#again: the writing process can take WEEKS. MONTHS. of free time

[tennessoui]

Wait, there are people who LIKE WIPs? Mind officially blown. O_o

yeah idk maybe just consider that all your favorite fics were wips at one point and one writer liked it enough to spend hours turning that wip into a finished fic and I doubt they were writing just to write an ending

like that fic did not emerge fully formed as a multi chapter novel length anon divergent masterpiece on ao3 one day!!! even if a fic is all posted at once, ONE person knew it and loved it as a wip or it never would have been posted at all!!!

like come on!!! think about fic writers as people who are experiencing their wip more than you ever will no matter how many times you read it and I promise the concept of liking a wip will NOT blow your mind

[ilovetoxicfictionalmen]

AS FAST AS YOU CAN

KINKTOBER DAY 24 - OUTDOOR SEX WITH TOMMY SHELBY

Pairing.| Tommy Shelby x fem!reader

Summary.| Your husband likes to play games to keep your marriage exciting. When you oppose against his wants, he thinks a game of predator and prey can soothe your disputes.

Warnings.| Noncon, dubcon, predator and prey, outdoor sex, p in v, rough sex, breeding kink, postnatal depression, implied lactating kink, tommy's a dick lol.

Word count.| 2.7k

Notes.| This may have been my favourite to write, Tommy just screams predator and prey.

It was just another fun game for the happy couple. A way to keep the spark of adrenaline, excitement and desire for each other. To your husband, this was considered intimacy. The casual sex could get repetitive for him, don’t get Tommy wrong, he loved your body, worshiped it at every opportunity he got. But he wanted to feel alive with you, take every opportunity possible to explore new pleasures with you. To keep the sparkle of rigorousness in your marriage. 

Tommy Shelby was a sadist, your hand was forced into marriage and then you were sentenced with baring his children. You loved your two sons, Alastair and Henry, but feared them living cursed lives. You had heard so many malediction tales of the Shelby name. They were still babies, Alstair only turning one a month ago. Many nights you considered packing your bags and running away with your sons, but feared your husband’s wrath if you ever got caught. 

Only eight weeks postnatal, Tommy was pushing you for another, but you were far too resistant this time. The way your expression soured and lips wobbled as you began to express how you needed to wait, your body needed to properly heal from your first pregnancy. Your body was weak, you were ruined by the issues of bearing children. You needed a break after having one child after the other. To what he was quite aggressive over your resistance, he found himself rather content at the situation, an idea sprouting in his mind. 

On this cold, misty day at Arrow House, Tommy thought it was the perfect environment for another intimate activity between you both. It was hunting season, and what better than a game of predator and prey. But in reality, he wanted to torment you in ways you didn’t know were possible. Because no matter the terms and conditions of the game, it was always designed for him to win. 

��It’s a simple game darling, I desire another child, you do not” Tommy spoke confidently as you stood in front of the green field. 

You rubbed your shoulders in the cold gentle wind. It was foggy, the forest almost hidden in the distance. With a congested sniff of your nose, you looked up to your husband who was dressed appropriately for a hunting session, the rifle included. 

“If you can reach the main road through the woods before I catch you, I won’t impregnate you until you’re ready, I promise” Tommy explained, closing the distance between you with a wicked grin on his lips. 

“Then what’s the gun for!” you exclaimed, your body trembling as you watched his hands tighten around the weapon. 

“It’s just a prop my love! It’s hunting season! I’m just getting into the spirit, a predator eager to catch his prey” Tommy snickered, nose running up your neck as he breathed in your scent. 

“Please Tommy! I’m tired…” you begged pathetically, your body slouching as you held onto your husband in hopes of a change of heart. 

With his grin, you knew your words meant nothing. His free hand slipped around your waist, right down to squeeze your ass. You whined, tightening your grip on him as you tried to force your tears back in. 

“Want me to fill you with my seed now then?” Tommy whispered darkly into your ear. 

The thought of being pregnant again weighed you down.  No, you couldn’t be a slave to the torture of pregnancy. The agony and melancholy it had rained over your body was too much to bear again. The sleepless nights had to end. Tommy thought it was best for the maids to stay out of the process. He only wanted you both to be their providers. He did help out here and there, but he often would pass on the duties to you and hold you from behind as you tried to calm your sons. That’s when he was even home, Tommy was business obsessed. Sometimes you’d get hopeful that he was never going to be coming home. Prayed for the news that he got caught in the crossfires, but you always heard the engine of his car roar when you were almost convinced. 

“Okay, okay” you complied, defeated. 

“Good! If you win I’ll do whatever you want tonight, even if that’s sitting in the corner of the room like a naughty boy” Tommy smirked, patting your behind harshly. 

He explained how you’d have a five minute head start and how it was approximately a mile and a half run. Your hope began to shatter at those stats, you had hardly walked that distance straight since your first pregnancy. When was the last time you had even ran?

“A kiss for good luck” Tommy murmured before passionately kissing you. 

As he counted down the seconds, you whimpered heavily, eyes darting around as you felt like a deer caught in headlights. You bolted as fast as you could, quickly heaving, your heart pounding against your ribs as you didn’t notice how tight your throat was closing in. It was cruel, you weren’t dressed appropriately for this, wearing a maroon dress that restricted the movements of your legs and tight shoes that were easily rubbing against your skin. All for his own advantage, as if your physical capabilities weren't already enough. 

It’ll forever be unknown if Tommy stood true to his word, you were too afraid to look back. The adrenaline removed the timer in your head as you quickly disappeared in between the trees. Tommy smirked to himself as he held his rifle to his chest and ran after you. 

Swaying side to side, your body struggled to remain composed. Your core temperature made the forest feel like a furnace. When you fell against the tree, you pant out to attempt to catch your breath. You dared to look back, the bushes and trees remained still as before. The mist clouded the distance, you were still free from him. But his voice tormented you, calling out his name, somehow echoing through every area of the taunting woods.

You wouldn’t be able to outrun him, that much you knew. However, you could trick him, have him chase the finish line rather than yourself. For he never set a mark on the road. You slipped into the nearest ditch of dirt, curling your body up against the curving wall of earth. When you heard his heavy footsteps snap at the twigs and crush the leaves, you clamped your hand over your heaving mouth. 

Tommy called out your name and you could already visualize the sinister smile on his lips. “My love, where do you hide?” Tommy teased, already knowing that you were near. 

His footsteps neared, you were sure he was standing right above you as you squeezed your eyes shut, paralyzed by fear. A ramble in the distance of an animal caught his attention. Tommy flared his nostrils and quickly his footsteps faded. When the woods were filled with silence again, you crawled out of the ditch and continued your journey. 

You were cautious, your eyes darting around from every direction as you often found yourself hunching close to the ground. Tears watered the soil as you struggled to keep your emotions under control. The blisters on your feet had already formed. Your body ached almost as badly as it did during childbirth, you needed to rest. Minutes quickly passed, you thought you were lost. But then, you could see the main road behind the trees. Just over fifty meters away from you. 

“My love! There you are!” Tommy’s voice boomed as he appeared out of thin air in the distance. There was this similar crazed look on his face, which never ended up in your favor as he held onto the rifle firmly. 

You shrieked and bolted for your life, not necessarily desiring the finish line, but only to get as far away as him as possible. Tommy guffawed your name as his brisk steps grew onto your tail. Fearfully, you cried out, your sounds of distress echoed throughout the forest.  

When Tommy lunged for your loose hair, he miscalculated the distance and missed, tripping over a root and crashing onto the dirt ground in the process. You dared to look back, but shamelessly found yourself grinning at his unfortunate tumble. He snarled out the dirt from his mouth, his head shot up as he saw you closing in on the finish line.

You smiled, you were going to win, finally. 

The gunshot made you fall to the ground a mere few meters away from the road. Your hands patted over your body, your blood pumping a mixture of adrenaline and shock. There were no wounds on your body and you dared to look back. 

Striding towards you like a beast, Tommy had a frightening look locked on underneath the specs of dirt. His knuckles were turning white around his rifle as he looked like he was ready to eat you alive. Thoughtlessly, you were scooting back over the dirt ground, heading straight towards the road. 

“Get over here, right now!” Tommy roared, a vein popping out of his forehead. 

“Tommy?” You whimpered, head darting back and forward from the road.

The road was only a meter away from you. Swiftly, Tommy aimed his rifle at you and you froze still. You gulped down the lump in your throat, lip wobbling.  

“Next shot goes through your leg my love” he warned with a grin. 

You whimpered his name once more as he towered over you. The rifle lowered to his side as he tilted his head towards you. As the rifle fell to the ground, Tommy pounced on top of you, pushing you flat onto your back. His nose inhaled your scent as he pressed his lips to your neck, you were frozen underneath him. 

“Mhmmm, I win” Tommy chuckled, his kisses running up to your face. 

Whining out, you shook your head viciously as you squirmed underneath him. “No! No! I was going to win!” You argued, your voice full of hurt.

“Should have walked the distance then!” Tommy cackled, his hands roughly roaming over your dress. 

“You threatened to shoot me! You said it was a prop!” You hissed. 

“I would never do such a thing! Not my fault you fell for it” he said smugly with a roll of the shoulders, his brute hands massaging your swollen breasts. 

A wave of pure anger crashed over you. Before you could even process it, you punched him in the jaw. His hand snapped to the side and he remained still. The redness on his pale skin quickly grew. Within a blink of the eye, Tommy maneuvered you onto your stomach, your acts of resistance always felt like a mouse battling a cat. You yelped out in pain as he twisted your arms behind your back. 

“Please Tommy! I don’t know what I was thinking!” You shrieked, blabbering at the feeling of his heavy bulge poking against your ass. 

“That’s exactly right… You shouldn’t be thinking at all…” Tommy whispered into your ear as he slowly freed his throbbing cock. 

“No-no, please” you squeaked out, close to hyperventilation.  

But it was pointless, Tommy had won yet again and was too eager not to gloat his win. For if a wolf were to catch a deer, would he take it home before devouring it? Your dress was scrunched up and you gasped as the cold air teased your skin. With a swift movement, he shoved his thick member into your entrance. You grumbled out in pain, Tommy shoved your face into the dirt as he pounded himself inside of you. 

“Your mind will go perfectly blank again when you’ve been bred, I miss the way you’d stare blankly out the window” Tommy sighed in satisfaction as your body went limp below him. 

“Tommy please! Another month! Just give me another month!” You cried out, your body trembled on the ground. 

“Darling, it’s easier if we just get it out of the way now…” Tommy moaned quietly as his arm slipped down to your clit.

The way your walls would squeeze his length made you feel sick in times like these. It fueled his beliefs that you enjoyed his sick and twisted games of his. He held up your hips, balls slapped against your sensitive flesh, animalistic grunts left his lips. You mewled out his name. 

“Quiet my little wife, quiet” Tommy ordered, his eyes rolling back. “You stress yourself out too much, let me do everything, let me take care of you” he explained as he leant down to kiss your heated cheek. 

Tommy coached you to keep on squeezing him, just how he liked it as he rutted into you. In return, he hit your sweet spot over and over again. Quickly, your eyes rolled back as you whimpered out in pleasure, back arched and cunt squeezing as tightly as possible. Tommy groaned out, his movement’s suddenly stilling as he shot his seed deep inside of you. Tommy gleefully smiled out, it had felt like an eternity since he came inside of you. 

As you panted out, ears blocked and sight still blurry, you realized Tommy was talking to you. 

“A little baby girl, doesn’t that sound nice?” Tommy asked softly, his cock still buried deep inside of you. 

“A girl” you smiled weakly, mind still dazed from your post orgasm state. 

“Yeah… A girl, she’d be as beautiful as you, eh?” he complimented, his hand rubbed over your lower back as he slipped his size out of your dripping hole. 

“No” you mumbled. 

“No?” 

“I’m not beau-” 

Your body is flipped back over. Tommy glared down at you as he read your pained expression behind the dirt. Quietly, he tutted at you as he shook his head. 

“Fuck, I’m really going to have to fuck these stupid thoughts out of your head, ain’t I?” Tommy cooed as he found his cock twitching in the cold air. 

“Look at me Tommy” you whimpered, eyes swelling up as you looked down at your body. Disgust washed over you, you felt sticky, as if you were covered in grease. 

“I am my love, you’re emotional over nothing, just calm down and feel me okay? My poor wife, you have that sadness don’t you?” Tommy soothed you in a condescending yet comforting tone. You murmured out his name, your arms snaking around his back to pull him closer to you. Gradually, Tommy slipped himself back into your sore walls, you mumbled out but showed no resistance. “Shush… I’ll fix you, just squeeze my cock for now, that’s all you have to think about” Tommy smiled softly, his pace picking up. 

“Tommy, I-I” you moaned, eyes fluttered and lips spread open. 

“Show me how badly you want to be bred”  Tommy grunted out, his nostrils flared and hips pistoning in and out of you. Naturally, your walls firmly tightened around his member. Tommy’s body craved yours so badly, it was torture having to wait for you to heal. Many times he wanted to devour you completely. Take your mouth or backside to relive his desire, but he wasn’t cruel like you claimed him to be. “Oh fuck, fuck… Missed your warmth so fucking bad…” Tommy almost whined out as he felt his balls begin to tighten. “Yeah, that’s it…” Tommy moaned, his eyes rolled back as he came inside of you for a second time. 

He collapsed on top of you, his face buried into the crook of your name as he murmured your name. Tommy held you tightly as you silently wept, the realization crashing down on you intensely. Eventually, Tommy slid out his softening dick and slipped himself back into his pants. 

“Tommy it’s cold” you sniffled as he stood up and brushed off his face and clothing. 

Tommy sighed as he helped you up, he brushed the dirt off of yourself and patted your cheek softly. As you rubbed your arms, your shoulders curled in, Tommy slipped off his coat and placed it over your shoulders. 

“There you go my little wife” Tommy smiled and gave you a peck on the lips as he tugged the coat straight. “Come on, the boys must be hungry, I sure am” Tommy grinned, his hands tracing over the outline of your breasts as he licked his lips.

[drabblesandsnippets]

Safe

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus-size female reader

Background: TW: (Past) SA. During times when old traumatic memories start to pop up again (for whatever random reason/trigger), I find myself seeking out art that I can connect with to help me process things. Over the years, I’ve spent endless hours searching for stories/books where the main character is dealing with sexual trauma while also trying to have/maintain a healthy sex life - this is my attempt to write that type of story (without delving into the details of the trauma).

Summary: (4k) TW: (Past) SA. Bucky’s girlfriend craves intimacy while struggling with triggers and flashbacks.

Warnings: 18+ Only. TW: Mention of past SA/trauma (very vague), flashbacks (including during sex), anxiety. Established relationship. Bucky doesn’t always sleep with his prosthetic on (who else has this headcanon?). Fluff. Praise. Enthusiastic consent. Soft and sweet Bucky. Pet names (doll, sweetheart, baby). (Unprotected) PiV. Aftercare.

---------------------------

Trauma has a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it. 

One minute, you’re laughing and dancing in the kitchen with your boyfriend, his hands around your waist while he sings a song from the 40’s, and the next thing you know, you’re leaning over the sink, your knees nearly giving out as you try to remember how to breathe. 

All it took was one fleeting press of Bucky against your back and you were suddenly transported to a different time, your mind taking you back to those moments when your life irrevocably changed.

Other times, it’s less conspicuous. 

You’re on the back of his motorcycle, enjoying a peaceful ride outside the city, taking the scenic route to enjoy a bit more time together, when you’re hit with a wave of anxiety. Something in your brain made a connection to the past, and the only signal you can give Bucky is a tighter hold around his torso.

There’s not much that fazes him, given his own history and lingering struggles, but it doesn’t always make it easier. You oscillate between wanting to talk it all out and just wanting to pretend you’re fine - Bucky doing his best to meet you wherever you’re at, trying to ease your burden as best he can.

When you’re really lucky, it’s a momentary thing, your mind allowing the memory to fade so you can focus on the present. When that happens, you get to go weeks, sometimes months, without it happening again.

Of course, you’re not always that lucky. There are times when it invades the rest of your day, seeping into moments it has no business being a part of. Trying to control parts of your life that you swore it’d never touch. 

