#wip: trod

[bamsara]

Because of this prior ask I was reminded that I drew some sketches in a sai file I named 'Bishop's first friends' aka the first actaul 'friends' or at least friendly flock members they make after their arrival but I think that file got banished when Arson corrupted so these are all I have left, sketches from december lmao

[serv0z]

current wip of the ballroom dance :33 i havent gotten to the actual dancing YET that starts around frame 700 and this is around frame 300-ish??/

anyway its SPECIFICALLY for @/bamsaras au, TROD :3 so enjoy the wip!!

[joofaloof]

Progress from today's stream on the Trod fanart piece for @bamsara! I had to cut the stream short because my computer just will not stop blue-screening for some while I stream, which is annoying because this just started being an issue a couple days ago lol. I'll get back to streaming it once I figure out my comp's deal!

[eqt-95]

what WIP are you most excited about?

not sure, but it's probably not one i'm personally writing.

[tigerr-cherry]

I can't tell if this looks swag or not

[maykors]

two busiest blue nerdy souls just chillin,,not me feeling intrusive at all drawing this..,,,,,,,

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 22

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: this week isn't going great but we're hoping.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You peer up at the silhouettes of the vultures perched on the peaks of the castle. Your return is met by a clear sky as the snows recede to crawling clouds across the slate expanse. The king lets you down outside the stables before he walks the horse within. 

You stand just inside the doorway, outside the gathering winds that whistle through the passes and hidden crevices of the mountain. You hug yourself, shivering endlessly as you struggle to chase the cold from your bones. Once the chill creeps in it is near impossible to expel. 

King Geralt’s rocky voice carries through the stable as he speaks to Roach. You glance over as another mount huffs and gives an impatient whinny. You slip further inside, letting the door shut completely. You trod along the edge of the aisle and turn down the next row. There you find Daisy’s speckled nose. 

“Oh, girl,” you greet her softly and untangle a mat in her mane, “there you are.” 

She sniffs you as you pet her neck. She nuzzles the collar of your cloak and you feel along the thick tendons beneath her fine hair. There is comfort in her familiarity. You long to stay there with the horses. You belong more than you do in the king’s chambers. 

“Treasure...” he calls for you as you still and keep your hand on Daisy. He speaks your name next as you hear his footfalls march down the next row, harrying faster with each step. The door swings in then clatters back against the frame as Daisy knicks. “Little maid?” 

You pat Daisy’s nose and retreat. You shuffle to the front and turn to follow the wall, “your highness.” 

King Geralt backs out of the doorway and it snaps shut with the wind. His eyes blaze a moment before they dim. He pushes his gloves over his hair, stray strands puffing out around his hairline. 

“There you are. I worried you might have blown away,” he steadies his timbre. Was he truly afraid? Did he think you would try to escape? 

“Apologies, I was checking on Sir Bryce’s mount,” you explain. 

“Bryce, yes,” he reaches for you and takes your hand, “he has kept you safe, has he?” 

You nod, “he is a good man.” 

The king’s cheek ticks, “he is my man. He only does as I bid. I commanded him to see after you. Me.” 

You take a breath and bow your head, “certainly, I know so, your highness. Thank you for your protection.” 

“Do you see, so long as you are close to me, you won’t need to fear,” he girds. 

For so long as he keeps you close, you will only be afraid. You will fear him, you will fear his courtiers and his enemies, and you will fear the day he no long wants you near. Every flame must burn itself out and every flame will singe those who get too close. 

“Yes, your highness,” you answer and look up at him again, his eyes glimmering, “Geralt.” 

Your voice shakes, with more than just the cold, and you let the shiver spread through you. The king brings a hand to your chin and brushes his leather glove against your cheek. He draws you into him, holding you again his chest. 

“I forget, my summer treasure, the cold is new to you,” he embraces you and bends to speak against your hat, “we must warm you before an ague might creep in.” 

He lets you free reluctantly and grips your hand instead. He takes you out of the stable and towards the rear entrance of the castle. You slip in the snow, keeping you footing only for his hold on you. He stops and turns to you, tugging you near as your feet kick through the powder. 

He sweeps you up in his arms without effort. He is strong and holds you across his body, cradling you as he stalks to the door. You wriggle as angles to hook two fingers through the loop and hauls open the door around you. He sidles inside and turns you, bidding you to pull the door shut. You obey and close you both in dim unlit corridor. 

“Thank you, your highness,” you pat his chest lightly, “will you let me down?” 

“I don’t mind. You are hardly a burden,” he grits. “Having you in my arms has me feeling much lighter.” 

You drag your hand to his shoulder and squeeze through the layers, “but what if someone should happen upon us?” 

He’s quiet. He keeps you aloft, shifting one way then the other, peering up and down the darkness. 

“And what if they did?” He asks. 

It’s your turn to be silent. 

“I am king, what should they do, treasure?” 

You fidget and pull your hand away from him. 

“You speak true, your highness. You are the king, you may do as you will.” 

He sighs and his chest heaves against you. He clicks his tongue and slowly shifts you down until your feet meet the floor. As he straightens, he drags his touch over your figure, his hand delving between cloak and dress. 

“You fret very much,” he rebukes, “though I suppose caution is wise.” 

“I think of you, of your reputation as king,” you assure him, “I wouldn’t want to tarnish your name. I serve the crown and I wouldn’t bring shame to it.” 

“Shame?” He snarls, “never.” 

He hooks his arm around you and spreads his hand across the back of your head. He pulls you into him and kisses your forehead as you tremble. He holds you like that for a moment before he parts.  

“We must warm you,” he proclaims, “this way, treasure.” 

He nudges you along with him. You follow his footsteps down the corridor, towards the lantern light that light the main ways. He takes you through the castle without pause, not tarrying for soldier or lord alike, though few appear in the halls. It is much too cold to leave their hearths. 

You climb upward and he leads you to the winding tower. He let you up ahead of him as he holds the door. He touches your lower back through the cloak. 

“You will wait for me. I have some matters to attend to,” he says, “it shouldn’t be very long at all.” He trails up your back, sending a flash of heat through you, “sit close to the hearth.” 

