#and thrown into the wip pile

[parasitic-saint]

showgirl's break (wip)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Someone New 3

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

Warnings: this fic will include angst, pining, romcom tropes, and some darker elements later in the series. Some triggers may not be specifically tagged. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This fic will contain explicit content. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’ve had a crush on your best friend for years, but you’re slapped in the face with reality when he takes things to the next level with his girlfriend.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Thor

Note: why am I so anxious all the time?

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

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

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

If Peggy’s party promised everything would change, the ‘yes’ you give to Arturo pays on that promise. Almost at once, everything is different. Your boring, orderly life is suddenly thrown into chaos. You have a hundred worries at once and not enough times; passport, visa, packing, flights. Not too mention all that you’re leaving behind; apartment, furniture, and... friends. 

It’ll be good. You keep telling yourself that, just like Arturo, just like Sam. They seem more excited than you are. You struggle to see past the grief of saying goodbye to the life you built there; the life you built around Steve and false hopes. It’s foolish and naive but it still hurts. 

And you’re scared. Norway. It’s far away. And you’ll be all alone. You survived college because you found Steve; you could stomach the furor of the city for Sam and Bucky, but on your own, what could you do? You’re not brave or bold or anything like that. 

It doesn’t matter. You’re going to work. To forget. Focus on the dig, don’t think about everything else. 

You’ve already lost so much. Steve’s busy, you are too. Maybe that’s good. You have to condition yourself for the trip. For a new life. A year is a long time. You feel like the newly graduated teen heading off to college, the one who walked into the wrong lecture hall on that fated day, the one he picked out and put firmly in her place; a friend, just a friend. 

As you sort through your closet, tossing fabric into one pile or the other, your music stops playing and your phone buzzes loudly against your nightstand. You hurry to pick it up as that noise makes your neck bristle. You hate it. 

You pick up without checking the display. You hope it’s the visa office. No, it’s Sam. 

“Hey, chicky poo,” he chirps from the other end. 

“Chicky poo?” You echo flatly. 

“Hm, you’re right, I’ll keep workshopping,” he chuckles, “so you’re leaving in a week?” 

“As long as my paperwork shows up,” you sighs and cross your arm over your middle. You sway as you look around at the clutter of your bedroom. “And I can get all this shit out of my place.” 

“When’s your flight?” He asks pointedly. He’s not subtle. Men never are. For years, you’d hoped Steve was being subtle and look how that turned out. You know now he was so obviously not into you.  

“Thursday, 5am,” you answer. 

“Ah, that’s pretty early to be hungover but it will be worth it.” 

“Hungover?” You wonder as you slowly sit on your bed, “why?” 

“You’re leaving us so obviously, you need a final hurrah,” he insists, “I’m throwing you a going away party. Just the four of us, unless you have any plus ones?” 

“Going away party?” 

“Neither of the other jerks are gonna do it,” he scoffs, “nothing fancy, promise. Just some drinks.” 

“What about Tuesday? Give me a day to recover?” 

“Wednesday works. Steve’ll be back by then.” 

“Back by then?” You must sound like a parrot. 

“Oh, yeah, the lovers went up north to look at venues for the engagement party. Too bad you won’t make it. I’ll have to drink myself into a stupour all by myself,” he intones. 

“Yeah, sorry about that,” you grumble and pick at a wrinkle in your pants. 

“Don’t be sorry. You deserve this. I’m so fucking excited for you,” he chimes, “you have to tell me everything. I want pictures of vikings and castles and stuff. All of it.” 

“Sam, I’m just going to be digging,” you mutter. 

“And? You can’t just go over there an put your head down. Go sightseeing, go out on the town, have a wild one-night stand--” 

“Sam,” you drone. 

“You need it,” he cackles, “it’ll be a story to bring home with ya. Make us all jealous with your wild Norwegian adventure. Hey,” he pauses and sucks his teeth, “you’re like Uno reversing a whole country. Vikings used to invade others, this is your chance to go right in there and raise hell.” 

“You’re stupid,” you laugh and shake your head. 

“Never said otherwise.” 

“Hm, fine, Wednesday,” you agree, “if I'm gonna be there, I gotta get all this shit packed.” 

“Did I not say if you need anything? I can help,” he offers. 

“No, no, I got it,” you say, “really, it’s not that much.” 

“Right, well, I should get back to it and let you do the same,” he says in a resigned tone. 

You hang up and heave. You put the phone down and drop your head into your hands. You feel like you should cry. You’ve felt that tide of tears pushing on your eyes since the party but they just won’t come. All that tension is driving you mad but you just can’t dislodge the nail driven deep into your chest. 

💟

Your life is hectic but you’re not surprised Steve isn’t part of the whirlwind. Why would he be? He has so much going on. A wedding is much more important than what could possibly be the most spontaneous and naive decision of your life. Impulsive more than anything. Cowardly when you think about it. You’re running away because you can’t face the truth. Because it’s just easy to leave your emotions in New York. 

Still, you thought you’d hear more than this. More than a thumbs up emoji or hearsay from Sam. Even after your conversation on the balcony and his reassurances, you still feel his discontent. Will he really miss you that much or is he just upset you won’t be there to celebrate the love of his life? 

It doesn’t matter, does it? 

It’s gone so fast and you hope the next year goes just as quickly. That all this passes. Not just the trip but everything else. The sadness, the pain, the fear. You try to be positive. You thought college was scary and look how that turned out. 

Ugh, you’re really doing this. You're leaving is all behind. You’re leaving your friends and your family and your home. You have no one to blame but yourself. You could’ve gotten over Steve Rogers a decade ago. More than that. You couldn’t rip the band-aid off, you had to pull it slow so ever hair rends painfully from the flesh. 

The GPS guides you between the shining marquee. You can see the pulsing dot of your destination on the screen. You don’t drive towards it, instead hunting for a parking spot among the cramped lots and lined curbs. You should’ve taken a cab but you’re only having one drink and you’re saving for the inevitable expense of hurling yourself halfway across the world. 

You get out and grab your phone, your purse hooked over your elbow. You raise the small screen and get your bearings, squinting as you set yourself in the right direction. Just across and at the end. 

As you approach the bar, you stop short. This isn’t exactly the flavour. Well, not for them. You peer up at the neon light in the shape of a martini, a bright pink beacon, under which a large group of women cluster. Whoops and hollers go up as they enter and leave you standing out in the technicolour-tinted night. Did you get the address wrong? 

You check your messages with Sam. No, it’s correct. Strange. Maybe he didn’t know. 

You pull open the violet-shaded glass door and peer around as you step out of the way of the patrons behind you. You text Sam to check if he’s there already. You can’t seem to keep up with the clock hands these days.  

As you wait for a response, you glance around. It’s like a Sex and the City reenactment. The guys always teased you for your rants about Carrie Bradshaw’s selfishness. They weren’t much for the genre. With them, it’s sports bars and beers and what ball game is in season. They never notice your cute new earrings or your efforts to spruce up your work clothes with a flashy belt. 

‘Here. You’re looking cute.’ Sam’s response comes.  

You narrow your eyes and stand on your toes to look around. He’s sitting at a tall table with Bucky, the two of them looking out of place before the feathered centerpiece and glitzy wall art of high heels. You can’t help a grin. This is absolutely ridiculous. 

You weave through the tables and bodies, past the bar of gabbing girl groups and a few men mixed in. You near your friends and claim one of the tall stools around the round table. You use the bottom bar to haul yourself up onto the seat and hang your purse from your knee. 

“Hey, this place is... sparkly,” you look around with a dumb smile. You can’t help it! You never get a girls’ night. 

“It is,” Bucky agrees in a grit. 

You stop short. You look at him then at Sam. You didn’t notice before. They’re wearing bows on their heads. Sam has a head band with a gregariously big pink ribbon, whereas Bucky has a glittering purple bow pinned into his thick locks. You laugh and smother it behind your hands. 

“What is this?” You snicker. 

“We are your ladies tonight!” Sam announces and shifts to stand, bending under the table, “and you get to be queen bee!” He reaches to the floor and you lean to see the huge tote underneath, “here is your tiara!” 

He pulls out the plastic tiara with fake pink gems and white feathers. You giggle again as he places it on your head. This is too much. 

“Sam! How—this is so stupid. You didn’t have to do all this.” 

“What? It’s about time. Don’t worry about us. It’s all about you,” he snaps his finger and points at you, “we’re going to order girly cocktails and dish on the cute dudes.” 

Bucky shakes his head as he fixes the bow in his hair, “I wanted a flower.” 

You bring your hands down to your next and wiggle on the seat giddily. This is amazing. Your eyes sting and your throat locks up. You’re going to miss these idiots. 

“You guys,” you breathe. 

“No crying!” Sam claps his hand, “I already got this guy moping around.” 

“I’m not moping,” Bucky sniffs. 

“We have to decide who’s who. I know you hate Carrie so we’ll save that for Steve. He is the stuck up blond, after all,” Sam smirks, “I’m definitely Samantha, it’s already in my name. And you,” he points at you, “Miranda. The level-headed one who has to put up with our BS. That means Bucky--” 

“Charlotte?” Bucky frowns, “can’t I be Stanford?” 

You nearly gasp, “Bucky, are you a stan?” 

“I’ve seen some episodes,” he shrugs. 

“Well, that’s decided,” Sam checks his watch, “where’s that bozo?” 

