#that's why you ask for feedback. especially in this space like... people will give it

[creatingblackcharacters]

What do you think makes y'all not say anything?

Often if I don't say something, it's because I'm not in that particular fandom and don't want to give any engagement to that person because I find it incredibly distasteful. Either that or it's not the original artist posting the image and I can't find them.

Why do you think your peers are comfortable with what they're doing?

I'm not sure, but usually if it's someone I know or is inside my space I point it out and give constructive feedback. I wonder if it's purposeful ignorance, sort of like how people pretend to be bad at chores to get away with it?

Why is it so safe to be antiblack in these fan spaces?

I think people feel comfortable being anti Black when creators and artists don't shut that shit down.

If it's just ignorance, why is educating oneself not a priority when it is offered?

Probably because people don't want to face the fact their behavior isn't okay. It reminds me of a toddler who doesn't want to admit they broke something so they blame it on the pets.

Does it not bother you?

It bothers me immensely! But I don't often see these things, usually only finding them when scrolling Google images or on Pinterest whenever I'm looking for references. In which case I don't know who the artist is and feel too disappointed in humanity to go searching for them.

What is the boundary to where you feel you would be bothered enough to speak up?

If it's someone within my space, someone I know through mutuals, common friends, or someone I have interacted with prior I would confront them. Based on that interaction I'll either help or give up on them.

I also feel like it depends on the severity, if it's something a little more subtle I'm more likely to privately DM and say "hey, you should probably fix [x]"

But if it's an egregious error such as skin lightening or white-washing features I'm more likely to comment publicly and encourage my friends to speak up as well.

Am I asking the wrong questions?

I think you're asking the right questions, but I think a lot of people also don't want to answer them truthfully. Or with their names attached (I can't help but feel uneasy about my name being attached but I know it's an opportunity for me to grow if my viewpoint is inappropriate or inaccurate)

What questions should I be asking, and what exactly do you think the answers would be to those questions?

I think the question that is missing is, "Why are creators allowing their fans and fan spaces to be anti-Black and not protecting their own fans?"

In my opinion, creators have to protect their minority groups in their fan spaces. If you let one nazi in a bar, it'll become a nazi bar, y'know?

I don't think creators are fully at fault for everything their fan spaces do, but I do think they have a responsibility to shut down shit and point out that they don't stand for that.

If people who have the power and strength speak up and make it cringey and shameful to be anti-Black, then people will follow suit. I think people who white wash are super cringe. Like what are you??? Afraid of melanin? Go get skin cancer, stinky. /Silly

Genuine question- why do you need to be in a fandom to call out racism if you see it there?

What happens when it's the creator who is also racist, especially when they are comfortable with the fan base that is on the same page? What will be the creator's motivation to change if their fan base is okay with their behavior in exchange for their content?

I agree about the creators, yes. More questions to consider: If the creator allows Nazis into their bar, yes it's a Nazi bar. But if the other patrons know Nazis attend this bar uncalled out, and still go to it knowing full well that they're not the ones in danger if they say nothing... What makes them not a participating Nazi? Because they have power too, more than they think, and aren't using it!

Also you shouldn't joke about cancer 😅

[northern-passage]

i've been thinking a lot about the word "representation" and what it means and how it's changed over the last few years, particularly when it comes to the writing/publishing landscape but also in movies and tv shows… and i really don't like it anymore. to be clear, of course i think it's important to have diversity in your work, i'm not saying i hate the concept of representation. but i do really dislike the way it's used now, and i really just hate the word itself

in a broader sense it's just become a marketing tool. i'm not impressed by any publisher or author who just describes their book by listing all of the minorities/identities the characters represent as if that should be enough. it feels very gross, very exploitative and disingenuous. it also really bothers me because it's always marginalized identities- which i understand Why, but it feels very othering to me (and again. Very exploitative as an advertisement). you would never list out "cishet able-bodied white man" as a character description to pat yourself on the back over. so why do it to everyone else? why insinuate that one is the "default" and the other one is "special"? (and when i say this i'm mainly talking about advertisements/marketing. i understand why people would specify about characters in descriptions with the plot, but i don't like to see an ad that's just "this book has gay people!" with nothing else)

which then leads me to my other point, which is that a lot of people treat "representation" as if it's "too hard." like "oh i don't know enough to write about that, i don't have that experience, etc" which is a fair way to feel! however… it's weird that people only say this about writing trans characters or characters of color. i'm writing a story right now with a character who is really into motorcycles. i personally do not know that much about motorcycles, so i researched what parts are what & what different kinds of models there are & what basic bike care looks like. i guarantee Most people will have to google something at some point in their writing process. so what's the problem? it also, again, feels very othering when authors treat certain groups of people as "impossible" to write, "too hard" to understand. they are just.. people. you write them as a person. and then you figure out the rest later.

and i think part of the refusal or fear to write something outside of your experience is because of the way representation is treated as So Special. these characters are So Special that they aren't allowed to be anything other than "representation." they're Not allowed to be characters with complex emotions and interesting motivations, they have to just be Trans or Gay or Disabled or whatever. they're not allowed to be people. which means, at the end of the day, we loop right back around to where we were at the start….

there is bad representation. there are depictions of certain marginalized people that are harmful and that are damaging, i'm not trying to minimize that or argue against it at all, in fact we should all be mindful of that while writing and reading. but i also think it's possible to swing too far in the opposite direction as well and put certain groups of people on a pedestal and not allow them to do anything at all but be Perfect Representation, if that makes sense.

[navybrat817]

Mr. and Mrs. Barnes

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky suggests sneaking off at the gala. How can you resist?

Word Count: Over 3k

Warnings: Unprotected v. sex, sex in a closet, dirty talk, possessiveness, established relationship, slight insecurities, mention of breeding, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes and he's a simp for you (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Sorry, lovelies. I just really wanted this. Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky didn’t bother to hide his discontent as he looked around at the ballroom. Was it a gala? Fundraiser? What cared? He hated functions like these. People were either there to kiss ass and move up the chain of command or gloat about how well off they were in life under the guise that they were doing good for others. He didn't attempt to converse with any of them, but still had to go as a way to support SHIELD in some capacity and show that he was no longer the Winter Soldier.

At least Steve and Sam were excused from the event due to a mission.

Leaning against one of the pillars and tugging at his bowtie, he spaced out momentarily. No one looked his way, but he still felt judged. Like he didn’t just belong at the event, but amongst anyone. He wanted to go home, get out of his tuxedo, and get the product out of his slicked back hair. He debated sneaking away from some air until he blinked and saw the reason he was truly there: you, the only real person in the crowd of liars and cheaters.

He never understood the expression of clothes clinging to someone like a second skin until you stepped into your floor-length black dress earlier this evening, the fabric enhancing every beautiful curve of your body. His eyes narrowed as you moved around the room and exchanged smiles and handshakes with people. Your aura drew people to you, men brushing against you and their stares lingering for far too long. It served as another reminder of why he didn’t want to go tonight, especially when a General gripped your arm.

If he had a glass in his hand it would’ve shattered.

Convincing you to stay in bed didn't work since you both had to make an appearance, but it didn't mean he wanted you apart from him. “Get over here,” he whispered, craving your attention, needing you close.

As if you sensed him seeking you out, likely feeling the weight of his stare, you turned to meet his gaze across the room. Your eyes sparkled with love that he never thought he’d receive in his lifetime. The kind of love he never wanted to be without again. “Would you please excuse me?” You asked loud enough for him to catch as you removed your arm from the man’s grip. “My husband is waiting for me.”

Your hips swayed as you worked your way toward Bucky, not stopping for any other man who tried to catch your eye. Hearing you call him your husband brought the first smile to his face since he arrived. He still couldn’t believe some days that you wanted forever with him. “I was wondering when my beautiful wife would remember I was here,” he said once you were close enough, reaching out for your hand.

The moment you took it, he stood tall and pulled you against him. He was certain no one else came close to the intimidating vibe he put out, his hold on you possessive as you smiled. “As if I could forget. Practically heard you growling when General Rando touched my arm,” you teased.

“Because he has no right to touch you,” he said, your lashes fluttering as you spun away. His hands guided you back to him. “I know you’re better with people than I am, which is why you’re the one who has to socialize and I’m sorry for that. But you also said I’m not allowed to break any fingers tonight and I won't be held responsible if he tries to touch you again.”

He swore he didn’t have a possessive bone in his body until you sauntered into his life, giving him hopes and dreams and longing.

You laughed at him, a seductive sound that had a few heads turning. “You do know I can break his fingers myself, right?”

He chuckled, leaning close to your ear and tickling your skin with his breath. “I know you're more than capable of kicking his ass. One of your many wonderful qualities,” he whispered. People underestimated you and that was always a mistake. “But I still don't like that he touched you like he wanted to own you.”

You rang a finger along his bowtie. “We all know who owns me and we know I own you, too,” you said, holding up your hand to show him your wedding ring. He tried to ignore how fast his heart pounded at the sight of his ring on your finger, the pledge you two made together. “In a very healthy, non-toxic sort of way, of course.”

He smirked, glancing around at the crowd before looking back at you. “Of course, but maybe we could give everyone a friendly reminder that we’re a happily married and loyal couple.” His voice dropped lower, teasingly. He wanted to make your heart race like his. “Or maybe we could sneak away for a bit. Make this night a little more interesting.”

“Sneak away?” You feigned innocence as you blinked at him. He was certain any innocence you had before he met you was gone thanks to him. “Whatever for?”

“You know what for. It’ll be like that expo we went to a few months ago.” Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying your face closely. He easily picked up your sharp inhale, the way your pupils dilated and lips parted. It was clear that sneaking off was something that very much interested you. “C’mon, baby. This gala is boring and neither of us want to be here. My idea is much more fun. You know it is.”

He touched your cheek, your skin warm under his hand. He wasn’t able to keep you in bed earlier like he wanted, but the thought of pulling you away and having you right here and now had his stomach fluttering with excitement. “This gala is boring,” you agreed carefully.

“Then let’s make it exciting.” His thumb brushed across your lips and it took everything in him not to push his thumb inside. “You made me come to this thing. Don’t I deserve something for showing up and behaving?”

“I haven't made you come yet.” His muscles went taut when you briefly sucked the digit into your mouth, electricity crackling under his skin. He admired your boldness, how you were unashamedly yourself in front of these people. You didn't and would never care what they thought. “And I didn't make you come to this event, but I can make it worth your while.”

He held your chin and moved close until only an inch separated your faces. Your eyes gleamed with a hunger that rivaled his. The air crackled between you, daring you both to give over to your obvious desires. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?” He rasped when you suddenly pulled back and helped move him across the floor in a dance.

“My plan? I thought sneaking away was your idea,” you smiled, guiding you both closer to the open doorway. “But if we can find a closet or dark corner, you can do whatever you want with me. And I’ll even let you fuck my throat first thing tomorrow morning for behaving.”

A rumbling, deep groan escaped his throat. His fingers dug in possessively when he gripped the nape of your neck and tilted your head so he could taste your skin. Your body molding against his, soft and yielding against his solid frame, wasn’t enough. There were too many clothes in the way and he wanted to bury himself deep inside you.

“You drive me crazy, Mrs. Barnes,” he whispered, lifting his head to look into your eyes.

“The feeling is mutual, Mr. Barnes.” You bit your lip once he waltzed you for enough away from prying eyes, the heat flaring between you. “I need you.”

Every nerve ending came to life when he claimed your mouth in a searing kiss. His tongue plunged past your lips, holding you steady as he devoured you. You melted against him, which only brought forth his primal hunger more. His intensity never scared you and he would be forever thankful for that.

You gasped as your back hit a wall, the sounds of chatter and music from the ballroom muffled. Your nails scraped the fabric of his jacket, both of you lost in sensations of lust and desire. As one of your hands continued its journey to his shoulder, the other wandered down his torso and didn’t stop until you gripped his thick erection through his pants.

He abruptly broke the kiss when you gave him a squeeze, his eyes wild. “Fuck,” he breathed, gripping your wrist and pushing more firmly against your hand. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.”

With dizzying speed, he spun you so that your back pressed against his front. You panted as his hand ventured through the slit of your dress and brushed along your trembling thigh. “Wait until you feel how wet I am,” you whispered, grinding your hips back against his.

His mouth brushed the exposed column of your throat, alternating between small bites and open mouthed kisses. “Still get wet for me?” He asked, massaging your breast with his vibranium hand and drawing another gasp from you when he pinched your nipple. He marveled at how much he could feel with that hand and how he’d never harm you with it.

“Have you seen yourself? One look from you and I’m soaked.” Your back arched as he bit down again. He wished he saw himself the way you did. “And you’re my husband. That craving for you isn’t going away.”