And then, there are times like now, when it sticks around. When it feels like the smallest thing sets you off, brief flashes of things you’d rather not have to think about playing out behind your eyes. Your body constantly on edge, giving you no reprieve, even when the memories finally fade out.

You’re not sure how many days it’s been, or what the initial trigger even was, your mind too preoccupied with trying not to take a trip down memory lane. The only lifeline you can cling to is knowing you have a partner who supports you as much as you support him, especially during dark times, refusing to give up on each other.

As painful as it all can be, it’s a familiar pattern, one you know you’ll eventually break free of, no matter how turbulent it gets. Until then, you ride the wave, doing everything you can to stay afloat, to allow yourself to continue to live your life, seek out the things that bring you joy and pleasure.

Yesterday was filled with laughter and adventures, Bucky taking you to some of his favorite places, whisking you off to the next destination when your anxiety started to get the better of you. As if he’s made it his mission to help you find your footing again.

Bucky’s love and patience is more than you could have ever hoped for, and as you wake up with him snuggled against your back, in the bed you’ve shared for years, the remnants of your dream trying to take hold, his name spills out of you, filling the dark silence.

In an instant, he’s awake enough to breathe your name in return, his voice husky with sleep as he asks, “You okay? S’wrong, doll?” Bucky’s aware it was probably another nightmare, or maybe a flashback, but he’s learned not to assume anything, giving you the space to decide if and how you want to be heard.

It’s not always that simple. Sometimes your voice can fail you, words getting trapped in your throat as you struggle to focus on the moment. You’re not even sure how to describe what’s happening, other than to admit that you feel on edge, like your skin is crawling, your body growing restless.

Bucky doesn’t need more explanation, his hand leaving its normal resting place on your thigh to slide along your back, his intention clear. His familiar touch draws the expected reaction out of you, a soft sigh of relief as a bit of tension leaves your body, his fingertips dancing across your shoulder blade.

Almost immediately you’re curling up, inviting him to keep going, his reverent touch spreading tingles across your skin. As intimate as it is, there’s nothing inherently sexual about it, Bucky wanting nothing more than to help you relax, to lull you back into a peaceful slumber.

Yet, your body seems to have other ideas, each tender caress of your back sending sparks of arousal to your core. It’s far from the first time, even over the past several days, but it’s yet another aspect of your relationship that gets thrown off balance during times like this.

Any other time, Bucky would read your subtle cues, happily accepting the silent invitation to touch more of you, to bring you unspeakable pleasure. Until you’re back on solid ground though, it’s not an option for him. He can’t risk pressuring you, the thought of adding more stress on top of everything you’re already struggling with too unbearable to him. 

You can’t exactly blame him. When the roles are reversed - when Bucky is dealing with his own trauma, ghosts of his past invading his mind - you follow his lead, offering him nothing more than a place to rest. A safe space, where he’s completely in control.

That’s what he’s been offering you since your brain decided to spend so much time in the past. Intimacy, in whatever form it takes, is on your terms, things never progressing unless you’re vocalizing your desires. 

Bucky’s patience is unyielding. No matter how much your soft, breathy noises of appreciation stir up his need for you, the path of his hand doesn’t alter. His fingertips continue to draw circles across your skin, exploring the contours of your back, as if he hasn’t already mapped every single inch of you. 

One of his favorite things is to touch you. To bring you comfort, to provide safety, and yes, when you allow him, to bring you pleasure. And right now, despite - or maybe because of - the turmoil broiling beneath the service, it’s what you need.

There’s a risk that things might overwhelm you. That you won’t be able to lose yourself in the moment. You try not to think about that, telling yourself that you at least deserve to try, knowing Bucky will help you through it, wherever it leads.

Your request for more remains subtle, a slight shift of your hips, pressing back into him, the evidence of his own arousal growing against your ass. Nothing changes for Bucky, his gentle touch following a trail up along your spine to the back of your neck, his thumb stroking a particular tense spot, refusing to take advantage of your trust in him.

There’s a part of you that wonders if you should just allow yourself to succumb to the sleep that’s threatening to overtake you again, but you miss him. And, as he drags the back of his fingers down to the dip of your waist, you moan softly, your thighs tensing with need, seeking out friction.

Bucky knows exactly what he’s doing to you, each pass of his hand along sensitive flesh making you tremble, goosebumps spreading across your skin. It’s not long before he’s able to smell you, the knowledge that his touch turns you on so much nearly enough to make him lose his resolve.

Somehow he remains steadfast, even as you shift again, arching your back and angling your hips to find more pressure, his erection trapped against the curve of your ass. There’s an ache building inside of him to grind against you, to give you what your body is so obviously asking for, your shuddering sighs encouraging him to keep touching you, waiting for permission that he knows might not come.

It’s more than okay if it doesn’t, Bucky content with easing your burdens in whatever way you’ll allow him. It’s a privilege he’ll never take for granted. 

As is the privilege of getting to bring you more pleasure. And the moment you whisper his name, followed by a barely audible utterance of “please,” he’s asking you what you need. Desperate to give you everything you desire.

It provides the catalyst to empower you to ask for more, telling him how good he feels as you shamelessly rub against him, Bucky’s own heavy breaths and words of love spurring you on. The gentle caress of his fingers never cease, tentatively dipping lower to tease along your hip, and you leave no room for doubt, quickly letting out a needy moan of “yes.”

His reaction comes as no surprise, your consent making him groan, his hard cock throbbing against you. You’re about to reach back, wanting to feel more of him, when you’re triggered without warning, your breath catching and your back stiffening, unwanted images flashing in your head. 

“Are you okay?”

The concern in his voice keeps you in place, choosing to ignore your body’s instinct to pull away, forcing yourself to breathe through it. As the silence tries to consume you, threatening to derail everything, Bucky’s hand on your hip helps you get the words out, the soft clearing of your throat letting him know a response is forthcoming.

“Yeah,” you finally whisper into the dark, grateful when he doesn’t move, his thighs flush against yours. “I don’t- I’m okay, I don’t wanna stop.” Before he can ask if you’re sure, your hand comes into contact with his arm, your fingers sliding down to gently take hold of his wrist, refusing to second guess yourself as you guide his hand higher up your body, showing him exactly what you want.

The heat of his hand cupping your breast brings you fully back into the present with him, ripping a strangled moan out of you, your back arching to grind harder against him.

“Fuck,” he exhales heavily, Bucky wasting no time in following your lead, your erect nipple pinched between his long fingers, his palm squeezing your tit as he murmurs soft words of praise. His ears are trained on you, listening for every noise he elicits, from the loud moans to the barely audible gasps, ensuring his touch remains welcome.

It’s everything you could possibly want, his leg soon finding its way between yours, Bucky barely getting a chance to ask you if it’s okay before you’re begging him to keep going. Your whine of pleasure drowns out his own noises of appreciation, his thigh pressed to your slick heat, his rock hard cock starting to leak pre-cum.

“You feel so good,” you whisper, one hand gripping the edge of the bed, giving you leverage to grind on his thigh, the fingers of your other hand still gripping his wrist, keeping him pinned to you.

“So do you, baby,” he moans in your ear, nudging his leg higher to find a steady rhythm against your swollen pussy, intent on drawing this out as long as you’ll let him. “Love when you ride my thigh like this, when you let me feel how wet you are.”

Your body takes over, chasing the high, Bucky letting you set the pace, his large hand palming your heavy breasts, the occasional pinch and playful tug of your nipples building you higher. He never lets the silence settle for too long, filling the moments between heavy breaths and barely coherent words with a string of praises, reminding you how much he loves every inch of you.

The darkness seems to amplify your senses, allowing you to get lost in the sensations, your walls pulsing with every delicious grind against your clit. You’re on the verge of begging him to fuck you, the words on the tip of your tongue when a wave of tension takes over, ruining all your plans.

Your hips falter the same time Bucky’s do, his gentle assurance of, “it’s okay,” calming your racing heart before it can beat out of control. Keeping his hand pressed to your stomach, you breathe through the confusion, trying to pinpoint the trigger before deciding to focus on how to move forward instead.

A request for more comes in the form of asking him to turn on a light, the need to see him overpowering everything else, and Bucky’s climbing off the bed, a lingering kiss and touch to keep you company until he returns. You’re kicking the covers off just as he clicks the adjoining bathroom light on, your eyes adjusting quickly to the soft glow now illuminating the room.

The irresistible image of you waiting for him has him returning to the bed within record time, his feet only pausing when his gaze drifts to his prosthetic arm, safe in its resting place in the corner of the room. He doesn’t always wear it to bed, your sex life never suffering without it, but he knows how much you enjoy having both his arms wrapped around you, the slight furrow of his brow telling you exactly what he’s thinking.

You interrupt the unspoken question, your voice pulling Bucky’s attention back to you, your unprompted words taking him by surprise. “I wanna ride you.”

“Oh really?” he asks, the former subject easily forgotten, a grin spreading at the eager nod of your head. He doesn’t need to be told twice, jumping onto the bed with a flourish, landing on his back with a soft thud, a giddy look plastered across his face.

“You’re ridiculous,” you laugh, getting to your knees beside him, not missing the way his eyes travel along your curves, the peak of his tongue wetting his lips giving you momentary pause, your thighs tensing with need.

Bucky’s obviously thinking the same thing, his laughter sending a thrill down your spine as he asks, “Whatcha thinking about ridin’, doll?”

You enjoy having his head between your thighs just as much as he does, the teasing flick of his tongue along his top teeth having you shaking your head at him. “Your cock, if that’s okay with you,” you tell him, the playful grin on your face masking your concern of being triggered again if you can’t see his eyes.

“Oh, no complaints from me,” he emphatically promises, offering out his hand to help you climb on top, your worry not lost on him. You’ve been through so much together, Bucky having learned to read your body, understanding your emotions even better than you sometimes. As obsessed as he is with you, his mouth watering at the thought of tasting you, he won’t push for it, especially not tonight.

Your bodies fit together perfectly, puzzle pieces interlocking like you were made for each other, his thick cock stretching you slowly with each roll of your hips, taking him inch by glorious inch. His firm grip on your thigh encourages you to keep going, his audible grunts and gasps filling your ears, unable to tear your eyes away from him.

“Jesus,” Bucky pants, his lashes fluttering every time you let him slide in just a bit deeper, his hips tense underneath you, determined to give you complete control. “Feel so good, baby. God, I love you.”

You’re quick to nod your head, your hands finding their way to his chest, allowing you to find an easy rhythm, your eyes nearly rolling back when he bottoms out inside of you. “Oh fuck,” you whine, your hips moving on autopilot, grinding in slow circles, soon finding the perfect pressure against your clit that has you trembling on top of him.

There’s something incredibly intoxicating about being in charge of your own pleasure, especially when Bucky could easily overpower you, the occasional twitch of his hips signaling just how hard he’s working to control himself.

It leaves you breathless, your body finding a quicker pace, the head of his cock hitting that spot deep inside of you that has you seeing stars. When his name starts to fall past your lips like a prayer, his thighs tense, shifting underneath you, the new angle forcing out the words burning the back of your throat, “Bucky… baby, please. Please, fuck me.”

“Co’mere,” he growls, pulling you down on top of him, your palms finding purchase against the mattress on either side of his head, his eyes never leaving yours. With his arm wrapped around your waist, hand splayed across your lower back, he starts a slow pace, watching the pleasure play out across your face.

Bucky pulls out until your walls pulse, a prideful grin twitching at the corners of his mouth at how greedily you welcome him back in, his eyes darkening when he bottoms out, your thrusts soon meeting his.

“That’s it,” he pants, nodding his head, his hold on you grower firmer, doing his best to keep the right amount of friction against your clit. “Just like that, take whatever you need baby.” He’s aware your muscles are going to grow tired soon, your knees likely needing a break before long, but he refuses to stop until you tell him to, gritting his teeth with effort to hold his own orgasm back.

You’ve lost track of how many times you’ve come close to the edge yourself, only for the feeling to fade, your mind threatening to spiral into unwanted territory. Until this very moment, you’ve done a good job at holding the unwanted feelings at bay, your desire for intimacy and connection driving your actions.

Except, that’s suddenly no longer the case, a particularly sharp burst of pleasure has you closing your eyes and before you realize it, everything’s come to a standstill. The unwarranted apology dies on the tip of your tongue, a heavy sigh of frustration leaving you as you quickly shake your head, sitting up to try to regain some semblance of composure.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, taking hold of your hand to bring it to his lips, brushing a kiss across your knuckles to soothe your anxiety. “Tell me what you need.”

You breathe heavily, your bodies still connected, Bucky nestled deep inside of you, your walls spasming uncontrollably around him. There’s no reason to push through this, to ignore your body’s obvious discontent, no matter how much you want to pretend you can handle this.

It’d be unfair to subject either of you to that inevitable discomfort. The only thing you can do is face it, admit that you’re not as strong as you’d like to admit, your independent nature wanting to fight you the entire way. A gentle clearing of your throat, followed by a rough swallow and you’re bringing your awareness back to the present, your eyes finally opening to meet his once again.

One look at him and it’s easy to find your voice, his warm smile breaking down your walls like they’re paper-thin. “I need to feel you on top of me.” To feel the comfort of his weight, the safety of his embrace.

Bucky’s more than happy to oblige, trusting that you understand your own needs, knowing you’ll tell him if it becomes too much. Guiding you back down on top of him, his lips find yours, pouring all his love and devotion into the simple act as he secures an arm around you, cradling you against him in order to roll you both over.

It’s not as seamless as either of you anticipate, your tense muscles and abundant wetness causing him to slip out. Neither of you are able to hide your exhales of disappointment, Bucky’s grin meeting your own when he lines himself back up, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.

As grateful as you are, it’s not needed, and your hips shift, telling him everything he needs to know, the nod you give him alleviating any lingering doubt. With his weight settling on top of you, his body aligned with yours, he slides his arm underneath your shoulder to cradle the back of your neck in his palm and finally surges forward, sinking back into your tight heat. 

Your unbridled reaction spurs him on, your gasps and cries of exquisite pleasure causing heat to race up his spine, his hips setting a familiar pace. He can’t stop himself from praising you, watching you start to fall apart for him, your walls fluttering around him with every deep stroke, his body grinding hard against your clit.

You cling to him, nails digging into his back, your orgasm just out of reach, sweat covering your body, the desperation written all over your face. You’re so close, Bucky’s loud groans and animalistic grunts usually enough to send you spiraling, his words causing more arousal to coat his cock, but there’s still something holding you back, your body on the verge of tensing again.

“Tell me I’m okay,” you gasp, your eyes locked on his, your hips meeting his thrusts, your body begging for release.

“You’re okay,” he promises, dropping his forehead to yours, his heavy breath fanning your face, using every ounce of energy to not succumb to the pleasure threatening to overwhelm him. “You’re okay, my sweet girl. You’re safe, I’m not going anywhere.”

His steady stream of assurance has you crying out, tears pricking your eyes, the familiar tingle starting to build to unbearable heights, surely about to tease you again. Bucky refuses to give up, fucking you through it, maintaining the perfect, consistent speed, his cock bottoming out each time, the sounds of your bodies meeting in a heated rush adding to the sensations coursing through you.

“There we go,” he groans, his grip on the back of your neck tightening, holding you in place as you start to tighten around him, refusing to let you push him out. “You feel so fucking good, sweetheart, just let go for me. You’re safe, you’re right where you belong.”

That’s all it takes, your mouth opening in a silent scream as your entire body tenses, your limbs wrapped around him, his movements never faltering, letting you ride out the intense waves taking over your senses. You’re not even aware when your voice returns to you, a string of incoherent noises filling the air as you come hard, sobbing from the onslaught of pleasure, Bucky not missing a single second of the glorious vision unfolding underneath him.

He doesn’t allow himself to let go until he’s sure it’s what you want, your gasping pleas triggering his orgasm. With a groan of your name, he pulls you into a fiery kiss, his hips thrusting just a few more times as his pulsing cock fills you with his release.

You've been reduced to heavy pants and trembling limbs, Bucky's body shaking against yours, more sweet utterances of love and devotion being shared as you both return back to reality.