You frown and look around. You look at your phone. You were just on the cusp but Steve is late. Bucky takes out his cell too and all three of you scroll through your screens. 

“Whatever, we don’t have to wait for him, drinks,” Sam blacks the screen and sets down his phone. He reaches for the pink pleather drink menu, “I was looking at the Paradise Punch. Sounds interesting.” 

“Mm, I’m just having one,” you state, “I gotta drive home.” 

“Pfft, don’t worry about it. You can get your car tomorrow.” 

“Sam, I leave at five in the morning.” 

“Fine, I’ll take care of the car. You’re storing it, aren’t you?” 

“I wouldn’t expect--” 

“Tonight is going to be fun. No arguing,” he points a long finger at you. 

The phone jitters and his phone lights up. He picks it up as your cell remains lifeless in a rare moment of peace, though it’s fraught nonetheless. You peek over at the empty fourth stool. 

“He’s not coming,” you utter. 

Sam huffs and puts his phone down, “he’s not. Peggy has a work dinner and he’s invited.” 

“Oh,” you nod and try not to deflate entirely, “that’s... that’s fine. He said he’d come to the airport but I wasn’t counting on that either.” 

“Asshole,” Sam sneers. 

“Hey, no,” you shake your head, “he’s busy. He has a wedding and all that--” 

“You’re going away,” Bucky surprises you with the emotion in his tone, “and he can’t be here.” 

“Really, it’s not--” 

“It is,” Sam insists. “How long are you gonna let him walk all over you? Isn’t that why you’re leaving?” 

“It’s work, it’s nothing to do with Steve.” 

“Sure,” Sam accepts hotly, “keep telling yourself that.” He cringes and swallows, “tonight isn’t about him. For once. It’s about you. Us. Having fun. Saying goodbye. It’s gonna be terrible without you. I hope you know that.” 

You could laugh at his rebuke. The conflict between celebratory and reproachful is amusing. You exhale and put your hands up. 

“Alright, I got it.” 

“Buck,” he gestures to the other man, “go.” 

You turn to the Bucky and he slides off his stool. He reaches down under the table and brings up a gift bag. Your mouth falls open. Your chest tweaks, a mixture of glee and guilt. You’re happy to have friends with them but you feel so bad for not seeing it earlier. For being so tunnel-visioned that you couldn’t appreciate them fully. 

“This is so—you didn’t have to,” you say. 

“We did. Obviously,” Sam scoffs, “don’t worry, my gift is the grand finale.” 

“Right,” you smile and accept the bag from Bucky. You push through the tissue paper and pull out the heavy shape inside. You reveal it and just as quickly hide it back in the polka dot bag, “Bucky!” 

You let go of the taser and retract your hand. Sam guffaws and Bucky gives a confused grimace, “you need it.” 

“What?” You hiss. 

“You’re going to be all alone over there. You should be safe.” 

“I... appreciate the thought but it’s a bit extreme.” 

“He’s right,” Sam adds, “you know, going to the land of the vikings, you can never be too safe. I’ve heard they like to carry women off in their boats.” 

“You two,” you roll your eyes. 

“My turn,” Sam says, “you’ll love this.” 

He once more searches under the table and the tote crinkle. He pulls out an envelope and you tilt your head. Really? 

“Money?” You wonder. 

“What am I? Your grandma?” He snorts, “here.” 

You take the envelope and turn it over. You pull the flap open and reveal a pamphlet within, along with a second slip of paper. A reservation... 

“I found this place over there. It’s at some coastal castle, there’s a spa and all that. They do like ancient types of treatments, hot rocks or whatever,” he explains, “I made sure you can adjust the dates too if you need. You just have to call.” 

“Wow, that’s... Sam, I’m going to be so busy--” 

“I told you not to work yourself too hard. That’s a good excuse for you to get your head out of the dirt. Literally. Just think of me when you’re in a mud bath with a glass of champagne.” 

You put the envelope next to the gift bag and drop off the stool. You open your arms to them. Sam is up first and Bucky drags himself to his feet. You wrap them in a hug and they do the same in turn. It must be an absolutely ridiculous sight but you don’t care. You tuck your head against Sam’s arm and feel a rumble in Bucky’s chest. 

“Sam, that’s my ass,” Bucky snarls. 

“I was just making sure you didn’t forget your wallet,” Sam chuckles. 

“You’re a moron,” Bucky pulls away and shoves him. 

“Peas in a pod, bud,” Sam lets you go as the hug breaks up, “now, I need a drink and you...” he points in your direction, “need a double.” 

[werepuppy-steve]

taylor (@steddie-island) and i have been in the trenches for the past week creating the most beautiful (and smutty) steddissy au and i'm very 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 about it. it's still mostly headcanons right now with inklings of plot sprinkled in, so i thought i should make a worldbuilding post about it since it's officially being added to my wip pile <3

tagging some people i think would be interested in this: @dangerous-disposition @tboybuck @patchworkgargoyle @thefreakandthehair @starryeyedjanai

@corrodedbisexual @sidekick-hero @spectrum-spectre @munsondickprint @augustjustice

@worstsequence @rozzieroos

it doesn't get real graphic under the cut but putting it under one bc it's a lil long

the beginnings of it are touched on here, but it's expanded a little bit.

it's a modern au. steddissy are still in that platonic/friends with benefits stage: steve and eddie are dating but chrissy is very happy and content being single. she likes that it gives her more freedom to do things without having a controlling partner breathing down her neck every time she turns around.

they're streamers. i don't have their niche's fleshed out yet but they do collabs with each other a lot.

we went into dirty details in dms about the three of them sexting constantly, which turns into them rolling out their onlyfans accounts. they already have so many things filmed just from their texts alone, so why not make money off of it?

some more headcanons and ideas were thrown around (along with taylor giving me snippets of her own steddissy wips that you should def ask her about if she's willing to share them 👀) that i'll probably make a separate post for.

it's been established that chrissy is a squirter

but between all the filthy smut, there's love. so much of it that i get choked up just thinking about it.

i started thinking of people who are in mostly online spaces and have probably never interacted with the queer community in real life, and how they wouldn't have the kindest opinions.

so eddie would get all of these tweets that are like "you're gay but you enjoy having sex with a woman??? [confused math lady] make it make sense." he ignores them at first because randos on the internet aren't entitled to his relationships, but it becomes frequent enough that he starts getting accused of "calling himself gay for clout" and dragging steve and chrissy into it, and then he has to address it.

he does it in a video because he's still dramatic.

"having sex with a woman doesn't make me not gay. i've been gay since i was 15 and a boy gave me my first hickey. chrissy is my platonic partner. yes, she's very cute and adorable and it makes me want to scream sometimes, but i'm not attracted to her because she's a woman. i'm attracted to her because she's my best friend and my feelings for her run so much deeper than romantic love. chrissy doesn't even label herself with a sexuality. she just likes people.

steve is my boyfriend. i'm romantically involved with him and physically attracted to him because he's a man. steve, however, is bi, so he does find chrissy attractive as a woman, and there's nothing wrong with that. they're also not interested in dating each other. the three of us fool around with each other because it's fun and we like making each other feel good and we trust each other. it's nobody else's business what we do."

and because he's a petty little shit (a trait he learned from steve) he posts a video of him and chrissy having the most tendernasty missionary sex, complete with kissing and hand holding.

then it turned into the three of them being roommates. and then somewhere along the line it turned into chrissy being steve and eddie's surrogate and the three of them coparenting (a big win for steve "breeding kink" harrington), because at this stage in their relationship, they're pretty secure in knowing that chrissy is their life partner. they're not Together together, but they know she's not going anywhere.

i think that for them to get to this point, something would've had to happen between chrissy and someone outside of their relationship. someone she's had frequent collabs on onlyfans with, who maybe wanted something more and called her a hypocrite when she said she wasn't looking for anything serious, because of steve and eddie, and wouldn't listen when she insisted that it was different with them.

she tells the boys this and it turns into her coming with sobs of "i'm yours" as she rides steve while eddie fucks him. taylor mentioned they dp her and i said that that would be the moment it kind of clicks for them that this is how they were always meant to be.

and it gave me thoughts about possibly arospec chrissy. she loves her boys with her entire being, but she knows it's not romantic love. like eddie says, it feels deeper than that. to call it "romantic" almost feels like it cheapens their relationship (she knows it doesn't, she knows that eddie and steve's romantic feelings for each other are real and just as important). she's not sure if she's ever felt romantic love for anyone.

and that's all we have for now, outside of the smut alkgjldkfgj. none of them actually care about who the kid belongs to. they've got chrissy's light hair and dark eyes.

[quotidian-oblivion]

Want to share an excerpt from one of my wips for no reason Pt 5(?):

As he neared the place where the chirps were coming from, he heard someone else's voice too. 

"Back, you beast! I will not hesitate to run you through!"

With a furious roar, Merlin burst through the trees and used his magic to push the attacker back. 

The man flew through the air and landed in a bush. 

Merlin lowered his hand and turned to the dragon who was looking at him with curiosity. 

"'Thusa!" Merlin exclaimed delightedly. 

Aithusa shrieked and happily bounded over to him, bowing once before leaping on top of him and blowing smoke over his face. 

Merlim laughed, swatting away the smoke with his hand. "It's good to see you too, 'Thusa." Merlin struggled to sit up with Aithusa still on top of him, but managed. "Say, you haven't seen Lancelot anywhere, have you?"

