#someone write it so I don't have to!

[brotherskywalker]

OMG now all i can think abt is Leia with a Hutt kInk post-ROTJ. Princess and rebel leader Leia Organa finding out how horny she gets when someone else has power over her....touching herself as she recalls the feeling of Jabbas tongue on her naked body.....moaning for him in spite of her hate as she rides her biggest thickest dildo....

Yupppp this exactly... and Han just Doesn't Get It maybe, but Luke does/will do anything for her...

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[lazylittledragon]

ok someone please correct me if i'm wrong but am i weird for thinking those 'audiobooks don't count as reading' posts are ableist as fuck????

[lexosaurus]

If you're only commenting on a fic to ask for an update or worse, to be passive-aggressive about wanting an update, then please do both yourself and the writer a favor and don't comment at all.

Saying things like "Can't wait for the next update!" as part of a comment about how you enjoyed the chapter is one thing, but just going into the comments and being like "Where's the update?" or "You haven't finished writing the next chapter yet?" or something similar is not only rude, but also I ASSURE you it only serves to make the writer anxious about writing at all.

Fic writers are not content creators. We're not robots. We're real people with careers, families, and other irl responsibilities. Writing is something I do in my thirty minutes before I go to bed to wind down from the day. Whatever I want to write that evening is what ends up getting written.

So by making me anxious and putting pressure on me to update a fic, especially in that passive-aggressive way that so many people do, all you've ensured is that when I open up my folder that evening to see what I feel like writing, my eyes will completely skip over that WIP that I got the rude comment on that day because I Feel Bad about it and now I don't want to even look at it.

So please, just follow the golden rule of "if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all."

[tititilani]

I can't stop thinking about if Simon had taken Edwin's offer

Like Charles finds Edwin in the hallway as ever but this time there's another boy there too, cowering against the wall next to him. Maybe the dollhead spider doesn't care about Simon, too busy focusing on its favorite target, so Charles is left standing in the hallway with Simon when Edwin is taken.

They get out of hell, but Edwin doesn't confess due to Simon hovering behind his elbow. He doesn't want to confess his emotions in front of his killer, who he probably hasn't even properly figured out how he's feeling towards yet.

The Night Nurse is pissed they came out with an extra soul but Niko's same loophole still applies and Simon stays.

"This is Simon," Edwin says when it's all said and done, finally introducing the boy that's been hiding behind him since the door closed. "He was a...classmate of mine."

"He saved me," Simon says, looking up at Edwin moony-eyed and Charles knows that look and something settles heavy in his stomach.

"Glad to have ya, mate," he tells him even though the words taste sour. This other boy knew Edwin when he was alive, the thought is slightly terrifying to him.

Simon settles in fine with the agency even if the agency feels a little crowded now with five people in it but he continues to moon over Edwin and Edwin just...never tells anyone how they actually knew each other. He reasons it just doesn't matter, that he can't find the right time, whatever.

Charles never really warms up to him, though he tries to hide it, but he sees the looks Simon gives Edwin, a soppy smitten look that is somehow worse than anything Monty or the Cat King ever tried with Edwin because of all of them, Simon arguably knows the most about like Edwardian courting. That, like Edwin, Simon has also survived hell. Charles hates the idea that someone could potentially understand Edwin more than he does.

He hates it so much that nothing further happens between him and Crystal because the idea of Edwin being left alone with Simon bothers him so much. He sees Simon adjusting Edwin's collar one (1) time and it makes him feel sick.

And then there's the fortune-teller.

They only go to her sometimes for cases because she never fails to freak Charles out but her prophecies tend to be accurate like 60% of the time which is pretty good for a fortune teller. She looks at the two of them at the end, because it is just the two of them for once, and then looks just at Edwin.

"How kind you are," she says, the words a compliment but the tone snide. "To house your killer. Pray tell it doesn't come back to you."

"What." Charles says. "The fuck."

Charles is furious, of course, and it takes Edwin a long time to talk him out of smashing Simon's face in with the new cricket bat.

