#that was very... interesting to write and draw about

[dollzstrology]

⋆.ೃ࿔ 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍’ ᝰ Smoke stops by your shop, coming to check on you and the baby. After he’s with you for a while you realize he’s here for more than a welfare check, he interested in what’s between your thighs.

𝑭𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮… Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore

𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑻… Explicit; smut + fluff, porn w/ plot, fem!reader, spiritual!reader [hoodoo], envisioned as black!reader while writing, half-canon & half non-canon, very similar to Annie x Smoke dynamic, established relationship [married couple], mom!reader & dad!smoke, pregnancy [second trimester], pregnancy sex, oral [fem!receiving], p in v, dirty talk. 1930’s time period. southern/country dialect used.

𝑫𝑼𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵… 3.5k words

𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑺 𝑭𝑹𝑶𝑴 𝑾𝑹𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑹… This is my first ‘Sinners’ fic and I’m soooo excited to be posting it! I’m already obsessed with Micheal B. Jordan but this movie made me love him 1,000 times more! All my Smoke lovers lmk how you like this fic! As always feel free to comment and reblog, I love reading y’all reactions! I hope you enjoy!!

𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑲𝑺… Sinners M.List ・Sinners Taglist ・Main M.list

It’s a slow day at the shop, the perfect time for you to catch up with creating some batches of fresh herbal teas and home remedies for your customers when they come by. You have your radio humming low in the corner, keeping you company as you sing along and work, grinding some dried yarrow in your mortar and pestle.

You’re about to reach for the peppermint to add into the blend when a quiet shift in the air makes your skin prickle. You feel a presence come behind you before it can even make its way into your line of sight.

Your hand slips to the straight razor beside your tray and you spin around, steel flashing in the light, holding it right under their chin. “Elijah…” you say slowly, drawing out the vowels as if you’re warning him. “How many times I done told you ‘bout sneakin’ up on me while I’m workin’?”

“Put that blade up, woman, ‘fore you nick me.” Smoke replies with his gold tooth gleaming in the sunlight, unfazed by the weapon at his throat, knowing you would never actually harm him, plus it’s not the first time you’ve had a razor blade to his neck. “I jus’ came to love on you a lil’ bit.”

You stare at him a second longer, eyes narrowed, then you huff through your nose and lower the blade onto the table. You set it down with a little clatter and let him gather you up in his arms. His hands cradle your small belly bump, lips pressing gently against yours. “You always sneakin’ around. One day I’ma really cut your ass.” You mumble in between kisses while still embracing his love, spewing out out a threat you know will just end up being empty.

“And you still gon' love me, jus’ like I love you with that fire in yo’ mouth.” He replies, referring to your slick tongue and the feistiness within you that’s always making an appearance. Before you know it he’s kissing you slow and tender, like he don't plan on leaving anytime soon.

You lean into it, breathing in his scent: woodsmoke, Irish beer, and gunpowder. You rest your hand on his chest, right over his heart, giving him one last kiss before pulling back. “What you doin’ here in the middle of the day? Thought you and Stack was gettin’ the juke ready for tonight.”

“We are. I just… wanted to check on you. And the baby.”

“We alright.” You say with a smile, loving how he’s become even more attentive since you told him you were in the family way. “She movin’ more lately. Likes when I sing to her in the mornin’.”

“She? You still holdin’ onto that?” Despite you having all the hoodoo abilities to tap into the spiritual and supernatural realm, your husband swears he knows the gender of the baby. “I’m tellin’ you, it’s a boy. Gon’ be just like his old man.”

“Lord, I pray that ain’t true.” You tease, laughing while walking over to where your candles are, grabbing a match and lighting the wick. Having to deal with Smoke and Stack everyday, trying to keep them safe, and make sure they stay out of trouble is enough to worry about, you can’t imagine having to deal with that times three.

While your husband watches you light a candle, his eyes wander to all the things surrounding you; herbs, mojo bags prepped like the one he has around his neck, and other things you use as a hoodoo practitioner, makes a frown appear on his lips. “I don’t like you doin’ all this magic shit while you carryin’. You don’t know what kinda spirits you callin’.”

Smoke’s never been able to grasp the in and outs of hoodoo, he’s never been the type of man to believe in things like that but it doesn’t stop him from supporting you and taking your word on everything because he believes in you. He’s always been fine with it and never interfered with your work but now that you’re carrying his child he’s concerned.

“I been doin’ this since before you even knew my name.” you calmly reply, understanding his point of view but wanting to reassure him everything is fine and the baby isn’t in harm's way. “I was born into this. My momma did it carryin’ me, and her momma ‘fore her. You know I don’t call nothin’ dark in here.”

“I know. But still, it makes me nervous.” He finds his way behind you again, wrapping his arms around your mid section, resting his chin in the crook of your neck. “You my whole heart and this lil’ baby too. I don’t want nun bad happenin’ to y’all.”

You lean into his embrace, letting his warmth wash over you like a river. You close your eyes a moment, feeling a sense of peace settle in your bones from his presence. “I’ll be alright. We both will.” You place your hand over his, gently rubbing your thumb against his skin. “I promise.”

Smoke turns you in his arms, kissing you deeper than he did earlier, this interaction feeling more fueled by lust than love. You feel the pull of him, the same pull that causes you to gravitate towards him when his body is calling for you.

Things with Smoke are always easy, you and him have the type of chemistry where certain things don’t have to be explained, like you and him don’t have to discuss how he yearns for you, how just you touching him makes him feel like he’s about to crumble. You’ve always been his safe place so when he comes to you needing comfort, to blow off steam, or some sweet lovin’, you’re always happily ready to provide.

Without breaking the kiss he takes off his jacket, throwing it somewhere on the floor before gently lifting you onto your work table, sweeping some of your jars to the side so they won’t get damaged. Your hands are already at the buttons of his shirt, and his mouth trails down your throat, his tongue swirling over the place where your pulse beats strong.

The ceiling fan above spins lazy circles above the two of you but it doesn’t cut down on the Mississippi heat or the fire burning between you and him. Smoke’s palms slide up your thighs, rough and warm, pushing your flowly dress up bunch by bunch ‘til he’s gets you exposed, your panties already damp from the way he's been touching you.

“You wet f’me already, mama?” he hums low, his thick fingers pressing against the wet cotton, a smug expression comes across his face that’s filled with pride. You bite your lip, nodding as he hooks his fingers in the waistband and pulls them down your legs, letting them fall to your ankles before taking them off.

“Always wet for you, ‘lijah,” you whisper, voice breathy and thick with need for what lies beneath his waist. “You know that.” He groans at the sound of his name on your lips, the only person on Earth who’s allowed to say his birth name, the only one who says it so sweetly it makes him want to hear it again and again.

He drops to his knees, kissing the inside of your thighs like he’s praying at an altar. The farther he moves up your body, slowly making his way to your sweet sweet center, you can feel your heart pounding with anticipation. Once he’s done teasing, his mouth meets your core, warm and wet, tongue parting your slit nice and slow, allowing your delicious taste to settle on his tongue before he starts to really ravish you.

You gasp when the warmth from his mouth comes in contact with your pussy, trying to control yourself before shoving his head deeper between your legs. His tongue gives your folds the most attention in the beginning, repeatedly moving up and down, giving you a nice warm up before he turns things up a notch.

Smoke’s starts giving your clit some love, the tip of his tongue gently grazing over it before applying pressure, causing your hips buck instantly and him to groan into your heat, making you moan from the vibrations. The more he eats your pussy, smearing your slick across his face, and him angling his mouth and sucking your clit so well it feels like your spirit is levitating, edges you closer and closer to releasing all over his face. “Mhm! Smoke, right there!”

If you could see the look on this man’s face there would definitely be a smirk across his lips, hearing those words from you, spoken in that needy tone you use when he’s hitting all those right spots, makes his dick rock solid. Of course with him being a gentleman ‘n all, his first priority is making sure his wife is taking care of, so he’s gonna make sure you get one off before he does… but not without making you work for it first.

Your fingers thread through his coarse hair, hips rolling up into his face to create more friction and help you chase your high faster. The moans that fall from your lips aren’t as soft as they were earlier. They’re raw, hungry, each one more whiny than the next. You can feel that pressure in your stomach beginning to build up and when you feel his fingers protruding the entrance of your pussy, you already know you’ll be cumming in a couple minutes or less.

When that feeling starts growing stronger and intense, about to take over your body and allow you that sweet release, Smoke pulls back making you glare at him as if he has two heads. “I know you ain’t gonna jus’—”

Smoke give you the smallest smirk as he stands up, licking your juices off his lips, already knowing how you’re about to finish that sentence. “I ain’t, baby. I jus’ wanna feel you wrapped ‘round me when I make you cum.” He undoes his belt, slow and deliberate, his predatory gaze looking at your body. You watch as he frees himself from his slacks, thick and undeniably hard, the sight alone making your mouth fill with saliva, wanting him to just fill you up already.

He helps you get off the table, lifting you by your waist and gently placing you on the ground. Once your feet hit the wooden floor he’s barking out orders. “Turn ‘round and put them hands on the table.” You obey without question, leaning forward and angling your ass in the air.

Once you're in position Smoke comes up behind you, pushing your dress up until it’s past your hips, giving him a full view of your ass that he’s practically obsessed with. He takes a moment to take in the sight in front of him, your pretty ass on display, your juices slowly dripping down your thighs, and your hole clenching around nothing, begging to be stuffed.

Your husband bites his lip, his dick twitching against his thigh in anticipation of what’s to come once he wrapped around your velvety walls. He gives himself a few strokes before gliding his dick across your folds, allowing your slick to gather on his tip and mix with his precum, using the fluids as a lubricant. He grounds himself in his stance and places himself at your entrance, slowly pressing himself inside you, stretching you wide open with his girth.

When he enters your wetness, a groan slips through his bared teeth, his hands wrapping around your full hips as he lowers his eyes and watches his dick begin to disappear into your heat. Even though you’ve had sex with Smoke a million times, every time he fucks you it somehow feels the first time. A sound flies out your mouth, something that’s a mixture of moan and cry when you feel him stretching you out every time he pushes another inch of himself inside you.

You’re not in pain, it’s just the delicious burn that comes with being with a man that’s well endowed. Your hands begin to grip the end of the table, needing to balance the pressure you’re feeling in your lower region. “I got you, baby. Jus’ relax.” Smoke whispers while placing a few soft kisses on your back, reassuring that he has everything under control.

Feeling his lips press against your skin makes you clench around him, so tight that he lets out sharp breath, trying to keep himself from busting on the spot. He's not even fully inside you yet and he’s already teetering on the edge of having his own orgasm. He allows both of your bodies to adjust, for both of you to become one flesh, slowly nudging his dick further and further into your pussy until he bottoms out.

After a few moments his pelvis is flush with your ass and he just holds there, waiting until you’re ready. Once you relax and he feels your body loosen up, he takes that as a green light to continue and start applying some real pressure. He slowly slides out, pulling out almost halfway before rolling his hips and pressing back into you, beginning a series of long strokes into your pussy.

Your mouth flies open, moans filling your small shop as Smoke thrusts into you with no plan on stopping anytime soon. He angles himself slightly upward, giving himself the perfect position to continually hit your g-spot until you cum around him. At this point you and him are both dripping in sweat, droplets traveling down your face and towards the spillage of your breasts and his trickling down his chest and torso.

You decide to not let your husband have all the fun and start throwing it back against him, meeting him in the middle of each thrust, creating an echo of your skin slapping together. Smoke groans, loving the sound of your skin colliding each time he pushes himself deeper inside you. “Pussy feels so good, baby. Makes me wanna get yo' ass pregnant all over again.” He mutters before throwing his head back.

Ever since you’ve become pregnant Smoke swears your pussy has become even better, which he didn’t think was possible. He doesn’t know if it’s because you’re more sensitive now, that you’ve been able to become so wet to the point he sometimes slips out, or your body is just preparing for the baby but either way he loves it.

“You talkin’ like I ain’t already carryin’ your baby.” you manage to pant between moans, lips curling up into a soft grin. “Lemme get this baby out first before we talk about another one.”

