#rip to all the other rotting wips

[daemon-in-my-head]

WIP Whenever

Thank you for the tag @jashonja

Finally got smth that isn't just stick figures, ik the hair nd sht is weird, trust the process skdhsksksms (knowing me, this is by no means an indication of the final product)

Dunno if I'll keep the flower or if I'll just throw gore in there or not... I kinda wanna but also kinda hmmmmm subtlety is fun.

Tagging @aleksxo @defira85 @beecreeper @quacaserous nd anyone else who wants to

Somebody remind me to do the accessories I forgot em... Earings nd rings my beloved

[redrocketpanda]

My besties (@parad0xymoron + @1nchwyrm) were telling me about an Astarion (& Gale mod) which changes Astarion's physique into something without heavily sculpted abs, and then us discussing like why? Why is Astarion so stacked? We had always expected him to be really slender so Astarion-with-abs was a surprise

Is Astarion's physique just another way that Cazador controlled him? Making Astarion slave away year after year to keep himself so ripped, all for Cazador's own enjoyment? (side note: cackling over the image of some kind of vampire crypt gym AU)

And then @1nchwyrm offering such an interpretation of Astarion working out (in the crypt/in the camp) a la Love Island boys style. Making a whole thing out of going to work out, doing a couple of pull ups and then checking to see if anyone's watching him. He can't see himself but he's gonna make damn sure everyone else is looking

[delightfultheoristfox]

Never had a thing

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

I have no clue how this works the thought process was like: since I'm stuck in the worst writing block of my life why don't I start crossposting on Tumblr so it kind of feels like I've accomplished something while the truth is that I haven't been able to complete a WIP in two months? 🫠 I never posted on Tumblr. Is this okay? Anyways, Simon Riley brain rot. That's it. That's the post. Also, you can find this on AO3. 18+

Word count: 10k CW: smutty!!! jealous Simon Riley BECAUSE I honestly crave that. Soft Simon Riley because I crave that as well.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon had groaned like a battered dog when Price gave him the news that he needed to lie low. “Someone in Konni’s got your name” he’d said. “We don’t wanna take any risks. Just for a few weeks.”

He was sure those few weeks would turn into a few bloody months if he didn’t get a move on. For that, he’d hastily packed his things from the poor excuse of a flat the army had granted him, and started looking for a place to stay that wasn’t in Manchester.

Initially, Simon almost fantasized about buying his own flat. Maybe a piece of land and fulfill the wishes of the outcast that he was – living away from people, giving them the same treatment they’ve always given him.

Too bad he was legally dead. He had nothing to his name if not a grave that didn’t even exist, all his possessions were cursed memories and metaphorical things – a rank he didn’t hold, a flat that wasn’t his. Even his name barely pertained to him anymore.

The SAS wasn’t offering any accommodation, the tightwads. He couldn't buy a house, or rent one. He couldn't lean on any of his teammates, or he'd put them in danger – he wouldn't do it, not to them. Taint their lives with his name and the death it inevitably brings.

Price had helped him settle in a glorified motorway hotel. But he wasn’t picky – after all, he only had to stay for a few weeks.

A few days into his exile, he’d entered a Tesco with his head bowed and his hood on, a surgical mask on his face. A pack of Marlboro was all he wanted since the dodgy motel he was staying at (hiding) didn’t care if he smoked within the room. Plus, he reckoned that the smell of nicotine and combustion was a much better alternative to the rancid stench of mold.

However, as he plucked ten quid from his wallet, his eyes absently fell on a bulletin board behind the store clerk. There were tons of leaflets there: missing cats or dogs, people looking for a job or offering one. And then, a bright yellow paper caught his eye. Whoever printed it lacked taste but sure as hell knew how to catch one’s attention. He’d stopped in his tracks, a tenner between two fingers.

DESPERATE!!! PhD STUDENT LOOKING FOR A FLATMATE. NO SPECIFIC GENDER OR AGE AS LONG AS YOU CAN PAY RENT ON TIME. Two-bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator. If interested, please contact this number.

At the end of the flyer, the paper was cut into tear-off strips, so that interested individuals could rip the section with the phone number.

He liked that first word: desperate. He wondered if this person was as desperate as he was. Would they accept a man who wore a balaclava and looked proper sketchy? How desperate were they, really, if he asked to rent on verbal agreement – no contracts, no signatures whatsoever?

He decided he wanted to test that before he died of mold poisoning.

Nevertheless, when he dialed the number on his burner phone a few hours later, he wasn’t expecting the voice coming through the line. A shriek. A goddamn banshee. Chirpy and cheery, sounding like those damn advertisements on the telly for children’s toys. Whoever was on the other side of the phone was trying to sell.

The obnoxiously happy voice he’d heard through the receiver surely did match the person he found at the door of the flat a few days later - and the apartment itself.

It was a splash of colors Simon wasn’t even sure matched, from oranges and greens in the living room to yellows and blues in the kitchen. Walls of the same room were painted differently, and a brown leather couch lay on a round and fluffy turquoise carpet. A glass coffee table stood in the middle of it, hosting a clay vase with orange tulips.

You were a splash of colors yourself. Bright clothes, vibrant smile, and matching eyes.

Notwithstanding the loud energy that came with your presence, he could see you were tense as you guided him through the apartment. Simon didn’t blame you – he wasn’t the most trustworthy-looking lad. While he’d ditched the balaclava and had decided to go for a surgical mask, even hewould walk on eggshells around himself.

“Only a few weeks.” He’d said, deciding that he could withstand the eyesore that was the decor of that flat. “I’ll cover the rent while you find someone more permanent.”

And to his utter surprise, you’d accepted. He thought it was much too naïve of you, to let him rent without a lease. Without a document, without anything to prove that he'd pay as he'd promised in that listless fashion of his. Maybe you were as desperate as your tasteless leaflet said, in that dive of a Tesco.

He moved in in the span of a few days. You helped him with the boxes, although it was clear he didn't need a hand – especially not from a tiny thing like you. Not that you were small, he was just built like a brick house and you – well, you were made of wood, like in those cautionary tales mums tell their children. Pigs and wolves and shite.

You didn’t question why he wore the balaclava, nor why he never left his room, but sometimes you’d knock on his door to ask if he wanted pizza too, since you were ordering. He’d eat it (and any of his other meals really) in the cramped space he'd managed to rent, hosting only a bed, a poor excuse of a closet, and a desk.

Until one day he heard booming noises coming from the telly in the living room, so he peeked from the door he’d left ajar only to be greeted by Tom Cruise’s mug – Top Gun. 

Silently, he joined you on the sofa and he started correcting the way Maverick held the gun or grunting about how an aircraft couldn't make that maneuver. You never asked how he knew, but it had been a few weeks since he’d moved in and he’d already gathered how brilliant you were. You didn’t need to ask questions to connect the dots.

Simon wasn't keen on giving you his phone number, even the one on his burner phone. The paranoid that he was, and with a bit of experience to back it up, he didn't want to leave you with anything that could connect you to him.

So, you started leaving post-it notes on the fridge.

Dinner leftovers on the second rack. He’d tick off the sentence to let you know he’d read it, whether he ate them or not. Simon had this inborn ability to ghost people even without the use of phones.

Tried a new recipe. Tupperware with the blue lid. He’d write a score out of ten on the corner of the note.

I used your milk for breakfast!!! Sorry!!! He had huffed and grumbled when he’d headed out for groceries afterwards, but ever since that day, he started buying two cartons instead of one.

And he'd leave post-it notes for you, too.

Out for a few days. That’s how he would vaguely tell you he was being deployed. You would always draw a sad emoji next to it.

Watered your plants. Bloody things were more dead than alive. You’d mark down a very happy emoji, going as far as to add two poorly drawn thumbs up.

He barely noticed when his meals started happening on the kitchen table instead of his desk. Similarly, he couldn’t recall when he’d stopped taking pains to ensure your mealtimes wouldn’t coincide.

Friday night pizzas were always shared; it was a silent house rule you’d both agreed on. The both of you on the settee with the carton boxes on your thighs, two cold beers on the glass coffee table, and the telly playing a movie.

Your cheeky arse often chose a war film, and Simon had to refrain from rolling his eyes at how obvious you were being – trying to get to know him.

Zero Dark Thirty.

“Is it true you use callsigns?”

“Yes.”

“You have one?”

“Yes.”

“What is it, then?”

“Classified.”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“Negative.”

The hurt locker.

“You ever defused a bomb?”

“Yes.”

“No shit – oh my God. How was it?”

“Dangerous.”

“Why thank you for the chat.”

“No problem.”

“When did it happen? Like, what was the situa-”

“Classified.”

You made a face and mocked his accent. “Classified.”

Apocalypse now.

“You are a bit like Kurtz.”

He gave you a look. “Mental?”

You huffed. “No. I meant the things he says, not the whole insanity bit.”

Simon scoffed but otherwise stayed silent. The film rolled in the background.

He murmured, then. “The horror, the horror.”

And you laughed.

He found it inexplicably easy to strip down for you, until he stood metaphorically naked in front of your eyes. Until he told you his full name and gave you his personal phone number. Until he showed his face.

Until he noticed you'd stopped looking for a flatmate, and his weeks of rent turned into months like he’d initially foreseen, but for another reason entirely. Months turned into years, but he could’ve never predicted anything in his life to last this long.

Until two summers later, while sporting a mundane black surgical mask and casual clothing, he took a photo with you in your doctoral gown, in front of your Uni. The same picture that now hung next to the entryway of your flat.

Until two years became three, and then four.

Until he just kind of… stayed.

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Simon’s day has worn him to the bone. The only thing he wants now is to go home, down a beer in two gulps, and knock himself out on any flat surface available.

He’s risked his fair share of speeding fines on the motorway, parked the car in the building's garage, and trudged up the three flights of stairs that led to his apartment. When he unlocks the door, he finds a sight that melts his frustration into a puddle at his feet.

You’re lying on the sofa, absolutely unbothered, looking lovely and homely. A lousy romcom plays on the telly. One hand is hiding in the crinkling shell of a packet of Walkers, and your other one is curled around the neck of a Stella Artois. Simon gathers that your workday must've finished a little earlier than normal because you’re already in your loungewear: a pair of loose sleeping shorts and a t-shirt he knows all too well.

All too well, because it’s his. 

And he could give you the benefit of the doubt; after all, you often wear oversized clothes. It could’ve been a laundry mishap; you could’ve absently taken it out of the dryer without a second glance, thinking it was yours. But the blatant British Army patch on the sleeve and his surname written in white block letters on the back give him very little to work with to excuse you. He doesn’t even remember he still owned that tee, probably because, factually, he doesn’t anymore.

It's clearly yours, now.

He drops the house keys in the tray lying on the floating shelf next to the doorway, before closing the door behind him. The sound must’ve alerted you, because your head drops backwards, rolling against the armrest of the sofa.

"Evenin'." You beam, looking at his downward image. Your head lolls and your mouth looks busy chewing on a handful of crisps.

Ever the vigilant bastard, he wants to flick your forehead and remind you that chewing upside down could lead to choking, but you aren’t a child. Although, with the crumbs of what smells like salt and vinegar crisps littering the corners of your lips and the baffling, chaotic way your hair is tied in a bun, you sort of look like one.

You curl your legs to leave a free spot for him, patting your foot on the sofa’s cushions. "Wanna join me?"

Simon hums quietly; his eyes flicker over to the TV for just a glance. He isn’t in the mood for a romcom, not at all. But he does want company. He sighs and shrugs off his jacket before toeing off his boots. His balaclava is snatched off by a tired hand, and dropped somewhere he doesn’t care to check. Only two wide steps with his annoyingly long legs and he’s already by the sofa, flopping onto it like a wet rag slapped on the leather cushions.

He eyes the bag of crisps in your hand and raises a questioning eyebrow.

You’ve learned how silent communication works with him because most of the time (especially after particularly hellish days or long deployments) he wanders around the flat like a haunting specter more than a living being.

You mockingly raise your own questioning brow, but alas, you hand him the pack of crisps he’d wordlessly asked for. And just because you can, and because he’s never said anything when you did it, you stretch your legs to rest over his thighs.

That earns you a grumpy side-eye that softens just as quickly when he spots the checkered pink and green socks he gifted you for your graduation.

Simon doesn’t know much about things like that. He isn’t daft, he knows how big it is to earn a PhD. But presents aren’t his thing, nor are the pleasantries built around big achievements.

At the time, he was just tired of seeing you walk barefoot around the flat and thought you needed those more than anything since, apparently, slippers weren’t all the rage in your book. Surely, before his life-changing present, Simon was used to you asking if he’d seen your other slipper while you stumbled about the flat only wearing one on your feet. He’d find them everywhere: under the sofa when vacuuming the carpet, hidden in a groove between the floor and the kitchen counter, forgotten on the washing machine or in the washing machine.

He’d figured that the only way to ensure you’d avoid knocking your pinky toe on the corner of some furniture was to make sure you couldn’t simply drop the footwear. Socks were it, apparently.

He remembers how your eyes had shone like the bleeding sun when he’d given them to you, how you’d clutched them to your chest as if he’d just gifted you a pot of gold. It had been a lovely sight, one he carefully keeps tucked in the almost empty corner of his mind, the one reserved for happy memories.

Nevertheless, Simon has rarely minded your habit of lounging with your calves across his thighs. The opposite, actually. Your friendly sentiments make him feel like, for once, he isn’t about to get stabbed in the back. Moreover, the fact that he is letting you invade his personal space like that, when he never allows anyone else to so much as touch him, truly is a testament to the monumental trust he’s placed in you.