He rocked his hips against yours, seeking out more contact and friction as his cock throbbed and heart swelled. Marriage wasn’t a constant honeymoon phase. It took work. Effort. Compromise. But you were worth every moment, every struggle, every up and down.

Laughter from a few feet away had him lifting his head, both of you looking toward where the noise was coming from. “Fuck,” he snarled, wanting to scream at whoever it was to go the fuck away.

“There’s a closet around the corner. We just need to pick the lock,” you told him, smiling over your shoulder. “I may have scoped out the place in case this happened.”

He chuckled, utterly in awe of you. “I fucking love you,” he exhaled.

Walking with an aching hard-on wasn’t easy, but he managed to get you both further away from the ballroom. He picked the lock with record speed once you got to the door and moved you both inside. He flipped on the light, wanting to see as much of you as he could. For a moment, you two stared at each other and waited for the other to make a move. He loved the anticipation.

“I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Barnes,” you said, reaching for the doorknob to lock it. He was about to ask what he possibly did to upset you when you smirked. “You didn’t mention anything about me not wearing any panties.”

His cock was ready to burst from his pants. “Because that fucking clown out there interupted me,” he rumbled, pinning you against the door and crowding your body. His nose touched yours as he hiked your dress up, desperate to kiss you again. Eager to feel your wetness. “You trust me?”

It was a question he always asked. You put all of yourself into his care, your body, mind, heart, and soul. It was only fair that he made sure you still wanted him to be the one for you today, tomorrow, and every day after that. Even then a single lifetime would never be enough for him. He wanted a thousand lives with you.

“Always,” you said, an ache in your voice that he couldn’t resist. He fused his lips with yours, building up the fire all over again when his hand found your damp heat. The most intimate part of you where you allowed him to make himself at home. Your hands shook as you went to undo his pants, wanting to free him. “And you trust me?”

It wasn’t just his heart that contracted. His very soul trembled, wanting to wrap itself up in your light and love. “With everything in me,” he promised, sighing when he pulled his cock free from his underwear. “I’ll worship you later. Those gorgeous tits of yours. Your sweet cunt.”

Once you were home, he’d slip off your dress and give every beautiful inch of your body the attention it deserved. He’d draw a bath for you, too, and hopefully join you so he could simply hold you. But he was desperate for you now. He thought he’d burn if he didn’t have you.

You hiked a leg around him, moving your hips enticingly. There was only so much he could take. And who wouldn’t fall under the tempting spell of your body? “I’m ready for you.” Your soft moan echoed in his ears as he trailed a finger along your slit to your clit, barely touching it. He knew it would shoot small sparks through your body until you begged for more. “I mean it, Barnes. Get. Your cock. In me.”

“My needy little wife,” he whispered against your lips as he gripped the base of his cock and probed your entrance. The breathy sound you made when he began to push in had his blood pulsing in euphoria. It was a wonder he fit some days with how tight you were, but your slick heat stretched and welcomed him every time.

“My needy husband,” you smiled as you enveloped him completely, your fingers curling in his hair.

“What kind of man isn’t needy for his wife?” He began to thrust in deep, deliberate strokes. It matched the rhythm of the music in the distant ballroom, the two of you creating your own sultry dance. Maybe he would go up in flames. At least he’d have you to burn with. “Fuck, your body was made for my cock.”

Each snap of his hips tore more moans and whimpers from your throat and sent shockwaves through his system. You clenched around him with a smile, looking like a debauched angel. “My pussy was made for you, so ruin it.”

He groaned, his pulse beating strongly as his grip tightened on your hips. He fucked you without restraint, just as greedy for you as you were for him. Allowing himself to feel you and what you did to him was everything he was denied for so long. His life had only been order. Pain. You let him lose control. You gave him pleasure. Even a home.

I love you.

“I love you, too, Bucky,” you panted, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone as his eyes closed against the emotions threatening to surface. “I love you, too.”

His pace picked up, urgent, frenzied. At this rate, he might explode into fragments from your declaration and how good you felt. “You love me?” He bit out, his eyes opening and breaths harsh as he felt you clench again.

You cried out, his hand flying up to brace your head before it hit the door. “So much,” you moaned as you gazed at him. You were the most beautiful person he had ever seen. Fierce in love and loyalty, patient and steadfast. He feared some days he’d need you more than you needed him, but you drove that thought from his mind. “I’m yours.”

“I’m not gonna last,” he warned. He couldn’t with the way you looked at him, the way your walls gripped him, knowing you were his.

“Neither am…” Your mouth fell open as your release hit you, your fluids drenching him. It was a wonder to watch you go over the edge in a blissful orgasm. He wanted to be right there with you.

“There you go. Good girl,” he encouraged, your body still tight around his cock. He erupted in one last thrust, his head falling back with an animalistic roar. “Fuck…”

Bucky braced a hand against the door, the other holding you like a lifeline. If only the two of you were at home so he could properly cuddle with you. His breathing remained ragged for a bit as he came down from his high, your breathing beginning to steady, too. He couldn't help but smile as he took in the sight of you thoroughly ravaged and satisfied. “Worth every second of being here,” he sighed, slowly pulling out of your twitching hole. You inhaled when he moved a hand down and swiped two fingers along the mess seeping out of you. “Clean them off for me, baby,” he ordered huskily, bringing them to your mouth.

Obediently, you parted your lips and allowed him to push his fingers in. You swirled your tongue around them to taste your combined essence, moaning at the tangy flavor. He tucked himself away once you finished up, afraid that he’d fuck you all over again if he didn’t get completely dressed. It didn’t stop him from gazing longingly at you as he fixed his jacket.

And it didn’t stop him from imagining your mouth around his cock the next morning.

“Now.” You grimmaced slightly as he helped you steady yourself and straighten out your dress. He knew that look. It was the look you got for a split second whenever the sticky remnants continued to trickle down your thighs. He loved having that claim on you. “How do you expect me to go back to the gala after that?”

“I don’t,” he smirked, his hands moving back to your hips as he snuck in a gentle kiss. “I think it’s time to get you home and back in our bed where you belong. I promised I’d worship you, remember?”

You nodded, your eyes still slightly dazed. “On one condition.”

He titled his head. “What’s that?”

A slow smile curved your mouth, his heart pounding and cock twitching back to life at your answer, “You put a baby in me tonight.”

So, lovelies, was it okay? I feel rusty. And who wants a future fic of Bucky breeding you? Just me? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[abswhore]

Just a friend.

Summary: You both had agreed to see each other as just friends, but your feelings developed into something deeper.

Pairing: college!fwb!abby Anderson x reader

A/N: hello thank you for taking time to read ! , this is my first post I’m really excited so please give me feedback, also like and comment! They is just a test run sort of thing to see how it goes it’ll be maybe 3 parts to this !

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“I’ll be fine here, go!” You assumed Dina and Nora as you stood at the bar, they had dragged you out of your dorm for a night out but you wasn’t quite feeling it tonight.

You watched as your friends made their way through the pool of people, smiling at them as they danced with each other. You sipped on your drink as you watch not bothering to join them.

A voice from beside you caught your attention, prompting you to look over. And There stood Abby Anderson, the university's star soccer player. "You don’t dance?" she asked.

“No, I’m a horrible dancer.” When you turned to her, you noticed she was leaning in closer, allowing you to take in every detail of her face. She was captivating.

"I'm Abby," she said as she introduced herself. You chuckled softly and nodded, replying, "I know.”

"You know me, but I don't think I know you," she remarked, leaving you wishing you hadn't mentioned that you were familiar with her. "Just joking," she added.

“ I hope I didn’t come off as a stalker I think we share friends.” You added “im y/n.”

"I'm not opposed to having a stalker, especially if they look you," she said, her tone playful and soft. You could feel your cheeks burning as you went quiet, letting the loud music fill the space around you.

Abby sensed the sudden quietness and quickly found a way to redirect the conversation. “So these mutual friends with share, who are they?”

You mentioned the names of several people, and she instantly recognized the group when you said the first name, Ellie Williams.

“Why don't you ever come us when we hang out?" she asked, sipping her drink while keeping her gaze fixed on you.

"I'm usually tied up with work or school," you replied.

"That's too bad; I'd love to see you more often," she teased. "How about we study together sometime?"

"What do you think?" she asked, her voice dipping into a flirtatious tone as your eyes locked. You nodded in response.

"That sounds great," you murmured, just loud enough for her to catch over the booming music, your gaze drifting to her lips.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Abby pushed you against the icy metal of the car door, and as your lips moved perfectly in sync with hers, you realized you had left Dina and Nora behind without a word. Your thoughts were a jumbled mess; one moment you were exchanging flirtatious glances with Abby, and the next, she was pulling you out of the club, almost dragging you along.

The drive to Abby's, which should have taken just ten minutes, seemed to stretch on endlessly as you exchanged messy kisses at every red light. When you finally reached her apartment complex, you both rushed to get inside. You pressed kisses along her neck while she clumsily fumbled with her keys, eager to let you into her home.

You moaned, "Where's your room?" as she finally opened the door, nudging you inside and pressing her hips against your back.

"no room, I wanna fuck you right here on this counter." She murmured in your ear while her hands moved around you, quickly unbuttoning your jeans pulling them down from behind as she moved towards the counter lifting you up placing you on top.

Abby whispered, "pretty," as she slid your panties aside. You gasped loudly when she traced her tongue over your clit, then gently pulled it into her mouth. Your back arched off the counter, and you found yourself gripping a handful of her hair.

The sound of your moans echoed throughout the room as you sensed your hips starting to tense, signaling that your climax was near. “Not yet,” Abby said, rising up and pressing her lips against yours in a messy kiss, allowing you to taste yourself.

You spread your legs wider, feeling her fingers at your entrance as you lock eyes with her. Abby thrusts into you, her two fingers stretching you, and you can't help but cry out, your nails digging into her shoulders.

Abby urged you, her breath warm against your lips, "look at me while I fuck you." As she quickened her rhythm, you matched her movements with your own. "Please, don’t stop," you pleaded, your voice filled with urgency and longing.

The moans grew louder as you reached your peak, your back lifted off the counter. Grasping Abby’s arm feeling your walls tighten around her fingers. Not holding back Abby thruster fasted into you as your body shook, your hand flying to cover your mouth as your chest moved up and down heavily.

Abby smirked as she brought her fingers, coated in your juices , up to your lips, gently tapping your jaw to signal you to open your mouth. As you complied, she slid her fingers inside, slowly pulling them while you savored your own taste.

Abby let out a soft moan as you pulled her into a kiss, and you swiftly hopped down from the counter, shifting your attention to the other woman above you, tugging at her pants. "it's your turn," you whispered, biting your lip in anticipation.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

[look-at-the-soul]

Every little thing you do- Part 9

Tommy Shelby x reader

Series master list

Hello again! Thank you so much for the love to this series 🙌🏻 I’m enjoying so much the process for each part, and trust me, your feedback is super valuable (I sometimes take inspiration from your POV, like this part…) let’s give an amazing character the best welcome 🥰���

Also special thanks to @blondie-22 for the gif!!!! (Always portraying what I have in mind ♥️)

Word count: 3,350

“Are you sure you don’t want my company?” Tommy asked for the third time as he pulled in front of the market.

“No, because you’ll start complaining as I go through the stands, but I appreciate the offer.”

“And what about the basket? You’ll have to carry it by yourself on your way back.” He tried again, feeling a bit uneasy for leaving Y/N alone.

“Tom, I’ll only buy cherries, apples and sugar, grandma has the rest.” Y/N gave him a deep frown in response by his overprotective attitude.

Giving up, Tommy raised his hands from the steering wheel. “Fine, but I’ll send someone to join you anyways.”

Y/N wanted to ask if something was wrong, but deep down she knew Tommy wouldn’t tell her much, so she decided to just thank him for the ride and step down of his vehicle.

“I’ll meet grandma at the Garrison and then we’ll go over your house.” She announced leaning down.

“Looking forward for that pie.” Tommy smiled right before driving away towards Watery Lane.

The market wasn’t too crowded as she expected, people trying to sell a bit of everything invaded her personal space, Y/N tried to keep the basket in front of her tummy, in an attempt to protect her baby. She just kept walking to the fruit stands since they were in the middle…

Passing by the stand with the rugs, another one offered jewelry, the sellers were shouting, inviting everyone in, making special offers to get the customers attention.

Reaching the fruits and vegetables stands, she closed her eyes relishing in the smell for several seconds, it was hard to hide she was mouthwatering so Y/N decided to hurry up to get the items she needed and go back to start baking as soon as possible.

“Do you need anything else?” The kind woman offered, making the count in her head.

“That would be all, thank you.” Y/N noticed as more and more people started gathering at the market.

She was now aware of her surroundings, especially after Tommy explained that he didn’t trust Father Hughes. That she needed to be more careful

“Actually… do you’ve any sugar?”

The woman shook her head. “A few stands down they might have though.”