With another happy chirp she skipped over to a pile of bushes and dragged out the man Merlin had thrown back with his magic before and blew smoke on his face too. 

Lancelot coughed as Aithusa helped him sit up. "Wha'?" He looked around dazedly.

[some-mari-thoughts]

7) Last evening in Faraway

Hands of time will wring my neck- (Or me being really really poor in time and juice at this point). Melancholy setting in

[Start] | [previous] | [next]

Readmore for observations!!!

Interesting, how Sunny's findings end up having such a different tone to the rest of the gang :< boy really gets no breaks. We don't really get to see how he's feeling, but we still have the shock by the extreme sudden focus on the photo that the game gives.

this moment is a lil silly, I wanted to draw everyone feeling sad x) Kel, sweetheart, I love and cherish you so much x"

The most time consuming one is RIGHT HERE. Active time that went into this one is too much. Pluto was intimidating, but this one ended up a little tiring even - too many reworks.. for my taste at least :D ANYWAY- Title screen 3, worth it 100%. It's INTERESTING, it's unsettling, it gives you a unique feeling of unease that completely contrasts the mood of the last day. Or does it? After all, we don't really look at sunny - the protagonist too much during the day. He is getting up to shenanigans, but we discuss literally everyone else (exception would be maybe the games and the comics - some minor focus on Sunny). That brings me to the idea - maybe the title screens are where Sunny's mind is generally at. We do get the notion that he tends to wander, so it's not off to be focused on his dreamworld and wanting to go back to sleep first couple days, then literally spend time in Black Space, and then to be thrown between reality (scary? fun?) and the nightmare from last night and unease from where he left off (terrifying) Brain worm

The art that I wasn't able to finalize even with the allnighter I pulled for the game finale x"/ I'M SO SAD ABT THIS ONE, I love it a lit but man. Man. Having to leave it for the likely Forever-WIP pile.. The little memories make me feel so much :< Many of the memories we get from Sunny are in the Faraway itself - and locked away in lost library. Though, the ones in the Photo album are, surprisingly, the ones he feels connected to most. maybe because they aren't smudged by years of trauma and denial, but instead miraculously survived his first real acts of denial, and gradually brought him back to the now. Might speak more ore less on that later - i had these thoughts for memory lane actually!

[mermaidgirl30]

Wip Wednesday!

Thank you for the tags @alltheirdamn @joelmillerisapunk @milla-frenchy @burntheedges @sawymredfox 🩷

I am working on a pile of things, and my docs are a mess right now. But here is a sneak peek at some things I’ve got in the works!

1. QZ! Joel

He cups your chin again, turning you slightly to him as his calloused fingertips brush a strand of hair behind the slope of your ear, breathing down your neck as you finally smell him. He smells woodsy, summer sweat kissing the air, cheap whiskey filling your senses. Then he looks deep in your eyes, one hand falling slowly to the top of the table, fingertips curling over the scratched wood, his jaw flexing as his eyes travel down to your lips for just a second, a breath in time. And suddenly you’re frozen in place, waiting for something to happen, something that shouldn’t happen. He wouldn’t, he’s not…

Another soft graze of his rough knuckles to your cheek and then the front door slams open, sending both of you back in your chairs.

2. Still chipping away at ch 5 of dbf! Joel

After you and Joel have showered and thrown on white, silky robes, you sit on the balcony and watch the sunset paint the sky purple and amber colors that look like a masterpiece. You lean into Joel on the reclining chair, letting his fingertips trace up and down your arms slowly while his lips brush against the shell of your ear.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” you ask, watching the waves slowly lap against the sand while he murmurs in your ear.

“Mhm, gorgeous.” He grazes his lips against your cheek and whispers sweet words into your ear. “You wanna go back inside? Let me make love to my girl,” he whispers as he trails another kiss over your cheek.

You spin around and smile up at him. “Okay, handsome. What’d you have in mind?” you giggle.

He smirks down at you and chuckles. “You remember when we were watching Scream on Halloween night, and I asked about the whole handcuff thing?”

You raise your eyebrows in question and nod. “Yeah, what about it?”

“Well, don’t exactly have the handcuffs, but that black silk ribbon I asked you to bring? Gonna use that to tie you to the headboard. Gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart. That what you want?” he asks with a long Southern drawl, eyes darkening as he speaks to you in a deep voice.

You gulp and nod your head. “Okay, daredevil. Take me to bed then,” you whisper into the shell of his ear.

3. Modern day witch trial Joel one shot!

He remembers everything. The pain, the loss, the absolute horror of living day after day in a town full of demons. And now he bleeds himself dry night after night, day after day. He has nothing left to give, no fight present in him. Now he’s just a hollow body, a broken man cursed to live in a place he so desperately despises. He wants out. God, does he want out.

But now there’s you. The woman he’s pined after for months. The rare beauty that captured his black heart, a ray of sunshine that showed him the light. It was the small smiles and grazing of skin, the gifted flowers, the afternoon small talks in the wildflower fields. He wishes he got the chance to kiss you, to tell you how much you saved him after his daughter was taken from him. But now it’s too late. He couldn’t save Sarah, and now he can’t save you. And it kills him, it fucking kills him.

He hears your gut wrenching screams, hears the crowd chant “Witch” repeatedly as his ears bleed dry. He covers his ears, kneels on the ground as dirt covers the fabric of his worn pants. He can’t hear it, can’t bear to know they’re torturing you. He wants to murder all of them, burn the whole goddamn town down, and maybe he will. Maybe this will push him to his last straw. He certainly won’t watch them burn you. No. He has to do something, anything.

No pressure tags and anyone else who wants to participate 😊 @janaispunk @maggiemayhemnj @magpiepills @syd-djarin @mountainsandmayhem

@its-dee-lovely @itsokbbygrl @katiexpunk @yxtkiwiyxt @604to647

@macfrog @ozarkthedog @aurorawritestoescape

[dustdeepsea]

WIP Wednesday

Edit: The story has been completed and posted here on AO3 :)

It's Wednesday here in the future :)

Working Title: Nine Lives (sequel to aqua vitae) Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Rating: Teen (non-explicit excerpt) Relationships: Rugan/Tav (Baldur’s Gate)

This is set post-game, so possible spoilers for the end of act 3.

Note: This is a work in progress and is subject to major changes in the final published version. It is not proof-read or edited; all typos are mine.

Falling feels like flying. Tumbling through the sky, you feel like a rag doll cast out of an angry child’s pram.

One final tantrum from the Netherbrain in its death throes.

So this is how I go, you think. You feel strangely at peace, watching the water below rush towards you, smooth and serene as glass from up high. You look around at your friends, your eyes watering as the wind streams past your face. 

One last image to hold in your mind.

Gale reaches out, his hands moving in desperate patterns, even though you know that by now he’s burnt through every scrap of his reserves. At the same time, Astarion breaks the wax seal on a scroll with both hands. His catlike grace makes him appear seated in mid-air, suspended. He was always the better rogue.

You feel the gentle tug of transmutation magic, as you are lifted up by the scruff of your neck. Featherfall sparkles around you in the sunlight. You are still descending rapidly, but floating upright now. Spread out before you is the ruined cityscape, the harbour, the grey ships and their sails. Everything and everyone you’ve fought so hard for. 

You draw your arms and legs in, and shut your eyes.

The spell gives out three metres above the water, and you splash into the river. The cold water is a shock to your aching, battle-worn body. Your limbs seize up. You feel bubbles rush over and around you.

It takes a moment before your survival instincts kick in and your lungs begin to scream.

I want to live. 

The thought animates your leaden legs, forces them to flutter and kick. Thrashing your way upwards, you break the surface and gasp for air.

The end of the world has come and gone. You’ve survived.

The doors to the Elfsong are thrown wide open, and everyone in the city seems to be either passing through the bar, or spilling out into the streets with their drinks and singing loudly. The cellars have been emptied, and every bard in town seems to be playing on the same stage tonight. Commerce is the lifeblood of Baldur’s Gate, you recall Wyll saying. There’s nothing better for business than a near brush with death.

At some point, someone cast Prestidigitation on you, and pressed a hot drink into your hand. You clutch it numbly, the cup long grown cold.

Tomorrow, there will be a reckoning. You think about your remaining companions, your time together already coming to an end. So many goodbyes were already said that afternoon on the pier—you shake your head to interrupt the dismal thoughts. For now, you’re alive and that’s all that matters.

You can’t fault the people of Baldur’s Gate for celebrating. You would do the same if you were in their shoes.

The noise and press of the people around you is driving you mad. You put down your cup and push your way to the doors. All around you, the cheer goes up, red faces saluting you with their drinks. They hoot and holler, and shout your name.

“Tav! Tav! Tav!”

You smile and wave to your adoring crowd, as you edge your way to the exit. The roar of the tavern crowd fades as you leave their field of vision and they turn back to their revelry. You slip away from the crowd milling near the entrance and out into the night.

Most of the buildings in the Lower City are still standing, minus a few spires. Further away, folks stand around scattered bonfires, drinking and speaking more quietly.

You take in a deep breath and wrinkle your nose. The air is crisp but smells of acrid woodsmoke and ozone. Piles of illithid bodies are being burnt and tossed into collapsed doorways. Still, it’s better than being trapped indoors.