Smoke chuckles low, a sound that doesn’t come from him too often but when he’s around you it easily emerges. “Can’t help it.” he murmurs, breath hot on your skin. “You so damn good to me. Make me wanna keep you knocked up, full a’me all the time.”

He punctuates his words with a deep roll of his hips, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyes. Your fingers curl around the edge of the table, knuckles white as you brace yourself against the slow, deliberate strokes that are unraveling you, thread by aching thread.

The scent of yarrow, rose, and the musk of your joined bodies hangs heavy in the air, brewing in the humid Mississippi heat. You feel like a woman possessed, bent and spread in the middle of your sacred space, lost in the kind of pleasure that only Smoke can provide.

It doesn’t take long before Smoke starts going harder and faster, his thrusts becoming relentless as tears of pleasure stream down your face. His pelvis slams against your backside with every stroke, the table rocking from your tight grip and his rough movements, causing a few jars of herbs to fall on the floor but you’re too fucked out to care. You cry out each time he hits the spot that makes your knees weak, your nails scratching at the wood while his balls slap against you.

“Say my name, baby.” he pants, giving your ass a nice hard love tap before his hand return to your hips. “Tell the whole Delta who fuckin’ you this good.”

Your breath catches, your body trembling with the raw fire he’s stroking inside you. You bite your lip, eyes squeezing shut as the waves of pleasure crash over you. “You fuckin’ me so good, Elijah.” Your voice trembling as the words spew out your mouth. “Can’t nobody fuck me like you can.”

He growls your name back, deep and full of hunger, sends a shiver straight down your spine. His hands dig into your hips harder, pulling you flush against him, every thrust driving deeper, more urgent. “You my woman.” he snarls low, voice rough like thunder, his possessive ways making an appearance. “Ain’t no woman on this earth meant for me but you.”

His words break through all your control and with a cry, your body collapses against his, your muscles convulsing in waves as you fall apart, every nerve ending going up in flames, breathes coming in sharp gasps as you let go. His name spills from your lips again and again, one of Smoke’s many weaknesses when it comes to you.

Smoke grunts as he continues to thrust inside you, repeatedly brushing against your g-spot until you quiver tightly around him again, your walls rapidly pulsing around his shaft. Your orgasm rips through you and a loud whine fills the air, your legs beginning to shake and your balance falter, causing your husband to tighten his grip around you so you won’t collapse on the hard wooden floor.

Soon after you Smoke’s body succumbs to its own pleasures, his orgasm washing over him as he releases his hot seed deep inside your walls, the thick sticky fluid reaching the depths of your womb, his body shuddering until his high levels out.

Smoke exhales a deep, satisfied groan as he gently pulls out of you, careful not to move too fast, not wanting to overstimulate you. Your body jerks slightly, a soft whimper slipping from your lips at the sudden emptiness. He leans down immediately, pressing a line of kisses along your spine like an apology, his strong hands gliding up your sides with a gentleness that replaces how rough he was just being.

“You okay, baby? I ain’t hurt you, did I?” he murmurs, voice low as always, but sweet, filled with a certain softness that only you are allowed to hear. He’s usually not rough with you, he hasn’t been since you’ve become pregnant but he’s been wound up, things with Club Juke and business deals, he needed this as an outlet for his issues but now that his brain fog has cleared he wants to make sure you’re alright because he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he ever hurt you.

You shake your head, resting your forehead against the table, lips parting with a small, breathless laugh, still trying to regulate your breathing. “You ain’t hurt me, ‘lijah. I’m doing good, real good.” you whisper, eyelids heavy, wanting to just go home and soak in the tub. “But I don’t think I’m gonna be able to walk right for a while.”

He chuckles at that, one that’s filled with satisfaction of his previous actions, that he once again fucked you ‘till you can barely walk. “Lemme help you out then.” Smoke easing you up into his arms, bridal style, like you don’t weigh a thing and placing you into the chair in the corner of your shop. He grabs a clean towel from the hook near the window and dampens it with some fresh water before he starts cleaning you up, making sure he's as gentle as possible.

When he finishes, he presses a kiss to the curve of your belly, whispering something low to the baby that makes you melt all over again. Smoke pulls up a stool and sits beside you, pulling you close until your head rests against his chest. “Think we scared off the spirits in here.” you mumble, giggling softly, knowing that your ancestors probably wouldn’t approve of you having relations on sacred ground.

Smoke chuckles at that, his hand stroking lazily over your thigh. “Well, they need to let grown folks do what they s’pose to do. Don’t need them watchin’ us no way.”

You hum softly, nuzzling closer, feeling his lips press against your temple and his hand making its way to your belly for the millionth time today, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your warm skin. “Gon’ be a good daddy to this baby.” he adds after a beat, his voice steady now, that rare, open affection in his tone. “Better than mine ever was.”

You lift your head just enough to meet his brown orbs, looking up at him with pure love in your eyes. “I know you will. You already are.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the wind brushing against the shutters, the faint creak of the old ceiling fan above, and the gentle rhythm of your breathing syncing with his. “I love you, Elijah.”

“Love you too, mama. Always.”

𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 — @Yungblud423 @nostlicions @loveabledovee @secretisme4 @pinkkycherrish @bl3ssyn @shamansha @queenofklonnie22 @rios-st4rs @Secretlifeofpreshap @bxrbie1 @t-wylia @bendoverboo18 @milesf4vg1rl @secret89sblog @gabbysbl0gg

— all rights reserved ©𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐙𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐘. all fanfics belong to me, do not copy, translate, repost repost on other platforms (ex. AO3 or Wattpad) nor recommend on tiktok any of the works seen here.

[luckyladylily]

This is a very weird post to me because it's the most technically correct thing I've ever read in my life, but in a way that makes me think OP has not only lost the thread on kink vs vanilla but has gotten so lost in the sauce they are missing the point of fan fic in general.

To address kink vs vanilla, I have extensive real world experience and I can tell you right now that you cannot predict or otherwise draw hard conclusions about kink based on a person's personality or lived experiences. There can be some patterns, but they are not hard patterns you can count on. This is the way in which this post is very technically correct. It is absolutely true that character's favorite position could be no frills missionary, even if they seem like the kinkiest mother fucker who ever walked the earth. Some people do in fact have vanilla sex.

But that's a very weird thing to point out because most people already know this, and even in explicit fandom fics with bdsm dynamics are out numbered by fics focusing on more vanilla sex, especially in fics that are actually about character work where bdsm dynamics are so rare fics like this often don't even exist at all for many ships.

I know this because, for personal reasons I won't get into, "vanilla sex" (and how people write it) is deeply uncomfortable to me. I like character focused explicit fic, but trying to find something that doesn't make me want to claw my skin off means sifting through dozens of vanilla fics to find one fic that strays from vanilla dynamics enough to be palatable. And that's when I'm lucky and such a fic exists at all. This has held true in every single pairing and fandom I've ever spent time in.

The only 2 areas where dom/sub dynamics or other heavy kinks outweigh vanilla dynamics in fandom is discussion of sex among kinky fans and one shots specifically dedicated to low or zero context sex. In other words, where interesting sexual dynamics are more important than the actual characters involved. The parts of fandom where characters are just pretty dolls we use to populate our sexual fantasies.

The second post has it completely wrong. In these spaces, It's not that kink is a substitute for personality, it's that kink trumps personality. Fandom is playing with dolls, and maybe for you character work is what it's all about, but that's not true for everyone. We all play with the dolls differently, and it's not like people who are in it for the low context sexual fantasy are suddenly going to be into character work now you've pointed this out, so what's the point? If these people won't play correctly (according to you), then they shouldn't play at all?

Fandom is not a zero sum game. Out of character bdsm one shots are not actually taking away from your character focused works.

This is complaining about people playing with their dolls in a way you don't like. If you prefer one way of playing with the dolls the answer is to find like minded people, not getting pissy about others playing with their toys wrong.

nothing but respect for our troops (smut writers) but listen. i dont want to be the person to tell you this, but not every character is going to be a dom or a sub. some people. and i know this is hard to hear. but some people do have vanilla sex. and some of those people might even be The Character.

[asriels-college-life-dr]

Asriel's College Life - Update + Teasers!

It's been a while since the last update! I wanted to share some progress with you guys since you're at least interested in what this project is all about.

Art-wise, our concept artists have done very well with bringing our upcoming cast to life. You've seen Asriel, his roommate Baphi, and her human friend Clyde, but there's more folks in Ebott College than you've seen so far: both monsters AND humans!

We're working on a pilot episode for this sprite comic project that will establish Asriel and the rest of the cast, as well as the world and the overall vibe of the story. I hope you look forward to it!

Writing-wise, has admittedly been slow going. I work in short bursts, which is why having other writers to talk story and scriptwriting really helps get the script done.

If you're a writer and have experience with script for screenplays or even novels, also reach out to us!

We're also looking for concept artists, especially those who can draw backgrounds! If you can draw buildings and nature and maps and concept art of towns and campuses, please reach out to us!

Teaser Time!

Meanwhile, our art team has been doing well in bringing our cast to life! I hope you enjoy this look at the monsters and humans that study at Ebott College for the rest of this post!

"One of them becomes important to him, can you guess why?" (art by @MrBendyFeathers & @luztechnowitch)

Party slime! Fun fact: They're both Simley.

Someone who is happy in a way he isn't.

Someone who becomes important to him, despite their differences. (art by @heartlessmushr1)

A history professor.

A friendly face.

An antagonist.

That's all for this update! If you'd like to follow this comic for when the pilot comes out, check out our server!

[gallusgalluss]

hi hey I decided to write a fic

It's called God's Favorite, it's focusing on Capochin, specifically him and his relationship with Hector/Inspekta at set points of time. I have a couple of chapters in mind for it right now, with the first one taking place just a few days before Hector's ascension. Basically a glimpse into Capochin's whole deal with Hector before things Go Pretty Bad.

You can read it HERE :] If you read it lemme know what ya think cause I'm very interested in people's thoughts about this

ur getting this doodle instead of an Actual Drawing relating to the fic (for now). okayy 👍

[leafyln4]

"Would you love me more?"

warnings: 18+ minors DNI, smut, oral f!receiving, somehow almost everyone here is an asshole. lando is a bitch, max is a bitch, mentions of carlos, mentions of alcohol usage, reader is a whore, mentions of drugs(weed).

author's note: this took me wayyy too long to write. sorry for the bad writing (this one is so bad😭). english is not my first language and this is not proofread.

Max wasn't usually the type to go back and forth from Lando's house. But the DJ was stubborn and wanted Max to help him with some songs, so how could he say no? He was a good friend. Sometimes.

The streamer quietly enters the studio, not knowing if his friend was recording something or not. The place was quiet, filled with a light smoke he recognized too well.

Lando was sitting in his chair, looking through some papers, a joint lazily resting on the table. Max clicks his tongue, drawing the brit's attention to him.

"Thought you said you'd stop smoking." His voice carried that teasing undertone, a smirk up on his lips. He wasn't really surprised that Lando still smoked from times to times.

"Try not smoking when Sainz is in your life."

Sainz. Carlos Sainz wasn't someone Max liked that much. Not a lot of people from their circle liked Carlos, in all honesty. He was arrogant, always thought the word belonged to him. Just the mention of his name made his blood boil.

The dutch sits on the small couch on Lando's studio, scoffing while rolling his eyes. He didn't want to go there to talk about Carlos out of all people.

"You called me here to talk shit about him? Sorry, but I'll go away if that's the case."

He was already standing up, but Lando grabs his wrist in a tight grip. Lando didn't make all of the arrangements just for Max to leave now. And Max could see it in Lando's gaze, the hunger, that hint of desperation that was always in his eyes when he craved for something.

Lando was dangerous, in a way, and Max knew his friend better than everyone else. So he makes sure to sit down again, rolling his eyes at his friend.

"Okay, okay. Fine. Whatever you say." Max raises his hands in surrender, watching as a smirk crept onto Lando's face.

The brit, not sparing Max a word, takes his phone out of his pocket and seems to text someone. He hides his phone screen from Max, the dutch's curiosity rising.

Soon enough, a girl in a white top and baby pink skirt emerges into the studio. You. A small smile on your lips, a light shade of pink adorning your cheeks. You looked like an angel. Max almost had to remind himself to breathe.