You take a sip from your beer. "Alright?"

“Peachy.” He grumbles dryly.

Your lips purse to conceal a smirk, but hell is it hard. His dry humor never fails to rob a halfhearted smile from you. He has subconsciously started using it more often than socially acceptable just because of that.

You wiggle your toes against his abdomen, trying to steal a smile of his own from him – even if those tend to appear once in a blue moon.

What you are given, however, is only a slap on the ankle.

Catching on his mood, you down one last sip from your Stella and then you wiggle the bottle at him.

"There," you offer. "Seems like you need it more than I do."

He tosses the bag of crisps on the coffee table and accepts the beer from you, taking a rather large gulp from it. He isn’t a light drinker by any means. In his defense, it takes a whole lot of alcohol to knock him out. He has the metabolism of a properly trained soldier and his liver has processed much worse things than a bloody Stella Artois.

“Why are you being particularly friendly today?” He asks with thinly veiled sarcasm.

He isn’t complaining, per se. But he is a pessimist, one who can’t seem to grasp the notion that people can act accommodating without asking anything in return. Even if that has been your only behavior for the past four years.

Therefore, Simon understands why you narrow your eyes at his question, all offended and a tiny bit sour, as if he’s just asked something outrageous. However, he also knows you’ll brush off his comment because it is true, what he said.

You are particularly cheery.

"I'm back in the game." You state, sounding as if you've achieved some great thing. "I have a date next Friday."

That.

That is what Simon needs to hear in order to give you a genuine reaction.

He raises a single blond eyebrow and glances away from the TV to look at you with that signature hooded gaze of his – the kind that could cut through steel.

“A date?” He grumbles. “Who’s the bloke?”

In response, you squirm a little on the couch to lazily reach for your phone on the coffee table. One of your legs swings to keep your balance, and if Simon didn’t have the reflexes of a sniper, you’d have heeled his face. He automatically grabs your ankle to both prevent your fall and save the integrity of his nose, releasing a sigh – bloody used to it.

You're absolutely unaffected by whatever's happening at the other end of you, awfully concentrated on your task at hand. Fingertips graze the phone enough to slide it closer until you finally manage to have it in your grasp. It’s painfully clear how you can’t be bothered to stand.

You lie back down on the sofa with a sigh, as if that has been an exhausting endeavor.

Simon scoffs.

Your legs return to his lap with apt nonchalance. Then, you swipe through your screen. Simon can only see the phone covering your face from that angle, how the screen light illuminates your features – brows furrowed and the tip of your tongue peeking between your teeth, all focused on finding something on it.

After painstakingly long seconds, you turn your phone to him. Simon squints at the screen and then focuses on the picture you’re showing.

The man is… somewhat handsome, he has to admit. Brown hair, blue eyes, charming smile with possibly fake teeth. Definitely older. Probably a boring, pretentious tosser. Probably wouldn’t appreciate your carefree nature. He wouldn’t return your lost slippers at your door. He wouldn’t buy you socks so you’d stop whining about being on the verge of breaking your toes. He definitely wouldn’t let you paint only one wall of the living room orange, because, in your opinion, having all four would be “too flashy” - as if one on its own isn’t obnoxious enough.

He has to admit, however, that you look beyond excited, and maybe a little enamored. It’s an adorable view, really, and he hates himself for being unable to rejoice about it with you.

"Adam." You tell him his name, even if he never asked. "Thirty-nine. Associate professor of Linguistics at the Uni where I graduated. Found him on Bumble.”

Simon has to physically stop himself from giving a scoff in response to that.

“Looks like a knob.” He takes yet another large gulp of beer, finishing the last drop. You frown, and before you can interject, he adds. “Looks old. Tory, probably.”

You roll your eyes and nudge his thigh with the tips of your toes.

"He ain't a Tory." You scoff. That little frown still lingers on your features, carving a small line between your brows, as if he'd personally offended you.

His comment prompts you to turn your phone to yourself and look at the picture of this Adam lad you found on Bumble of all places.

You look back at Simon and his deadpan stare. Then back at Adam and his million-dollar smile.

Your eyes swivel back to Simon again, and you tentatively ask, "You think he's a Tory?"

Simon places the empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. The sound somehow makes you take a metaphorical step back. "Nah. He can't be."

You purse your lips, concentrated and slightly, just slightly amused.

Eyes back to Adam. Then to Simon. "Right?"

Simon looks that ounce of smug enough to be considered annoying once he notices how you’re about to go cross-eyed in changing your focus, all hesitant and that bit concerned. He already knows how you have zero faith in your own judgment of character even if you refuse to make peace with it.

A little too naïve for this world. A tad too innocent. When the topic would come up, you’d get all riled up and primitive in your frustration, muttering indiscernible words and expletives that sound like grunts. Brows all furrowed and pretty lips scowling. He'd remind you how you let him in your flat without a single proof that he wasn't a serial killing sociopath, and your mouth would lock in place.

His hand lands on the curve of your foot, smoothing down towards your ankle; the warmth of his palm bleeds through the fuzzy fabric of your socks. He sighs, a little overdramatic as if he were about to tell you some sad, sad news. "Definitely a Tory.”

You want to reprimand his lack of faith in your choice of men. But his hand on your ankle feels so nice and you’re a sucker for physical contact. Begrudgingly, you settle that your bruised ego and your wounded pride are worth the gentle giant’s warmth.

However, the lingering touch does nothing to discourage your fire, so you glower. The least believable thing he's ever seen.

It takes much more to upset a special forces operator with a series of achievements as long as Simon Riley’s. A doctor with a mop of hair lazily tied in a bun, checkered socks in his lap, and residues of crisps around her lips surely isn’t it.

"Well." You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'll ask him on Friday when we’ll have dinner."

He scoffs.

“You’re gonna bring up politics at dinner on a first date, yeah?” A condescending pat on your ankle. “Sounds really romantic.”

His dry humor again. It wins in its intent to steal a chuckle from you.

The fight leaves as quickly as it entered your bloodstream, and you flop on the couch with a sigh, your phone falling somewhere on the turquoise carpet.

"Gotta make sure I ain't dating a conservative." You quip.

Simon watches you clasp your hands over your belly as it ripples with the first waves of a breathy laugh. You crane your neck forwards, eyes squinting in mirth clocking his own.

"He looks like he’d vote Tory." You concede with a laugh and pinch the air in front of your face. "A tiny bit - just a tiny bit."

“A tiny bit?” He snorts. “Lad probably has a framed photo of Margaret Thatcher in his bedroom.”

You laugh again, rubbing an idle hand over your eyes as you shake your head, utterly defeated. He can see in the way your shoulders sag that he’s shattered the careful castle of hopes and dreams you'd built brick by brick around the man.

"God no." Equally as exasperated as entertained, you sigh. "Can't imagine shagging him with the ol' Iron Lady staring at my tits."

He scoffs again at the mental image you have just provided him with. He doubts he’ll ever forget the picture, to his dismay. “Christ. Didn’t need that in my mind.”

In the afterglow of that belly laugh, you don’t notice how he’s somewhat tightened his grip around your ankle. Simon knows you aren’t one to pay attention to those subtleties. Too focused on other people's well-being to realize when yours is being put first. He can already imagine how your heart is unraveling with the knowledge that you’ve managed to make him quirk a smile, however small, even if his day had been a proper shitshow.

The selfless angel that you are.

You turn your eyes to the ceiling, looking for something that clearly isn’t written on the colorful paint of the walls.

"All jokes aside," you murmur. "I hope it goes well."

Your eyes touch his. There’s a melancholy in yours you only allowed him to see. Thinly veiled vulnerability, heart bare just for his eyes.

"Really need a confidence boost," you say with a wistful smile. "And some love on the side."

He mutters under his breath. “Right.”

Simon tries not to wince at your words and what they imply. He thinks you’re too good to rely on other people (men, above anything) to boost your confidence. As if what he thinks are mouthwatering looks, a striking sense of humor and a brilliant mind aren’t enough to make you feel a peg above everyone else.

He hates that you don’t seem to understand it. Hates that you require other people’s approval even when you have a brain that could put most to shame and a series of achievements to boot.

He hates that despite how sharp you are, you’re slow when it comes to emotional intelligence. And it’s Simon fucking Riley who’s saying it, the most emotionally unavailable man he himself knows. It isn’t that you can’t discern signs and tells, you aren’t stupid by any means, but it’s painfully obvious how you just can’t fathom why people would be attracted to you that way. Thus, you’d always dismiss compliments and advances with annoying levity.

In four years, Simon has witnessed all your relationships wither because your lack of self-confidence made you question everything.

Seemingly aware of the tense air your comment has caused, your cheeky grin makes a comeback just to lift his spirits. You wriggle your foot under his grip to get his attention. "You think he'll like my socks?"

Simon has to admit (finally, at least true to himself) that your tireless search for reassurance about your date isn’t exactly doing wonders for his heart or his sanity.

“He’ll love them, you muppet.” He deadpans.

You chuckle at the comment, and then you relax, thinking the conversation over. Comfortable with your eyes on the telly and your hands clasped over your stomach, that gentle feeling of home and familiarity lulls you into a soft rest.

Simon on the other hand, is anything but relaxed. His jaw clenches involuntarily as if he despises even the mere idea of another man getting to see you like this: lying down, all soft and sweet and sleepy in the fuzzy socks he’s bought you. With his surname plastered on your back, of all things.

His eyes flick to the hand on your ankle. He wants to keep holding on tighter and stop you from leaving altogether. Keep you tethered to that couch without ever needing to stand up.

He could tell you to drop it. He could.

But you’re a grown woman, in her prime, with her doctorate and her big girl job that gives her enough money to start a war of her own but for some reason has never decided to pick up her things and leave that shabby flat she shares with him.

And he is poor with words. Communication is a skill he’s never learned, unless it involves extracting precious intel from skin-trading bastards or bloodthirsty pricks. He surely isn’t going to communicate with you that way, even if it's the only one he knows. The realization makes his lips dip into a scowl of self-hatred for being seemingly unable to keep you.

Simon’s eyes rake over your body – your silhouette concealed by his shirt, softly draped over you like finely carved marble. With natural flow, his hand follows the path traced by his pupils, and very deliberately slides up your leg, towards your knee.

Initially, the movement only prompts you to steal a glance from him. But when your eyes land on that frown, as if he were deep in thought, it feels natural, instinctive, to give him your undivided attention again.

Softly, you ask for the second time that day, "Alright?"

He nearly lets out a huff of laughter. Such a simple question yet so goddamn loaded he’s on the verge of blowing a gasket – his patience wearing thin. 

He locks his eyes with yours, only to snark once more. “Peachy.”

His humor this time isn’t successful in the effort of stealing a smile. In Simon’s defense, he hasn’t used it to make you crack one at all.

You frown, a tiny fracture between your brows. A little confused, mostly concerned. He can see it in your doe eyes, how you’re already miles away – overthinking every minute detail you might have missed during the conversation. You always thought so much Simon had joked, once or twice, that your skull was too small to host all that.

Your eyes shift from his face to his hand. Simon dares to be bolder and slides his palm a little higher. His fingers curl around the plush of your thigh.

"Peachy, eh?" You inquire, clearly suspicious of his antics. "You look far from peachy.”

A low scoff slips past his lips.

He is anything but peachy, he’d give you that. He is anything but sweet, far from it. Bitter, would fit better. Jealous, would fit best. He is downright pissed, but not at you. Never at you. He wishes he were a gifted conversationalist, so he could put into words what the idea of you shoving your tits in the face of some twat is making his hackles rise. He barely entertains the thought of you talking and laughing with him, never mind brushing with the concept of you riding the life out of that bastard. God forbid you brought him over and did all that in your flat – his flat.

He swallows in a piss poor attempt at juggling his feelings. His eyes shift to the TV to further conceal them.

“Just thinkin’ about work is all.” He mutters. Simon can almost hear Soap’s Scottish lilt calling him a “pining sod.”

Oh, but you’re an insistent little thing, aren’t you? Simon can hear the sheer doubt in your tone when you hum in response. The slight changes in the vibration against your frowning lips, the curves in the intonation of that simple, but so very telling sound. He catches each and every one of those details like the guard dog that he is.

In his peripherals, he sees the shifting of your eyes, from his hand to his profile. He sees you take in the crook of his nose, broken a few times (a tough job and a harsh childhood did that to him).  His furrowing brows, light honey, like his hair – all ruffled and staticky from removing his balaclava when he got home.

"Work." You deadpan, but it comes out softer than intended.

His fingers aren’t as sneaky as before when they slide further up your thigh. Simon knows you feel that same electric spark because your quadriceps stiffen under his palm.

“Work,” he affirms, his jaw tight as his hand journeys farther to reach the hem of your shorts. His thumb rubs from side to side over the skin at the edge of the fabric, and Christ, he’s fighting the growing itch to just pull them down.

While the two of you have watched plenty of films on this same sofa, in this same position, Simon has never touched you.

As in, touched you, touched you.

He’s averse to that, to anything that isn’t a noncommittal gesture. This one, however, obviously isn’t.

His hand is so big against your thigh, that plush skin underneath his callouses almost makes him feel guilty. The hardened palm used to disperse death shouldn’t touch such soft things. He feels the peachy fuzz brush against the pads of his fingers, he sees how they leave divots in the meat.

It makes his heart beat a little faster, blood pumping in all the wrong places but his head.

