#finally back into the groove of writing these

[sugoi-writes]

Vox x GN! Reader - Condensation is Bad for Computers

NO ONE ASKED, I DID THIS ANYWAY. Inspired by minkdelovely, as we had been going back and forth on one-word prompts to get back into the groove of writing. Hope you guys don't mind a little bit of Vox as a treat to hold you over <3

Wifey and I started a Hazbin-rewatch, so I'm SURE I will be getting the itch the crank out a LOT of Al content! Keep your eyes on the horizon!

Heads Up: mentions of work stress/aggravation, Reader is Velvette's secretary, low performers usually get popped, some fingering (didn't specify bits or bobbles), some doggy style, voyeurism and public sex if you use your imagination, Vox doesn't know how fashion works, and... Y E A H... There's cum. There's cum everywhere. HAVE FUN!

Your exchange started cordial; business as usual. Cold eyes and expressions putting out feelers for weakness, and barriers to hide their own. Most of your acquaintance had been like this: business-like, transactional... flatline. There was always an even, unwavering beginning and end. It frustrated Vox to no end. You thought nothing of it, as dense as you were. 

One day, there was a change: a glitch in your programmed agenda. A hand to your shoulder, followed by a concerned expression. Vox had seen the look on your face before. Your head hung neutral, almost lowered. Your eyes held a deep, haggard stare. Your brows, usually neat and high, hung low on your face, revealing and creating deeper shadows on your face. Your jaw was tight. 

Simple put: you were exhausted. That was the delicate way to put it. 

Velvette had you working like a pack mule, unable to sit or "unplug" for even a few moments. Deadlines mounted, growing harsher and more deranged by the hour. You knew what happened to people with poor performances...

There was no firing, rather an erasure. And as meager as it was, you'd like to keep on "living". 

Vox's expression hardened, before his patience snapped. He was on top of you before you could express protest or invitation. Hands found your wrists as your mouth was enveloped by his. The heat of his touch brought a much-needed life to your aching, broken body. You felt like a part of you had been woken from a deep, groggy sleep; a desire was being fulfilled. 

Something that laid so dormant for Vox, yet so patient, finally came out to play. He sighed when you kissed him back.  

You don't remember much of what happened in between. You don't recall your clothing becoming a muddled pile on the floor, or his hands working you through your first climax. You struggled to remember his sweet nothings that were hissed into your temple, his hips claiming your tired body tenderly. He had taken you to a ledge, and you willingly plunged off of it, diving face first into seeking your pleasure. A selfish notion… how very uncharacteristic of Velvette’s hardworking employee! 

When you seemed to regain some of your thoughts, you felt the cool expanse of glass pressing your cheek. Your hands lightly squeaked as you tried pushing your head up... before you were slammed back down. You whined as the TV Star frisked your hair, his other hand bruising your hip. He couldn't help the breathless moan that slipped out as he continued to piston into you. 

Many thoughts swam about your mind as your body recoiled and bounced against the window. 

Would your face be on tabloids across town, your drool and alluring gaze burned into everyone's memory? Would you be able to explain to your supervisor why your appearance became even more rumpled, old tear tracks clinging to your cheeks? Would you be able to play off your ruined voice, cracked and grating like nails on a chalkboard? Oh, how Vox made you scream when you came for the– third… time? By this point, you didn't mind losing count. 

Despite this all, you could only focus clearly on one thing: the fog... The fog that your hot breath created against the glass. The opacity would increase every time his cock plunged in, only to dissipate when he withdrew. The fog almost felt more lewd than the noises that filled the air. The lecherous slapping of skin on skin couldn't compare to embarrassing warmth and condensation that settled on the window. 

You were close. So very close to being fulfilled again. After this grueling month of work-related agony, you were practically owed this. You reach behind yourself and grab onto Vox's tie, yanking him in for a kiss. Initially a little surprised, Vox huffed into your bold move, creating his own in the next breath. He grabbed your right leg, raising and holding it aloft as he lost his rhythm. Your kiss was the missing component to his release, and it was approaching MUCH too quickly. 

You were wracked with the feeling of satisfaction, body locking up during your climax. You greedily sucked on Vox's tongue, swallowing his wanton, heated moans. Your aching, gooey core dribbled with his new release, unable to keep everything inside. That sight may have been as lewd as the condensation, your face unable to keep the heat that rose to your face at bay.

When the two of you parted, Vox released your leg, only to loop his slender arm around your waist. He held you securely as you both slid to the floor, clumsy and spent from your little romp. 

Vox leaned his head against his free arm, panting as he looked down to you and your filth-covered form. Velvette didn't have an eye for this look... but the milky sheen of his release looked especially fitting on your flushed skin. A contrast, a juxtaposition… something so sheer on something so soft and opaque… He would have to find a way to make this a more permanent addition to your wardrobe.

