little legend put Wind wants to call him pinky) (Pinky does not like being called Pinky) but there is a lot of school things going on both for me and my beta reader so it will take some time but I appriciate any asks about it if anyone has any suggestions or questions!

[kakusu-shipping]

Wait I almost completely forgot I had a dream the other night that I got an Anon Hate message that claimed to be Koro-Sensei saying he would never love me due to the Proshipping thing and I just remember replying with a 20 bullet point list of How to Spot a Fake Koro-Sensei, as reviewed by Koro-Sensei.

Was a little sad to wake up and find the ask wasn't real.

[eldritchmochi]

Hey Mochi! I'm writing my first smut fic (my dnd party has a romance going on and its consumed my thoughts so drastic actions are being taken). Do you have any tips or tricks? You're writing in coping skills specifically is just so so good in sex scenes and I'm curious if theres anything you've noted helps when writing that sort of thing

MANY TIPS except maybe not actually ive been doing this for so long that a lot of it is second nature and also a LOT of it is just... normal ass writing advice lol

but for ur consideration:

🔥 HOT TIP #1: dont be afraid to use ur characters names. similarly dont be afraid to use the same word for other nouns, like body parts, tools, etc. it is a lot easier to keep things clear and flowing when you, as the writer, arent trying to use a synonym for everything, so that your readers don't have to do math lady meme faces trying to figure out what limb is whose

🔥 HOT TIP #2: this is hard for a lot of people i know that i am a weirdo who basically transcribes video when writing, but the better you can visualize whats going on in ur scene, the more effective your description of movement and interaction will be, ESPECIALLY with stuff in close contact like smut (or fight scenes, or dancing, and so on).

🔥 HOT TIP #2a: if you are in a situation where you can comfortably just.... watch porn, i highly recommend this, not only to help visualize how bodies act and move during sex, but to broaden ur scope of sex acts. i spend an absolutely wild amount of time watching teaser clips of all sorts from indie models on twitter and my ph algo is absolutely *fucked* lmao. same as visual artists should use reference as needed for their art, so should writers, and ur not gonna be able to write *everything* from personal experience

u can also absolutely use other smutty mediums for reference, like comics or illustrations, photographs, or yeah writing, but if you are not a particularly visual thinker, having some sort of specifically visual reference to base stuff off can be very helpful, from what some of my writing bros have shared

🔥 HOT TIP #3: vocab is really *really* important in smut. i have Opinions on words for junk and jizz and all that, but when it comes to writing, the words you use *gotta* match your characters voice. its super subjective, especially in fanfic, and can definitely be fluid depending on the situation, but it has to be consistent with your characterization across the board, with strong internal logic

equally important are the words you *don't* use--if your pov character is stuck up and nervous and a little prudish like the way i tend to write essek, using euphemisms or otherwise talking around the gross specifics can really emphasize that characterization and lead to really vulgar turns of phrase hitting super hard (ie esseks internal monologue going "caleb could spit in esseks mouth and essek would thank him for it" or whatever it was is incredibly striking because so much of esseks desire is not explicitly voiced)

you can legitimately use any kind of dick+ vocab and make it land when its paired with the right character and situation, though the weirder you go the harder it is to make it work

🔥 HOT TIP #4: write what you find hot. if u write shit u specifically are horny for, it will shine thru and people will go nuts for it. follow ur weird lil heart, have fun with it, yes-and with ur dick in hand and ur smut will be fabulous

[ohitslen]

🌸Trigun fics recommendations🌸

Links are attached!🌈✨

Dropping the fics I’ve read so far in my free time with summary and all that :) [in no specific order] oh and these are almost all Vashwood so brace yourself for that. I did put a warning in my description

‼️Be aware that most of these take place in Trimax so spoilers are a given‼️ it’s up to you to read the tags to have a better idea of its contents im just here to provide the list 🫡

1. “Falling stars” by Dozycerberus

“When a set of twins are found wandering the desert without any family in sight, Hopeland Orphanage is the only logical place they would end up.”