"He's like me," he insists in that quiet but firm voice. Charles wants to scream that Simon is nothing like Edwin - that he doesn't have a fraction of Edwin's kindness or pissiness, that his blue eyes are not nearly as beautiful as Edwin's green - but before he can even open his mouth, Edwin continues. "He...He likes boys, Charles. He likes me."

Oh. Oh.

Charles stares at Edwin who is looking back at him, trying and failing to hide the fact he's terrified, and Charles doesn't give one shit that Edwin likes boys because he's his best mate forever. He's still pissed that Simon is apparently staying but he has to hug Edwin at that. "I'm still pissed you didn't tell me about him," is all he says, swallowing back the other words he wants to say.

Charles grows even more paranoid about Simon being around, who has to get used to the fact that Charles takes to swinging his cricket bat ominously every time he comes within ten feet of Edwin. He finds out that adjusting clothing was an Edwardian courting thing and wants to break something. The very idea the very person who killed his best mate is now trying to put the moves on said best mate pisses him off.

It also makes him think of numerous times Edwin had readjusted his collar or jacket in the past and it makes his non-existent stomach flip.

Eventually, Simon decides he's ready to move on to his after-life and Charles keeps his hands from fisting when he looks at Edwin with that same soppy look. He knows Edwin has forgiven Simon by now but Charles has always been better at holding a grudge and he knows what is going to come out of Simon's mouth before he even asks. He knows that if Edwin says yes, he won't stop him.

Charles also knows that if Edwin does, there is no way he is going to find any kind of his own afterlife.

"You could come with me," Simon says hopefully and the moment after is the longest in Charles' life.

"Thank you, Simon," Edwin says kindly and Charles has to keep himself from crying. "But I have no interest in going anywhere without Charles."

He steps back - away from Simon and back towards Charles. Ears suspiciously pink, Edwin links their hands and they watch as Simon follows the Night Nurse.

[livecrow]

Gundog!Soap's errand gets derailed when he catches your scent.

A retriever "retrieves" a plump bird.

Shifter/Hybrid Dark!Soap x fat reader

(cw: kidnapping)

Soap’s popping down to the shops.

He just needs to pick up an ingredient for dinner last minute. Ghost isn’t home yet, so he’s off the lead. Unsupervised. Normally, they’d get the messages together, but he only needs one thing. He could manage it. It wouldn’t be more than a wink.

But as he mills about, he can’t help feeling off.

Like he really is a dumb dog wandering around without his owner, his lead might as well be dragging on the floor behind him, collecting lint and stray bread ties—

It’s turning into one of those days where he feels far more mutt than man. 

Without Ghost’s firm hand grounding him, the place is a cacophony of input. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many colors, too much movement—all melding together into a murky emulsion of stimulus under the glaring LEDs. 

He squints down the vast row of isles for longer than he’ll admit.

Eeigit.

He should have written a note.

Thought he could have remembered one bleedy thing. You dinnae need a list for one thing—

Feeling frustrated and dafty, he resigns himself to traipsing down each aisle and hoping something jogs his memory. Pride wouldn’t let him call up Lt. He’d never hear the end of it. He’s a birddog for chrissake, proper braw at findin’ things—when he knows what he’s fuckin’ looking for. 

Least he can skip the sundries. He knows that much. Soap’s more than happy to avoid the detergent aisle. Stuff is bowfin. Stings his nose, makes his heid ache.

Lot of good his heid was anyway, feeling fuzzy, like it was packed with cotton. Might as well be. Nothin’ else between his ears. Certainly not the one fuckin' thing he pulled on his gutties and left the house for—

He let's loose an irritated huff and it's probably a bit too close to a growl than is wise.

Soap's trying to make good time, but he's a solid four isles in and hasn't had any luck. Eventually, he finds himself staring down a sea of tins. Fruit and veg, beans, and the sort. His eyes scanned the labels, but even readin' was a real Herculean task when he's feeling so out of sorts.