"Fuck me..." he ground out, laughing breathlessly as he came back to his senses. His poor processor fans were whirring loudly, trying to adapt to his temperature change. However, no amount of fans or coolant could relieve the burn in his chest, or the flush that settled over his face. You smile back at him, eyes glassy as you watch him pant and heave above you. 

"I just did. Unless... you need me to help you out again, sir...?" Vox shook his head, chuckling at your tired attempt at flirtation. He didn’t let you linger on the floor for long, bringing you up into his arms like a bride on her honeymoon. 

"I'd rather do what you need for tonight. What can I do to help Velvette's hardworking, doting secretary?"

[number1jeonginstan]

Hi! I was wondering if you could write a story in which hyunjin overstimulates y/n? And if you want, could you make y/n sensible and scared? Ty! I love your writing btw!

A/N: Sorry for taking so long to get this out, I’ve been kind of in a slump for writing and then I got the idea for what I should do because I was kinda struggling for a minute. I hope you liked it and I’m so thankful for the request! Thank you so much for your time and patience, I really appreciate it.

WC: 1.25k

Pairing: Hyunjin x (established relationship) afab!reader

Minors don't interact, 18+

Warnings: SMUT, overstimulation, some light slapping, good girl, baby, use of that stuff, idk what else tbh this was written at like 1 am

It was a lazy day between you and Hyunjin. Both still in your pajamas, you in silk shorts and one of his t-shirts, and him in his matching yellow and white checkered pajamas. You enjoyed this new mystery novel on his bed while he painted in his studio. It was the comfort of being next to one another that you had no idea what was yet to come. 

As you turned to the next page in your book, Hyunjin got up coming towards you. “Wanna have sex?” He asked, lying down next to you on the bed. You barely paid attention to him, too immersed in your book, simply humming. 

“Come on” he groaned lifting his head to you, “I need you baby” he huffed, still not eliciting a reaction from you. To try and get any reaction out of you, he began to run his fingers on your thighs. 

Ts when he ran his fingers along your thighs, placing wet kisses along your smooth thigh. “Jinnie, please” you whined “I want to finish this chapter, they are about to say who did it” 

“Wow, a book is more interesting than fucking your insanely hot boyfriend?” 

“Right now, yes!” you giggled, finishing reading the page you were on. Before you could even turn the page, he snatched the book out of your hand. “Don’t you dare fold the corner” you yelled, trying to snatch the book back. He giggled adding the bookmark he made you as a gift to mark the page. He got up and placed the book on his easel, far from your reach. 

“Fine” you groaned, falling back onto the bed, your head hitting the pillow. He walked back to the bed, crawling on top of you so his thighs locked yours in place. He placed a kiss on your lips, causing a giggle to leave your lips.

He moved to your neck, kissing and nibbling at the spot that drove you crazy. You could slowly feel yourself getting wetter. “Jinnie, please stop teasing” you whined, rubbing your thighs together to get any sort of stimulation. “I need you” 

“Be patient baby, we have all the time in the world”

He kissed your lips once again, trying to savor your taste. He began to move down your body, lifting your (his) shirt slightly to kiss your stomach, slowly moving down to your shorts. Without hesitation, he pulled down your shorts and underwear, throwing them somewhere in your shared room. 

“Fuck baby, this pussy is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen” he ran his fingers across your folds, capturing your wetness and putting his finger in his mouth, licking it off his fingers. “And you taste even better” 

You moaned watching him, and before you could even say anything, he dove into your pussy. His plush lips kissed your clit as he slowly inserted one of his long fingers into your hole. You grabbed his hair in his hand, forcing him to eat you like a man starved, and he was happy to. 

He was licking every inch of your pussy, slowly inserting another finger to give you the extra stimulation you needed. His fingers were long, not as long as his cock, but longer than your own and he was skilled with them. It took him another minute for you to cum around his fingers, moaning his name as your walls clenched around them. 

He began to kiss down your thigh, his plush lips covered in your cum from eating you out. “Jinnie, please, need you” you whined.

“You are a greedy little girl aren’t you, just made you cum with my mouth and fingers, but you are still begging for my cock” 

He slapped your thigh lightly, moving so he was on top of you, in between your legs. “Fuck, you are such a slut” he groaned, pulling his already hard cock from the confines of his boxers. The tip was already red, pre-cum slowly dripping out of the tip.

“Who’s the slut now?” you giggled, trying to joke around, but it only made Hyunjin to tease you more. Before you could react, he grabbed your face, making you look directly into his eyes. “If you keep acting like this, I’m going to fuck you like the little whore you are” 

“Sure Hyunjin, you can try and do that” You rolled your eyes, knowing that your boyfriend would never “fuck” you. Whenever the two of you had sex, he always liked to describe it as making love. He was someone who believed that sex was something that should be cherished. 