His expression is blank, dull eyes staring straight at the television. However, his mind is not as quelled as he portrays. It’s leading him to a very unholy place, where he wonders if your skin is as soft on your belly as it is on your thigh. Whether you’d whimper or groan if he were to flick his tongue over your breasts. If your eyes would roll back, were he to plunge his fingers deep into your core.

So many ifs he wants to put to the test.

He gently skims where your thigh meets your hip, and Simon swears he hears you gulp. He can tell you’re absolutely blindsided. You've been living with him as your flatmate for four years. Four fucking years, and if he ever tried to give you anything more than his usual snark, he might have been a little too subtle about it.

Simon glances at you, before returning his focus to the telly. One look is all he needs to hear your thoughts as if they were his own – the self-deprecation, the anxiety, that tormenting feeling of not being enough.

How torn you look. Stiff fingers curl around air only to release it right afterwards, fighting an invisible enemy. Let him do what he wants, let his hand slide up your shorts, and find the cotton lace of your panties. Or, pull away and retreat into your safe bubble, where no one can hurt you.

As if he’d ever lay an ill hand on you. All you have to say is “Stop” and he’ll take back his arm – cut it off for good measure.

Your eyes are hooded as they turn to look back at the malleable flesh of your thigh in his hold. His fingers disappear under your shorts until the first knuckle. He brushes along the hem of nice lace undies, feeling the rough fabric under the pads of his fingers.

Your voice is deliciously breathy. "Wha' about work, then?"

Avoidance. Normally, he'd let you. If it were any other situation, he'd brush it off with you. He'd keep up with the chat, coddling you in that safe place you seem too keen on spending time in.

Not now.

His head turns back to you; hungry eyes fixed on the way your mouth parts to yield that soft whisper. It makes his eye twitch, a splinter in his veneer.

“Reckon work can wait,” he rasps.

Simon is hyper-aware of how close he is to your core – a knuckle away from the throbbing heat between your legs. He sees your bowed head, eyes lidded with that primal desire he is instilling in you.

You look as if your brain has turned into soup; the ingredients a mix of shared memories and touches – even the most indifferent, neutral ones. To his utter joy, for the first time in your life, it almost looks like you’ve finally turned off your thoughts.

Your jaw clenches in a desperate attempt to get a grip on yourself. He knows you’re confused; he is too. Because it’s wrong to indulge in intimacy when more than just a friendship is at stake. Money's involved, a roof over your heads, a bed to kip, and food in your bellies – four years of shared everything is involved.

But you agree. You nod your head a little dumbly, and suddenly work can wait. To Simon, the fucking world can.

Your voice is a mumble. "Yeah, guess it can."

“Mhm.”

His gaze flicks up to your eyes, depriving your lips of the attention they were given, and he is delighted to see that you’re just as affected as he is.

Simon's fingers get squished between your thighs when you clench them together. He squeezes, feeling how the flesh rolls between his fingers, how it folds where the stretch marks crinkle.

“Lift your leg up for me,” he rasps.

Breath is stuck in your throat in utter anticipation. Simon knows it's been a long time since you've been touched in any way, shape, or form. You could've gone out and found a man willing to have a shag, it wouldn't have been hard to find someone who needed it too – someone as desperate as you look right now.

After all, that single word is the one that led him to you in the first place.

Yet you never did it. Simon has never seen you bring a man, or a woman, back to the flat. Sometimes you’d disappear with a text, saying you’d be sleeping out, but you never brought anyone home. And he never asked why – mostly, because he thought it wasn’t his business. Another part of him, however, was afraid that if he did, you’d take it as an invitation to do so. Obviously, he wasn’t too keen on the idea.

After giving it little thought, you part your thighs for him. One still rests in his lap while the other dangles off the sofa.

There's very little resolve left in you, Simon can tell by the way your eyes are so focused on his disappearing hand, and by the way you shatter when he experimentally glides one finger over the damp line on your panties.

“Fuck.” You hiss, tilting your head back.

You must want him dead, he thinks, as he gawks at the way your throat curves.

“Christ.” He mutters under his breath. He pushes the pad of his thumb down the cotton, feeling how it sticks to your slit. “Barely touched you.”

He wants to take his sweet time. He does. Wants to take it slow, reduce you to a mess of please and more before he finally gives you what you want. But he’s just as desperate as you are, isn’t he? He’s craving, clawing at the walls, to feel you clamp around him. Feel you drip down his hand until his callouses are coated, slick flowing down the crevices of his palm.

He’s no better than you are, currently.

So, his fingers slip under your panties just enough to touch your folds.

You can't help but tilt your head forwards again, only to look down at the bulge under your shorts created by his hand.

But when your eyes flit back to his, he stops.

Maybe he’s gone too far, he thinks. Maybe you’re realizing this is one hell of a mistake that can only end with you going your separate ways, something he will never forgive himself for.

However, it’s then, that you nod. That worry line between your brows, ever-present, seems gone. Smooth skin between your beautiful, beautiful eyes. And Simon feels whole again, feels wanted. The battered hound dog that he is, only useful for one thing and one thing only – sowing the seeds of death, and reaping them afterwards – is wanted.

Not tolerated. Not required. Wanted. Needed.

He knows your brain is turning its cogs, fighting against the fog of a kind of hunger that can’t be extinguished, one that only wants to be sated – by him, and him only.

Why is he doing this. 

What does it mean.

Is it because of the date you should have the next Friday. 

Is it because he's frustrated at work and you’re simply there, lying on a silver platter.

So many fucking questions it irritates him that, somehow, while his middle finger is tracing lazy patterns to part your folds, you’re still thinking. 

He doesn’t allow a single one to leave your lips, because he plunges one finger inside your cunt.

His first if is answered, then. Your eyes don’t roll back like he’d expected.

Your brows flutter to your forehead, and your mouth parts to form a pretty oval. Your chest swells as if you've just taken the first breath in your entire life. Your eyes, hazy and blurred, hold his own. And somehow, that is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Your leg on his lap is taut and stiff, toes curling under those loud socks you’re wearing.

Simon takes in the sight of you – all flushed and panting. The only sound in the air is the quiet drone of the telly in the background and your sharp inhales.

He can only describe himself in that moment as wrecked. Maybe even more so than you are right now, all rigid in anticipation of his first movements.

“Keep your eyes on me," he growls out, and when you nod, he curls his pad inside of you.

Your fingers seem to mimic his own, but they grip the edge of the sofa’s cushions instead. Your nails scratch at the leather with such voracity they leave beige lines against the dark brown.

He struggles against the double layer of fabric entrapping his hand to your cunt – the lace scratches the knuckle on his thumb, the cotton of your shorts is a manacle on his wrist. But fuck if he cares about all that when your hips twitch to encourage his movements.

You look ruined. And he loves that – the effect he has on you, the fact that he’s the one to have you like this.

He moves his finger in slow, long strokes. He doesn’t do it to torture you, no. He observes, because for once his constant vigilance is not only useful to quell his paranoia, but also to feed your desires. He tests movements, tries different spots, looking for that one within your walls that will make you scream. 

And he finds it, then – to his utmost delight. Here you are: your breathy moans, soft and honeyed, turn into a stuttering and almost pained "Oh." And he knows he has you under his thumb, all perfect and yearning, unraveling with just one of his fingers. He’s looking straight at your face, not wanting to miss a single twitch of an eyebrow. Your pretty lips are all slick with your spit and they part to release the sweetest sounds he’s ever heard.

His strokes intensify, drawing back as much as he can with the limited movements he has, only to push in and hit ever so slightly that rougher patch of nerves he’s located. He doesn’t want to make you squirm, but he has something tickling his brain – questions. Or better, one question.

He places his thumb over your pearl, unsheathing it from the fleshy hood with a glide. He drinks the way it makes your breath hitch and stutter in sudden hypersensitivity. He rolls his pad tentatively, only to see you grit your teeth and groan – muscles and sinews all tensed up in your neck. It's like molten lava in your belly. It's syrupy hot and gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his finger, down to the knuckle.

“D’you think you’ll need to go on that date on Friday?” he rasps and rolls his thumb again.

His question doesn't seem to make you falter; your hips are unrelenting in their chase for release, as you push against his hand, grinding like your life depends on it. However, he can tell that it irked you. That blissed-out look pinches in frustration.

You're breathless, on a feverish hunt for that taste of heaven his finger’s promising, and Simon has the gall to bring up another man? One he's been mocking for the past half hour? He's surprised by himself as well.

You whine. "Does this look like the bloody time?"

“No,” he concedes, sounding a little patronizing.

He has the upper hand, quite literally, and to give you a friendly reminder of the power he holds, he slides another finger in.

You're absolute putty in his hands now. Your fingers grip at the sofa, your cheeks all flushed and warm. Your back arches, and he knows he just gave you that fullness you've been chasing. The sensation that causes the right amount of pleasure and pain of the stretch. He’s knuckle deep inside of you, his fingers trapped by your velvety walls as he strokes harder, lingering a little longer where you like it, but not faster. He keeps that steady pace that takes your breath away, not forgetting to lavish your clit with attention, and leaves you with just enough air for you to free those clipped and breathless moans.

He’s shameless as his other hand clamps your shin on his lap and pushes it down onto the painful tent on his jeans. He shifts his hip upwards to grind against your calf and hisses when it causes the zipper to graze his cock.

“Gonna cancel it, then?”

It’s bliss. You look like an angel.

"Yeah," you breathe out, a little incoherent. "Cancel it, 'course."

Your voice is more of an unintelligible mumble than anything else – two fingers in and his thumb on your nub drawing idle circles. Perfect pressure. Perfect fit.

He’s never seen you look this beautiful, all abandoned and relaxed, with your big brain he loves so much shut off completely. Synapses only working to generate a wish for release, so sweet and simple, and nothing else. And who is he to deny such a plain request, you sweet thing.

Simon would give you the moon if you asked.

He’s powerless in your presence, undecided if to focus on your face, or to stare at your hardened nipples. They brush against the black training t-shirt he once owned – right below the two crossing swords painted under the royal crown. It should be blasphemous. Should be bloody illegal to sully the name of the monarchy that way.

That is, if he gave a fuck about it. And even if he did, he’d see no wrong in it – because what can you taint when you’re the purest thing he’s ever touched.

Your hips move in tandem with his fingers, your face scrunched in that desperate look of someone who has a piece of heaven just out of reach. He watches you as you fall apart under his fingers and keeps your leg down so he can grind against it. If the situation were different, he’d feel like a wild animal in that regard, but there isn’t a spot on you he doesn’t wish to worship.

Especially now, when you look like this. With your hair sticking to your forehead and loose locks escaping your low bun.

He can’t take his eyes away from you – you have him absolutely entranced.

“s too much.” He hears you whine amongst the mist in his brain

“It ain’t.” He manages to grunt as if it's an order.

And you’re a little insubordinate, because you try and squirm away. But your shorts are his shackles as much as they’re yours – they fasten his hand to your cunt, while locking you against his unwavering fingers.

“Simon,” your voice is so wrecked when you beg. “Please - fuck.”

And how he finds the strength to snark is beyond him. His voice is thick and heavy. “’m tryin’.”

He drags his fingers deep down where yours can’t reach, where he’s found that patch of nerves that reduces you into a puddle of yourself. His thumb on your clit is steadfast, rubbing just above the hood where you’re not as sensitive, only to drag down again and make you see stars.

And the way that string of “Yes” leaves your lips, in that euphoric wheeze that tugs at the corners of your lips, makes his cock ache to be anywhere but in the confines of his jeans.

Your eyes are all glossy when you prop yourself on your elbows to fuel his resolve. Petal lips red and shiny, catching your teeth in an attempt to muffle your moans – bone-deep ingrained insecurity you can’t seem to get rid of. He doesn’t force you, though – he wants to hear you, sure, but most of all he wants to see you crumble to shreds. And if hiding your voice is what you need, then feel free to be his bloody guest.

Your hips stutter and your belly ripples under his large tee draped over it, and he’d recognize those signs anywhere. 

“Cum f’ me,” he orders. “C’mon, love. Give it to me.”

It takes a few more pumps of his fingers, and Simon feels it before he sees it. You clench around his fingers in rippling waves, thrumming rhythmically. Your cunt deliciously threatens to cut them off just above the knuckle.

And fuck, aren’t you a goddamn sight. 

Simon thinks it's almost cathartic to simply watch you. How your head tilts back to hit the armrest of the sofa, the way your toes curl in his lap and your foot on the floor rigidly lifts. The sway of your hips as they undulate to meet his thrusts and the liberating groan that leaves your lips, touching the sky with your fingers.

He unconsciously guides you through it, but truthfully, he has absolutely no idea what to do with himself – not with you looking straight out of one of his most unhinged dreams. His fingers slow down but keep moving relentlessly.

However, it would be a lie for him to say he knows what he’s doing.

You come down from it and your eyes are blinky and unfocused, staring at the ceiling. Your body deflates on the couch, limp and sated. Syrupy and warm. With your chest free to move now that the heavy weight on it has finally been lifted. He allows you this moment of privacy as you recollect yourself, although he truly wants you to look back at him again. He doesn’t want to miss a beat of this, yet he sort of understands.

Your breath comes out in puffs. He’s not faring any better on that note.

"Simon," you breathe, his name exquisite from your lips. "Christ."

He’s gawking. Watching your face for a moment more, he meets your eyes as they flick back to him down the slope of your nose.

Thumb still on your clit, the movements are gentler and featherlight. His voice is hoarse and rough as he speaks. “Alrigh’?”

You chuckle, breathless and a little nervous now that the appetite has been sated – much more self-aware than before.