For the first time in too long, you’re able to stay relaxed in his embrace, refusing to let him move for several moments, the weight of him pressing down on you keeping you grounded. It’s not until your lungs start to ache from lack of deep breaths that you relent, letting Bucky roll you both over, your bodies continuing to draw comfort from each other.

There’s no rush to clean up, no dire need to leave the bed, the two of you remaining there for as long as you want, your mind at ease, Bucky’s steady breaths and gentle caress of your back almost lulling you back to sleep. 

This time, there’s no need to fight it. You let yourself drift off, peaceful rest once again overtaking you, Bucky content to hold you for the rest of the night, promising to keep you safe wherever your dreams take you.

---------------------------

Comments & reblogs very much appreciated!! 🩶

Main Masterlist

[ziorre]

✨Commission info✨

I'm ready, I'm rested, I'm refreshed! And I'm completely charged to take care of your new ideas and characters!! I truly believe that every character is awesome and original and deserves to be shown with their own story! And I'll try to help you with this in a way that is more convenient for you! You just pick one below ;)

✨ PRICES:

- REALISTIC STYLE (for the cases, when you want it looks more real without much stylizing)

- USUAL STYLE (for the cases, when you don’t mind it looks more stylized and a lil sketchy)

- CONCEPT SHEET (for the cases, when you want to present your character, their outfit and props)

* you can find more examples on my page by the commission tag ** a helpful post describing a right order for your refs

✨ DEADLINES: After you DM me with a brief description of your idea, I’ll tell you the approximate date when I’ll be able to proceed with your commission. But the average deadline is from 2 weeks to 2 months. ❗❗❗Always warn me in advance if I need to draw art by a certain deadline❗❗❗

✨ PAYMENT:  What: USD or RUB When: full pre-payment (when you sent me the email and we approved the art idea) Where: Lava.top (russian platforms, support payment via PayPal)

✨ PROCESS: You write to me in private messages on Tumblr, briefly tell me your idea of our future art, what style and what slot you want (full body / half body / bust). Then I give you my email address and you send me an email (with your Tumblr name as the topic please) with all necessary references (your character's face claim, their pose, clothes, background etc.). You describe the idea of the art in details, where it takes place, and other things that I need to know so that I can base the sketch on all that info, because after you approve the sketch, I don’t change art much in the further stages of the work, just some details. I send you the payment link on my Lava.top page. Send you the sketch. After you confirm that you like the sketch, I finish the work and send it on your email😊

✨ OTHER: - I don’t correct the art after you approved the finished version. - I don’t copy other artist’s work. - I publish every commission on my social media, if you don’t want it to be published, just let me know. - If you’re not sure about the art idea, I can suggest you 4 sketches with different poses/concepts/angles for extra $20 and you pick the one you like the most. - For significant corrections or a lot of small ones at any stage of work, an additional fee may be charged (this doesn’t apply to some small adjustments or details witch I missed). There are 3 free changes at the each stages of the work (sketch, finished version), further - $2-$5.

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And of course I can't skip to say a huge thank you to those who commissioned and continue commissioning art from me! It means a lot! For real! This is not only material support, but also moral one, saying that I’m not wasting my time and energy in vain, that I’m moving in the right direction, that people like what I do! I can't tell how inspiring it is!! 360 commissions! I’ve never imagined that one day I would draw so many art for others! Just.. wow!! Thank you again so much for trusting me bringing to life your ideas! I truly appreciate it!😌

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I think this is it, right? If you have any questions, feel free to DM me ;)  

I’ll be VERY grateful for your reblogs!! ❤❤❤❤❤❤ (and thank you very much for this in advance, it helps me A LOOOOOOOOOT, you are the ones who keep me alive literally! I see each and every one of you doing that! You’re the best!!!) Thanks for your attention! Have a good day =)

[reiderwriter]

i need a very angsty/light fluff with spencer to i can see you by taylor. i love your writing sososo much 💗💗

A/N: I'm not sure I got any light fluff in there but I certainly did make it angst 💀 thank you for the request 💗

W/C: 1.7k

Summary: Six months into your secret relationship, you're beginning to think that maybe Spencer doesn't love you the way you love him

Warnings: toxic relationship, Spencer is an ass and then he's kinda really intense. Inspired by:

Here's my masterlist, and I'm currently working on a request challenge, so feel free to check that out too! 💗

Six months of dating was about as long as you could stand before you knew that it wasn’t going anywhere if things didn’t change. 

At first, you’d been on board with Spencer’s suggestion to keep your relationship secret for the first few weeks of dating. It made sense with you both working at the same place and on the same team, and you didn’t want to change the group dynamic. But weeks turned into months, and six months was a long time to wait for public recognition of a relationship that could be so much more than secret looks in the hallways and weekends wrapped up in each other. 

Everytime he brushed you off whilst at work, you felt part of your heart cracking. The first time he’d done it was only days after your mutual confessions. You’d been alone in a police precinct on some case or the other, and, needing a moment to process your emotions, you grabbed his hand for support. He’d pulled his from your grip quickly, doing his best not to make the sudden movements, and if was like your world was crashing down on you. You’d confronted him that night in his hotel room, and he’d blown you off again. 

“Y/N, we promised that this would stay between us for now. I’m sorry that I can’t be like other partners, and that I can’t give you what you need right now, but we can’t do… we can’t hold hands or kiss or seem any closer than we usually are to the others, okay?” He’d seemed so stressed you’d given in and backed down, but his words still stung. 

Months of the same scenarios repeating themselves felt like purgatory though, and you knew that you needed to either cut him loose or make him confess to the others. 

You hadn’t reached your tipping point when he’d got shot in the neck and forced you to stand on the sides. Just watching while other agents, agents who had known him longer, sure, but didn’t know how he felt, how he tasted, how his scent was enough to drive you crazy, fawned over him. They didn’t know that you would be so lost without him that you’d have gone insane if that bullet was in a different position. They didn’t know, and he didn’t care. He’d checked up on you in private, of course, but only when he was discharged. 

“Spencer, what would you have done if that had been me?” you asked him, when he questioned you. He stood staring at you for a minute, really taking the time to think about the words, think about the scenario you’d just asked him to recreate in his mind. You’d fallen for him because he was so goddamned thoughtful, because he always took the time to think and find the correct answer when he was talking to you. 

You wished then that he’d answered quicker. That it would have taken him less time to say that he would have been inconsolable, that he would’ve been lost without you, that he didn’t want to think about that ever happening at all. 

He didn’t say any of those things. 

“I’d do what you did. I’d have managed.” You’d wanted to scream at him then, but you didn’t. You just climbed into bed beside him and wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could without hurting him. You fell asleep to the image of him being shot playing over and over again. 

That had been three months into your relationship, and now with three more months of stolen kisses and antipathy, you’d reached your breaking point. Maybe it was the tension in the office from the latest case, maybe it was the detective openly flirting with you, but you certainly couldn’t control the explosion that had been brewing all this time. 

From the beginning of the week, the lead detective on your case had been making it clear and obvious that he wanted to take you out. He was showing such obvious and tempting advances that even members of your team were approaching you in private to ask you to consider. It was hard to explain to Emily and Morgan that you weren’t interested in the man, and when even Garcia started encouraging you on a phone call to go after “Detective Dreamy,” you’d almost burst into tears. 

Because throughout the advances, the obvious flirtation and the team banter, your boyfriend had not said a word either way. You weren’t sure what you actually wanted from him, because when he finally did say something, it was like he chose all the wrong words and strung them together in a sentence. 

“So how are you enjoying all the attention from Detective McDermot?” he’d asked casually, not glancing up from the pile of documents he was scanning. 

“What the hell is wrong with you, Reid?” you snapped. He looked at you in shock, completely oblivious that he’d said anything wrong. 

“Aren’t you jealous? Isn’t there some part of you that wants to let him know that I’m taken?” the tears were filling your eyes in rage, and you angrily swiped them away before they fell, not wanting him to use them against you. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that it was so upsetting to you. Do you want me to say something to him?” 

“Do you want to say something to him? Because it only matters if you actually want to do it.” 

“Y/N, that doesn’t even make sense.” 

“We’re at work, Reid, you’d do well to remember that. In this office, it’s Agent Y/L/N, right?” you grabbed the file you were working on and left the room, but you weren’t getting away from him that easily. 

“Y/N- Agent Y/L/N, wait,” he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the nearest storage closet. 

“We promised each other, we promised that we wouldn’t tell anyone for a while, why are you being like this?” He still had a strong grip on your wrist and the intimate size of the storage closet had forced you together, his body pushing against yours. 

“What would you do? What would you do if I went out there and said I’d go on a date with him? Because right now, I’m getting concerned looks thrown at me by every member of the team because there must be something wrong with me if I’m turning him down.” The bitterness of your tone took him by surprise. 

“Don’t do that, for gods sake, do not do that Y/N.” 

“Give me one good reason. Scratch that, give me one explanation that I can give to get everyone off my back.” You pulled your wrist from his grip now, but he countered by grabbing your hips roughly and forcing you back into the wall, pinning you there. You couldn’t move, and you didn’t want to, intent on hearing his reply. 

“You’re mine,” he said it so quietly that had you not been pressed up against the entire length of him, you wouldn’t have heard it. You let out a little giggle at his words. 

“Fuck, Spencer, is that it? I’m yours?” you shook your head a little as his grip on you tightened, his head leaning down, forehead resting against yours as you shared in each breath he took in and let out. 

“I can see that you don’t want to be in a public relationship with me, Spencer. You don’t want to tell people about us, and that’s… that’s going to have to be enough for me, but I’m not sure how long it’s going to be enough.” 

“You don’t want to be with me anymore?” he asked after a minute, taking the time to calm himself before continuing. 

“No, God, Spencer, I love you so fucking much, that is not the issue here.” 

“Then what is? Because from where I’m standing, you’ve just suggested leaving me, leaving this.” 

“You are so fucking self-possessed sometimes,” the words would probably have cut deeper had his lips not been mere centimeters from your own. “I’ll be clear. I love you and I want other people to know that I love you, and that maybe you love me, too.” 

“But we talked about this before at the start-” 

“And that was six months ago, Spencer. I need more now. And I’m honestly a little hurt that you don’t want more now.” 

“I don’t want more?” He seemed genuinely surprised by the suggestion, and the hurt in his eyes stung for the few seconds he let it linger there. Instead of using his words to explain himself, he finally closed the gap between the two of you, pressing his lips into yours fervently. 

The kiss was angry, hot. It was the feeling of being deep in an argument and knowing that you still had to fight your way out. Your lips clashed, your mouths opened and your tongues began fighting for dominance as he attempted to push his way inside of you, to make you feel the strength of his emotions that he clearly couldn’t talk through. 

After a minute, you pushed him away, panting hard. 

“I want more and more of you by the second. I want to wrap you up and possess you, I want to make it so that no one else can even look at you, I want to make it that I am the only person on this planet that can see you, and everytime I think that, I get so scared.” He spits each word at you, still lost in the venom of the moment. 

“We fight monsters everyday, and each moment I spend with you, I feel like I can understand them more and more, because I think of you the same way they think about their victims. Does that not terrify you?” 

You let your hands trail up his body and into his hair as he talks, feeling vindicated now that he is finally spilling his guts to you.

“So yes, our relationship is private, because if I got the opportunity to possess you in public, I do not know what I would do to anyone who looked at you, even if they are our closest friends.” He dropped his forehead to yours again, somehow heavier this time. 

“You’re mine.” 

You stood there, still for a minute gathering your thoughts before you spoke again. 

“Are you going to tell them or not?” you breathed out, lowly, doing your best to not let your emotions get the better of you. 

“We’ve been arguing in this closet for five minutes and twenty eight seconds, Y/N. If they’re good at their jobs, I won’t have to tell them.” 

[trace-of-a-song]

Writing vs Playing

I think this might be a good place to talk through this.

Last year, I started taking a workshop class for composing. It was intentionally brutal. The goal was to create a new piece every week and to listen critically to the other people in the class and give and receive feedback.

Given how much music I can put out when I'm working intensely that doesn't sound too hard, but I failed. I made it through about 16 weeks of a year-long class and then life got life-y in about six different ways and I fell too far behind to keep up so I dropped out.

But I got so much out of those first few months that a) I'm trying the class again this year (we're on week 11) and b) it completely changed the way I do the music thing.

It's the difference between writing and playing.

For most of the time I've been doing this, unless it was for some out-there experimental thing with no set rhythms or intentions, I've written everything out in notation first. That hasn't been a bad thing. I'm comfy there, and I think pretty securely in notation, so the process was something like this: Write out an idea in pencil. Flesh it out in notation software. Bring the notation over to Reaper. Add instruments to make the midi noisy Adjust and spice to taste. Mix. Revise. Mix. Music.

And it worked nicely, but the speed at which this class had and has me working means I couldn't take all that time. The process became this. Pull up Reaper and make there be a piano. Play things until an idea is solid. Play more things around it. Play. Play. Mix. Music.

I don't know that the music is better this way. I think it's a bit more free, and I definitely write Different music this way but "better" is a word I'm uncomfortable with.

I do know two things though.

It happens faster. I can write one of these class pieces in 2-4 hours, the morning of a Saturday, and be finished.

The fact that I'm Playing makes it fun. Like, not just Enjoyable, but Fun. The act of creating a thing with the brain plus making a thing with the hands all smooshed together is a spicy, excellent brand of fun!

I'm thinking of this partially because as I go back through the Carmilla music, this is the first show where I wrote this way. I don't know if anyone else can hear the difference, but I can feel it.

I got to Play.

[dokidokitsuna]

Daughters

…It’s been a minute since I posted any art here. At first I thought it might be because I was just getting depressed again, but tbh I’ve been happier and more creative than ever. ^^; Things are definitely different this time around…and I think it’s something that’s been building for a long time.

Recently, I started thinking about Daughters of the Pumpkin Queen again– an old webcomic that I worked on back when I was in college. And although I hate reading my old work, I made myself skim through it, and I was honestly stunned at the quality of the writing, especially in the unfinished Season 2. O_O If I can do stuff like that while school is literally eating my brains away, man…I don’t know why I’m not famous already. People really don’t appreciate genius, do they…?

Anyway, genius or not, it’s clear that I worked really hard to make it a high-quality webcomic, putting in more and more effort and polish with every new installment…while it gradually became less and less popular, like everything else I did at the time. And I think DotPQ was kind of the final straw for me, back then...

I remember getting really depressed and miserable about my art in the years that followed…I didn’t think I was depressed and miserable, but in hindsight, I was clearly in the “Anger” and “Bargaining” stages of the grieving process. ^^; I started pushing myself to do anything I could stomach to get more popular as an artist– I joined more sites, I started posting more standalone art, I branched out to new types of art; writing novels, composing music, starting speedpaint video essays near the end. I just wanted an audience again so badly, and I knew I was good at all these things, because everyone I brought my art to directly told me so. So I figured it was just a matter of finding the right niche.

Long story short, it didn’t work. ^^; I learned a ton of new artistic skills, and I definitely don’t regret that, but I never did get what I wanted– i.e. a steady stream of external validation on at least a weekly basis. What I did get was new fans of my more sporadic content, like my video essays and animation…and before that was low-key frustrating, because I really couldn’t do more than one of those a month, at best. What would I do for validation in the meantime…?

But now…I don’t really care? ^^; I don’t feel like I need validation in the meantime anymore…and at first I thought it was just laziness (or the bouts of depression) but now I’m thinking it was also just me subconsciously fighting this change in my mindset. After all, when you think of online artists, they’re usually in one of two camps: the dedicated people who chase the algorithms on a weekly/daily basis, or the legendary people who just drop a masterpiece every couple months and never say anything. And because I knew I didn’t want to be the latter; I assumed I needed to be the former, but maybe there’s middle ground.

I’m not 100% sure what it is…but I know I’ve come to be fine with just working on projects by myself for weeks or months. I don’t mind taking my time with difficult drawings anymore, or simply deciding not to post them if I don’t like them, without feeling like I wasted the effort. And I’ve relearned to make pieces I’m proud of without even wanting to post them online– initially this was because I was just afraid no one would like them as much as I expected, and it was better not to take the risk. ^^; But now it’s more like…that’s not always what they’re for. Sometimes I just want to get an idea out of my head and look at it, and that’s fine by itself.