“Yes, your highness,” you dip your head and press on, ascending as you lift the hem of your cloak and dress over your feet. 

The lower door shuts only as the hinges at the top whine at your entrance. You close the chamber door and look around the space. The hearth burns still, fed by servants at intervals, and the lantern on the table shines through the steel slats that shade its flame. 

You remove the cloak and hang it from an iron hook. You sit in the chair and strip off the hat, mittens, boots, and stockings; You leave the damp layers nears the hearth and lower yourself before the flames. You close your eyes and hang your head forward. You could sleep then and there. 

Your peace doesn’t last very long. You raise your head as you hear someone on the stairs. You stand, readying yourself to face the king, but instead are met by a pair of pinch-faced maids. The resident servants carry steaming vessels and cross to the tub stood to the other side of the bed. They pour the water into the thick wooden walls and retreat without a word. 

You spin and fold your arms. You’re taken back to the day it was you and Merinda filling a tub. Before everything became so muddled. A simple existence where you knew exactly what was expected of you.  

Your heart rents when you think of your estranged companion. Merinda would know what to say. She could ease your fears, she always knew how. Ever since she came Debray, she always kept you from worry. Without her, you are lost. You only wish you’d realised then all she was to you. You were more than just maids, you were friends. 

You stare at the cinders beneath the licking flames. You don’t look again as the servants come upon their second trip, and a third, and a fourth... anon and anon until the chamber thickens with the steam of the tub. You daren’t remind yourself again how much you’ve lost; how much you didn’t even know you had to lose. 

You’re left in silence, facing the fire. The winds batter the tower from outside and the shuttered windows rattle. Heavy steps come up the winding staircase and you know without looking who enters behind you. The king’s sigh confirms your assumption. 

“The water will ease the cold,” he says as the door shuts, “and the aches of the road.” 

You shift so your stand sideways to him, “thank you, your highness.” You swallow and cough out the lump in your throat, “Geralt.” 

He hums at your correction. You stand still as he moves around the chamber. He unbuckles his cloak and hangs it next to the one he gifted you. Then he nears to remove his gloves and boots, lining them up before the burning fireplace. As he stands straight, he faces you. 

“You should bathe. The water is hot,” he says. 

“Thank you,” you nod and reach behind your nape to untie the single lace of your dress, “so I should.” 

You whisk away from him, pacing towards the tub as your hands clash clumsily. The thought of undressing before him makes you numb. You stop as the steam plume around you and drop your arms. You can’t get a grasp on the fabric. You grip the edge of the tub and stare into the water. 

“You needn’t be meek,” you hear the subtle creak of his leather coat as he removes it. You peek over as he drapes it over a wooden chair. “The cold is dangerous for summerborn, you shouldn’t let it get too deep.” 

You can't. You're trying to find the will. You think of all you've done. Faced the Duke and his clan, travelled to the capital, the  to hinterlands, you've done it all without doubt, but the layers of fabric are too heavy a task. 

You flinch as you feel a tickle along your side. You push away from the tub, dropping your arms as he king bends behind you. He raises the hem of your dress and the air is crushed from your chest. You serve, you obey, and the king’s will is plain. 

You lift your arms as he strips the dress up your body and over your head. He swipes it towards the bed as your shift rumples at your hips, the unhemmed edge along your thighs. He steps even closer as he curls his fingers around the undyed linen.  

You keep your arms up as he guides the fabric higher. He keeps his thumbs hooked in the cloth and turns his hands so his fingertips brush your shape. Bumps bristle over your skin and have you even colder than before. You quake as the linen blinds you for just a moment and in another, you're naked.  

Your shift flaps through the air to land on your dress. The king's breath wisps out through his tight chest and he frames your hips with his large hands. He's shaking too. 

He draws away slowly and you feel a rustle against you. You stand frozen as he undresses at your back. Don’t look, you can’t look. If you look, it’s real. If you look, it’s over. His clothes pile at his feet as he shifts you gasp as he presses his hot body flush to yours. 

He brings his hands up your arms and along your neck. He frames your head and kisses your crown, his thumb toying with a shank of your uneven hair. You bite down as he urges you closer to the tub.  

You move without without resistance, one leg over the edge then the other. He follows, thick legs plunging into the roiling water. He keeps you snug to him as he lowers himself, easing you atop him. You rest over him and his need makes itself known between you. You stare at the stone wall and steel yourself, the water adding fire to the ice inside of you. 

He exhales as he relaxes under you, letting his hands crawl over your stomach and hips, feeling every inch of you. From the crook of your neck to your thighs. He smears water over your face as he touches your cheeks and traces your jaw. He quivers as snarling breaths escape him. 

“This is how it should be, treasure,” he wraps his hands around yours and folds your arms, resting his clutches over your chest. “I suppose you’ve never heard the tale of Cerill and Wynifred.” 

You stare at his knuckles, the hair that trims his rough flesh, the grip in his paled joints. 

“Never,” you assure him. 

“Cerill was a warrior. A loyal soldier. A man who served his king with all his being. He was knighted on a battlefield. Once a stablehand, then a hero. The king, Fazon, he had a wife, Wynifred. A queen who was kind and sweet. They were ill-matched for every misfortune he aimed at her, rather than its true crux,” he regales you as his voice fills the chamber, wafting with the steam. 

“But she was obedient. She lived by her vows. For years. But she was mortal as any woman might be and the cruelty of her husband weakened her. And Lord Cerill was valiant and strong and gentle. Everything her husband was not. How could she restrain herself from the comfort he offered? Neither meant to betray their king but some things, some forces, are strong than those writ by men and their quills.” 

You listen, certain of the purpose of his telling. You are not legendary lovers, you are not lost to wives’ tales and children’s stories, you are here, you are alive, and there is nothing fantastical about any of it. He might believe whatever but you haven’t that luxury. He will not hear the doubts, you will feel them. 

“And what happened to them?” You ask with foreboding. There are stories similar in the summerlands; of pages and their masters’ wives or daughters. 

“Yes, well, we know of them because they were found out, I suppose. They knew they would not evade the king’s vengeance but they refused to bend to it. So, they fled into the forest and found a sacred root. That plant is meant for the sickly, to ease their end. They consumed it together and died in each others’ arms. Just as they were found.” 