“Don’t test me baby, tonight you are going to be my cocksleeve” Before you could even react, he thrust his cock inside of you, not even giving you a warning. “How can you be such a whore and have such a tight pussy” 

You just moaned you had never seen him this way, and you were a bit scared, and your face reflected it. “Aww, baby don’t be scared, you’ll get to cum, don’t worry”

He nibbled on your ear softly, his pillow lips wrapping around your lobe as he continued to thrust into you. He slowly began to lift your legs slightly, signaling you to wrap your legs around his back, allowing him to hit that one spot inside your cunt.

“Such a good girl, moaning for my cock. Is it just that good?” 

He continued to thrust into you, not faltering his pace as he continued to abuse that one spot inside of you. All you could do was moan out in response. You were too fucked out, getting fucked too well to even understand the words coming out of his mouth. 

He slapped your face slightly, causing you to look up straight into his eyes. “I asked you a question, is my cock that good” 

“Yes Jinnie, your cock is the best I’ve ever had” you moaned out loud. He kissed your lips, muttering “good girl” on them, and with him thrusting into that one spot that made you whine, it was all you needed to cum. 

“Fuck baby, I can feel your walls clenching around me, but just because you came, doesn’t mean we are done” You whined, feeling overstimulated as he continued to abuse your pussy like there is no tomorrow. 

It all felt too much, him continuing to thrust into you even though you had just cum. You thrashed around slightly, not being able to take it. Just as you thought you were going to break, like the world around you was going to go black, he came inside of you, kissing your lips. 

You were still out of it as he quickly got up, getting a cloth to clean the cum that was spilling you out of with as well as a glass of water. “Baby, I need you to drink this” 

You just nodded, slowly drinking the glass of water that your boyfriend was holding in front of you. 

“Sorry if I was too rough, I just overheard you say that you wanted me to fuck you more often, I hope it was okay” 

He looked like a hurt puppy so you pulled him close to you, kissing his lips gently. “It was amazing Jinnie, but next time, give me some warning because I was scared shitless” 

He just giggled as he wrapped his arms around you as you both fell asleep together. Maybe not knowing the end of the book is worth it. 

[starks-hero]

brother dearest

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Summary: Mycroft had never considered himself to be overprotective. However, he isn't overly pleased with how smitten his little brother is with you...

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: John is the only one with any emotional intelligence and Mycroft is faced with the horrifying ordeal of realising his younger sibling is dating, so they're all idiots really

Mycroft Holmes could practically feel his blood pressure rising. Confidential documents had been stolen from the very hands of the British government, putting the democratic well-being of an entire nation in jeopardy. And his little brother wouldn't answer the phone.

The moment word of the breach had gotten to Mycroft his first plan of action was to call Sherlock. Of course, he could have hypothetically dealt with the issue himself had it not required leg work. But to his dismay, contacting the youngest Holmes seemed to be as unlikely as winning the lottery.

Tossing dignity to the wind in the name of restoring balance to the western world, Mycroft stooped to the, in his opinion, ever embarrassing low of visiting Baker Street himself. He ascended the stairs, his displeasure evident in the weight of his steps, and refused to practice the common courtesy of knocking before entering the flat. Sherlock had lost that privilege when he refused to pick up the bloody phone.

Mycroft tutted with annoyance when he found both the living room and kitchen empty. Sherlock's coat, with whom he refused to go anywhere without, still hung idle on the clothes rack. He was in the flat and Mycroft was going to find him if he had to tear away every brick.

With all the begrudgement of a man who'd had his morning routine seriously uprooted, Mycroft marched towards Sherlock's bedroom and swung open the door.

He almost immediately wished he hadn't.

Sherlock lay sprawled out on the bed, white sheets twisting over alabaster skin. His eyes were shut, his hair a tangled mess of curls and you lay by his side.

Mycroft's jaw fell so quickly he expected it to unhinge and clatter against the floor with all the comedic effect of a nineties cartoon.

Sherlock's head rested against your shoulder whilst the lower half of your face was largely hidden by his curls. Your lips brushed his forehead in a prolonged kiss and Sherlock's arm was thrown over you almost possessively. Your own hand curled softly around the nape of his neck.

Disbelief, embarrassment and anger chased each other across Mycroft's expression before he settled with complete mortification. He couldn't explain it, not really, but seeing his little brother in bed with someone made him feel ridiculously nauseous.

Sherlock shifted, stretching out his limbs like a content cat before nuzzling closer to you.

Having no idea what else to do, the eldest Holmes shut the door. After a quick and failed attempt to purge the last few moments from his memory, he made his way back towards the living room.

He was met by John.

The doctor quickly did away with his fresh bag of groceries in order to make small talk, much to Mycroft's disdain. When John got around to the reason for his visit, and therefore Sherlock's current whereabouts, Mycroft shifted awkwardly.

“He seems to be occupied.”

