#sharing this here for the snippet of force ghosts

[wolfjackle-creates]

Got some bad news today and I want to forget it. So I'm gonna share a bit of something here as a distraction.

Earlier today I referenced a smut piece I've started working on. Dead on Main. How would you guys like to read the set up for it? (No actual smut in this snippet.)

Enjoy these 800 words!

-----

Danny’s leg was bouncing and the girl sitting in front of him in the lecture hall turned to glare at him. He forced it to stop and pulled out his water bottle, only to realize he was down to his last few drops of ectoplasm.

It wasn’t enough.

He’d thought Gotham would have enough ambient ectoplasm that there’d be a bunch of other ghosts hanging around, even if they were weaker than the ones Amity got. But apparently not. It was already mid October, almost Halloween, and he hadn’t met a single other ghost. He’d even gone looking.

He needed some ghost-on-ghost interactions. Non-liminal humans were fine, necessary to hang out with from time to time even. But not enough for him anymore. His ectoplasm intake had tripled since he moved here to make up for the lack and it wasn’t working.

The girl in front of him turned around again and hissed, “Cut it out.”

Shit, his leg was bouncing again. He stopped it and looked up at the powerpoint the professor was teaching off of. Then back down at his notes. Well damn, he’d missed a few slides.

He ground his teeth and shoved his things into his bag. Clearly sitting here was a waste of time if he couldn’t focus. As quietly as possible, he slipped out of the lecture hall and made his way outside. He was wound too tight. Needing to do something, anything, he loosened his control on his aura, letting it spill out around him

If he’d still been in Amity, everyone would know Danny Fenton was having a bad day. Here, no one spared him a second look. He stalked off campus and through the streets of Gotham, taking turns when needed to match the street lights or avoid getting run over by a car. He had to keep moving.

He didn’t know how long it had been or how far he had traveled when he felt it: the brush of another ghost’s aura against his. Another ghost who was just as angry and frustrated and lonely as him. Danny was moving in their direction—into a park—before he ever consciously made the choice.

The other ghost was moving closer, too. Danny grinned, showing a bit too much teeth. Maybe he’d finally have a chance to let loose, get rid of the frustration he’d been feeling.

And then a man in a leather jacket came running into view. Danny allowed himself a moment of surprise at seeing another apparently-living human who set off his ghost-sense. Could he be a halfa, too? Whoever they were did not seem to be surprised like Danny was, however, and moved faster as soon as they saw each other.

Danny shook off the shock and laughed as he rushed into the fight. He needed this.

Though his aura, Danny sent out his feelings of frustration and isolation and delight at finally meeting another ghost. Then they were trading blows.

He got the same sense of anger and frustration from his opponent, mixed with some confusion. But Danny didn’t bother trying to parse out the guy’s emotions. That could happen later, after they were both finally sated.

His opponent didn’t use any ghost powers, so Danny followed his lead. He dodged a kick and blocked a punch only to return both. He managed to get a grip on the guy’s jacket, but the other did something that twisted his wrist painfully, forcing him to let go.

Danny dropped to the ground and tried to kick at his opponent’s legs. But he only got a glancing blow that barely tripped the man up. Danny jumped up, and managed to head-butt the other’s chin. His opponent growled and kicked out; Danny was sent sprawling. Then, the maybe-halfa had him pinned to the ground.

They both paused for a minute, just breathing. Around them, indistinct voices cried out in panic, but Danny ignored them. He let his hands be pinned above his chest, his legs held down by the other ghost’s knees. Even his aura was pressing down on Danny, holding him in place. Danny could’ve fought back, but something about this felt right.

So, for the first time, he let himself look at his opponent. His ghostly nature was evident in the streak of white hair that fell over his forehead and the ectoplasm-green eyes that stared down at Danny. But what really struck him was how much physically larger he was than Danny. How they appeared to be about the same age.

He was fucking hot, too. Strong as well, if his aura was anything to go by.

Danny licked his lips and let a little lust leak into his own aura. He quirked an eyebrow in question.

-----

Next

This song is the inspiration for the fic and will help set the tone for how things're gonna go. (NSFW lyrics, make sure you listen in an appropriate location or with headphones.)

[endwersed]

WIP Wednesday ✨

I'm currently working on the final draft of the upcoming chapter seven for my Sterek High School AU, call it off, so I thought why not share a little snippet of that 😊 Spicy content warning ahead - hope you enjoy!

-

For the first time in more seconds than Stiles can currently track, Derek leans away to let him breathe again, an exhale that shudders out from between parted lips. A tremor runs through the fingers that Stiles has twisted into Derek’s soft, dark hair as Derek traces the warmth of his mouth along the line of Stiles’ jaw, tucking his face just underneath to find the side of Stiles’ neck and catching up a strip of vulnerable flesh between his teeth.

He wastes no time in kissing and licking and biting, his mouth a perfect circle to suck a bruise right there onto Stiles’ pale skin, and it is too fucking high up on his throat, too far from where Stiles can hide that sort of mark with the collar of a shirt, but, in this moment, Stiles just does not fucking care. His head tilts back to nudge against the car door as Derek’s tongue laves wetly over his tender handiwork.

A moment later, Derek lifts his head. Stiles barely gets a moment to blink adoringly up at his flushed, sweaty face before he dips down to slot their mouths together once again.

Scrambling for purchase at Derek’s broad shoulders, Stiles kisses instantly, instinctively back. His neck throbs with the delicious ache of the purpling mark surely left there, and his hard cock is so wet as it bounces against his stomach with the restless roll of his hips, and he cannot help but whine directly into Derek’s mouth as Derek rolls the pads of his fingers over that spot deep inside of him, the one that makes fireworks spark to life behind his screwed shut eyelids.

All of this touching and kissing just feels so nice, and Stiles just wants Derek so much, likes Derek too fucking much, and his mind feels hazy with lust, his body scorched by fire everywhere that Derek holds onto him, and he blames all of this, this whole irresistibly heady combination, for what he does next.

He forces himself to pull back from Derek’s mouth. A string of saliva connects them until he swipes his tongue out to run along his kissed-raw bottom lip. Derek’s fingers still completely inside of him, and their heavy gazes lock unflinchingly, and Stiles’ hands tremble just as much as his voice when he speaks the first words said between them in minutes, and minutes, and minutes.

“Do you want…” He trails off for a moment. He sucks in a shuddering breath. He pushes it back out with an unconscious flutter of his eyelashes. “Do you want… to fuck me?”

The exhale that escapes Derek instantly is sharp, harsh and choked, hot as it ghosts over Stiles’ open mouth. His pale eyes flash darkly, blinking rapidly, and he ducks down once, twice, three times to catch Stiles’ lips in a sequence of bruising kisses, before leaning back to stare at him once again.

“Are you sure?” he asks quietly. “I know it’s your…”

First time. Like this, anyway. They have done everything else, have done it all twice and the rest, but never before have they gone this far. Never before have they gone all the way.

And – of course Derek would be like this, Stiles thinks. Of course Derek would be caring and considerate, would make sure to double check with him, to really guarantee that he is certain about this, that he has thought it all through. Derek would never just bulldoze his way inside, bulldoze his way to the ultimate prize, the very moment that the first whisper of consent reached his ears.

It causes Stiles’ mind to drift, actually. It causes Stiles’ mind to go to Paige, to her sentimental words, to all of that gushing that he overheard in that suffocating auditorium before that stupid fucking basketball game.

Derek is such a sweetheart, she had said. So patient, never pressuring. He is the best boyfriend. The best boyfriend ever, ever, ever.

Here that boyfriend is, though. Hovering above Stiles, fingers still pushed all the way inside of him, with hunger in his eyes and kindness on his tongue and an erection that digs into Stiles’ thigh, that twitches with the desperation to replace those fingers, to fill Stiles up, to go all the way.

Paige is not here right now, but Stiles is – and he wants it. He wants to give Derek the last of his firsts.

Licking his lips, his chin tips with a jerky nod. He cranes his neck up to kiss Derek softly, breathing his answer right into Derek’s open, pliant mouth.

“I’m sure,” he whispers. “I want you to be my first.”

-

No pressure tags ❤️ @dear-massacre @dontcallpanic @renmackree @teencopandthesourwolf @violetfairydust

[bisexualdisasterwenkexing]

The Untamed and Word of Honor whump fics!

finally collecting the links to all my works from @aprilisthecruelestmonth this year into one post. here's the link to the whole series on ao3 or you can discover them one by one below!

Word of Honor

i was just a child myself

an exploration of Wen Kexing's journey from protective guardian of Gu Xiang to Lunatic Wen, Master of Ghost Valley snippet: Gu Zhu raises his whip to Ah Xiang. Wen Kexing puts his body between them before it comes down.

pleasure in a circle

sex performed as tenderly as possible, despite Wen Kexing's best efforts snippet: "Harder, Ah Xu." Zhou Zishu looks up to see Wen Kexing smiling his oriole smile. Zhou Zishu wonders who's being stalked because he's certain that he is neither mantis nor cicada. "You can treat me much rougher than this."

make your bed and lie down in it too (that's where i intend to look for you)

just wenzhou pain snippet: The disgust in Zhou Zishu's voice pierces Wen Kexing's lungs.

you know me (when i don't know myself)

amnesia for Wen Kexing, amnesia back to the events in i was just a child myself! snippet: Wen Kexing wakes screaming. It echoes around the armory, spiraling up to where Zhou Zishu runs his hands through the grain. Zhou Zishu hurtles to their bed, pushing his body to its immortal limits. He's never heard Lao Wen scream.

give over

jianghu "justice" comes for Wen Kexing after all. (this one has another chapter forthcoming!) snippet: When the mob demands them, Wen Kexing gives over his wrists. He's dragged down from the mountain by them, rope tying them together so tightly it takes use of his internal force to keep blood flowing into his hands. He stares at the bed he shares with Ah Xu as he passes it, and cries because he knows he won't return to it.

blood still flows

another jianghu "justice" comes for Wen Kexing after all fic because why have one cake when there could be two? snippet: They come for him during one of the rare moments that he and Ah Xu have left the mountain. The petals from the trees outside Four Seasons Manor fall around him as he holds Ah Xu's unconscious form in his lap. The wound in his own stomach bleeds through his robes onto Ah Xu's.

fully known and truly loved

Zhou Zishu and the mortifying ordeal of being known snippet: Ah Xu squints against the sunlight for the third time in a kè. It's slight, almost not an expression at all. Wen Kexing steps between the light and Ah Xu and watches his brow smooth the tiniest bit. "Ah Xu ah," he says, raising his chin at Zhou Zishu as he looks up. "Do you have a headache?"

love is a sacrament

What if Ye Baiyi had asked Wen Kexing to kneel for three months in exchange for healing Zhou Zishu? snippet: Wen Kexing has the sense to sweep the place where he intends to kneel free of pebbles and other debris, despite Ye Baiyi huffing and rolling his eyes as he does. Ah Xu looks on, silent and angry. Ye Baiyi says that he knows of someone who can cure Ah Xu without damaging his martial arts. What's kneeling for a few months in exchange for that? Ah Xu can be mad about his meddling all he likes. He's still going along with it. Wen Kexing will live under any of his fury so long as he's alive to be furious.

the bridge between knowing and unknowing

sequel to "love is a sacrament" snippet: Wen Kexing falls asleep in Zhou Zishu's arms in the middle of the street at the place where he knelt for three months. It spooks Zhou Zishu, the trust of it. Wen Kexing's face, streaked with dust and faint traces of blood, is gentle and serene, his figure strewn limp and warm and gorgeous across Zhou Zishu's lap. One of his arms splays away from them both, hand curled palm up in one of Zhou Zishu's footprints.