The canine part of him can't be convinced deciphering rows of little lines and squiggles is a proper use of his time. Especially when he could be usin' his nose instead.

Some wee bairn has starts greetin’ a few aise down.

—Green beans, peas, sliced carrots, corn, diced potatoes. Nae, that wasn't it—

....who in their right mind buys tinned tatties?

A passing trolley is making an awful racket. Discordant shrill squeaks and clunks of a stuck wheel scraped against his ear drums.

—It’s definitely not the asparagus—shites mingin’, and that’s fresh. Wouldnae faff about with a recipe that called for that. Cannae think how foul tinned would be… 

Soap sighs in exasperation. As he goes to abandon this aisle, he steps back to turn and bumps into something.

Soft. Soft, soft, softness presses into his hip—

The kind of softness that cradles, that molds around him. Softer than any of his toys. Soft an’ cozy as his own bed, maybe—nae, softer. His bed didn't have the same give, the same wobble. It was a softness that sent a literal shiver up his spine, saliva pooling in his mouth. That smell—

Not something, someone then.

An incidental collision, a bird had been trying to slip by him just as he stepped backwards.

The touch was there and gone in a second but he was mournful for its absence. The scent lingered at least, soothed the whine that crawled into his throat. There was no artifice to it, no acrid chemical edges that came with any fragrance found in a bottle.

You had actually managed to catch him off guard. The shiver that rattled through him began with a slight jolt of surprise at the two of your union. He must have been more out of it than he thought, he hadn't even noticed anyone else in the aisle. He'll never get used to being startled, but he wouldn’t hold that against you.

“Oh, sorry,” you muttered apologetically as you stepped back, embarrassment coloring your face. The contact clearly ruffled your feathers a bit.

Soap’s mouth shuts with an audible click, he hadn’t realized his lips were parted. He hurriedly swallows a completely unadvisable pant in your direction.

“Nae bother, hen,” he blinks. Finally finding his human voice, responding like he's supposed to when he's out and about on two legs. It’s a little breathier, a beat later than he should have responded, lower too. There's a rasp there that chafes the very air. 

...Maybe his head wasn't packed with cotton.

Maybe it was your soft, downy feathers that was muddling him up, making itself a sweet little nest in his cranium—

The bird sends him a polite, restrained smile as it scurries off.

His world narrowed, like he was watching through a spyglass. Or was it a scope? Regardless, everything else but you dissolved into blur, even his peripheral was swallowed up. Framed you in a vignette. Every tiny aspect of the minute interaction seared painlessly into his mind.

A pretty, fat partridge.

Wandering too close.

Game like that, ambling by all round and plump, right under his snout? Feathers close enough they almost tickle his nose—

It's instinct, ya ken?

Mind, for a dog that retrieves quarry, it’s in his nature. Cannae help it anymore than the shade of his coat. So, is it the dog's fault then, when he lunges? Snatches the bird up, into his warm mouth? Firm and soft all at once. The delicate control from a pup that can cradle a raw egg without fracturing the shell. When he brings it back to his master, tail waggin’ as he’s done a hundred other times?

Nae. Noone’d blame him.

He can already practically feel the pantomime thumping of your frantic heartbeat in his mouth—echoing his own excited pulse. 

Soap’s keen eyes never left his prey, even as your back was foolishly to him. His hind paws were already ahead of his brain, he followed, trailing at a distance. Stalking.

Thing should know better, he might have been a wolf. You’d have waddled straight into it's gaping maw, mistake the canines for stalactites and his tongue for a cozy spot to lay your little head.

But no, he’s no wolf. He’s safe. Won't take a bite out of you. He's a good boy— 

Good dog.

Bird dog. A Gordon Setter, Si says.

A jack of all trades, proficient at tracking, pointing, and retrieving. A soft-mouth breed. That’s very important. Most dogs cannae do what he can. Pick up a bird without pricking it. Ghost has been working with him, trainin’ him up. Helping him be more patient, learn new tricks.