“Wonderful, thank you so much.” With a smile, Y/N paid for her items and as she was about to move forward, she almost bumped into someone. “Lee-Anne!”

“Y/N!” Her sister squealed in delight, arms wrapping around each other immediately. “What are you doing here?”

“I needed some ingredients for a pie.”

“How’s the baby? How are you feeling? Grandma just keeps me updated with bits.”

Y/N couldn’t help but look down, she should have been a role model for her sister.

“We’re both doing okay, Tommy and the Shelby’s had been nothing but kind to us… Although, I wish we could be together and I’m sorry for the way this happened.”

“Mum and Dad shouldn’t have kicked you out.” Lee-Anne stated.

“Don’t blame them, I embarrassed them…“

But before her sister could protest again, their mother’s voice resonated.

“Mum it’s fine, I was just happy to see Y/N.” Lee-Anne explained.

“Happy? How could you be happy? She doesn’t even care to keep a low profile, she’s showing her sin proudly.” Her mother’s words cut like a knife.

“Look, I know this isn’t ideal or what you wanted for me, but this is my reality now.” Y/N tried to keep her voice down. “And I’m trying to do my best.”

“Is it the speech that gánster prepared you to repeat?” Her mother shook her head slightly. “Being so close to him only confused you, to see right what is wrong by all means.”

“Why are you even blaming him now? Tommy has been nothing but a real friend to me.”

“You don’t even care that people have been talking about you hmm? Your honor rolling from mouth to mouth, having everybody in Birmingham whispering about you and him, I thought your reputation would be over as the word would spread about Scott not marrying you, but now people are wondering if the baby is a Shelby.”

Y/N gasped too shocked by what her mother just said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Please don’t even try to hide it anymore, all of that secrecy between the two of you, going out for a ride in his horse since you were younger… he acting so protective the day he took you from YOUR house without your father’s permission.”

“He was defending me!” Y/N exploded.

“That’s what they call it now?” With a scoff her mother looked away. “I overheard one of the women that washes clothes, she was talking to someone else who works for I don’t know who and basically they were gossiping about you… and him.”

Y/N was trying to process her mother’s words, taking her time to let it sink in.

Where the hell did that rumor came from? She had been so engrossed in the foundation project and her baby that barely had time to have tea and gossip about anyone.

“I never thought you’d be someone’s mistress.”

The disappointment in her mother’s statement was like a punch in Y/N’s gut, she felt anger raising inside of her.

“Who said that? That’s not true!”

Y/N felt so upset, but at the same time she tried to remain respectful of her mother, wherever she was in the wrong.

“I made a mistake, but my father shouldn’t have hit me like that, I was bleeding, had marks all over my back for days.”

“The way you behaved, what did you expect?” She found tears in her mother’s eyes. “Can you imagine how your father felt for a second?”

“And what about me? What about how I felt?”

“Don’t talk to me like that!”

Y/N let out a shaky breath slowly, trying to regain control of her emotions.

“Think whatever you want Mother.” Y/N adjusted the basket in her hands, while a tear slipped down her cheek. “Tommy saved me and my baby that day… what people think or say about me isn’t my business.”

Walking past her sister, Y/N gave her a half smile, wishing they could get the chance to spend more time together, but she understood Lee-Anne still had to obey their parents and live under their rules.

So now people just assumed she was Tommy’s mistress? How easy it is to talk about someone else behind their back and destroy the good things they had done in a few minutes. Just because Tommy decided to support her and her baby.

As if Tommy would see her differently…

Leaning against the wall after walking for a couple of minutes, Y/N finally allowed herself to crumble, the facade of strong, independent woman was slowly overshadowed by the truth, her mother was right. She wasn’t able to push away the tears any longer.

“Are you alright? Can I help you?” A soft voice called after her worryingly.

“Yes, just getting emotional over something silly. Thank you.” Y/N lied at the stranger wiping the tears with the sleeve of her dress.

The woman looked at her not buying her answer, but decided to change the subject. “I might just take a break, do you mind if I wait here?”

“Not at all.” Y/N replied absently, her mind replaying her mother’s words over and over.

She was right though, as much as she wanted to pretend that everything was alright, that she could take anything life decided to throw at her, not having her parents by her side was a consequence she never imagined, she had failed them terribly and their distance was understandable.

“Is someone you know around? You look pale.” The woman studied Y/N’s features.

Y/N shook her head. “I just feel a bit dizzy, it should pass in a minute.”

The woman looked around not really knowing what to do, what if she got sick? What if something happened to the baby?

“I’m Frances, what’s your name dear?” The woman asked trying to think of something in case she needed help. If she knew her name, at least she could look for her family.

“Y/N!” Scudboat shouted from a few feet away. “There you’re.”

“She isn’t feeling alright.” Frances explained.

The blinder took off his peak cap and started rolling it in his hands nervously.

“What’s the matter?” Polly intervened as she joined them.

“She’s dizzy, I was just keeping her company ma’am, in case she needed help.”

Polly stared at the woman for a second, before fishing inside her handbag and retrieving a small flask. “Here, smell this.”

The strong alcohol aroma hit her immediately, Y/N was fighting a silent battle within her heart. The truth that slipped from her mother’s lips, her own reality she couldn’t deny, everything came at her suddenly.

Polly wrapped her arm around Y/N, poor thing looked so lost.

“I think you need to lay down.” Polly suggested in a motherly tone, but she regretted her words, Watery Lane was full of cops searching every corner for evidence, they took Tommy and John as a warning, scared the hell out of Esme, the place was now a mess and with Tommy out of the picture, she knew Y/N couldn’t deal with that right now.

A worried look crossed both Scudboat and Polly’s eyes.

“My place isn’t far away.” The kind Frances offered shyly. “It isn’t much, but she can rest for a while.”

“Yes, wonderful idea.” Polly exclaimed relieved.

“You’re an angel.” Y/N added knowing she really needed to calm down.

“This way, please.” Frances smoothed her skirt, before offering her hand to Y/N. The blinder following their steps carrying the basket.

And it was indeed very close, the kind woman immediately offered Y/N to lean against the cushions and lift her feet up.

“Can I offer you water or some tea?” Frances asked walking towards the window to let some air in. “My home is modest, but there’s always food and tea for anyone.”

Polly thanked her for her thoughtful gesture but had to turn down the tea offer.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, but I really need to go out right now.” Polly apologized, thinking she needed to sort out everything at the betting shop.

“Oh, she can stay here, I live by myself.”

“Polly I don’t want to give Frances any troubles, I’m fine.”

Polly shot Y/N a knowing look. “You need to rest.”

And with that, Y/N knew she wouldn’t win that argument. Polly was the boss and she had to obey.

“What were you buying if you don’t mind me asking?” Frances asked Y/N with interest once that Polly and Scudboat left, she brought the girl a biscuit, the last one she had for the week.

“Some cherries and apples, my grandma and I would bake a pie but I forgot the sugar.”

“I could give you some.”

Y/N lost it in that moment, she started crying inconsolably.

Without asking anything else, or pushing her to talk, tentatively Frances rubbed Y/N’s back in a comforting motion.

“Sorry.” Y/N sobbed, embarrassed by the sudden outburst. “I’ve just been holding it for so long.”

“What is it?”

“Moments before we met at the market, I had an unpleasant encounter with my Mother, she doesn’t approve nor support my pregnancy. I hadn’t seen her for several weeks and I know, I know this is far from the ideal happy family but there’s nothing I can do to turn things around, we had a disagreement and I guess that made me feel sick.”

Y/N took a deep breath and looked at Frances through her wet lashes. “I’m just touched by your generosity, a complete stranger offering me a hand when my own blood doesn’t care about me nor my baby.”

Frances studied her for an instant, then covered her hand in hers.

“I’m sure your mother loves you and this baby, but she’s tied to strict society rules.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that, she does just as my Father’s says, she breaths if he says so.”

“Why don’t you tell me about this woman, Polly?”

Y/N’s eyes sparkled. Polly had always been like an aunt to her, she always had a comforting hug to offer and a word to say when things were wrong.

“She’s Tommy’s aunt, they’re my chosen family now.”

Taking a bite of the biscuit that Frances offered, Y/N adjusted herself to face her. “May I ask about you Frances?”

“We’ll I’m just a newly widow, I went to the market get the ingredients to make jam and tomorrow I’ll go from house to house to sell it.”

Y/N swallowed hard, she was only noticing her completely black attire. How hard it must’ve been to lose her partner and finding a way to make money.

“I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“Thank you. There are good and bad days, but I need to do something to have an income.” Frances let out. A heavy sigh. “I’m running out of my husband’s savings.”

Y/N gave Frances a smile full of sympathy, thinking of a way to help her.

“Can I help you to make the jam?” She offered.

“Only if you’re feeling better.”

“Well if you’ve the courage to make and sell jam, the least I can do is try to help you.”

She always wanted to learn to make jam actually and this was exactly what she needed right now to clear her mind and focus on something to find some peace.

“Do you mind if I ask you who is Tommy?” Frances asked with interest as she started cutting the fruits she’d use for the jam.

A genuine smile spread rapidly among Y/N’s lips. “He’s the best man I know… picked me of the ground and provided me with more than I deserve.”

Frances noticed how the young girl’s eyes lit up as she talked about this man, she assumed he wasn’t the father but a very close person to her heart, but decided to not cross the line and ask anything too personal.

Hitting the steering wheel with his fists, Tommy cursed under his breath. For being so weak, for not anticipating his enemies moves.

The moment that Hughes mentioned Y/N and her baby before Tommy was released from the cell, he felt his blood raising, tensed, alarmed and scared for the first time. He didn’t like the fact that Hughes knew about Y/N, the threaten he slipped didn’t go unnoticed by Tommy.

“It would be a shame that poor Y/N goes through the same that happened to your aunt…”- he had been so close to punch him in the face and smash his head against the brick wall, but Tommy knew he was trying to provoke him.

Parking outside Arrow House, he stormed inside the property, terrified to learn by Hughes that they delivered the baby’s furniture that afternoon.

Aware of this failure to protect her, Tommy rushed upstairs, heart pumping against his ribs, worry installed on his shoulders.

Finding Y/N stepping outside her bedroom, she was telling him about the furniture delivered and that her grandma had been visiting earlier, but he went straight to the crib, frantically looking for something.

“What’s wrong Tommy?” Y/N asked not understanding his actions.

“Has someone been here?” He demanded out of breath.

“Just the delivery men.”

As he lifted the mattress, he stopped abruptly at the sight of a card.

There it was, the direct threat towards an unborn child. Tommy decided to hide it inside his suit jacket. Defeated, he walked backwards until his body found the opposite wall.

“Tommy?” Y/N’s voice trembled. “You promised to leave the illegal stuff behind.”

“And I’m trying, I swear I’m trying.”

Y/N saw his recklessness fade away, he was just a man trying to do the right thing, but it was just him against the world.

Eliminating the space between them, Y/N caressed his face.

“I know you’ll keep us safe.” She assured him. “Hmm?”

Fixing his eyes on her, he knew he’d get a bullet for her in a heartbeat.

But now he could only think of her baby, Y/N couldn’t even come close to imagine the risk she was facing.

“Listen to me…” Tommy stated breaking their embrace, taking her face between his hands. “I won’t let anything happen to you, do you understand?”

Not waiting for an answer, he kissed the top of her head softly and pulled her back into his arms. Looking around the nursery, it was slowly coming together, it now had the furniture, Y/N talked about knitting a blanket and her grandmother was making a piece for the baby.

He needed to find out who the hell leaked Y/N’s information to Father Hughes and how did they manage to walk into his house to place that note in the crib.

And he needed to do it before they could hurt Y/N and her baby.

Two days later, she was back to thank Frances for her kindness.

“I won’t take long.” Y/N announced at Tommy’s driver. He had been adamant about her not being alone for a second so now she had a chaperone watching her every move.

It had been a busy day at the institution, Y/N had lots of work to do, unfortunately she had been feeling sick most of the morning, so she gave up and decided to get some air. Heading to the market, she bought a sack of flour, vegetables, eggs, milk, a couple of fresh baguettes and headed towards Frances’ house.

It wasn’t her intention, but since the window was open, she overheard the conversation unfolding inside.

“If you know what’s best for you, you’ll accept my proposal.” A man said before walking outside.

Y/N tried to pretend she was knocking on the house next door and waited until the man was out of her eyesight to call out for Frances.

“Frances, are you alright?”

Y/N rushed without waiting to be invited inside, leaving the basket next to her feet.

“No… that man says my husband, my Bert gave him the papers of our house in exchange for some money he needed, but he didn’t get the chance to pay for the loan.” Frances cried.

A gasp escaped Y/N’s lips, this was a mess.

“Take a deep breath.” Y/N proposed not knowing what to do. “Do you’ve someone who can help you?”