"Hello, mr. Verstappen." Your voice was velvet smooth, carried by that innocence only you could carry in such environment. "Mr. Norr-- I mean, Lando told me a lot about you."

You sounded so sweet, your words like magic to Max's ears. So Lando told you about him? Interesting. He looked at the brit, seeing the smirk on his face.

Lando was up to mischief and he knew it.

"Oh, yeah? Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, miss."

His mouth felt dry, his words leaving with more enthusiasm than he wanted. He faked a cough, not wanting to show how much your presence was affecting him. He felt like a teenage boy, his pants getting tighter than ideal.

"She's pretty, isn't she?" Lando's words brought Max back to reality, a pretty pink adorning your flushed features. You were, indeed, very pretty. Something about that innocence, that shy demeanor, drew Max in.

So the dutch nodded, watching as your squirmed in your feet, as if his agreement hit you in the right way.

This would be a fun day.

The dynamic was easy, light, predictable. Max always went to Lando's place whenever he asked, eager to see you. You were always there, in Lando's lap, sometimes even cockwarming him shamelessly.

And Max, well... Max loved it. He loved when Lando would ask you to help Max relax, he loved how you were always so obedient. Their sweet girl. So sweet, so naive.

And you grew attached to Max in the same way you did to Lando and Carlos. You were well trained, your pussy soaking by the sight of them only. Max's blue eyes staring at you, eating you up with his gaze. It was all too much.

So when Max came in for a drink with Lando, you wore the sluttiest outfit ever known to mankind. The shortest skirt, some really tight crop top that outlined your boobs perfectly. It was quite the sight for both of them.

You were already tipsy when Lando left the room, saying he had to grab something in his studio. You didn't notice the exchanged glance between him and Max, didn't notice how close Max was to you.

"Schatje, you look so pretty." His hand ghosted under your shirt, a gasp echoing through your lips as he played with one of your nipples. His calloused hands rolled, pinched, touched your nipples in all of the ways that make you squirm.

Soft sounds, gasps, moans, something in-between, left your mouth, your back arching, chest seeking his touch more and more. You were still a bit sore from your night with Lando a the other night with Carlos, but Max's touch made you completely forget all of that.

Your body was aching, craving for him since you first laid eyes on him. But you were too shy, too much of a good girl to do anything. So you waited, used your clothes in your favour, and waited. And, now, he was touching you like you belonged to him.

He didn't ask for permission, it was like he knew what you wanted, what you needed. His hands squeezed your breasts, your nipples already hard and sensitive enough to make some tears form at the corners of your eyes.

"Look at you... I barely even touched you and you're already squirming. What a sweet girl. Do you like being touched like that, hm? Like I fucking own you?"

You could only whimper, your cunt clenching around nothing as his hands wandered through your body. Soon enough, he was pulling your skirt up, pulling your panties down in one swift emotion. His fingers soon find the wet mess between your legs, a groan leaving his lips.

"So fucking wet... Can't believe Lando has been keeping that sweet cunt in secret for that long."

There were already tears in your eyes, you were so over and understimulated at the same time. It was maddening, crazy, insane. You whine when he brushes his thumb on your clit, closing your legs as soon as he kneels between your legs.

"Come on, don't get shy on me now. You're whoring yourself out for me, act like one." And so he holds your legs open, taking a long yet slow stripe up your folds. You were so sensitive, the way he sucked you made you scream in pleasure.

In no time, you were coming all over his face, your cunt clenching around his tongue as he fucked you with it. Even then, he doesn't stop until Lando comes back, pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you.

And, when Lando is finally there, you know you're in for one hell of a night. <3

[ofironandivory]

Stuff to do instead of thinking about/looking through doubles' blogs:

🖤 Revisit your favorite part of your F/O's source! If you're able to, maybe record/screenshot/highlight your ultimate favorite parts and keep them saved on your device! Your F/O loves having your attention and they're always happy to see you, no matter how many times you may choose to do it!

❄️ Draw/write some of your headcanons for your F/O! What are some of their favorites? (i.e.: seasons, movie genres, songs, colors), When's their birthday? What do you two do to celebrate it? Are there any textures they dislike?

🖤 Make some moodboards centered around you and your F/O! You can start with the general dynamic of your relationship, but you can also come up with specific scenarios, dates and lore moments for it! It might even help the two of you come up with some fun dates later down the line

❄️ Make playlists for your selfship! If you already have them, try adding songs your F/O would listen to, especially if they're not part of genres you listen to very often. If you have a playlist for them specifically, add some of your favorite songs or songs that remind them of you

🖤 Make pinterest boards for your F/O! Maybe something general like official art and fanarts, but also things centered around their interests and general aesthetic! If you'd like, you can consider it a bit of character studying

❄️ If you're an artist, make a chibi version of your F/O, print it and have it stay in your room as decoration! What're they up to? Are they hanging around by their outfit? Sleeping in the corner? Looking out your window? Your imagination is the limit!

🖤 Take some time to gush about them on your account or message your friends about it! Sometimes rewiring our minds when we're focused on the negative can help shrug off that weight, and what better way to do so than focusing on your love for you F/O?

❄️ If you catch yourself looking at stuff that upsets you, remember to block any blogs and blacklist any tags that may be bringing you discomfort! Your F/O only has eyes for you and no one could ever change that fact

[illustrate-her]

@that-nerd-who-writes-fanfiction posted about wanting to read at Merlin/Musketeers crossover fic with Merlin in the 17th century timeline, and for some reason it just jumped into my head, and I wrote this thing in about two hours whilst trying to convince my stubbornly awake toddler to gtf to sleep.

Un-beta’d, very quick and dirty.

Tags: angst, insanity, mentions of serious injury, stuff like that.

___

Time slips on, and on occasion, Merlin will let his sanity slip with it. He keeps half a finger pressed against the magic inside of him, because he knows it will tell him when Arthur returns. Alright - he hopes it will tell him. His opinion on the trustworthiness of magic tends to ebb and flow with the years, and whether or not he is in a particularly bleak period at the time.

Merlin allows himself that too: a decade here or there to really wallow in the awfulness, the loneliness of it. After a couple of hundred years he begins to realise a pattern, that he makes himself Emrys when he is feeling miserable, and allows the hopefulness of his younger body to propel him back into purpose and the will to carry on. 

The sanity though, that is a different thing. Sometimes it just becomes too much to learn the new ways, to assimilate into the societies of the time and not look like, well, a lunatic. And when that happens Merlin seems to give a mental shrug and let himself descend into the swirl of magic inside of him, because when Arthur died, when the prophecy came to pass it was like all of the magic in the world came rushing through him like an open floodgate, and everything that made him Merlin got swept away in the deluge.

So the time slips on. And Merlin lives. Some times he lives better than others, though famine or self-inflicted starvation, injury or cold or despair doesn’t seem to hinder him for long.

Time slips on, but, he reflects one day, slipping almost implies a certain degree of speed. And the time fucking drags.

At some point around the 15th century he decides to leave the land that has now been named Britain: when Arthur returns it would do him well to be advised by someone who knows a little bit about the countries that now encircle Albion across the sea. Every year the world seems to expand, new places and people emerging from the mists, new foodstuff and materials and advances in technology and warfare and medicine and artistry. And despite his oft-experience malaise, Merlin cannot help but find it all absolutely fascinating: he had spent an interesting couple of years learning everything about astronomy and mathematics from a Moorish traveler, found himself moved to tears by the paintings of Caravaggio and the tragic love of Shakespeare. The marvels that can be wrought without even a scrap of magic are astounding, and often it is this undying progress of humankind and their relentless search for beauty and meaning that gives him a reason to keep living.

Sometimes around the early 17th century -  though he has lost count a bit. 1620? 1640? - he finds himself in France, and the magnetic pull of the great and rambling city of Paris draws him inexplicably towards it. It seems to perfectly represent everything that people are: disgusting and beautiful and kind and brutal in equal measure.

He doesn’t care much for the kings of this age, finds them venal and stupid and small-minded. And it’s because of this that the sadness swell within him once more like a horrible dark sucking of water behind his breastbone, because these kings are nothing - nothing - like Arthur, and he feels the loss of the man like an aching in the world. 

What a king like Arthur could do! What peace he could bring, what justice! To see these small men on their thrones when Arthur lies sleeping in Avalon feels like the most enormous of injustices, and Merlin feels the despair slip slowly into his lack of will to try, and his tenuous grip on his sanity loosens like a sail in the wind once more.

So it is in France, in Paris, in the early part of the 17th century - 1610? 1630? - that Merlin finds himself locked within the walls of some castle or dungeon or prison. He cannot remember if he has committed some crime - it does tend to happen, regrettably: an apple taken from a cart or an insult given without meaning, a lack of understanding of social mores of a time or that breeches must generally be worn in public, that sort of thing - but either way merlin is locked within stone walls and iron bars.

He could get out in an instant, of course. If he wanted to. If he had anywhere to go, something to do or anyone who was waiting for him.

Ah, there’s the despair again. What does it matter? He doesn’t need much to live on: the hunger cramps in his belly but he barely notices. It won’t kill him. 

Nothing will fucking kill him.

“Do I…do I know you?” 

It takes a long time for Merlin to respond at all, given that he is so unused to anyone speaking to him but the gaoler, who tends to spit on Merlin more often than speak to him. 

“I’m…I’m sorry?” Merlin says. He looks up, lets his eyes adjust. There is a man on the other side of the bars, clearly having paused whilst walking by this cell.

“Fuck,” Merlin breathes. It’s a word he’s learned of late and it seems to fit a lot of situations. Seeing someone who died around ten centuries ago is probably one of them.

The same brown eyes, that’s the first thing Merlin’s notices: brown eyes warm and lit from beneath like peat water in the sun, framed with lashes that always were a little indecent. He has a neat moustache and beard, fashionable at this time, and his hair is longer, reaching almost to his shoulders in places. 

“Your hair curls,” Merlin says, his voice croaked thin with disuse. “I suppose it was never long enough to before.”

Lancelot puts a hand up to his hair for a moment, his brows pulling low in a frown. “My hair…” he says, confused.

And everything just seems to crash around Merlin as if the whole ceiling were raining down on him because of course, of course: he’s mad isn’t he? This isn’t real. This is just some man. It cannot be Lancelot. 

“What’s your name?” The man who is not Lancelot says. He steps closer and Merlin can see that he is dressed practically but with a touch of frivolity, the lace around the edges of his shirt, the tooling on his doublet. The hilt of his sword is a swirled and elegant thing, just visible hanging from belts slug around his waist with a blue sash. And buckled at his shoulder is a leather pauldron, fashioned with some regimental heraldry that Merlin has not been bothered to educate himself on.

“What is your name?” The man says again, squatting down so that he is on the same eyeline as Merlin. His voice has gone soft, kind.

“Merlin,” Merlin rasps. “Who. Who are you?”

“Aramis. Of the King’s Musketeers.” The man doffs his feathered hat in a gesture of good manners, and his smile is warm and easing across his face.

His smile is not like Lancelot’s. Merlin’s friend had been shy at times, his smile a timid thing, though wonderful for its scarcity.

This man - this Aramis -  smiles too easily and with too much knowing.

“You’re not him,” Merlin says. He feels a lump of something hot and molten lodged in his throat, and only realises that he is crying when the tears scald lines down his cheeks. He doesn’t have the energy to feel shame anymore, dignity is such a pointless thing when you’ve lived as long or seen as much as Merlin has.

“I’m…I’m not him,” Aramis says kindly. “I’m sorry.” He reaches a hand then, through the bars, and lays it on Merlin’s arm without any guile. And Merlin cannot remember the last time that anyone touched him. 

___

Aramis comes back the next day. 

“You know, it’s very strange. I do feel like I know you,” Aramis says, thoughtfully. 

“You look exactly like a man I used to know,” Merlin says.

“And where is this friend of yours now?”

“Dead. Twice over,” Merlin says to the ceiling, because it is too horrible, too strange to say it while looking at this man who is the very mirror of Lancelot.