His fingers are still inside of you and you’re already overthinking this. He knows it. He just hopes, deep down, that you’re not regretting it – because he sure as hell isn’t.

"Peachy.” Is your reply.

Oh, how the tables have turned. Joke’s on him, he’s fed you enough sarcasm for you to start throwing it back at him. Simon feels too weak to even smirk. However, his eyes do narrow, in a similar manner to how yours would at his snarky comebacks.

He gently slides his fingers out of you, mindful of your current sensitivity. He brings the hand up, seeing the gleam of your slick shamelessly coating their lengths down to the knuckles.

“Fuckin’ look at that.” He murmurs, unable to discern whether he’s talking to you or to himself, “Messy girl.”

He thumbs his middle finger and rolls the juice between the pads, thinking; tongue out to lick his lips like the voracious beast he is.

Simon reaches over and brings his hand towards your mouth. A jerky nod of his jaw, “Open.”

He knows he’s already crossed a line the two of you never even dared to toe before. And if he’s going to lose you after this, if you’re going to turn your back on him and leave the flat (leave his life) then he’s going to make the most of it.

Your brows are pinched in sudden uncertainty. A contradicting spectacle, if mixed with the way your chest is still heaving and how your cunt is still wet.

But tonight, you seem eager to catch him off guard, because you oblige. Your lips part and you offer your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

Each time he thinks you can’t look more beautiful you prove him fucking wrong.

He hums lowly in approval, and there’s something dark in that sound. He gently runs his fingers across your tongue, coating it with your taste. Fingertips slide and follow its curve. He stares at you with such an intensity, like he could consume you if he had a mind to. You devour him first, wrapping your lips around his knuckles.

When your tongue delves around his fore and middle fingers, he has to close his eyes. He has to roll his head, releasing the tension in his jaw. He has to, or he’ll cum in his goddamn jeans. The sharp inhale he takes almost burns his nostrils; his sigh heavy and anguished when his lips surrender to it.

“How d’you taste, dove?” he asks, blinking his eyes open.

The way his voice rasps out that pet name, rough like sandpaper, makes a shiver run down your neck. He sees it, the tremor of your shoulders, the goosebumps on your arms.

Simon reluctantly pulls his fingers away only so you can answer. His wasn’t a rhetorical question, and by that blush on your cheeks and the embarrassed hint of a smile on your face, you’ve guessed it already.

"Not as sweet as I thought."

His lips twitch.

“No?” he asks, his voice much too broken for his liking. He brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks, tasting your spit and your cum. A low rumble of a chuckle escapes him – must be a blue moon tonight. “I think you taste pretty sweet.”

This can go two ways: a fairy tale ending, like those romcoms you like to watch, or an absolutely dreadful one – in which you leave. And truly, Simon doesn’t believe in a higher power; God has abandoned him more times than he cares to count. However, he hopes that whoever’s up there realizes that he's owed big time for all the crap he’s been put through.

And he asks for nothing, but you.

His face is hot, and he gathers his cheeks might be a little pink. The rare sight must give you some comfort, the fact that he’s just as overwhelmed as you are, because he feels your leg relax in his lap.

You purse your lips to hide a bashful smile - as if you have any right to be coy right now. "Flatterer."

He hums, seemingly wanting to bite back at you but unable to find the spirit for it. His eyes rake over your body, from your flushed face to your chest covered by his tee, until they land on your quivering thighs, still splayed open for him.

For him.

His hand travels up your leg, following the same route that has led to this. When his palm finally cups your hip, his fingers curl at the waistband of your shorts and tug.

“C’mere.”

You do.

He sees you bend your knees and shift on the sofa so you can crawl to him on shaky legs. As the gentleman he never thought he’d be, he helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap with your knees on either side of his hips.

Afraid you might say something hinting at regret, he selfishly grabs your jaw and pulls you down, finally tasting you the way he’s always wanted. His lips mold with yours, and they’re so soft he has no business claiming them as his own. His fingers tilt your head so he can deepen the kiss, and only when he sees your eyes flutter closed through the slit of his eyelids, he allows himself to surrender to you.

Your lips peck the thin scar on his cupid’s bow, but before you can run away from him (as you should), he captures you once more. He never wants to let you go, so his tongue slides across the seam of your mouth, and you, so pliantly, oblige him.

Your hands are resting on his shoulders when the kiss starts tentatively, while his slender fingers follow the curve of your waist.

But then your nails dig at the fabric of his t-shirt, as if eager to rip it, and his palms journey to your rear. He grips at the flesh through your shorts, before shoving out of the way their distressed hem and directly groping the plump meat of your ass.

The two of you never part. If anything, everything gets more heated.

He doesn’t recall when it is exactly that you start grinding your hips, nor does he remember when his shirt was removed – whether you did it, or if he’s taken the matter into his own hands.

However, he does snap out of it when he feels your palms leave his shoulders to grasp at the hem of your tee. While he wants to feel his skin on yours as much as you do, what’s separating your chest from his is not a mere layer of cotton.

He pulls away and – to his pleasure – he sees you lean in to have more. His hand lands on yours, stopping you.

“No.”

He sees you blink, dazed. A myriad of emotions travel through that pinched expression you wear, thinking like usual that you’ve done something wrong.

He quells your fears in seconds, when his other palm skims over your arm. It journeys unhurriedly, leaving gooseflesh in its wake, until it lands at the base of your throat. His thumb brushes over its column, forcing your neck to tilt backwards and your back to arch, presenting your chest.

Simon models you like clay under his warm fingers, and he takes his time to drink you in and sculpt you as he wishes. Because you seem so docile now that his intents are less covert, clearer.

He brings his mouth to your throat, and his nose scrunches when he presses it against your neck, keeping you still with one thick arm around your waist. With sluggish movements, he tastes the salt of your skin and the tang left by your perfume.

Simon pulls back only to run his tongue from the hollow between your collarbones up to your jaw, feeling right under the muscle how your throat bobs when your breath lodges in between. He curves his head and digs his teeth into the plumper flesh on the side of your neck, enough to get a taste but not enough (never enough) to cause pain.

“Keep the shirt on.” He breathes against your skin, “I wanna fuck my name into you.”

And he does just that.

It’s effortless how he lifts you in his arms, guiding your ankles to lock at his tailbone. Clothes, both yours and his, freckle the floors in a trail that leads to his bedroom. He’s famished; there isn’t a single surface along the path he follows where he hasn’t placed you – if only to savor every piece of you for a little longer.

Until he has you on that bed, the one he should’ve gotten only for a few weeks and instead became his own alcove.

You look wonderful on it.

But you’re even more gorgeous when he sits at the edge of the mattress, facing the full-length mirror in his room, and places you on his thighs to straddle his lap – your back facing the reflection.

He runs his hands over your chest, riding up the t-shirt to your neck only so he can feast on your tits. Grabbing greedy handfuls of fat and muttering unintelligible praises when his mouth all but devours every inch – sucking on your puffy nipples and grazing his teeth around each peak.

Another if is answered by the whimper that escapes your kiss-bitten lips.

You look like an angel, when your soft hand goes to grab the base of his cock and, without much ceremony, you guide it inside of you – sinking on it easy and slow.

You feel like heaven, too, impaled on him. Perfect fit, always made for him, and him only.

Simon’s not sure what he did to deserve you, now riding his cock like you’d been deprived of it your whole life. Unbridled, free. You moan and groan without a care in the world, the hesitation he saw before vanished into thin air – and oh, he couldn’t be more grateful for it.

His hands curl at the hem of your (his, his, his) shirt, lifting it up slightly at your waist, only so he can see in the reflection how your ass slaps against his thighs each time you drop. Or, how your glutes clench when instead of trying to pleasure him, you please yourself – rolling your hips to grind your clit against his happy trail.

Simon’s hands leave the shirt only to grab more of you, kneading at your hips to guide your cunt down his cock until he has you filled to the brim. Your eyes roll back, breath stuck in that pretty throat of yours. He bites at it - laps at the skin like a starved dog.

Simon shattered his chains the moment you came undone on his fingers, and now he knows no restraint – not when he has you like this.

“Look at you,” he growls, slapping your ass only to watch how the fat ripples in recoil in your mirror image.

He grabs the back of your neck and tilts your head downwards. Your foreheads touch as he guides your eyes to look at where your bodies join. The foamy ring at the base of his cock, how the folds of your vulva hug around his shaft and tip at your unhooded clit, all puffy and red.

He tugs at your mound with his thumb, stretching the flesh to expose more. With a deliberate roll of his hips, he makes a show of how effortlessly his cock slides into you, how your cunt greedily stretches to welcome him whole. 

“Look at that.” His voice is equally as raspy as it’s enraptured. “Perfect.”

Using his hand on your nape, he angles your face to kiss you again. He thrusts into you only to have you part your lips in a stuttering moan, and he drinks it dry.

When you resume grinding your hips, he whispers in your open mouth, “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Simon sees how your thighs quiver under the strain of the effort, hamstrings taut and probably burning in the attempt to wrap around his hips. He won’t keep you like that for long, don’t worry. He’ll take good care of you, like he always has.

But now, he indulges in a selfish moment.

Spare seconds in which he watches your reflection bounce on him, and you’re too lost in the feeling to notice how his hooded eyes take in the view.

The profile of your face in the mirror (his little cherub), with your mouth parted and brushing against his temple as he nuzzles your shoulder through the fabric of the shirt. One hand ecloses his nape and your other palm is on his cheek, keeping his head close to your breathless lips. Your eyes are closed in bliss – lashes shy against your flushed cheekbones.

In the scantly lit room, the reflection in the mirror of you two is as dark as everything else, but the stark white writing on the back of your tee has never looked brighter. Your hair sways with your movements, and that RILEY that peeks through your locks has him impossibly enamored of you.

And you’re so smart, he thinks. So clever, because you know, even when your senses are clouded by euphoria and your eyes are closed. You know he’s never had a thing. You know that whatever he’s held, no matter for how long, has always slipped through his fingers before he could even get a taste of it.

“I’m yours,” you whisper in his ear.

And so, Simon surrenders. He’s at your mercy, you have his trust and whatever’s left of his heart – and he knows you won’t break either.

He helps you out of his t-shirt only to hold you bare against his chest. He brings you down with him, lavishes your skin with his palms and his lips. Nose buried in your hair, Simon breathes you in. The smell of sex and the smell of you and how it has him drunk when it whirlpools with his own – a new fragrance, one that burns itself into his brain with the threat (sweet promise) of never letting go.

Because he’s never had a thing, his name barely pertains to him anymore. But the moment he saw it on you, he finally realized where Simon Riley belongs.

[tteokdoroki]

*ੈ🌩️‧₊˚— playing defence + yoichi isagi.

૮˶ᵕ ༝ᵕ˶ა synopsis — you bitch slap kaiser for talking smack about your boyfriend. perhaps isagi is rubbing off on you.

⭑ warnings — please read + mdni ! characters aged up to 20s, crack, fluff, suggestive towards the end, violence, smack talk, mentions of injury, mentions of blood, established relationship, pro player!isagi, fem!reader - not beta read !

⭑ words — 2.2K.

⭑ notes — greetings all! isagi brain rot is so real rn, i swear i have like six wips for him... anyways this was a silly little idea that popped into my head lmao kinda cringe but i had fun with it !! enjoy ! - m.list ✩

your boyfriend is somewhat of a conundrum.

the world knows yoichi isagi as the ruthless heart of blue lock’s success. a man that’s unrelenting on the field with his strategic mind and frightening air of dominance poured into his every play. every movement he makes is calculated meticulously, the greed for a goal simmering in his blood. isagi as a pro player is foul mouthed and messy — taunting his opponent until they crumble into nothing but dust before his very eyes.

the media thinks he’s cocky, but rightfully so. after all yoichi isagi is the catalyst for a new generation of japanese soccer. the girls love him, he’s charming in interviews without meaning to be — they like how he talks about you. as if you’re a gem that’s worth millions. precious.

the isagi that you know has a tender touch and his soul warm, he wears his heart right on his sleeve and never lets you go a moment without knowing you’re appreciated. the isagi that you know is encouraging, he’s always on your side. if he needs to, he’ll sweet talk you with honey glazed words and kiss you until your thoughts fizzle out into stardust.

isagi is good.

he’s good to his friends, his teammates, his parents — he’s almost too good to be true. as if he’s been peeled from the pages of a shoujo romance manga or ripped from the silver screen of a perfect Hollywood romcom. a literal walking green flag. you’d say that you were lucky to have him, and yoichi would spin it on you — using strings of sweet words to express just how deep and profound his love is for you, praising you just enough to melt you into a love sick puddle of goo. and he’d mean it, sincerity swirling in his whirlpooling blue eyes. he swears by it.

so when someone pisses your isagi off, when they hurt him — you can’t help but lose your shit.

it happens during a practise match with a few of the players that joined during the neo-egoist league. although it’s been years since then and the blue lock project has become a formidable team, it keeps the boys on their feet to play with those with other worldly styles of soccer. the match had been going well, isagi trailblazing across the pitch and leaving nothing but a trail of destruction and despair behind — you were proud of him, amazed by him and the talents he possesses. to see him in his element makes your heart swell.

you don’t know kaiser very well — just that he’s super big and plays for the german team that gave isagi his leg up in the soccer world. you’ve heard from others about how much of a dick he could be and the intense rivalry he had with your boyfriend back when the blue lock project first started. you don’t know kaiser well but that information alone was enough to get your back up whenever he was in close range of yoichi.

and rightfully so. because you see the way he prods and pokes at the beautiful, sensitive parts of your lover as they race across to the penalty area. you notice how it rattles isagi, gets him all up in his head. you hear kaiser say something along the lines of:

“what’s with your shitty plays, yoichi? surely if you’re the heart of blue lock then the future of soccer is bound to be doomed.” he skirts around your boyfriend, intercepting a pass he was meant to receive from nagi. “pathetic, to see how much this star has fallen. i should crush you.”

you’ve heard all the insults the blue lock boys throw at each other before but this is nothing like usual. rin itoshi has said much worse to isagi right in front of your face (and isagi right back, foul mouthed motherfucker) but you know that’s a defence mechanism to how rin truly thinks and feels.

michael kaiser is just an asshole, plain and simple.

and that kind of behaviour doesn’t fly with you when it comes to yoichi.

you storm onto the pitch from the sidelines before your mind can even catch up to your body. the other players working around your boyfriend and his rival stop their movements as you stroll past them, snapped out of their egoist state by the referee whistle that calls for you to stop.