“No… I’m on my own.”

With a sigh, Y/N took a look around the small unit, Frances came from a harder background than her, her whole house was the size of her living room, and she had everything there; kitchen, bathroom, bed and the living room. Pondering in the options, decided to do what Tommy had done for her; help without asking questions.

“Why don’t you prepare a bag with your essentials and we’ll figure out the rest later.” Y/N proposed straightening her back.

“But I’ve nowhere to go.” Frances explained.

“You do, I’m taking you somewhere.”

Eventually, they arrived at the Institution, Y/N explained Frances she could stay there while it started operations, it wasn’t properly a house, but there was a sofa to sleep on, and a kitchen with the utensils she might need.

“How can I thank you for this?” Frances needed answers, feeling overwhelmed.

“No need, you helped me the other day… I’m just returning the favor.”

She would see later if there was an open position that Frances could take either at the Institution or the betting shop with Tommy, but for now, she had the day covered.

Next part

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[theplumsoldier]

slippery when wet

summary: after a night out, you get home to hear carmy moaning your name. really, was there anything you could do but join him?

pairing: carmy berzatto x roommate!reader

word count: 2,6k

warnings: vulgar language, 18+ MDNI; smut, unprotected sex, soft!carm, masturbation, voyeurism, dirty talk, creampie, brief mention of breeding kink, mention of sex toys (vibrator)

as always feedback is appreciated <3<3

It's ridiculously fucked up, Carmy knows it—but when he literally stumbles over your fucking vibrator what the fuck is he supposed to do?

You've been roommates for quite some time now, you know each other pretty well and Carmen knows his social skills have improved over the last couple of months because of you. You drag him with you wherever you go, whenever he has time, that is. Even when he's tired after a long day, he will let you persuade him to tag along just so that he can hear you say "please" to him. Of course, he would rather you begged him for something else, but you can't have the cake and eat it too. Especially if one (him) can't even grow a pair and fight for it. The cake was you obviously, and Carmen wasn't quite sure when it had begun.

When he looked back, he supposed there might always have been something. After you had moved in (he'd gotten a new apartment with more space and this beautiful newly renovated kitchen, but he needed a roommate in order to afford it) he'd been surprised to find that you didn't just want to move in—you wanted a friend in your new roommate as well. You would plan movie nights, game nights, and such, wanting it to be more than just a place to live with a stranger. You wanted it to be somewhere you lived with a good friend, a place to call home. He was skeptical, to begin with, as was his custom with new experiences, with new people. Carmen knew his restaurant required his full attention and was therefore unsure he could satisfy your wish, giving you a friend, but after just one night of getting to know one another, Carmen found himself going out of his way to find the time to spend some with you.

Flash forward to now, this second, where Carmen stood paralyzed in your room, frozen in place as if he had accidentally glared into the eyes of Medusa—it was no Greek goddess though, just a regular pink vibrator with a fucking sucker-mouth. His cock was straining in his pants as the toy painted pretty little pictures in his head—fuck. All of this because he let you boss him and tell him to get your charger.

You had vacuumed the apartment earlier—that's why you couldn't get it, you said, because you had already put your shoes on. Now he wondered if you had meant for him to find it.

You must have, he reasoned, looking around like a deer in headlights, an anxious expression already on his face as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn't. He wasn't though, right? He was getting your charger, per your request—it wasn't his fault you had left your charger right beside the one that was charging your fucking vibrator.

Before he knew it, he was reaching down, pulling the charger from the vibrator, and inspected it closer. Carmen wanted to turn it on, feel how it vibrated, how it sucked, but he was afraid the noise might be loud enough for you to hear. Luckily he didn't, for before he knew it you called for him, asking what was taking him so long.

In a fright he threw it on the bed, covered it under pillows and the comforter, before retrieving your charger and met you by the door.

"Thanks. Y'ready?"

. . .

When you got home at around 3 in the night, you were not nearly as tired as you were when you had left the club. Carmen had left while you were still at the bar, excusing himself with his job—he didn't have to go back to the restaurant until the evening, but you didn't blame him. He wasn't a very social creature and you were just glad he had agreed to come along in the first place.

Sadly, your bit of fun for the night ended with Carmen's leave. Your friends coerced you into clubbing instead, insisting the bar was foul-smelling and boring. You figured it might help you get over the loss of Carmy, but after spilled drinks, men crossing lines and the DJ playing shit-music, you decided it was time to retire as well.

But now, as you stepped inside the dimly lit apartment, you felt wide awake. You wondered if Carmen was still awake or if he had just left them on for you. His door was slightly ajar, but he always slept with it closed. You decided that he probably had dozed off when he'd gotten home, forgetting his usual habits.

You quietly moved around, being careful not to make any noise as you grabbed a glass of water and traipsed back to your bedroom.

Not bothering to move under the covers to comfortably settle in, you laid on top of your bed when you felt something poke at your back. It was your vibrator.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, for you thought you had let it charge after earlier. When you had been using it, the battery quit on you and it wasn't exactly difficult retracing your steps, because you recalled being unable to reach your high without it. Looking back, you supposed that had been why you had found yourself shamelessly eye-fucking Carmy all night at the bar—ever since moving in you had thought he was attractive, but you had never had any trouble keeping your eyes to yourself when your mind began to wander.

Carmy had been in here, when he got your charger for you before you left. Your eyes widened at the thought and your breath got caught in your throat—he had not only seen it, he had picked it up, too.

Although you were flustered, your couldn't help but imagine how it had played out. Had he picked it up because he was dense and didn't realize what it was? Had he thought about you using it on yourself? Or had he maybe thought about using it on you? Did it make him horny? Had his cock pressed against his pants the same way it did some mornings when he wore sweatpants?

Your thighs rubbed together to relieve the wave that followed the thought, but in the following moment you heard something from Carmen's room.

You wanted to think your mind was playing games, making you think you were indeed hearing what you had already slithered your hand down your pants to help imagine, but you swore it was, in fact, a moan.

It should make you turn over, slide under the covers, go to sleep, and enforce a little privacy. But you just couldn't help yourself. The sound went straight to your core, vibrating through your head, trying to recall the exact pitch of Carmy's moan. You needed to hear it again. Before you knew it, you were sneaking through the hall, treading carefully as to not make a sound.

You weren't sure what you would do. He might just be asleep, moaning and groaning through his dreams: whatever they might be. As you approached his door, you felt something twitch in you as you heard heavy breathing, panting even. Then a curse left his lips and there was not a single doubt about it now—Carm was jerking off.

Hearing your name fall from his lips, you were suddenly seized by an impulse and let the door to his room open further, leaning against the doorframe. Carmen was struck by surprise, but quickly recovered and pulled the comforter to cover his proud cock.

His face was flushed, even in the dark your could see the redness in his cheeks and chest. Lips parted, between heaving breathing and meaning to speak, wobbling worriedly.

"Don't mind me," you spoke gently.

Striding over there, you slid a finger from his calf to the exposed upper thigh as you tiptoed closer to him, making the air around him all the more hot and heavy as he stared, dumbstruck.

"Were you thinkin' about me, Carmy?"

His face was warm with shame and he tried to form a response, but his voice failed him and clawed its way back down his throat, hiding in embarrassment. Instead, he gulped, feeling his cock still throbbing under the cover.

"'S okay, Carm," you told him, eyes softly scanning over his body as your finger traced small circles where it had come to rest on his thigh. You could feel his muscles ripple beneath the skin and you massaged the flesh with the ball of your palm. "Don't get all shy on me now."

"I—I didn't hear—didn't know you were ba—back already."

You chuckled lightly, fingers skimming the edge of his comforter, but not yet pulling to reveal any more of his body. "Heard you moan my name—I couldn't stop myself, Carmy... Wanted to hear you again."

Carmen felt his jaw clench in anticipation. He had imagined you in several scenarios, many of which portrayed this one deliciously—you finding him like this, flustered, fisting his cock as he pathetically whined your name. It was his favorite, but the fantasy did not compare to reality as you actually stood there, towering above him with a look in your eyes just asking, pleading to take care of him.

The whole night had been like this for him, ever since finding your pretty pink vibrator—a palpable intensity air between you, electric strings bringing you together all the while your similar poles made you repel, shared gazes saying more than words could ever express. Carm had been horny as shit all day.

"Tell me what you were thinking 'bout, Carmy."

He mustered enough courage to take your dwarfed hand in his and guide it over his cock, showing you just what you did to him. It felt like torture to not feel your palm on his cock, and it the pining feeling intensified when you massaged it through the textile, just like you had with his naked thigh.

Encouraged by his guiding hand, heaving chest, ticked jaw and furrowed brows, you leaned down and kissed the spot below his ear, applying more pressure to his cock.

"Saw you found my vibrator, Carmy. S'that what you were thinkin' about, hm?" You nibbled on his earlobe and couldn't help but chuckle as he needily bucked his hips up, using his hand to practically squash his cock into your palm. "You can't imagine how many times I've fucked myself with that fuckin' handle, just hopin' you'd come in and replace it with your cock."

Another string of curses left his lips. In a matter of seconds, Carm grabbed you by your hand and pried it off his cock only to flip you over and mount you.

With his entirely naked body hovering yours, you suddenly felt very overdressed. Though you had rid yourself of the pants and bra you had worn earlier, you were not nearly bare enough.

Your talk had pushed him too far, it seemed, and he wasn't about to let a flimsy pair of underwear stop him from wrecking you, and fuck—he was going to wreck you.

It was as if he gained a wave of confidence when moving your panties to the side, and lined his weeping head with your folds, feeling the slick having amassed.

"Fuckin' hell," Carmy groaned, loving how you lubricated him. Then he felt a sudden pang of guilt, smelling the alcohol on your breath. He would hate to wake up in the morning, knowing he had taken advantage of your state and you would later regret it. But you had said you had thought of him, like he had of you, many times. Carmy cupped the side of your face in his palm and made eye contact. "You sure about this?"

You knew it was because of the alcohol, because you had never shown an interest, because you were roommates and would have to see each other again tomorrow. It was no situation either of you could possibly make light of—the consequences would be dealt with in the morning. The truth was, if there was anything you were unsure about, it was the fact that you knew you'd be better able to fuck him sober. The alcohol gave you courage, but sobriety gave you focus—guess you'd just have to fuck him in the morning too.

"Yes, Carm—now fuck me or lose me."

Yes chef.

He had imagined this many times: he would carefully slide in, melt into you and feel every crevice on his way, but reality turned out to be far from it. When his cock first dipped into your wet cunt, a single shuddered moan left his lips before he pulled out, and he couldn't stop himself.

In no time he had set a rhythmic but furious pace, placing his hands right above your shoulders as leverage, keeping you in place so that he might fuck hungrily into you, just like he had with his fist. But this felt so much better, you felt so much better, hugging him, squeezing him and somehow sucking him in while your contracting pussy pushed him out.

When he looked down at you, you were already staring at him with bleary, hooded eyes, the ghost of a crease wrinkling your brows in pure pleasure.

Your mind had warped somewhere outside this plane of existence, somewhere colors and sounds and smells finally touched, mixing into an ethereal feeling of everything good in the world. When Carmy finally clashed his lips to yours, you were pulled back, cascading into his grasp and you chanted his name like he was your God. You were desperate for release, seeing as your vibrator had failed to help you much earlier. The orgasm had been building up all night, only fueled by Carmy's hungry looks at the bar.

Carm, ever the gentleman, put his focus on bringing you over the edge. Your eyes said more than the incomprehensible sentences you tried to form.

Snaking his hand between your bodies, he knew what to do when your hips involuntarily thrust upward. Your slippery wetness joined with his movements meant his thumb slipped over your clit instead of drawing the circles he had intended. Your slack jaw and glossy eyes revealed to him his attentiveness was sufficient and he continued his deft handiwork, encouraging you.

"I got you. I got you. Lemme feel you, baby—"

And he did and he hoped to God it would not be the last time. The wanton sounds you emitted, along with the pornographic noises of skin slapping skin—he knew he couldn't hold out much longer. Not with his balls vigorously tapping against your ass, not with you clenching him so deliciously, not with a dream coming true.

Your spasms seized and it became your turn to beg him: "Fill me up, Carmy! Want—fuck! Wanna feel you fill me up!"

He had always been good at taking orders, and with you he happily obliged. Although the thought made a scare flash in his mind for a millisecond, it also made his cock twitch and he was surprised when he spilled into you with a loud groan. Carmen wasn't sure whether it was your begging for his cum or your begging for him to come in you, but he fucked you through his orgasm, pushing back the idea of a newfound kink.

While Carmen went limp beside you, you pulled his head to the crook of your neck and calmed his breathing by threading your fingers through his curls. He didn't mean to, but he became incredibly drowsy after that, and he must have fallen asleep there, in your arms, at some point, but not before he wearily made out the praise you offered him: "So good f'me, Carmy. So good."