Best of all, I can finally work on my original projects with no guilt or shame. ^^ That’s basically what I did all last month, and I had a great time. I spent hours writing every day; I made a bunch of new drawings; I even did a color study for the first time in a while. And I was the only witness…and it still feels wrong, but not as wrong as it used to. It’s kinda freeing. ‘_’

I still like to share art and talk about it with fans; it’s still the highlight of my life and one of the main reasons I feel motivated to make art. But it’s not an imperative anymore; there’s no pressure to make it happen at all costs. And I think this year, I’m going to make a conscious effort to accept that as normal. Maybe it’s just because I’ve been watching a lot of Duchess Celestia lately, but I think it’s time to review my lifestyle as an artist and lean into the parts I actually enjoy.

Now, as for this drawing: I just really loved the characters in this little series, despite all the bad memories attached to working on it. ^^ And even though Season 2 had a great storyline and part of me is tempted to finish it, I think Season 1 had a stronger concept; to the point where it’d probably be a better idea to reboot the series, if I ever went back to it.

Maybe as just a short run with 2 or 3 episodes, to play with the concept in a new way. I like the idea of re-imagining Mariska and Etelka as teenagers (which wasn’t possible in the original lore)…y’know, let them be a little more driven and opinionated, and have some more agency. DotPQ was heavily inspired by Fireball in terms of the premise; this could be a chance to borrow some more from it in terms of tone. ^^ Idk, it’s just a fun idea…I’ll probably just toy with it in the background along with everything else.

[luveline]

Hi babe! Not sure how you feel about writing ab parents so feel free to ignore, but had an idea for kbd au if Steve’s parents tried to contact him/get into their lives and he’s all like stay away from my kids

kisses before dinner —steve has a tense relationship with his parents. mom!reader, 1.5k

The girls haven't seen their grandparents for… a while. 

Steve's dad always has something to say about his life. How he's thrown everything away being a stay at home dad, or how idiotic it was to stay with you. The latter was enough for Steve to want to cut contact initially, but you convinced him not to do it on your behalf. 

Steve, pretty much everyone we knew thought I was baby trapping you, you'd said. 

Well, he'd said, attempting to lighten the mood, little do they know I baby trapped you. 

Damn. Wanna do it again?

So it was funny. His parents didn't like you but they hardly liked him, he didn't mind —he was so fucking angry because who the fuck did they think they were, how could they look at you and not love you, you, in what world was it possible?— and he put up with their passive aggressive Christmas cards and their sparing visits, but then his mom took it too far. 

He can remember it word for word. “Beth, honey,” his mom had said, her nose stuck in its permanent wrinkle, “why are you eating it like that? What do your friends at school think?” 

“Mom, don't,” Steve had butt in. Beth didn't even go to school at that point. 

“She's such a weird kid,” she said, shaking her head. 

Some could argue it was fond or that she didn't mean anything by it, Bethie is very unique sometimes, but Beth turned her face to her dad with crestfallen eyes, as heartbroken as Steve had ever seen her before, and asked, “I'm weird?” 

Steve doesn't remember the last time he spoke to his mom. A year ago at least. 

He does miss her. But he doesn't really know her, never has, and he'd choose Beth over her without a thought. It would take a hundredth of a millisecond to decide. 

That's why seeing her is a shock. He's going to see her, they live in the same town —you bumped into her a few weeks ago and had to give her the rundown. Everyone's okay. Yeah, we had another baby, she's doing great. 

Steve had blown up at her. The girls had never seen him that angry in their lives and they haven't seen it since, and the gap is impassable. 

Or so he thinks. 

“Steve!” He tenses up. “Steve, honey!” 

He can't decide what to do. He can't exactly run away; Bethie and Dove sit knee to knee in the shopping cart, Avery has her hand in his pocket, and Wren is strapped to his chest. Running would leave at least one girl behind, and where would he go? The frozen food aisle?

“Oh, it's grandma,” Avery says. “She looks… old.” 

“She is old,” he says, turning reluctantly on the spot to watch his mother rush past a stack of cans of carrots. “She's ancient.” 

“Steve, baby.” His mom stops in front of him, more flustered than he knew she could get back, struggling to maintain a sense of casualness. “How are you? Girls? It's been so long.” 

Steve doesn't have an inkling of an idea of what to say. He's not mad anymore, but he knows she'll never change, and he knows that your family is a hundred times happier without worrying what grandma and grandpa think of you. “We're perfect,” he says. 

“And this is baby Wren?” 

Steve grimaces. “Yeah, this is Wren.” 

She's only three months old but she has a good weight to her, and she's brilliantly healthy. She blinks at the woman in front of her without recognition, her dark lashes a thick hedging. She's a beautiful baby. 

“She looks like you again, Steve.” 

“Yeah, my girl's good at having babies, but she hasn't mastered the mixing process,” he jokes without thinking. Love for you falls off the tongue. 

His mother has the sense to make herself laugh. “Where is Y/N?” she asks. 

“Mom went back to get milk!” Avery says. 

“Yeah? And how are you, sweetie?” 

Steve clears his throat. He understands what she's trying to do, but he remembers Beth's crushed face and he can't abide this shit again. I believed you when you said I wasn't good enough, he'd said, he'd shouted, his voice hoarse with it as you’d wrapped a hand around his wrist arm, but I will not let you do it to them. It's not happening, mom, I won't let it. You don’t get to say that to her.

“Steven…” 

“Mom, we have to get going.” 

“I said I was sorry,” she says. 

“But you weren't.”

“Steve–” She doesn't look a thing like her son beside the similar way they begin to cry, that frown, “Please, I know I'm not perfect, we don't have to pretend I've– I'll hold my tongue. I just want to see my grandkids. I've never even held her.” 

Steve covers the back of Wren's head with his hand, her baby hair soft as down. The girls are being remarkably quiet, beside Dove, who's whispering, “Who is that?” to Bethie in her clumsy toddler drawl. 

“That's gran'ma,” she whispers back. 

Steve's mom is, at the end of the day, their grandma. And she sucks and she doesn't deserve anymore chances, and the girls are better off without her for the majority, but… 

Steve screws his eyes shut. Don't make me regret this, he thinks. 

“I just want to speak to them,” she says. 

“Alright,” he says quietly, covering Wren's ear. “Alright, mom, fine, but this is it. This is your chance. If you ever upset or insult one of my kids again, we're done. We will never, ever speak again. You won't see them, and you won't see me. I'm serious.” 

“I'm sorry,” she says again. 

“Fine.” He pulls the strap off of Wren's harness and shushes her gently as she protests, lifting her out of his arms into his mom's. She doesn't have time to decide if she's ready. This is how it's going to be. “Her head.” 

“I know how to hold a baby,” she says. 

You come around the aisle slowly, a little wince to your step, some residual tightness in your hips as you recover postpartum, but the frown you wear slips into surprise. “Terri?” 

You save Steve and take the reins, suffering a conversation on your pregnancy, birth, and Wren's first weeks of life as Steve takes a breath. His heart races, adrenaline and a sticky, icky feeling in his chest as he watches his mom. He doesn't know if he's doing the right thing. His arms ache to steal Wren back. 

It ends in an invitation for dinner. Whenever you're free, whatever you want, Steve's mom offers. 

He's glad to see the back of her. 

You put the milk carton in the cart and touch his elbow. “You okay?” He hums. Your hand moves up to his face, cupping his cheek. “She makes you so mad, babe. Do you need a second?” 

“I think I'm pissed because…” He glances down at Wren, who's happier now she's in familiar hands. “I didn't realise she was a shitty mom. I knew we didn't get along, the same with my dad, but I didn't know…” He sighs. 

“It's okay,” you say, giving him a gentle squeeze before Dove demands you pick her up. You do it unthinkingly, and that's why he's mad. 

“I know what a good mother looks like,” he says. “I know how hard it is. And I know she didn't even try.” 

You're all sympathy, looking like you wanna wrap him up in a cuddle in the middle of the grocery store. “You deserved better. It makes me angry too.” 

“Are we going to dinner?” Beth asks. 

“What, with grandma?” Avery asks. 

“Not right now,” Steve says. 

“Good,” Dove says decidedly, wrapping her arms around your neck to hug you, squishing your cheeks together. “Cocoa?” 

“Cocoa? You want hot cocoa?” you ask, pleased. 

It breaks his heart thinking about himself as a kid. He knows there weren't any moments like this, no soft touches or sweet treats that weren't begged for. You don't even think about saying no. 

“And marshmallows,” you croon, rubbing the little space between her shoulders. “And we'll have to get a cinnamon roll too, for your sister. How does that sound, Beth?” 

Beth doesn't like hot cocoa but she loves cinnamon rolls these days, and she nods her head exuberantly. As quick as that, the girls forget their grandma's interruption, and Steve tries his best to put it out of his mind. Family is messy, and it's harder now he has to make decisions for all of them, but he has you. His support beam, his sweetheart, you put Dove on your hip and sew your arm loosely through his. Tonight he'll talk your ear off about things you know already. You'll listen without complaint, stroking his hair back from his forehead if you have a free hand. His family growing up wasn't worth calling a family half the time, just three people connected by blood and a shared house, but the family he has today takes the cake. There's no competition. 

[mortish-writes]

No Patreon quite yet.

The Bride of Shadows Patreon isn't ready yet, I didn't realize that a month after giving them a picture of myself and a copy of my government ID, and then them saying I was all set, they'd still do an additional review when I was actually ready to launch my Patreon. Apparently this can take as along as a week, but usually takes a couple days.

The Zealot route for Night V is edited and will be ready for early release as soon as the Patreon is up. You will have to start a new game and only the Zealot route is available right now. The Heretic Night V route will be out next week.

The Night V Zealot route is an additional 25,000 words, with two separate branches depending on whether you're aligned with The Weaver. It also has separate endings depending on which RO you have the strongest bond with. There are also breast sizes now. See? I also added the option to refuse The Weaver and...stay dead. Cause apparently the offer to not be dead was frustrating readers.

The name of the patron version is The Nightborn Edition. Right now, it is largely the same as the current build (+Zealot Night V and a few new variables, mostly hidden), but once the Patreon is live we'll be running polls for new content. Our first few polls will be regarding conception/pregnancy since that will start in Night VI. We'll nail down how we want to handle paternity in poly relationships and how random/not random we want things like gender/appearance/multiples to be. Then we'll vote on a new tendency and which tendencies you'd like to see more of. The goal is to make a version tailored to the interests and tastes of patrons, without taking content away from free players.

I've also changed Bound mode for patrons. It will now feature an MFM storyline with the option to go crazy and have an exclusive MF relationship with Valdricht. Serax TBD, I'll explain in the FAQ, no I don't love Valdricht more, there are important plot reasons for it, if you want Serax you can still have him in MFM mode or play MMF mode as the gods intended. I know that the Duskweaver Cultist won out in the poll, but MFM/MF will be much easier to integrate into the existing story at the moment. Also, you get updates earlier and you can support my goal of writing Bride of Shadows full-time.

Hopefully the review process will be quick and I'll do an official Patreon launch announcement/invitation soon. It will be much prettier and more comprehensive than this. In the meantime, I'll be working on the Heretic route for Night V. Just not tonight. I'm going to relax now.

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.

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Off-topic rant don't read unless you have nothing better to do. Sometimes a girl just has to type some feelings in a big block of text. So Bride of Shadows has gotten a ton of new players/followers this week. Idk if it was blessed by the algorithm or what. That's not the rant, I'm incredibly happy about that and insanely grateful. So today while I was trying to set up the Patreon version, I thought I could just add the Patreon edition to my regular page and password lock it. Maybe I can and I just couldn't figure it out, but that's a question to puzzle over another day. Anyway, somewhere in the process of attempting this I restricted the main game for like 30 seconds and it completely removed Bride of Shadows from the Itch algorithm. It went from getting a new follower every 15 minutes to totally disappearing from all the categories. Which sucks because we were doing so good. Like, we were almost in a warm, fuzzy sandwich between the hot succubus game and the sexy Minotaur game and that's without a new release in two weeks. I know, I still can't believe it. Anyway, I think the vanishing is only temporary and it'll creep back into the algorithm again, but I'm too tired to worry about it right now. I cried on the phone with my husband for like 5 minutes about that and Patreon and then he came home with chocolate filled caramels for me. Anyway, it's impossible to be sad while eating them, so I'm feeling much better now but I wanted to rant in a wall of text regardless. In February the big stressful thing was my old blog getting shadowbanned, and I went through this whole 24 hour emotional crisis where I thought the IF was doomed and no one would ever find it again and now this month my crisis is that it was getting tons of followers until I derped the algorithm. It's all to say, sometimes I gotta complain about things that annoy me, but I never lose sight of the bigger picture, which is that I'm writing a story I love and lots of people are enjoying it, so no matter what shenanigans befall me, I don't let it distract me. And if I do get overwhelmed, there are always chocolate filled caramels. And because you read all of this the Nightborn Edition password is "veryeasytoguess". I'll be changing the password once the Patreon launches. In the meantime, feel free to check out the new Zealot night. I hope you'll be able to join the Patreon and help build the Nightborn Edition into something really special. For players in non-Patreon regions or those who hate subscriptions (I totally get it), the Nightborn Edition will be available on Steam once the IF is complete and you're always welcome to submit suggestions for things you'd like to see in the final IF. Also just in case it wasn't clear, the regular free story will still be updated. Night V will be out not long after I finish writing the Heretic route. Thanks for reading, you're all amazing. -Mortish

[mm-lurking]

Your mara brings me pain too - Blade

Blade is the coldest Stellaron Hunter of them all. He is a man of few words and even fewer emotions. One fateful day you get a message from Kafka asking for your help and you learn that behind his cold exterior is a man just like you- and everyone else; he has fears, pain and regrets of his own.

A/N: I don’t understand much about how his mara works but this is how I envisioned it as. Plus, it was about time I wrote something on reader comforting Blade.

ALSO THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 100 FOLLOWERS!! Oh my god thank you for liking my writing >< T^T

Warnings: Blade x fem! reader, angst and pain, fluff, please Blade deserves so much love and affection, idk my writing feels choppy my apologies I’m rusty as hell.

WC: 4227 — Hey are you free right now? It’s urgent.

One day on the Xianzhou Luofu your phone buzzes at night. You weren’t doing particularly much, just cleaning your space and lounging around. You pick up your phone and squint at the sender’s name only to stare at it for a while wondering if you read it right. It was Kafka.

I am available what’s up?

You wondered why Kafka would contact you for help at a time like this. Was everything ok?

Can‘t explain too much but it has to do with Blade. Come over as fast as possible.

You jump upon reading the message. There is a slight elevation in your heart rate as you read his name. Blade was the Stellaron Hunter that had caught your eye when you first encountered him. As days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months, you started realising that perhaps you were in love with him. The idea of that sounded so stupid that you hated to admit it but it was the truth. Obviously, the 9 million bounty over his head wasn’t discouraging enough to stop these feelings.

Left with no choice, you grab your phone and head out the door, practically sprinting to the hideout where those two resided. You’re breathless by the time you arrive and knock on the door, panting like a dog as Kafka opens it. She looks at you with surprise all over her face.

“You’re here. That was fast.”

“You said it had to do with Blade so.”

“Ah yes, it does. Come inside.”

You follow her inside and shut the door close. Neither of you say anything and you silently follow her to a room in the distance. Right before she enters the room she turns around and looks at you with an unreadable expression.

“His mara is acting up again but this time he is wounded pretty badly. While I use my spirit whisperer to calm him down, I need you to help me heal and keep him steady. There is a first aid kit on the table inside.”

You stare at her with wide eyes and blink, taking a minute to process her words. Your gaze flicks back and forth between Kafka and the door, and you take a long pause before saying anything.

“Kafka are you sure it’s ok for me to…”

Your voice trails off. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to help him. You were a healer; on expeditions and other occasions it was your responsibility to heal and tend to others wounds. But this was different -you liked Blade and you weren’t sure if he was comfortable with you healing him. You didn’t want to upset him when he was stable again. Kafka notices your dilemma and shakes her head.

“If there is anyone I can trust Blade with, it’s you. Plus, he would be ok with you.”