The Untamed

yearning to be touched

touch-starved!wei wuxian, my beloved snippet: Lan Zhan reaches for him and Wei Wuxian wants to let himself be grabbed, even if it's to be dragged back to Gusu and cleansed until he dies from it.

protector, protected

the author and their love affair with wei wuxian's love affair with the dead snippet: He doesn't even need to do it, which is gonna be the part he'll never hear the end of. When the demon outside the Burial Mounds swipes at them, Sizhui and Jin Ling have the matter well in hand. They're grown now, extremely capable, and working beautifully together, how he'd hope cousins would. But Wei Wuxian's love doesn't operate on rationality. He puts his body between his kids and the threat.

double down on a bad idea

Lan Zhan and Jiang Cheng care for Wei Wuxian in their own ways. snippet: Wei Wuxian wakes up to discover that something has gone very wrong in his ribcage.

all the grief

let's make the Burial Mounds worse! snippet: Wei Wuxian drags his fragmented body toward the voices of the people he loves and finds that they emanate from the Xuanwu sword. His chest is gaping again beneath his clothes, has been since mid-beating at the hands of the Qishan Wen. The feeling is unique, singular in the grief and terror it awakens in him.

whether near or far

sometimes you're in love with someone but you're not ready for it and also there's a war. y'know. just Lan Wangji things snippet: Wei Ying's grip leaves the Xuanwu sword only once. Lan Zhan steps away from his unconscious form to leave for Cloud Recesses and Wei Ying's hand darts out to grasp the hem of his robes.

hold me steady

Lan Zhan has grown!! he credits Wei Ying snippet: Usually, Jin Rulan has his sword when he flies into a rage at Wei Wuxian, goaded to it by none other than the object of his ire himself. Lan Zhan, privy to Wei Ying's thinking around how he might adjust Jin Rulan's disposition, knows that this moment of Jin Rulan dropping his sword and attacking with less than lethal force when provoked is a victory. But as his nephew's hands slide over his neck, Wei Ying looks anything but victorious.

[welcomingdisaster]

Ssssnippet Ssssmonday

tagged by @tobermoriansass @sallysavestheday @melestasflight @aredhels to share a WIP snippet! :) here is something

“Craven,” Celegorm cries, his sword drawn, “craven, and a liar too, ready to doom our brother for the crown upon your empty head, ready to—” 

“Oh, say it again!” Maglor cries. He is not Fingolfin, and this is not Aman; he has already taken up his own blade. “Say what you mean, you coward—tell me how you would take the crown in turn.” 

In a painting, Ellind thinks, the contrast between their silhouettes would be pleasant. There is Maglor, tall and thin, his dark hair half-up and half-loose about him, giving him the slightly disheveled air of a ghost. There is Celegorm, wide-shouldered and squat, his silver hair bound into tight hunting braids, his form technically perfect. 

“I shall!” he cries, and swings his sword through the air in a great arch. 

Had Maglor stayed standing it would have beheaded him; but he spins out of the way, light and graceful as song itself, and his short sword glints in the light. Ellind rears back where he did not, startled by the force of the blow. Her own neck tingles in an odd sympathy. 

There is a clank, steel against steel; Celegorm has a tighter grip, a stronger stance, and forces Maglor back two stumbling steps. Then Maglor abandons his position; leaps to the side, it seems, but no— 

No, he has moved forward. 

Celegorm too is startled by the feint. He lashes out, messily, losing his form—blood stains the delicate blue of Maglor’s over-shirt, and a gasp rises through the crowd—but he has lost advantage, has stumbled, and Maglor does not. The short sword flashes through the air, and Celegorm cries in startled pain, his right hand pierced with the blade. 

His own sword falls, and Maglor kicks it away. 

They stumble away from each other, breathing heavily, Celegorm clutching his wounded hand to his chest. The crowd is silent. The dark lake is still. 

“Are you quite done, little brother?” Maglor asks, his voice cold and venomous and patronizing. 

“Damn you,” Celegorm howls, and leaps at him. 

i'm gonna tag!! @eilinelsghost @thelordofgifs @that-angry-noldo @leucisticpuffin @searchingforserendipity25 & anyone else that hasn't been tagged yet!

[fanaticsnail]

i love your sapsorrow series — even more when i read that Shanks snippet where he thought he was safe OH GOD AHAHAHA please!!!

Ah, you see. They all think they're safe from the clutches of the foul curse of Sapsorrow. Their knees shall bend, their backs shall break and their hearts will perish before her mighty claim - should they ever fail in their task to woo their intended.

(Image Source)

Sands of Time

Themes: Sir Crocodile x f!reader, reluctant bride, enemies to lovers, kidnapping trope, rake!crocodile x royal!reader, forced proximity, longing from afar, injured x caretaker, time limit to love, haunting spectre, Sapsorrow fairytale au, suggestive themes, forced/arranged marriage.

Mihawk Sapsorrow masterlist here, Shanks Sapsorrow here, Masterlist here

Sir Crocodile's intentions below the cut.

.

“What is this? A fitting gift for an apprehensive bride. I shall gift this to my intended before we wed on the morrow. Perhaps it will be near enough for her to open her legs and share her bed tonight.”

Hunched over the writing desk, half-moon glasses drawn down the bridge of his nose, sat the hulking sir crocodile. He shook his head, unsure of what commotion was going on behind the door of his darkened office. A wedding? Unlikely. 

Managing inventory, arranging wage statements and smirking at his half-composed letter to the lord of Kuraigana regarding his collection of debt; his ears pricked at a whisper of motion within the room.

“It has been found, reptile,” the echoing voice sinisterly whispered. A rumbled roar began erupting within the chasms of his chest as he released fragments of sand out to grasp the ghostly form of the witch to encase her spirit in a layer of dust. 

“I was rid of you, witch. You have no claim over me nor my soul,” he growled, prompting the spectre to unleash a wave of echoed maniacal laughter. Her voice was haunting, her tone was low and deliberate as she taunted further. 

“I was lost to you, but now found and will be placed on the finger of a bride within the hour,” she taunted, slowly raking her undead soul towards him. Strands of her hair began moving as if beneath the crashing waves of water, her sinister smile and unblinking eyes bore into the hulking man in front of her.

“What conditions have been laid to have you curse me, witch?” he asked, sitting back in his chair and removing his glasses, “I had your band stolen from me by the Don of Dressrosa, thus casting your curse onto him, not me.” He chipped the end of a thick cigar, drew it to his lips and ignited the tip with the flick of his flint. 

“To answer first: she has laid no such conditions as yet,” the spirit confessed as nonchalant as a spirit could ever be, “And to answer second,” her spectral essence passed through the desk and stood still, towering over the form of the crocodile, “My curse cannot be given twice to the same individual.”

Sir Crocodile held his breath. His usually bored and slackened jaw was now clenched firm atop his cigar. 

“What must I do, witch?” He spat, staring up into the cement eyes of the ghost of Sapsorrow as she smeared her sharpened canines down at him. As Sapsorrow began to bare another thought down onto the crocodilian man in front of her, an echoed voice rang throughout the room.

“I am not cattle to be bought with such an item, nor am I simply a broodmare to bear your spawn within my belly. You think this enough for me to share my bed on the eve of our wedding? I would never.” 

Sir Crocodile bore his eyes into the ever rising smirk of the Sapsorrow Queen in front of him, listening to the echoing words ricocheting from the chasms of his mind and reverberating in his soul.

“If you desire me to be your bride, you will have me love you with all that I am. You will earn my affection, you will slave for my adoration - but my love will be only passed onto you when I truly think you love me completely in return.”

The malicious laughter echoed throughout the room, the sands currently revealing the Sapsorrow spectre falling atop the desk, littering the papers and ornaments scattered below. 

“Make haste, Sir Crocodile,” she taunted him once more, “She is set to marry him on the morrow. That should put a damper on things, do you not you agree?”

Sir Crocodile began to shake, his shoulders stumbling below his aggression. He violently thrust his forearms down atop the desk, his balled fist of his remaining hand indenting beneath his powerful thrust, the tip of his golden hook sunk into the mahogany and encaptured it within his circlet. 

“H-How,” he began, his voice staggering as his mind caught up with the conditions laying claim to his soul, “How could someone measure that? How could someone ever dream of proving that level of blind devotion?”

“Therein lies the rub, reptile,” Sapsorrow’s echo felt further from him now, flittering up towards the ceiling akin to the smoke from his sour cigars, “You may never truly earn it, and I may yet collect the debt of your soul.” 

“You have a year,” her voice began to crack as it faded up further, “Until the sands of time pass the last grain to conclude its final hour, your form shall crack like glass and your soul will belong to me.”