One of my personal favorites! If not my favorite. All I have for this one is praises.

2. “Love and it’s decisive pain (sunlight)” by FlowerCitti

“He hears a rumbling laugh, like the wisps of cigarette smoke and the crack of the first shot in a gunfight, like the pleasant sting of whiskey in his throat— “I take it that he was looking for you, huh?” A voice rasps from behind him, and everything in Vash feels like it comes to a halt. He knows that voice.”

Reincarnation fic (you will see a lot of these) that I willingly let destroy me. You will also see lots of Flower’s works here, they are great at hurt/comfort trust me.

3. “Donuts are one way to the heart, the other one is with a knife” by Dezace

Another favorite author of mine that you will see more works of on this list.

Vashwood antics, them being sweet and a angst sprinkled here and there.

This is actually a collection of works that I definitely could list individually but this list is way too long for that— so, feel free to check it out! How vague I know OAJSKW

4. “Tell me why your hands are cold (show me how)” by desertblooms

“Wolfwood eases him back down into the bed. Runs a hand through his own hair, digging his nails in just to feel the burn because he’s seriously starting to think he’s bitten off more than he can chew. “You idiot,” he breathes into the open air, “I’m goin’ to kill you when you wake up.” If the sickness doesn’t get to him first. But that thought goes unspoken.”

Sick fic you know how it is. “I need you” absolutely life changing.

5. “Forgive me father for I have sinned-Wolfwood (P.S. He isn’t sorry at all)” by Dezace

““I want to fuck a priest.”

“A good one?”

"Yes."

“I understand.”

“Good, good.” (Or: Vash and Wolfwood are fucking thirsty for each other and everyone suffers(Except Meryl, she has popcorn ready))”

Crack fic! Because it’s needed after you’re drenched in angst. I know what you read. You’ll appreciate a cackle or two.

6. “Bendición ” by varilien

“Having been dating for as long as they have, Wolfwood's known that it was only a matter of time before Vash popped the "do you want to meet my mom?" question, although admittedly he was hoping he could put it off a little longer.”

Modern setting in where Wolfwood meets Rem (she’s alive so that’s always a plus), and it’s so sweet and it’s pure fluff. That’s all.

7. “Bag of bones” by chaiku

“Not only was he fucked up physically, but he fucked up in front of Vash of all people. He was the last person in the world that Wolfwood wanted to see him like that: broken and helpless. And now he would also need to explain it all…His head hurt just from thinking about it.”

Wolfwood being vulnerable. That’s all I’m gonna say to hook you in.

8. “Who’s to say I don’t hold everything in my hands?” by Dezace

“Wolfwood likes to try and figure out Vash the Stampede whenever he had the chance. Traveling with him gives some insight into the man behind the bounty. He doesn't mind what he finds.”

Vash being the smarty pants he is! I love to see it. It’s so lovely I adore it.

9. “To the white of your eye” by Dezace

“Vash doesn't only have scars across his body. Wolfwood finds out and nothing changes.”

Face scar Vash is on.the.table. You’ll notice a trend in Dezace’s work of how WW is down bad for Vash no matter what and honestly I can relate to that heavily, we all love Vash.

10. “Hold my body down” by The_IPRE

“You're dead.” Vash's eyes are shiny behind the glasses, unshed tears barely held back. “We waited! We tried to bring you back! I kept them from burying you for as long as I could but you were dead!” Wolfwood lets himself follow the pull on his shirt, leans into Vash’s space to rest their foreheads together. “Guess I’m pretty hard to get rid of, huh?”

So basically, WW is all casual about coming back from being “dead” and Vash isn’t. Hurt/comfort mhm.

[floralembarrassment]

hello!! hope you are doing great !!

i was just wondering if you could write some trans james. I only see trans regulus ones and never james. Have a nice day !!

Hello! I am doing very well thank you I hope you are too! I love this request so much, so here you are! Requests and asks always welcome! with love

About James (1/1) (jegulus)

"Did you always know?"