“I am sorry,” Aramis says quietly. “It is terrible to suffer the loss of a friend. They say that time can heal, a little…”

He trails off because Merlin is laughing, uncontrollable heaves of laughter. “I’m not sure,” he hiccups, breathless, after a while, “A thousand years hasn’t seemed to do much.” He laughs again then, for quite some time. Aramis only sits, a puzzled sort of half-smile on his face.

___

He comes back again the next day.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he says, half to himself. And then he shakes his head as if to rid it of something, and settles down to talk through the bars once more.

“I brought you some food, Merlin,” Aramis says. “You’re terribly thin.”

“I always was,” Merlin says, but he accepts the food that Aramis hands him through the bars. “Arthur used to say that’s why my ears stuck out so much.”

“Arthur is another friend of yours?” Aramis smiles.

Merlin genuinely hadn’t meant to speak his name, hadn’t meant to summon Arthur up from whatever place he inhabited in the depths of Merlin’s heart.

“Another dead friend,” he says, with forced levity.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis says. And then, “Will you tell me about him?”

For a moment Merlin hovers somewhere between the desire to keep Arthur close, safe and protected and unknown by this huge and dangerous world he finds himself in. But to speak of him might make him feel as though he were alive once more, and it’s this desire that wins the day.

“He was a King, actually.”

“Huh,” Aramis smiles, though not unkindly, “Like King Arthur himself.”

“What?” Merlin asks, frowning.

“Well, you know. King Arthur. And, who was it…ah…Guinevere?”

His eyes widen a little bit when he sees the look on Merlin’s face. “I don’t know anymore, really. My English is not so good, so I’ve not read it. But Athos sometimes likes to rave about English literature when he’s drunk enough Armagnac. Not wine, funnily enough - that just makes him maudlin - but Armagnac? That’s when we get the Shakespeare, the Chaucer, the rest of it…”

He trails off. “La Morte d’Arthur. It’s a book about a king from Britain called Arthur...” He clears his throat. “I’ve not read it.”

“Fuck,” is all that Merlin can say.

___

“Why are you in here, Merlin?” Aramis asks one day. “What did you do?” He looks as though he’s bracing himself for some awful reveal, but Merlin can only shrug.

“I don’t know. Can’t remember.”

“You…can’t remember?”

“I must have done something,” Merlin elaborates, Nothing, you know, awful,” he hastens to add. “But possibly something illegal. Or mad. It’s likely I’m here because I did something mad. It has happened before.”

“You’ve been imprisoned before?”

“Oh,” Merlin puffs out his cheeks with a sigh. “More times than I could count actually. Never for anything awful.”

“Just something mad,” Aramis supplies.

“Yeah. That.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Merlin says after a while, and stretches out his long legs, and lets his head thunk back against the rough walls of the cell. “I could get out of here right now if I wanted to.”

“And you don’t want to?”

“Not really. I don’t see why I should.”

___

“I’m going to petition the Queen to have you pardoned,” Aramis beams one day, sitting on the floor outside the bars with an alarming clatter of pistols and blades.

“Why do you have so many weapons?” Merlin frowns, “Surely it just sort of gets in the way after a point.”

“I have exactly as many weapons as I need, thank you very much, and if I didn’t I’d be dead by now. Only this morning I narrowly avoided being shot through the head because I had this,” Aramis pats lovingly at a blade in his belt. “Besides, didn’t you hear me? I said I’m going to petition the Queen to have you pardoned.”

“Why would the Queen listen to you?” Merlin says, dubiously. “And did you bring me any more of that apple pastry?”

“No, Constance says there’ll be more tomorrow, and the Queen and I have…well, we are…we speak sometimes.”

Merlin sits up, a rush of something invisible and heavy suddenly falling onto his chest. “Aramis. You should stay away from queens. Take it from me.”

“You’re speaking nonsense,” Aramis says, waving a hand. 

“Frequently,” Merlin nods.

“She gave me this,” Aramis says, pulling out a small crucifix on a chain about his neck, and there is something small and tender in his voice and oh Gods he’s in love with her, isn’t he? He’s in love with the Queen. 

“Fuck, Lancelot,” Merlin moans, screwing his eyes shut. “You never learn, do you?”

___

Aramis doesn’t come back the next day. 

Or the next.

Or the next.

And then there is another man, tall and dark-skinned and looming.

“You him then?” He asks, voice gruff, as though throwing out a challenge before one can be made to him. “Merlin?”

Merlin opens one eye. “The one and only.”

“Huh,” the man says, “Barely more than a boy. You’re the one he’s been comin’ to see every day?”

“Aramis?” Merlin says, sitting up, “You know Aramis?”

“I do,” the man nods. “Yeah I do. He told me to come and see you. He was…he made me promise. Dunno why.” He scratches the back of his neck, awkwardly, and it’s only then that Merlin notices the stretched thin quality of this man, the way his face is drawn and tired.

“What’s wrong,” Merlin says, bolting to his feet. “What is it?”

“Aramis…” the man says, trailing off. He takes in a deep breath. “Aramis got…he was run through. Right in the gut.”

The world spins, settles to a point of excruciating clarity. 

“Is he dead?” Merlin asks, voice very still.

“Not yet,” the man says, and the yet dangles there like a hanged man because it is suddenly very obvious that yet means soon.

“Aliese.” Merlin feels his eyes flash gold, and it’s like a relief singing through his whole body to use his magic after so very long. The lock on the barred door clicks somewhere deep within its mechanism, he shoves it with his shoulder as he steps through. “Where is he?”

___

He can feel the wary shock of the man next to him as they hurry through the streets of Paris, hasn’t failed to notice how the man has one hand on his pistol and one on the hilt of his huge sword, both hanging from his belt, and uses his chin and a snapped word to indicate which direction they must go. 

They had walked right out of the prison. Merlin had only needed to cast a little spell, a small easing of things so that eyes glazed over him and attention settled elsewhere as he passed. They walked right out and no one even said a word, and is it testament to the fear and shock - not of Merlin but that Aramis’ death is imminent - that stops the big man who walks beside him from asking questions or demanding to know what exactly Merlin is doing.

He is led through a doorway and into an internal courtyard, up some worn stone staircase and into a suite of modest rooms. A young man startles to his feet beside the bed, and another is leaning heavily against the wall with his back to them and a half-drunk bottle of wine hanging from his lax grasp.

“Who’s this?” The young man says.

“Aramis’ friend.”

“Send him away, Porthos” says the man leaning against the wall without bothering to turn. “If he is truly his friend he will not want to witness what comes next.”

The big man - Porthos - crosses to the bed and drops to his knees beside it, and it’s only then that Merlin really looks. Aramis is lying there, his face a sweating and awful shade of spoilt milk. His eyes are closed and bruised around with blue shadows. His breath comes rattling and sullen.

“Aramis,” Porthos says, and his voice is horrible and filled with a false kind of easiness, “Aramis? Can you hear me? I’ve got someone here for you. Your friend. Merlin.”

The man in the bed does not move, shows no sign of hearing anything that is happening in this room.

Merlin can hardly breathe. He sees Aramis in the bed but he sees Lancelot, dead, laid out in the boat that he sent out into the lake. He sees it all and a thousand years is nothing, is nothing.

“Do you have yarrow?” Merlin asks, crossing quickly to the side of the bed and shouldering Porthos out of the way. “Ah…Achillée Millefeuille?”

“What would we do with that?” the younger man says, dubiously. 

“It’s an old wives tale,” the man leaning against the wall states in a monotone, “Said to stop bleeding.”

“It works,” Merlin insists, “Especially when I can help it along with magic.”

The room falls silent. “Magic,” Porthos says after a moment.

“Why did you bring him here?” Spits the older man, by the wall.

“Because Aramis asked me too, Athos!” Porthos says, jumping to his feet angrily. “Because he is Aramis’ friend and Aramis is dying’!”

“Don’t do this,” the young man says, his voice high with desperation. “Not now.”

“Fuck it,” Merlin says, and rips down the blanket over the dying man’s abdomen, and places his hands where there is a mess of dark blood and bandages. 

It’s not like with Lancelot, or with Arthur. Their deaths had been sullied by dark magic before Merlin could even think to help them. Aramis’ wound is deep and awful but it was made with a mortal blade, untouched by sorcery. 

Merlin couldn’t do it for Lancelot, or Arthur.

He will do it for Aramis.

He closes his eyes and reaches deep within himself, to that swirling maelstrom of power. He reaches further, pulls from the hewn timber of the floorboards that still hold some echo of the trees they once were and the vast forests in which they once grew. He pulls down deeper, reaching through beam and plank and flagstone, through to the earth beneath, alive with living things, alive with a magic that is so simple and so ever-present that it could never die, could never even be noticed.

“Come on,” he spits.

Merlin pulls. Merlin heaves. He feels his body shaking uncontrollably, his teeth chattering. He feels his eyes burning painful and hot with magic until he cannot see anything anymore through the sun flare glow of them. He feels all the air leave his lungs and the way they cramp around their emptiness because there is no room for breath, no room for anything but the magic.

All the glass in the windows blows out, and Merlin keels sideways. He doesn’t hear how the room erupts in shouts. He is unconscious before he hits the floor.

___

The dark is comforting, and warm, and friendly. He doesn’t want to open his aching eyes. He feels like every part of his body has been punched.

“Merlin,” says a voice. “Merlin. Are you with us?”

“Can’t I sleep a little longer Gaius?” Merlin groans, and then memory blooms like a flower, and he understands that Gaius is long dead, and that the man speaking to him was about to be.

“Aramis,” Merlin says, and tries to sit up but the room spins him back to a groaning horizontal. He screws his eyes shut again.

“Easy,” Aramis says. “I don’t know what in God’s name you did but I imagine it rather took its toll.”

“What did I do?” Merlin says, cracking one eye open.

“Well. I no longer have a hole in my stomach,” Aramis says, thoughtfully, “Which I…I don’t want to think about right now.”

___

At the Porte Saint Honore Aramis looks assessingly at him. It’s so much like the kind of look Lancelot would have given Merlin that he can’t help but grin back. It doesn’t hurt so much, anymore, and he’s not sure why but he is very grateful.

“Are you well enough to travel?” Aramis asks, dubiously.

“I’m fine, Aramis.”

“Are you an angel, Merlin?”

“An..a..no. No I’m not, Aramis.”

“Hmm,” Aramis says, assessing him once more. “Well, regardless, I will pray for you at the church of Saint Sulpice this evening.”

“You think I’m in need of saving?” Merlin is well aware that the attitudes towards magic - witchcraft - have not improved particularly despite the passage of time.

”I think you’re in need of protecting,” Aramis says, simply. “I think you’re quite extraordinary and I think I will pray every day for the Lord to watch over you because you saved my sorry, sinful life. Merlin.”

Merlin looks at those brown eyes, those same eyes. “I couldn’t save my friend. I couldn’t save any of my friends. I am glad to have been able to save you.”

“Where will you go?”

The countryside spreads out like a blanket around the city, darned patches of fields and woodlands. But Merlin can feel it again, that little tugging sensation somewhere inside his ribcage. 

“Home.”

“Britain?” Aramis says, and then makes a small moue of distaste at Merlin’s questioning raised eyebrow. “I assumed. Your accent is atrocious.” 

Merlin laughs. And it feels so good. 

“Yes,” Merlin says, “Britain. I can’t be gone for long. I’m waiting for someone.”

The countryside spreads out like a blanket, and time spreads out quite similarly, and perhaps there are bits darned here and there, mends and rips and added patches. Perhaps a person can come again, in a different place and a different time, and Merlin has to believe it’s true because that means he’s still holding on - somewhere, somehow - to the faith that Arthur will come again.

Time spreads out, and Merlin wonders if maybe all these years might be worth something after all, and that for a while at least, he might try being part of the world again.

[olderthannetfic]

I don't know how to tell you this but someone writing fixed t/b fics and saying they do that because that matches their lived experience is not erasing you or being rude to you.

People complain on their own fucking profiles about something they don't like in the current top/bottom discourse but y'all just wanna tell everyone how good it will be to have them switching.