A look of confusion clouded John's expression. He glanced down the hallway, jutting his thumb in the direction of Sherlock's room.

“I'm fairly certain he's just–” John's words were dissolved by the bitter look that was thrown his way by the eldest Holmes. “–oh, he didn't tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Mycroft asked with a painfully fake smile.

John swallowed thickly, suddenly very unhappy with the fact that he was the one that had to break the news to possibly the most powerful man in Britain that his little brother was seeing someone.

“He uh– he didn't tell you about himself and Y/N?”

Mycroft blinked. “It would appear he left out that minor detail.”

The silence that followed was awkward at best and utterly painful at worst. John, who wanted nothing more for the interaction to end but had no idea how to make that happen, nodded. Mycroft cleared his throat and readjusted his hold on his umbrella.

He glanced back towards his brother's room and John didn't miss the subtle glare he was trying to hide. Ah, so that's what this was about. John may not have shared Sherlock's observational skills but he did have a sister. He knew what overprotectiveness looked like.

“Mycroft, you do realise that Sherlock is an adult.”

“If that's what you would like to call him.”

“Right,” John dismissed quickly. “But he and Y/N are together. They have feelings–”

What was very much beginning to sound like a new rendition of ‘the birds and the bees’ was shortened by a scoff on Mycroft's behalf.

"My brother is barely capable of understanding his own feelings, you think he can handle someone else's?"

“You'd be surprised.”

Surprised was certainly one word for it. Mycroft simply couldn't imagine his brother being emotionally involved with anyone, regardless of how much imagination he tried to employ. He failed to imagine Sherlock in any situation that involved intimacy or vulnerability, let alone with you.

As if the very thought of you had doubled as a summoning spell, you entered the kitchen, steps lazy and eyes tired. If you were surprised to see the eldest Holmes you hid it well.

“Mycroft,” you greeted with a tight-lipped smile.

“Y/N.”

Your eyes moved between him and John, trying to piece together what exactly you'd walked into. John cleared his throat. You fought the urge to just go back to bed.

“Can I get you anything?” You motioned to the kitchen.

“My brother, if it's no trouble.”

“Showering,” you yawned. You decided not to add the bit where Sherlock had mentioned needing to ‘cool off before facing the devil so early in the morning’ upon realising his brother was in the living room. “He won't be long.”

“I see. I hate to show up unannounced. But I tried to call this morning and it seemed he was unavailable.”

You smirked despite yourself. Mycroft's grasp on his umbrella tightened.

After a few agonising moments that consisted of you cluelessly making yourself a morning cup of tea, Mycroft glaring holes into your back and John all but hiding behind his newspaper, Sherlock joined you.

His hair was damp, curls frizzed up due to the warm water. Mycroft hadn't seen it in such a state since Sherlock was a child. The unruly nature of his hair, as well as its tendency to make him look far less intimidating and far more endearing, often led to embarrassment. Which is why Mycroft was so surprised to see him so at ease.

Sherlock didn't so much as acknowledge his brother's existence as he made a beeline towards you, accepting the tea you offered and leaving a lazy kiss against the side of your head. He was smiling fondly all the while.

Said smile immediately fell when he spotted Mycroft. Sherlock muttered something about god under his breath and took a long, almost purposefully so, sip from his mug before speaking.

“Terrorist attack or security breach?”

Mycroft raised an unamused brow.

“It's ten o'clock on a Sunday morning, from my understanding you should be having tea with the prime minister or something–” Sherlock waved his free hand around dismissively. “You wouldn't be here if it wasn't of national importance. So which is it? Suspected terrorist attack or a security breach?”

“That, brother mine, is something you would have already been clued in on if you'd learned how to answer my calls.” Mycroft intended for his words to be somewhat scolding but judging by how Sherlock reclined in his chair and crossed his legs he figured his attempt at exerting some sort of authority over his younger brother had failed. “Now, it's not as threatening as initially believed but still relevant enough to warrant some sort of investigation. Which is why I need you to–”

His words fizzled out at the sight of you moving to stand behind Sherlock's chair. Your stance was relaxed, comfortable, as if you felt you belonged where you stood, as some sort of watchful protector. Mycroft glowered.

You seemed unfazed and Mycroft couldn't tell which he hated more, your hand now on Sherlock's shoulder or the fact that his brother was smirking because of it.

By some miracle, he managed to make it through the rest of the briefing without giving away just how much he wanted the floorboards to open up and swallow him.

He didn't know why the sight of you both together irritated him so much but by god was it getting under his skin. The glances you shared that Mycroft knew had hidden meanings behind them. How his brother, who needed a week's recovery in his room after any social interaction, preened under your touch. The youthful look in his eyes, the boyish smile. It was somehow painful to look at.