That makes your heart flutter but you mentally make yourself shut up and nod. She turns back around and twists the doorknob open, revealing Blade lying on the bed with injuries and hyperventilating. His coat has been discarded on the side of the bed and he lies on the mattress with nothing but poorly wrapped gauze on his upper body. There is a lot of blood splattered all over his limbs but the wound on his chest makes your heart twist; it’s oozing with warm blood and the bandages are unable to stop it.

The injury looks painful. The wound looks like a shattered mirror with lots of little cracks and crevices. You’re so shocked by his state that Kafka has to snap her fingers in front of your face to take you out of your trance. You look at her and then back at him again, wondering how to even explain what you were feeling.

“How did he…?”

“He must have over-pushed himself again. The Xianzhou Luofu reeks of his past and even with the lack of memory, the emotions are still present to induce his mara.”

You cautiously take a step closer to the bed. He’s clearly out of his mind as he keeps mumbling things along the lines of  “you must pay the price” and “my sins are no different than yours traitor”. A part of you is afraid to approach him as you fear he might accidentally hurt you in this state. But the other part of you aches seeing him in so much pain and there is nothing more you wish to do than to soothe his suffering.

“Be careful.”

Kafka warns you and you nod your head while continuing to take closer steps to his bed. There is an aura around him that you cannot discern; it is an uncomfortable feeling of pain and suffocation. By the time you are right by his bedside, the aura only gets stronger and worse. You

can hear him withering in pain from his wounds as sweat rolls down the side of his face. He turns his head left and right continuously as if trying to ease the discomfort. Judging by his half-lidded eyes, it seems he isn’t aware you’re standing next to him.

Immediately you summon your healing power, first creating a shield around yourself to protect you from the aura and any sudden self-defense movements he might do. Then, you lean closer towards his body and place your hands on his chest, removing his bandages carefully to begin healing.

“I’m going to start using the spirit whisperer now. On my count. One, two-“

You zone out the moment she finishes counting and release all the power you have into your hands to heal him. There is a faint yellowish glow over his chest as you hover your hands over the wounds. It takes a considerable amount of power to work on each wound he has, especially the one right in the middle of the chest that hasn’t stopped bleeding. You hear him groan in pain as you work your way through the different injuries continuously.

“I know…I know…”

You whisper soothingly as he seethes and huffs, presumably from the spirit whisperer. For a moment there is silence in the room until suddenly Blade throws his arm towards you, smacking your shield with a loud thud. The unexpected action makes you stumble a little and your healing abilities dispel from the shock.

You look up at Kafka who gives you a concerned look. She had mentioned that she cannot stop her ability halfway through the process and therefore leaving you alone to deal with Blade. You gaze back at Blade who's starting to stir awake and his groans only get worse as consciousness begins to set in.

With a deep breath, you hover your hands over his chest again and resume healing. Unfortunately for you, he tries to hit you again and the thud on your shield makes you flinch. Despite this, you push forward as you grit your teeth and finish healing his main wound.

A surge of pain takes over you as you exhaust yourself in the process of healing him. He’s trying to throw hands at you again, this time more aggressively as if trying to stop you from healing him. However, based on his constant murmuring and the pain laced in his voice, he’s reliving something and is accidentally taking it out on you instead.

At one point you catch his hands as you tightly grip them and hold them in place to stop him from hitting you. His strength is overbearing even during such a state of weakness. He squirms in your grasp, trying to escape but you hold onto him until he finally gives up and loosens his grip.

“Easy there Blade…”

Who knows if he’s actually able to hear you but regardless, you continue to whisper comforting things to him, trying to ease the pain as much as possible. It hurts seeing him in such a frail state, one where you can’t intervene. The mara is a sickness only those inflicted with it can understand and feel and as such, you’re left to watch him from the outside as he fights the battles in his mind.

The last of his wounds are easier to patch up and it should take no time to heal them. But just as you’re about to start healing again he physically stirs and you watch him twist and turn as his eyes flutter open. There is a momentary silence in the room before he shifts his head to look at you and you swear you see hatred in his crimson eyes.

“You traitor..!”

You gulp. He’s still mara-stricken but just awake. You’re unsure if you should say anything as it might make things worse; what if he gets physical with you? Hesitantly you softly reply.

“Blade, it’s me.”

“You…you must pay the price!”

Before you know it he has grabbed onto your arms once again and tries to wrestle you. The sheer force he exerts on you makes you panic as you try to make him let go.

“Blade…!”

You look back at Kafka whose eyes are closed as she continues her part of the job. A chill runs down your spine as you slightly panic, afraid you will be alone in dealing with his sudden change in demeanour. Another burst of light leaves your hands as you form a new shield and wrestle to contain him.

After what feels like forever, the unyielding grip he has on you loosens and he breathes heavily. You watch as he takes large gulps of air and turns his head side to side over and over. A pang of pain hits your chest as you try to ease his discomfort again, healing the last of his wounds while he seems to be calm. 

Silence falls in the room again as you finally finish healing. You take this opportunity to stare at his figure only to notice he has fallen completely silent and looks to be asleep. Confused at his sudden behaviour change, you glance at Kafka again who opens her eyes and looks at you. She gives you a small smile and you immediately understand that she has finished using her spirit whisperer.

“I have suppressed the mara in him. He should be fine now. Thank you for your help.”

Your attention shifts back to Blade, and you gaze at him longingly.

“You’re welcome.”

Kafka nods and smiles at you again.

“I will leave him in your capable hands. I am sure he will need your presence when he wakes up.”

You’re not sure how to feel about that. Yes, you would love to look after him but you were also afraid he wouldn’t be pleased if he saw you. Before you can say anything, Kafka leaves the room and it’s just you and Blade alone together. You haven’t been able to process anything since you arrived. Everything was so chaotic and sudden that only now were you able to think through things. You mentally trace the wounds on his chest, starting from the ones on his shoulder and moving your way down to his abdomen.

The injury on his chest hurts you the most. In your lifetime of getting injured and healing others, you’ve seen it all. You’ve seen flesh burn, knife stabs down to the bone, small scratches; name an injury and you’ve seen it at least once in your lifetime. But his wound was a unique situation. You knew that no matter how much he was stabbed and hurt his flesh would heal over and over on its own. That was the curse of immortality given to him. No matter how grave the injury, it would heal.

That doesn’t mean it wouldn’t hurt right? You couldn’t even fathom the pain he went through everyday, getting hurt in fights and having to come back to his residence to bandage up everything on his own. Each day like clockwork that’s what he probably did, cursing his immortality as he cleaned up his wounds all by himself, all alone.

The image of that brings tears to your eyes as you look at his face. How lonely must it be to live a life like this? To know you could never die, to know that you would have to look after yourself all on your own? Did he ever wish that someone could look after him just once? Or did he think he wasn’t deserving of such love?

Your tears splatter on the bedsheet as you feel an overwhelming amount of sadness from such thoughts. How desperately you wished you could be the woman by his side to assist him in such moments. How desperately you wished that you could love him so dearly that every fibre of his body felt wanted and desired.

It takes you a while to calm down from such depressing thoughts. The tears have dried from your eyes but you continue to sniffle as you grab the bandages and gauze from the first aid kit to bind his wounds. Slowly but gently, you clean up the remaining blood on his body with a clean cloth and sanitise the wounds before sealing the area with the gauze.

You couldn’t help but start tearing up again at the thought of him wrapping the gauze around himself on his own. For how long had he been doing this? How many years? How long and how many injuries must it take for one to become a master at bandaging their wounds?

You cannot contain the tears in your eyes as they accidentally drip onto his abdomen. You attempt to hurriedly wipe your eyes but it’s hard to contain them the more you ponder. What you don’t realise is your sniffling and tears have prompted the man to wake up.

“Urgh….why are you crying…?”

His deep raspy voice makes you jump slightly and you aggressively wipe your tears before smiling at him.

“Goodness, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

You reply, completely ignoring his question. You’re aware he’s watching you as you work on his wounds, bandaging him carefully.

“Urgh…!”

“Ah I’m sorry, does that hurt?”

Worried, you lean closer to him and examine his shoulder carefully. You gently press on it to confirm the pain. He groans again and you give him a small smile.

“It’s a bit tender. Try to relax as much as you can.”

Instead of doing that, he catches your hand and looks at you intently. Your heart skips a beat as you make eye contact with him.

“I need to patch up the last injury on your arm Blade.”

“Stay.”

“I am not going anywhere.”

You reassure him and he nods before closing his eyes and exhaling. It takes a little under a minute for you to wrap up his arm injury and you sigh after you’re done. When you observe his body now, you see more bandages and gauze than his skin and the pang in your chest comes back again.

“…would you like some water Blade?”

You quickly ask since you were afraid you would start crying again. He opens his eyes and looks at you blankly before nodding. As he attempts to sit upright you quickly assist him, placing a hand on his back while the other holds his large one. He observes the shakiness in your hand as you pour him a glass of water and bring it to his lips.

“Drink some.”

The gentleness in your voice soothes him in a way he cannot explain. He complies and drinks the entire glass, all the while maintaining eye contact with you. Suddenly you feel very embarrassed and attempt to distract yourself but when your gaze lands on the chest wound you can’t help but feel sad again.

When he’s done drinking, you place the glass on the nightstand and sigh.

“Are you feeling any better?”

You softly ask as you help him lie down again. He hums and you take that as a yes. Unable to help yourself, you lean closer towards him and brush stray hairs away from his forehead. The proximity between you both makes your heart race but you fail to notice it as you absentmindedly run your fingers through his scalp. The sensation is calming and he finds himself relaxing under your touch. He watches you closely again, observing the tiny frown on your face and your red puffy eyes while you’re busy playing with his hair. He notes that you look exhausted.

“Your eyes are red.”

“Huh? Oh.”

You plaster a smile on your face. 

“Don’t worry about it.”

He didn’t need to know what you were feeling. It was embarrassing and you didn’t want to make things awkward between you both.

“Are you- urgh!”

He groans in discomfort while trying to adjust himself. It’s the wound on his chest that seems to be the problem now.

“Easy there.”

You quickly help him out, checking the bandages again and readjusting them. Beads of sweat form on his forehead and you grab a cold compress from the first aid kit to wipe them away. His breathing pattern is inconsistent as he huffs and sighs from the aching of his body. You check his forehead and it feels warm to the touch which makes you frown.

“Blade I think you have a mild fever.”

“It’s the side effect of the mara.”

“You need to take medicine.”

“There is no need.”

“Are you sure?”

You stare at him sadly and he sighs. You continue to wipe the sweat off his face and neck as he takes shallow breaths.

“Did Kafka send you?”

He manages to ask in between the bouts of pain.

“She did.”

He sighs and intently looks at you.

“When the mara strikes you shouldn’t be next to me.”

“She said she could trust only me with you.”

He scoffs.

“Even so.”

Silence fills the air before he continues.

“Are you hurt anywhere?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?”

You jokingly reply only to realise he’s being dead serious when you make eye contact with him.

“I’m ok. I am a healer after all.”

You change the cold compress as you speak and look for a new pack. It is then he notices the slight bruises forming on your arms and the redness around them. Without a word, he grabs your arm and you yelp.

“Hey-?!”

He examines your arms and gazes at you with a look you cannot decipher. You gulp at the intensity of his gaze.

“When exactly did you get here?”

“Blade none of that matters, all that matters is if you’re ok-“

“Did I hurt you?”

You immediately shut your mouth. There are several ways you want to answer the question but nothing comes out.

“I will take that as a yes.”

“Blade please-“

“Why would you risk being around-“

“Because I care for you!”

A sharp exhale leaves your mouth as you realise what you just said. The tears you had been trying to hide so desperately started to flood your eyes again.

“Please. Let it be.”

You whisper slowly while putting away medical supplies. In your peripheral vision, you see him look at you with wide eyes as if unable to understand.

“I am a healer Blade, I will be fine. But I worry for you.”

You gently whisper as you adjust the bedsheets around him and fix his long hair. This time your tears have nowhere to hide as they freely roll down your face. With nothing left to do, you just awkwardly grip the edges of the bedsheet and hang your head low.

“I will give you some space. Rest well.”

The moment you let go of the bedsheet and try to stand up, he immediately clasps your hands tightly and silently demands you to stay.

“Blade?”

“Stay.”

Hesitantly you remain by his bedside and look at him. He doesn’t let go of your hands and continues to peer into your eyes.

“Stay.”

He repeats himself and you sigh.

“Alright.”

He slowly shifts away from you and pats the edge of the bed. Your eyes widen and you look back and forth between him and the bed.

“Are you sure?”

He doesn’t reply and instead gently drags your hands towards him until you have no choice but to sit on the bed. He then proceeds to look at your arms and then at you again.

“You…the fate of those I know is never a good one.”

You intertwine his fingers with yours and tenderly smile at him.

“That will change with me.”

You watch how his eyes widen momentarily before he turns his head away.

“You have a long life ahead of you, young one. Don’t waste it on me.”

Hearing that makes you frown.

“You’re going to have to find better ways to get rid of me then.”

“Mm.”

Silence falls once again. To your surprise, he doesn’t pull his hands away from yours as you rub circles on it. You note how calloused his hands are and the amount of scars littered on them. There is warmth radiating from his palms and it feels comforting and protective.

“Are your wounds still hurting?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You shift around to get a better look at his face.

“Do you feel at ease now?”

“Mmm.”

“Let me know if you feel any discomfort, okay?”

“You need to be more careful when the mara strikes me.”

“…”

“It is reckless of you to be around me even if you are a healer.”

He then turns his head to get a better look at you.

“I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

You absentmindedly run your fingers through his hair again and sadly smile.

“I hate that you have to deal with this alone Blade…”

You mentally yell at how tears have started forming in your eyes again.

“I hate that you suffer on your own while I spend my days in comfort. I hate that you have to bandage and heal yourself every day all alone. I hate that you’ve grown so accustomed to this life that you do not allow yourself to be loved.”

The tears in your eyes fall on him once again and he grips your other hand tightly. There is a confused look on his face, as if he doesn’t understand why would someone care for him and why would someone feel sorry for him.

“Foolish girl. Why are you crying?”

“Because I-“

You choke on your words and attempt to hide your face by hanging your head but fail to do so. He slowly brings his free hand to cup your face and sighs. His palm completely encapsulates your cheek and you subconsciously lean into it.

“My life is cursed to immortality. It is my sin to bear.”

“Still-!”

“Do not cry. This is a daily affair.”

“Doesn’t it hurt Blade? Even if you’re used to it?”

He takes a deep breath and wipes the tears away from your eyes.

“A sin is a sin. Of five people, three must pay the price. I am one of them.”

You sob harder into his hand, unable to stop yourself from feeling this way.

“Just what sin must one commit to suffer such consequences?” He stops wiping your tears and gazes at you momentarily with an indescribable look in his eyes. You can see how there are thousands of thoughts swarming him as he wonders what to reply. Fearing that you might have overstepped his boundaries, you immediately try to change the topic.

“You don’t have to tell me anything. I just..”

“It is a long story young one. Should you ever have to face the situations I have, do not make the same choices as me.”

“It must be hard to live with such regrets…”

He stares into the distance then hesitantly replies.

“Even if I have regrets, there is no point in pondering about them. There is nothing that can be done.”

“I am sorry…it should be me looking after you, not the other way around…”

You manage to say in between your hiccups. He continues to wipe the tears from your face and gives you a small smile. Seeing him smile makes your heart skip a beat and you can’t help but give him one in return.

“You need to rest.”

“So do you.”

“I am already resting.”

“I can rest later.”

He sighs at your stubbornness. You giggle a little and squeeze his hand, reassuring him you would be fine. A little chit-chat later, Blade falls asleep from your rhythmic playing of his hair while still holding your hand. There is a large silly smile on your face as you look over him lovingly.

Your tears have dried and the aching in your heart has calmed down. In his lifetime, you may not be able to take his curse away but the least you could do was to be by his side in times of need. If the Aeons were kind enough to you, perhaps in the future you could be his woman. There is a strange feeling of determination that burns in your chest as you hold onto his hand tighter and stroke his hair. You silently stare at his peaceful face, mentally tracing his handsome features as he takes slow deep breaths. The thumping of your heart grows louder with each passing second.