Why are you in my replies? Why? Would you combust spontaneously if you don't say to a person who clearly ships fixed t/b that "it's so fun to have them switch from time to time though 😍😍😍"

I am in the patreon of an artist who has fixed t/b preference. It's on her profile in patreon. It's clear as day on her public social media profiles, she always draws only fixed t/b positions. And then she puts out a poll asking for ideas and people still come in and go "when will they switch?" "can they switch?" "it would be so fun if they switch!!" Is it harassment? No. But it's the equivalent of asking sushi at wendy's. It is the wendys! WHY ARE YOU ASKING FOR SUSHI??? Or it's just the artist draws them very beautifully and every other artist in our fandom ignores their height difference (like switch shippers by the way) and every other artist makes them both too buff even when none of them are in the canon and this one doesn't, so you feel entitled to their art and wanna make them cater to your interests? As if you're not the same people who yell about "fetishization" and "why are you tagging for t/b? That's fetishizing!!" Just like checks notes antis or other fixed t/b shippers who are too into their preference.

I am fucking happy you have your preference! But that's all there is - a preference. No one owes you making content for it. No one has to change their preference to include you. And no fixed preference shipper wants to hear how cool it would be if they make their content switch.

This is why people don't like you. Not because of some equality thing or whatever. Y'all are entitled and annoying as fuck.

--

[tofics]

I finally made time to listen to this and I am so glad I did. Let's dive straight in, shall we?

This was my very first time hearing your voice, and I feel the need to point out what a pleasant voice you have, Alex! And I do mean this in the most sincere way, coming from someone who can be very very picky about what voices to listen to. I know this wasn't the point of the podcast, but I had to let you know :)

I took notes while listening, so I'll just be going through them and kind of sort them into something more tangible as I go.

It was awesome getting to hear so many "behind the scene" thoughts from you about your writing. There were a couple of small things you mentioned that I wanted to comment on just for the fun of it:

Something that draws you to a fanfiction is if characters are canonically written. It's funny you should say that, because your characters are some of the most in-tune-with-canon characters that I have ever read. I've mostly consumed your Dean stories, and even in an AU setting (I'm looking at you, Smoke Eater) he is 100% Dean as seen on the show. As far as fanfiction goes, that puts yours on a pedestal imo.

You considered doing something with Dean and Yellowstone for the Jacklesverse Bingo. (insert gif of me hysterically crying and hyperventilating) I've only just started watching Yellowstone this year and I am obsessed. I think you would have fried all my synapses if you had gone down that road, in the best way possible 😁

Hearing you talk about your friends on Tumblr and knowing you've included me in that group felt so so special! I'm so proud to be able to call you my friend on here. 🥹🫶🏼

But now! On to the actual topic of the episode :)

First of all, I found it very interesting that despite your own heritage, you grew up with a white reader in mind. Just goes to show how predominantly a white person is and has been the main character in so much of media that that's what your brain defaulted to.

I also thought your discussion about what makes an OC an OC and where a reader insert stops being a reader insert suuuper interesting. Because that's a genuine question! Where does a blank slate stop being a blank slate, and how much character do you have to give to the reader role in a reader insert fic for the story still to work, right? I loved to hear your take on it, especially where you said that writing reader inserts is basically like writing OCs without giving them a name. - I had never thought about it that way!

But of course, you're right. Because a reader that is an active participant in a story can't be a completely blank slate. They have to be assigned certain traits, not necessarily body-wise but character wise - if you're doing more than a drabble, imo. For there to be dialogue and a story that feels full, that feels alive, the reader has to have some sort of character to be a character.

Which brings me to my next point: projectability is always a thing of perspective and the ability to put yourself into someone's shoes. As far as fanfiction goes, the reader insert genre tries to make that as easy as possible by offering a mostly blank slate (that is very often white-coded, unfortunately, but that's not the point I'm trying to make in this paragraph). I have seen people complain more than once about the character!reader being unrelatable because of certain character traits and/or backstories that were assigned to them, and I wonder: people, where has your media literacy gone? Do they not teach to adapt to a person's perspective via literature in schools anymore? Must all media cater exactly to your every taste, down to each very nuance?

And I write all of this distinctively separating characteristic traits from body traits. I am not at all talking about the lack of ethnic representation within the x reader genre.

I love how you give personality to your reader characters, Alex. Especially when it comes to your own representation. You said in the podcast that you were worried about how the traits you assigned to your reader in the Midnight Espresso-verse would be received by your audience and that you received great feedback. I want to reiterate that by saying how despite myself not having the same background as you, I could absolutely relate to the plus-size aspect of the reader, as well as her love for cooking. You said it so beautifully in the podcast, that this version of the reader is one that came from the intent of Dean having a (Latino) girlfriend that nurtured him in the same way he nurtures the people around him, and I fully 100% could relate to that as well :)

Which might be my very complicated and long way of saying: Please do not worry about how much the reader can adapt to the traits you're giving to the character!reader. If most character!readers have been predominantly white for the longest time and so so many people that where not white made it work, then so can we white folks when we are given a reader that does not fit all of "our" typical criteria.

It made me very happy to hear that you're seeing more and more diversity within the SPN fandom these days. I've spent most of my time in the PPCU fandom this past year and all across it, but specifically in the Joel Miller fandom, there have been too many racist instances. It's great to hear that it's going better in other fandoms!

Which brings me to my next point - the anon request you got that led you to writing Unravel Me 👀 Wow. I haven't read it yet. It was on my TBR list anyway, but hearing you talk about how it came to be and how much thought you put into it (understandably so) it's now an absolute must-read for me. (Sort of unrelated but still related: I've seen your playlist covers for the story, and - wow??? A masterpiece??? Visually, I mean?! The EFFORT. I'll be speaking about this in a second, but I needed to mention it now in case I forget! Gorgeous!)

Another point that had me thinking a lot was the question about how much of an immigrant's identity should be kept and how much should be adapted to the country they've moved to also captivated me. I know US politics in regards to immigrants are ""problematic"" atm to say the least, and it's been a widely discussed topic over here in Germany for years now as well, especially with the heavy influx of immigrants over the past years. I can't imagine how complicated it must be, figuring out a sense of self that both fits to where you live and still keeps the core parts of who you are and were before coming to said country.

I want to wrap this up by saying how incredibly impressed I am every single time I hear/read about how you prep for your stories. I think you are by far the most in-depth fanfiction writer that I know. You put so much research into it, and not just for The Honorable Choice, but everything you put out. I'm struggling to find the correct words to properly express how admiring I find it, especially for a story like The Honorable Choice where you take on the perspective of someone of a different ethnic background than you.

You are an inspiration, Alex. Truly.

Thank you for welcoming me into the writing space when I came back. Thank you for answering every question I had, and thank you for the work you put into all of your stories.

To you, to your talent, your inspiration and work ethic, and to many more stories to come! 🩵

Racial & Ethnic Representation in Fanfiction

[🎙️ Podcast Interview]

Hey, friends! Sandra and Kasey, the lovely hosts of @idlingintheimpalapodcast — the podcast for all things SPN and fanfiction — invited me back on the pod for an interview on a topic that's very close to my heart…

With @rubyvhs, we talked about the fun moments and challenges about reading and writing fanfiction that represents specific racial and ethnic cultures, being bicultural/multicultural, the immigrant experience, and much more.

I offered my own experience as a Latina POC writing in the fandom space, specifically Supernatural and The Boys (and adjacent Jackles fandoms).

Check it out here: ⤵️

Interview Timestamps –

(Plus fic recs, SPN writer/reader shoutouts, and more! Links to all the fics we mentioned are at each time stamp.)

2:54 – When did you start writing fanfiction, and when did you join SPN fandom?

⟡ You can check out my first author interview with Sandra and Kasey over here. We chatted about Dean Winchester and Jensen Ackles’ early roles, the best and worst seasons of SPN, the joys and pains of writing Soldier Boy, and much, much more. For all the timestamps of key moments, fic recs, and SPN writer shoutouts, see this post (you'll find the link to the video there too).

6:18 – What is your ethnic, racial, and cultural background? (And how me and Sandra bond over “food and family” ties between Hispanics/Latinos and Italians.)

13:05 – The immigrant experience in America, what you take with you from the “Motherland,” the struggles of bicultural identity, my personal experience being a second-generation child of an immigrant family, and Sandra’s experience as a first-generation child of Italian immigrants.

16:58 – What do you look for when you’re reading fanfiction? (Canon-compliant, AU, romance, etc.) Does the length of a story matter?

19:52 – Bonus: The merits of drabble writing vs. long-fic writing.

25:54 – Have you ever actively searched for fanfiction that represented your ethnicity? (Whenever I do, it’s like finding gold.) Plus, the challenge of writing reader characters, the “gray area” of writing reader characters like OCs.

32:38 – The inherent “bias” of reading and writing reader characters as White. The concept of diversity being “cool” in popular media, TV shows, and movies is still pretty new.

36:36 – Why I started writing reader characters that might have a specific body type, race, and/or ethnicity.

Examples:

⟡ Midnight Espresso – Dean Winchester x Plus-size Latina!Reader

⟡ If I Stay – Dean Winchester x Plus-size!Reader

⟡ 10 ‘Til Midnight – Professor!Dean Winchester x Plus-size Grad Student!Reader

⟡ Unravel Me – Soldier Boy x Afro-Latina!Reader

⟡ The Honorable Choice & Outlander – Cowboy!Dean Winchester x OFC

40:14 – The fun challenges: like giving Dean a partner who takes care of him as much as he takes care of others in Midnight Espresso.

45:28 – The BIG challenges: like writing Soldier Boy being himself with a “person of color” (POC) in this new series, Unravel Me. What even is a POC? Where do you start with Soldier Boy, the Sandra-proclaimed “bowl of fishhooks?"

51:38 – Is there ever an element of fear when you publicly post a story that represents your culture, which is something very personal to you? What happens when you get haters in the comments?

1:05:33 – When and how did you begin to break out of the “ingrained biases” in your writing? (AKA: Always assuming my own characters are White.)

1:08:04 – When did you decide to explore writing plus-size!readers?

1:13:20 – What has your experience been in writing a race/culture outside of your personal experience? The Honorable Choice and Outlander, a western AU where Dean Winchester falls in love with a Native American Lakota Indian. (Shoutout to @jacklesversebingo!)

Plus, the ethical responsibility to “do no harm” when you represent different cultures, and answering question of not only can I write this, but should I write this?

1:32:42 – What advice would you give a writer interested in writing about a culture outside of their own that they don’t have first-hand knowledge of? How can a writer avoid cultural appropriation if their goal is cultural appreciation? How important is a sensitivity reader/beta reader for this effort?

1:40:35 – Final thoughts on diversity and representation of culture in fanfiction, whether it’s your own or someone else’s:

“Write what you know. Write what you can research. Write what you’re interested in. Remember that words have power, so be careful how you use them.”

1:45:30 – Sandra and Kasey’s outro: The importance of representation and diversity in fandom.

I hope you enjoy the ride!~ 💜

💗💗💗 Shoutouts to some of my beautiful friends and lovely readers who've supported my attempts to explore ethnic and cultural diversity in my writing:

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @waynes-multiverse @rizlowwritessortof @roseblue373

@tofics @deanwinchesterswitch @deanbrainrotwritings @deansbbyx @waywardlatina

@supernotnatural2005 @wayward-dreamer @spnwoman @waywardxwords @mostlymarvelgirl

@chevroletdean (shoutout to your 500 follower fic challenge at around 19:52 😘) @siampie @bettystonewell @wvffles

@iprobablyshipit91 @my-stories-vault @littlesoulshine @thatonewriter15 @jessjad

@deans-spinster-witch @winchestergirl2 @kazsrm67 @chernayawidow @jackles010378

@jollyhunter @leigh70 @foxyjwls007 @beakaleak32 @alwaystiredandconfused

[fishyaudio]

Raz, who's been your favourite design you've made for your anthro au? I have a feeling it's Saint lol

Your feeling is not wrong, she's a favourite to draw!