Mycroft could still recall when he was the only one that could placate his brother. When they were children, spending hours in their garden estate, finding insects and frogs and recalling their Latin names. Anything to keep their brilliant young minds entertained. He remembered how Sherlock would light up with each new nugget of information Mycroft gave him. Even into their teenage years, he was the one Sherlock trusted, the one he looked to for help and guidance. It had always been him.

But now, now there was you.

He had you to confide in. To talk to. To irritate with a tirade of useless facts that anyone else would think irrelevant. He had you to look out for him and comfort him and Mycroft couldn't understand why this was angering him so–

Oh.

The notion that his little brother had, in fact, grown up and didn't need him anymore came as a very unwelcome realisation. Mycroft had the sudden desire to leave the flat as promptly as he could.

“Well,” he cleared his throat. “I should be getting on. I trust you'll fill me in on your findings?”

Sherlock groaned, in agreement or dismissal it was hard to tell.

Mycroft, who now wanted nothing more than to leave, turned to make his way to the door. “Good day, doctor Watson.”

John nodded, not failing to notice the change in Mycroft's stance.

‘He's copped on then.’

Partially because of your closeness to the door and partially in an attempt to rectify whatever you'd done to wrong Mycroft, you moved to show him out.

He passed you silently but as you stepped back to close the door, he stopped you.

He seemed uneasy, an emotion that looked unnatural and foreign on him. His nerves were infectious and you quickly found yourself growing anxious, expecting him to gift you with some horrific piece of information to pass on to Sherlock to save him from dealing with the mess of telling his brother himself.

His actual request was something much softer.

“Take care of him, will you?”

It took a few moments for you to blink away your surprise. As confused as you were, you nodded all the same.

“Of course.”

Mycroft responded with a nod of his own, offered a surprisingly genuine smile and then turned to leave. He'd descended the stairs entirely by the time you finally closed the flat door.

“What was that about?” Sherlock asked nonchalantly.

You shook your head. “Absolutely no idea.”

John took a sudden interest in his newspaper in an attempt to ignore just how hard he was biting his tongue.

thank you for reading!

Sherlock tag list: @miraclesoflove @ilovefanfictions @mylovelysnowflake @quentawewe @bakerstreethound @andreasworlsboring101 @doozywoozy @xxinvisiblexx @the-worst-critic @the-queer-dungeoneer @jellyfishbeansontoast @starrykitn @starryeddie @ladymercury8 @themorningsunshine @evelynrosestuff @mywellspringoflife @simp-for-scammanders @Xhz17x @allieberries @kealohilani-tepise

[decoloraa]

Oc kiss week day 1: almost (caught)

Because military law doesn’t allow romantical relationships between military staff, Casther and Val have to be sneaky not to get caught. At first Briggs pretty much everyone knows what they are to each other, but they still couldn’t get caught by commanders.

Casther and Val have multiple spots around the fort where they meet (the medical room is their go to, but sometimes it’s too busy). Luckily Casther has very sensitive hearing and can easily notice when someone’s approaching. Pros of having a boyfriend who’s a chimera and has heightened senses.

[elvisabutler]

"And I'm— I'm sorry for that, Mrs. Harris. — I shouldn't— I—" Elvis stutters, struggling to find the right words to explain himself as if there was a single explanation in the world for his actions. "I shouldn't have offered to— I just want to help you and your husband. He's— he's young, like you." He's a boy who has forsaken a woman who should have anyone she desires. He's saddled her with a man who doesn't know the gift she bestows on him with her love and with her— Elvis groans, slow and low, the noise something a bear or a wild animal might make.  "He doesn't care." She whispers, moving closer to speak through the closed door. "Not like—" "Lilly." There's an edge to Elvis’s voice, a tightness that has Lilly’s heart dropping to the floor. 

those spark universe vibes

[encrucijada]

i need to talk about speak, prophecy more

[thesokovianaccords]

(press you to) the pages of my heart

four: "come here. let me fix it."

a steggy friends to lovers au (also on ao3)

They were going to be late. Even for them.

(Though Steve would swear up and down it wasn’t his fault. Peggy would swear that he was lying.)

“It’s basically the same costume, anyway. How are you still not ready?”

“I had to send Tony an angry voice note first,” Steve shouted from his bedroom. “Really, it’s his fault we’ll be late.”

Peggy tapped their new and improved badges against the kitchen table. “Pepper’s a natural redhead. It makes more sense for them to be Mulder and Scully. Also, I somehow managed to make new badges, find realistic neuralyzers, and fix my costume before you tied your tie.”

“Well, I got into an in-depth debate with both of them over who deserved a quote-unquote ‘couple’s costume.’ That ate up some time.” Steve walked out into the living room, his eye roll audible across the apartment. “They both had lots of unsolicited opinions, so you’re welcome for sparing you from that.”

“My hero,” Peggy scoffed, grabbing their drinks and dropping next to Steve on the sofa, as he tied his shoes. “Hopefully the party will still be going when we get there.”