I would do anything for you Blade. Anything. ⋇⋆✦⋆⋇ ©mm-lurking 2024 do not copy, steal or reuse my work.

[comicaurora]

Out of curiosity, how far ahead are you on the comic? I mean, you must have it all planned and written out, but I imagine that you are drawing the future of Aurora even while we're reading it.

So is Arc 2 already illustrated and ready for upload while you're on like Arc 5 or something? I'm by no means undermining your need for a break; I'm shocked that you've been uploading continuously for over 4 years at this point. I'm just interested to know how long it takes a person to make something this great. And also if you change any details in the final edit?

Basically: what's the workflow like?

Also I think you low-key inspired me to pick up painting as a hobby. I'm ready to pour so much money into creating things that I know I'll hate. :)

God, arc 5? That's a very generous assessment of how fast I can draw!

Typically, when the comic is updating regularly, I keep a buffer of 10 to 20 completed pages. Right now, in the interest of taking a break, the buffer is 0 completed pages.

Chapter 1 of Arc 2 is completely storyboarded, meaning it's sketched out, the dialog is all mostly finalized barring last-minute rephrasements, etc. It can be read in its current form, it just looks unpretty. In fact, just for fun, here's a sneak peek!

In the next month I'll go through and finalize as many pages from this chapter as possible - which means locking down the panel borders, fleshing out the backgrounds, lining, shading, coloring, polish, etc. - which will be the process of building up a new buffer for when the comic starts back up again in January. During that time, I'll also be storyboarding Chapter 2 and as much of the following parts as I can manage.

I have the next several chapters and sub-arcs planned out in loose timelines - event A happens at location B leading to consequences C and D, stuff like that. Chapter 2, being the closest, is a little more fleshed-out, with a more detailed bullet-pointed timeline and various character ideas I've had that might or might not make it into the final version.

What exactly the chapter breakdown is going to look like is a little more complicated. Initially I'd planned for Chapter 1 to be low-stakes downtime and Chapter 2 to quickly kick off the high-octane adventure again, but when I started bullet-pointing out the stuff I wanted to do in Chapter 2, I ended up with a big pile of slower-paced character moments I thought were well worth exploring, so the runtimes might stretch a little.

Translating those brainstormed notes into storyboards and dialog is what I would classify as the "writing" part of this process. It happens at an erratic pace largely determined by the whims of whatever muse decides to get me in a headlock that day; sometimes I go weeks with no storyboarding progress, sometimes I hammer out fifteen pages in one day.

It's kinda like weaving, to me. The soon-to-be-arriving parts of the story are the most finalized, the most densely woven. A little ways beyond that, things get looser - some patterns may be locked down, but the actual work that'll hold it together hasn't been done yet. And in the far-flung future arcs, it's just the basic bones of the story and a pile of the threads I've planned to use. I know the shape of it, but in order for it to be fun and engaging for me to make it, I need to give myself room to be creative when I'm putting the whole thing together.

I actually have a file called the "Toolbox" that contains every random character or subplot idea I've had, and sometimes when I'm debating where to go with a chunk of story, I'll crack it open and scan through to see if anything jumps out begging to be used. Lotta fun stuff in there that may or may not ever see the light of day. Dropping stuff in the Toolbox is one of the most fun and freeing parts of the process for me!

[starmocha]

It's been a while since I've done my usual end of the year fic review (originally from LiveJournal), since I did take an unexpected writing hiatus for 1.5 years (mental health reasons and then RL emergency crisis). This is the first year I've deviated from writing Sess/Kag completely (still adore it and did try to write some stuff during that period of crisis, but had too much on my mind to focus). When I say Love and Deepspace has me in a chokehold... Inviting some writers to join me in this end of the year evaluation for all stories you've written for any and all fandoms. It's a good way to yap about your stories and writing process, but feel free to opt out. Absolutely no hard feelings. <3333 Also feel free to tag others or just join in if you like! (I also suggest making a new post, so people can like all of the writers 💖) Tagging some lovelies: @rose-tinted-kalopsia @unluckywisher @aeyumicore @irandial @callilypso

【 I will be linking stories on tumblr, but these can all be found on AO3 (loveppears) as well! 】

Total number of completed stories: 37

Total word count: 84,143 (give or take; I find AO3's word counts to be a little wonky. Also lowkey disappointed I couldn't add BOTDK's word count to this since it's sitting pretty at 38.3k words 😔)

Chronological Breakdown:

May »

calling your name | Dawnbreaker/MC | 1.5k words

June »

the day bleeds into nightfall | Zayne/MC | 1.2k words 12:30 PM Checkup | Zayne + Son | 767 words never the same | Rafayel/MC | 2.2k words

July »

call me master (and i’ll call you mine) | Sylus/MC | 666 words | mdni Mirror, Mirror | Sylus/Reader | 750 words | mdni fly to you like birds do | Sylus/Reader | 2.6k words | mdni tag, you’re it | Sylus/Reader | 2.4k words | mdni you are my favorite mistake | Sylus/Reader | 2.1k words | mdni Unhelpful Company | Sylus/Reader | 100 words Time-Out | Xavier + Daughter | 503 words Rock-a‐Bye | Sylus + Daughter | 1.1k words Caller ID | Sylus/Reader | 930 words Crow in the Bedroom | Sylus/Reader | 666 words yours & mine | Sylus/Reader | 100 words | mdni would you still love me if i was a worm? (and other thought-provoking questions) | Sylus/Reader | 2.1k words

August »

pain is all you'll find | Sylus/Reader | 630 words but if it's forever, it's even better | Sylus/Reader | 4.6k words | mdni and we'll chase after shooting stars | misc. | ongoing indefinitely (ao3 only)

September »

I For You | Zayne/Reader | 3.3k words | mdni it was always you | Sylus/Reader | 10.6k words | mdni Relentless Conqueror | Sylus/Reader | 1.7k words | mdni

October »

Elysium | Sylus/Reader | 16k words | mdni Hide-and-Seek | Sylus + Daughter | 1.2k words Little Dino | Sylus + Daughter | 2.5k words

November »

Carrot Cake | Zayne + Son | 1.2k words Bride of the Dragon King :: Prelude | Sylus/Reader | 465 words want me, need me, love me | Sylus/Reader | 1.5k words | mdni

December »

Sunday Reset | Sylus/Reader | 4.3k words to: my true love | Sylus/Reader | 1.6k words do you want to build a snowman? (it doesn't have to be a snowman) | Zayne/Reader | 1.6k words in a gingerbread house built for two | Rafayel/Reader | 1.9k words you shine like the stars, you light up my heart | Xavier/Reader | 1.7k words ‘tis the damn season and deck them goddamned halls | Sylus/Reader | 1.8k words you're the only one, my love | Zayne/Reader | 1.7k words and this year i promise | Rafayel/Reader | 1.2k words meet me at midnight | Sylus/Reader | 950 words | mdni

Overall Thoughts:

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d predicted?

Definitely a lot more! As mentioned, I did take a 1.5 year writing hiatus due to RL reasons, so it's kind of astounding that I managed to slip back into writing again after so long and found a steady rhythm. I've noticed my rate of putting out stories (especially to my standards) has been one per week, if not biweekly, which beats my previous years of one per month if I'm lucky lol We are not addressing the elephant in the room that my speed/motivation started with all all of the horny Sylus smut in July 🧍‍♀️

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted in January? 

Love and Deepspace lol I have written Reader fics for another otome game (Several Shades of Sadism) before, but that was a few years ago and was the only otome game I actually felt inspired for. LADS surpassed that, because, what 37-ish stories in just eight months??? 😭😭😭

What’s your own favorite story of the year? 

Teehee. I can never pick one, so let's go with top five, in no particular order: - fly to you like birds do - would you still love me if i was a worm? (and other thought-provoking questions) - it was always you - Elysium - never the same Maybe an extra special mention for Sunday Reset, my birthday present to myself and the fandom <3333

Did you take any writing risks this year?

Writing Elysium (and Bride of the Dragon King) felt like a risk since they're so goddamn long (especially the latter...).

Do you have any fanfic or profic goals for the new year? 

For the love of god, give me the attention span to finish all of those series I've promised 😔🫶

From my past year of writing, what was…

My best story of this year:

I feel like Elysium and it was always you can be tied for best story.

My most popular story of this year: 

OK, this one is a little tricky to determine. fly to you like birds do has the most kudos & bookmarks on AO3 (1,157 kudos, 132 public bookmarks currently), but not as many interactions on tumblr. would you still love me if i was a worm? (and other thought-provoking questions) is my third popular story on AO3, but I think it got dropped to also third on tumblr it was always you is the most popular on tumblr, but it's at fourth standing on AO3 (although it seems to have been steadily rising in standing recently). I'll probably go ahead and say it was always you is my most popular story at the moment. But, um, you guys do realize this is part 2, right???? Why does it have more interactions than part 1 now 😭

Story of mine most under-appreciated by the universe, in my opinion:

never the same - I don't really write Raf (I'm a coward), but I am quite proud of this one, especially since it was earlier in the year when I was trying to get back into writing again.

Most fun story to write:

Crow in the Bedroom and would you still love me if i was a worm? (and other thought-provoking questions) - I love clowning on Sylus lmao

Story with the single sexiest moment:

Um.....a moment??? Idk....but people seemed to enjoy both but if it's forever, it's even better and it was always you (aka the Sylus breeding series 👁👄👁) ...........part 3 is coming....it is....I promise

Most “holy crap, that’s wrong, even for you” story:

People seemed to think both the day bleeds into nightfall and never the same (same series) were pretty fucked up, but if you've read my older stuff in other fandoms, this was just on brand behavior of me lol ...I actually need to write Xavier and Sylus' parts now too....and...Caleb, I guess........fuck. orz

Story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters:

never the same - this was around the time Rafayel's myth came out and I absolutely adored his myth instantly.

Hardest story to write:

....Bride of the Dragon King. Not hard to write per se, but tedious to write because the document is now 100 pages long and every time I try to read through it, my eyes hurt, so I haven't been able to fill in the missing scenes or do a full read-over yet. ....but the other day I did print out all 100 pages to read and edit old-school. I am nothing if not committed to the bit 🤡

Biggest disappointment:

I'm just disappointed it's taking this long to finish BOTDK....and I suppose writing the epilogue for the Sylus breeding kink series since I keep getting distracted by other plot bunnies. Oh. And the Christmas series I was supposed to finish in twelve days. My own anemic body betrayed me at the worst time ever. 😒

Biggest surprise:

...I'm writing consistently? 🥹

Most unintentionally telling story:

but if it's forever, it's even better and many stories afterwards definitely exposed something about me...............

Highlights + Wrap-up:

5 Favourite Opening Lines:

1. This was weird. This was very weird. This was so very fucking weird. — Crow in the Bedroom 2. You were going to kill Luke and Kieran, you decided decisively, as you stood outside Sylus’ study, your hand wrapped around the doorknob, trembling uncontrollably and filled with anxiety worse than any other instances in your life. — to: my true love 3. She was coming home soon. — the day bleeds into nightfall 4. To you, every moment with Zayne felt like a present, always unexpected, always delightful, and every single one you cherished with all of your heart. — you're the only one, my love 5. Distantly, in the Celestial Realm where the immortals resided, the vast kingdom of the Dragon King was shrouded in nighttime for all of eternity, stuck within an eternal spring. — Bride of the Dragon King :: Prelude (I'll be honest. I find opening lines tend to feel very lukewarm, so I wouldn't say I actually have any favorites.)

5 Favourite Closing Lines:

1. In this moment, you also recalled the elders had long ago told tales of a paradise after life, but you wondered how there could be a greater heaven than the one on the grassland with your lover—your destined half. Sylus. — Elysium 2. The pieces of your lives fell into place, this picture of paradise becoming clearer with each passing moment. It was yours to keep, yours to hold. How divine. — it was always you 3. Sylus closed his eyes, and he rubbed his temple as he gritted his teeth again, wondering with irritation if he had just gotten cockblocked by a mechanical bird. — Crow in the Bedroom 4. One day, in a new lifetime, they will be together again. “For ‘tis Lemuria’s vow…” he murmured, stepping forward and letting his lips meet hers on the canvas. His eyes closed as he shuddered and sighed, his hand splayed over hers. A bond everlasting. — never the same 5. Set aglow, it felt like the two of you had slipped away to another world, to a dream where you and he played and waltzed among the stars, his hand firmly grasping yours, a silent promise that he would always hold onto you even when all of the stars burned out. — you shine like the stars, you light up my heart

5 Favorite Lines from Anywhere:

1. Normally, you were more than ready to bed the leader of Onychinus, because why the fuck wouldn’t you be? — Crow in the Bedroom 2. He gazed into your eyes, as if in awe at seeing the whole universe staring back at him, gifting him with the secret message of a distant star echoed across time and space that had been waiting to reach him. — you shine like the stars, you light up my heart 3. “We are meant to be, and were we not, I would rewrite the stars, to change the course of destiny and weave a new tapestry of fate to make you mine.” — Elysium 4. He knew he had stolen a piece of Heaven, already prepared and willing to pay the heavy price to keep what he had coveted. — it was always you 5. Soft, even breathing filled the room, and dreams of playful little dinosaurs and crows filled a little girl’s head as she slept peacefully, safe in her father’s protective embrace and surrounded by her cherished plushies. — Little Dino

Fic-writing goals for 2025: 

I have got to finish those goddamn series, fuck's sake...

[localplaguenurse]

Falling Head over Heels (Pantalone x Male Reader) pt 11

We're back! Finally after four months we're back! I appreciate your patience, I promise you all, the really good stuff I've been dying to write is coming up real soon. I've also updated the masterlist to include some of the fanart I've gotten in the meantime and a couple oneshots/requests.

(To the anon who requested the fic about sick Helina I WILL eventually write it, I promise, it's still in my inbox)

No warnings today, really. I hope you all enjoy!

@thedeimoshimself @eli-chris @antartzz @your-local-furby

The clacking of keys slows to a stop, and the office is momentarily quiet, save for the winds outside the window. You take a moment to stretch, your spine aching from your horrific posture the past few hours. You sit up straight and let your eyes scan over the freshly typed ink. 

I can only imagine how he looks right now, but I know for certain he’s looking at me. I know the warmth of sunshine shining on my face, and how his hand wraps so protectively around mine. I feel the smile on his lips when he brings my knuckles to them.

I feel my heart blooming in my chest, a symphony of words too loud and too many to come out all at once. I want to sing his praises, chant in holy prayer, make the world my stage for a performance no composer or director can ever match, but tonight’s antics have left me too tired.

Instead, I lean in close, and I tell him I love him. 

Gently, you begin the process of removing the page from the typewriter. You pull it free and smooth out the paper. Your hands move to the top of the page and you rip it in half. You turn the ripped pieces to the side and rip them into quarters, then eighths, so on and so forth until you have a little pile of homemade confetti sitting on your desk. At that point, you place your head in your hands and let out a frustrated yell.

This is the End. The finish line is within sight, and it feels like every time you try to write the final lines to this book, you’re finding new ways to trip and fall face first into the dirt in this proverbial race. Endings are always the worst part of writing any story, and you still haven’t figured out how to actually end this story. You know how and where it ends, you’ve known for years, but your efforts feel fruitless. The words you thought sounded great in your head read like nonsense when physically typed, and do not give justice to everything else you have written down. You love your other books, you do, but with those ones, they were more formulaic, more cliché, simpler. They were not unique, and your readers did not care so much as they could imagine themselves in the arms of a loving gentleman or prince or noble or whoever they wish would love them. This book is different, and as such, there is high reward and even higher risk if the audience gets to the end and is greeted by disappointment.

Or maybe, and this is a very big maybe, you have spent too much time writing and not enough time sleeping or eating? A little bit of column A, a little bit of column B. All this to say you are in desperate need of a break.

Your father is at work and your mother is out of town for the day to visit your extended family. You like the peace and quiet it gives, especially considering last week’s public spectacle with your father. He hasn’t said a word to you, not since the argument was recounted in the paper (though it did not make the front page, thankfully). You heard your mother scolding him for making an ass of himself by nearly brawling with his own son for days, though she didn’t say much about how it started because he threw a fit over homosexuality. You think she should have maybe focused on that a little more, but you’re not in the mood to bring that up again.