-----------

Notes: I will be working on Shanks, Buggy and Sir Crocodile spinoffs once the Sapsorrow Au fic is concluded for Mihawk. If there is a gentleman you would like to see flung into this particular fairytale curse, let me know and I will aim to create it! I only have 10 rings to work with!

There are other fairytale au's in the making, if you enjoy an interpretation with your beloved characters:

@gingernut1314 is doing "The Luck Child" for Buggy

@writingmysanity is doing a "Hans My Hedgehog" interpretation for Corazon.

@sordidmusings is doing a "Three Ravens" interpretation for Sanji.

@cinnbar-bun has many a thought about the Crocodile, and I am looking forward to see what she comes up with.

Allow me to take the opportunity to thank @since-im-already-here, the "smol snail, fanatic in the making," for making me do this one. I love writing for it, and it's amazing to see how many there are of you that enjoys being whisked away with my words.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @writingmysanity @gingernut1314 @cinnbar-bun @carrotsunshine @feral-artistry @i-am-vita

[owlarchimedes]

Snippet from my unpublished obimaul wip because I want to share 👉🏻👈🏻:

“Kenobi,” Maul growled. 

Kenobi’s blue eyes were almost comically wide. However, he didn’t look as angry as Maul believed he would; instead, he looked almost…relieved to see him. 

“Maul,” he breathed, the wind knocking his hood down, which he didn’t bother to fix. 

Against his will, he felt the fight burning alive in his chest die. Kenobi’s almost palpable excitement in the Force from seeing him, the man who killed both his master and his lover in front of him, was almost heartbreaking. How beaten down must he be, to be anything but horrified by Maul’s presence? 

It knocked the wind right out of his sails. 

“I have to say, it is a shock to see you, old friend,” he smiled softly. “I had believed you dead yet again. Although, I suppose I should stop believing even death can stop you.” 

Maul just stared at him, unblinking. 

Kenobi sighed at his silence. “You’re worse than the Force ghosts, Maul.” He got to his feet, as graceful as always even if he looked way older than Maul knew he was. He leveled a stare down at Maul, taller than him now that he was standing. “You tracked me all the way to this sandy hellscape, but you don’t have any words for me except to growl my name?” 

But how can Maul explain that his reasoning for being here was utterly gone? The man in front of him was a shell of his former being. Obi-Wan Kenobi, no matter how much Maul tried to break him, was unbendable. 

And yet, Sidious managed it. Skywalker managed. Betrayal was what unwound Obi-Wan Kenobi into this sad, middle-aged man.

Maul couldn’t help but growl again. “I tracked your ass all the way out here to finally enact my revenge, but I can see my Master has done the work for me yet again.” 

His lips twisted, almost a smile, almost a grimace. “Yes, well, this new Empire is quite stifling, isn’t it?” 

Maul snorted. “I’ll say.” 

[lottiesnotebook]

happy thedas weekend!!!! if it inspires you, i'd love to see Rhiannon Hawke & Cara Hawke Laidir and "you'll always be my favorite ghost" from the florence + machine lyrics prompts?

This was such a good prompt for my favourite mother/daughter pair of OCs, so I hope you enjoy this little snippet of their lives immediately after Dragon Age 2, when they've left more behind in Kirkwall than a burning city...

Rhiannon Hawke and Cara Hawke-Laidir, Anders/Rhiannon Hawke/Justice (mentioned), Leandra Amell & Rhiannon Hawke, post-Dragon Age 2, grief, mourning, post-break up, mother-daughter relationships, cycles of trauma

@guacamolleee | @thedasweekend

my favourite ghost

“Mama.” Cara’s voice was coaxing, sweet, utterly unlike herself, but then, neither of them were much as they’d been only a few days ago. Still, some things remained unchanged — Rhiannon dredged herself up from the depths of dark-water grief towards the distant, flickering light of her daughter’s voice.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Her own voice was rough-edged, thin and weak and horribly familiar — not her own, she realised, but a distant echo of her mother’s, in the belly of another ship, a lifetime ago, when she’d been the child coaxing her back to a semblance of life. For all the good it had done either of them, in the end.

In the dark of the cabin, Cara’s face was moon-pale, cheeks still round and soft despite the tracks that tears had worn into them over the past few days. “You can tell me the truth.” She was trying so hard to be gentle, her fierce, brash little girl. She was trying so hard to be brave, it broke Rhiannon’s heart all over again. “I won’t be angry. I know now what Daddy and Justice did. I know- I know it was my fault. I won’t be angry, if you tell me the truth.”

That was a lie, Rhiannon knew it too well. Anger had always come far more easily to Cara than the gentleness she was trying so hard to cultivate now — she’d been born angry, had come into the world scarlet-faced and screaming at the injustice of her removal from the warmth and safety of Rhiannon’s own body. Anders had always blamed himself for that, for the rage that boiled within their daughter, but Rhiannon knew better. She could see, in their daughter, every scrap of rage she’d ever swallowed down unspoken, or hidden behind a joke or a smile.

But her words were enough to rouse Rhiannon from her miasma of misery, to force her upright in her bunk and make her seize her daughter’s shoulders. “Who told you that?” she said. She’d wanted to be gentle herself, but all that was left to her was the low, dark roar of wrath that would swallow the world if one more blow struck her daughter. “Cara, sweetheart-”

“Stop lying!” her daughter snapped, pulling back from her. “Do you think I’m stupid? I know it must be my fault, Mama! You can hardly look at me!”

Rhiannon was looking at her now, and, in the shadows of the ship, it was a fresh agony in every glimpse, because Cara was all she had left. Because Cara was the sum of every single person she’d lost — her father’s charm, Carver’s name and anger, Bethany’s bright smile, and Anders- Justice- both Rhiannon’s loves, lost to her now, but glaring out accusingly from the eyes their daughter shared in warm-honey gold, in cold-fire blue, in the crackling light that bled across her lids.

And Leandra… Her mother’s ghost was here too, nestled between Rhiannon’s own ribs, staring whey-faced and hollow-eyed from the shadowed mirror. Her mother’s voice in her ear: Now do you see as I saw? Feel as I felt?

She’d hated and pitied her mother in equal measure, once, thought her weak for the sorrow she’d allowed to swallow her, for the burdens she’d piled onto Rhiannon’s own shoulders. Now she could feel her mother’s terror in her breast as she carried her child with her into the unknown, knowing she had not been strong enough to protect her. Now she could see her daughter as perhaps Leandra had once seen her — the last reminder of everything she’d had, and loved, and lost, her small shoulders not enough to bear the weight of all that loss, her face shadowed by all the ghosts who’d come before her.

She understood Leandra better now, loved her the more for it- and hated her, too, for being the reason she knew she had to do better, the reason she had to keep being strong where her mother had folded. Cara had enough of her own grief to bear, without Rhiannon’s to carry with her.

She pulled her daughter into her arms, even as she squirmed and raged and beat at her breast as she had as a baby, pressed kisses to her cheeks, her nose, the crown of her head, until her shaking had subsided from rage to awful, silent tears.

“Cara Bettina Hawke,” she said, with all the conviction she had left in her soul. “Your fathers made their choices, and I made mine, and none of those are your fault.”

“But I’m here,” Cara wailed, muffled into her shoulder. “I’m here, and Daddy and Justice aren’t, and you- and you-”

“And I’m not the mother you deserve, right now,” she admitted. “That isn’t your fault, Cara, and there’s nobody else I’d rather have with me than you.”

That had been why she’d left them behind, in the end. Not the anger, or the betrayal, the brutal gut wound pain of knowing she’d never known her loves at all, and that they’d chosen not to trust her, but Cara. Wherever Ander and Justice went now, they’d be hunted, even more than she would be hunted, and Cara- at her father’s side, she could only ever be his daughter, his ghost in miniature.

She kissed the top of Cara’s head again, and did not say aloud: of all the ghosts to be haunted by, you’ll always be my favourite. It was a cruel burden for a child’s shoulders, and she’d carried it long enough.

[purefandomonium]

The Lingering Ghost

(Title pending because titles are hard)

Alright even though it's late and I'm tired, I'm really excited to share this! So I'll be posting it here first before I give it one final edit and post it to AO3. I posted some snippets before but here's the entire thing.

I've been wanting to do some kind of horror story w/Initial D for ages and this is the result. It's more angst and bittersweet than true horror, but I still had a ton of fun working on it. It's a little under 5k btw so give yourself some time to hunker down if you do decide to check it out. Also formatting should be ok but I also just copied/pasted it so it's possible something got jumbled somewhere.

Summary: It wasn't uncommon in the world of street racing. People crashed all the time. Curses were shouted, cars fixed up, wallets run dry. Eyes too, sometimes. Stories of crashes were spoken about as often as songs were sung. Usually, though, the stories came from the drivers themselves. They weren't supposed to be told in hushed tones as a warning to other racers who thought themselves too good to wreck. They weren't supposed to end so badly. They sure as hell weren't supposed to happen on Akina.

Iketani slumped against a nearby pump, in part due to the day's heat but mostly from the weight of his gloomy mood. Its surface was covered in dust with a bit of grime, and he internally sighed at the thought of having to wash it and all the others before his shift ended. He drew bored little patterns across the filth. "Man… I haven't felt like hitting the pass at all this past week." The frowning stick man he completed seemed to share his miserable demeanor.

"Same here," Kenji sighed from beside his friend. He kicked a small pebble and watched it ping off a nearby sign. "I don't know what it is but something about the whole thing just has me on edge. I can't stand the thought of being anywhere close to the mountain right now."

"Yeah… Me three." Even Itsuki's usual energy couldn't overcome the heavy air around them as he, too, leaned against one of the pumps in despair. Despite being far from it, Mount Akina's presence seemed to loom right over his shoulder. He felt threatened by his own sanctuary; the ultimate betrayal from what he considered an old friend. It hurt in a way he couldn't describe.

"Wonder how he's holding up." Iketani nodded to Takumi who was finishing with a customer. "Not having a choice in the deliveries and all that. It's gotta be hard on the guy." It would certainly be hell for him, and he'd only driven out there once since it all went down. He couldn't imagine having to be out there every night. Alone. At the mercy of whatever strange force was holding their mountain hostage.