You lay in silence. The forbidden love hardly tweaks at your heart, but more, you tremble to think of the king’s wrath. Of how a king might wrought his temper upon any and all. Even a wife, even a knight. It is no romantic tragedy; it is a lesson in the power of men. 

“Apologies it is not a happier conclusion,” he says. 

“The stories are never very happy,” you murmur. Or the truth. 

He hums as squeezes your hands. The water is still as you lie in his mercy. This cannot last. Just as in his story, there will only be pain. 

As if to confirm your unspoken dread, a knock sounds on the door. The king jerks, the water sloshing around him as he sits you up with him. 

“Geralt, King of Rivia and the Hinterlands,” the growl cuts through meanly, “come rule your people!” 

[fangbangerghoul]

"Have to be careful. Nearly trod on a flower." - Beren

It's finally completed! I can check off at least one of my WIPs this week.

This was inspired by @lisa-and-shadow love for the wonderful beastren!

[bamsara]

also do you ever draw something and then realize when it's finished that the angle makes no god damn sense and this is an architecture nightmare

look at this stained glass i did and ignore it's faults in how its angled LKDGSHLGD

[serv0z]

boooo tumblr not letting me put this under the original wip i posted smh. Anyways ndkfkf people told me to just tag bam this time so @bamsara hai :3 WE'VE REACHED DANCING FRAMES!! but ive been at this for like 5-6 hours now so break time :3

[yeetus-feetus]

tangled au (WIP)

Inspired by this ↓ post

Created by this ↓ account

@dragonpyre (I hope this is okay, you just really inspired me is all)

So here:

Jason, second heir to the throne of Gotham, was a happy little boy with a very loud personality. A former street kid, he was adopted into royalty at the age of 3 following his mother’s death, much like his older brother Richard, by the current King of Darkness. Make no mistake by the title he holds, Bruce Wayne is a very Just king though he cloaks himself in the fine fabrics of midnight and gold emblems that glitter like the stars.

But the young prince Jason was a ball of energy with a smart mouth and a baby as he were, often got on the wrong people's nerves. There was one man in particular, the Jester of the court– who was perhaps something more than a simple Jester to the King, maybe even a friend– had joined the Royal staff after a terrible accident that disfigured him many moons before Jason himself was even born.

On this day, Jason was only five when he trod on the odd man’s toes. He can’t remember what he’s said to the man, but it was something with loud youthful ignorance behind it, maybe something about his permanent smile and moon-pale skin. It wasn’t anything nice, to say the least, but who can blame a child of such brutal, unthinking honesty without the better knowledge on how such things were hurtful.

Maybe a man with a soft heart, and the belief he could give everyone in his Kingdom a better life and a second chance, should be blamed on keeping criminals and the insane in his company. Maybe a toddler in bright mocking colours shouldn’t have been left unattended to in the palace halls after a silly disagreement regarding his mother.

The wicked Jester did not return to the King’s court after that night.

Nor did the young Prince Jason. The boy was found in a puddle of his own bastard blood in a storeroom downstairs by the cellar, in teeny tiny shackles with his small bones shattered, tear streaks still wet on his cheeks as he lay limp on the cold cement floor.

The King had wept, cradling his broken body close to him, wailed and begged for the boy to come back to him, pleading for forgiveness from a child who was no more. The King of Darkness caressed the soft face of a lifeless shell, and that was when the shadows spoke.

A deep eerie voice had filled his ears from all directions, reminding him of a tale he had believed to be only myth. The story of the moon when she wept for her own son once very long ago …

A single tear of moonlight had fallen from the heavens, and from this small drop of sorrow bloomed a magic, glowing flower. It had the ability to heal the sick and injured– and in extremely rare cases, even raise the dead if the moon wished it so.

“However, the Flower of Lazarus is protected by a Demon whom hoards it for its youth restoring power”, the low voice warned. “And you have only until the fourth day, beginning when the sun breaks over your Kingdom at dawn, to retrieve it. For when the sun sets on that day, the boy will remain in a tomb forever.”

Bruce, because he is no King down here with a dead son in his arms, remains speechless and confused. Before he could gather his thoughts and interrogate the validity of this supernatural voice, a flock of bats screeched and swarmed and then the voice was gone.

And a man was left in a cold empty room with his beaten bloody son, fear and determination filling his heavy heart. A hope that in four days time, his son will be returned to the earth and fill the Palace with his laughter once more.

⧫

The quest carried out by the King’s Guard had proved successful, and the magic of the Lazarus Flower, brewed into a glowing green liquid potion heals the dead Prince’s body on the morning of the fourth day. A new tale of rebirth bringing the kingdom together as the King launched a floating lantern into the darkness of the night sky, a symbol of prevailing hope and new life, to celebrate the return of his beloved young son.

For that one moment, everything was perfect.

And then that moment ended.

A cloaked woman had entered young Jason’s room that very night by way of the balcony, silently creeping towards the boy’s bed where he slept soundly, unknowing to the threat of her presence. The woman pulls back her hood and strokes a deadly gentle hand up over his face until she reaches his soft baby curls as she sings in hushed tones.

“Flower gleam and glow”

And glow the child’s hair did, a bright green hue filling the room. She pulled a long lock of the glowing hair taught between calloused fingers, reaching into the deep green of her garments for the jewelled hilt of a small sharp knife as she continued.

“Let your powers shine”

The blade glinted in the unnatural light as the woman’s tan hand brought the sharpened knife up…

“Make the clock re–”

But as the knife sliced through the strands of hair it turned lifeless and lost its colour, turning moon-white and powerless. The shock and confusion was clear on the woman’s face, a frown carving its way into her beautiful features as she realised what she must do in order to fulfil her father’s wishes.

Just like that, Jason was stolen. Gone.

The Kingdom searched and searched, but their attempts at recovering the small boy proved nothing but futile and the King lost all his hope. They could not find the Prince of Gotham.

For deep within the forest, in a tall hidden tower, far away from his home, the woman– Talia Al Ghul– raised the child as her own.