But if I had to choose one, favourite design ever out of the ten, it would be the one for Shine (aka Monk, I really need to start using the names I gave them all for the AU here as well, gahh)

It's a surprising choice for me, because when it came to in-game depiction + popular fandom interpretations of Monk, I never really liked the guy (not disliked, just didn't think about the character a lot and found others more interesting). I don't usually dig the "peaceful, kind, happy" archetype characters in media in general, it's just not my thing, and most "fanmade character extensions" of Monk I've seen just expanded on that alone. It's not that they're anyhow wrong! They're just really not my thing and it always itches me to introduce more contrast or flavor in personalities of that sort. It's suprisingly hard to write a character who is mainly just really pure and avoids conflict, at least for me. Unhinged beasts with weird morals are sometimes just easier to grasp bwahaha

And with that, since it's "character design" and not just "design" - that initially made me feel like designing and creating the anthro AU equivalent for Monk would be a neccessary struggle and when I'm done, I won't ever pay much attention to a character I'd consider a bit more flat in comparison to what I had planned for others. But the longer I sketched, more "what ifs" came to mind and I ended up with Shine - still the younger sibling, just taller and bigger than the scrawny, troublemaking, older one. Took advantage of Share (Gourmand) being his parent, so he takes after him in size and personality a bit more. That opened a really fun path to explore with him.

I've decided to link his pacifist mentality and kindness not to being childish and bit unwise, but to idealism, stronger sense of justice and an overall aspiration to be reliable and responsible. He's still young and naive, but it doesn't come from being childish and having a "kill them with kindness, no other options allowed" mentality, but rather from being an inexperienced, future leader with a lot of potential. One that's often being very harsh on himself when his mistakes or faulty judgement causes a slip-up or a situation escalated in a way he couldn't predict. Sometimes, things just happen and there was no way to foresee the consequences or avoid confrontation, despite how hard everyone tried, and that's also a part of life - that's something Shine would struggle to accept. He's naive, but not dumb. Even with that - it doesn't stop him from being a very trustworthy and quick-thinking individual. I like that about him!

And this is also what's reflected in the design - he's on the taller side, with a more blocky build. Flowy, loose clothes both make him look really comfortable and chill, visually suggesting that he's more laid-back, not active, not used to fights and messy situations, while also pushing the silhouette to be a one, sturdy shape even more. That just yells "you can approach and trust this guy easily" by looks alone. From smaller details - he has the monk symbol in a visible place on his belt -> wants to signal to others that he's not a threat and is always willing to talk things out or settle for a compromise. He doesn't have much more accessories -> doesn't like showing off and isn't desperate for attention. The only striking, busy pattern he has on him is the striped sleeve to match his sib - he values Ways (Survivor) a lot!

From other designs for the AU - March, Ways and Steps (Spearmaster, Survivor and Rivulet) are also my favourites for various reasons, but this post is already a yap session. Maybe next time, if anyone's curious.

Thanks for the ask! Gave me an excuse to draw them more!!

AU tag here!

[leebrontide]

Hello!

I'm Lee (any pronouns), a middle aged queer writer from the midwest of the US. It's been a bit, so I'm doing another writeblr intro, to find more potential writeblr folks to chat with!

What I write:

- Mostly scifi! I have a bit of fantasy brewing in a collab project, but mostly, scifi.

- Queer stuff. Lots of different types of queerness.

- Community. Both in the group-hugs-and-support variety and the extreme-mess/everybodies-traumas-keep-smashing-into-each-other variety. I have training as a family therapist and am endlessly fascinated by interpersonal dynamics. This is the meat of my work.

- Grounded worldbuilding. My main project right now is near future scifi that diverges from our timeline around 2001. I'm enjoying the hell out of playing the US I know with some very key tweaks that changed society. I know a lot about medical systems, criminal justice systems, and legal systems and like using fantasy and scifi elements to show them as I know them. But like, in a way that should appeal to people who give 0 shits about US institutions.

- Disability stuff. Not that after-school-special shit. I am just tired of characters being generic pretty dolls whose physical attributes don't impact how they move through the world. That means not only writing a variety of different disabilities, but also different bodies. My characters aren't "inspiration porn" or just waiting around for less disabled characters to come save them. They are messy, with a wide array of relationships to their limitations and the things they use to cope with those limitations.

- YA into new adult. Not exclusively, but mostly. I really like taking characters from YA into early adulthood. Not just a standard coming-of-age arc, but the actually moving from a self-concept of a dependent teen into someone with legal responsibility for themselves, jobs, college, etc. Especially when combined with all of the above. I love a nice long character arc with lots of sub-arcs along the way.

What I have out, now.

- I have two books out so far, Secondhand Origin Stories and Names in Their Blood. I'm working on book 3 in that planned 5 book series now, which is currently titled Brittle Idols.

- I have a free monthly newsletter called Shed Letters where I talk about psychology, tech, queerness, storytelling, and the creative process, plus whatever random topic I've been researching for my books recently. Also contains pictures of my three very photogenic cats.

- Newsletter subscribers also have access to a novella I wrote that goes between Secondhand Origin Stories and Names in Their Blood, that's about an fictional AI (the only kind I like) trying to decide on a body for themself.

- I also draw and animate, with my first and still in-progress animation project being a "trailer" for Secondhand Origin Stories.

What I'm looking for

- writeblrs - especially writeblrs that aren't JUST writeblrs. I want to feel like I'm meeting people, at least in some manner, rather than just hearing about a product in process. That doesn't have to mean deep confessions or private information, but honestly I'm not likely to remember you for your writing project alone. Sorry. Please show me what else you care about!

- Bonus points for queer or disabled scifi or fantasy writers.

- I am white for most intents and purposes but I always want to find more AOC who write sci fi.

- Also always excited to meet more YA authors- especially the currently kinda sidelined YA scifi.

- People who care about where society is going but aren't posting that everything is doomed and pointless. I mean you post whatever you want but I don't need that on my dash. That shit is not helping me help.

I sometimes do ask games? It's fun when I have the time. It'd be fun to have more folks to do them with, provided those folks are patient.

Please interact if this has piqued your interest!

[painted-bees]

does each of them have an aspect you find hardest to portray, something you know to be true about them that doesn't find space often enough, things like that?

this is all amazing to read through btw, i've seen a lot of your art and have been meaning to catch up on the actual lore and what's going on (but, you know... life. always happening)

Tess, I just want to depict more in general. But she's what you call a "static" character [does not undergo character development but facilitates the development of other characters around her] and so my brain doesn't really insist on microwaving her nearly as much as it does with thr other two. Even though, in terms of aesthetic theming, she is the most interesting by far haha

For Raf, I microwave him the -most- and there are some really truly ugly aspects of his character that I am very soft on depicting because it is very easy to erode audience trust/empathy for a character like him. Even when I depict his struggles with his mental illness, we're only really see the battles he's able to win or overcome, and not the ones he loses--or is even completely unaware of. [Actually, we ARE seeing one such battle--but it hasn't been identified yet thanks to some unreliable narration hahaha] But I wish I had the balls--or finess--to depict his more unlikeable moments outside of the context of like...an ex or something where he has had time to look back on and reflect upon his behavior. Because he does have...more than his fair share of 'em. But I don't want that to be what he is to the reader.

For Margie, I feel like her struggles and interpersonal relationships play second fiddle to Rafs just because they're a lot more "mundane" and echo a lot of our own lived experiences, so I'm a little less inclined to go into big deep dives abt her because like...it's nothing new to most folks on this website. This website is FULL of people just like Margie. I think that's also why she's so popular on here. But she's got some really deep scars, too, that I'm only just finally starting to unpack properly--after leaving the clearly labled box out for so long wrt her haha So we'll be getting that soon enough.

Also with Margie, I would love to just kinda--show her relationships with her friends and family outside of Raf and Cortes, she actually HAS friends and such that she'll spend weekends and go on outings with!! I just haven't had the interest/motivation to depict any of that [because there are so many OTHER things that are more interesting to me that I'd rather spend the time writing and drawing abt wrt hi-note] haha but I genuinely wish I did.

[welostheplot]

── 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 ᨒ↟☾.࿔*:･ 𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐞 𝐢 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: vampire!ellie williams / werewolf!abby anderson / reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: just when things begin to settle into place with ellie, everything else starts to spiral. prom might be on the horizon, but so is something much more dangerous. and it isn’t just local gossip anymore—it’s hunting you.

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: no warnings! a little angst, a little fluff, all good stuff!

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 3.2k

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: vampire baseball is finally here! i was so nervous about writing it... and then i barely wrote about it. LOL. just know i was bumping supermassive black hole on repeat the entire creation process of this chapter. as always, enjoy!

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐌𝐄 𝐈 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄: "you are my life now"

NOBODY AT THE DINER EVER SEEMED TO NOTICE THAT ELLIE NEVER ATE.

you always worried about it looking suspicious when ellie took you on lunch dates like these—her with nothing but an untouched glass of water, while you scarfed down your order.

but here you were—cozy booth, ellie across from you, legs brushing yours beneath the table, with only one plate between you (a turkey burger and fries for you, of course), and no one seemed to bat an eye.

ellie was drawing something on a napkin idly with the end of a ballpoint pen she must've had tucked in her hoodie pocket. her head was bent, stray auburn strands falling from her messy half-up, half-down hairstyle into her face, lips pressed together in thought.

you were pretending not to stare at her while she drew.

you weren't doing a very good job.

in your defense, you really couldn't help it. not when she looked up at you like that, when her eyes softened a little more every time she caught you watching. not when her foot nudged yours under the table, deliberate, teasing.

the old, boxy tv mounted above the counter hummed quietly behind you—some news segment you hadn’t been paying attention to.

not until ellie went stiff in her seat, eyes lifting from her doodle to whatever was playing on-screen with poorly masked interest.

you turned to glance at the tv.

footage rolled of emergency responders gathered outside a strip mall, yellow tape cordoning off a block of storefronts. the reporter’s voice was clipped and urgent.

“...a string of illness outbreaks spreading across nearby towns, including horseshoe lake and boulder ridge. symptoms include sudden, erratic behavior that results in victims strangely disappearing from their households. officials are urging caution, especially in the nearby area, as deaths and—more commonly—disappearances have skyrocketed.”

you turned back to ellie.

she was hunched a little over the table now, napkin crumpled under her fingers.

“you ever hear of a flu like that?” you asked.

she shrugged, still staring down. “nope.”

you frowned. “it sounds serious.”

she nodded once. “yup.”

“…you don’t think it’s something else?”

ellie’s jaw tightened. “why would i think that?”

“i dunno. you tell me.”

she finally looked up. her face was neutral. too neutral. you narrowed your eyes. “ellie.”

“what?”

“you’re doing the lying thing again.”

“i’m not.”

“you are. you’re doing the thing where your voice goes flat and you don’t blink.”

“i don’t have to blink. i’m a vampire, remember?”

you rolled your eyes. “yeah, but you normally still do!”

she blinked. “there. happy?”

you stared at her until she scoffed and looked away again.

“not everything weird happening in town is supernatural, okay?”

“so you have heard something?”

“i’m saying you can’t just assume stuff.”

“which means you know something.”

“i didn’t say that.”

you gave her a hard look. “ellie.”

she sighed, leaning back and running a hand through her hair. “can we not do this right now?”

“that’s not an answer.”

she dropped her voice. “it’s just rumors. freaky stuff happens all the time and most of it’s nothing.”

you stayed silent as she glanced out the window.

“besides,” she added, softer now, “if it was something serious, don’t you think i’d tell you?”

you wanted to believe her.

you almost did.

but her fingers were still twitching on the napkin, and her mouth was pulled too tight around the edges.

“okay,” you said finally, voice cool. “sure.”

ellie looked at you, searching your face.

and for a second, you could’ve sworn she was about to say more. about to confess something.

but she didn’t.

she just nodded, forced a small smile, and reached over to feed you another fry.

IT HAD BEEN THUNDERING ALL DAY.

the sky above jackson valley had been rumbling since early that morning, storm clouds stretching over the mountains, thick enough to blot out the sun completely.

it was the type of weather that was perfect, apparently, for baseball with the millers.

you didn’t even try to pretend you understood the rules.

just stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, wearing ellie’s baseball cap—she’d tugged it onto your head earlier, grinning from ear to ear—watching jesse wind up and launch a pitch so fast your eyes couldn’t even track it. dina swung, and the ball soared into the air with an explosive crack, cat blurring out of sight as she chased it down.