Kenji hummed and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I dunno, he seems the same as always. It's hard to tell if it even bothers him or if he's just spaced out as usual." Takumi was a strange one. Hard to read and even harder to get a reaction out of. He looked normal but there was no telling what inner turmoil he may be hiding, if any.

Two sets of curious eyes soon landed on the youngest Speed Star. Itsuki met them both and shrugged in response, not quite as easily excited by the attention as he used to be. "I couldn't tell you what he's thinking," he replied as he shifted his gaze to the approaching Takumi. There was only one way to find out. Standing straight and adding some energy into his voice, he called out, "Hey, man, how you holding up?"

Takumi stopped in his tracks and noted the three sets of eyes fixated on him. He couldn't quite pin it, but they seemed… concerned? "Fine, I guess," came his reply. "It's pretty hot out though." He blinked in confusion as the three idiots he called friends simultaneously groaned. OK, so that was the wrong answer. What was the concern for then if not his health?

"Dude, that's not what Itsuki meant," Iketani sighed, rolling his eyes. Pushing himself up straight and smudging his little dust doodles, he continued, "We're wondering how you feel about the crash on Akina."

A sharp jolt shot through his spine, but he reigned it in before his body could respond to it. His voice was steadier than he felt. "Oh. Well, I feel awful about it, obviously. It's sad." He leaned back as Itsuki shoved himself into his personal space.

"Yeah but… what about all the, y'know…" He glanced around like there were people eavesdropping. Lowering his voice to a whisper despite the lack of paparazzi, he spit out, "The stories?"

"What, about a vengeful ghost or whatever?" He nudged Itsuki away and kept his expression neutral.

"A lot of the guys have been talking about some weird stuff going on since it happened," Iketani supplied. "I thought they were just being paranoid but the one time I went out there…" He shivered despite the oppresive summer heat. Already, goosebumps were dotting his arms at the mere memory. "I can't really describe it, but I got the worst feeling of dread. Like I wasn't supposed to be there and needed to leave immediately." He huffed out a bittersweet laugh. "Imagine that. Chased off my own turf by some invisible force." He absently rubbed at his arms, still feeling a lingering chill.

Takumi mulled the story over in his mind with a quiet hum. He'd been running the deliveries like usual and while there had been an odd sense of something, nothing had ever come from it. He was pretty sure what he'd been feeling the past several days had been nothing more than discomfort at the whole situation.

Not that they needed to know that.

Keeping his voice in its usual deadpan, he said, "Sorry to disappoint you guys, but I haven't noticed anything. Driving on Akina has been the same as always." Same corners, same speed, same road. Nothing had changed. Nothing except for one unfortunate spot.

"Bah! That ghost probably doesn't want anything to do with a boring person like you anyway," Itsuki shouted, forgetting about the imaginary spies from just moments ago.

"Or maybe," Takumi began, flicking his best friend on the forehead, "there is no ghost and you guys are just being weird."

"Normally, I'd agree with you, Takumi," Kenji said as he crossed his arms. "But this is…" He glanced in the direction of Akina and grimaced before turning away from the distant titan. "I don't know, something really does seem off out there. The other Speed Stars all have some wild stories. Don't you think it's strange that so many people are agreeing on this?"

"Yeah, I guess so." He shrugged and went to head inside to cool off for a minute, ignoring their combined chagrin at his nonchalance. He could really use some water and a nap right now. It was unfortunate that he'd be allowed only one of those things.

***

Having finished the deliveries, his run down the mountain was no different than the countless other times he'd raced home. It was the same as always, just like he'd told the others earlier. The familiar road blurred beneath the Eight–Six, headlights the only things cutting through the darkness of Akina. There was only one thing that stood out amongst the shadows, revealed by the Trueno's yellow-white glare.

The words of his friends echoed through his mind as he slowed to a stop and stared at the only remaining signs of wreckage. The engine's soft purring did nothing to soothe the sudden wave of emotion that hit him, so much stronger than it had ever been before.

The guardrail was still twisted and deformed—far worse than when Iketani had wiped out—and its silver sheen was marred with scrapes and oil. Caution tape fluttered about, a pitiful barrier between life on the road and death on the side of the mountain. Fragments of plastic and glass twinkled like they were stars embedded in the earth. The emergency workers had missed a fair bit of debris, or perhaps they would get the rest of it once the guardrail was replaced.

Somehow, even though he hadn't been present to witness it, he could hear the jarring sound of the impact, of metal shrieking and plastic crunching. The sharp echo of breaking glass rang in his ears as his imagination played out the scene against his will. In his mind's eye, he watched the car hit the guardrail and shatter into thousands of tiny pieces. The headlights were first to erupt in an explosion of glass. The front end crumpled as the windshield formed a network of cracks before giving way and sending shrapnel into the cabin. The force that bent the guardrail into its horrid shape would no doubt have been enough to cause the interior of the car to shrink. If it somehow wasn't, well, the jagged cliff face would take care of that.

With a gasp, Takumi blinked the terrible vision out of his mind before it could show him what the driver must have felt like.

The driver who had been declared as unsalvageable as the car was. Loaded up and taken away in something better than a weathered tow truck, but loaded up and taken regardless. It was no wonder the guys were so shaken up by the whole thing. Truth be told, he wasn't entirely unbothered by it either. Every time the gruesome scene flickered past his headlights he felt the cold grip of dread squeeze his insides. He hated that feeling.

It wasn't like he could avoid driving on Akina though. The deliveries weren't gonna run themselves, and they'd sooner do exactly that before his dad would bother.

Really, he wasn't sure what about it was getting to him. The road had been scrubbed of oil and the tiny fragments of a broken vehicle were the only things left behind. Well, them and the destroyed guardrail, of course. He'd been spared the worst of the details—not counting the ones his mind unhelpfully supplied whenever he least expected. Aside from the grim melancholy of his friends, there was nothing tying him to this depressing turn of events. Some people liked to race on dark mountain roads, bad things were always possible, and there was nothing to be done about either.

Despite the fatigue gnawing at him and willing him to get home and sleep as much as he could before school, Takumi found himself stepping out of the Eight–Six. Without its refuge he was left at the mercy of the chilling breeze. There was nothing he could have done, nor could do, that would make any of this better. Yet he felt compelled to do something anyway. Perhaps it was because it happened on Akina. He continued to deny he was a street racer, but he did consider this his mountain. In a way. He'd been driving it for years, no one knew it better than him. So far anyone who tried to prove they could drive it better than him ended up losing.

He sucked in a heavy breath as it hit him. Was that it? Was this feeling… some kind of guilt? Whoever it was that crashed hadn't been local. That was the first thing he learned about all this. The second had been that they weren't the most experienced racer. Any further detail than that—like who they raced with or even who they were—was a mystery to him and probably for the better. He wouldn't know what to do with that information anyway. Send his regards? No.

He sighed and stepped closer to the mangled sheet metal, hand hovering over it. The Eight–Six murmured behind him, the only sound in the quiet static. He stood there for several—seconds? Minutes?—before mustering up the courage to rest his hand on the railing's cold surface, at the last spot before it became a misshapen mess. He sniffled and couldn't tell if it was from the cold or something else.

"I'm sorry," he breathed into the silence. His fingers tightened against the guardrail as he stood there wondering what in the hell he was doing. He'd driven past this same spot every night for the past week and never felt compelled to do… whatever this was. Still, he was already out here. Might as well commit.

"I, uh, I know that saying sorry doesn't really change anything but…" Dammit. What was he trying to do here? Apologize to someone who was already dead? Whose death had nothing to do with him? He sniffled again and realized the weather wasn't the culprit. It was the middle of summer. It should only be slightly below stifling right now. Yet out here, silhouetted by the warm glow of the Eight–Six, his skin felt cold and prickly. Goosebumps. Maybe there was some truth behind Iketani's ghost story after all.

Takumi let his hand fall from the guardrail and turned back the panda Trueno, the stark white of its paint the only other thing standing out against Akina's darkness. There was no whispering of leaves in the wind, no insects making their grating calls, nothing but empty silence punctuated by the still-idling engine. The goosebumps returned full-force as he froze in place.

Standing beside the red glow of the Eight–Six's taillights was a lone figure. It looked to be about his height—the same age too, by assumption—and that was all he could make out. The shadows clung to them like a cloak.

Takumi swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat as he stared at the entity. "Hello?" He was met with silence. The shadowy mass remained motionless, seeming to stare right through him. Without thinking about the risks of turning away, he craned his neck to glance at the site of the wreck once more. Noting a lack of changes, he swiveled his gaze back to the eerie figure who still hadn't moved.

Their silent staring contest went on for another uncomfortable few moments before Takumi worked up the nerve to try speaking to them again. He took a couple of steps closer and when nothing happened, he spoke up. "Are you… the one who died here?" He winced. Of all the things to say to a potential ghost, the first thing out his mouth was questioning if they were dead? Brilliant. It would be a miracle if he survived this encounter.

That unnerving silence still hung in the air as what Takumi assumed was their head dipped down once in a simple nod.

His lips formed a silent 'oh' as though the answer weren't already obvious. As his mind processed what to say next, he blinked once only to stumble back in shock at its sudden proximity. He lost his footing and landed on the dusty pavement as the ghost loomed before him, mere steps away. Even with the headlights shining against its back, it remained shrouded in pure darkness. The shadows of its body seemed to swallow the light whole, a hungry abyss. The air around it was still and icy, like that of a frozen lake. Aside from its humanoid figure there was nothing else separating it from the dark night around them.

In the back of his mind, he wondered if dying meant erasing who you were somehow. He shoved the thought away before he could really question it. Lying vulnerable in the dirt before a potentially angry spirit was a bit more important than a mortality crisis.

His own shadow began to pool in wisps around him and a bolt of panic made his stomach drop and his heart lurch. The smokey tendrils tickled his skin like electrified feathers as they danced along his arms and hands. His throat was tight and he didn't know if it was the spirit's doing or his own primal fear. He remained rigid, helpless to the supernatural force before him.

Before the tears that had been welling up could start running, the shadows that were lapping at his hands and legs slithered away to the ghost. They flowed and swayed around its feet with wild movements, like a writhing octopus.

Takumi blinked back the wetness and realized the misty darkness was shaping itself into words. Slowly, as if it took great effort, a sentence was formed.