[rokuhatake]

New Year's (Pt.1) 18+

Warnings: 18+, (slight) masturbation, making out, flirting, drinking. Kakashi a lil perverted, will be explored more in Pt. 2. This part is mostly SFW, the second part will be all NSFW (;

A/N: I've had a WIP for a while now (that i started in summer so it's set in summer lol) but wanted to post a little treat for the holidays. I'll probably post the NSFW part on New Year's, but in the meantime, enjoy! <3

Word Count: 3.2K

Edit: Pt. 2 is up now!

New Year’s is a special time for you. Maybe it’s the time off from work, or maybe the glimmering New Year's decorations that light up the night, or the unbridled laughter that rings like faint music...whatever it is, you’re in the spirit as you trod along your snow path towards your party. 

You had been planning for weeks in between a sudden swarm of paperwork from Tsunade. According to her, it was preferable to a real mission and that you should consider yourself lucky. At first, you believed her, like a fool. It was all complicated busy work she was too lazy to complete. Of course, you would never air out the complaints you grumble to yourself. After all, it gave you more time to plan for the New Year's party you were so eagerly waiting for.  

Truthfully, it was you who had proposed the idea of a party to Anko, but she was more than willing to follow through with it. Given her more...popular status, you left the invitations and venue to her while you prepared rest. Music, food, drinks...everything else was left to you. You had been swamped, trying to make a perfect holiday for everyone else. You convinced yourself that making everyone else happy kept you content, but exhaustion was slowly creeping upon you.  

Every bit of your time was dedicated to the holiday. You walked the streets of Konoha so often, frequenting the various shops and businesses, you're sure you left a permanent path. Your hands were full, literally.  

One day, as you were on another run in to town, you saw Kakashi, who was acting...odd. While you had always nursed an innocent crush on him, you had never sensed any reciprocation on his side. You were content being his friend, but that day, he had left you confused.  

Again, your hands were full, and you turned behind you to the call of your name.  

“Yo! How have you been?” Kakashi was strolling coolly towards you, both hands in his pockets. Heat raced to your cheeks; you were grateful the cold already colored them red.  “Kakashi-San!” he cringed at the impersonal honorific. “I’ve been busy...excited for New Year’s, you?” He looked at the bags weighing down your arms and ignored your question. “What are all those bags for?” You were surprised by his intrusiveness, and you stared longer than normal.  

“Uh...well I’m helping Anko throw a New Year’s Party! Did she tell you about it?” He shook his head dispassionately. “I only just got back from a mission a few hours ago. I’ve been reporting to Tsunade-Sama.” Awkward silence filled the space around you...you had to say something. “Well...you’re more than welcome to come to the party. I left the invitations up to her since, Ya know...people don’t really know me here.”  

“I know you,” he quipped playfully. You grinned up at him and responded quietly, “Of course.”  

Your arms had become sore then, and the bags began to slide. You’d have to majorly readjust yourself before walking home.   

“You need any help?” he offered suddenly. You offered him a smile, and you almost told him no. Before you could deny him, you found yourself in a more agreeable mood. “Sure, I could use some help.” You reached an arm towards him, and he gingerly slid the bags down over your fingers.  

He had followed you politely to your home while making casual conversation. It wasn’t until you were at your door that you realized; he never accepted your invitation.  

“Hey,” you spun towards him after unlocking and opening your inconveniently heavy door. “You never responded about going to the party.” He stood awkwardly on your doorstep, hands full of overloaded bags. He looked quite silly; you had to smile.  

“Could we...put this stuff down first?” You giggled at him then turned to cross the threshold of your apartment. Once you had set all of the annoying bags onto the counter, you gazed at him expectantly. He took his time organizing the bags of course, but when there was no more to distract him, he met your gaze.  

“I’m not really a party person...” he said finally. You allowed disappointment to shroud your face. “Aww c’mon, not even a party I planned?” You shot him your best doe eyes, and you couldn’t see the face he made when he turned away from you, but you could hear him chuckle. “Maybe I will for you.” He smiled cutely at you, and you couldn’t help the blush creeping onto your cheeks.  

You realized then that Kakashi was actually in your apartment for the first time, and he was a little too close for your comfort. “Well...thank you for helping me with all this,” you awkwardly gestured towards the mess of bags on your kitchen island. “I have some more planning to do though...if you do want to stop by the party, it’s gonna be at that big house they renovated by the hot springs. You know what day it is of course.”  

He had graciously thanked you for the invitation (without truly committing to it) and left you alone and confused in your apartment.  

That day, you were too distracted to get much done. Every day after that, you planned this party with a renewed spirit, hoping you might get to see Kakashi again.  

~ 

Your excitement is bubbling as you stroll towards your party. You had finished setting up earlier in the day, then went back to your apartment to change into something pretty. Normally, you never spent much time stressing over your appearance, but you knew what was different tonight.  

In between your run-in with Kakashi and the day of the party, you had decided you wanted to present Kakashi with a gift, if only for helping you with your bags. You couldn’t deny it though; Kakashi’s present obviously looks more delicately wrapped than your other gifts, but you weren’t planning on putting it with the others. His is more...intimate.  

As you had planned, the large house is already full of shinobi and civilian alike when you arrive. You didn’t want to be the one greeting people you hardly know.  

You try to stop yourself, but as soon as you walk through the door, your eyes are scanning the spacious area for a silver head of hair. You frown when you can’t spot him. Don’t worry...he always shows up late. Releasing a breath of air, you head towards the sound of Anko’s voice. When she spots you, she lets out a shrill squeal.  

“Ahhhh! My best friend, how are you?” She hugs you tightly, and you can smell the alcohol permeating from her skin. Damn. The party only started an hour ago.  

“Can I have some of what you're having, please?” You smile sadly at her, hoping she won’t notice in her drunken state. Of course, she always notices. “Aww why so sad? C’mere...” She grabs your arm and drags you to another room where you know the drinks should be. Promptly, she fills two shot glasses to the brim from a bottle of something unrecognizable to you. She must have brought more drinks, because of course she would.  