Steve sent her an incredulous look, and they both laughed. “Yes, right, fine. It was impossible to even think that with a straight face.”

“Sometimes I still feel hungover from their 4th of July party.”

“Ah yes, the Steve Rogers Birthday Bash, T-M,” Peggy said, holding up her hands in brackets to showcase the trademark with the aplomb it deserved. And because he always glared at her when she did it.

“Yeah, yeah, hilarious. So funny. I’m dying of laughter.” Steve pushed himself to his feet and pulled Peggy up to hers too. “Are you ready, Agent P?”

“What are you saying, Agent S? Don’t I pass muster?”

He gave her a once-over so quick she might have been insulted, if the warm weight of his gaze hadn’t pinned her in place for those few seconds. Her breath caught for an embarrassing moment as his eyes returned to hers. “You look beautiful. And deadly. Perfect, as always—except your tie is crooked.”

“It is not.” Peggy had no idea whether that was true—Steve’s compliments had thrown her for a loop, and recalibrating herself to focus on what he was actually saying was taking longer than it normally did.

He set their glasses on the coffee table and pulled her to their entryway. “Would I lie to you?”

“Yes,” she retorted, but unfortunately her tie was, in fact, listing to one side. “I swear I had it sorted—it must have gotten bored waiting for you to be ready too and decided to relax.”

Steve snorted as she loosened the knot and began to loop the fabric over itself again, but no retort came. He just watched her hands in the mirror as she pulled the long end of the tie through and tightened the knot. But once again, it hung slightly off to the side, and she groaned at her reflection. “These things are bloody impossible. I don’t know how you wear them every day.”

“It just means I have a lot of practice. Come here,” he said, dropping his hands to her shoulders and spinning her around. “Let me fix it.”

Peggy considered the possibility, with Steve’s knuckles brushing against her neck as he re-knotted her black tie, that she was dreaming. Or that she had taken complete leave of her senses. She and Steve were so often in sync—and naturally so, without any conscious thought behind it—that when they weren’t, when they seemed to be in the midst of wildly diverging experiences of the same event, Peggy felt unmoored. Speechless, even. How else could she explain Steve’s efficiency, his apparent immoveabiity, while she was left breathless at the sweep of his hands across her collar? And how was she meant to deal with this new reality, the one where she and her best friend were horribly, perhaps permanently, out of sync, and one wrong word or move could tear everything down?

Steve, oblivious to Peggy’s personal crisis, stepped back and placed his hands on her shoulders again. “There,” he said, a soft smile on his face. “Perfect. As always.”

Peggy placed a hand over the knot and cleared her throat. “As are you, Steve,” she said, relieved her voice stayed steady. “Now, let’s go save the universe. With tequila shots, preferably.”

He laughed and ran his hands down her arms, before taking a single step back. “Yes, ma’am.”

[princessofpatras]

we are so back

[ofduskanddreams]

Currently watching the Wild play against Chicago (on my TV just to be clear) It’s only preseason for a few more days 🏒

And you know what comes with hockey season 👀 the fact that I’ve made a pact with myself to work on Heated Rivals during every regular NHL season Wild game until the fic is finished 😇

[aesadraws]

Chapter 6 of Fidelitas is now live!

Dion and Joshua navigate the aftermath of a startling revelation and the former reaches out to a friend to share the news.

[vault81]

Jack Cooke's Travel Log: Vault 101 - 17/08/2277

(next)

"Aghh- damnit where is it? oh wait? I think it's finally recording! This is uhm- Jack Cooke, currently sat outside Vault 101 recording this log. Ya'know, in case Amata or Officer Gomez or anyone come's after me.."

"It's been about.. 4 hours? I think since I left the Vault, I've just been sat here on the scenic overlook.. thinking, which I know isn't exactly one of my strong suits! *chuckle* I guess just trying to delay the inevitable. I mean I've gotta go out there into the ruins of the Old World to find my Dad, and I've not go the slightest idea on how to do that! let alone how to not die in the process!"

"I know I acted all confident and self assured in front of Amata, but that was just bullshit! adrenaline or whatever! I mean.. I'm.. I'm terrified! I have no idea what's out there, barely a notion of how to use a gun and no direction to go!"

"Not to mention the fact I just lost one of my best friends.. God... Jonas... I'm so sorry.. *sniffle* Well... ugh... I can't just sit here feeling sorry for myself, I'm burning daylight... 'suppose I'll wander down into that town down there.. Pip-Boy map says its called... Springvale? looks nothing like it does on this map, but it's a start.. now how the hell do I turn this thing of-"

[samuelroukin]

taking bets on how long this fic will end up being ljfhhkhkskght

[lordsardine]

.

[aliatori]

WIP Game

[Rules: In a new post, post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it!]