[jiminrings]

fail-safe; intermission 02.

wordcount: 2k

glimpse: you leave for the night, but hopefully for good in the future.

alternatively, jungkook offers you reprieve.

[ part one, intermission, part two, intermission 02, finale ]

as always, lmk what you think <3 send in feedback n love to my askbox anytime!! even reading ur thoughts in the tags give me life :) | series masterlist

You’ve come to loathe your childhood home.

You’ve come to loathe your room and most especially your bed. You’ve come to hate the people who inhabit it in one way or another, whether it is to guard the door to it or sleep on it.

You detest the floor space that makes everyone who enters it regard it as cozy as if it’s an embrace that’s waiting solely for them. You despise the way it smells, the mix of what lived-in comes off as a scent seeming like an invitation for just about everyone.

The start and end to everything that has caused you immense pain in your life had something to do with your home. From the evident patriarch that’s missing in all your family photos, to how the outside doesn’t seem lavish compared to the facades of your classmates’ houses, to even the visitor that has been hellbent since day one to treat it as his very own — everything that has given you grief comes from the same place you’ve sworn up and down gave you nothing but comfort.

You don’t know where to place all your rage; you can’t even start unpacking everything you hold inside because there’s no space in a house so little to even tolerate you. It houses everything from a past (you’re not so sure of the tense) lover to offspring of said lover, but what your home can’t do is bear you–

Which is why you find yourself driving up to the big city, crashing into a room you know the most outside of your own space in your own house, just to stay for the night. It’s maintained to the state of when you’ve last been in it, the sight of the city below you reminding you that even for just a second, you could pretend that it’s your own home.

It’s your own space in the big city where there isn’t a brother whose loyalties don’t lie with you. It’s your own home wherein you don’t feel like you’re the one who’s intruding on everyone else in there because out of all of them, you’re the one who’s the least-adjusted when it comes to family. You’re above everyone, even if it’s just pretend, and in your few moments of peace, it comes. The click on the door comes, and you freeze up instantly.

What you didn’t expect is for the owner of it to actually come home.

“Jungkook,” you gasp, immediately straightening up your form on his couch. You didn’t even dare to put up your feet on his coffee table but with the way you react, he’d almost think you defiled it in ways he can’t even imagine. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t find any vacant hotels that could take me in such a short notice.”

There’s no confusion in Jungkook’s face. Surprise, sure, because he’s not used to anyone else having his key except for you, and when his eyes did settle to the light, his shock immediately dissipated. There’s no hostility. No arrogance, and no hint on his face telling you that you were unwelcome.

If anything, he looks warm.

“Oh come on, Y/N. You can crash anytime you’d like,” he laughs loudly once he figures that your startled expression looks amusing, the sound of his keys hitting the bowl snapping you out of your daze. “God knows you’ve saved my ass and let me crash in your house far too many times.”

Jungkook takes off his coat and hands you his own house slippers, sliding them from underneath your feet that you’re adamant to not put up anywhere else besides the floor.

You’re relieved for the most part, the guilt that you feel in your stomach creeping into your chest because Jungkook looks relaxed. Nonchalant, even, to know that you dropped into his home without even asking. It’s the total opposite of what you’ve felt seeing Yoongi do the same to you, the lone difference being Jungkook actually wanting you to be here.

“That’s because I’m your manager. That’s literally my work,” you sigh breathlessly, accepting the meal that he gives you sheepishly. You’d have to share with him because he wasn’t expecting anyone, but oddly enough, Jungkook’s more apologetic than you are because he didn’t check on you during your break. Your talent’s sorry because he didn’t anticipate you coming to him, and it’s a situation you’re completely unused to.

You’re not used to being on the receiving end of apologies.

“No, that’s beyond your work. A friend would do that. A manager would rat me out to the CEO and give me an ultimatum,” Jungkook corrects you, flipping his hair that’s grown out since his last project. The break the both of you are in on is literally the first throughout your whole careers, and the sudden reunion reminds you of the fact that he is correct.

Jungkook sees the knot in between your eyebrows, the same one that always appeared whenever you had to chew someone out for messing up something on his agenda, the chuckle that leaves him making you look up attentively.

“You could use a drink. You look like you need it,” he stands up to pour you a glass of his favorite liquor in his favorite glass, the worn-out milk cup freebie of his cereal being the perfect container whenever he wanted to get tipsy but not drunk. “How was going home?”

“It felt bad,” you admit with no shame. It’s Jungkook, and even if he has more stuff going on in his life success-wise than you do, you don’t feel a need to prove yourself. “I had to leave early.”

“And how was seeing Yoongi?” he raises a brow, still adept to the stories about him whenever you both took a load off busy schedules with drinking.

“Even worse,” you grumble, shuddering at the remembrance of a memory that’s still fresh in your mind. “I had to leave early because he was on my bed again, but this time, sleeping with his ex-wife and his son.”

Jungkook gasps softly, lips parting open in shock. “The same guy who fucked his high school sweetheart in your room?”

“Get this,” you chuckle with no real humor to it, looking down on your cup with a hatred that he could recognize. He doesn’t see it everyday, most especially not from you either, but Jungkook knows that look — that anger that could only come from someone who had to endure so much. “High school sweetheart and mother of his child and ex-wife? Just the same person.”

You’re not sure if it’s pity you should expect from Jungkook. You don’t expect any grand reaction because he should be desensitized to points like these (he’s done his fair share of dramas, both melodramatic and straight-up cheesy), but what you certainly don’t expect is for him to launch himself at you. To comfort you.

“Oh, Y/N. I’m so sorry,” he mumbles to your shoulder, large hand cupping repeatedly against your back.

“What are you sorry for?” you whisper, pulling away to wipe at the tears at the corners of your eyes before they get on Jungkook. You turn your head away, pretending that the city you look down on is Yoongi, and that the tears that pool onto your cheeks aren’t there at all. “It must be Yoongi’s birthright to go sleep in my room like he owns it.”

Your sarcasm can’t carry over not because you sniffled, but because Jungkook is perhaps the most observant person in the world after you. “But that’s not the worst, Jungkook.”

He’s nervous for a second before it turns into annoyance, the look of genuine concern filling his face. He has his hand on your forearm, trying to get you to look at him so when you do lie, he could catch it. “Do you need me to rough him up for you?”

“I have no right,” you mutter to yourself more than you do for him, kissing your teeth at the frustration that whatever it is to do, you can’t seem to pick yourself up now. “I can get angry at him for sleeping on my bed with no permission. I can even get angry at him for lots of things. For giving me this, this false hope that we’ll ever amount to something,” you shakily exhale, looking down on your hands that are far from Hyewon’s that have held him and their child. “But the one thing — the one thing I can’t get angry at Yoongi for is him sleeping with his family.”

You have no right. Absolutely no semblance, no fraction of anything that could ever lead you to the conclusion that you have a say on how Yoongi loves his family, even if he’s divorced Hyewon whom he’ll forever keep the porch light on for.

He can leave town and take his share, but Hyewon can always come home — that’ll never change because she was once someone whom he loved the most (probably still), and the mother to Haneul. The porch light is on and the windows are cracked open in the event that she wants to come home to them, be it their home in New York or Los Angeles, be it the home you grew up in.

“What can I do about that, Jungkook? I can’t fault him for that. That’s his family. I don’t play any part in it.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Y/N,” he soothes you, fingertips lightly scratching at your scalp. “You don’t deserve any of this.”

“Stop lying,” you cry to your hands even if Jungkook’s chest is right in front of you, the best he could do (the best that you allow because you’re not used to anyone going out of their way for you) only letting you cry the way you know how.

“I’m saying the truth,” he hums, unconsciously swaying you back in forth as you sit on the floor together. “People take so much from you, do you know that? Weren’t you the one that had to hustle and get a practical job because your brother was gambling on passion alone?” he tilts his head, wiping at your tears. “Weren’t you the one who had to carry all the hurt when it came to Yoongi?”

Jungkook even comes to a conclusion.

“I’m guilty of it too. I give you such a hard time.”

“Stop it,” you nudge him, effectively snapping out of your crying state when you hear Jungkook going into a train he shouldn’t even board in the first place. “That’s different. It’s literally my job to go through a hard time so you don’t.”

“But still. I feel like I don’t pay you enough for it,” he frowns, the immediate laugh that bursts from your lips making him smile.

“The agency does, but okay,” you roll your eyes. “Besides, the bonus you gave me enabled me to buy a new car.”

“Eh,” he shrugs exaggeratedly in faux arrogance, the smile on his face cheeky enough that it makes you throw your head back in amusement. “It is a nice car, isn’t it?”

Jungkook does it so quick, it being your reprieve, you don’t even notice that it’s the first long stretch of silence you’re under without thinking about anything but yourself; how you breathe, how you feel your fingers move, and even how steady your heart feels.

“Thank you, Jungkook,” you smile softly, turning to him as he does the same. “For letting me crash and making things a little lighter for me. Even if it isn’t your job.”

“We’ve known each other for years,” he reasons. “You’re there and I’m there, even we’re not on the clock.”

There’s weight behind his smile, the inkling that pops up into your brain making you chuckle to yourself as you straighten up once again.

“I’ll get out of your hair in a few hours. I need to beat the traffic on the way back.”

“You’re still going back? This has got to be torture.”

You shrug carelessly, sighing heavily. “Three more days. My mom’s been blowing up my phone telling me she wants the family complete so she wouldn’t look stupid in front of everyone for this big family reunion,” you nod to yourself, building up whatever dignity and resolve you have left. “I think I can endure that much for her.”

Jungkook’s mind is as set as yours is to go home.

“You don’t have to endure it alone,” he offers, eyes wide and honest.

“What?”

“I’m an actor. Award-winning,” he adds, the smile that lingers on his face giving you more than just reprieve. “Even better than that, I’m also a good friend and an excellent debt-payer.”

“Jungkook,” you say his name as warning, partly in disbelief, and partly to convince yourself that he’s not thinking what you’re thinking.

“You’re a decent actress too. Just follow my lead,” he shrugs, shoving you lightly.

“You’re ridiculous,” you gasp, shaking your head adamantly. “Seriously, you don’t want to play any part in this chaos-…”

“I’ve been in worse settings,” he counters. “Stop taking shit, Y/N. Pretty woman like you doesn’t deserve anything of the sort.”

“Jungkook.”

He knows he already has you partly convinced when you let him get another word in.

“You and me, dating, driving back home. You can pretend you’re alright and unaffected with everything,” Jungkook grins. “We act it out enough, it’ll eventually come true.”

[the-modern-typewriter]

How do ik my writings good? It's my first story and so far it's been stressful cause I don't know if I'm doing anything right. I understand that writings a skill that'll build overtime but I have Noone that can give me critiques or tell what's ik doing right. All I get is it good which is nice but it's not beneficial 😅. So idk how to judge my self accurately

Part 1: How to ask for feedback

One way to get around just 'this is good' as feedback (especially when it comes from well-meaning places, like people who love you, so you don't know if you can trust it) is to ask some follow up questions.

This is partly because it helps you figure out what you're going for in a story/what's important, can be a way of checking if you conveyed what you wanted to convey etc. This is also partly because giving good feedback is as much of a learned skill as writing is. The questions can help anyone giving you feedback along because they don't necessarily know what you want or what would be helpful or where to start.

This can be questions that you submit alongside the piece or it can be questions you ask the person after. E.g. 'I was going for X, is this the impression you got?' This can be more or less complicated depending on who the reader is. So, if it is another writer, it might be more technical. If it's a kind friend, it might be 'did you see the ending coming?'

(The questions will depend on you/your story and what it is that you specifically want feedback about. There are many lists of 'questions to ask beta readers' floating around on the internet if you're not sure where to start.)

The questions can help bypass 'good', because no one wants to be mean, but if you ask the right questions it can help highlight if there are any issues in the story etc.

Leading to...

Part 2: It really does come with time/you as the writer/editing skill

Critique and feedback is fantastic and often validating. Most writers (myself included) adore feedback. Yay feedback!

However, the other skill you will developing alongside writing is editing and reflecting on your writing. This might include questions you ask yourself like:

E.g. Is this what I set out to achieve? On on a technical level, does this sentence flow nicely or am I catching on it? Is there a stronger word I could use here? Are there any boring bits?

Reading books you enjoy and figuring out what they're doing can help with this - and so can reading books and figuring out what you don't like about them and why. Both are part of the same skillset, it's just harder to do with your own work.

Final editing note: leave space between finishing a story and going back to it with an editing/'is this good' hat on. You will be blind to your own words straight after the writing process. Coming back in a week or two with fresh eyes can give you a much clearer perspective.