“m-ma’am! you can’t be on the pitch!”

you walk right past ness, weave between kurona, bachira and hiori, and right up to the blonde haired perpetrator himself. you’re polite about it too, tapping him on the shoulder to interrupt the narcissistic monologue he’s giving to isagi and showing him your sweetest, kindest smile.

there’s a split second before the blunt force of your fist collides with michael kaiser’s cheek and he’s knocked to the ground from the weight of it.

“you better watch who the fuck you’re talking to, you clownish freak.”

“babe?” isagi jumps into action despite his shock and the sniggers from other players on the field. he wraps his strong arms around your middle and tugs you into his chest with a winded laugh. “precious, what are you doing here?”

“he can’t talk to you like that!”

“but baby, you can’t be here—“

“this isn’t good.” bachira sings from a safe distance.

“fuck! what the actual fuck?” kaiser swears, using the sleeve of his jersey to wipe the blood from his bruising nose. “who’s crazy groupie is this?”

another wave of anger crashes through your veins, your blood at its boiling point as his words register within you. “excuse me?” isagi snarls, clearly unimpressed, loosening his hold on you while you struggle against your boyfriend’s lean frame.

“so what? you get your girlfriend to play defence for you and then act like i’m in the wrong? i said, get this groupie away from me—!”

before anyone on the pitch can realise, you’re free from isagi’s hold and you’re on kaiser like white on rice — fisting his sweatshirt between the same pretty fingers that treat isagi like he’ll break with too much force. “you wanna say that again, shitstain?” you run your tongue over your teeth, the menacing glint to your eye making you look like you’re a predator about to hunt down her prey. the blonde shakes underneath you as you pin him to the grass — an insult rolling around on his tongue. “i wouldn’t waste my words. you should just lay down and die before you take another sucker punch from this groupie.”

“do you have any idea how much this face is worth? i should—“

“gimme a break michael kaiser,” to your left you can hear bachira chanting something about ‘no violence’, bouncing around excitedly and a wicked grin tugs on the corner of your lips. “you’re not worth shit to me. so keep fucking around and find out, pretty boy. you talk smack about yoichi again and i swear your face won’t be the only goods i damage.”

“jeez, you’re just as crazy as that wanna be protagonist over there—“ is all he can muster before he flinches back from your fists that raise a over your head.

isagi moves quicker this time, scooping you up from underneath your armpits despite how you huff, puff and protest. “alright, alright, you’re done here. let’s go, princess.” he says sheepishly. maybe he’s been rubbing off on you a little too much.

his comforting touch slides down to your hand, grabbing at it to drag you off the pitch for the sake of kaiser’s safety, keeping everyone else out of harms way. and isagi just about gets you off the green before you set your sights on your next victim — ness, who can’t help but make faces at you as you trudge after your boyfriend.

drawing a line over your throat with your thumb, you make direct eye contact with him. “you’re next, shitty little meat-rider—! ow! ‘ichi!” you bark, but isagi quickly scoops you up again like a cat holding her kitten by the nape.

you have no choice but to back down for now.

“yanno, you really didn’t have to do that.”

isagi let’s you go once you’re back in the locker rooms to check on your hand. he crouches before you (where you sit just a level above him on the metal bench), holding an ice pack to your knuckles with the trace of a smile on his lips, only lifting it to see if the swelling has gone down. isagi reads you like an open book, he’s got you all figured out so he leaves you with the space to react and have your little tantrums.

besides, it’s cute that you get so pissed off when it comes to him. watching your nose scrunch up and your lips twist into a pout while you fight your own outburst just makes his heart beat for you a little faster.

“oh i fucking did! he was being so horrible to you and i couldn’t just let it slide!” you huff as your temper flares, shoulders sagging and arms crossing over your chest. he says nothing for a moment and lifts the compress from your hand to check the damage.

“look at you, precious girl. you’ve only gone and hurt yourself,” even when you’re throwing a fit like this, yoichi can only see the beauty in you — his cheeks flushing at how much you care for him. the dark haired striker flips through a first aid kit that rests at your feet, looking for disinfectant to clean up your split knuckles. “and, as for kaiser… well, he’s always like that.”

“well, i don’t like kaiser. i hope a bird shits on his head and both sides of his pillows are warm.”

“bird shit is supposed to be a sign of good luck, baby.”

“don’t test me yoichi isagi.”

he dabs at your wounds with a cotton pad and a brownish liquid that smells like the dettol your mom would keep in the cabinet under the kitchen sink for when you got yourself into similar situations like this as a kid. but instead of scolding you like she would, yoichi tends to your cuts and scrapes either upmost care. still smiling to himself. smiling at you. resisting the urge to burst with affection.

“you’re gonna have to apologise, precious.” he mutters absentmindedly, wincing when you do.

“i-i’m not going to, he deserved it!” that much is true, kaiser is clown who needs to be put in his place but it shouldn’t have been by you and at the expensive of your precious hands getting hurt.

you’re in more pain than you’re willing to show, and it bothers isagi just a little bit that you’re experiencing it because of him.

“well he did, but ego won’t be happy.”

“did ego make you apologise for all those times you beat the crap out of your teammates for even looking at me? for stealing your goals?” you roll your eyes, leaning away from your doting boyfriend in protest.

isagi grabs at your wrist firmly, tugging you back into place so he can start wrapping your hand up — ignoring the way his face and the tips of his ears start to burn up in embarrassment. “well no… but that’s different. friendly competition.”

“hardly! may i remind you that shidou literally couldn’t walk for a week straight after he commented on my ass? because of you?”

“i was defending your honour! and keep still!”

you give isagi a pointed look. hypocrite. “okay, but what about when rin said you couldn’t fuck for the life of you and then you proved your point. using me. in front of him. was that about honour or about your ego? mister egoist.” isagi’s big blue eyes instantly shoot up to meet yours and blushes a crimson that could rival the shade of the older itoshi brother’s hair. “itoshi couldn’t look at me for weeks!”

“point taken.” knowing that he won’t win this argument (if you could even call it that), isagi finishes up with bandaging your hand and takes a seat next to you, a comfortable silence settling over you both while he attempts to piece together why you love him this much. to play knight in shining armour to his damsel in distress.

“are you…really going to make me apologise yoichi?” you ask him sheepishly after some time, leaning into him for comfort.

“not if you don’t want to, precious.” he hums, fondly brushing a thumb over the back of your bandaged hand. a silent thank you. a hidden i love you.

“good,” you whine now that all of your adrenaline’s worn off and you can really feel the consequences of punching a world class striker in the face. “now kiss my knuckles. they hurt.” holding up your hand to isagi’s face, you shake it as if to rid yourself of the painful ebb to it.

“better?” isagi complies, his lips soft against your skin.

“much.”

“so spoilt,” he adds. your boyfriend’s voice stays low while he plays with your bruised fingers and checks them over, resting his head against your own affectionately. “next time you throw a punch in my name, tuck your thumb into your fist to minimise the damage. i don’t like seeing you get hurt.”

“so you did like seeing me punch kaiser.” you giggle, squirming when isagi drops your hand to pull you into his lap possessively. his loving grin spreads even further when your eyes widen at a certain…hardness poking your inner thigh.

“oh yeah, super hot. i love it when you get mad ‘n start talking shit for me.”

isagi doesn’t make it back to practice, too caught up in showing you just how much he loves it when you start fights over him.

[novacorpsrecruit]

Better Without You

My other braincell @comicsbi-thebook and I came up with a steddie AU the other day that’s rotting my brain but I do not need another WIP

Steddie Rockstar/Country Star (breakup) AU based on Dixon Dallas’ song Better Without You

Steve and Eddie, who get together after the events of season 4. Eddie was hurt (he may been technically dead for a few minutes), but he’s alive and that’s what matters. He starts to heal over the next few months, Steve by his side, helping Wayne take care of Eddie and falling in love along the way. There were a lot of painful nights — memories, nightmares, wounds that reopened, stitches that ripped, lots of tears and fear that the Upside Down may come back. No matter what happened, Steve was by Eddie side, promising that he wasn’t going to leave him.

Maybe two years pass in their relationship and eddie’s got the record deal of a life time, but that means leaving everything behind. His family, his friends, his life. The agent saw Eddie with Steve and told him that he had to leave him if he wanted the deal. The label wouldn’t sign someone who was queer. This is his only chance on getting out of Hawkins, being known for something other than the town freak that’s accused of a string of murders. This is what he needs.

So he does.

He packs up everything and leaves, barely telling Steve goodbye. Steve is left with a broken heart, a shoebox of pictures and trinkets, and Eddie’s damn acoustic guitar.

He thought about breaking the guitar. Thought about smashing it in the parking lot outside their apartment. taking the broken pieces and lighting it on fire. He tried to return it to Wayne, but Wayne refused. “If he left it, it’s yours.”

Steve let the guitar stay haunting the bedroom, Eddie’s painted words taunting him. Reminding him of what he lost. So he grabs a rag and some alcohol and wipes it clean, removing the words. He learns how to play, stringing chords together and humming along. He learns how to play Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson. And eventually, the pain hurts less. He got a local gig — a paid one — at one of the dive bars, and they kept requesting him to come back.

Eventually, someone important hears him. They offer him a record deal. Steve nearly refused, because of Eddie. Eddie was told to get back in that damn closet if he wanted to break into the industry. Steve refuses to do anything except be himself. If the record wanted him, they’d take him as he is. And the record wanted him, so they agreed to his terms. Out and proud. He signs it and paints his own mark on that damn guitar, known as his signature machine. This machine heals broken hearts.

I hope you miss me when you think about me / and everything we could’ve been / and now you’re nothing but another memory / you know it hurt but in the end / I’m doing better without you, and I know you hate it / I used to think you were the one but you ain’t / no more dancing around it, and I hate to say it / but you damn sure ain’t the one I got away

Steve records a few songs, and instantly they were hits. His song, Better Without You, hit the charts and was played for weeks on the Top 40. Hell, he even broke the top 5.

His lyrics were raw, and any time he preformed the song live, the audience went wild.

I loved you at your worst / you left me at your best / I watched you fade away into the sunset / threw my heart into the dirt / you ripped it from my chest / tried to kill me but I ain’t dying yet

Eddie, known by his moniker MUNSON, is a huge breakout in the metal scene. He’s topped all the metal, rock and alt charts. He’s had a single or two hit the top 40 but most of his fans aren’t from the demographic. He’s done one North American tour with Pantera and he’s rumored to headline his own tour soon. But when he heard about the gay country artist making waves across the charts, he had to take a listen out of curiosity. As soon as the first verse hit, he recognized that voice instantly. He remembers the late nights years ago singing along to Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen years ago. He knows the song is about him and it breaks his heart. He hurts because he knows he hurt Steve. He loved Steve, he really did. He still does.

But Eddie’s so proud of what he’s done at an artist.

And he’s terrified to lose that. Terrified to going back to Eddie the Freak. Eddie the Loser. Eddie stuck in the hellhole of Hawkins, Indiana.

So he calls Steve. He finds a way to get in contact with him. Maybe he uses Dustin to help his number, or a way to talk with him.

And maybe Steve’s a little hopeful when they exchange pleasantries and Eddie tells him that he likes the song and he’s proud of Steve for making it and being out.

But then reality comes crashing down. “You wouldn’t …” Eddie starts, trailing off. He’s nervous, worried, afraid. “You wouldn’t out me, would you?”

This wasn’t an apology for breaking Steve’s heart. It’s a plea, begging for Steve not to out Eddie. And Steve can’t help but laugh as he feels his heart break again.

“Who the fuck do you think I am?” Steve laughs, hiding his pain. Hiding the tears that want to slide down his cheeks. “Do you really think I’d do that to anyone? Don’t fucking call me again.”

And maybe the next time he plays Better Without You, he sings some lyrics a little louder, while his heart aches.

I’m glad you came into my life, you really taught me well. / and I mean that from the bottom of my heart. / you showed me the devil ain’t exactly in a place called hell / you were tightly wrapped up in my loving arms.

[psycheandthistle]

Novelette intro <3

Antigone Rides Alone

Summary - Set in 1891, Thebes is controlled by Creon, a powerful landowner with half the town in his pocket. When Creon forbids the burial of Polyneices, an innocent man deemed traitor, Antigone can't do nothing. She'll risk everything, defying him to honour her little brother.

Characters:

Antigone - our narrator, quiet and reserved, but fiercely loyal to the ones she loves, as well as extremely defiant against everyone and everything.

Ismene - Antigone's little sister, loves her brother, but not enough.

Polyneices and Eteocles - the twins, killed each other in rivalry. Eteocles awaits a funeral, while Polyneices rots inside a noose.