I stole this from @liodain because it looked fun, but really, all it made me do is realize I need a better system to organize my WIPs. Or to like, give them better working titles.

My WIPs are F&F and other original work right now; I'm not currently working on anything fannish. Also a revolving door of book reviews I am constantly behind on.

F&F

the heat of summer proves an unwelcome guest

Gab Birthday

Thread the Needle

Kinktober - seraphicrose threesome

Getting Together - Anniversary

Breakup - Anniversary

Original

This close to the new moon

Draft - Mental Illness Mechs

Amaranth-Haven discovery writing

pomegranate poem

Marianas

If you see this and also want to play - tag, you're it!

[terrainofheartfelt]

prompt- jenny finding out about dair and her reaction + her being happy for them

Dair + Jenny

After she hangs up the phone, Jenny stares into space for what must be twenty straight minutes. 

Her fingers twitch, needing something to do, something to keep them busy. It’s been her prime coping mechanism since, well, probably since she developed the fine motor skills necessary. If she was too hyper or bouncing off the walls, her mother put a crayon in her hand, or a pencil, or a paintbrush, and then later, fabric, thread, needles. The act of making something gave her a way to focus, to take all that ambition that had been born in her blood and do something with it. 

She grabs her sketchpad, starts on a figure and the shape of a dress without really looking at it. When she does, she realizes she doesn’t want to design anything at all, and tears the page out, a new blank one gaping up at her. 

Jenny sighs, slumping back against the wall of her dormitory, drumming her fingertips on the paper. 

She’s not…mad, not really. The way Dan talked, all cautious and careful and slow, like she was a feral cat he was trying to persuade to come out of the alley, he probably expected her to be angry, but she wasn’t. Or if she was, it feels different than the kind of anger that ate her alive back in New York. 

Not wanting to design but needing to draw something, she falls back on an old standby learned from her mother. She picks up a pen, and starts scrawling across the page, filling all the empty space, just random letters, well, maybe not so random, D-A-N, B-L-A-I-R, W-A-L-D-O-R-F, E-V-I-L S-P-A-W-N. When a sufficient amount of the page is covered, she starts connecting the lines, weaving the letters together until they’re unintelligible, a collected framework of lines, an abstract approximation of the iron outline of stained glass windows of the Anglican church down the street. 

Once satisfied with the skeletal structure, Jenny grabs her box of colored pencils. She’s meticulous, one color at a time, taking care not to use two similar hues next to each other. 

Her mom always made her own coloring sheets like this. In the evenings, after dinner but before bedtime, when Dan would disappear behind a book and Dad behind his guitar, her mom would sit in the armchair by the record player and just…color, just like this, filling an entire page with a riot of different hues and shades that did look like stained glass, so bright it reminded Jenny of the blown glass vases her parents displayed in the kitchen that she wasn’t allowed to touch.

Sometime, around the time Jenny was starting to think of herself as an artist too, she insisted that Mom show her how she made them, and she did. Jenny remembers being almost disappointed that there was no great secret to it. Scribble, connect the ends, color in the blank spaces. 

“It’s no genius work,” Alison told her, “but it’s meditative. Relaxes the mind.” 

Jenny could definitely do with that, she thinks as she picks up another pencil. Bright red, like cherry lip gloss. 

She didn’t yell. She didn’t give her blessing—because why should she—but she didn’t yell, didn’t make any accusations. She bit her tongue, and powered through the conversation best she could, sprinting to the end of the phone call. And now here she is. 

She knows what she wants to say, but she also knows that she can’t say it to Dan. 

You can’t badmouth the boyfriend. Another nugget of wisdom from her mom, delivered unto her last year, when one of her friends from show choir in Hudson started dating a grade-A douchebag, and that’s judging from Jenny’s rubric, which has a steep curve. 

Jenny couldn’t stand being around him, and more than that, didn’t want her friend giving her own time to someone who didn’t deserve it, all of which she told her mother. She and Alison undertook a thorough Full Disclosure policy when she moved to Hudson. It worked pretty well, even when Jenny didn’t like the advice she heard. 

“Honey, there’s nothing you can say that will sway her,” Alison told her. “All you can do is just love her, so when the bottom drops out she’ll know that you are there for her.”

Jenny kept her mouth shut, and, a week before senior prom, the douchebag showed his true, douchey colors, and Jenny was there for her friend. 

But what sucked is that Jenny would have been there regardless, so why should someone she cares about have to go through the wreckage of heartbreak to fall back on something they already had? 

Dan has a more resilient heart than she does. It’s just fact, they went to that school and went through their own dark forests of fucked-up shit, and while she broke down, Dan’s still there. Dan still believes, in true love, in finding the one, no matter how many times he gets hurt for the sake of the one. He’s so much like their mom, but on this, he’s his father’s son through and through.