A first draft is often stressful and we are often not sure about it and honestly it often does need work or changes. That doesn't mean your writing is bad. It means it's a first draft and 75% of really brilliant writing is editing.

Part 3: Very important caveat

Good can mean 'I enjoyed writing this.'

You are on your first story! That's so exciting :D

While I've tried to give some practical advice in this post, honestly in the same way that someone who goes running for the first time probably isn't immediately training for a marathon, I'd also seriously argue you don't need to worry about technical ability on your first story. Or your second. Or your third!

Your first job is deciding if you actually like writing, same as with any hobby you might try. It's playing around with things and experimenting, because if you do like writing, that's what will make your writing your writing over any prescriptive guide you might read about writing craft. It's taking a stab at a story idea you had and seeing what happens.

My first pieces of writing were technically terrible. This is an example of my not even first piece of writing, but near the start of my journey:

I posted it back in 2018 with comments on how I would improve it with hindsight. I maintain it's an excellent example of the fact that writing is a skill you build over time. I know you know that. But I think there's a difference between intellectually knowing that and seeing it in action.

I hope this helps!

Good luck and try to have fun <3

[hughiecampbelle]

Succession Preference: Giving Them The Silent Treatment

Requested: hi hi! I've been loving succession, I think Tom and Kendall are my favorite characters <3 Could I request a preference for the siblings (+ Tom or Greg if you're comfortable, totally understand if you don't wanna add them) making it up to their S/O after an argument? Maybe their S/O has given them the silent treatment and they wanna fix things?? Or something like that, it's totally up to you <3 - @meltingsandwhich

A/N: Shai!!!! I love this idea!!!! Thank you for requesting!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Connor would want to rip his hair out. The thought of you being angry and hurt enough to give him the silent treatment kills him. Forgotten and ignored as a child, the silent treatment doesn't sit well with him. It reminds him too much of his father, ripping open old wounds. He gives you the space you need, but eventually it becomes too much. He has to talk to you and he needs you to talk to him, to acknowledge him. He apologizes profusely, desperately, the people pleaser in him coming to life. You're still upset, but you realize immediately what you've done. You did what Logan has been doing to him his entire life. You apologize, too, putting into words why you were so upset. Your relationship isn't perfect, especially after a fight, but you know you cannot do that to him again. You have to talk it out, you have to address things, you have to break the cycle. Connor is more than happy to do so, hating the long stretch of silence.

Kendall, I think, would be just as petty at first. When you stare at him, mouth closed, anger radiating out of you, he realizes what you're doing and tries to beat you at your own game. He can only last a few minutes before his own insecurities devour him. Why aren't you talking to him? Is it over? Did one fight murder your whole relationship? He can't listen to the quiet anymore, finding any way to fill it. He screams and yells and begs, but you're stubborn. One too many times he has broken his promise to you, he has broken your heart. As far as you're concerned he deserves to suffer. You want him to. Not forever, not forever, but in this moment? It's all you want. He kicks furniture and makes a mess, yelling, angry, hurt. You can't keep it in anymore and you stat yelling, crying, telling him all your pain. Everything he's put you through. He promises to do better, to be better, that this will never happen again. You're not sure if you believe him. You're not sure you'll ever believe him again.

Shiv sorta pretends nothing happened. She asks you if you want to order in for dinner after a few days of not speaking. You can't believe it. It makes you even angrier, causing you to give her the silent treatment. By not speaking, you're forcing her to address it. You just stare at her as she goes through the drawer of menus. What? Are you seriously still mad? This frustrates her, causing her to become defensive. You're being irrational. You're being insecure. Funny, you say, you're starting to sound like your father. That hits hard. The fights you have are volatile and downright cruel. Afterwards you have to nurse your wounds, you take a few days, before going to one another. There isn't necessarily an apology spoken from either of you, but it's as close as you're going to get. You go back to normal after that. You're sure one of your fights will be the downfall of your relationship one day, but that day isn't this one. You know Shiv doesn't mean it, and neither do you, it's just the kind of thing you were raised to do: go for the throat.

Roman feels incredibly anxious when you give him the silent treatment. He can't stand it. He tries to fill the silence with jokes, but it doesn't work. His one defense mechanism isn't working nor is it appropriate. When is it ever? You break him down with your blank stare. He feels jittery and nervous and nauseous. Finally, he asks you what's wrong. Is this about our fight? Fuckin- seriously? He can't believe you're still upset. Of course I am, you say. He senses your frustration and he braces for the worst, flinching when you step closer. You explain to him, yet again, that though you're upset, you would never dare hurt him. He kinda wishes you would, at least then it would be all over and you wouldn't have to talk about it. You don't care that it makes him uncomfortable, you don't care if he squirms the whole time, you are going to address what's wrong in your relationship. He's not sure where to start, relying on you. You make up by talking it out in a serious manner, so that he understands.

Bonus! Tom is a big gift giver after an argument. Though he didn't grow up with money, he's quickly learned that if you throw enough of it at a problem, it'll go away. He knows you typically get quiet after a fight so he lets you be. In the morning he'll have something expensive and thoughtless wrapped up in a bow. You've learned that there's typically a double meaning to what he gets you and it often leaves you more hurt than you already were. You don't want something that cost a lot of money, you don't want something wrapped in a bow, presented to you like it's a million fucking dollars, you want him to change. You want to stop having the same arguments over and over again because, though he promises you he'll be better, he never is. That's what you want. You know if you said this though, it would fly right over his head. He doesn't want to change. He likes himself just the way he is. That's what you can't stand, that's why you go silent.

Bonus! Greg is pretty much oblivious to your silent treatment. He thinks, after your fight, which is less of a fight and more like a tense conversation when it comes to Greg, that everything is cool. Everything is going to go back to normal. He comes home after work talking about how Rome punched him in the arm and he thinks he's getting somewhere with Mencken when you ignore him. Sore throat? Are you coming down with something? No Greg, you say, frustrated, you're still mad at him. Oh. He didn't think you would be. He thought you got all you needed out when you were talking to him. You have to explain that the conversation you were having was actually a fight, that he participated in it, and he said some pretty hurtful things. Oh. He apologizes, but there's always a "but" in there with an excuse. That's what you're talking about. He's learned from the best at Waystar how not to take accountability.

[silhouetteonpaper]

DERIVED FROM POWER | CH. 2

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5

A/N: I hope you’re enjoying so far! I’m having a lot of fun working on this series! Once again, any constructive and/or positive feedback is welcome!

WC: 1685

Warnings: None

CHAPTER TWO

The van halted inside of a large garage. Y/N could tell they were in the city, the lights from the tall buildings shining through the van’s back windows as they drove farther from the scene of the attack. They were inside a specifically tall building now, emblems with the letter ‘A’ decorating the walls both inside and out.

“What the hell does that mean? My parents have a lot of explaining to do. Where the hell are they?” Y/N exclaimed as she stepped out of the van. No one answered for a moment, Y/N’s eyes looking around, threatening to burn into anyone as her anger grew. A knot in her stomach formed, her fear increasing as she could see the heroes knew something she didn’t.

“Your parents left.” Natasha finally spoke, now giving Y/N an understanding of why everyone was silent. No one wanted to tell the girl that her parents weren’t coming back.

“Wh- left? Left where?” She asked, looking around at the group who seemed to form a loose circle in the parking garage. The only person not in the gathering was Tony, who seemed to be occupied with tapping on his screens.

“They knew one day this attack would happen, and they’d have to go somewhere far away where they’d be safe. They flew a helicopter to a bunker, somewhere in a different country. Somewhere they’d be safe from the people coming… for you.” Natasha explained. Y/N’s eyes narrowed, her heart rate rapidly increasing as she pushed down the tears trying to force their way out.

Her parents weren’t amazing, but she never would have believed they’d up and leave her. What could cause them to be so afraid, especially of their own daughter? Did they know about her ability? What did she do that triggered an attack? Was this all her fault? The thoughts refused to cease their racing, the pit in Y/N’s stomach growing. When it came to relying on others, Y/N just didn’t ever let herself trust anyone. Seeing how politicians acted all her life, she knew how sneaky and terrible people could be, leaving her no room to trust anyone but herself.

“Screw this. I don’t believe any of it.” She spoke firmly as she walked towards the garage’s street exit. Her heels clacked as her pace increased.

“They’re telling the truth, Y/N. Your parents aren’t coming back, and we can’t let you leave. It’s not safe.” Tony spoke from the front seat of the van. Y/N attempted to push open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. She tried to press it harder, using her body weight, but it still wouldn’t move. “Like I said, we can’t let you leave.” Tony’s voice echoed through the garage.

A part of Y/N knew her parents were up to this, seeing as their security guard was under cover this entire time. But she couldn’t bring herself to trust them, regardless of their words. Why was she worth protecting? What made her someone’s target? She faced the door, stopping her attempt to leave as she took a deep breath before turning to the group again.

“Fine. But if I willingly go inside, you guys are telling me everything.” She spoke firmly as she strutted towards the elevator.

The moon was far up in the sky now, glowing onto the team that was sitting in a living area on a high floor of the building. Gray couches and various arm chairs dotted the space over a fuzzy white rug, a TV directly in front of them. A kitchen and table with chairs was behind the living room, while a hallway lined with doors was to the right, after the elevator. The entire building had an extreme modern motif, Y/N quickly seeing Tony’s familiar appeal for sleek design.

Y/N walked towards the couches, now dressed in navy sweatpants and a white tshirt Natasha lent her. She sat in an armchair, making herself comfortable as she was easily able to see everyone from this view. Tony, Clint, Steve, Thor, and Natasha all filled the couches and chairs in the space, preparing themselves for whatever talk Y/N was about to force them to have.

Although she was the youngest there, she knew she had power. These agents were on thin ice, seemingly kidnapping the girl and leaving her with little explanation. But Y/N hoped that was about to change. “Alright, get talking. What the hell is going on.” She stated.

Steve sighed, deciding to lead the impromptu information session. “When your parents wanted a baby, they decided to genetically engineer a child to guarantee a perfectly healthy human.” He began. Not a strong start, Y/N thought as her disappointment in her parents rose. “Seeing as they’re political figures, they needed to find an organization who could do it quietly and efficiently. Someone came forward, offering a deal they couldn’t resist. Without your parents knowing, though, the organization engineered you to have… special capabilities.”

Steve paused, letting her take in all of his words for a moment before continuing. “Luckily when Laura and Paul found out, they already knew Tony and discussed what it would mean for you. We’ve been preparing for this day ever since you were two years old. The day when the organization would come looking for you, to take you back.” He finished, taking a deep breath.

Y/N’s eyes widened. She couldn’t believe it. Her own parents weren’t careful and now Y/N was paying the price. They could run from their own daughter, but Y/N couldn’t run from herself. She was stuck with this group of superheroes that was being paid to watch her like a dog. She looked to the floor, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. The group stayed silent, letting her process all of the information Steve relayed.

The girl felt hopeless, like she wasn’t the daughter of powerful people, but the result of a mistake. Someone dangerous was after her, and maybe she was dangerous too. “What capabilities?” Y/N asked softly, not looking up, because she already knew the answer. All her life she thought she was weird, a monster of some kind, because she had this weird capability. But this whole time, her parents actually knew and were trying to hide it from her. It was all their fault. Tony didn’t hesitate to respond, clearly very educated on the subject.

“Other than the fact you’re a genetically engineered genius, you have the ability to create and destroy energy.” He stated proudly. It didn't take a genius to know that it was impossible for energy to be created or destroyed, it was the basic rule everyone learned in high school science class. The girl inhaled deeply, rubbing her hand across her forehead as she thought about what all of this meant. She didn’t just have the ability to move things from far away, Y/N was capable of so much more than she thought.

Y/N felt a heavy weight grow within her, like yet another problem had formed physically inside her. She had a superhuman ability, yet never used it to its full potential, and had no clue how to. It must not be true, she thought, still weary to trust these people. Although she hoped it wasn’t true for other reasons, Y/N refused to admit that she might be superhuman as she couldn’t imagine her parents making that large of a mistake.

“How… how could they make someone capable of that?” Y/N asked softly, her eyes now meeting Tony’s. She could tell he was passionate about this kind of thing, so maybe he knew how they did it. The girl always thought it was just who she was, but now learning that it was done on purpose made her head spin.

“It seems that the organization had access to something called the Power stone. They used it in combination with mass amounts of energy on a set of cells to create you, meaning you stem from the energy of the Power stone.” Tony told her. Y/N took a deep breath. She could bend energy because a crystal shed some atoms that eventually turned into a baby? It didn’t make any sense.

“I know how to move things with my eyes, but I’ve never done anything other than that. This is all hard to believe, I’m sorry.” Y/N admitted. Steve smiled kindly, slightly understanding the girl's situation.