You know what to do, so you pick up your glass and clank it with hers before downing the burning liquid. Drinking is not a habit of yours, so the taste is still quite unpleasant; but not enough to stop you from downing another. You helped plan this party after all, you should have fun. Even if Kakashi won’t show up.  

You shake away the ugly thoughts and drag Anko with you into the designated dance room. Since you’re the one who hired the DJ (with your New Year’s bonus), you know the music will be good.  

The both of you are giggling while you prance onto the floor. Everyone is so lost in the music; you don’t feel hesitant at all about joining in. Actually, it comes naturally to you with a couple shots in your system.  

After a while though, when you’re out of breath and stumbling for some water, you remember the gift you wrapped for Kakashi. You frown again, but an idea lights up your face. If Kakashi won’t come to your party, you’ll just go to him and make him feel guilty. Yeah...you think that’s a great idea.  

Before heading to your coat, you down another shot for courage then let Anko know (quietly) that you’ll be heading to Kakashi’s to give him his gift. At first, she seems against the idea. Then, she’s practically pushing you out the door. “Be careful, have fun and I love you!” You giggle at your friend and tell her you love her before making your way.  

You didn’t think it’d be so hard to walk in the snow with a buzz, but you're determined to follow through with your genius plan.  

~ 

Kakashi doesn’t need you to make him feel guilty...he already feels it. He paced the narrow walkways of his apartment over and over, contemplating your invitation. On one hand, he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. He knows how hard you worked to make this a fun holiday for everyone, despite your shyness. He can still see clearly the dark circles under your eyes, but he can’t understand why it bothers him.  

It’s like he said though; he is not one for parties. The corner of any room is ultimately where you’ll find him...but he wonders if your party would have been different. Would you have made if fun for him?  

Still, he resigns himself to his apartment, promising to make it up to you, somehow. Maybe he’ll finally cook you a meal, like he’s quietly fantasized about for so long. He chalks his hesitation up to simply not knowing what food you like, but he knows that’s a lie. You prefer sweet things, but occasionally, you savor an umami flavor. You’re passionate about your food and particular.  

He knows more about you than he’d like to admit. No, Kakashi can’t blame anyone, or anything, but himself. He could spend hours wondering why he feels this way but none of that will bring him closer to you.  

As he usually does when his brain won’t calm, he pulls out his Icha-Icha novel and halts his pacing. It’s easier to read about romance than act on it, and the novel gives him the material he needs to cast you in his fantasies.  

As the story in his hands begins to heat up, his pants grow taut. Without realizing it, his free hand begins to rub his crotch while he imagines you between his legs. You’re on your knees in front of him, smiling cutely the way you always do, and it’s your hand stroking his hardening cock. Like the good girl you are, you’re asking him sweetly if you can suck it.  

Just as he releases a breathy moan, imagining your small hands wrapped around his bare cock, a pounding knock at his door shakes him from his fantasy.  

He grumbles, annoyed to be interrupted from you, and shifts his pants while he strolls toward the door. This better be worth it... 

When he swings the door open, he’s more than pleased, and his cock loves the sight of your reddened cheeks standing before him. Being interrupted was more than worth it.  

Almost immediately though, he frowns. You’re drunk...he can smell it on you. That’s no good.  

“You didn’t come to my party.” You pout at him after slurring your words. He can’t deny it, you’ve surprised him. “I told you...I’m not really one for parties. Did you walk all the way here by yourself?” He’s curious to know how far you’ve gone for him. “Yep! I thought I’d come to make you feel guilty...is it working?”  

He grins at you, enjoying your drunken honestly. “You didn’t have to do that...I already felt guilty Ya’ know.” You genuinely look saddened by his admission, but he won’t have you getting emotional on his freezing porch. “Come inside, please, I don’t mind you making me feel guilty.” He hides a smirk under his mask while he watches you cross the threshold his apartment. You’re shivering, because of course you didn’t cover yourself properly...not that his cock has any complaints.  

Your bare legs are a welcome sight in his apartment, and the boots you coupled with your dress makes his pants even tighter; they barely reach over your knees, and the heel gives you a good three inches in height. You look amazing, and he wonders if you did it for him. He hopes you did.  

He mumbles politely, asking to take your coat. You don’t hear him though, and you turn with his gift in your hands. The two of you are inches apart in Kakashi’s tiny foyer, yet you remain comfortable.  

“I got you something,” you announce cutely. He notices the gift in your hand now, and it’s almost too pretty to open. His heart swells at your generosity, and he feels guilty for not thinking of that sooner. He should have given you something, something personal to let you know how he feels.  

“That’s sweet, thank you.” You smile brightly at him in response, and he wonders if he can hug you. No... he worries you wouldn’t want that. Still, he wants to be a good host for you.  

“Let me take your coat, then I’ll open this, okay? You can sit anywhere.” You turn your body with a drunken smile, allowing him to slip the long coat down your arms. Once the rest of your dress is revealed to him, he grows impossibly stiff in his pants; he can hardly move to hang your coat.  

Your dress is tight, and dangerously short. The sleeves are long and your neck is covered, but there's a heart-shaped hole placed perfectly over your cleavage. Fuck. He can’t recall ever seeing such revealing clothing on you. It’s a sight he would prefer to keep to himself...imagining all of the hungry eyes you must have received tonight annoys him. At least now he has you here.  

“Mmmm,” you groan. “Could you maybe get me a glass of water please? I wasn’t expecting that walk to be so rough.” He laughs at you but promptly picks up a glass to fill with water. You’re leaning over his kitchen island, face flat on the cool stone, when he slides the glass in front of you.  

“Don’t you want to see me open this?” He jokes. Your head shoots up and you snatch the glass. Again, he’s laughing at you. His pants aren’t so tight now, but seeing you act goofy like this is worth it. He can just enjoy being around you.  

“Okay you can open it now.” You’re out of breath from drinking the water so fast, but excitement is written all over your body. Some of it is rubbing off on him.  

His heart is beating fast when he examines the gift in his hand, and he notices a little red string he presumes is supposed to be pulled. His heart swells again...you’re too kind.  

He pulls the string finally, causing the pretty wrapping paper to fall onto the counter with ease. Before he looks to see his gift, he watches you. He watches your hands grasp together in excitement and your face light up with a grin. You look beautiful, all for him.  