You exhale, and lean against a nearby facade that's intact. It feels like you’ve been holding your breath since you landed in the river.

“Now, that doesn’t sound very festive.” A gently chiding voice drifts over from the street.

You lift your head and watch its owner approach you, open bottle in hand. Of course he would be here, sauntering up to you, after half the city had been destroyed. This man clearly has nine lives.

“Rugan,” you say, and a smile breaks over his face. Exhausted as you are, you feel your lips quirk upwards in response.

“Tav.” He’s standing right in front of you now, and your body remembers a different night in a small room, lit by dim lamplight. You hope it’s not written all across your face.

“I like the hair piece,” he says, gesturing with the bottle.

Puzzled, you reach up towards your head and your hands close around a braided flower crown. Someone must have placed it on you in the tavern without you noticing. You pull it off, slowly, the wildflowers scattering tiny yellow and white petals as they catch in your hair. 

It hangs from your hands, loosely, as you glance between it and his amused face. “It’s been a very long day,” you say, finally, and he laughs.

“Long is an understatement, lass.” He offers you the bottle and you readily accept.

“Word on the street is that we have you and your crew to thank for all of us still being alive,” he says, as you take a sip. It tastes green and medicinal on your tongue. “Let me buy you a proper drink inside.”

Highsun liqueur. You lick your lips and sigh. 

“I shouldn’t.” You rub at your face and suppress a shudder at the thought of the roiling crowd in the Elfsong. “Sorry—I haven’t dared to have a drink all evening. If I accept one, I will have to drink them all, and then I'll wake up passed out in the Chionthar.”

He nods sagely, like it’s a dilemma that he’s encountered many times before. “Well, what would you like to do instead?” he asks, placidly. There’s no hint of leering or suggestion in his voice.

You’re stunned for a moment. No one’s asked you that question in a kindly manner, for a very long while. Gods and devils and their emissaries have hounded you relentlessly for what feels like forever, spurring you from one wild task to the next, the tadpole in your head all the while a ticking time-bomb.

“What should we do, Tav?” used to mean—which awful choice do we make now? Who gets to live? Who dies next?

For the first time in a long time, you can answer without despairing.

“I have an idea. Come with me.” Impulsively, you drop the flower crown on the ground, and take his hand. It’s large and warm against yours. 

He looks surprised, but doesn’t protest as you tug him towards the side of the tavern building, where fewer people are about. You hand the bottle back to him, and let go of his hand to rummage around in your satchel. With a flourish, you pull out the scroll of Dimension Door. You’ve earned this, all hundred gold pieces worth of it. No more scrimping and saving for the next fight. 

Linking your arms, you look at Rugan and flash him a perfectly ordinary, non-crazed grin. “Hold onto me,” you say, and crack the seal, teleporting you both to the rooftop of the Elfsong.

[ladykailitha]

Strip club AU!!!!!!!

WIP Wednesday! Make me write!

First ask here.

Snippet

By the time Steve had finished his set that first night, even though he didn’t remove a single article of clothing the money that was thrown at him was as much as Asmodeus in his heyday. On his first night.

The other dancers had been gathering the thrown money all night and Steve picked up the rest from his finale. They brought it all to Eddie to be counted. Same with the tip jar at the bar. The money for the dancers was a much bigger pile than the one at the bar, but the tip jar wasn’t slouching either.

Eddie carefully doled out the bartenders and waiters tips first. Robin’s eyes going wide as she held few hundred dollars in her hands.

“I didn’t think Sundays would be very popular,” she breathed, carefully dividing it and putting it in separate places so if her purse got stolen she didn’t lose all of it.

[jtl-fics]

could you pretty please do jack in math nerds au ? If you can’t that’s ok. Love ya💜💜💜

WIP Wednesday 8/23/23 Closed | Math Nerd AU

Neil and Kevin sat in Wymack's office going through the candidates that Dan and Wymack had filtered through initially. "What about this one?" Kevin asks tossing a file over to Neil.

Neil opens the file and closes it within 3 seconds before tossing it on the 'absolutely not' pile. "Got anything else?" Neil asks looking at Kevin.

Kevin frowns.

"What was wrong with that file?" he asks pointing at the file that Neil had thrown into the 'absolutely not' pile.

"He wasn't viable." Neil says with a shrug.

"You didn't even look at it." Kevin scowls.

"No, I looked at it. He was just so bad that it didn't take more than 3 seconds to see how bad he was." he crosses his arms defensively.

[imbecominggayer]

Writing Curse: Gifting You My Stories

Here are some story ideas that I have but I am either never ever going to write because they deserve to live in my brain or they are permanent WIP 🥳

Prompt 1: The Curse Of God On His Child

At the beginning of time, the only two creatures who existed are the oynx night who breathed loved out into the cosmos in a wordless yet etheral manner and a creature who declared himself God. Creation spun out of this coupling as Creation became the first angel and true child of God. God's mind started to wander as thoughts combined into ideas and ideas turned into plans.

Universe, galaxy, solar system, planet, humans. Creation was made to watch over the easily excitable children who, like their forefather, also manipulated the outside to match their insides. They smeared the red of their insides onto each other's faces as they laughed into the night about tales never told.

It was pleasant. Until, Creation did something bad. They killed God. it was an accident. They swear it was an accident. But who cares when you've killed God? No one cared about God, except the humans. Not ever the night sends shooting stars for mourners.

But Creation cared. So much. And the humans cared. Too much. They begged to hear God. Hear his comforting words. Creation begged them to stop talking about God. But humans are excitable children who wanted to talk to their father.

Creation ordered a tiny village of little boys and little girls who played and killed together to do something nice for them. A perfect little birthday present wrapped in tongues. Yes, of the two-hundred villagers, a hundred would be getting their tongues ripped out.

You might expect that they would be scared and some were. But they were also blissful. It's rare you had an opportunity to be listened to. So humans did many things that night. All lot of things that Creation didn't want them to do. And after the two hundred dead bodies were gathered together under Heaven something magical happened.

Creation knew they did something bad. Again, so they changed a bit. Denial lived in the heavens and revenge was born again.

Revenge was born out of the cries of mourning and blood and tongue. Unlike the heavenly light of Creation, they were viscous and moist with blood. Just like the tongues that were thrown into the pile.

And Revenge was going to kill Creation.

Creation was going to thrive under divinity.

Now we are here, in the modern day, no one knows what happened between these two fragmented entities. But if one thing is certain, it's that Denial and Revenge are still twirling around in their dance

[monstersinthecosmos]

20 Qs for fic writers

Tagged by @jacqulinetan

1. How many works do you have on A03? 46 public, 3 private, 2 anon.

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count? 692, 623!

3. What fandoms do you write for? VC and Sheith with a few YOI fics thrown in. 😊

4. What are your top five fics by kudos? Star Eater, THE FRONT, Tonight the Stars Revolt!, Wayfinder, and Zero Hour!

5. Do you respond to comments? YES! I only share fics because I want comments lmfao. I want to talk to you!!! Sometimes I do like a quarterly roundup so I let them pile up and then answer them all every 3 months lol but I do try to reply to everybody!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? I think for Sheith it’s C O A G V L A and for VC it’s The Lotus Eater or Gallows Bird? (The Lotus Eater and Gallows Bird have the Armand & Marius versions of the same ending bc Gallows Bird was a TLE remix LOL) Sfaíra Ti̱s Fo̱tiás also has a really bleak ending but it’s a PWP so it doesn’t hurt me as bad LOL.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? For Sheith it’s THE FRONT I think? For VC idk maybe Right Where it Belongs or In the Trials of the Heart?

8. Do you get hate on fics? I’ve gotten a lot of hate in fandom at large but never really got flagrant hate in an AO3 comment. I do occasionally get a rude unsolicited critique and I like to use that as an opportunity to write meta about why my decision was correct LOL

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? I only write smut, thanks! WHAT KIND? idk I lean into BDSM but there's a few that aren't BDSM. I also write canon-compliant VC smut so it's either a vampire servicing a human or me trying to make blood drinking sound as horny as possible.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? I used to when I was a teenager on my old accounts but it doesn’t really interest me anymore outside of like maybe a cute lil homage Easter Egg or something.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? I don’t think so!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? No!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? I haven’t co-written in a long time but I used to! One of my fav fics from high school was written with my best friend where we alternated chapters and it was so much fun!  

14. What’s your all time favorite ship? Sheith and Marius/Armand and Armand/Daniel and Marius/Pandora !!!!!!!!!!!!!! Those are my fav ships to WRITE, I don’t really read a lot of VC though. I have lots of other fav ships to read.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? I don’t start stuff that I won’t finish adsgjl when I was in high school my FFnet page was a DISASTER just like 60 fics, none of them finished, and so when I returned to fic writing using AO3 I promise myself not to post stuff that I wasn’t confident I’d finish. Ideally I don’t even begin sharing something until it’s finished but TTSR was an exception bc it started as a PWP and got out of hand.