Your scent—it was so hard to describe, but he luxuriated in it, nose twitching. It was warm, but not torrid. Sweet, but not cloying. Rich, but not heavy—

Familiar, somehow. Like a childhood lovey. Cheek-worn and supple as a lamb's ear. 

He’s struck by a piercing déjà vu.

It should have confounded Soap—but it didn’t. It just was. The strange mix of familiarity and unfamiliarity that shouldn’t normally coexist. He didn’t know you, nae. But it felt like he should. Maybe he’d seen you in a dream? Some sticky remnant from a past life? Nothing else could explain the strength of the reaction that gripped him by the scruff. Commanded him to “fetch”.

...He’s doin’ so well. Being so, so careful—game’s normally still, after all. Not wriggling about anymore. Is much more effort to control his grip on a bird thas tryin' to fly away.

Thing squealing like a squeaky-toy doesn’t help, zaps somethin' in his brain, even though he’s hardly pressing. Ghost will look at you an’ see there’s no teeth marks on you. He’s being good. Knows better. Not even a tiny nibble. 

Soap's so pleased.

Only wish he'd had his tail out, so he could articulate his excitement properly.

He’ll take you home and keep you. Rest a heavy paw on you when he wants you to stay put. Carry you round the house with him. Share his food with you. Show you his other toys. Only roughhouse gently, like he would a puppy. Bat you around a bit. Paw at you real gentle like. This soft, living squeaky-toy that he can nap with. Even let you nest in his own bed, tucked under his chin. He’d only ever mouth at you gently, you'd learn you wouldn’t have to fear his teeth. He’d rasp his tongue over you, help you preen yer pretty feathers.

He ached to sigh happily against you, rut his face against you. Wanted all the rest of his sighs to be against you, pressed into your skin. Nose at your crown, in your soft neck, on your squishy belly. He’s curious where on you that scent would be the strongest.

Ghost will be so proud when he sees, when he proudly lays you at his boots—

You'll like his owner. He'll pet you real nice. Ghost always knows the right spot, even before you do. Thoughtful.

So thoughtful that he won't even mind that he'll have to sort something else out for dinner.

[erinwantstowrite]

everytime i get a Batcest shipper on my fyp i imagine getting a metal bat and beating them with it (⁠人⁠*⁠´⁠∀⁠｀⁠)⁠｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+ i hope you choke ♡⁠(⁠>⁠ ⁠ਊ⁠ ⁠<⁠)⁠♡ i hope you choke (⁠*⁠˘⁠︶⁠˘⁠*⁠)⁠.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ i hope you choke! ♡⁠(⁠˃͈⁠ ⁠દ⁠ ⁠˂͈⁠ ⁠༶⁠ ⁠) i hope you choke!

[frownyalfred]

you know what one of my favorite tropes is? forced identity reveal. and not just scenes where the villain will throw some poor civilian off a building if the Justice League doesn't stand up. I mean the kind where they're forced, through magic or powers or some sort of force, to reveal themselves.

Kryptonians are immediately identified in the crowd with kryptonite. Every Lantern hisses as their rings start to flare at the same time, glowing wildly on their hands. Glamours are forcibly dropped. Like that.

[gazpachoandbooks]

Currently imagining Arthur + Gwen + the knights asking someone (maybe druids?) who this famous "Emrys" is and they proceed to do a version of "We Don't Talk About Bruno" while Arthur, Gwen and the knights grow increasingly more distressed with each line and Merlin hyperventilates in the background

[necrotic-nephilim]

Tim's unternet suit really is the most glaringly obvious hero worship/crush for Dick thing he ever has. in the unternet, where Tim's subconscious creates what he is. that's the suit his brain comes up with? something so clearly derivative of Nightwing? down to the *finger stripes*?

red robin #19

this is gay as hell. the reason Tim can't wear this soul irl is bc the first thing he would do is jerk off in it. and he couldn't handle the embarrassment of Dick seeing how similar it is. if DC ever made this Tim's official suit the first thing they would have to do is make Tim and Dick fuck in it. i'm so close to writing that fic i won't lie.