His cheeks are already warm from watching you, but they set ablaze when he looks down. You got him a dirty graphic novel. He can’t believe it...you really walked into the adult section of a store, thinking of the perfect gift for Kakashi; and you were spot on. His cock stirs in his pants.  

“You’re gonna kill me,” he groans quietly. All you do is giggle at him, oblivious to his perverted thoughts. “Do you like it? I wasn’t sure if you were into graphic novels but...” He cuts you off, “It’s perfect. Thank you.”  

The space between the two of you grows silent, but you continue to smile at the other. You were satisfied with Kakashi’s reaction, and Kakashi was excited to see what new fantasy material you brought for him. Having you sit right across from him only made his excitement grow ten-fold.  

He looks to the ticking clock on his wall and notices the time. “Hey, it’s only 15 minutes till midnight. What should we do before then?” You smile wickedly at him. “How about we crack open that graphic novel?” You surprise him again, and he contemplates denying you. What fun would that be though?  

He smiles in return and slides into the chair next to you. “Do you know what the story is about?” He wonders while opening to the first page.  

“You read it for the story?” He rolls his eyes at you, secretly admiring your honesty. Lately, he’s only been reading it to inspire his fantasies of you.  

The first few pages of the novel are sweet, and he begins to wonder if it’s a dirty novel at all. Then he comes to a page he’s almost too embarrassed to open. He doesn’t want you thinking less of him though, so he opens it. 

He’s been sneaking glances at you throughout, but he catches a shade of blush on your cheeks now. For some reason, the sight turns him on, and he wants to read more. He needs to see your blushed cheeks more often.  

Before he can turn the page, screams of joy cut through the quiet night. He checks the clock again: 11:59. Damn.  

Kakashi turns his head towards your squealing and smiles. Seeing you this happy fills him with adoration, and there’s only seconds until the new year. Your excitement has rubbed off on him; his heart is thumping out of his rib cage and he feels warm.  Suddenly, he imagines your lips molding with his as the clock strikes twelve.

He looks to the wall: thirty seconds.  

His gaze is back on your face, but you’re already staring, cheeks all red and warm. He wants to reach out...wants to feel your soft skin on his.  

He tries to sneak a glance at the clock, but you surprise him with a firm hand on his cheek. People are counting down loudly now, and you move on your tip-toes, inching towards his lips. By 5, he allows you to peel off his mask, and you wish you had more than four seconds to admire his bare face, but you wouldn’t miss your perfect opportunity.  

It was a magical moment for both of you. Vibrant colors bleed through his curtains, highlighting your molded silhouettes in the dark apartment while excited cheers ring through the streets. It was like they were celebrating the love you two share.  

The holiday suddenly disappears; all that is left is the two of you locking lips in Kakashi’s kitchen. You can’t hear the thunderous fireworks, only the low, melodic rumble of his groans. He can taste the alcohol faintly on your tongue, but he sucks on it still, drawing a sultry gasp from your lips.  

It’s easy for both of you. There’s no shame or hesitation. You both know what you want, and the new year brings promise.  

[skrzydlate]

i am working on something better rn and it is going to take me a bit to finish but in the meanwhile have this metric black ship pmv wip for trod ive done a while back

it was my very first attempt of drawing cotl HAHA

[sadaveniren]

I don’t know how many people who follow me follow me for my writing (which I haven’t done for a few years now) or otherwise but if you don’t know I began my journey in this fandom as a fic writer.

The first fic I started posting was called An Illusion in Time. I began referring to it lovingly as my eternal WIP because in the middle of writing it Zayn left the band and I had a lot of mixed feelings about that, especially for the role Zayn was going to play in the fic. I’ve always been kinda vague about the ending because I do know what the ending is, so I never wanted to spoil it for people since the goal always was to finish it.

I’m ngl my guys. With Liam dead that’s…. Not looking likely.

But the previous post I just reblogged actually captured exactly how that fic was going to end. So for the people who loved that fic and were always curious where it was going (I’m thinking of one reader in particular who always tried to guess what was happening) this is for you 🫶🏻

For those unfamiliar with the fic and don’t want to trod through 105k of some of my most self-indulgent writing the skinny of it are Harry and Louis from January 2010 show up in Louis and Harry’s house in January 2015. They get a glimpse of the celebrity life (I was having them stay at OTRA until that break that they had in the beginning of March) and then they wake up back in January 2010. And yes, what got them put back in the past was going to be a past and future Harry/Louis foursome. That was literally the initial point of the fic 🤣

But once they got BACK to the past the question is where would they go from there? I never ended up writing the scene but at the present point in the fic baby Harry and Louis don’t actually know the truth of their lives. They think they are together and that’s that. But - not sure it popped through - I was laying the seeds that they were in Our Present. There was Eleanor. There was man whore Harry. And there was going to be a scene in one of the upcoming chapters where baby Harry finds out about Eleanor from fans in a coffee shop - has an absolute fucking meltdown - screaming, tantrum, you name it. He’s 15, he believes he’s met his soulmate and seen his future and that his future is good and it turns out it’s all a lie. Future Louis and Future Harry have been lying to him. It culminates in him (and Baby Louis) having Zayn tattoo something small on their inner wrists - thus (unknown to everyone) setting up to fully separate the timelines for good.

So when they go back and wake up they still have those tattoos and the knowledge of what happens. And they ultimately decide to change their destiny. In the final chapters they would have auditioned as a teen gay duo, and because fixed points in time still happen, 1D would have been put together ultimately but the band wouldn’t have become what it was. Because in that world they were openly together when the band started. They couldn’t be put back into a box. So 1D becomes like … B level famous in England, and Europe, and Asia, and South America, and they get richer than they ever imagined they could but it’s not the same level of fame. They had changed their path.

And then the epilogue would come, set in Baby Harry and Louis’ January 2015. And Future Harry and Louis from 2020 come back, and they both see what the babies made for themselves. And they are both … so happy for them but so tired. And it’s never explicitly stated in the fic but yeah - future Harry and Louis are still OUR Harry and Louis. They’re together, they’re happy, but it’s hollow. They’ve lost so much. And the babies haven’t. The juxtaposition would have been beautiful.