16. What are your writing strengths? I get complimented the most on tension and pacing! Also on emotional meta like characters' behavior around trauma.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? I really wish I was better at writing long fics. It’s been a goal of mine forever and I’ve gotten a little better but I’m not where I want to be.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? Gjkaldsg I don’t think it’s necessary and often comes off as cheesy unless it serves a real purpose. I've seen it done really well before! (Clap When You Land by Elizabeth Acevedo came to mind!) And I think we’ve all seen this done badly enough in fanfic to kind of learn what not to do. I think there are times when the beauty and cadence of another language can add texture or say something that you simply can’t say in the default language, I also think it can be used to create a distance between the characters, even between the reader and the character. I used a lot of Latin in So Falls the World for example, because Marius and Pandora are reciting an ancient poem to each other, and it was important to me to leave it in Latin because I wanted to communicate their age, that they’re clinging to something archaic because it’s familiar to them, when it’s incongruous to the world around them and also the text around them. Same with the misinterpretation of silence and its disastrous consequences, where Louis is reciting a French poem. I mean do we assume that Louis and Lestat speak French to each other at home anyway? But putting the poem in the original language AT LEAST FOR ME created a sense that Louis is playing a role, that it’s something outside of himself. Basically I think media does this all the time and we are smart enough to know that the language we’re consuming might not be the language the characters are actually speaking, we all know that! So the question is, when people sprinkle random words into their stories or dialogue, I ask: What purpose did this serve? Is this how bilingual people actually talk? Is it written for bilingual readers as a shared experience or is it meant to confuse monolingual readers for effect? Is it used sparingly to add texture, is it just a fun word that you want to use? Do whatever you want but I think we need to ask ourselves these questions before writing something that’s a sloppy mess at best, and a racist caricature at worst!

19. First fandom you wrote for? Pro wrestling =P

20. Favourite fic you’ve written? Tonight the Stars Revolt! is my fav Sheith fic, it’s like my magnus opus that I do all my meta work for, everything I’ve thought deeply about was ultimately for this fic, I HAVENT UPDATED IT IN ALMOST 2 YEARS IM REALLY SORRY LIFE KINDA GOT AWAY FROM ME IT’S BEEN HECTIC but I think about it constantly, more than you know, I have 3 playlists for it that I listen to all the time, it’s just always on my mind. For VC it used to be So Falls the World but now that I wrote Gallows Bird I think it’s that, too. I can’t tell if it’s because Gallows Bird is just newer and less sloppy LOL but jkdlhakjgsd I THINK I AVOIDED WRITING MARIUS FIC FOR A LONG TIME BC I WAS INTIMIDATED BUT THE TIMES I DO WRITE HIM I HAVE SUCH A BLAST and I just love him so much!

TAGGING: @hekateinhell @apoptoses @mothmage @nothing-but-paisley @covenofthearticulate @lovevamp @bubblegum-blackwood & EVERYONE ELSE

[abarbaricyalp]

Hi! Not sure how it works, but for the Whumptober event: #15 for SamBucky?

Oh it is so embarrassing to be answering this so late. I have literally been working on it (off and on) since October. It never strayed from the top of my WIP pile. I just...gestures vaguely Thank you so much for sending in a prompt and I'm so sorry to have taken so long. I do love a good "Leave me alone, I'm fine" whump. I went with "Makeshift bandages" but I'm sure you can find "suppressed suffering" and "I'm fine" if you squint.

Putting Bandages Where Stitches Should Be

CW: Injury, violence, blood, etc

Read on AO3

Steve was right again. Sam hated it when Steve was right. It was making an indisputably bad day even worse.

"Don't go out today," Steve had said, all puppy-dogged eyes that morning. "I've got a bad feeling."

Him and his bad feelings. He called it a soldier's intuition and Sam called it a soldier's paranoia. But, dammit, he was usually right. That couldn’t be a byproduct of the serum, could it?

But it was a beautiful fall day and they needed groceries something fierce, so Sam had rolled his eyes and called him paranoid and headed out.

It had been fine for several hours, Sam wanted it noted. Just a normal day of errands. Hell, no one had even recognized him. He even tried a new coffee drink.

With a hysterical kind of laugh, Sam realized he hadn’t even made it to the grocery store yet. Probably a good thing since the car was now languishing in a parking lot somewhere and it was only going to get warmer as the day went on. What time was it, he wondered. Had Steve realized something was wrong yet? That paranoid intuition would be real handy right about then.

Sam leaned back against the dingy wall and tried not to think about how badly he was sweating against it. It was going to start mildewing. He still couldn’t figure out where these guys came from. The parking lot had been almost completely empty. There’d been no one else near him. One second, he was loading up a bag of new blankets into the back of the car, and the next someone was hitting him upside the head and dragging him away.

He knew they had to be trained at least a little. They were quiet and fierce. Nothing that Sam couldn’t normally hand, but there had been no fighting through the early wound to his head. Actually, it was still pulsing, each heartbeat a new throb of bruise-ache against his skull. The longer he sat here, the further the ache traveled, reaching for his temples, his ears, his eyes.

He closed his eyes, as if that would stave off anything at all, and listened to the ambient noise of whatever not-so-safe house he was being held in. He’d seen neither hide nor hair of his attackers since they’d thrown him into the small room. He assumed it was an apartment and this was some bedroom or office. It was clean, the carpet was almost soft. There were worse places, he thought. And with it being carpet, maybe they weren’t looking to make him bleed. That’d be nice.

He knew other people were around. He could hear them pacing around the other side of the door. His head hurt too much to concentrate on what they were saying. They were speaking German, which he didn’t speak, but it gave him a good feel that this was probably Hydra. It made the apartment even more confusing. What would Hydra want with Sam that involved just keeping him thrown in an empty office?

There was a cacophony outside then, snarling and the sounds of blows landing on bodies, bodies falling to the floor.

“Ich habe es dir gesagt!” he heard someone shout. “Er ist der Winter Soldier!”

Someone was shitting Sam. Instantly, all of the minor irritation of the day flooded over the actual concern of having been kidnapped by neo-Nazi assholes. If he’d said ‘this day can’t get worse’ this is the exact outcome that would have made it worse. He’d take bleeding over this.

There was more fighting and then the door was wrenched open and a very bloodied and bruised Winter Soldier was kicked into the room, landing hard on his face and wrist beside Sam.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Sam said, just to get it out there.

Barnes turned over onto his back, keeping his hurt wrist against his chest. He looked up at Sam, scowled through the blood on his face, managed to glare while both eyes were almost swelled shut. “I ain’t thrilled to see you neither, birdbrain,” he coughed. He turned back onto his side to spit out a glob of blood that landed on the knee of Sam’s jeans.

“Asshole,” Sam snapped and tried to clean it off, even though it was already a lost battle. “I take it you fought back,” Sam guessed.

“I take it you did not,” Bucky shot back and it felt more like an insult than an actual insult would have.

Sam scowled at him. It had been months since they’d seen each other. Sam couldn’t even say what city or even country it was that he’d caught up to Barnes in. It hadn’t been a long meeting. More or less just enough time for them to grapple and exchange a few threats before Barnes shook Sam’s tail again. At first, Sam took it as a personal failing that he kept losing Barnes. He was too ashamed to admit to Steve that he’d caught up with the reanimated best friend but let him slip away. Then, as time went on and Sam caught him more often, he placed all of the blame fully on Barnes. There were times, he knew, when Barnes let him catch up. These happened only often enough to keep Sam in the cat-and-mouse game. There were times, he also knew, when Barnes fully didn’t expect Sam to have found him. Two months ago was one of those times. Barnes had seemed healthy and adjusted. He had his own place and there was fresh bread on the table. Small miracles.

That did not explain why Barnes was in New York or anywhere near it in order to get the shit beat out of him by Hydra goons and dragged into whatever this was.

Barnes shoved himself up by the elbows and spit more blood out. So much for keeping the carpet clean. “So what the fuck did you do to land us here?”

“This is not an ‘us’ situation,” Sam objected with a snort. “What did you do to land you  here?”

“Fuck all,” Barnes answered. He leaned against the wall next to Sam, tilted his head back to avoid gushing more blood from his nose. Sam had seen him hurt before, but he’d never been around for the fall out like this. He was like some stray dog, sleeping off the worst of it and trying to lick clean all of the rest. “You told me it was an emergency.”

Sam looked away from a smear of blood on Bucky’s neck to frown at him directly. “I did not reach out to you. And what kind of emergency could possibly make you come all the way back to America?”

Bucky’s head lolled over to him. A muscle worked in his jaw and down his neck as those obnoxious eyes scanned over Sam’s face. “You said Steve was hurt. Bad.”

“I didn’t. He’s not. That’s all it would’ve taken to get you back here?” he asked, just a little offended that he’d been traipsing around the world and digging huge chunks into his sleep deficit when there was a magic code to bring Bucky back on his own. And all it would take was Steve landing himself in a hospital again.

Bucky half waved him off, turned his head away again. “Someone must’ve really wanted me here.”

“I cannot fathom why.”

They sat in stony silence for too long. Sam much preferred being alone, he decided. At least then silence was just silence and not this crackling energy between them. Barnes broke the silence by coughing wetly again and spitting out more blood and tissue.

“Christ alive,” Sam sighed. “What’s going on with you?” He reached out without any fanfare to hold Bucky’s face and examine the injuries there. There’d been no time for any of them to heal, not that Sam would’ve been able to tell through the blood. “Hold still,” he ordered and reached for the hidden knife in Bucky’s bootheel that he knew was there.

“How?” Bucky asked. Sam was surprised to only find curiosity in his voice and not anger.

“I’ve seen you take it out before. Just had to hope it wasn’t something Hydra taught you and knew to look for.”

“Nah, that one’s all Brooklyn,” he said with a tired sigh. “Well, kind of. I adapted it.”