It should be break time for the staff, so the kitchen is empty. You use the opportunity to make yourself a late lunch, or really late breakfast. It’s a simple sandwich that’s mostly ham and cheese, though it’s tempting to grab some of the pastries your mother bought as an apology on your father’s behalf. You’re saving those for after you finish your book.

You’re halfway through scarfing your sandwich down when the kitchen doors open. You look over and see Colleen, looking mildly frantic and then shocked when she sees you leaning against the counter with a sandwich. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here. I was worried when you weren’t in your study.”

You swallow. “What is it?”

You’re biting back into your sandwich when Colleen informs you “Lord Pantalone is here.”

“... Wha?” you ask, with your mouth half full.

You see the man’s face as he peers over Colleen, smiling as he is one to do. He says nothing, simply waving. You barely avoid choking on your food, and don’t imagine the sight of you narrowly spitting up a half chewed lump of ham, bread and cheese is a flattering site. You swallow the lump down, and it’s not a pleasant feeling. 

You stand up straight, face flushed. “Regrator! I… did not think you would be here!”

Pantalone laughs, taking in the sight of the kitchen. “Good afternoon to you too,” he says, “I hope I’m not interrupting something?”

“No, no, not at all,” you say. It’s not lost on you that you probably look terrible right now. Your clothes are clean, but entirely too casual for a meeting with Pantalone, you haven’t slept, haven’t shaved in a few days and wait, shit, when was the last time you showered? You think it was a couple nights ago, but you secretly fear it’s actually been several weeks. (You know it hasn’t, but your unkempt appearance in front of a pretty man is making you internally panic.)

You offer a very clearly tense smile. “So! What brings you here?”

“I was curious as to why you haven’t replied to any of my letters,” he explains. “I know you’re busy with your book and all, but I figured surely we have enough rapport that you would write me back.”

“... What?”

He tilts his head. “My letters. The letters I’ve sent you.”

“I genuinely do not know what you’re talking about,” you reply, “I have not received any letters, and no one has mentioned anything about you sending us mail.”

“How strange,” he remarks, “I have my staff personally deliver it all, so it’s odd you haven’t received any of it…”

You conjure the mental image of either your mother or father, possibly both, angrily sorting through the mail and confiscating anything that has your name on it. That’s something you’re going to have to bring up at some point, or you can just snoop through their room. You’re fairly certain you know the safe’s code, but it’s not like it would be hard to guess if you didn’t know. You’re one of five siblings, after all, one of your birthdays has to unlock it.

You put a pin in that for later. “So… is there anything specific you need me for? Since I haven’t replied to any of your letters.”

“Well, I had cleared my schedule to invite you for tea,” he says, “but I can assume by your appearance that we’ll have to reschedule?”

Ouch. You force out a laugh. “Yes, today is unfortunately not a good day for me.”

“Clearly.”

“Can I offer you anything?” you ask. “I’m not sure what we have as far as tea goes, that’s more my mother’s thing, but ah…” 

Pantalone watches the figurative light bulb go off in your head, and you immediately begin rummaging through the cupboards. He looks to the maid next to him, silently asking if this is normal, and even she seems confused by your behaviour. There’s something mildly amusing about it, so he continues observing you.

“I just got these yesterday,” you say, then turn around holding a small dish in your hand. Sitting in the centre is a small fried cake with some sort of cream and jam swirled on top of it. You walk over and offer it to Pantalone. “Here, I hope a little vdolek will suffice as an apology for not writing to you.”

Graciously, your unexpected guest accepts your offering. “Why, thank you, my dear writer.”

You don’t see Colleen slip out of the kitchen, but you’ve also forgotten she was there to begin with. Pantalone brings the little pastry up to his lips and bites into it, humming cheerfully. He licks some of the cream off his lips and you turn your attention back to your lunch lest your mind linger on that image too long.

“Delightful,” he comments, “I’ll have to get some next time we meet. I know a marvelous blend of black tea to pair this with.”

“S-Sounds good.”

Get it the fuck together.

There’s a minute or two of quiet as the two of you finish eating. You hear Pantalone set the dish down, and you’ve now grown very familiar and very fond of how audible his smile is. “So, how is the book?”

“You’ve got better eyes than me,” you joke, gesturing to yourself, “I think you can tell how it’s going.”

“They’re really not that much better,” he says, pointing at his glasses.

“They’re correctable.”

“Fair enough, now do you mind answering the question?”

“It… It’s going.”

Pantalone gives you an odd look. “Going? Good or bad?”

“It’s going to kill me,” you tell him, “I am right at the end, and I’m stuck on the last few lines and have been for two days now.”

Pantalone smiles sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that. What is it specifically that you’re stuck on?”

“I just can’t think of anything that isn’t really underwhelming compared to the rest of the story,” you explain, “it either brings down the quality of the story as a whole, or it feels like the story just stops rather than ends.”

You feel Pantalone studying your appearance, and once again feel self conscious. It doesn’t help when he smiles cheerfully and says “I think you’re well overdue for a break.”

You shake your head. “I am this close to the end, if I stop now I’ll lose the little momentum I have.”

“And how is that working out for you?”

“It hasn’t stopped me yet.”

“In all seriousness, you really should take some time to adequately rest,” Pantalone tells you. “I am very much the pot calling the kettle black, but my occupation has much higher stakes. You don’t gain much from all-nighters or working through your meals compared to me. Or, rather, I suppose it’s more accurate to say I stand to lose a lot if I don’t put all my effort in, but that’s all semantics.”

“Thank you, mom, I’ll remember to eat my veggies too.”

Pantalone chuckles. “Goodness, you’re rather petulant when you’re tired.”

Your face flushes again. You look at the ground, and imagine this isn’t helping the petulant accusations. Shaking your head, you look back up at Pantalone and stand up straight again, like a good and mature host would. 

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” you ask. “I’d be happy to spend time with you but I do have a deadline to meet in a few days.”

“So eager to kick me out,” he teases, “but I guess I won’t take it too personally. I suppose I did drop in rather unexpectedly for you.”

You make your way out of the kitchen, Pantalone following behind you. “To be honest, I don’t think I would have been able to meet up anyways if I did know.”

Pantalone looks over his shoulder and sees the maid from before standing next to the door, clearly listening in. Her face flushes, and she promptly walks the other way while you are none the wiser. “That’s a shame. I was rather looking forward to talking to you without your family interrupting.”

“You can still do that,” you tell him, “just not for long. Deadline aside, my mother will have an absolute fit if she hears you came by.”

“Then I’ll make it quick,” he states, “I want to know more about your typewriter.”

You pause, and turn around. “My typewriter?”

“It’s been on my mind for some time now,” he explains, “I recognize the brand as we use their typewriters at the bank, but I’m not familiar with that specific model. Now granted, I don’t typically use typewriters, so I’m sure there’s a gap in my knowledge there, but in the times I have gone looking for new typewriters, they’ve never had that model as an option.”

Moments ago, you looked tired, frustrated, and drained. Your appearance is still a little unkempt, but you noticeably perk up as soon as Pantalone explains himself. The bags under your eyes are dark, but the fatigue has faded. Your posture, slightly hunched from your time at your desk, has straightened. You smile.

“Oh, that’s because mine is from a now discontinued line,” you explain, then pick up your pace. “I believe there was also a limited stock of them, but I don’t think they were necessarily limited edition. They were just very expensive to buy and even more expensive to make, not to mention they required very brand specific tools and repairs, hence why the line was eventually discontinued some… twenty-five years ago?”

“Fascinating.”

“That’s what I can recall off the top of my head, anyways,” you tell him as you begin climbing the stairs to the second floor. “There aren’t very many of them around now. They were difficult to repair as is, but they don’t even make the parts for them anymore. The only way you can fix them is if you somehow find another one that hasn’t had the part you need harvested. Despite that, it works beautifully when it’s in good condition.”

“It sounds like more hassle than what it’s worth,” Pantalone comments, “but I suppose it must have some value among collectors. My question is why you would use such a delicate piece of equipment as opposed to anything else.”

You reach the top of the stairs, and turn to address Pantalone. “Why would I need a new typewriter when mine works fine?”

“I respect that approach,” he says, “what I meant was there are surely better typewriters out there, ones that aren’t a pain to maintain and completely useless if something breaks. Why not use one of those ones?”

“... Sentimental value.”

Pantalone raises a brow. “Oh?”

You guide the man to your study. You push the door open, and he takes a moment to observe the crumpled pages littering your floor. The door clicks behind him. You take your seat at the desk and motion for Pantalone to come close. He does, standing right behind you. Before you can continue explaining the story, you see his hand reach over and pick at the pile of ripped up paper in front of your typewriter.

“Ah, sorry. Forgot to clean that up.”

“I love him.”

“What?”

Pantalone hands you the torn scrap of paper, which sure enough reads I love him. You laugh. “A-Ah, right.”

“So about the sentimental value,” Pantalone says as you begin sweeping up the ripped pieces.

“This belonged to my grandfather,” you tell him as you dump the pile into the trash, “my mom’s father, he’s where I got my condition. He got the typewriter as a gift from a friend in Fontaine, I believe. He died two years later, before I could meet him. A couple years after I got diagnosed, my grandmother found it, and gifted it to me as a memento of sorts, and I’ve used it ever since.”

“Really now?”

“My grandma said he’d want me to have it,” you say, “and she smacked me when I made a joke about him giving me his bad eyes too. Lightly, of course, but still.”

“You were making fun of her blind, dead husband,” Pantalone remarks.

“If what my family says about him is true, he would have made an even worse joke,” you retort. “I’m giving my nephews and nieces permission to make fun of me if they have it, my grandfather would probably do the same.”

Pantalone chuckles. You turn your head to continue speaking to him, and see he’s looking at you instead of the typewriter. It sort of catches you, mostly because of his eyes. You didn’t really notice it when you met him for tea, mostly because you were more focused on the feel of his fingers holding your face and how close he was, but his eyes are really, really pretty. The light from your window hits his face just right, making his eyes shine like gemstones.

You realize you’re staring again and snap out of it, and you doubt it’s all that subtle. “I am also giving you permission to make blind jokes around me.”

He gives you a bewildered, but amused look. “What? Now why would I want to do that?” “Because they’re funny,” you answer, “that’s why I make them.”

“Yes, but you’re actually blind, or going to be blind.”

You lean back in your chair a bit. “I promise you, whatever you think of, my siblings will have said something infinitely worse and gotten away with it,” you say, “excluding Adéla and Gala, my younger sisters. Gala feels bad making fun of me, and Adéla means what she says.”

(Which is rather hypocritical of her, if you’re to believe your siblings’ words about her getting her son tested for your condition. That and her ongoing pregnancy might be why she hasn’t tried picking a fight with you in a while.)

“If you insist,” he says, “but I suppose I should get going now.”

“Oh, wait, really?”

“You said before that you have a deadline, no?” Pantalone asks, his expression almost curious until you see the way the corner of his lips twitch, how his eyes seem a little too knowing. “It wouldn’t be right to keep you from your work. Hopefully we can better coordinate a visit or outing some other time.”

The only thing stopping you from insisting that it’s okay for him to stay a little longer, really, please stay, is the knowledge that your parents will eventually be home and Pantalone’s presence will cause absolute chaos. That, and the fact you look like shit. Probably worse than when he gave you the letter from Guuji Yae, because you were clearly hungover, but at least you had cleaned yourself up. 

You swallow.

“I wish you could stay a little longer.”

Pantalone tilts his head.

“... but yes, we should, ah, probably pick this up another time.”

He smiles, entirely too knowing for your comfort. “Hopefully next time you actually get my letters.”

You bid Pantalone farewell, but he is already leaving your office without another word. He opens the door, and you briefly see either Colleen or Adelaide staggering back before the door closes.

You load a fresh page into the typewriter, and you stare at it. You stare at it like that is what is going to make the words appear, and somehow you’re always disappointed when it doesn’t. You wish you didn’t rip up the last page now, just so you can make sure you won’t write something as equally terrible.

After some time, your office door opens again. You step into the hallway, now vacant and cold. There’s a weight in your stomach, a growing pit of anxiety as you begin walking down the hall. You pass your room, then Gala’s room, then the bathroom, your siblings’ old rooms, and stop when you reach the door at the end of the hall. The master bedroom, your parents’ room.

The door opens when you twist the knob and push forward. You shiver as cooled air passes you. The fire must have gone out some time ago. It doesn’t stop you from entering though, not when you have a pretty good hunch on why you mysteriously haven’t gotten any letters from Pantalone. 

You waste no time in investigating. You spy an old painting hung up on the wall depicting a younger version of your mother and father on their wedding day. You carefully pull it down from the wall, revealing their safe. You don’t remember what the code is, just that it’s one full turn left, one full turn right, and then left until it’s the last number. You’re fairly certain it’s either their anniversary or one of their children’s birthdays. 

It doesn’t take long for you to be proven wrong. Brow furrowed, you try to think of something else they would use for a code. You consider the day they met, or the day they fell in love, but you have no idea when that would have been. You consider your grandfather’s death date, but that’s entirely too morbid. You’re about to start twisting the dial in any direction until you hopefully hear a click, and then it hits you; they’re grandparents. You quickly try your nephew’s birthdate, and you hear a distinct click sound unlike the turning dial’s. You pull on the handle, and it opens.

You almost celebrate until you see there aren’t any envelopes or letters addressed to you. You see photo albums, some jewellery and trinkets, as well as a few other odds and ends of sentimental value, but no letters.

You sigh, and begin putting everything back in place. Maybe it’s hidden in the study or something, or maybe in your father’s desk at work. You’ll have to ask Lydia to have a peek, though there’s a good chance she would have mentioned that to you already. You’ll still ask her about it next time you see her.

You’re hanging the painting back up when you feel another shiver up your spine. Usually the staff try to keep the fireplaces lit throughout the house to keep everyone from freezing, but for whatever reason, they’ve forgotten your parents’ room. You decide to do that yourself, as your conscience is making you feel guilty about snooping.

You sigh, crouching down in front of the fireplace. You grab the door handles and pull the doors open, seeing the charred remnants of firewood long gone cold. You pick up the fire poker and begin prodding at the wood until you catch sight of something sticking out of the ashes. It almost looks like kindling, but your gut tells you to investigate further.

You reach inside, and you immediately know it’s paper. You pull it from the ashes and sit back. It looks like the corner of a page at first, and then you realize it’s part of an envelope. You flip it over, and your blood runs cold.

You recognize that address. Not too long ago, you were invited to afternoon tea at that exact location. You realize there’s still a bit of paper inside, and you pull it out. The paper falls apart in your dirtied hands, but you can make out the first few characters of your name in familiar handwriting. You feel sick, you feel angry. You don’t know which one of your parents is responsible for this, but this is too far for either one of them. 

It takes you a few moments to compose yourself. When you eventually get off the ground and storm out of your parents’ room, you make sure to leave the burned remnants of your letter in an obvious spot for your parents to find it. You leave ash on the door when you slam their door shut. You want to scream, you want to ask what the hell their fucking problems are, but they’re not here right now. You have new energy to burn, new emotions you need to vent in some way, but most importantly, you have a book to finish, and you’re going to finish it.

[elizaleclerc]

How I love your writing so much! 😭 I saw that you are taking requests / ideas so maybe something of Charles x famous singer reader where they break up and everyone kinda thinks he broke up with reader or it was just a mutual breakup but then reader comes out with a song similar to midnight rain by Taylor swift and ppl piece the pieces together + the lyrics and kinda realize that Charles proposed and reader said no. Just something angsty and with Charles and reader they tried remaining friends but obvi are still in love with reader just isn’t ready for such a commitment. Thank you and love u 😭

tysm for this amazing request xoxo

float in your orbit 🪐

charles leclerc x reader

summary: famous fem singer!reader releases music about her surprising breakup with long term partner charles leclerc

songs: i can do it with a broken heart by t.swift , this is me trying by t.swift , wildflower by b.eilish , champagne problems by t.swift , chloe or sam or sophia or marcus by t.swift :)

author's note: ahhhh my first request!!!! the topic is right up my alley i love love love it. hope u love it too <3 plenty of angst ahead for u x

word count: 2k

With a heavy heart, your fingers traced the same piano note over and over again. The sound was monotonous, a stark contrast to the busy and lively world of your recent world tour. Now, back in your New York City apartment, life seemed dull and uneventful. It was even more glum now that you were alone, with no one to share your thoughts and experiences with.