“That’s okay, not all super humans are completely familiar with their powers. Most of us are still learning even to this day. Nevertheless, we’re equipped to train you, and help you learn what you’re truly capable of. You’re more powerful than you might think.” He spoke, offering some comfort to a distraught Y/N.

“Do I have an option not to? To leave and go home?” Y/N asked, smirking through the now fallen tears. The group laughed lightly, a bit relieved at the girls' playfulness. It was obvious that it wasn’t an option, but the girl still asked anyway. A part of her hoped she could just wake up from this nightmare, and fall right back into the life of being a perfect teenager. Because after all of the life-changing information Y/N had been told in just one night, all she wanted was to be normal again.

“Not unless you want to go home to a room full of assassins.” Tony partially joked, knowing the attackers from before would already be scouting her house in case she returned. She was safe at the Avengers Tower, especially under the eye of a handful of heroes and Tony’s vast amounts of technology.

Y/N frowned at the thought of her safe space, her own room, being trashed like Tony’s house by strangers on the hunt. She wondered who was responsible for this string of events. “What’s the organization that’s after me anyway?” Y/N asked curiously, wondering if she’d know of them. Clint inhaled sharply, looking at the group before deciding to answer for them.

“HYDRA.”

[cadmium-free]

I’ve been thinking a lot about critique, especially in the context of the art school, and where it succeeds and where it fails the artist.

So much of the critique we are taught to give, expect, and receive happens when something is finished. You present a fully rendered piece of work in front of the classroom for judgment. You’ve been taught never to just say, I like it, It conveys its message, It’s lovely, because that’s not “actionable” feedback. And instead the piece is combed over for flaws, because pointing out a flaw is “actionable”.

But it’s not actually always very helpful, is it? It demoralizes the uncertain learner. And the piece is finished, so any critiques may never be applied. There is no guarantee in the modern conception of the art school that you ever work on another assignment that you can apply the critique. Did you learn anything, other than to be terrified of flaws? What was subjective and objective? Did you learn to hone your own critical eye to your own art, or simply to fear that you’re missing something?

I think, so often, of the students crying in the halls after, during critique. And of all the people who hate critiques. Critique is such a beautiful part of the art making process, but most of us do not understand how to apply it, when to apply it, why to apply it, or what it really is.

Critique of the final work is useful. I think in some ways, that critique is most valuable to the viewer, to understand what they’re looking at, why and how the art works or does not, to ask questions. All critique has its place. But critique during the process of making, that’s the most powerful critique as an artist. It’s also the critique the fewest people have access to. You have to be in the classroom or the confidence of an artist to be allowed into the incredibly intimate and vulnerable critique space. It’s this extreme show of trust. It’s this precious thing, opportunity, skill, that I think the art school squanders by prioritizing the end of project group critique.

Really, there is nothing more valuable than learning how to talk about your work unfinished, and, as an artist, learning how to ask questions about your work in progress. Not simply putting your work out there for judgment, but to ask questions about all the things you’re puzzling over. Learning to present the uncertainty, wondering where your piece is going to go next. You might forge this relationship with some trusted friends. People with taste, eyes, instinct you trust.

Maybe this post is just a love letter to the in progress critique. Maybe I want people to be free to just say, I like it, It conveys its message, It’s lovely, because sometimes you need to hear that before you really dig in. Maybe I want people to learn to critique positively, focusing on what is working now and trying to figure out together how to highlight that and improve on it to show off your strengths. I don’t know. I’m stewing in my thoughts. I’m sad for the students crying in the halls. But I’m in love with every person who I trust to critique my work, that gently mould the goopy raw bits of my heart I give them to pick at.

[mrhaitch]

Hello Mr. Haitch, how are you ? I reckon that since you're an author married to an another wonderful author, you may be familiar with the self-doubt and overall bleh feeling that comes with writing and not really finding pleasure or purpose in it anymore. My question is : how do you deal with that ? I don't see myself as a writer but I still try to nurture this hobby, it's just been hard when everything I write ends up feeling flat at best, unreadable at worst. I don't really have writer pals or readers who give me feedback and I was a bit sad to realise that even when sharing my writing on online spaces where there are no stakes, it still feels like a race to notes and interactions. How can I keep pushing past this ? How do I improve when no one gives me feedback ?

I'm doing well, thank you anon.

Yes this is all familiar to me, and it's something I'm presently overcoming myself (I think it's been over two years since I managed to complete something).

I think there's a few different things here to address so I'll take them each in turn.

Motivation - Loss of motivation is inevitable. All love affairs have peaks and troughs, creative ones doubly so. Accepting that what you're feeling now will pass in time can help, but it's not a cure. When I feel like a failure I try to remember something Neil Gaiman talked about a few years back: writing is a lot like trying to get to the top of a mountain, with every word being a single step closer or another foot surmounted. If you find there's a time you can't write, you're not going backwards, you're just standing in place. Sometimes you have to in order to catch your breath. Forgive yourself for taking a breather - and try to figure out why you need it.

Writing in isolation - This has been my own experience, to tell the truth. I hold a Masters degree in Creative Writing and sat through many hours of workshops, but even then it still felt like I was writing alone - that somehow the conversations that took place in those groups were competitive and unconstructive; everyone eyeing each other, asking 'do you like me? do you like my work? is this okay?'. Writing can be lonely, especially with that first draft where you're writing with the door closed, just figuring out the story one line at a time. You can experience several lifetimes in the space of an hour and occasionally emerge from your writing place, puffy faced and wild-eyed, feeling like you have to tell someone what you just witnessed, but find people give you a quizzical look and fail to understand. Working with others, sharing with others, especially people who do understand can be a wonderful balm for such extended (and sometimes necessary) solitude - but it can have it's own problems. Sometimes you internalise the expectations and tastes of others in such a way that proves more of a hindrance then a help. Which brings me to-

Writing for a social media profile - I've done this myself some times and fell into the same trap you describe: second guessing my work for the sake of a theoretical audience, interpreting a lack of engagement as a sign of my own failures or short-comings as a writer. Even when I published for the first time, and then again for a second, I have only met one person who read my work and it was only because they were published in the same anthology. The relationship between artist and audience is difficult, fraught might be a better word, and one that deserves its own post. Sometimes the audience feels they're owed something by the artist, sometimes the artist senses that expectation and subjects their work to censure to adapt it to what they think the audience wants from them. In the end you've got a work that satisfies no one. Social media can help you find an audience - but it's also a medium built around habit, dependency, and engagement. It's not a true reflection of your worth, but rather how closely what you produce as an artist best fits that platforms algorithms and business models. And, here I'm flirting with arrogance a bit, you should never really concern yourself with what everyone might think.

As for advice, here's the best I've got: find whatever it is that brings you to the page and keeps you there. If trying to satisfy the expectations of others isn't helping, then focus on what you want. How would you tell this story, if you were the only person to ever read it? How would you excite yourself, challenge yourself, enlighten yourself?

Beyond that I'd suggest reading a lot and reading widely. Feed the creative compost heap that dwells in the darker, mustier corners of your mind, and see what weird and wonderful things take root.

And if you want something to prime the engine, watch this short interview with Ray Bradbury towards the end of his life. It always cheers me up:

[dipplinduo]

Hey there! I'm actually a big fan of your work , and as a rookie writer myself, I wanted to know if you have some motivation advises (Comparison gives me so much writer blocks and I don't even post)

I love how I received and chose to answer this ask after having a lack of motivation streak that I only broke quite literally a few hours ago xD

I think it's interesting you're bringing up comparison - it honestly might be at the root of what you're specifically experiencing so I'm gonna focus my response on that. I could be off, but it sounds like seeing what other people are doing feels intimidating and puts a lot of pressure on you. So if it isn't "perfect" or "up to par" with what others seem to be doing, it's not good enough to post.

This is my personal take:

I saw a post (wish I could link it but can't remember where it was) that really resonated with me not too long ago. It talked about how we've been conditioned as a society in a way to see a lot of the arts as something to perfect; if you want to sing, you should focus on learning how to become a good singer. If you are a dancer, you should focus on learning forms to become a better dancer.

The post goes on to make the point that this is not why the arts were founded in the first place.

We as humans began to sing because we enjoyed singing. We danced because we liked to dance. We paint, write, and draw because - at each art's purest and most rudimentary form - it is the power and experience of personal expression. The benefit wasn't to be perfect, it was to enjoy the creative outlet in itself.

This is what has always connected me to writing. This is why I'm okay with posting the way I do, and why I don't mind light humor about my typos and all that. Because at the end of the day, you're writing because you enjoy it. You're writing to express and share with others. And you're doing it all for free. Your willingness to give the gift of your creativity out to the world is beautiful in itself.

This next part might sound a lot easier said than done, but again, this is all just my personal route that goes in conjunction with this philosophy:

See other writers/creators as your peers. Think of it like a potluck - everyone's bringing their own food, and everyone has different ideas. But it's cool because now you have mashed potatoes along with your favorite food, and someone else brought ice cream. No one dish is going to "win" - it's the culmination of everyone's efforts that fills plates up and make the event (fandom) enjoyable and connective.

Recognize the way in which your fic is uniquely yours. What's the touch you want to have? Things you enjoy that you want to feel yourself as you create, and perhaps share with others? Romance, humor, fun, peace, angst? Maybe certain situations for characters, or a moment you want to see with your favorite ship? The more you get in touch with what you want to portray, the more credit you'll be able to rightfully give your own work.

Engage with creators/commenters that are additive to your personal enjoyment and creativity. Going with the whole "this is all for fun, and is basically everyone's hobby over life and death" thing - the people you surround yourself with, or even the content you consume, can directly affect your experience in writing for a fandom. I personally get a lot out of talking about my ideas with others and through inviting and responding to feedback from people that engage with my work. If you like engaging with someone else's work, go ahead! See what stands out to you as inspiring, and let that be your takeaway to mull on (as you're essentially learning more about yourself and what you find entertaining or engaging).

I'm gonna get off my soapbox now (lol), but I also wanted to add one more thing:

There unfortunately is a competitive culture in a lot of recreational spaces, and especially with the arts and over the internet lol. There are people who like to overly criticize because it makes them feel better about themselves/their own work, there are people who may choose to dislike you or your work simply because they view you as competition, etc.

These kinds of choices some (not the majority of people!) may choose to make hold no actual reflection of your character or what you're writing. It is someone else's reflection being projected onto you. You may not be able to control what they do, but you can control how you respond. And my advice on that?

It's your free time. Don't give the haters a platform, just disengage & tune into the folks that uplift & encourage you instead. B)

[titleleaf]

If Hannigram do end up having sex in s4 or s5, do you think Will is going to dom Hannibal?

On the one hand: I don’t think there’s going to be a s4/s5 at this point and I’m fine with that. I don’t enjoy a lot of what’s been floated as planned for future seasons and I’m skeptical of how much of that was ever really going to be on the table just because of how making a TV show works. Idk what we’ll see or not see there. On the other hand: that means I and every other writer/artist/fan has a blank check for what they would want to see in that time frame. I can’t say what I think we would see but I can definitely hold forth at length about what I would write if I were somehow in charge of the Official Hannigram Paddling Sequence.

The thing that makes any kind of dominance/submission dynamic between them so fraught is of course all the very unsimulated betrayal and violence, but a lot of things could conceivably happen after that game changer s3 finale. So taking it for granted that they finally recognize that they do in fact want to fuck each other, and in the alternate universe where they’re permitted to fuck nasty, I do think Will could and would dom Hannibal — but it would be with their customary level of 4D-chess mind games in play. Hannibal submitting to anybody (and I do think he has wonderful subby moments, especially with Bedelia) is always like one of those optical illusions where the silhouette of a vase is produced by the negative space between two faces. They both know what he’s capable of and what he’s done in the past, so what he’s not doing is as important to the scene as what he *is* doing.

So without further ado, because I did 100% ask for weird Hannigram sex asks, here are some thoughts on yaoi weird Hannigram sex. (Content note: discussion of risk-aware consensual but undernegotiated kink, sex, elements of consensual non-consent, hypothetical consent issues/canon-typical mental cruelty.)

I do think Will would have a lot of complex emotions and desires to unpack in a sexual encounter where a consensual(ish) exploration of fantasy is the whole point, and that Hannibal would be receptive to that — one of my favorite flavors of dom!Will is with Hannibal really gratified by and getting off on the darker emotions Will would be more hesitant to explore during a sex/kink scenario with someone who, bluntly, he didn’t feel on some level deserved it. (Or as Hannibal might prefer to frame that, was worthy of those emotions.) He has a lot of real anger to tap into and I think the exploratory and experimental space of kink would allow him to express and come to terms with some of his more contradictory impulses where Hannibal’s concerned. That kind of kinky theatrical engagement lends itself to dialogue and exploration, kind of a horny improv comedy situation where two people conspire together to bring each other pleasure and catharsis, which I think Will might, if he could get past all his turbo guilt, enjoy. The fact that Hannibal enjoys the *thought* of Will hurting him physically (up to the point of… yk, murder) precludes that being really satisfying as pure revenge, but it also gives Will a kind of permission to get pretty wild with it while still feeling love and tenderness for this guy. I also think Will’s weird reciprocal powers of imagination and empathy would make a funky feedback loop between him and a partner with appropriately complicated kinks — identifying what gets somebody off and why, then getting off on getting them off on a deep and intimate level. It’s the more benign version maybe of getting satisfaction out of perceiving what will hurt Hannibal most (in the unsexy, unwanted, non-negotiated sense) and then doing exactly that. Sapiosexuality but for only being able to get off on probing the inner workings of very conceptually complicated fetishes.