Sam rolled his eyes. The old-timey Brooklyn posturing was the same whether it was Steve or Barnes, evidently. He cut the sleeve off of his shirt and used it to begin cleaning away some of the blood on Bucky’s face. It was slow going without water, but Barnes was remarkably quiet during the entire thing. He let Sam work without fussing. His eyes remained focused and sharp, bright even in the dim room. He was more enjoyable when his eyes looked like this, instead of the dead shark stare he got in the middle of a fight.

Not that Sam was going to admit Barnes was ever enjoyable to be around.

“What do you think this is about?” Sam asked to distract Bucky from the fact that he was about to set his nose back.

“Clearly they wanted the both of us–Fuck you, Wilson!” Bucky shouted and shoved Sam hard enough that Sam actually rocked back and lost his balance, sprawled across the floor. Sam subtly rolled out his shoulder–it was definitely going to bruise–before he sat up again and glared.

“I didn’t think you wanted the rugged crooked nose look,” he defended without any real belief in the words. He was actually kind of worried about what the serum would do to a persistently crooked nose.

Bucky rubbed from the bridge of his nose into the soft, squishy bruises around his eyes. Already, impossibly, the color was draining from the outer edges of the bruises. Sam hated him for it.

“Clearly they wanted both of us,” Sam agreed and rolled his shoulder again. “But…they don’t seem keen on cutting off fingers.”

“Not yet,” Bucky grunted.

“They gotta know we won’t talk. You won’t talk. Don’t you think it’s kind of playing with fire to bring you here? I mean, you’re not even drugged.”

As if his words were a reminder, Bucky eyed the door. Sam knew he could take it out of the wall if he wanted too. He also knew that whoever these assholes were, they had enough manpower to bring Bucky in bloodied and rough. He figured Bucky was doing similar calculations in his mind.

“Why us?” Sam prompted again.

“Steve,” Bucky grunted. He leaned back against the wall and drew his knees up to his chest. “They wouldn’t bother to hunt me down, wouldn’t take that risk, for anything else. They probably think if they have both of us, they have twice as much leverage.”

“Maybe they couldn’t decide which one he was more likely to come for,” Sam suggested, only a little sarcastically.

“That man would rend the Earth apart for you,” Bucky said as simply as he would talk about the weather.

Sam tried not to blow over again. Bucky believed that. He wasn’t just saying it to be a shit. “Have you been watching us?” he asked, instead of asking for a thesis on why Bucky thought that so assuredly.

Bucky cut him a look. It was dampened by the bruises. “I had to keep making sure neither of you had gotten yourselves killed yet.”

“Yeah, you’re a real shining example of how to do it right. Show back up on American soil for two minutes and instantly get captured,” Sam snarked back. He needed to put some distance between his current situation and the fact that Barnes thought Steve would ‘rend the Earth apart’ for him. “Come here and let me look at that wrist.”

“Is this how you were with the pararescue?”

“Good at my job? Yes.”

“So damn pushy,” Barnes corrected. But he shifted how he was sitting so they were almost knee to knee and then held out his arm. “It’ll heal on its own,” he said. “I’ve had worse.”

“Or I can just wrap it and you don’t have to worry about rebreaking it later. Do you know how many carpal bones there are? You keep fucking them up, or the tendons attached to them, and you’re gonna be in a world of hurt for longer than you need to be.”

“There are eight,” Barnes said, just to be difficult. “Should I name them all for you too?”

Sam took half a second to glare at him before returning his attention to Bucky’s wrist. Barnes was long fingered, which was something Sam knew logically. He’d seen him handle weaponry. Seen him fight. Still, it was different when those fingers were laid out across his forearm, a little swollen, a little curled in, but still so damn pretty. Sam had never met someone with pretty hands before. He’d expected Bucky’s hands to be gnarled and scarred from a lifetime of fighting and training and abuse, but they just weren’t. The serum helped, he assumed. He wondered what they had looked like on the man from all of Steve’s stories. Had they looked like this, even working on the docks all day and boxing his way through the nights?

Everyone Sam knew who’d ever worked around boats had hands that were rope-burned and muscled and suntanned. He’d half expected Bucky’s to be similar. Instead, his hands were…not soft, exactly. But clean and smooth.

He pushed his thumbs into Bucky’s wrist, dragging them down his metacarpals. Barnes hissed in a breath and his eyes darted away from Sam’s ministrations. Sam returned his thumbs to Bucky’s wrist and then pushed down into his ulna and radius. He didn’t react as strongly to that, so Sam focused on the carpals that were up high in his wrist. (Down low? He could never remember how to orient the body)

“Where does it hurt?” he asked, probing for the misaligned bone but coming up empty.

“Everywhere,” Barnes ground out. “It fucking hurts everywhere.” But he didn’t yank his hand away, so Sam kept at it. Finally, finally, something snapped as Sam pushed his thumbs down into Bucky’s wrist for an umpteenth time. Bucky swore colorfully and snatched his hand back at that, rubbing his own fingers over his wrist while new curses came out.

“Let me wrap it a little,” Sam offered, holding his hand out again.

Bucky looked at him like he bit. Sam had read all the notes about the Winter Soldier. How medical treatment was administered. When the Soldier cooperated and when he didn’t. The Soldier could handle inordinate amounts of pain. Bucky Barnes, it seemed, did not feel like keeping the habit alive.

“It’ll be fine without a sling,” he insisted. “It already feels better.” And then, from between his teeth, he added, “Thank you.”

He was still bloodied, hair matted all to hell. He looked like some kind of wild man. Actually, he kind of looked how Sam expected to find him at the beginning of the Great Barnes Search and Rescue Mission. He came forward again, beginning to wipe at Bucky’s face one more time.

“You’re disgusting to look at,” he defended when Bucky tacked a lazy glare on him.

“Just admit you wanna touch my face, Wilson,” Bucky shot back.

Sam accidentally reopened a wound, so he tore off a piece from his demolished sleeve and stuck it to the gash like toilet paper on a shaving knick. 

“You’re so dumb,” Bucky sighed as his eyes closed. Then he pitched right into Sam, almost completely boneless.

“Barnes?” Sam barked as he fought to get his hands under Bucky’s body enough to lift him again. “Do not fucking pass out,” he ordered, possibly irrelevantly. “Barnes,” he snapped again, and gently smacked the better, less bruised side of his face. “You didn’t say you were concussed. You didn’t say you had more injuries.” He yanked up Bucky’s shirt, prodding his belly and ribs for any signs of internal bleeding, but came up short. Just a bunch of outside bruises, maybe a crack in his ribs. He wrenched open Bucky’s mouth to check for signs he’d been coughing blood, but didn’t find any of that either. He was just about to shove his fingers down Bucky’s throat to look for a blood clot when his eyes fluttered open again.

He took a few seconds to recognize his surroundings–distressingly still and relaxed about waking up in a room he didn’t know–and then he reached up for Sam’s wrist and pulled his hand away. “Why were your fingers in my mouth?”

Sam rolled his eyes while he waited for his heart to stop thundering in his chest. Just his luck. Find the prodigal best friend and watch him die before Sam could drop him at Steve’s feet. “You basically begged for me to,” he scoffed. “Sam, please, you’ve just got such good fingers. I need them in my mouth.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, then grimaced. So it probably was some kind of concussion. At least Sam didn’t have to worry about blood clots. “What’s happened? How long was I out?”

“Nothing. A few seconds,” Sam answered. “Don’t do that again.”

Bucky saluted from halfway up his chest. “Whatever, man. I’m just tired.”

“I don’t care what you are. Keep your eyes open.”

The door opened then and a tall man, dressed like a movie villain with tall dark boots and a long dark coat, walked into the room. He had Sam’s phone in his hand and it was trilling with a waiting phone call.

“You don’t keep a passcode on your phone?” Bucky asked drily.

“Of course I fucking do,” Sam snapped back.

“Gentlemen, please,” the man said with a stifled German accent.

Steve picked up just before it would’ve gone to voicemail. “Sam, hey, I was about to send out a rescue party.”

Bucky looked at Sam pointedly, which Sam ignored. It was just a joke. He hadn’t been gone that long. Probably.

“Mr. Rogers,” the man in the coat greeted. Sam could practically feel Steve go still on the other side of the call. “I seem to have acquired not only your friend’s cell phone, but him as a whole person. And he came along with another friend.”

He snapped a photo of Sam and Bucky. Bucky barely flinched at the flash, but a few seconds later, he was still blinking and shaking his head, like the light was still in his eyes. The bad guy du jour tapped around on Sam’s phone and Sam heard it buzz in on Steve’s end.

Steve was quiet, contemplative for a few seconds. Then he said, “You have Sam and Bucky?”

“Yeeesss,” the man agreed with a lilting exaggeration. “I didn’t know they came as a pair.”

“They don’t, usually. But now that you do have both, good luck.”

And then the little shit hung up the phone. Even the asshole German guy stared at the screen in disbelief. Another man appeared in the hallway. He cast a nervous glance towards Bucky, whose eyes were shut again, before redirecting his attention to his boss.

“What’d he say?” the man asked. He was fully American. Jersey, maybe.

“Bad connection,” the other man ground out before stalking down the hallway. The second man hurried to keep up. The door remained open.

Sam nudged Bucky’s ribs. “Stop it,” Bucky grumbled without opening his eyes.