Why are you here?

He didn't know the answer to that question. How could he answer that question? As the sheer panic he'd been feeling dissipated—gradually, because this was still an unknowable entity before him—Takumi felt his shoulders lifting in a half-hearted shrug.

The ghost tilted its head, clearly just as lost and confused about all this as Takumi.

He found his words after a long, uncomfortable silence. "I, uh, I guess I'm here because I feel really bad about what happened." And he really, truly did. The thought that this could have been him in his early days of deliveries hadn't escaped him. "Uh… Lots of people feel terrible about what happened." The shadows twisted before him once more.

Why? It's not your fault.

Now that it was clear the dead racer meant no harm, Takumi slowly stood and dusted himself off to stall for time to process. His eyes locked onto the ghost once he felt his heart rate return to normal. The abyss that was its face seemed to swirl and twist like a smoky whirlpool, and he found himself almost entranced before snapping to his senses after too many moments. His gaze then drifted to the crash site beside them, illuminated by the Eight-Six. "I know it's not my fault. But still." He turned back to the ghost, careful not to get lost in the inky blackness once more. He found focusing on the harsh lights of the car to be good at preventing that.

"I've been driving here for years. My dad owns a tofu shop and I run the deliveries to the hotel." He scratched the back of his head as something like fondness bubbled up. It was strange. "I kind of consider Akina my second home, so something like this happening has me shaken up."

I see. I appreciate your honesty.

What an odd thing to say. Then it clicked. His eyes widened. "Wait. Have you tried talking to people before?" It would line up with all the creepy stories his friends and the other racers were talking about. Some of them had mentioned that it seemed like the 'Dead Racer of Akina', or whatever they were calling it now, had tried to communicate with them.

Most of the people I wanted to talk to ran from me, the shadows spelled. Their movement was becoming sluggish now; it took longer and longer for them to form words. I tried to catch up to them but they were too fast. I never was a very good racer.

The ghost's 'shoulders' bounced like it was laughing. Then it stilled again.

I thought I could use the practice, but now I can't even form my car.

I think it's getting harder for me to stay here, but I don't want to go.

It's not fair.

Takumi's heart clenched. He wasn't sure if there was an afterlife, and he wasn't keen on finding out anytime soon. He could relate to the ghost's fear and anger about being left behind and doomed to an uncertain future more than he cared to admit.

I was able to talk to a couple people like this, the shadows offered to the silence. But they were more interested in the gruesome details of my death than anything else.

It made me angry.

Now it all made sense. The ghostly car chases, the heavy feeling of dread, the anger the mountain seemed to radiate to anyone who dared drive it. All except for Takumi. It was weird how he was spared from all of that.

I know who you are.

A sound of surprise escaped his throat. Was his mind being read? Before he could question it, the shadows had already shaped the answer.

I came out here that night because I was hoping to race you.

I didn't expect to win. But I didn't think I'd lose my life either.

The guilt boiled over and before he could stop them, the words were pouring out of his mouth. "I'm so sorry! I know I didn't ask you to come out here but I didn't want this to ever happen. I never wanted to be famous like this. I just wanted to get home as fast as possible to sleep! I-"

It's OK.

The words presented themselves right in front of his face, cutting off his rambling. Takumi felt the warmth sliding down his cheeks despite his best efforts to hold back the tears. There was something strangely comforting in the ghost's words even though they were never spoken. It was as though the shadows emitted more emotion than a voice ever could.

Speaking of shadows, he noticed the way the Eight-Six's light seemed to cut through them now. The darkness was no longer absorbing the light. It seemed whatever hold the dead racer had on this reality was slipping.

The ghost sensed this as well, as it stated, I know there's a lot you want to say but I don't have time.

All he could manage was a pathetic nod as he wiped away tears.

I don't know what happens now but I have a favor to ask you.

Will you race me?

Takumi's jaw nearly fell open. "After… everything… you still want to race me?"

It's the only reason I came out to Akina after all.

'Please allow me a proper sendoff,' was unspoken. Takumi didn't know who this person's family was but he could only hope they gave them a formal goodbye. It was obvious now that none of the racers on Akina had bothered to pay any respects; they were either too scared or too callous. Who would he be to deny their final request?

I don't expect to win, the shadows revealed, mistaking Takumi's hesitance as something other than realization. I just want to do the thing I died trying to do.

"…OK." Nothing more needed to be said. He'd give the ghost what it wanted, make it home in time to catch some sleep, and lay awake all night hoping the dead racer finally found peace.

Takumi's legs carried him past the ghost to the Eight-Six, mind alight with too many thoughts once more. He fell into the seat, the suspension creaking in response. As he shut the door, he looked up to where the phantom shadow had been standing only to find it gone. A glance in his rearview revealed a semi-solid mass of car behind him. A… 3000GT, Iketani had told him shortly after the accident. It wasn't the blinding white it had been pre-crash; it was comprised of total darkness just like its owner.

There were no lights on it but the red glow of his brakes confirmed it was there. He didn't need to be told to give it his all. Anything less would be downright disrespectful. Putting it into gear, the Eight-Six crawled away from the side of the road and began gaining speed. The ghostly car behind him lit up once more in his rearview as he hit the first corner, only to vanish into darkness again as he barreled away.

Three corners was all it took for him to no longer feel the presence behind him. He didn't know if it was because of the gap he'd made or if they'd finally lost their hold on the world of the living. It didn't matter. At least they'd gotten their final wish.

Takumi drove home feeling oddly lighter.

***

"It's so weird," Iketani said to a wide-eyed Itsuki. "I finally worked up the nerve to confront this ghostly pressure keeping me away from Akina, and it's just… gone. Like it was never even there." It had been just over a week and it was still all he could think about. After all that time being afraid, he'd gone out the previous night and had a completely normal drive.

"Maybe you guys were buying into that ghost stuff a little too much," came Yuichi as he exited the station with the intent to scold them for standing around.

"You don't understand, boss," Iketani argued as he whirled around. "I felt it! I couldn't make up that feeling if I wanted to."

He let out a disbelieving hum. "Not even if you were listening to a bunch of hogwash that got you all worked up before you even set foot out there?"

The leader of the Speed Stars deflated. "I know what I felt when I went out there a few days ago," he mumbled as he crossed his arms.

"I believe you," Itsuki said. He hadn't been out there at all since the crash due to the stories he'd been told, but that didn't change the fact he believed every single one. He didn't need to be out there to sense the creepy pressure warning him to stay away.

Iketani sighed. "Yeah, nothing screams believable like you of all people having my back."

The younger balked. "Hey I'm trying to help you, man!"

"Will you two quite goofing around and get back to work? Takumi's the only one who's got any semblance of sense right now, and that's saying something." The latter was spoken quietly so as not to catch his attention, though it wouldn't have mattered.

Takumi was lost in thought yet again, though this time it wasn't one of his usual dilemmas. He was distracted by what it meant to become a ghost and what sort of afterlife there was, if any. He couldn't get it out of his head. For all he knew, the ghost of that racer had faded into oblivion. That thought bothered him the most but he just couldn't shake it from his head.

It was fortunate he had a boisterous Itsuki to do it for him.

"What's got you all spaced out now?" he asked as he latched an arm across Takumi's shoulders. "You've been dazed a lot lately, you don't have a secret girlfriend, do you?" He gave his cheek a good pinch.

"Ow! Cut it out! That's not it at all." He managed to pry his friend's hand off his face and weasel out from his grip with an annoyed scowl.

"Are you OK, Takumi?" Iketani questioned as he shooed Itsuki aside. "You're not still upset about the accident, are you?"

It wasn't often his senior could get a good read on him, but when he did it never ceased to take him by surprise. He struggled to get his bearings. "I mean… It's just kind of messed up, you know?" Even moreso, now that he knew the real reason of the crash.

"Hey, I hear ya." He rested a hand stop the teen's shoulder and squeezed. "It's always terrible to hear about someone crashing. It's even worse when it leads to a death."

The three fell silent as the heavy truth settled over them. Even Yuichi took a moment to grieve the deadly stories he'd been privy to over the years.

Moment over, he continued, "Look, all we can do is try to be safe. Us Speed Stars take great pride in sanctioning races and making sure there's little to no risk. All the other teams worth their salt do the same. The sad truth is there will always be people who bite off more than they can chew." Hell, he'd nearly done the exact same thing not too long ago. It was a constant reminder to be more aware of his limits.

Itsuki, not wanting to be left out and hating the melancholy look Takumi wore, butt in with, "It's not your fault, Takumi. You didn't make them crash. I know we've been going on about ghosts and stuff, but Iketani was just out there last night and said it's fine now."

Takumi wanted the words to soothe him, but they did the exact opposite. None of them knew—nor would they ever know, if he could help it—that the whole thing was his fault. What a twisted way of fate. If he hadn't been so famous, if he weren't so skilled, if he had been the one to crash five years ago-

No. No going down that road. He couldn't control what other people thought of him. He couldn't stop people form wanting to become street racers. He certainly couldn't stop anyone from making a fatal mistake behind the wheel. The very person who'd died assured him he wasn't to blame. It would be disrespectful for him to ignore that fact in favor of self-loathing.

…This was going to eat at him for a very long time.

Yeah so I thought about giving 'the ghost' more of an identity but decided not to. Partially due to laziness but also because I like how mysterious it is. They're dead. They're just a mass of shadows so does the identity really matter anymore? They clearly aren't themselves anymore and I was trying to capture that but I'm not sure how well it turned out. I still had a ton of fun with this. It took me a long while to get it complete. I thought about adding a scene w/Bunta after Takumi returns home later than normal but decided not to. It was so freaking hard to write Takumi and I don't know how well I handled his personality or the hidden things I was trying to carry across. There was no way I was gonna attempt to write Bunta lol. Anyway. Thoughts are always appreciated. If you see any weird typos or something doesn't make sense, please tell me. I probably won't post this to AO3 for a little while longer because there's some stuff I'm still considering.