[keymintt]

some style studies with grimm n yarrow for funsies

[in order: persona 5, disco elysium (aleksander rostov), witch hat atelier (kamome shirahama), the tea dragon society (k o'neill), alphonse mucha, hades (jen zee), in stars and time (insertdisc5), and promare]

[vela-pulsars]

not enough stonjourner art out there

[demaparbat-hp]

In your Spitfire AU, since Zuko is looking after Lu Ten II, what happened to Ursa?

Zuko is slightly older in the Spitfire AU. He was banished at fifteen, his head a little clearer and denial a little weaker than in canon. After his first look through the Air Temples, Zuko decides that if he can't find a myth, he might as well search for the next best thing.

Finding Ursa isn't easy, but in time he makes it to a secluded house in a near-forgotten part of the world. His mom is there, older and stronger and alive.

But she isn't alone.

And Zuko, as it turns out, didn't keep the best company during his search.

When Ursa is discovered and her secrets are laid bare for assassins (for Ozai) to find, she begs Zuko to take his little brother and run. She'll do anything it takes to protect her children, even if that means leaving them behind to keep a target off their back. Ursa diverts attention from them and allows Lu Ten's ancestry to be kept a secret. She orders Zuko not to follow her again, and disappears.

Zuko is left with a little three-year-old brother to raise and a mother he cannot hold onto.

[elizzsush]

The Mask | Jason Todd X Reader

Red Hood X Villain Reader

— in which you, a shy nerdy vigilante/Wayne family obsessed barista- is actually a villain that torments the Red Hood at night.

AU: Soulmate (bc I can)

Rating: Sfw

Note: Y/N is based off of Furina from Genshin bc I thought this would be fun and I saw a prompt somewhere, I think? It’s just my interpretation of it as to not step on anyone's toes!

Also, this isn't really a imagine. It's more of an Idea I was thinking of and needed to get out of my head! So that's why it's kind of not finished? Most of my stuff is WIPs anyway so this isn't really new.

_________________________________

You were a popular villain.

People loved you. Maybe not the theft and distraction you caused but hey- we all have flaws? “I will teach this city the true meaning of Justice!” You’d boldly claim standing on the stage that was Gotham city’s tallest building- scarily close to the edge. “Join me- and together we’ll cleanse this city of its evil and corrupt ways!” You’d state so boldly.

You loved for the attention, the lights- cameras and reporters. That’s why the red hood could only shake his head. Another psychopath spewing their ideology like it should be praised- like it was the absolute truth.

Spoiler alert, it wasn’t.

The world wasn’t black and white enough for an ideology to trump all the others and ‘cleanse this city’. Fuck, not this city- not even close. Gotham was just in too deep. Too much crime, too much of a drug problem or a poverty problem- too much of everything. The joker was a prime example of that. The evil of this city boiled up into one twisted person… Anyway, you were an attention seeker, classic villain profile. Does it for attention- maybe mommy or daddy didn’t give you enough love? It didn’t matter. What happened was you were breaking the law and Jason was still on Bruce’s keep an eye on list. So, he’d keep his hands off the bigger more horrible criminals.

Still sometimes, only sometimes, he'd find himself listening a little too closely to your ideals- Like you believed in the death penalty for Gotham hardest to kill roach: The joker.

So, while Red Hood was chasing you... Well, it'd started off small, you’d steal from the rich of Gotham- sometimes even Bruce Wayne himself. -Those days Jason found himself chasing after you slower, not that he’d admit that. It was a classic Robin Hood situation and Jason… didn’t know how to feel about it. On one hand you were breaking the law, in the other, power to the people. Eat the rich.

Jason knew how it felt to grow up struggling so too see you helping people? It was almost nice.