“If you pass out again, I’m not waking you up this time,” Sam lied. “What did Steve mean?”

“I think he meant we can handle ourselves. I just need to…” He grimaced. “I just need to rest my eyes for a little while. Then I’ll be good to go.”

“The door is open now,” Sam pointed out under his breath. “Come on, you don’t have some kind of super hearing where you can fight with your eyes closed?”

Bucky raised one eyebrow in consideration. It stressed a gash across his brow. “I can fight in the dark,” he agreed.

“I’ll keep anyone from hitting you in the face again,” Sam promised. “But we have to go now.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes open and leveled a calculating glare on Sam before he nodded. “Alright,” he agreed, which felt like a miracle in and of itself. He pushed himself to his feet and then leaned back against the wall as he pressed the heels of his hands over his browbones.

Sam stood as well and put a hand to Bucky’s elbow. In all their brief encounters, they didn’t get much time to touch each other, unless they were brawling over nothing but ego. Bucky was actually…kind of soft beneath Sam’s fingers. And warm. He was certainly not the sharp edged, battle ready soldier Sam kept finding. He felt real and alive. And he was still trying to blink his eyes open.

Sam curled his fingers tighter around Bucky’s elbow and pulled him out into the hallway. He scanned the unit for any sunlight that he could use to orient himself. Without speaking, Bucky pulled him to the stairs. They made it most of the way down before the wall of the stairs gave way to an open railing and they were spotted by more assholes in black.

“Y’all coordinate these outfits beforehand or y’all keep changes of clothes here?” Sam asked before he threw Bucky into the crowd of assholes.

He tried to keep his promise about keeping punches away from Bucky’s face. They landed damn near everywhere else. Sam had underestimated how many people there were–numbers growing from three to five to nine until he lost count. Bucky was holding his own, putting men down two-to-one to Sam, climbing to three-to-one. Sam tried to catch glimpses of the rest of the house. There was a wall of windows, covered in curtains and pasted over with film or paper. The rest of the room looked like a dining room or something. Behind them was nothing but more room and dark walls.

“Find the front door,” Bucky snapped when Sam’s eyes went to the window again. He smashed someone’s head down on the banister with enough force to crack either bone or wood. “I’m not jumping through glass.”

Sam rolled his eyes and then ducked away from a Goddamn hammer. He wrestled it away from the man wielding it, then threw it at the window to shatter it open. “There you go. No need to jump,” he said breathlessly. He turned just in time to catch someone around the waist and throw them into the wall before they could get the drop on Bucky, who was, if Sam had to guess, wrenching someone’s arm out of socket. 

Bucky got a gun from somewhere and made fast work of everyone else in the room, but not before the guy who Sam had thrown into the wall smashed Sam’s head into it in retaliation. On the opposite side from the open wound Sam was already contending with, of course. Why shouldn’t the bruises match?

“You’re bleeding,” Bucky said, cutting through the ringing, violent silence that had fallen over the house. He wiped away the blood that was pouring over his own eye, completely oblivious to the irony. “Jesus, you’re bleeding a lot. What happened?”

Sam stared at him a little dumbfounded. “Are you serious right now?”

Bucky tsked away his bitching, yanking Sam over to examine his forehead like a collector looking at diamonds. “Gross,” he decided and then ripped the collar of his shirt off like it was nothing, along with a chunk of the bottom of it. “Don’t move,” he ordered as he folded the fabric over on itself a few times and then pressed it tightly over the wound on Sam’s head. He used the collar of his shirt to tie the fabric down.

His fingers were absurdly gentle as he worked. The warmth that had radiated off of his body was gone now, fingers cool against the bruise-hot burn of Sam’s skin. Sam didn’t realize his eyes had fallen shut until Bucky gently touched his other cheek and tilted his face down just a little. “Don’t die,” he said.

Sam didn’t have the energy to glare at him. “Pot, kettle,” he managed to say. He pulled Bucky’s hand away from his face and looked around the room. “You know this wasn’t everyone.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got the rest handled,” he promised and held up a grenade.

“What the fuck?” Sam asked, staring at it like he’d never seen one before. “Why did someone just have that on them?”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s not even a good one,” he said disappointedly. “There probably isn’t anyone else here, but at least no one will be able to come back,” he offered. He crossed to the window and removed the remaining glass with his metal arm, still looking at it like it was personally offending him.

They helped each other through the window with the unspoken agreement not to mention it again after this. Both of them had enough blood dripping in their eyes and rattled brains to warrant it just this once.

“You handled yourself pretty well without your wings,” Bucky offered as they walked away from the house. “How big do you suppose that window is?”

“I was trained before I had the wings,” Sam pointed out sharply. He glanced over his shoulder to reassess the broken window. “Four by six, you think?”

“Sure, the whole thing, but what about the cleared part?”

“Two by three? Four?”

Bucky regarded the grenade in his hand and the distance between them and the house. “I can do that,” he decided.

They walked a few meters more before he turned fully, pulled the pin of the grenade, and then threw it with an accuracy that would have more Cy Young winners seething with jealousy. Not to mention the distance and force of it too.

A few seconds later, the house exploded. Bucky was right. It wasn’t a very good grenade.

Sam looked around the wooded area they were in, a marginal field around them before the trees started up again, which was probably best because of the fire now. “So, where the fuck are we?” he asked.

“And how the fuck do we get home?” Bucky finished with a ridiculous perturbed set to his lips.

“Ah, shit, that asshole still had my phone,” Sam groaned when the patting of his pants came up empty. He knew Steve’s number by heart, but he didn’t imagine Bucky had his phone on him either.

“We could go see where he went,” Bucky suggested. “That explosion was not cool enough to take out any of the cars.”

“Neither one of us is in any condition to go track someone down.”

“Could be fun.”

Bucky was already looking at him when Sam glanced over to see if he was being serious. “You wanna try to live out the last third of an action movie?”

“Second third at best,” Bucky scoffed with a wave. “Lots more adventures ahead of us. The Winter Soldier and the Falcon has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“It would absolutely be The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. Captain Good-Looking and  The Grouchy Soldier. Angel and Asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky interrupted, reaching for Sam’s hand. For just a second, Sam’s heart may have stuttered in his chest. But all Bucky was doing was unwinding the bandage Sam had put around his wrist earlier so that he could patch up the sluggishly bleeding gashes on Sam’s knuckles now. “Come on, Pilot Hyperbole. We’re losing daylight.”

“The Falcon and the Hound Dog,” Sam added, following Bucky as they skirted the smoldering building to find a car.

They drove away into an easing sunset.

If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving a kudos and a note on AO3

[snickerdoodlles]

say hello to my current wip, making assumptions, aka the fic about chay's truly impressive collection of monsterfucker sex toys. i'm banging my head against my desk as i work on one of the emotional scenes, so here's a ~1k preview of the first chapter because i like validation 😂

The thing about fucking up a lot is that you get really good at identifying the little voice in your head yelling hey moron amongst all the alarm bells. It’s just that, if you’re Kim, the little voice can scream as loud as it likes, but it won’t change the fact that the stupid decision is so often the only decision available.

I, Kim thinks as he picks the lock on Chay’s door, am very bad at lying to myself.

It’s just, Kim is nosy. He doesn’t know how not to be, not with a childhood of secrets that kill and a father who lies more than he cares. So, when Kim had snooped through the family’s finance accounts and happened upon Chay’s bank statements, which showed no activity beyond Papa adding an allowance for months and then abruptly incurred multiple pages of mysterious payments totalling to several thousand baht in less than two weeks, which transactions could only be less obvious if they were plastered in neon DRUGS HERE! signs, well. What was Kim supposed to do?

…Not break into Chay’s room and scour the place for secret drug stashes is the correct answer, but Kim is so far past that now. He doesn’t even know what he’s going to do when he finds the stashes of drugs--probably throw them out, except then he’d have to tell Chay, because people rearranging your rooms and throwing out your stuff behind your back is the worst, and he won’t do that to Chay. But he’s also been trying to respect Chay’s fuck off boundary line, no matter how much it hurts, so Chay’s going to hate him twice as much for this, fuck, he’s really thrown himself into a right pickle this time--

He should turn back now. Before he makes this worse.

Then Kim thinks of Chay collapsed in his own pile of vomit, or passed out with blood dripping from his nose, or pale with a needle still sticking out of his arm, because Kim knows the shit dealers cut their products with, because Papa had wanted him to take over the gritty side of the business, and then Kim’s inside Chay’s rooms without a second’s hesitation.

Chay’s room is a mess. Not the type of mess Kim had liked to drop in on, back when he’d surprise Chay at home and get treated to Chay frantically tidying the place while making half a dozen excuses for why Kim couldn’t come over, despite knowing Kim was watching him clean through the front window, and then finally invite Kim in and pout at him until he did something nice to make up for his bullying. This mess isn’t small piles of debris and laundry and dirty dishes--it’s several unpacked boxes growing dust in a corner, a small hamper of clean clothes infront of an empty closet, a collection of dirty glasses atop a stack of textbooks before the nightstand. If Kim hadn’t known this is Chay’s room, hadn’t secretly triple checked the security of this wing and Chay’s position to it obsessively when Chay had first moved in, he might’ve thought this the room for one of Papa’s infrequent guests. It’s…unsettling, to see a space Chay spends so much time in be so empty of his presence.