[sarandipitywrites]

Writeblr Intro

(i should probably make one of these, shouldn't i?)

about me:

hi! i'm saran (they/them). i spend 99% of my free time writing, thinking about writing, making playlists for my writing, rotating my other obsessions in my head (currently jak & daxter; voiceplay; and motionless in white), and sometimes spewing those on my blog as well. this is my primary blog (i can barely keep up with this one, so a sideblog is not likely in the near future), so be aware that you'll see everything that spills out of my head/crosses my blog that i feel like sharing. if you're just here for the writing, that's cool, too! all of my original writing is tagged #my writing, and all longform works and snippets are tagged with their titles. i'm open to tag games, asks, and dms for anything and everything, even if you just need to talk 💜

about the writing:

i both read and write most genres, but fantasy and speculative fiction are my favorite (with a heavy dose of monsters and the paranormal, whether the genre otherwise calls for it or not). i write both original fiction and fanfiction. my main characters tend to be queer, neurodiverse, disabled, or all of the above. i write with an adult audience in mind (my writing has a tendency to delve into heavy topics, including mental health issues and societal commentary, and several of my stories contain graphic violence), so while minors are welcome to follow, i would encourage you to self-curate your experience. i try to tag anything potentially triggering, but i am human and sometimes miss things; if you notice anything that you think needs a tag, please do let me know!

general taglist (ask to be added or removed): @innocentlymacabre

find all the links and tags for my work under the cut:

the WIPs:

Spark Signature (wip intro, tag)

Ten years after their best friend's disappearance, Vy'd almost given up on seeing Jules again. But now that he's come back, and with a plan to steal the Foundation for Magitechnical Advancement's most sinister assets, Vy knows they can't let him pursue his vendetta alone. But the interference of Vy's nosy RPG group-slash-found family forces Vy to choose; will they do what they know is right and help Jules infiltrate the Foundation, or will they keep their head down and try to keep their family safe from the inevitable fallout? (high fantasy sci fi; LGBT+; cyberpunk; heist; thriller; original fiction) Taglist (ask to be added or removed): @leah-yasmin-writes, @mymomsaysbobcipher, @ceph-the-ghost-writer, @mundanemoongirl

The Art of Empty Space (wip intro, tag)

Lienzo's search for a cure for his parent's condition entangles him in a years-old curse with an arcane beast at its heart. As he works to break the curse and free the city of Rookport, he finds an unexpected ally in the beast — and, perhaps, something more. (subversive fairytale; paranormal romance; original fiction)

Taglist (ask to be added or removed): @notwritinganyflufftoday, @mymomsaysbobcipher

Dead Roots, Dark Water (wip intro, tag, Ao3)

After two years of genetic experiments at the hands of Haven City's Minister of Science leave him almost unrecognizable, Jak isn't as eager to go home as Daxter would have hoped. Daxter's rescue mission becomes a quest to undo the damage the dark eco experiments inflicted upon Jak's body and psyche — and the only one who can help them is Haven's most beloved public figure, who also happens to be Minister Acheron's twin sister. (adventure; dark fantasy; dystopian; fanfiction - Jak & Daxter)

Taglist (ask to be added or removed): @sam-glade, @televisionjester, @surroundedbypearls, @rivenantiqnerd

the Short Stories:

A Haunted Home

A haunted house gets its latest in a long string of owners. Is it possible to have a QPR with a house? You're about to find out. cw: implied past domestic abuse

Bodies

The Belltown Butcher takes a trophy from each of their victims. Ness survived, but not before the Butcher took their prize. cw: referenced kidnapping, trauma, eye trauma

Loreley

A cartographical ship picks up a distress signal in the unexplored Groombridge 1618 system. Instead of the lost Kasandra, they find a seemingly-habitable planet.

I Am Alive

A group of friends breaks into the local haunted house for an All Hallow's Eve séance. It doesn't go as planned.

[wolfjackle-creates]

It's finally posting week! The DPxDC Ghosts&Ghouls Bang is complete!

I've been working on this fic since March. Before I broke my wrist. And I've poured my heart and soul into it. It might be the best thing I've ever written, not even exaggerating. (And anyone who's been here for a hot minute knows I'm not shy about loving my own writing.)

This fic is a bit different from anything I've written before. So I'm just going to share snippets for the next few days to hopefully pique your curiosity about the fic.

Summary

Jazz is in love with Dick. He’s kind, considerate, and caring. Far and away the nicest person she’s ever dated. But she’s lying to him. About so, so much. And he’ll hate her once he learns the truth. Assuming he doesn't get tired of her canceling all their dates first. When Danny and Ellie go missing, the latest in a series of ghostly disappearances, she's forced to cancel another date. Going to Elmerton to meet up with Tucker and Sam, she will get Danny and Ellie back from the GIW no matter what it takes. Only…they aren't the only ones breaking in.

Chapter 1 is 8k. (There will be 5 chapters total and the final word count is about 32k.)

-----

“Surprise!” called a voice behind her.

Jazz grinned as she stood and spun to face her boyfriend. “Dick! What are you doing here?”

Dick, still in his police uniform, stood in the entrance to her cubicle. He raised the take-out bag he was holding higher and grimaced. “I’m here with a preemptive apology.”

Her stomach sank; she’d been looking forward to their date. “You have to cancel tonight?”

Dick stepped in closer so he could kiss the corner of her mouth. “Family thing came up. I’m needed back in Gotham as soon as my shift is over.”

She sighed, but gave a half-smile of understanding. “Well, I suppose it’ll give me a chance to catch up on work.” She looked over the mess her desk had become and collected all the scattered papers into piles. The mess had even spread to the floor; Danny wouldn’t believe his eyes if he could see it.

Dick sat down on a freshly cleaned corner and grimaced. “Well, it’s not just our date? I’ve a favor to ask of you, too, I’m afraid. Which is why I got you your favorites from that diner you like to make up for it!”

Jazz narrowed her eyes. “Starview diner is an hour away at this time of day. This is going to be a huge favor, isn’t it.”

“’Fraid so. So, some of the other guys brought in this suspect, right? He got dragged into a scheme by fish far bigger than him. I’m pretty sure he’s just their fall guy and knows nothing. I’m working on figuring out who the ring leaders are. But, well, he’s a meta. And things look really, really bad. I want you to be his caseworker. You’re the only one I trust to make sure he doesn’t wind up dead or trafficked before the week’s out.”

Jazz sighed and ran a hand down her face. And she’d thought that once she got out of Amity, life would get easy. Eighteen-year-old Jazz had been so naive. “Right. Let’s take this to a conference room where we can have some privacy.”

Dick grinned and jumped to his feet. He pulled her into a quick kiss. “You’re the best, Jazz. Love you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But she couldn’t hold back the smile. Or keep herself from entwining their fingers as they walked to the conference room.

-----

Follow the link if you want to know what sort of trouble Dick got Jazz into!

As always, I do lock my fics on AO3 to users only, but I've got a few invites in my back pocket if anyone still doesn't have an account and wants to skip the wait list.

Thanks to the mods at @dpxdcbigbang for running this event. It's been a complete blast.

[panevanbuckley]

snippet sunday - jegulus wip

i have in no way whatsoever been tagged but i was thinking this fic would be a lot shorter than it's apparently decided to be and honestly i'm excited to share it so i'm giving y'all a sneak peak <3

“Well, don’t worry; I’ll leave you to it. Because I’m gracious like that, you see.” he snipes as he pushes himself carefully off of the windowsill and back onto solid ground.

Not careful enough, it would seem, as a shooting pain rushes through James’ skull right behind his eyes and causes him to sway as the room around him shifts in and out of focus. He groans, reaching out for the wall or something and instead finding himself with a handful of robes and a tickle of soft hair against his cheek.

“Steady there, James.” Regulus murmurs only inches away from his ear and James’ stomach flips uncontrollably at the way that his name rolls off of Regulus’ tongue, graced by his gentle voice and made to sound more beautiful than he’s ever heard it before. He thinks, briefly, that it’s quite possibly the first time the boy has ever called him anything other than ‘Potter’. He wouldn’t exactly be averse to hearing him say it again.

He’d tell him as much if he weren’t currently rendered speechless by the wave of nausea that’s overtaken him.

“Are you ill?” Regulus asks him as he guides him down onto the closest chair. There’s a small hesitancy, something almost akin to worry, in his voice that he quickly masks by adding, “That would be some fantastic insider knowledge for this week’s Quidditch match. Slytherin could do with an easy win.”

“You wish.” James rasps out. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second and tries to steady his breathing, all too aware of how Regulus still hasn’t stepped out of his space yet. Not that James is going to ask him to move any time soon. The presence is nice. And his body is shielding James perfectly from the lights around him. “Just a stupid migraine.”

Regulus hums quietly. “Have you been to see Madam Pomfrey? I’m certain she’d have something to help with that.”

James shakes his head and then groans again. “It’s just a migraine. She’ll only fuss. And I hate hospitals.”

Regulus makes a small, disapproving sound at that. And then he’s perching himself onto the desk beside James, facing him. “Here,” he says, two fingers sliding underneath James’ chin and forcing him to look up. James does as he’s told, trying not to fidget under the way Regulus examines his face. His eyes are concentrated, a tiny line of worry forming between his brows, and when he lets out a sigh his breath is warm as it ghosts over James’ face. “This won’t hurt.” he tells James and then, before James even has time to register the words never mind ask what he means, Regulus casts a quick leniens over him.

The effect is almost immediate. A sudden rush of warmth floods his skull, chasing away the dull pain that had resided there since he woke this morning, and leaving a cool, numbing effect in its path. James sags in relief, his shoulders slumping.

He’s only vaguely aware that Regulus is still holding his face in his hands, fingers a cold relief that compliments the pain relieving spell.

“You didn’t need to do that.” he murmurs more to the desk than Regulus, as he avoids eye contact.

Regulus pulls his hand back, much to James’ dismay, only to then place his cool palm over James’ forehead. James sighs happily, leaning into the touch. “I know.”

[makemeimmortalwithahug]

hello and happy new year!

I just discovered you seconds ago through the snippet for your F1 AU and fell in love with it immediately. had to check your blog. anyway saw the writer goal ask thing and I'm curious, so here it is:

👾 Do you have any "bad" writing habits you want to break?

💥Is there a chapter, scene, or WIP you're most excited to write? Share a snippet or tell us about it!