Haemon - Antigone's fiance. His bravery is too little, too late.

Creon - the "ruler" of Thebes. He's corrupt. Surely this will have no consequences for him.

Core theme - unconditional love for your siblings.

This is really just an adaption of Antigone, by Sophocles, but set in the wild west. theyre two vibes that is really wanted to smash together for the longest time, and i think antigone is a main character that really brings a lot of outlaw energy to the table.

im thinking this will be around 8k words, because at the moment its already 3k and i havent gotten past the first interaction between ismene and antigone 😭

anyway some excerpts:

“Antigone, the horse is tacked.” Haemon says. Haemon is a man unlike most around Thebes, which means that the word tacked fits oddly in his mouth, and Antigone is unsure if it’ll ever settle in. Being the prince of Thebes that he is, Haemon’s more civilized than anyone she’s ever met. He can read and write, and he’s pretty proficient with his words, but he can’t cuss for the life of him and he has yet to meet the eyes of a woman without turning all red and flustered. 

It should bother Antigone, as she is his betrothed and therefore will marry him in the near future, but now all she can think about is how when she’s gone, which she will be soon, she hopes Haemon finds a lady that’ll suit his softer edges better than Antigone ever will.

“I know.” She says, because she has his riding jeans on and is lacing up her boots.

“There ain’t no king in Thebes, Haemon, and what Creon is doing is a poor impression of what it would take to be one. He doesn’t have authority over me." Antigone says.

“Do you think that matters?” Haemon asks, ears reddening as his eyes narrow. “He’s as much of a king as we have. He has men. He has loyalty. He has horses and guns.”

“I’m more than willing to die for this.”

“No Antigone, you’re more than willing to die.”

But now, everyone, including Ismene, knows about Oedipus and his mother-wife, and Ismene wishes for nothing more than to rip the semblance of the Labdacus line off her face and for someone to love her again.

Antigone doesn’t want to say it, but she knows Ismene will have a hard time trying to achieve both those goals, she’s trying alright, she sweetalks just about every tender-footed newcomer and lies about the stories she tells. She bats her pretty eyelashes and prays to the gods that one day everyone will forget about her lineage.

Antigone knows that Ismene would discard her for less than that.

It doesn’t matter to Antigone, because Ismene is her sister.

also if youve read this far, tell me about your wip!!!! im literally so interested in being friends with other writers, so lets chat! :)

[fearandhatred]

thank u so much to my beloveds @crowleys-bentley-and-plants and @seven-stars-in-his-palm for tagging me, kissing u both for this omg <3 i'm doing two of each because i can

For as many as you want of your published works, pick your favourite line/paragraph and post it up here. Let yourself feel proud of your creations.

transitional heart taxidermy [5986 words, wip]

They fit so perfectly together, the both of them, always. Not side by side like pieces of a puzzle, no, but like molten lava over sand; one over the other, one mellowing the other, changing its chemistry into something different, stronger, useful. The kiss tastes of Aziraphale, of copper and saliva and something holy. It's a taste he'll come to get used to, bloodied and bruised, a taste he chases after as the angel pulls back.

and one from an unpublished chapter:

It's been a day, two, maybe three. His hands are stained with blood and phantom glass, reeking of alcohol and rot palpable enough to taste. Aziraphale doesn't come for him, and he feels relief but also a pain so deep it's paralysing. It's a revelation in itself.

blood in my eyes [1953 words]

This is the first time in years he has stepped foot back into this place. It's a spontaneous decision, driven by a mellow melancholy and a soft wistful night. Muriel isn't in, so the bookshop is dark, and the streetlights cast an eerie, lonely glow on the ancient hardbacks. The rearing statue that once held his glasses every other day is coated in a thin layer of dust; he leaves them on.

Crowley wipes away a tear from Aziraphale's cheek with his thumb. It leaves a bright red streak. After, hours pass by before Aziraphale washes the blood from his face, imprinted in the vague shape of Crowley's hand. In those hours, when he sits in the quiet of a bookshop once again burned to ash, the blood stays there as a reminder, maybe, or as punishment.

sub-consequence [11567 words, wip] — six of crows

He wants to say everything he could possibly say to persuade Kaz to change his mind, because if he says everything in the world, strings together every word in every possible combination, there has to be at least one thing that would convince him to stay.

Sometimes Inej thinks Kaz cares about himself less than he cares about getting what he wants. It feels sometimes as if he's completely detached from himself, his own person becoming just another means to an end. People would scream at her that this isn't selflessness. It's ruthlessness, or psychopathy, or numbness. That's how the name Dirtyhands came about, after all. The willingness to do anything no matter the cost. To get his hands dirty with blood, be it others' or his own. But what is selflessness, really? A lack of selfishness, or a loss of self?

to sleep, perchance to dream [662 words] — the sandman

God, Calliope. His heart, face of cloud fields and white lily springs, a hope so blinding in contrast to his shadowed being that he had known from the start the hands of The Fates would pull them apart to opposite poles.

His lifetime of constraint allowed him to face the knowledge that any selfish will to see her in the wake of remembering all he had forsaken, all that had been ripped from him, would seal the vestibules to acceptance and he would beg with no dignity to stay by her side. And his heart burned, scorched unpleasantly at her parting words, just as the skin she touched and had once touched long after she was twice gone.

tagging those whose words i'd love to see (no pressure!!): @actual-changeling @sentientsky @irispurpurea @springofviolets @demonsandpieohmy

[lewis-winters]

I know I should be working on other WIPs-- and just working in general-- but I watched The Old Guard again yesterday so here, have the Winnix TOG Canon Divergence AU

tw for: depictions of death, the effects of mustard gas, gore, trauma, and angst!

"Stop touching it."

Dick doesn't. In fact, just to be annoying-- though mostly on reflex-- he brushes past the newly formed scar of Lewis's brow one more time, prodding and poking until finally, fed up, Lew waves his hand away with a weak growl. "You'll open it back up."

Ah. That gets Dick to back off, pulling away abruptly like he'd been scalded. And maybe he has. After all, there's blood on his mind, now. A memory both too fresh to do anything but hurt; but a situation too resolved to feel anything but indignation at his own continued terror.

It's been nearly a millennia since the beginning of their renewed existence, and while they know their lot of second chances are bound to run out one day, surely the familiarity with Death should have settled in their old bones by now. Yet, when She comes, She brings with her all the fanfare that accompanies all finality. Almost immortality does not always warrant camaraderie with pain and grief.

They were luckier this time, at least.

They hadn't been as eager to join this war as they had been the last. Not that he'd been eager to join that war, either. But just like all things, Dick's need for a cause called out to Lewis' need to make sure Dick doesn't lose his goddamn mind fighting until he drops. And so, in the midst of the 1910s, they managed to find themselves spending long nights in the deep, damp French trenches, huddled together in the dark. For two and a half years, they lived like that, shaking apart with fear, both real and imagined, as the rats nibbled on their fingers and infections slowly overtook their lungs and toes. Any warrior worth their salt would know that it's not the fighting that fucks you over, but the waiting in between. The rotting wounds left to fester. The fear that threatened to eat you whole from within, if the bullets about you didn't get to you first. Together, they passed days watching their boys die, either from sickness or bullets or both, their corpses stacked around them so high, in the dark they looked like fortress walls, caging them in as they waited for the moment it would all come toppling down.

Then, the gas came pouring in.

Lewis had taken the brunt of it, in the end, ripping his gas mask off in a desperate attempt to save what was left of Dick's face. Neither of them had enough sense at the time to hear him scream in agony, clawing at his eyes until they were nothing but pulp underneath his fingernails; but the echoes of it would have a chance to ring in Dick's ears anyway. The screaming didn't stop in France.

And it took Lew years to regain his old self, in both nerves and sight; and it took even longer than that for Dick to stop dreaming of scar tissue, gnarled and twisted and angry red, in place of dark brown eyes. The damage healed a lot slower than either of them have ever experienced before, and required more outside help than either of them were comfortable with. By the time the last of Lewis' sight had been restored to him, a whole decade and several new identities had gone by, and Dick had done his best to promise: no more fighting.

They made it through another decade before he broke that one. It barely felt like a blink of an eye.

And now, here they are again. Huddled together, blanketed by dark night, with each other's blood once again under their fingernails, a new scar on Lewis' forehead, and the tangible memory of a crater in the back of his head, where the bullet found its exit and his brains had spattered out of his skull.

"Hey," Lewis breathes, sensing the dark turn Dick's thoughts have gone and reaching out for him, touching his face with cold fingertips. "I'm sorry. That was a bad joke."

Yes. It was. But Dick is not going to reprimand him for it. He's learned that jokes are Lew's best defense against the weight of their prolonged existence. Just like drink. Just like nicotine. Or just like Dick himself, his only lone companion in this casually cruel world. How could Dick ever deny him this?

Tilting their heads together, Dick guides his lips to the new scar, and resolutely tries not to think about how much longer Lew bears the marks of his deaths, and what that might mean for him. "It'll be gone tomorrow," he says, more to himself than Lew. "You'll see. Like brand new."

"Like brand new," Lewis echoes. Resigned. Going boneless as he leans all his (dead) weight into Dick's arms and buries his face in his neck. "Always brand new."

Even against the heat of Dick's skin, Lew stays cold. Dick doesn't think he's ever known a time when he was warm.

--

Dick and Lewis were made immortal sometime between 58 and 50BC, when Rome waged war against Gaul, as explained in this deleted line: "Lewis was not made for warrior-hood like Dick had been, having gone from the luxury afforded to him by his roman senator father's fortune to a miserable roman centurion on the back of a single mistake alone. He'd known almost nothing the first time he'd fallen under Dick's Gaulic blade; that his own sword had pierced Dick's chest at the same time was a mere fluke he's since been unable to replicate."

[winvyre]

OC Questionnaire Tag!!!! (The Winvyre Show ep 1)

Thanks for the tag @paeliae-occasionally !!!! I'm going to have fun with this one ;)

-------

*Lights come up in a studio filled with audience members. The stage is empty aside from a couch and an armchair on either side of a small table. The background is a photo of Winvyre's face and on the table sits two hot chocolates and a plate of cookies.*

*The audience cheers as WINVYRE walks out on stage wearing a purple suit, flashcards in hand, smiling like their photo.*

WINVYRE: Welcome, bitches and benches, to the talk show portion of our program! I'm your host for this and all other segments: Winvyre!

*Audience cheers again.*

WINVYRE: Today we're breaking not one but two characters out of their canon settings to answer some of your questions! Please welcome to the stage the protagonists of my current WIPs... Connor Willard and Valerie No Surname!

*A very confused skinny teenager and a delighted white-haired girl appear sitting on the couch. The boy blinks in the light and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. The girl shields her eyes to pick out faces in the audience.*

WINVYRE: Hello, Connor and Valerie. Don't worry, you're fine, you won't remember any of this when you go back to your worlds.

CONNOR: What?

VALERIE: Where are we?

WINVYRE: You're in a pocket dimension I created just for this scenario. Just like I created you.

CONNOR: You what?

*VALERIE mumbles a similar statement through a mouth full of cookies.*

CONNOR: I have several questions.

WINVYRE: So do I! So let's get started.

CONNOR: Wait-

Do you have any hobbies? If so, what ones?

VALERIE: Ooh! I like to swim and climb trees and play with my stick and hoop and watch the Watchmen spar with their swords and play games!

CONNOR: I like to draw. I also play baseball but I don't really like it.

How good is your sleep schedule?

VALERIE: I go to bed at bedtime and I wake up when the sun rises just like everybody else! Mom sometimes reads to me and Kell. Fran thinks she's too old for bedtime stories.

CONNOR: My bedtime is whenever my mother goes to sleep because waking up due to someone yelling and pounding on your door is NOT fun. Even then I'm an insomniac.

Do you have any siblings? If so, how good is your relationship?

CONNOR: I'm an only child. Not sure if that's for the better or worse.

VALERIE: I have three! We're all adopted. Maurin's the oldest, he's sixteen, Francesca's thirteen, Kell's eleven, and I'm ten! Maurin went missing not that long ago... I miss him... Fran's annoying and acts strangely but Mom says that's just because she's hit puberty. Kell and I play together a lot but sometimes he does this creepy voice and says scary things.

What was the toughest time you had to endure while growing up?

CONNOR: Oh, how do I pick?

VALERIE: When Maurin disappeared. Mom's never cried so much.

What was the worst day of your life?

CONNOR: The day we moved. It was terrible on its own and it marked the beginning of... everything.

VALERIE: [WINVYRE presses a button on their chair to bleep out the spoiler]

What's your worst nightmare?

VALERIE: The hoary. They're scary!

CONNOR: That I'll feel empty forever.

If a monster asked you your worst nightmare, what would you tell it and why?

VALERIE: The hoary can't ask questions; they're mindless killers and they'll rip you apart and devour your flesh and leave you to suffer and rot soaked in your own blood and organs while you slowly die and-

CONNOR: What kind of world do you come from?!

VALERIE: A regular one?

WINVYRE: Her setting is much more fantastical than yours. Don't worry about it.

If a monster asked you your worst nightmare, what would you tell it and why?

CONNOR: The truth. Almost nothing about me is a secret, it's just that no one asks.

What's your relationship with your family like?

CONNOR: Do I have to answer this?

WINVYRE: Yep. This show doesn't stay on the air unless the people are entertained.

CONNOR: I... love my parents. I hate them too. I hate that I can't only hate them. I feel happy when they praise me. I want to get away from them. I like it when they hug me. I hate what I may lose to them. I want to tell them everything. I hope I never forgive them.