…He’s wasting time.

The rooms in this wing are all outfitted with the same basic setup: bed in the middle, oversized nightstand between it and the corner, lamp and chair in another, entrance to a full bath and toilet in the last. Usually, long term guests customize their rooms into anything besides a soulless box, but Chay hasn’t even tacked up so much as a postcard on the wall. The only thing unique is the large wooden chest with a well-loved blanket tossed over it, so that’s where Kim starts. It’s too obvious as a hiding place, and Kim almost wants to scold Chay or give him lessons on how to hide shit he wants to stay hidden, but…it’s the one piece Chay’s chosen in this room. Chay could just grab a backpack and this chest and disappear--anything he wants safe will be in it.

…The chest isn’t even locked, and Kim returns to the urge to go find and grab Chay by his shoulders and shake him until he remembers something about situational awareness, or keeping secrets, or distrusting people, or a lot of other basic caution measures, except Kim’s one of the things Chay’s currently keeping himself safe from, so that definitely won’t do him any favors. Kim settles for closing his eyes and sighing deeply through his nose.

Then he opens the chest to reveal…tentacles. Literally dozens of plastic tentacles.

What?

Kim stares down at the chest full of…plastic octopus legs? Or, at least, the tips of several of them, in all varieties of colors, from coral pink to a deep, shimmery blue. Kim even grabs one that glistens like oil slick when he moves it in the dim sunlight. They all vary in shape too, some are more sleek with just tiny bumps and ridges in different patterns, some with thick bases and thin tips and others with thin bodies and flared heads, others with strangely realistic suckers that yield under his finger tips, and then even more underneath those that look far too strange to be called proper tentacles. Kim pulls out a deep green one with a cute flower at the base and a body that curls aggressively, another that’s mostly straight but has the look of chewed bubble gum, and yet another that’s shorter than the rest but twice as thick and covered in bulging bumps.

It’s not until Kim finally pulls out a toy covered in flared ridges, scales, and other alarming geometry, but also distinctly phallic, does his brain finally accept that all of these are dildos.

Chay…Chay has a chest of sex toys in his room.

Chay has a chest of sex toys in his room.

Chay has a chest of sex toys in his room.

Kim’s brain gives up. His face is too hot for him to think, his ears are ringing with what he’s quite sure is literal steam coming directly off his brain. He keeps pulling out more new toys, unable to stop. There’s one that looks like a tongue, with twice as many veins and a bumpy texture that is much too real for the scraps of his sanity. An alarmingly long and bendy tube with a pretty rainbow gradient and a disturbing number of knobs. A dark blue dildo that seems strangely plain until it lights up with half a dozen glittery rings when he accidentally squeezes the base too hard.

Pretty, Kim thinks, then is so startled by the sound of his own thoughts he misses the sound of the door clicking open behind him.

“Kim?”

Kim actually startles, whacking his knee on the chest of sex toys, and comes face-to-face with Chay.

…While sitting in a half-circle of monster dicks.

Chay’s eyes dart from him, to the toys on the floor, to the chest, and blushes all the way to his ears. “Kim?”

[lunapwrites]

having a bit of a bad brainspace weekend.

i am intensely uncomfortable and unable to do things for myself that i normally could do and this is my not-so-friendly reminder that despite the sometimes crippling ADHD and the fact that my GI issues suck i am, in fact, mostly usually quite able-bodied. i am used to things i am not physically able to do being more in the realm of "touching my toes" due to my intense lack of flexibility or "lift my partner" due to him being 3x my size. I've historically been pretty strong and in good shape for someone that is allergic to the gym, so i was not anticipating adding things like "putting on socks" and "rescuing my sweet idiot dog from the couch he's forgotten how to get off of" to that list.

i made the mistake of asking my partner what it looked like i was struggling with rn because i'm not good at recognizing when i actually need to ask for help vs when i can just power through. this was a poor decision because this means that i received an itemized list of my recent failures. not phrased in a way to be hurtful, just expressing frustration because these were all things that i had previously handled myself with ease and now a) was suddenly not doing, or doing inconsistently, and b) was not indicating i needed help with. and he's not trying to step in on his own and make me feel micromanaged or smothered, because he knows i want to do for myself as much as possible (and also i'd probably bite his head off) and he's 100% correct. and he had to kind of sit me down and be like "you are pushing yourself too hard please stop" and i wanted to shake him and scream that i'm not, that i don't feel like i'm doing enough because i am just a pile of disappointments right now. massive laundry lists of things i need to do and can't because literally if i try it physically hurts me.

anyway i really want to write but the second i sit down i either get distracted with something else or fall asleep or sit there vibrating over the things i should be doing but can't so. there's that. [gazes longingly at several half-written WIP chapters wasting away in the corner] i know where they're all going. i just don't have the gas to get us there. and i hate that. especially because i have this intense fear of not having time for writing at all once Bean is here.

idk. everything sucks rn and i hate it here and i don't wish this on anyone. next person who tells me this is a wonderful miracle and that i should feel so blessed is getting a shoe thrown at them. "best thing you've ever done" fuck you. i know what i did and why, but i also knew it was going to suck ass at least 90% of the time. it was, i thought, an informed decision. i either underestimated the level of disability i would be experiencing or overestimated my ability to cope with it. like it's fine it's temporary i will get through it but jesus fucking christ this is rotten work. and not in a "not if it's you" or an "especially if it's you" sort of way, but more of a "despite" situation. i adore this kid so much already but i also want to be able to stand up for more than 5 consecutive minutes without feeling like i might die. i want to be able to have a conversation without immediately being out of breath. and even all of that i feel terrible venting about because in terms of symptoms i am getting off SO FUCKING EASY. it could have been way worse. and i'm bitching about it this hard. bitching about what???

anyway. so begins the final countdown. with me crying hysterically over a bag of fuckin pastries i left on the counter and feeling lower than i think i've felt since '09, which ain't a great feeling.

[deep breath.] everything will be fine. it just sucks right now. and also i really hate writing thank you cards.

[stxrmylxve]

Hi baby congrats on 150 lovey. Here's hoping you get more followers at a speedy pace. Can I get a Mikey x female reader with the phrase prompt help me out here... will ya. With a please and thank you. And congrats again baby

ahhh thank you bb! you deserve more than me tho <33 ofc I can do that!!

NOTES: Mikey x fem!reader, begging, you catch him jerking off

You had to work from home today, due to the weather, and you have been hearing unrecognizable sounds from near mikey’s office all day. You figured he was on a zoom, it was muffled afterall, so you thought nothing of it.

But when you heard your name, things changed.

Your name came out in a desperate moan, as if mikey, or whomever it was, was calling out for you.

Confused, you left your cleaning in the kitchen, due to being done with your work for the day, and patted over to the door of his office. You leaned your ear to the door, being careful not to make any noise, as you listened to the rustling inside.

There wasn’t very much any more, just a few groans here and there and a lot of heavy breathing. This slightly worried you, and being as oblivious as you were, thought maybe he was sick or injured. You opened the door, and obviously what you saw was not what you had invisioned.

There sat Mikey in his chair, head thrown back as he hair framed his wide eyes which stared at you, with his pants down to his ankles, along with his boxers, and a mess on his hand and the tissues near it.

“y-y/n!” he says, wipping his hands off as you stood there baffled. He tidied himself up and brushed it off, asking how your day went, but you could still feel the energy left in him with the aura of the room. It was still tense, and desperate.

“and-“

“do you need me so much you use your hand?” you question, eyeing his pile of tissues and messy desk.

“huh? oooo” he asks, avoiding the question as he brushes through your hair with his fingers.

”manjiro.” you say sternly, reverting his attention to the question as a blush forms on his cheeks.

“no.” he mumbles, looking away and tracing the wall with his eyes.

“mikey.” you say, lifting your tone, making him feel a little guilty.

“maybe.” he adds on, giving you the benefit of the doubt to look back at you, but when he did, you weren’t in front of him; you had left.

He saw you running towards the bedroom, returning moments later with no shoes on and a bright smile.

“sit down!” you call, averting off to the kitchen for something as he curiously sits down in his coated chair again.

You return with a small hand towel, setting it on the floor as you sit down on it infront of him. You lookup through your lashes in the process, the man leaned back as he avoids your gaze.

“get these off… geez.” you say, false annoyance coating your tongue as he stares down at you with a frown as he rests his head on his hand.

“why don’t you?” he repents.

“fine. then don’t.” you say, beginning to palm him through his pants with a frown.

Though it wss never spoken of, he had taught you well. All of the days sitting in bonten’s cramped offices for hours built up need, something he needed relieved there instead of waiting. This skill was something you learned quickly, and when you did it, he always saw stars.

You palmed him for a while, edging him just enough and then releasing the pressure, making him whine and protest every time. Eventually, you get “bored” and get up, walking out the door with a secret smile plastered on your face as his puppy-eyes watched you leave.

“Wait! Help me out here… will ya? I’m so close…” he pleads, making you turn on your heels to stare him down.

“Are you.. begging?” you ask as you crack a smile.

[grace-kami]

Must draw my current project. But I want to start next project. And I also want to start next NSFW project. But I also have 10 WIP to work on. But I love my current project. But I want NSFW drawing soon too. I know if I start it my current project will be thrown in WIP pile.

My brain is ping-ponging!!! MUST FOCUS!! WHAT DO?!?!?!😭