🪩 Do you have any "good" writing habits you want to cultivate?

have a nice day!

heya there!! Happy new year :D

omg this totally made my day, thank you so much!! And thanks for the ask as well c:

👾 Do you have any "bad" writing habits you want to break?

answered this one already, but short answer here as well: not doing anything to stop being distracted and too much time on tumblr c:

💥Is there a chapter, scene, or WIP you're most excited to write? Share a snippet or tell us about it!

Oh aren't there tons of those!

And since you specifically stumbled upon me through my F1 AU, I guess it's only fair to share a scene c: I won't share any snippets just yet though because what I've already written is pretty vague and rough, but I can tell you about it:

when Charles has his first race with Edwin in F1, he is under a lot of pressure to perform well. He is still just a reserve driver but he wants to become a proper one, but his past races haven't ended that well, either engine failures or careless mistakes or simply bad luck. When he gets a good qualifying position for the Grand Prix, he's over the moon but the pressure only builds. Meanwhile, Edwin is set on his goal to be the youngest driver to score points on debut in F1 history. The Grand Prix starts but Charles is not on the top of his game, sluggish movement, nervous energy buzzing. It's past the middle of the race, roughly 25 more laps to go with Charles in 6th position, Edwin in 5th. If Edwin plays his cards right and they don't mess up the pitstop, he might even get a podium finish - and wouldn't that be a dream come true? Until suddenly, everything goes wrong, Charles' car touches his, Charles spinning out of the race into the gravel pit while Edwin loses multiple positions. Charles is forced to retire while Edwin places 11th. No points. His debut dreams go up in flames. And they both know it's Charles' fault.

(I am SO excited to write this properly and especially the aftermath of that)

and because I literally am incapable of not yapping, I'll also share a few fun facts about another little fic I've been thinking about:

Charles is angry at the fact that Edwin never had a proper burial and decides to go on a quest with him to make Edwin a grave so that he can (emotionally) move on

they don't realise that "digging your own grave" as a ghost can connect you to the grave itself. It's so rare that even Edwin doesn't know about

Edwin disappears at the grave, nowhere to be seen anymore, cursed to stay there

when Charles runs out of ideas on how to rescue Edwin, he continues to come to the grave every day, sitting there and talking to Edwin as if he might respond

(I promise it'll have a happy ending <3 sort of <3)

🪩 Do you have any "good" writing habits you want to cultivate?

Being less distracted lol but that's too vague so I'm gonna say: write at least one sentence every day. One sentence can go a long way. And stay away from tumblr during writing time. Surely I can manage that (manifesting!)

have a great day!!

[thebawdybaldurian]

Rookcanis Posting: First Meeting

Going to be posting some Rook/Lucanis/Spite snippets that will be incorporated eventually into my Mages and Lovers fic. I wrote a brief intro to my Rook, a Mourn Watcher, previously. Nothing really spicy in this one, but I have an upcoming one that will be very spicy.

Maene heads into the Ossuary with Neve and Harding, on the hunt for an expert assassin. She finds herself slightly caught off guard by his handsomeness and the unexpected condition they find him in.

Content and Warnings: Dragon Age Veilguard Act One Spoilers

The trail of bodies as Maene, Neve, and Harding followed continued on as they made their way deeper into the Ossuary. They didn’t find anyone alive until they reached deeper into the prison. Before they could even confront the Venatori guards, an arcanely-winged man swooped down upon them with merciless fury. The Venatori barely had a chance to draw their weapons before they were dead or soon to be, gasping and bleeding out on the ground. The man caught his breath before he spotted the three women out of the corner of his eye, turning towards them and cocking his head slightly. “Fantasma?” The man gasped, looking wide-eyed directly at Mae. She had the palest skin he had ever seen and there was a subtle glow about her, due to the magical shield she had conjured around herself. “Have you come to rescue me? Or punish me?” He asked.

Mae was at a loss for a response, both by the man’s skill at dealing death and his handsome visage. She’d seen her share of handsome men in her short time in Treviso, but he was something different. He was slightly unkempt from being imprisoned, yet he still managed to look polished, despite the deep exhaustion under his eyes. “Can you two see her?” He asked, glancing over at Neve and Harding before moving his gaze back to Mae. He stepped closer to her, reaching out to poke a finger into her chest, as if he expected it to go straight through.

“Owwww!” Mae whined, as his finger poked straight into her nipple. “What did you do that for?

“Mierda!” He swore, pulling his hand back as his caramel-colored cheeks darkened slightly. “I thought you were a ghost…You are real…who are you? You’re not Venatori?”

“Um…I’m Mae…Maene…Ingellvar,” she replied shyly. They both started at one another in silence for a moment before Neve spoke up. “I’m assuming you are who we came to find? Lucanis Dellamorte?” Neve asked.

“That I am,” Lucanis nodded. “You know me?”

“Only by reputation,” Neve replied. “ And here I thought ‘Demon of Vyrantium’ was just a euphemism.”

“It was…up until recently,” he replied.

“You’re…not an abomination though?” Mae asked, trying not to blush when he looked back towards her. “You look…good…I mean…normal.”

“And I never heard mention that you were a mage…just a mage-killer,” Neve said.

“Until they forced this demon inside of me, I had the magical skill of a brick,” Lucanis replied. “I don’t know why I didn’t change.”

“They forced it into you?” Mae wondered, forgetting her shyness for a moment so she could theorize about one of her favorite subjects, the Fade. “I’m assuming by ‘they’ you mean the Venatori? Did they use blood magic? Did they pull the demon directly from the Fade and into you?” She began talking excessively, peppering him with questions. She pulled a small notebook out of one of the pockets on her belt and wrote down ‘Venatori blood demons? Look into Litany of Adralla!’

“Yes, I think so,” Lucanis smiled at her, finding her strangely captivating. “They took some of my blood. They can use it to control the demon. That’s why I wasn’t able to escape yet.”

Mae nodded, underlining ‘Litany of Adralla’ and tucking her notebook away. “May I try something?” She asked, summoning a bit of magic in her hands. “It might tickle a little.”

“Uhhh���of course,” Lucanis nodded, not sure what she was intending to do.

Mae closed her eyes, letting the magic flow from her hands towards Lucanis. An aura of purple flared around him and those arcane wings spread out for a moment. They both felt a jolt down their spines and Mae let out a little shiver. “Spite!” She gasped, opening her eyes again as the magic dissipated. She reached for her notebook again, quickly scribbling down ‘Demon of Spite. Once a Spirit of Determination? And something else? Why doesn’t it hurt to be around?’

“What was that you just did?” Lucanis asked, seeing Spite appear at her side, eyeing her with intense curiosity.

“I was just saying ‘hello’ to it,” Mae replied, putting her notebook away again. “It is a Demon of Spite.”

“Lucanis!” Spite looked her up and down, walking around her entire figure. “Who is she? I want her!” He began sniffing around her loudly. “She smells like magic…and death!”

“Stop that!” Lucanis chastised the demon.

“Oh…sorry,” Mae looked at him sheepishly.

“No…not you,” Lucanis replied. “The demon. I guess you can’t see or hear him?”

“No,” Mae shook her head, shivering slightly as Spite made vain attempts to touch her. “I would need to be in a trance to do either of those things.”

“Thank the stars,” Lucanis muttered to himself as Spite tried licking her. “So if you know of me, does that mean someone sent you to find me?” He asked louder, hoping to move the conversation away from Spite.

“Yes,” Mae nodded. “Your grandmother, Caterina. We have need of a skilled assassin…and Neve said you were the best,” Mae glanced back at her.

“Unfortunately I still haven’t been able to complete the last contract I signed,” Lucanis replied. “It was for the warden of this place, Calivan. I cannot leave until that contract is completed. After that, I would be all yours.”

Mae blushed at that, her shyness returning as her stomach fluttered.“Wouldn’t it be more prudent to just get out of here?” Harding finally chimed in.

“Crows don’t break contracts,” Lucanis shook his head.

“So how can we help you complete this contract then?” Neve asked. “I’m assuming this Calivan has fortified himself after you escaped?”

“They’ve put up magical barriers on the doors that lead to both the warden’s tower and storage. That’s where I’ll likely find the vial of blood they took from me. If I confront him before I destroy it, he’ll just use it to control Spite.”

“Give Mae the vial instead,” Spite replied, still trying to pester her. “She can control me however she wants! No matter how depraved.”

Lucanis made a loud grumble in his throat, pinching his fingers to his brow. “I can take a look at them,” Mae finally spoke again. “Perhaps see if I can disrupt them?”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you,” Lucanis smiled, his stomach also fluttering as she tucked a long strand of her dark hair behind her ear. “We’ll need to return to the main bridge that leads into the prison. That’s where the cells and the other buildings divide.”

He trailed behind the women as they headed back towards the bridge, intending to have a stern conversation with Spite. “You’re staring at her ass…you like her too? You want her to pop our cork after a year of being pent up?” Spite asked.

“I’m not staring…she’s just walking in front of me,” Lucanis replied quietly, though his eyes remained fixed on the gentle sway of her hips as she strode ahead of him. “And I’m not…pent up.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Spite cackled. “Swish, swish. Swish, swish,” he punctuated each step that she took, her shapely backside gently bouncing.

[phantom-sith]

One of my Passion Projects that I am still (slowly) working on. Maybe by sharing it here, it can find a bit more love. Anyone want a Leroux-Based Erik trying to figure out how to care for a kid, alone?? Synopsis:

When tragedy befalls the de Chagny family, the Ghost of their past is forced return from the shadows. In the ten years since Erik last saw his beloved Christine, and as they are finally reunited, her life slips away. Shattered, Erik is now left to raise the son he never knew he had. Together, Erik and Charles struggle through their new reality and their grief over Christine.

If only it were that simple. Those behind the de Chagny murders are now hunting down the sole ‘heir.’ The only way to protect Charles is to solve the mystery. In doing so, Erik discovers more of Christine’s secrets that she never had a chance to tell him. Snippet from Chapter 2:

Upon his majestic horse as black as the night around them, Erik broke from the forest to become the wall between mother and child and those who would harm them.

“You!” one of the men exclaimed, as their horses skid to an abrupt halt. “How–?”

“You cannot be rid of me so easily, Monsieur!” Erik’s sonorous voice echoed around them. “Your companions extend their grave invitations to you!”