VALERIE: Do you want a cookie?

WINVYRE: What's your answer, Valerie?

VALERIE: Uh, good. I love and get along with everyone. Do you dream often? what about?

VALERIE: Riding dragons!

CONNOR: I had a lot of vivid, creative nightmares as a kid. Now the content is more horrific but they never really feel like nightmares anymore.

What is the one thing you would not wish on your greatest adversary?

CONNOR: Any of what I've been through. It really fucks you up.

VALERIE: Nothing! I hope the hoary gets her!

WINVYRE: And that's all for today, bitches and benches! Thank you for tuning in and don't forget to vote for our next topic- (What? No budget? Fine.) Let us know if you ever want another installment of The Winvyre Show!

@sableglass @davycoquette @daily-haley

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

Find the word tag game

Thanks @kaylinalexanderbooks for the tag!

My words are: rib, write, expect, spin, person

Rib: (fair warning this is kinda gory) From my short story Lich-Queen

With my magic, I kept him alive beyond the bounds of humanity. As I hacked out his ribs, pulling the first hunk of meat and placing it on a plate, I was struck by the beauty of his face. Even weeping, eyes bulging, nails ripped off from clawing at wood, there was a noble gallance to him. I smiled, and tenderly tore out another rib.

Write: From my completed short story Honeycake!

Ah, crap. I knew learning to write would haunt me someday. My mother had, in fact, been Rose-the-baker, and she had brought me to Ako's temple to learn to write. The priestesses there watched as I drew squiggles in the dirt, learning from Ako's Word. They taught me other things too. Like how to pick locks, how to lie through your teeth, and how to steal without getting caught. Great people, Ako's priestesses were. But then the gov'nor of Jannik decided they made too much trouble, and burnt their temple down, and hunted all their followers.

Expect: From my WIP novella Chase

I took it from her by its dull leather hilt. The dagger was plain, unadorned but well polished. "What exactly do you expect me to do with this?" My voice came out a smidgen squeaky with shock. Was she truly expecting me to murder him in cold blood? "Surely…" I trailed off and bit my lip.

Spin: (the closest I could find was spinning) From my completed short story A Thousand Lives (it's one of my first posts on Tumblr)

Hence he had taken up arms against the King, spinning a tale of injustice, of gold for the poor and bread on everyone's tables. He had led a revolution, overthrowing the order of the country. There was blood, and turmoil, and for a moment he had feared defeat, but the revolution prevailed. The people had placed him on the throne, and he had given freely to them, distributing land as evenly as he could. It was a hard and thankless job, for the bread was never enough, and other countries reared their ugly heads upon smelling weakness. He had been beheaded by an angry mob for a sin so small as feeding a duck a piece of bread that they claimed belonged to the people. Though he would go down in history as King Sonder the Kind, the country that he sacrificed everything for had reviled him. It embittered his soul, and he found himself wishing that he had not been so openhearted.

Person: From my miniseries Wanderer! (Part 1 here)

It seemed that I was the only person for miles around. Nothing stirred in the red-brown meadow, not even buzzing flies laying eggs in putrefied flesh. Nothing breathed in the flesh-rotted air, not even carrion-vultures feasting on the dead. Nothing lived in the hellscape that I wandered, not even the crawling maggots that should have lurked in the rotten meat. I hummed to distract myself from the uneasiness of being all alone.

I'll tag @bodoramzap, @beloveddawn-blog, @oh-no-another-idea, @memento-morri-writes, @sharktopusnadozilla and open tag for anyone else who wants to have a go!!!

Your words are: life, loved, luck, learn

[sourpatchys]

A wip that I never finished because I need to get back on that writing grind instead of rotting in bed

Title: Petals

Warning: none, mentions of blood and injury

Word count: 870

A/n: I cannot seem to figure out a good ending for this oneshot, originally it was going to be a battle of stubbornness, with the reading refusing to admit their true feelings as to not get in the way, and Shigaraki refusing to admit his feelings because he just assumed he’d be turned away. Then it was going to be just an angsty mess and I got sad writing it haha. If you’re feeling up to it let me know how you’d end this story properly, I’d love to hear it!

Masterlist guidelines

—

All it took was one touch.

The gentle caress of your hand on his shoulder accompanied by a shiny reassuring smile.

It was honestly pretty pathetic to say the least. It definitely wasn't something that Shigaraki was prepared to deal with.

But suddenly he couldn't stop thinking about you. Every move you made, every off handed gesture— everything— he paid attention to it all. It was almost as if he were in a trance, completely fixated, unable to look away.

You started to haunt his dreams, and while he was never one to shy away from nightmares, he found that the pleasant dreams you accompanied him in were much more horrific.

He had it bad, and it was all your fault.

It was easy to ignore for while— he avoided you— making Dabi or Toga talk to you instead for whatever task you were being assigned. He never answered your questions, he wouldn't even look you in the eyes.

But then you touched him again, one big hug after an accomplished mission. It almost knocked him out cold.

After that he couldn't ignore it anymore, deciding to just say fuck it and see what else there was to learn about you.

He would invite you to play games with him on his shitty old DS he managed to keep with him— he listened to your rambling over your favorite bands new songs— he watched you indulge in your hobbies and even tried them out for himself when you weren't around.

He knew it was a bad idea from the start, getting close to you, letting you give him friendly hugs and pats on the back.

And when you kissed him on the cheek as a thank you after he gave you a stupid little prize he won in a claw machine— he felt it for the very first time.

A cloudy feeling in his lungs that made his throat feel as if it were full of glass, the shards ripping his throat to shreds.

It started off slow— for a while it didn't really impact him at all, just an uncomfortable feeling brewing in his chest. It didn't slow him down, he never had to stop what he was doing— and no one even seemed to notice.

But then the coughing fits started and the petals started coming out— closing his windpipe and ripping through his body in an unforgiving rage.

Funnily enough, they were your favorite color.

To see something you loved so dearly mixed with his own blood— it honestly made him sick. You were no saint, your hands becoming just as dirty as the others as the days moved on and the league progressed— but there was nothing morbid within you. You killed to live, not to take.

By this point everyone knew something was wrong, even if they couldn't pinpoint an exact reason. He did his best to keep the petals out of sight, shoving them in his pocket or decaying them before they could even leave his mouth. The coppery taste became something he couldn't avoid, his teeth growing weak and his skin going pale.

Their oh so fearless leader was now slow, out of breath and coughing up blood seemingly out of nowhere. Really— who could blame them for being so concerned?

Especially you. The one who started it all.

He knew he was too far gone— that his days were sure to be numbered, and every moment you stood by his bedside was another year off of his life. But really— he didn't care at all. Shigaraki was stubborn, even if in the end it would mean his demise.

He was stubborn enough to keep the issue to himself and he was selfish enough to let it eat away at him— so long as you were by his side.

If anyone were to figure out his situation, to put the pieces together and diagnose his ailment from afar—he was sure they'd laugh right in his face. He had so much to do, so much to live for, and yet he allowed himself to stay dying in your arms.

God, he really was pathetic.

He hated himself for it— he wanted to hate you— but the velvety blood soaked petals shoved in his pocket were there to mock him— to tell him it was far too late for that. There was no hope of escaping, even if he had wanted to.

Your hands were always so warm, tender, reminiscent of something he had long since forgotten. You fluffed his pillow every night and brushed his hair every morning. You were no villain— you had to have been an angel dropped from the sky.

As his body grew weaker, your attention towards him doubled in size— If he had known dying was all it took to keep you glued to his side then maybe none of this would've been happening.

Had this happened only a few months earlier he would've had the damn plant removed— he would've forgotten you, buried your body along with your memory. He didn't want this, he didn't need this.

But oh how he wanted you— oh how he needed you.

You were a curse. His own personal fallen angel.

[losersimonriley]

WIP: Sundowning 👀💕

SUNDOWNING MY BELOVED ❤️ This is a fix-it for mwiii that I’ve been working on since November (help me.) Had to take a bit of a break from this one but we are so back baby. 24k words in and this is the longest story I’ve ever written. And it’s only 1/3 of the way done

Here is (quite a hefty chunk bc I’m weak) of the very beginning prologue! From Price’s pov, just like how the epilogue will be <3 Angst ahead—picking up right after…That scene. They think Soap is dead (no fear! He is not!)

John Price

London, England

21 November 2023 1800

He’s just lost two men.

After they defuse the bomb, it takes all but a second to realise it. Two pairs of eyes. One set stormy blue and…still laser focused. Even in death. The other set whiskey brown, huge and…scared. As if throughout all the unimaginable horrors in Simon Riley’s short life, this one is the worst those eyes have seen yet. It may very well be.

Simon had only just returned and now—

Now Ghost is going to shove him right back into that grave and never let him out again.

Because he might’ve been the one to physically pull himself out of the dirt and rot all those years ago, but Soap had been the one to truly set him free. Anyone could see it. Soap had been the one armed with the shocks that restarted Simon Riley’s heart. And now he’s gone. They’re both gone. Ripped away within the blink of a blue or brown eye.

And Price has only got his fucking self to blame.

So he calls it in. He tells Laswell one KIA, when he means two. She says the officers have just radioed her to confirm a clear entrance and exit. He fights himself not to look at the clean entrance and exit path through his own sergeant’s temples upon hearing those words.

She’s sending medevac down. About five minutes out. Not that they’ll need it for anything other than transporting John MacTavish’s dead fucking carcass out of here. Maybe three shock blankets, should they be so lucky. Not that he deserves the comfort at all.

Christ, there’s so much blood.

His mouth is full of cotton and his hands itch to kill. His body yearns to take a page out of Ghost’s book and fall to his knees just to feel the warm blood soak through his trousers.

But Kyle is pressing his lips together, trying not to let his face crumple, trying to be the perfect picture of composure. Trying to hold it together for what’s left of the team. Simon’s chest heaves with wheezing breaths that aren’t coming naturally like they should be, while stained gloves tremble over Soap’s chest.

And Price knows he does not have the luxury of falling apart right now.

No, that will have to wait until they’re back in Herefordshire. Base will hold the standard vigil, a ceremonious affair complete with bagpipes and candlelight for the youngest soldier to ever pass SAS selection. Later that night, he’ll have his own private wake in his office with the cheapest bottle of scotch, a good cigar and guilt thick enough to weaponise.

Actually.

Perhaps he will lose it sooner rather than later—in the form of cold-blooded revenge. He’s got the easiest target of a man in mind. Next best thing to Makarov himself.

The puddle of blood spreads to the toe of his boot. By the time the med team arrives, he is an island in a sea of red.

Ghost doesn’t break until the stretcher ready to load up Soap’s body is within sight. That is, predictably, what snips the final wire holding it all together.

Red wire.

[somethingclevermahogony]

Find Four Lines

Thanks for the tag @kaylinalexanderbooks!

Rules: find four lines in your WIP that match the prompts, then change ONE prompt for the next people!

Once again I am completely ignoring the "line" part of this haha

a line about music

As the beer flowed music was played, the sound of ethereal drums and harps which neither Narul nor Ninma could see. Unseen lips and fingers blew pipes and clapped. The spirits danced and spun and cried out to the stars and the moon above. Narul and Ninma joined in, emboldened by full bellies and strong beer. They danced and sang many a song, songs of kings and gods, of demigods and dragons. When Narul pounded his feet the trees shook and the birds took flight. Ninma leapt and twirled, her golden circlet sparkling in the firelight. She could see strange people watching from the shadows, folk with horns and skin like moss. They watched in silence, judging, but Ninma did not care, she danced, sang, laughed, roared, screamed, and cried without care or shame.

a line about pain

A beast stalked the hills and cliffs which overlooked the valley. It crawled across the earth, its rot and malfeasance scattered the lesser creatures before him, sent the birds to, and the lizards to their holes. He had shed his skin of skin of bronze already, ripped it and the arrow from his body and had cast them in the dust. He was on the hunt, his sharp-eyes waited desperate for his prey. He gripped his spear in anticipation. Zatur shuddered, breathed in deeply, his body shook, his body screamed out in constant pain.

a line about relationships

Istek grumbled and nodded. He came by the flower tying naturally even with one hand. As the pile of flower ropes and crowns grew in front of him, he told stories about his adventures on the Green Sea, stories of sea monsters, pirate kings, distant lands where the people are made of clay, and most excitedly about meeting Sihunu and Dati. When the old sailor spoke of his loves it was as if some invisible hand smoothed the wrinkles on his face and once more ignited the fire behind his eyes. They had heard these stories before, but Jani listened all the same for the stories would change ever so slightly with each retelling. Ninma continued to knot the stems but between flowers, she would cast glances at Jani, at that small smile of his, the way it made his eyes squint and twinkle. In the short time they had come to know each other she had fallen in love with that smile. Jani noticed her staring.

“Can I help you?” He teased.

a bittersweet line

He felt the cold water, lapping at his skin, his face, his nose, his mouth. He thought about his friends, the adventures he had been on, the life he lived, and those that now awaited him. These thoughts kept the chill at bay, kindling a warmth deep within his chest. The watery world around him faded, darkened, and then all drifted away like a half-forgotten dream.