The real impediment besides Will’s own guilt (and any painful emotions he might have surviving that s3 finale) would be Hannibal’s irresistible need to poke and prod at other people’s brains. I don’t love the way people use the pejorative sense of “topping from the bottom” — too often it’s so ill defined that it gets into ugly essentialist territory and I think overstepping the bounds in a kink scene can go in any direction, it’s not fine when a dom oversteps either — but Hannibal is not really great at respecting limits and he’s fully capable of going too far and inflicting unwanted mental cruelty even if he’s totally physically immobilized. (In fact, it’s kind of the character’s thing, arguably.) So getting Hannibal to play nice long enough for Will to play with him at all would be tough, but not impossible with the right incentives.

If they can engage in that dynamic as sort of co-conspirators and collaborators instead of being genuinely adversarial I think they could both get a lot out of being on either side of the equation. (This goes for sex in general, I think, I don’t see either of them as a die-hard exclusive top or bottom. Hannibal would have pretentious thoughts about this and about the complexities of power and pleasure while I think Will, under ideal conditions, would enjoy the flexibility of switching roles and exploring different sides of himself.) Hannibal has a whole worthy-opponent thing which is very wonderfully horny so I think he’d get off a lot on being forced/yk, “””forced””” to submit if that meant similarly forcing/“forcing” Will into being brutal with him (with whatever level of real vs. play-acted resistance) and Will would get off on having a designated space (if never exactly a safe space given Hannibal’s a dangerous guy) to explore his capacity for violence without the fear of losing control of himself or of hurting somebody who’s not fine with being hurt under those conditions. I uhhhhh have a fic where post-s3 Will consensually hunts down Hannibal for sport and fucks him when he catches him so I have lots of thoughts about how they could conceivably bone. Either of them can perform their dominance of the other purely verbally but I feel like this pairing/dynamic combo pairs well with rough body play/impact play, verbal humiliation of a horny variety, ruined orgasms, orgasm denial, rope bondage, and de facto honor bondage/compelling him to endure uneasy positions of anticipation and expectation. (“Hold perfectly still while I shave you even though you know I could fully cut your throat with your own stupid expensive straight razor” 👌👌👌👌) Lots of emotions and skirting different types of edgeplay. Invoking the real nuclear option(s) in terms of their respective relationship insecurities/traumas would escalate things in an unsexy way neither of them would enjoy, but Hannibal enjoys being seen by Will and Will could get a strong reaction out of him without even laying a hand on him. Or while laying hands on him very sparingly. Special Investigator Graham, you must simply edge 👏 that 👏 man. 👏

It’s always a touchy situation between them and I don’t think it would get any less touchy with them on the run together, but I can imagine lots of possibilities for the two of them to explore their complicated feelings for each other through the time honored medium of bossing a hot older man around sexually.

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

20 Questions for Fic Writers

I was tagged by @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove and I felt like some public masochism so here we are!

Edit: Holy fuck this got long, putting it under a read-more.

How many works do you have on ao3?

258 although I orphaned 100 works back in 2020.

What's your total Ao3 word count?

Why. Why would you ask me this. Why would you do this to me.

4,578,245 - although I shudder to think how much it will have gone up by the end of the year.

What fandoms do you write for?

Mostly 9-1-1, but I took a nosedive into Dungeons and Dragons: Honor Among Thieves last year and still have one more fic I'm writing for it. I tend to have quick little detours into other fandoms, which I think is overall a good thing since it helps me flex my writing muscles with different characters and settings. I'm currently working on a fic that is from a show where the main characters are all constantly sassing each other and bickering, and it's pushed me into being witty and sharp with the dialogue and humor in a way that I don't think I have been in quite some time.

Top 5 Fics by Kudos:

Even Steel Blades Need Fire - that's right, a WITCHER fic. HA. You all weren't expecting that!

Leading with the Left - yeah yeah we all knew this one was coming.

Drowning in Dreams (You're My Raft) - I'm constantly surprised this little oneshot I wrote post-tsunami is so popular.

Footprints are More Easily Seen in the Snow - my first Witcher fic I ever wrote and might still actually be my favorite.

Sometimes a Hammer, Sometimes a Lockpick - another Witcher fic! I had a lot of fun with this one.

Do you respond to comments?

I do! I try to respond to every comment I get. I know not everyone can but given the anxiety I know readers have around giving comments I try to show how much every comment is appreciated by me.

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I do happy endings, overall, but every once in a while I decide to be evil, so it's a tie between the two fics that are about a character dying:

The Soft Goodbye - a Timeless fic that focuses on the idea that time travel, like being in space for a long time, wreaks havoc on your body.

Full Circle - a Doctor Who fic written years ago speculating about the Doctor gifting a dying Donna her memories back so they can say goodbye.

For those of you in the 9-1-1 fandom however, since I'm sure everyone's looking at those two fics going "wait what," the fic with the angstiest ending is:

I'm Not Breathing Unless I'm Giving You CPR - spoiler alert, but I end this fic on an angsty and purposefully ambiguous note. It's up to the reader to decide what sort of ending they get.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Uh. All of them, I'd say? With the exception of the two MCD fics above, I deliver happy endings. However based on reader feedback, I think I'll go with...

Your Love is an Oil Slick (It Glows Like Rainbows, It Stains My Soul) - the amount of angst in this fic, especially the Bobby and Buck relationship, seems to hit readers extra hard and so the happy ending, especially Buck's reunion with his father figure, is extra joyful and cathartic.

Do you get hate on fics?

I have once in a blue moon gotten "flames," as we used to say. Writing fanfic since I was thirteen, I don't think it's possible to fully avoid a few cranky people with nothing better to do than go around and shit on people's beds. But I've been extraordinarily lucky in the love and kindness I've gotten from my readers.

Do you write smut?

Baby, it's what I'm known for. Honestly sometimes to my chagrin - I hope people enjoy my worldbuilding, characterization, and plots as well - but overall I have a lot of fun writing smut and I love reducing people to slack-jawed water-chugging babbles.

Also someone had to bring the monsterfucking around here so by golly I'm reporting for duty.

Craziest crossover?

I don't do crossovers.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Yup! Someone stole my Budde Porn Star AU and turned it into a Rooster/Hangman from TG:M fic. Someone kindly alerted me and I was able to report it to Ao3. Truly a surreal experience.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

I have! Multiple times. It's deeply flattering and I really admire translators who put in the work to take something from one language and convey the same meanings, flow, and story in another. Translation is a genuine art form, if you ask me.

Have you co-written a fic before?

Yes! A few times, all with my beloved @extasiswings. We did one Timeless fic together whispers like poetry and we had such fun that when I started my first long, plot-ty Buddie fic I Hit the Accelerator (But the Car was in Reverse) and panicked, I roped her into finishing it with me.

We also co-wrote Carbon Date Me, Excavate Me because I was in a bad writing slump and she graciously made everything better, and then A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words (But Love is Undefinable) because she uno reverse'd me.

All time favorite ship?

I've been shipping for so long it's incredibly hard to pick just one, but I think given the sheer depth of my insanity, I have to say Buddie. I haven't had a ship grip me like this in... ever, actually. Honestly after being burned hard on some previous ships in my time, names redacted to protect the guilty (me), I didn't think it was possible to love a ship this much, and yet here I am.

What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

I plan to finish all of my WIPs. Once I start a fic I'm committed to finishing it. I do however have a couple fic ideas that I don't think I'll ever actually write.

What are your writing strengths?

Um. Smut, apparently. I also seem to do well with fusions; that is, taking one trope or setting and fusing it with another in a sort of plot mash-up. And people seem to really like my world building.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I'm a hyper-sexual person who is very casual about sexual relationships and so sometimes I think as a result I have characters think with their cocks a bit too much and jump too quickly into sex, and sometimes there's more smut than plot. Run-on sentences, my beloved (and my editor's beloathed). I tend to write out-of-order and so sometimes little plot details can contradict, not be followed up on, or get lost in the shuffle.

Thoughts on dialogue in another language?

I don't really write dialogue in another language in most of my fandoms, but in a few it's come up and I've approached it in different ways.

In Timeless, the character Garcia Flynn's first language is Croatian, so I would have him sometimes speak in it. In my dragon!Jaskier series, I was able to bastardize some of the Draconic from D&D (mixed with some Germanic root languages) for when he was cursing or communicating with his draconic family. In both cases, the other language was limited to only a line or two of dialogue, or perhaps a single word, so I wrote the dialogue in that language, and then had a translation guide at the bottom of the fic.

This tends to be my modus operandi, an exception being Xenk speaking Thayan, because I couldn't find any actual Thayan for the life of me, so I just describe how the phrase sounds or allude to him muttering something/swearing/etc. Since Ed, a former spy, also speaks Thayan, he can then inform the reader through his thought-process what the Thayan meant.

Occasionally, I will have two characters speaking in another language and simply italicize their words and have a line of description saying "they switch to French" or something similar, since I don't want readers to have to scroll up and down to understand an entire conversation.

In my original novels, however - the Horsemen quartet specifically - the characters communicate about fifty percent of the time through sign language. It's become the lingua franca, because noise alerts zombies and ASL is a silent language. In the books, I write the dialogue as I would English, and simply have the dialogue tag "she signed" instead of "she said."

As someone who speaks other languages but for whom English is their first, I'm not sure I get to really speak on how and when one should use other languages in one's predominantly-English fic in a predominantly-English-speaking fandom and online space. All I can say is that I listen to what others say in regards to what is most respectful and comfortable, and I don't have any personal preference in how a writer handles the use of secondary languages in their writing.

First fandom you wrote in?

I'm not sure which came first since they were right on top of each other, but Lord of the Rings and Pirates of the Caribbean.

Favorite fic you've written?

Well that's just mean. How dare you. I don't have one favorite fic, that's like asking me to choose a favorite child.

I will say I am particularly fond of In the Gray You are Golden. I banged it out in a day in some kind of fugue state and I do think it's one of my best works.

Someday when I am filthy rich I will commission someone to draw it as a comic, especially the reunion scene between Buck, Eddie, and Christopher.

Tagging, with no pressure:

@princessfbi @buckttommy @extasiswings @kitkatpancakestack @gracieryder (once again I typed your fucking old url like five times...)

aaaaaaand @givemeunicorns.

[littleskrib]

hello, i was wondering how did you go about learning art (for example did you start with anatomy then figure drawing and how did you study)? and where did you learn from art school or self taught (and if self taught what did you use for references?) I'm an intermediate artist just looking for tips and you're one of my favorites. >,<

hey there, Thank you so much for your kind words! It be a true handful to go through the entire process, but breaking it down real quick I can say by now that I've been drawing for over 15 years for myself, got an academic degree for the last six of those and are now freelancing on my own, so I have a bit of a history I can look back on at this point. It's really about keeping your interest fresh with whatever makes you motivated, so you can get that practice in. I basically started because I enjoyed stuff and wanted to expand on ideas and characters on my own terms, and it's mostly been like that ever since. I've never been one for sitting down and doing practice/learning for practice sake though, which is why I encourage people to value fun as your key motivator over how to do it right. In my experience it simply comes with the need to improve at some point, so you'll seek it out naturally. This way you'll get in the practice on the side as a freebee almost. It surely helps to try and break down the basics at some point, especially if you're not a beginner but intermediate already. depending on what interests you (as answered in an ask before this one) you can pick out specific aspects you'd like to improve on and search it up. There's so many helpful tips online from other artists or you can study other peoples work/process to get a better idea of potential workflows that could improve your own work, which is something that tends to help me the most. That means studying their pieces and looking for aspects I like about it. Either they already share how they achive a certain look or you can try and find similar methods to integrate into your own work. On the topic of art school: Really depending on the school of course, but studying arts was more about the discussion with peers and professional sources for feedback rather than learning the basics for me. I wouldn't say it was the driving factor in how my art developed and is certainly not the only way to improve, but it potentially gives you access to people in the field and their experiences. Also looking and discussing other peoples art can be a source of inspiration as well (though that's sth online spaces can provide as well, sometimes even better because of the sheer amound of it). Hope that helps!