You sat hunched over the piano, staring at the black and white keys in front of you. Your eyes had a distant glare, as if lost in a deep and melancholic reverie. The city sounds outside seemed muted and far away, as your mind was stuck on pause. Every memory felt like it was on repeat, playing over and over again.

In this moment of isolation, all you could do was sit and reflect on the ups and downs of your career, the highs and lows of fame. The emptiness inside seemed to grow with each passing moment, until it consumed your whole being. You were trapped in a bubble of loneliness, yearning for human connection but unable to break free from the walls surrounding you.

Charles had been your partner for five years. When you were first rising to stardom in the music world, you received an invitation to perform the national anthem at a prestigious Formula One race. As you stood on the track, your heart pounding with nerves and excitement, you caught sight of Charles, one of the esteemed drivers. The connection between you was immediate, a spark of recognition and attraction that lit up the air around you like fireworks. In that moment, you knew that love at first sight wasn't just an empty phrase, but a tangible reality. You could feel it deep within your bones, a warmth spreading through your body that told you this was meant to be.

A deep ache, like a heavy weight, settled in your chest as silent tears fell down your cheek. The emotions swirled and collided inside of you - sadness, hurt, anger, and betrayal all jostling for dominance. Despite both of your chaotic schedules, especially with your tour this year, you had always made sure to prioritize spending time together whenever possible. But during the last month of your tour is when things fell apart.

It was like a sudden storm had swept in, tearing down everything you thought was stable and secure. At first, it was hard to even process what was happening. The shock and confusion were overwhelming, making it difficult to make sense of the situation. But as time passed, the anger and betrayal only grew stronger, raging like a wildfire inside of you. You released a new song two weeks after the split, I Can Do It With a Broken Heart. 

The media went into a frenzy. Fans from both you and Charles speculated on the recent events, but the lyrics in the song were simple and undeniable - Charles had ended things with you. You couldn't help but worry about the hate he must've been receiving, especially since the two of you hadn't spoken since the night everything fell apart. And to add onto the chaos, you still had a tour to finish, forcing a smile and putting on a brave face for the fans that had no idea of the turmoil within.

Being on tour was a necessary distraction, a way to keep your mind off of things. Yet as you lay in yet another unfamiliar hotel room, the same thoughts still haunted you. The rooms all looked different, but they were all characterized by the same sterile and impersonal feeling. The only thing that used to make them feel like home was the sound of Charles' voice on the phone. You would talk for hours, often until you drifted off to sleep, so even though you were physically alone, you never felt truly lonely.

Despite releasing a new single, the public still didn't have the full story of what happened between the two of you, and why you had broken up. With Charles choosing to remain silent in the media, you were left to navigate through it all on your own. It was a daunting task, trying to piece together your relationship and figure out where it went wrong without any input from him. But you refused to let his silence define your story.

Throughout your life, anxiety had been a constant shadow, lurking around every corner and following you wherever you went. It wasn't until a year ago that you finally sought help and medication for it. During this time of struggle, Charles was your unwavering rock, always there to hold you up and support you. Relationships in general were uncharted territory for you when you first met Charles, and the unknown of it all scared you most.

But as the months went by, he became your confidant, someone with whom you could share your deepest worries and fears during those late night conversations. He would listen with patience and understanding, easing your anxieties with his calm presence.

Yet when fate intervened and pushed him away from you, he was not as accommodating as you had hoped. You couldn't blame him entirely, but the void left by his absence consumed you more with each passing day. In an attempt to express all that you felt and lost, you turned to your songs as a means of communication – letting the lyrics speak for your heartache and longing.

In your next release, an EP of four songs would be put out into the world, the lyrics explaining everything. In the week after the release, fans had put all of the pieces of the puzzle together. You spent the hours scouring social media reading the analysis of your relationship, all of it correct but nevertheless heartbreaking. 

~

One particular post analyzed the meaning of the four songs perfectly:

this is me trying: This song is the beginning of the end. Y/N is clearly struggling mentally and is pleading to be understood that they are simply doing the best that they can do. It is a desperate call for affection and is riddled with self doubt. After such a long relationship, Charles could have begun to crack, and Y/N is trying to keep it all together. 

wildflower: This is clearly about Charles’s past girlfriend. He dated her for many years, and was speculated to be one of Y/N’s friends. The lyrics depict her struggling to get past the thought that Charles is actually over his old girlfriend, and she feels terrible about “betraying” her to date Charles. Further in the song the lyrics showcase that Charles clearly loves Y/N, but again her internal battle prohibits her from seeing the truth in their relationship as things seem to break further. 

champagne problems: This is the breaking point. Shocking to fans everywhere, this song reveals that Charles proposed to Y/N, but due to her already detailed mental struggles and anxieties, the commitment was too much for her to bear. The melody and lyrics are filled with regret and a tinge of shame for not being able to commit to Charles, no matter how much she loved him and vice versa. 

chloe or sam or sophia or marcus: The aftermath of it all, she details that even though she cannot commit to marriage with Charles she still loves him deeply and wishes that they could still be together. This caused fans to piece together that after she said no to the proposal, Charles ultimately cut things off.

~

With misty eyes, you read the post that brought back a flood of memories. The night he proposed in Monaco, the city where your love had blossomed and thrived, was etched in your mind with crystal clarity. In your shared apartment, tucked away from the bustling streets, the two of you had a private and intimate dinner that would change your lives forever. Warm flickering candles cast a soft glow over the dining room, while rose petals adorned the table and floor.

Despite being in the comfort of your own home, you both dressed to impress, savoring this rare moment when it was just the two of you. "You look absolutely stunning, mon chéri," he whispered as he gazed at you with adoration, making you feel like the most special woman on Earth. Every detail of that night was ingrained in your heart and soul, a cherished memory that would never fade.

Your hand rested on the white tablecloth, and he gently placed his on top. The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through your body. "Thank you, love," you murmured before he leaned in to place a soft kiss on the back of your hand. As the night went on, you caught up on each other's lives - him excitedly sharing about his latest Formula One race while you reminisced about your past tour experiences. But as the dinner neared its end, you noticed his fidgeting and asked him if he was okay. Suddenly, he stood up from his chair and sunk down on one knee next to you. Your heart skipped a beat, and everything seemed to slow down as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

“Mon amour, I don’t want to spend another day without calling you my wife. You’re the most important thing in my life, and I want to spend the rest of it loving you and giving you the world. Will you marry me?” 

Your throat constricted as sweat formed on your palms. The words caught in your throat, refusing to come out. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen - not here, not now. Marriage was never a topic of conversation between you and Charles, but suddenly it felt like an inevitable future staring you in the face at this dinner table. You weren't ready for this.

“I don’t- I can’t-” 

~

Your fingers moved deftly across the ivory keys of your piano, playing the familiar beginning chords of "Champagne Problems." Tears continued to fall down your cheeks, leaving glistening trails in their wake. Memories flooded your mind as you played, memories of a love once strong and unbreakable.

But now, as you sat alone in the dimly lit room, you couldn't help but feel the weight of that love slipping away. You missed him with every fiber of your being. You yearned for his cheeky smile and the way his crystal eyes sparkled when he looked at you. The memory of his messy bed head first thing in the morning made you ache with longing.

The thought of living without him was unbearable. You longed for his laughter, how he would throw his head back and let out a hearty sound that always filled you with joy. You could almost see his nose crinkle in amusement at a bad joke, just as it always did.

And oh, how you missed those moments when he would wear his glasses, simply because he knew how much you loved the way he looked in them. You could picture him now, standing before you with that charming grin and those frames perched on his nose.

But now they were only memories, and you were left to play out this heartache through the melody of your piano.

The realization hit like a freight train, knocking the wind out of you. You couldn't fathom the idea of moving on from this moment, it was too pivotal, too raw. With a sudden surge of energy, you leapt up from your seat at the piano and frantically searched for your phone among the scattered sheet music and empty coffee cups. Your fingers flew over the keys as you dialed the number you knew by heart, each digit a familiar melody in your mind.

One ring, and he picked up.

[kimmiessimmies]

On the story and other things

Hello to all who read this. I received a very sweet message from someone saying she misses my story ❤️. You know who you are, and I thank you for your message. I promise to reply to it personally, too. Though she might be the only one who feels this way, just in case more people have noticed it's been a while since I last posted a story update, I thought I share a bit about what's going on there. First of all, I haven't been able to write as much as I have done before. Because of my children, my mental struggles and, well, life, I can't always find the drive or inspiration to work on the story. But that doesn't mean I have abandoned it. Quite the contrary, actually. We're getting to quite a pivotal point in the story, a part I've been wanting to share for a very long time. And while that should, in theory, make it easy to write, in fact, it makes it more difficult. This part of the story has been circling my mind for so long, playing in my head like a movie, that finding the right words and creating the completely right images is especially difficult.

That said, another reason it's taking so long this time is -spoiler alert-that I'm working on something of a "double bill", so to speak. When I post again, I plan to post two chapters, following each other quite quickly.

The first is called Unexpected. This one is actually done. It's written, shot, and completely put together. If I wanted to, I could post it tomorrow. But I won't. The main reason is that it ends with such a cliffhanger that I felt I could then leave you waiting for a little while, but not for another month. ;) So, I also started writing the next chapter, Catharsis. But that is a BIG ONE. For this one, I need that house I showed a few weeks ago, and building it obviously also took some time. 'Catharsis' is still in the "being written" stage, but I'm slowly getting to the end of that part of the process. Then, I will still need to shoot it. I'm not entirely sure yet how fast or slow that will be.

However, I think I can realistically promise there will be a story update from me before November is over. ;) And to everyone whose stories I always follow and who may not have seen any love or comment from me in a while, or a little bit but not the way I used to respond, please know that it's not you; it's definitely me. I've been a bit Tumblr-overwhelmed. But I do think of you and your stories, and I really do hope to find the headspace to sit down and read up on all I'm missing out on soon.

For now, have one little preview picture for 'Unexpected' and feel free to decide for yourself what could be happening here. :)

Thank you for reading yet another Kimmi-essay! :)

[not-poignant]

Stupid question, but I remembered seeing you mention having monthly minimum wordcounts on one of your previous posts and I wanted to ask if you're a professional writer? Because at first I was like "that sounds so stressful"* and then I realized that it makes a lot more sense if you're doing it for a living.

*Also acknowledging that people are different from each other and what is stressful for one person might be productive and useful for another.

I am a professional writer!

My original serials are my job, basically, and they're supported by generous folks at Patreon and Ream. That, in turn, allows me to do this in a more professional and focused way, vs. say just as a hobbyist who doesn't update for 9 months at a time. It also lets me share my works for free, in a fandom friendly manner, which lets me keep doing something I love in a way I love to do it, but in a way which is like...I guess more reliable than you'd necessarily be if you were only doing it for fun.

I can instead pledge high fidelity/loyalty to my main serials through thick and thin (hence my wild author's notes), which means folks following WIPs get to know they'll be finished, and I get to enjoy doing this for a living! It's hard, but it's a good hard. Except for taxes.

As for my monthly minimum, that actually started as a way to break out of the very ableist 'you should write every day' (as a professional writer) which is literally impossible for me and my chronic illnesses. I sometimes have big chunks of time where I can't write, sometimes weeks! And where it would be unhealthy for me to make myself.

(More about my writing process beneath the Read More!)

Alongside that, I have quite severe dyscalculia (think dyslexia but with numbers and directions and left and right lol) so I can't keep a 'running wordcount' because the numbers confuse me too much. Luckily, because my writing life is defined by chapters completed (and not novels), I count the wordcount of every finished chapter only. Unfinished chapters don't count! My growing wordcount per month grows only when that draft is finished (my drafts are clean, so chapters only tend to grow or shrink by about 100-150 words per edit, so give or take it all evens out).

It's not how any other author I know does it, but it works so well for me that I've been doing it for nearly a decade now.

I started the monthly minimum (which currently is 25k words per month) because I tend towards being a workaholic, and so my therapist and I established a minimum not as an unreachable goal that's hard to meet, but as an easy goal that's generally effortless for me to reach in good months, and average months, and even many bad ones. After I hit 25k words per month, if I crash, feel burnt out, feel awful, or life gets Life-y in a bad way, I have permission to stop writing. I can just stop. Everything else is gravy. (Though secretly I always want to hit 30-35k but shhh).

When I hit 50k words, I also have to stop immediately and take a mandatory 3-5 day break from writing even if I want to keep writing. Because I don't know it yet, but I'm probably exhausted on at least some level, lol.

I didn't hit 50k at all last year and there is at least one therapist who would be really proud of me about that even though I feel kind of guilty about it, lol.

Here's an example of my tracking:

You can see the chapters I've written, which dates I've written them. They're colour coded, so I can see at a glance if I'm writing enough of a story or not. And then on the far right is an addition of every month's wordcount.

April was so low because I took an intentional writing holiday (which I'll be doing again ideally in March this year). December was so low because December sucks.

And then I erase it all at the end of the year and start again. The blank whiteboard is actually very motivating to write that first chapter because I always feel like I haven't done anything until then.

This whiteboard is two feet away from where I write quite literally, and is never moved etc. so I have a yearly tracker basically that's extremely visible (super helpful to my ADHD brain, because if I put this in a spreadsheet I'll stop updating it after 3 weeks and then forget it exists). The colour coding gives me dopamine, so does adding chapters.

Also acknowledging that people are different from each other and what is stressful for one person might be productive and useful for another.

This is true! This is actually the least stressful way of doing things for me.

That being said, anon, it's still super stressful. Being a serial writer is one of the most stressful things you do, because you have constant and never-ending deadlines for years. Novelists can kind of escape this, in a way, because they can't release novels as often as I release chapters. But I have to be mentally switched on at least 8 times a month, re: putting work out there, making sure it's at least semi-polished, making sure I let everyone know, and tracking responses because obviously, unlike a novel, if you lose interest you can't just "skip ahead" you simply lose your readers. A lot of novelists couldn't live or work this way, a) because they couldn't write a hooky serial and b) because many realise that having to update all the time is really exhausting actually. There's a kind of social labour to updating a serial, and getting it Right every single time. One of my greatest fears that I have nightmares about

Serial writing is the most stressful kind of writing I've ever done (and I've done a few different kinds), I just happen to like the adrenaline rush of this kind of writing, and I happen to work well under a controlled level of stress! I know that, because I've been doing this for over 10 years, refining it, figuring out how to make it healthier (it was really unhealthy at first), getting better at it, figuring out my weak points (some of them are still weak points) etc. I actually think I'm pretty good at it now!

I'm also getting better at not thinking my entire career is over if I take 2 weeks off.

I went from being entirely dependent on a Disability Pension, and like, sometimes having to skip meals and doctor's appointments and even medication due to money issues (the Disability Pension is ironically not enough if you have mental health issues because our subsidised healthcare doesn't cover mental health adequately and Australia has no food stamps system), to being able to live a bit more freely and support my chronic health stuff a bit more because of writing this way!

For the first time ever through these stories I was able to afford a psychiatrist, and a few other things I really desperately have needed since I was a teenager. So being able to write like this, even when it's really hard and I'm really tired, feels still like a miracle to me. I've never been well or healthy enough to work a full-time job with typical 9-5 hours, and always kind of was stuck imagining a life where I'm just...never knowing how to afford certain things, to being in a position where I'm fairly confident I can get my meds every month, or pay for my dog's pet food, etc. It's really nice.

But yeah honestly serial writing is the most stressful form of serial writing there is as soon as you lock it in as a professional job where you must meet nearly 10 deadlines every month and you happen to have pretty intense ADHD so deadlines make you scream a little.

Sometimes what is extremely stressful and sometimes even distressing for someone is also extremely productive and rewarding for them too. We probably wouldn't have a lot of emergency surgeons if that were the bar for how we decide what we do!