Tagging @winterandwords, @elizaellwrites, @paeliae-occasionally, @illarian-rambling Your lines will be: a line about food, a line about pain, a line about relationships, and a bittersweet line

[direwombat]

tagged by @aceghosts, and @socially-awkward-skeleton on this wip of a wednesday (tysm <3)

brain hasn't been letting me write recently, so here's something from a few weeks ago. it's the intro to the "soft praise kink jakesyb" smutfic i will eventually come back to (also uh...katc spoilers but these spoilers are a LOOOOOOOONG way off and still kinda falls in line with fc5 canon so spoilers but not really but still kinda). tw for decapitation

Sybille storms through the hallways of St. Francis. The Chosen wisely part for her as she carves a bloody streak of red across the floors. She’s drenched in red, her eyes wide and almost manic. Her pupils are tiny pinpricks surrounded by thick rings of green, and her chest heaves with every shallow breath she takes. Every muscle in her body is tense, poised to strike and lash out at anyone who gets in her way, and the sweet, metallic taste of iron fills her mouth. 

Yet, she looks leagues better than the victim she’s carrying with her. 

Every thunderous step of her combat boots leaves wet, red footprints across the linoleum, striding alongside the dripping trail originating from the stump of Eli Palmer's neck. 

She carries the head by its hair -- his head by his hair. Her fingers weave through the dark, tangled, matted locks. The skin is pale, his chapped lips a frigid blue, and his jaw hangs slack now that there’s no tension to keep it shut. His warm brown eyes -- eyes that looked upon her with affection, with a look that said “Under any other circumstances, we could have had something great,” -- are nothing more than cold, glassy marbles, quickly clouding over. 

She had done her job. Served her purpose. Made her sacrifice. 

The worst part of it is that she had done it entirely sober. No Bliss clouded her judgment. No red tinting the edges of her vision or “Only You” echoing hauntingly somewhere in the distance. She was entirely aware of what she was doing as she committed every single gruesome action against Eli and the Whitetail militia. 

He had fed her, clothed her, armed her, fucking saved her. He was the one who pulled her from the Grand View all those weeks ago. He was the one who trusted her when no one else did, when her mind was still in the early stages of ripping itself apart. He didn’t judge her for her instability like Joey, or challenge her decisions like Grace eventually did. They were equals. Former soldiers, thrust into positions of authority against their will and burdened by the responsibility others placed on them. He let her into his bunker. Trusted her when trust was hard to come by. 

And in exchange, she killed him; smoked the militia out of their burrow as if they were nothing more than rabbits. She had hunted them down. Picked them off, one by one until it was just Eli left. He had begged her for mercy. Pleading, saying that this wasn’t her, that it was Jacob’s conditioning. She was better than this. Stronger.

She showed him just how strong she was by meting out the Judgment for his sins, as her new role in the Project demands. Then, she had cut through the cartilage of his neck and slipped her knife between his vertebrae to bring a trophy back to her Master. 

Proof she had made her sacrifice; that she had done as ordered like the good little soldier she is. Jacob’s right hand. His pet. His Judge. 

Kicking down the door to Jacob’s office, she barges in without announcing herself. He’s sitting at his desk with his reading glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. A number of files lay spread out across his desk, and he’s meticulously cross-referencing them when she drops Eli’s head on top of them with an undignified splat. 

“It’s done,” she says grimly. 

tagging: @wrathfulrook, @harmonyowl, @ivymarquis, @jillvalentinesday, @cassietrn, @poetikat, @confidentandgood, @strafethesesinners, @trench-rot,@miyabilicious, @simplegenius042, @g0dspeeed (sorry about what syb did to cappie's man here), @inafieldofdaisies, @josephslittledeputy, @adelaidedrubman, @madparadoxum, @voidika, @strangefable, and anyone else with something to share today! (taglist opt in/out)

[cha-melodius]

20 questions for fic writers

Thank you @rmd-writes, @welcometololaland, @liminalmemories21, and @orchidscript for tagging me! How did you know I love random questionaires about my fic writing. 😂

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

109! I celebrated hitting 100 recently (technically still celebrating, I suppose).

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

1,220,396. I had a goal to hit 1 million before the end of last year, and somehow I've written 220k since then???? Howmst?

3. What fandoms do you write for?

RWRB, TMFU, Loki

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Please Don't Let Me Be So Understood (RWRB, E, 20k; couples therapy AU)

Nova, Baby (RWRB, E, 66k; spy AU)

Class(room) Warfare (RWRB, M, 7.8k; professors AU)

All the Old Showstoppers (RWRB, E, 20k; celebrity bake off AU)

Always Where I Need To Be (RWRB, T, 5.4k; roomates AU feat. David)

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

I do but I am now horribly behind because y'all are so lovely and I am a little overwhelmed. I like to respond because people took the time to leave a comment and I want them to know how much that means to me (it's a lot. it means a LOT). I promised I WILL get to them eventually!!

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

Definitely Who's Gonna Love You (The Mandalorian), which is a no-comfort breakup angst fic. I wrote it after having my heart ripped out by reading two unhappy ending fics lmao. Have never gone back to the truly unhappy ending again. (I have done some bittersweet or ambiguous ending fics, but those don't reach this level.)

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

Most of my fics have quite happy endings, but I don't think you can beat a fluffy ending at the end of a long fic. I often go for the chapter full of pure, tooth-rotting fluff (after tearing your heart out lmao). That means Nova, Baby, Love is a Losing Game, A Good Man Is Hard To Find, Amor Magnus Doctor Est... probably the most pure fluff at the end.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I've had some here and there. One particular person who just kept coming back and I'm like just stop reading????

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

I do, but when it comes to one shots I'm probably more likely to leave it out. My smut always comes with plot and/or lots of feelings. I like writing it best as part of a larger story, actually.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I haven't for a while but I have two requests I need to fill. Previous crossovers have been The Mandalorian/Battlestar Galactica (because badass ladies named Cara/Kara), and The Mandalorian/The Witcher (because surly dudes with accidentally adopted children). Oh I guess my most recent was TMFU/Glass Onion (because Hugh Grant).

(If you're wondering what the requests are, it's TMFU/Loki and TMFU/RWRB.)

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I’m aware of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yup! Four fics, all TMFU (three by the same person). I am always happy to grant permission!

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

No, but I've got plans with @cricketnationrise.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Can't choose! I love all the ships I write for—that's why I can't stop.

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

I don't think I have one of these. I have one abandoned WIP that I've anon'd because I hate it lmao. Generally if I want to finish something, I will.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Plot (I unabashedly love many of my plot twists), action sequences, dialogue/banter, world building, characterization?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Although it should be straightforward because see: action, I feel like my smut is kind of lackluster. Sometimes I hit the notes just right and it really works, but other times I feel like people just get bored.

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

I'm unlikely to do it unless I have a native speaker I can run it by (I have some wonderful Russian friends who have been vital for this for some TMFU fics).

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Xena: Warrior Princess

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

I will scream about this one until the end of time, especially since it's relatively low kudos'd: the 60s chess AU, Love is a Losing Game. It's my most complete and well-structured novel, and I promise you don't need to know anything about TMFU to read it.

Tagging @cricketnationrise, @14carrotghoul, @inexplicablymine, @cheesecurdsgravyandfries, @three-drink-amy, @petrodobreva, @myheartalivewrites, @nontoxic-writes, @leaves-of-laurelin, @tintagel-or-cockleshells, @celaestis1, @xthelastknownsurvivorx, @nicijones, @thetamehistorian, @jettestar, @ikeepwatchinghelicopters, @heytheredeann, @loki-is-my-kink-awakening, @mirilyawrites, @dewdropreader and an open tag for anyone who wants to do it! (sorry if you get multiple tags on this one, tumblr was being a bitch)

[totally-not-deacon]

WIP Apparently-It's-Wednesday!

Tagged by @dalishthunder, and hitting up @singleteapot, @molliehaswords, @throughtrialbyfire and @electricshoebox if ya wanna have a go.

This is more a oneshot than anything, set a bit before ch6-ish in AR, but kinda stands on its own, based off the Missing in Action quest. It's a little long, so it's under the cut!

“You know we’re not getting paid, right?” he sniffed. “I don’t see why we can’t just… make something up and be done with it.”

“We’re not doing that,” Marasa said, her tone icy. Nebarra shot her an curious glance.

“What’s even the point? Snowback’s probably already dead, and the old hag just can’t accept it.” Seriously, she wasn’t actually planning on waltzing halfway across the province over a lost cause, was she? Surely she had to be a little smarter than that if she’d made it this far in life. He was beginning to have his doubts, however.

“I said, we’re not doing that.” Marasa stopped in her tracks, fists balled at her sides, choking down the urge to rip that stupid helmet off just to give him a solid blow to the face.

“There a reason you’re speaking for me now? I never agreed to anything,” he snapped back, crossing his arms and leveling an unseen glare at her.

“Because you’re such a self-centered ass, you’d rather bitch about coin than help someone for once.” She couldn’t believe him right now. Of all the times to be a stubborn jackass, he chose this one? “Maybe I have to.”

“The dead can’t be helped.”

“He’s not dead.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were a seer,” Nebarra sneered, his own temper rising to the challenge. Neither seemed to notice the wary looks they’d been gathering while they argued in the middle of the street. “If you are, then you should also be able to see what a stupid idea this is.”

“If they bothered to take him, they did it for a reason.”

“Yeah, the reason being he’s a Stormcloak.” Nebarra rolled his eyes. It was like arguing with a stone wall.

“And so were all the others we’ve seen rotting out in the wilderness.” Marasa willed her voice steady, only barely succeeding. “If they went through the effort to capture him, they wouldn’t be killing him. Not yet. They want something from him.”

“And you know this how? Taken many tours through Northwatch, have you?”

“I – I just know.”

“Uh-huh, like the hag just knows, right?” What had gotten into her today? That rotten milk drink of hers must have addled her brain or something, none of this made any sense. There was risking your life, and risking your life for free. Two vastly different things. “These knuckle-brains must be rubbing off on you. You’re going soft.”

“If all this bothers you so much, fine. Stay and be miserable. I’m leaving with or without you.” She wasn’t arguing about this any further. With that, Marasa shoved past him, marching towards the gates, not bothering to look back.

“And suicidal, too?” he called out after her, scowl deepening as she ignored him. Stupid elf was going to get herself killed over nothing. Nebarra stood in the road, seething, unable to uproot himself from the spot. Why did he care, after all? No. He didn’t, he told himself. It was just… frustrating, was all, watching someone he thought might have a decent head on their shoulders do one of the most idiotic things he’d witnessed in his living age. She simply refused to listen to reason. It was frustrating – she was frustrating, he repeated. That’s why he found himself stomping after her, shoving the gates open with far more effort than their well-oiled hinges required. He just… liked having the last word, was all. So what?

He caught the carriage just as the driver was climbing up to his perch, nearly throwing a small sack of coin at him before climbing in the back, opposite Marasa. She refused to look at him, furious stare burning a hole through the rough wooden floor. He frowned, catching how her hands seemed to tremble from where they dangled between her knees. It wasn’t that cold today, at least by Skyrim standards.

“Why are you so dead-set on all this?” Nebarra finally spoke nearly an hour later, assuming she’d cooled off by then. Maybe now he could get it through her thick skull, and they could turn around before they’d gotten too terribly far from town.

“Because no one…” There was no heat to her voice any longer, it cracked weakly. She finally lifted her head to face him, but it was different from before. There was a familiar, haunted look in her eyes, one he’d seen staring back in the mirror far too often than he’d ever like to admit. Marasa swallowed. “No one deserves that kind of fate.”

He said nothing, trying to ignore the pang of guilt he felt in his gut. There was something he was missing, wasn’t there? Something big. Something raw. She wasn’t going to elaborate further, he could tell by how she seemed to curl into herself slightly—guarded, wary. A cornered animal poised to bite if he kept prodding. For once, he decided to drop it, letting the carriage fall into relative silence, the crunch of rocks beneath its wheels being the only thing to cut through it.

The trip was just as tense as it was long, days spent dancing around the subject, neither keen on bringing it up again. Solitude’s windmill was just beginning to peek over the canopies, Dragon Bridge now well behind them. Time didn’t change his mind, he still thought this was a stupid thing to do, but there was no disuading her. Really, he should’ve known that already, well before they’d left Whiterun. It wasn’t like she hid her stubbornness, as if she could in the first place. In all honesty, that tenacity was likely what had kept her going – through the dragons, the endless jobs… the war. Sometimes he felt it put his own to shame, not that he’d ever tell her that.

“You do understand that the Thalmor will track down your friends and family, right?” Once again, he was the one to speak first, clamboring off the carriage after it stopped, their destination finally reached. He’d waited until they were out of earshot from any possible eavesdroppers. “You’re ready to throw them away for some Nord you don’t even know?”

“They can’t track us down if no one’s left breathing,” she said simply. They chose to forgo stopping in town, opting to begin the frigid trek to the keep, trying to stay out of sight of any Thalmor patrols. Even being seen in the area before they enacted their plan could lead to suspicion, and they weren’t about to take any more chances than they had to.

“We’re assaulting an entire keep. It’s far more likely we’ll be the ones not breathing.” Well, at least he’d been smart enough to keep his own identity under wraps. If he was lucky, that would be enough whenever he inevitably met his end there. Hopefully the farm would remain safe. They would remain safe. Gods, why was he even doing this?

“We take down literal dragons almost daily. A couple of Goldenrods is child’s play.” Perhaps it was overconfidence, but she knew how they operated, their tactics – they both did. It was a damn near suicide mission, yes, but with a bit of luck, they might just make it out intact. And hopefully with Thorald as well.

“Wow, really? At least come up with an original insult.”

“I’ve had to listen to you call me cannibal and tree lover for months now,” she smirked, a hint of playfulness behind her words. It disappeared just as quickly, replaced by a pensive frown as her bravado slipped. Her next words were quiet, more to assure herself than anything, “I’ve survived worse… I can, we can do this.”