And then they would have had another foursome but this time Future Louis cries a lot 🤷🏼‍♀️ because I’m basic and like … hello that’s the point.

Anyway. Sorry for anyone who has been waiting for that fic to finish getting “spoiled” or whatever. Hope this is cathartic in some ways. Or not.

[swordbisexual]

WIP Wednesday

Happy Wednesday! I may finish this chapter up today because I’ve lost my mind but just in case I don’t, I absolutely have to share Rolan being abso-fucking-lutely miserable about experiencing emotions that aren’t pride.

No matter how much he himself has missed the sight and sound of her, he’d rather his own portal swallow him up and deliver him to the very top of the tower than ever admit it. Perhaps then he could take a dive from that very height, just as extra insurance against accidentally admitting Shaxibis was once again correct. He would, at this point, rather die than ever give her another inch to trod all over him.

And that is exactly what she seems to do, every moment she’s around. Ever since taking up the mantle of the keeper - no, master - of Ramazith’s Tower, he’s flourished in ways he never could have dreamed of. Students and practitioners of the magical arts have come from all over to seek his advice, his expertise, and the use of his more than expansive library. These last six months, he’s become adept at handling himself with the posture and prowess one would expect from someone of his station and skill.

Yet, the very instant Shaxibis even so much as looks at him, her eyes burning bright as twin candle flames and a half-smile on her lips painted the color of plums and wine, he may as well be a flustered, frustrated apprentice all over again.

Tagging @smoreofbabylon @rowanisawriter @bharv @mashamorevvna @yourworsttotebag and anyone else who might have a WIP to share :)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Guiding Hand 7

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, parental neglect, depression, inference of self harm, violence, abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your online academics are affected by your personal struggles but your professor won’t let you give up so easy.

Characters: Raymond Smith, Lee Bodecker in the background

Note: Happy Friday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The grocery store is a panoply of colours and sounds. You feel hollow as you lean on the cart and trawl the aisles. You won't fill it, you got it for support. Your legs are weaker by the minute.  

You balance out every credit in your shop. You can't go a dollar over the allotment. It isn't very much at the end. Better for you, you're worried about carrying it all. 

You swipe the card and crumple the list. You had to leave a few things off. You hook the bags over your shoulders, the effort further sending your burnt hand to pulse. As you come out onto the beaming light, you examine the tortured flesh peeking out. You unwind the fraying bandage and gasp, tears springing free as you peel it away from the sticky, stinky flesh. 

It stings in the open air. You keep it up against your chest and walk on. It's more of a lumber as your feet drag and your body moves stiffly. The sun beats down mercilessly and has you sweating despite the constant shiver rolling through you. 

You slow as you come in sight of your building. You look around cautiously, searching for the glasses and blond beard. Did he listen? Did he go away or is he lurking? Just like Lee, always waiting... 

You don't see him. The edges of your vision are so blurry, you can't be sure. You don't have the energy to worry about him. You just want to go back to bed. 

You cross the street and clumsily aim the keys at the slot. Through one door, then the next. You don't hear them catch behind you but you can only hear the echoing impact of each step. 

You stagger into the apartment and leave the chain to dangle, the latch flipped the wrong way. You trod into the kitchen but don't have the length to lift the bags onto the counter. You drop them on the floor and stare. You're so tired and you can't stop shaking. 

As you stand there, time and space pinpoints on you. You look around, the silence setting in. It's so quiet. You can't hear your mom. Or him.  

"Now aren't ya gon put that all away?" Lee drawls as his weight creaks in the floor. 

You nod without looking back and make a noise. You can't muster a single word. You bend to reach into a bag and take out the box of generic macaroni and cheese. You hobble to the counter and set it down, using your good hand to open the cupboard. You put it on the shelf and grasp the door. 

You're so dizzy. You lean on the counter and suddenly, the doors swinging shut. The edge hits your cheek and you yelp. You're crushed against the drawers as Lee pens you in from behind. 

"You're startin' to really tee me off. Takin' your time and all. Like you ain't good for nothin'," he snarls as you fold over the counter top. "Whatsa matter with you? You not gonna fight, huh?" 

He grabs a fistful of hair and wrenches your head back. You heave as your hand slaps painfully on the stained linoleum, the flesh radiating with flame. You whimper as his other hand creeps around your stomach. He pushes on your pelvis until his crotch is flush to your ass. 

"Let me show you what you're good for, huh?" He sneers and shoves his hand down the front of your pants. You whimper as he touches the coil patch of hair beneath, "mm, feel that? You want this. Ain't even got no panties." 

"Stop," you murmur as your head lolls from his grasp. 

"You'll be beggin' me not to in a minute," he snorts and forces his fingers between your thighs. 

"Sto-sto-stop!" You stammer out helplessly. 

"Now, you keep quiet. It won't be long," he leans into you until your hips ache, "teach ya to be disrespectful." 

He curls his fingers and scratches between your folds. You whine and gulp through your dry throat. Panic surges through your delirium as you reach back to claw with your injured hand. A shriek erupts at the the vibrant agony. 

"Ahhhhhh!" You wail, "mom! Mom! Help!" 

"She drank herself stupid already," he growls and nips at your ear, "just us, girl." 

"Mom!" You yelp as his fingers dip towards your entrance, his rough palm scraping against your soft flesh, "mom!" Your heart throbs and your head rings, "mom!" He pushes his fingertips through your tight slit and you erupt, "MOMMY!” 

Your knee hit the wood as you wriggle against him. You’re so weak. The walls close in as you feel yourself losing your grasp, not just on the counter but on the world. His fingers sink in deep, the callouses rough against your delicate walls. 

Suddenly, you’re jarred and the room tips over. You hit the tile in a heap and groan. Your fiery hand rests against the cool squares as your vision swirls and you hear huffing and puffing, grunts intermingled and the crack of violence. Thwack, thwack, thwack. 

Lee’s heavy figure hits the wall and his legs go out from under him as he slides onto his ass. You blink through the silty haze and shake your head. It’s all foggy and senseless. It wasn’t you who pushed him off. It can’t have been. 