“We have no qualms with you! Be gone, and we’ll spare your life!”

Erik allowed his voice to come just from him. “You speak as though you are not my prey,” came that growl, a tone that marked him as the Angel of Death.

[barbwillbrb]

Snippet Sunday!

Thank yee @ladyofcrowsandcoffee for the tag! I finally got snippets to share for once thanks to the monstrosity of an RP @faerunsbest and I got going on.

I wanna show various aspects of Mortimer's persona, so here are five snippets showing different sides of him.

Combat Mortimer:

It was too strange, too surreal; faint memories flickered past his troubled mind, the ghost of his past life haunting him. Walking in his childhood footsteps, Mortimer worked his way through the house that was his personal hell, finding his way to the uppermost floors. His senses on high alert, he reached out with his magic, searching for any signs of life, but ultimately seeking one soul in particular– sure enough, Mortimer could feel him, a dark, angry force above him, in the office. Some things never change. 

While most of his father’s forces seemed to convene on the bottom-most levels– the man always, always hated being interrupted during his work, a lesson Mortimer learned all too well as a child, earning the scar on his wrist– a few lingered upstairs, holding fast to their positions as carnage echoed up the stairwells. The distraction proved fruitful; they never heard Mortimer approach, nor had the time to react when the wizard flooded their lungs, water blooming in their chests– the guards dropped dead, drowning where they stood, liquid tinged with red dribbling from their lips.

Hysterical/Sad Mort:

It wasn’t like Mortimer didn’t try, wasn’t like he didn’t want to– the gods themselves knew how much he wanted the man back. 

Fear, however, was an insidious, ugly thing– especially fear wrought from deep-routed traumas and broken memories. 

Mortimer knew damned well it wasn’t Sybyll that hurt him– not really, no. Sybyll wasn’t to blame for any of this. Unfortunately, the harm that befell Mortimer unlocked parts of his mind he kept buried for his own survival: all the very worst moments of his wretched life– the darkest, most vile recollections from his time with the cult, his time imprisoned. He couldn’t sleep without being taken to a dark, awful, choking pit. Nightmares weren’t nightmares when you knew them to be true, their marks buried deep in your skin. 

On the nights he could sleep, he woke in a cold, panicked sweat; Mortimer had taken to relying on potions to maintain any sort of rest. 

Mortimer didn’t just lose Sybyll; he was losing his damned mind, his peace, his sense of self.

More Sad Mort because making him miserable is fun, and he had to break in order to get better. Also, he swears!

It seemed fate would not bring Mortimer a moment’s peace, regardless of his misery. A knock came from the door, followed by Lennox’s voice; of course the wizard forgot something. Mortimer was half tempted to dismiss the werewolf’s concerns, simply wave away the questions or just refuse to open the door… if he didn’t know for a fact that Lennox would simply break it down to figure out what was wrong.

Besides, Mortimer didn’t want him to think something was wrong with the chair, not after everything Lennox had done for him. Gods– all this work to fix himself, and Mortimer was still a mess. Broken… incomplete. Without Sybyll, that’s exactly what he felt like, a puzzle without all the pieces. 

And Mortimer lost him. 

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck,” Mortimer swore under his breath, wiping his eyes with his sleeves, his hands balled into fists in his frustration. He did his best to dry his face, pinching at his cheeks, and looked over the mess that was his desk. Hurriedly, he stowed the bottle and glass away, shutting the cupboard drawer. If he delayed any longer, Lennox would surely knock the door off its hinges. “Coming, coming,” he muttered, hating how hoarse his voice sounded; he should have brought water with him. Then again, his plan was to get shitfaced and forget about everything, wasn’t it? Thank Lathander that he only had the one so far. 

Mortimer being a disastrous romantic

It wasn’t that he had nothing to say– quite the opposite; the words came quite freely in regards to his feelings. The difficulty was trying to narrow down the torrent of emotions he felt for Sybyll into something that didn’t come off as the barely coherent, lovestruck ramblings of a madman– or led to him practically begging forgiveness for his stupidity. Although, if Mortimer was honest with himself, the shortest note he scribbled was probably the most accurate: “I am sorry, I am a fucking idiot, and I love you. Please tell me it’s not too late?”

A groan left him and he threw his head in his hands. At least Pinky was not trying to kill the goldish, or Mortimer very well might have lost his mind. Nothing was coming out right. Mortimer looked at the drawer of unsent letters, all pulled from his heart. Each one was a silly mess of fluff, pining, begging– unedited and raw. Why didn’t he send them before? Pride? Worry that it would be too much?

Each letter was nothing but honest. Mortimer needed to be honest– and damn-it-all, he didn’t give a shit anymore about his pride. 

Sybyll thought he was alone. Mortimer was determined to prove he never left his heart. 

He gathered all the letters and placed them in a box, surprised at the weight– he might as well have written a novel– tying it closed with red thread. Whatever Mortimer wanted to say, he would say it in the moment, and if Sybyll needed proof about his feelings– well, here it was, wrapped in a bow.

... aaaaaaand spicy time Mortimer

The vampire yanked his robe's collar free, fangs dragging lightly along his throat; Mortimer hissed in delight, feeling his lover trace an intoxicating path against his skin. The wizard wanted to be patient, to take this slow– but when Sybyll lay back, erection firm against his stomach, looking up at Mortimer with a pleading pout on his pretty red lips– he couldn’t hold back. “By Gods, I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you so much– and I’ll fucking prove it,” Mortimer growled, removing his fingers, snapping into life a mage hand that quickly took on a more appropriate form. 

Working quick but gentle, Mortimer wrapped an arm around the smaller man, flipping their positions in an instant so Sybyll straddled his lap. His hands went to the man's waist, holding him in place as the ghostly cock slid between Mortimer’s legs, beneath his lover’s waiting entrance. Eyes dark with barely contained lust, he pulled the ribbon free from Sybyll’s neck with his teeth, kissing his way up to the vampire's jaw, then lips. Mortimer guided Sybyll down onto the cock, gripping his hips tight. “I’ve longed to do this for months,” he murmured, beginning to move Sybyll, his hold firm.

No pressure tag time: @lemonsrosesandlavender @faerunsbest @kimberbohwrites @commander-krios @savriea

[questinwitchface]

Force Me to Work on a WIP Poll Results

Thanks to everyone who voted in my most recent Force Me to Work on a WIP Poll! Below are the results as well as the sentences I wrote for each one. I promised two sentences per vote, so they're all pretty short snippets, but I hope you enjoy anyway :)

SamBucky's Co-Op Adventure ft. The Young Avengers (4 votes)

“Well, I was just thinking, and I’m a little worried now,” Kamala says. “Do you think if Sam and Bucky die in the game, they’ll die in real life?” “Oh shit,” Joaquín says, because he hadn’t even considered that. “That’s some anime bullshit,” Yelena says, waving a hand dismissively. “And we’re basing our rescue plan on some Jumanji bullshit,” Kate says, frowning at her. “Why wouldn’t they coexist?” Yelena hums, a frown pinching her expression. She turns to Joaquín. “How evil was the wizard?” she asks seriously. Joaquín shrugs. “Didn’t get a chance to find out, really,” he admits. “We didn’t get much of a chance to ask him why he was trying to create another ice age in Florida in the middle of the summer, but, I mean, that’s a dick move, right?” “It’s definitely a dick move,” Kamala agrees, passing the popcorn to Kate.

The Wind Beneath Her Wings (3 votes)

Natasha gets out of the car, ignoring the pain in her left ankle. The ghost of her mom’s voice whispers in the back of her mind that pain just makes her stronger, and she wonders at the fact that she’d never questioned that before. How much pain is too much pain? What’s the breaking point? After the snap, with half the world gone… Does the pain of losing Yelena, Clint’s family, Sam, so many others really make her stronger? She doesn’t think so. Steve is planning to quit Avenging, Natasha knows, and Natasha is thinking that she’ll probably end up doing the same. Before that, though, they’re on a tour to try to provide aid to the loved ones of anyone who had fought in that last battle against Thanos, and that has brought them here, to Delacroix, Louisiana, to Sarah Wilson’s front door.

The Sequel to The Pirate Fic (2 votes)

“I was hired to be a cabin boy on The Lemurian Star,” Bucky says slowly. “It was a merchant vessel from Cosp run by a man called Jasper Sitwell.” “Sitwell?” Sam asks, frowning. “Really?” Bucky looks up. “What do you know about him?” Sam shifts uncomfortably. “Only his reputation with the navy,” Sam answers, “and that you killed him.”

First Date (2 votes)

“Can you suddenly realize you’re queer after you thought you were straight for a few millennia?” Thor asks, fidgeting with a knife Valkyrie had left on the table. “Yes,” Loki answers before offering a devilish grin, “but the more interesting question is who piqued your interest?” Thor shrugs, trying to play it off. “No one. Or, well, no one really—I mean, I don’t know, it’s not really… We haven’t…” He trails off, looking up to find Loki and Valkyrie both grinning at him in a way that says he’s not getting out of this conversation until he tells them. “I don’t even know if he’s interested in men,” Thor says, frowning.

Joaquín Polycule (1 vote)

The second the pilot has entered the cockpit and cleared them for takeoff, Sam and Bucky are on each other, their bodies pressed tight together, sharing biting kisses, hands everywhere on each other. As the jet starts to accelerate for takeoff, Bucky ducks his head to kiss Sam’s neck, and Sam meets Joaquín’s eyes, heat crackling like a fire between them.

Blood and Plums Part 2 (1 vote)

Bucky wonders if Ayo and Shuri know that Sam is a vampire, that Bucky feeds him every time Sam visits. They certainly know about the other activities he and Sam get up to.

The One Where Sam's a Witch (1 vote)

“Hey, Nat, do you think I’m a mess?” Sam asks, watching as she wipes down the counter. Nat looks up at him with a sardonic smile. “I mean, a little, but everyone’s a mess at your age,” she says. “I know I was.”

Proposal (1 vote)

Sharon smiles at the thought of Nat, smiling, holding a chubby-cheeked baby on her hip while a tuxedo cat with white mittens winds around her feet. Then Sharon’s smile falls, and she sighs.