“are we just not going to talk about how this is literally the most dangerous activity for humans to watch up close?” you called out to ellie, who was waiting to bat next.

“babe,” she said, suddenly right next to you, “i’ve promised you like four times that everyone has complete control of their powers and you won’t get hurt. this is low-risk.”

“you literally dented the hood of my dad’s car just by leaning on it yesterday.”

“okay, medium-risk.”

still, you stayed close to her. noted that, despite her insistence that you were safe, she stood just a little in front of you when riley was pitching.

all of the millers had warmed to you pretty quickly—except for the girl currently on the pitcher’s mound, braids pulled into a neat high ponytail. riley hadn’t said anything to you since your arrival, but the way she moved when she knew you were watching—faster, sharper, like she was showing off—spoke volumes.

as long as you were there, she was going to make it an uncomfortable experience.

but you weren’t here for her.

you were here for ellie, who was currently dragging you toward first base by the hand.

“you’re gonna be my first base coach, ’kay?”

“i don’t know how to do that.”

“just stand here and look hot.”

“ellie—”

she leaned in close. “see? already a natural.”

you rolled your eyes, blushing as she playfully tugged on the brim of your cap.

THEY HAD YOU ACTING AS THE UMPIRE NOW.

you weren't exactly sure why—if you couldn't first base coach, how the hell would you know how to be an ump?

but the role mostly consisted of them calling when anyone running the bases was “out” or “safe” themselves before looking to you for your hesitant nod of confirmation.

they didn’t have to know you were going to nod no matter if the call was right or wrong.

the game went on relatively smoothly, riley whooping obnoxiously every time she made it safely back to home plate, while dina threw curveball pitches with acrobatic flair that made you wince at the thought of ever trying to replicate them yourself.

so far, you'd counted two broken bats and one near-miss collision, and you were—surprisingly—starting to get the hang of the rules despite things being wonky with only five players (the super speed and strength definitely made up for the lack of teammates). joel had quickly caught on to your confusion and pulled you over to where he stood off to the side to give you the rundown.

your dad was going to be over the moon when he realized you could finally somewhat follow along when you joined him for the next rockies game.

you were busy scoffing at ellie's antics—she was making funny faces and waggling her eyebrows at you from her position at second base—when dina froze at home plate.

everyone noticed immediately.

she tilted her head like she was hearing something you couldn’t, her eyes unfocused and shoulders rising with tension.

“…someone’s coming,” she said.

everyone stopped.

no one spoke.

then ellie was in front of you, her arm stretching out, gently but firmly pressing you back behind her.

“who?” cat asked.

“i don’t know,” dina said. “but they’re close. and they’re not friendly.”

a drawn-out, subsiding roll of thunder shook the ground beneath you.

they stepped out from the trees a moment later—tall, wiry, dressed like someone who had been living off the grid. the man's eyes didn’t shine with that familiar golden undertone you had come to associate with the millers. they were deep red.

ellie stiffened beside you.

“easy,” joel said, but you could tell he was tense too.

the stranger raised his hands in mock surrender. “didn’t mean to spook anyone. just thought i’d say hello. is it halftime?”

“no,” jesse muttered. “and your timing sucks.”

the rogue vampire glanced around the field, eyes passing over each of them before finally settling on you.

you suddenly felt very aware of your heartbeat.

“didn’t believe the rumors until i saw it for myself,” he said. “the great joel miller and his coven playing pretend in a quiet little town—and keeping a little human pet while they’re at it.”

the word was said like a slur. your stomach turned.

ellie’s entire body shifted in front of you now, the muscles in her arms taut like she was seconds away from launching herself at him.

“careful,” she said. “you’re in our territory right now.”

“i’m not here to start anything,” he replied. “but word travels. and someone’s building an army. sloppy, newborn types. they’re messy with their work.”

joel’s expression darkened. “we’ve heard.”

“then you should know this little group—whatever they are—they’re watching. and they’ve noticed the girl too.”

you swallowed hard as he fixed you with a wicked grin. “although i have to say, i can’t blame them. she’s pretty. smells delectable, too.”

ellie moved—and it was instant.

one second she was in front of you, the next she was on him, fist gripping the collar of his frayed shirt and slamming him back against a tree hard enough to rattle the branches.

you’d never seen her move like that.

never seen her bare her teeth like that.

“say that again and i will rip your fucking jaw off,” she hissed.

the rogue held up his hands again in mock innocence. “just passing along a message.”

he shoved his way out of her grasp. “don’t say i didn’t warn you, though,” he spat in ellie’s direction before vanishing into the treeline as fast as he’d arrived.

ellie stood there, breathing hard, her shoulders still drawn up tight.

no one moved for a moment.

then joel let out a long, steady breath. “well,” he muttered, “game’s called.”

dina touched your arm gently. “you okay?”

you nodded, but your eyes were still on ellie.

when the girl finally turned back around to face you, the edges of her fury had softened—but something else was behind her stormy expression now. something you hadn’t seen before.

fear.

not for herself.

for you.

THE CAR RIDE BACK FROM THE MILLERS' HOUSE WAS SILENT.

ellie didn’t speak. not once. just kept her hands gripping the wheel, jaw set and eyes straight ahead, like she knew if she looked at you for too long, you might start asking questions she didn’t want to answer.

you didn’t say anything either—not until you pulled up outside your house and she put the car in park, engine idling.

then:

“you gonna tell me what the fuck that was?” you asked, voice charged.

you stared at her, then kept going. “need a refresher? weird dude, red eyes, mentioning something along the lines of a group of vampires trying to fucking kill me?!”

she flinched at that. good.

“you seriously aren’t going to keep pretending it’s just rumors or random freaky shit that just happens to be occurring conveniently a couple miles away from us, right? not after that?”

she stayed quiet.

“ellie, you said you’d tell me if it was something serious!”

she sighed, scrubbing a hand over her face. “it’s complicated.”

“then uncomplicate it.”

she looked at you then—really looked at you. something raw behind her eyes.

“fine,” she said, voice rough. “you want the truth?”

you nodded, chewing at your thumbnail.

she leaned back in her seat, cutting the engine and staring out the windshield like she couldn’t quite bear to look at you as she spoke.

“there’s been… activity. weird shit in nearby towns—people disappearing. then showing up again, changed. and when they’re freshly changed like that, they’re sort of… out of control.”

“like cat?”

ellie gave a terse nod. “yep, like cat. although, we don’t feed on humans, so they’re waaaay more dangerous. we call ’em newborns.”

you swallowed. “how many?”

“we don’t know. a dozen? maybe more. too many. and all of them freshly turned and trained like dogs—violent, erratic, hungry. it’s not random, either. like that guy said, someone’s organizing them. against us.”

you stared at her. “who would do that?”

she didn’t answer right away.

then, softly: “david. and james.”

the names meant nothing to you.

“exiles,” she explained. “they ran with a group out east. attacked us a few years ago. joel and i… we handled it. they didn’t take it well. obviously.”

“so now they’re creating a fucking vampire militia? for revenge?”

“looks like it.”

“and you were just gonna keep that from me?”

ellie finally turned to you. “i was trying to protect you.”

you shook your head, frustrated. “yeah, and that worked great!”

“i didn’t want to drag you into this.”

“you don’t get to decide that for me,” you said, voice rising. “it’s my life we’re talking about here.”

her face crumpled. “i know.”

silence.

you looked away, out the passenger window, rain starting to splatter against the glass.

“so what now?” you asked. “are they coming?”

ellie was quiet for too long.

you turned back. “ellie. what are you not telling me?”

“we’re… talking about leaving,” she said finally.

the words landed like a stone in your chest.

“leaving?” you repeated.

“just for a while. until things cool down. until we know it’s safe.”

“you’re leaving for me.”

she didn’t deny it.

you shook your head, already feeling the tears welling up. “no.”

“hey,” ellie said quickly, “look, i don’t want to. but if it’s between you being safe and—”

“no.”

“you don’t understand—”

“so you’re just gonna vanish?”

“if it keeps you alive? of course.” she said it with finality.

“stop fucking making all these decisions about my own life, ellie.”

“you are my life now. that’s what you’re not getting,” she snapped.

you didn’t know what to say to that. you looked down at your lap. took a breath. “...there’s prom next week.”

ellie blinked and laughed incredulously. “seriously?”

“just listen, okay? i want to go.”

she cut you off again, “you want to go to a high school dance while a mob of crazed vampires has you on their hit list? i thought you weren’t even interested in prom.”

“i want to go with you.”

she went quiet.

“if you’re leaving me”—your voice broke on the last two words—“let’s just go and have a normal night. slow time down before everything gets worse.”

she still didn’t say anything.

“please,” you begged. sobbed, almost.

ellie’s jaw was tight. she stared at the road like it might answer for her.

you could see it—how badly she didn’t want to say yes. how badly she did want to say yes.

then finally:

“okay,” she whispered.

your eyes stung from held-back tears.

“and if anything happens—anything—i won’t wait. got it?”

you nodded again.

ellie exhaled hard, leaned back, and muttered, “fuck.”

YOUR DAD ALREADY LOOKED LIKE HE REGRETTED AGREEING TO THIS.

“are they all gonna be that… sparkly?” he asked, eyeing the window display.

you snorted. “no, just the expensive ones.”

he muttered something about rhinestones being “tacky trash” and held the door open for you with a grumble.

inside, it was a fabric fever dream—chiffon and satin and sequins in every color of the rainbow. some girl was whining from her fitting room about looking fat in her dream dress while an older woman—her mother, you assumed—argued with the cashier about the price of alterations.

you made your way through the racks, trailing your fingers over fabrics, trying not to feel totally out of place. ellie would’ve hated this. too much pink, too much noise. you smiled to yourself just thinking about it.

“whaddya think about this one?” your dad asked, holding up a tragic lime green number with a plunging neckline and a thigh-high slit.

you stared. blinked. “are you trying to get me dress-coded or arrested by the fashion police?”

“hey, i don’t know how this shit works, okay?”

you snatched it out of his hands and shoved it back onto the rack.

the next hour was a blur of zippers, itchy linings, and realizing just how many different shades of navy there were. you tried on everything from a slinky wine-red number to a cupcake-shaped lavender thing that made you look like you were competing in a pageant to be miss teen usa.

a grueling 45 minutes later, you finally found one that didn’t make you feel like complete shit. something about the way the fabric hugged your figure made you stand up straighter when you caught yourself in the mirror.

you stepped out to show your dad.

he blinked. “oh.”

you raised an eyebrow. “oh?”

“no, i mean—that’s the one. yeah. you look like… you.”

he never had a great way with words, but you understood his attempt at a compliment. your throat tightened unexpectedly. “thanks.”

after you changed back and paid for the dress (with your dad pretending not to flinch at the total), the two of you sat on a bench outside the shop with plastic cups of mall coffee.

“you know,” he said, glancing sideways, “i thought i was gonna hate today. but it wasn’t half bad. you looked… happy.”

you smiled down into your coffee.

then he added, with all the gentle subtlety of a bulldozer, “so… that ellie girl. is she gonna wear a dress? or a suit or… er— i mean, how does that work?”

you looked at him, mouth open with genuine shock.

he looked panicked.

“i didn’t mean that like—not that it matters! just, like—curious. supportively. in a completely non-offensive way.”

you held up a hand to silence him. “dad, please.”

“right. shutting up now.”

you sipped your coffee.

he sipped his.

then he muttered, “i bet she’d look cool in a suit though.”

you laughed quietly. “yeah, dad. she's gonna look pretty badass.”

this work is mine. please don’t repost, copy, or publish elsewhere without permission. thank you!

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @oneinameliann @taronyuhunter @tenebrisirae @stravvbwerry

[alexanderwales]

When you finish writing a big story and you became very close the characters, was there a time after where you were like "i kind of want to revisit these characters again, but i should probably just let the story be, they deserve to rest" Im not talking about wanting to write a sequel, is more about still coming up with fun ideas for them, maybe a little scene or something, but choosing not to do anything with it because it'd feel disrespectful to the ending you gave them?

Hrm. I think for me, characters exist as a vehicle to tell a story, and when that story is done, I'm off to the next character and the next story. It's vanishingly rare that I want to revisit anything that's been "completed".