“Mom,” you mutter as you try to sit up only to fall back as your hand burns with acid. Your blood is hot but your skin is ice. “Mom, what’s going on?” 

A dark shape bounces off of Lee’s jaw and red dribbles down his chin as he leans against the wall, slumping down onto his shoulder. You drone mindlessly as you bring your hand over your stomach and whine. It hurts so bad. The shadow moves to stand over you and you close your eyes. 

“Please...” you beg. It’s definitely not your mom; they’re too big, too strong. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” the grizzly timbre tickles in your ears as something firm slips beneath you; one arm around your shoulders, the other under your knees. 

You float in the air, eyes threatening to roll back as you fight through the clouds, your form jittering uncontrollably against the blaze that surrounds you. The man is hotter than fire. You tilt your head up and see the tufts of his short blond beard. 

It’s him. It’s Professor Smith but why is he there? Where is he taking you? All those questions merely stir in your slanted consciousness as your head falls against his shoulder. You’re too tired to think and you’re done fighting. It never you any good anyhow. 

You feel the motion of his steps and how he angles you through the door. Down the stairs and outside back into the unbearable light. You squeeze your eyes tight. He continues on, laying you into something soft. You look at him between your eyelids and garble. 

“Sweetheart, just stay here,” he bids in his lilt, pulling a lever to recline the car seat. The vinyl smells brand new and the upholstery looks just as pristine. It stamps your vision before you once more hide inside your head. “I’ll be back.” 

You don’t protest. Why is he doing all this? For you? He’s your professor... it doesn’t make much sense. Nothing does right now. Everything is just messy. 

He puts the engine on. The low whir is comforting. He adjusts the vents to blow air, though it feels hot to you. He stands and removes his jacket, spreading it over your quivering shoulders and chest. He huffs and cranes to see behind him. 

The door shuts and locks at his back as he leaves you. You stay as you are. It’s as comfortable as you’ve been in days. Time stretches on, crackling in your ears. You drift off into a void, brought back only by the hollow thunk of the electric locks. 

Professor Smith tosses something in the backseat and snaps the door closed, moving to the driver’s. He sits beside you and lets the car idle. He reaches over to touch your forehead as your lashes flutter at him. He hums as he appears as a ghostly smear. 

“Very well,” he says and the car rolls into motion. 

📓

You jolt up, a splash of water flying up across your face and chest as you rip your hand away from the electrifying pain. You’re caught by the shoulder and hushed. You blink tightly and lean back, looking over at the man on the other side of the porcelain. Professor Smith reaches over to take your hand out of the water, the ripples scalding on the tormented skin. 

“It’s already infected,” he says, “you’ll make it worse. I’m trying to dress it so be still.” 

Your confusion nips at your ears as you look down at yourself. You’re naked, in a tub of steaming water, the scent of lilies roiling up with the wisps. He sighs and you hiss as he presses a wet swab to the burnt patches of skin. Some of it even looks green. 

His sleeves are rolled to his elbows and there are cuts and scrapes on his own knuckles. Even so, his nails are cut and tidy and his skin is clean. He is diligent in his attention to your own mottled skin. 

You put your hand over your lap, trying to hide but all modesty is spent. You’re too dazed to care that much. There’s bigger questions. Where are you? Why? 

“I couldn’t let you to wallow in such a horrid place,” he speaks as he works, his touch gentle despite the thickness and firmness of his hand. “And after our last interaction, I could not just tuck my tail. It isn’t of my nature.” He tuts as he wets a new swab with alcohol, “and the filth--” 

“Professor...” you slur. “What... why?” 

“There are many details, yes, I had to jump through hoops but you needn’t worry for all that. What’s more important is we get you clean. The state of it,” he shakes his head, “a day or two more and you might’ve died.” He stills his hands and looks at you. You dare to meet his gaze, shame scalding as hot as the fever, “it wouldn’t do.” 

You frown, “I didn’t ask for help--” 

“Well, you are getting it,” he scoffs and sets back to disinfecting. “And a mother like that. Neglectful...” 

“She’s... lost.” 

“It doesn’t matter, does it? She’s still a mother. Bringing that man around. Certainly, he isn’t the first, either.” 

You lower your head. You wince and whimper as he carries on but you do not pull away. He works methodically. 

“We’ll get some antibiotics in you and tuck in,” he speaks to himself, “perhaps they can have some broth brought up to the room. Never fear, I’ve brought my own sheets and sanitized ever speck.” 

You cough and shake your head. You can’t keep up. 

“When you’re up to it, we’ll leave town. I do fear I will have to be back in office, at least my home office, within the week,” he takes out a roll of gauze and you wince. 

“I’m... what’s going on?” You ask. 

“Naturally, when you start something you need to follow through,” he says, “I’ve done and started this, haven’t I?” 

“Started what?” You utter. 

“Can’t take you back now,” he secures the bandage and lets your arm rest over the porcelain. “Don’t get that wet.” 

“Sir, professor,” you sit up, another spiraling sensation overcoming you. You look down and fold up to hide yourself, your exposure tingling over you, “what... please tell me what’s going on.” 

“Would you need help? Cleaning, I mean. Purely practical,” he offers, “I wouldn’t mind. Of course, I did wipe your face already, did my best with the hair...” he sits back on the low cushioned stool he’s on and puts his elbows on his knees, “there is soap and a fresh scrubber there.” 

“Can you please just--” you bluster and a faintness blows through you, sending you back against the porcelain. You slip down dangerously, your arm sticking up against the side of the tub. He catches your elbow, heaving you back up as he bends over you.  

“Yes, feverish still,” he says, “perhaps a hot bath is not the best for it.” He hauls you up and sits you on the ledge of the great basin, “hang onto me then, I will get you washed up.” 

You have no other choice but to obey. The humiliation cannot feed the strength you need to resist. You cling to him with your uninjured arm and lean your head on his shoulder. He pauses before he can grab the scrubbie and instead rubs your back. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he coos, “yes, right then.”  

His hand lingers before he reaches once more and swipes up the bottle and sponge, moving his arms around you. You collapse into him and groan. At least he isn’t hurting you. Not like Lee.