What annoyed him though was your loud, for the people persona. “I will judge all of Gotham! Batman himself can’t escape my judgment!” Okay, slow down… you were fast and agile, but Batman would be able to catch you. And if Jason really put his back into it, he could too. Still, that never stopped you from making bold claims. It garnered attention, it was bold and daring and just what the people wanted. Your ideal matched up with what so many people were fed up with the batman for.

Eventually your behavior began to escalate. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep the Bats eyes from you. “This is a cult...” He muttered while he hides away on the roof of an abandoned building you holed your followers up in for a speech.

“My loyal follower!” You’d greet them with a smile and a bow. You’d put in stage performances. Sometimes with Jason, except he never knew, and the performance was just you and him fighting on the stage. Most days, some days it seemed it was just you acting and being alive on that large stage. Others you were preaching your words to the cult your loyal followers. You were building an empire and catching the attention of other criminals.

An empire that while he agreed with, went against the bats no kill rule. The longer you stood on that stage the less safe from the bat you were.

And no matter how much he wanted to agree with you, a small part of him still wanted... something from batman. You would be an issue.

“How much longer do I have to do this…?”

Red hood was no detective, but he was raised by the greatest one. So, while he was lacking in that department compared to the rest of his family (Even if it was just by a smidge.) He still noticed how after a speech or a fight- your smile, no, your persona dropped.

It was a persona you probably garnered for attention.

but still...

So how…

…That just didn’t make sense.

“Can I have your autograph…? Please?” A civilian would ask shyly, hiding behind a Batman themed phone case with a Robin themed charm hanging from that same phone.

The worst part of it all? You didn’t ask for the Red Hoods autograph. You asked for Jason Todd’s autograph, you were a fan of the Wayne’s. Gotham's golden family. No actually, it was the way you jumped up and down eagerly when you thought he was far enough way and did a dumb victory dance.

He sighed and leaned against the alleys stone wall as he watched you leave. A sense of worry invaded his mind as he watched you in your nerdy and totally lame Superman shirt walking away. All while staring at your phone.

He was surprised you recognized him. He was never in the public spotlight- maybe here and there when he was younger. Not now, not anymore. His death and how vague it was left question. Ones people didn’t ask when he wasn’t there, dangling in front of them like bait to a fish, they’d ask why and how and while they had a cover up: One the bat, the world's greatest detective made up. It still was messy. You must be a real fan.

He wasn’t even sure if that was really you…

It had to be though, there was no mistaking it. So, with your civilian name in his head, he walked back home.

“…so… lonely…” `

[toshidou]

𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝟏𝟖+

currently thinking about how much Logan loves teasing you just so he can smell the way it affects you; touching your inner thigh under the table mid-mission briefing, catching your waist to whisper utterly debauched things into your ear as he passes you on the corridor of the mansion.

all so he can watch the way your pupils blow out, irises engulfed in black, and a second later it always hits. the smell of you, sweet, rich, and heady, so strong he can almost taste it.

he knows how much it riles you up, knows you're only able to focus on him for the rest of the day, too far gone to think about anything other than the crooned promises of absolute filth he pressed to your temple hours prior.

it's the ultimate possession, knowing with absolute certainty that the only words rattling around your skull are his, knowing it's only a matter of time until you have no choice but to track him down, stalking across the mansion until you corner him in his room.

of course he could smell you coming several doors down, waiting for you with a raised eyebrow and cocky smirk you want to kiss clean off from where he resides, sat at his desk.

"you're cruel, Logan."

you'd hiss, fingers curled into tight fists against your side, nails pressing so hard into the flesh of your palms they'll leave red crescent indents embossed into your skin. he'd laugh, the sound all smoke and crackling embers, thighs spread over worn oak chair legs as he leans forward, lit cigar hanging from his fingers.

"sure. but you're wet."

[baejax-the-great]

If I were a writer at a big game company working on a sequel to a beloved series and the higher ups kept telling me to make the game shittier and kept sending my work back to me to be dumbed down even further somehow, and then once most of the writing was done they laid me and my coworkers off illegally without severance, I'd probably gleefully watch as people trashed the shitty game that shipped.