There are a few exceptions. Worth the Candle had some conceits that worked well for specific jokes and gimmicks and discourse, and sometimes I'll have an idea and then think "ah, but that only really works in the context of Worth the Candle, not the other things I'm working on". I keep having an itch to get back to Shadows of the Limelight because there's always stuff that interests me about fame, fandoms, parasocial relationships, and the act of creating for an audience. But in both these cases, it's about what the framework allows for.

I think that characters get slowly pinned down over time as you add in backstory and traits, and eventually you've pinned everything down. Or to use another metaphor, you've mined them out. Ideally they've gone through some kind of narrative arc in the process of all this, or maybe they haven't, but there's nothing "new" left to them, nothing to discover or explore or say. They're less interesting to me.

And in the course of writing webfic this is especially the case, because by the end you've done like three to five books, and what more could there be that you didn't already get at? Unless you're doing the sort of book with no interest in diving into their personality and psychology, I guess, where there's nothing you actually had to say about this person and how they operate.

That said, I do think that I'm drawn to particular archetypes, and those I'm much more inclined to return to, but part of the reason I'd prefer that to an old character is that there's new stuff to discover, even if I'm working within familiar ground. There's backstory that will provide a particular texture, there are variations, places that I couldn't explore the first time around because it didn't work for that other character. I'm sure that someone who's read all my stuff could draw a bunch of parallels between characters, but hopefully they would see the ways in which they're all importantly different from each other, and how it was worth doing "the same" character a second time.

And to answer part of the ask: I have no regard for endings, except that the ending usually means that I've said all that I wanted to say. If I had some hot new idea, I would write a short story in a heartbeat using some old characters, if I needed to use them. (But also, I would still probably not want to do that because of all the old stuff that I would have to load back into RAM, and all the continuity checking, which takes some time.)

[halfofmysoulasthepoetsay]

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༺｡° .. ° ｡༻༺｡° .ᘛ Intro Post ᘚ. ° ｡༻༺｡° .. ° ｡༺ ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

(making this cuz I never did one lolz)

~ ☆.🌸 You can call me Evelyn or Telemachus, or any variation of those ! (I.E. Eve, Lyn, Tele, etc) ~ ₊˚⊹౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ I'm a minor ! Adults can interact if they are comfortable (and aren't weird) ~ 𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ᡣ𐭩 I'm autistic + have OCD + i'm hypersexual ! ~ ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ I'm genderfluid (meaning my gender switches up) and bisexual! You can use he or they pronouns for me ! ~ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ I'm in a lot of fandoms lolz ! ~ִ ࣪𖤐୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ I'm often awkward/cringe !! I try my best ~ ☆.🌸 I'm happily taken !!! (@wannablegendary is my wonderful boyfriend ^^) ~ ₊˚⊹౨ৎ ₊˚⊹ I use emoticons a ton !! ~ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ I'm trying to learn about the Hellenist religion, and maybe become Hellenist! If you're Hellenist/pagan hmu I need tips ~ִ ࣪𖤐୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ I'm American, unfortunately ~ ☆.🌸 Enfj !! ~ 𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ᡣ𐭩 This blog is mainly me shitposting and talking about my interests, +reblogging way too much stuff ^^ !!

~ Likes:

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Fandoms: (Purple = currently very hyperfixated on Blue = used to be hyperfixated on (still enjoys) Red = casual enjoyer Pink = special interest (has been heavily fixated on for years) Orange = getting into/meaning to get into Green = VERY VERY VERY VERY HYPERFIXATED ON RN)

Epic the Musical

The song of Achilles

Class of 09

Welcome to Night Vale

South Park

Aristocats

Cookie Run Kingdom

Genshin Impact

Greek Mythology

Project Sekai

Vocaloid

Percy Jackson

Bluey

Doctor Who

Angels of Death (anime)

Hamilton

AmRev

Heathers musical

Beetlejuice musical

Beetlejuice movie (both of them)

Legally Blonde musical

Ride the Cyclone

Dear Evan Hansen

The Odyssey/The Liliad

Omori

Danganronpa

The Owl House

Probably more that i'm forgetting

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Hobbies:

Thrifting

Cosplaying

Writing (fanfiction mostly) (I mean kind of) (writer's block go brr though) (I will not show you my writing) (unless we're close ofc)

Making OCs

Drawing (I do digital art) (a lot)

Animating (when I can) (its mostly short animatics) (For my OCs)

I sometimes bake, although I don't much anymore. And cook eggs. Like specifically eggs. I love making sunny side up eggs. Im awful at it, but I love it!

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| DNI: Basic DNI criteria, MAGA, trump supporters, anyone who judges any religions at all, cishet men over 15 (no hate I just don't feel comfortable!), anyone who believes in cringe culture, proshippers, darkshippers, epic!sharpwolf shippers

| BYF: i'm awkward, I have some attachment issues so I might get overly attached to you quickly, I mirror people so I might be dry if you are, but I DEFINITELY will not be if you aren't. Also, like I said, i'm a minor!

I am a yumeshipper! What that means:

A yumeshipper is someone who ships themselves with a character, or someone who ships an OC of theirs with a character. It could also be a platonic/familial thing, like you're saying a character is your family! Sometimes this uses a self-insert or persona, or sometimes it's just yourself. (Feel free to ask additional questions about this in DMs or comments! i'm happy to answer as long as you're being respectful!)

f/o list: (all familial yumes default mean my children and i'm sharing with all of them!)

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Telemachus | Epic the Musical | hypersharing | romantic Aeolus | Epic the Musical | sharing | queerplatonic Berlioz | Aristocats | familial Janice Palmer | Welcome to Night Vale | familial Elio | Elio | familial Rachel | Angels of Death | familial Kiran | OC (fae's (@/Apolloinaplaguemask's) :3) Eddie | angels of death | familial Atticus | OC | hypersharing | romantic

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Other socials:

Twitter (@Evelynshitposts)

Discord (@Night_vale8)

Spotify (can't get on rn but I'll link it tmrw)

I also have pinterest but unfortunately I cannot make that account public until i'm sixteen, so cannot share that yet!

I love to talk to people, so feel free to leave anything in my inbox, dm me, whatever! I usually follow people back :3

[blackwall-my-tiny-husband]

Thursday Bangers 6/12

Wowie I swear we all got bombarded with work and irl stuff all at once! And I’m still playing catch up on things I so badly want to write! I’m still trying to read all of the Harding week things and everyone’s words and bangers so don’t stop tagging me I’ll eventually very happily read them <3

Lyric game started and hosted by @woundedsoul12 this week and thanks @chaosherald and @serensama for the tags

Rules: Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn't have to include the prompt just whatever you're inspired to write, write it! Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn't have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays)

And I'd give up forever to touch you // Cause I know that you feel me somehow // You're the closest to Heaven that I'll ever be // And I don't wanna go home right now ~ Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls

Enjoy a little more of the Modern tech assassins au (I really never know what to call it) but a pre relationship piece! Harding week really had me all up in the still getting to know each other vibes

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Harding had been putting together a sandwich in her tiny postage stamp apartment when she tried to scoot past her couch and rammed her shin into the coffee table. She’d cursed loudly and wondered again why she’d moved to this city. It was huge and bustling and high tech and so so fancy. She’d been excited to live somewhere new after her stint with the military and Antiva City just seemed so interesting. But on her tiny salary she couldn’t afford much and her job prospects seemed bleak at best or too dull to stand. She tossed the plate onto the couch, glaring at the offending table corner and wishing she could kick it out of the way but there just wasn’t room.

Just as she was debating sitting the table up on its side the doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting company and frowned, giving it a moment but then frantic knocking started and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Carefully, she snuck her way to the door and looked into the peephole.

She flung open the door and stood with a hip jutting out, hand on her hip.

“Zalan what are you doing here?” He was one of Varric’s many inside sources and when the journalist had introduced the two she hadn’t been all that impressed by the flirting and easy going charm he’d been sporting. She’d seen him trailing after Varric a while after that and had begrudgingly gotten to know him, he grew on people like a fungus. But for him to be showing up at her door? Unannounced? She wasn’t even sure how he knew her address!

“Hey Harding what’s shaking?” He was sweating and leaning against the doorframe but still trying for a charming smile. She glanced around behind him at the empty hall and frowned. “Hey can I come in? Varric and I were following up on a lead and I need a place to lie low for a minute or two.” She would have happily slammed the door in his face or told him to go wherever Varric had gone normally. But something about the way he was almost shaking and the urgency in his voice with undercurrents of fear made her think twice about shutting him out. And instead, she had a feeling she’d regret this later, pulled the door wider.

“Get in here and tell me what happened.” She said it on a sigh and he quickly shuffled in and closed the door, locking it for her and rushing them both away from the entrance. She pinched his hand on her shoulder and swatted at him, stepping away with a glare.

“Sorry sorry, lying low remember? T-those guys might be looking for me.” He voice seemed strained and he pressed a hand to his side. Which had Harding furrowing her brows and coming closer.

“Zalan de Riva, you tell me what in Andraste’s name is happening. Now.” She was firm and the glare she was giving him wasn’t lessening but he chuckled and smiled at her, leaning against the back of her couch and putting a hand on her shoulder, swaying.

“Have I ever told you you’re beautiful when you’re angry?” He asked, breathing hard. She thought about punching him but only scowled at him instead, “I didn’t know where else to go, my house is on the far side of the city and Varric sent me to check up on a lead- he’s in the hospital you heard? Broken leg- he sent me to check on a thing. A-and I got shot.” He staggered forward and this close now that she was looking for it she could see the dark spot blooming on his dark jacket, and growing. The information took a moment to sink in as she stared and then she burst into action.

She was yelling at him for being an idiot but moving him to the couch, clearing the space and momentarily mourning the loss of her sandwich and plate but refocusing and sitting him down to yank up his shirts.

A neat hole was gushing blood and Harding cursed grabbing a blanket and pressing down on the wound, as she felt around the man’s back she could feel a hole there too which was good. The bullet wasn’t lodged somewhere and she pressed his hands to the blanket,

“Hold this pressure.” It was a command and she ran for her medical supplies. Zalan was doing exactly as she instructed and had managed to wiggle free of his shirt and jacket laying on them and looking pale and green for his efforts.

She muttered idiot which he must have heard because he chuckled. She couldn’t figure him out, he was calm and was actively helping her as she got supplies out and cleaned the wound. Who was this guy that bullet wounds seemed to be just a part of his life?

He was suddenly less than collected as his eyes fluttered and rolled into the back of his head. Harding felt her own heart jump as she rushed to press wet fingers to his pulse. Cursing loudly the scout got into position and started compressions. Luckily for them both he came back quickly and Lace thought she might collapse there but she wasn’t done yet.

With her suture kit in hand Harding looked at Zalan, cringing. She didn’t even have any alcohol to offer him to dull the pain. He noticed her hesitation and flashed a weak grin,

“You can admire my stunning body later Harding, for now sew me up.” He waited a beat and gave a huff, “Don’t worry about me, I have a high pain tolerance.” He assured her and she gulped but braced herself and did as he she said.

//

He hadn’t screamed or flinched away and she had rushed, her sewing only barely passing for good. He was breathing shallowly and laying on her couch and she leaned over him, knee on the edge of the sofa. His eyes were glazed over but he hadn’t passed out yet which was good.

“So? How did I do? Did the Lace Harding save my life?” He asked, words slurring slightly and head nodding back as he struggled to sit halfway up. Lace shook her head at him in dismay, how could he still be like this after everything. Zalan followed her movements with drooping eyes. “No? Oh well if I’m dying at least I’m getting to see you before I go.” He mused, touching the back of her hand and a soft smile.

She couldn’t help the blush that blossomed over her skin at that and she scoffed and shook her head but didn’t shake off his hand.

“You aren’t dying you boob. You just got shot. No big deal right?” She wondered how it was no big deal but he hummed and nodded his agreement and closed his eyes, hand sliding into hers loosely. She didn’t like that he was drifting off but with his hand in hers she could feel his pulse. That was the reason she left it there, or that’s what she told herself as she watched him.

He’d have to answer some questions when he woke up. But for now, for Varric, she’d stay there and watch over him, she’d already saved him she couldn’t let him die on her now.