"About James? Oh yes. But he always knew, from the moment he could talk he would tell us, and correct us. Every stranger who would compliment him for being well-behaved, he would look up at me with big eyes and say "mama I'm a boy, tell them they are wrong." Effie reminisced.

"Mum," James said. An attempted caution but all fondness.

Fleamont chuckled as he set down four cups of tea.

"I'm sorry, James I asked," Regulus said thanking Fleamont as he passed him a cup. "It's just- well I know they aren't a very good baseline, but my parents were furious when Sirius... well actually my parents are always furious about Sirius." Regulus laughed lightly.

"It's alright dear," Effie said, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder.

"He's just interested in you son, it's nice," Fleamont said.

"I know dad, it's honestly fine. Just pull back on the embarrassing kid stories please," James said.

"Wait there are embarrassing James stories?" Regulus antagonized, and Effie and Fleamont both laughed as his waggling eyebrows.

"Oh goodness," Effie said, "there are so many, where to begin," Fleamont finished.

"Parents, please behave," James said getting up.

He had been holding Regulus' hand, who didn't let go. As James got up Regulus let his arm be pulled around his head, until he was just one step away from having to pull apart. James turned to look at him, and Regulus met his gaze. Love and joy and something secret but sweet passed silently between them. Then, Regulus kissed James' hand and it was like everything else happening around them fell away for just a moment. As Regulus sat back up and James pulled away with a smile, the spell was broken.

Effie and Fleamont smiled at one another knowingly. They too had a similar magical ability to be looking at one another and forget about everything else. When they looked away, Regulus pretending not to watch but waiting expectantly.

"Do we tell him the story of how James tried to get his nani to teach him to sew so he could make all his skirts into pants?" Effie giggled a bit.

"Or about the time that he only spoke in rhymes because he thought that's how he would become a poet," Fleamont offered.

"Oh my Dad!" James groaned as he walked back in with a plate of biscuits.

But then the three of them burst into laughter. And when James looked at Regulus, at his star, into the stormy grey eyes sparkling now as the sun looked upon it, he couldn't even be bothered by what his parents were saying. Actually as Regulus was laughing and laughing, James realized he never wanted that sound to end.

[rookfeatherrambles]

HELLO ? HELLO ????? YOUR ANGEL THAT CRIES INK AU IS SO GREAT. THE DAMN THING ISNT EVEN PUBLISHED YET AND IT HAS TAKEN OVER MY BRAIN SO MUCH.

LOOK AT HOW GREAT IT IS. HOW DARE YOU MAKE AN AU SO GREAT THAT I HAVE TO MAKE FANART BECAUSE ITS LIVING TOO MUCH IN MY BRAIN. ITS NOT EVEN PAYING RENT.

I shall make more fanart later but for now here. The brainrot is there and it's not leaving.

GOOD GOD!!!! IM PHYSICALLY TRYING NOT TO SCREAM BECAUSE MY ROOMMATE *WILL* THINK I'M BEING MURDERED BUT AAAAAAAA!!!!!!

OHmigohd

You have no idea the joy you have just brought me, holy hell I'm lightheaded

ITS COMING!!!! IT NEEDS A FEW MORE EDITING PASSES BUT ITS COMING!!!

At least the first chapter! Which is so exciting as I haven't written anything I want to KEEP UP WITH in... 2 years?

Lordy look at that Jon! He's cute but ah, that chain is so short! Poor man can't wander his enclosure!

I love him and truthfully, this has made my day because my only great wish is for people to enjoy this fic and go stupid feral over it like I am!!!! Thank you thank you thank you!!!!

[st-el-la-luna]

School is almost done for the year... which means more time for writing... And yet... where is my motivation?

if only someone would come scream at me about my fics or even their own ideas... If only there were an online community of people who could share what they like about what I'm doing so I know what to do more of... If only there were people to share the brain rot with...

if only people would take advantage of my open ask box with anon enabled...