Maybe that’s the problem. Sometimes Jenny imagines stretching her arm out over the Atlantic Ocean, plucking up her brothers by the shirt collar and carrying them over to London, to safer ground. 

But when everything got bad, she felt like she couldn’t turn to anyone, but even then Dan had been ready to punch out any one that wronged her, so long as he gave her the chance to talk and she gave him the chance to listen. So, she doesn’t want to cut him off. Even though she doesn’t know how not to, given what he’s just told her. 

So, she colors, she puts it onto the paper like her mother taught her, puts the words she couldn’t say into the phone into each swatch of color. 

She’s going to wreck you. She is going to wreck you and leave you in pieces and there isn’t a damn thing I can do to stop it. 

Half the page colored, she puts on her headphones, blasts music from her laptop. She cycles through most of Paramore’s discography by the time the page is filled.

Jenny lets out a deep breath as she examines her handiwork. Stained glass on paper. And, despite herself, it worked, like mac and cheese, like chocolate chip waffles, like any comfort from her childhood. 

On impulse, she grabs her phone, snaps a picture of her DIY coloring sheet, and sends it to Dan. She doesn’t know what to say to him, but words had always been more his thing anyway. 

Two minutes later, Dan sends a photo back, one of his own attempt, still in progress, on one of his legal pads he uses for outlining. 

Love you, she sends. 

Love you too, he texts back. 

Jenny’s still worried, but she thinks, or maybe hopes, that everything will turn out okay. 

3 years later…

Jenny and Nate stumble through the door of their Airbnb. Well, Jenny stumbles, she’s been in these heels too long. Wherever they go, no matter how fucked up they are, Nate always carries himself with an infuriating amount of athletic grace. It’s that damn pub football league. 

“Oh, couch,” Jenny sighs, collapsing onto the piece of furniture in question. It’s very comfy. They truly scored with this one, booked on a whim by Jenny while they were still on the train this morning. 

Dan and Blair had their own suite at the Plaza Athénée; when Blair heard they were staying in the 5th, she’d rolled her eyes, but even she was too happy to spend any time berating Jenny and Nate’s choice of lodging on the “wrong” side of the Seine. 

“So,” Nate says lightly, toeing off his shoes and leaving them beside her discarded boots, “how are you feeling?” He bends to pick up the coat she’d dropped on the floor next, hanging it up along with his. He takes such good care of her. 

“Exhausted,” she answers, hanging her head over the back of the sofa, as Nate drops down next to her. “Can you believe we were in a different country this morning? And we took a train underwater?”

He laughs lightly, stretching out and putting his head in her lap. “That’s not what I meant. I meant: how are you doing? About today?”

She frowns down at him puzzledly, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a conflict of interest asking that question?”

“My interest is you, babe,” he reaches up, tapping the back of his hand on her sternum. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I seem to recall already having this conversation with Eric after Dan proposed.”

“Yeah, well, I’m checking in again.”

Jenny sighs, tilting her head back to think. “I’m good. Really.” She clasps Nate’s outstretched hand in one of hers, and runs the other through his hair, soft between her fingers. “I’ve had enough time to get used to the idea. And while I don’t think I’m completely used to it…” she shrugs. “The more I see them together, the more it makes sense.”

Nate makes a small hum, his little nonverbal way of saying I’m listening, and Go on. 

“I don’t know,” she takes a breath, gathering her thoughts, trying to shape them into words, “Dan’s always been just…himself, but like, in soft lines, shaded in. But…now he’s more…sharper. Like the outline of him has finally been inked in, you know?”

Nate blinks up at her, crease forming between his eyebrows. “I think so?”

Jenny laughs, and he strokes his thumb over her knuckles. “I just mean, this is the most himself I’ve ever seen him be. And if you repeat this I’ll deny it, but I think a lot of it has to do with Blair. So…” she sighs, melodramatic, “for him, I’ll suffer through being legally related to her.”

Nate snorts, face breaking into that sunrise grin Jenny loves so much. He brings their joined hands down, settling them on his chest. She’s never historically been much of a hand holder, but Nate loves it, and she loves him. And, she loves that it’s her he’s reaching for. 

“I’m happy for him,” she declares. “And I’m happy he asked me to come. And I’m really happy that we won’t be anywhere near when he tells Dad.” 

Nate makes a noise of agreement. “Or Eleanor.” 

“Oh my god, yeah.”

They both laugh, out of not only amusement at the mental image of Rufus and Eleanor’s respective reactions, but also relief, that Jenny and Nate won’t be in the blast zone when the bomb drops. There are definite advantages to the ex-patriot life. 

“Is that something you want?” Nate asks softly. 

“Facing the wrath of an Eleanor scorned? Fuck no.” 

“No,” he says softly. “What Blair and Dan did.”

“Elope in Paris?”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” he qualifies with a tilt of his head. “But I was thinking…just – marriage in general.”

“Oh,” Jenny says bluntly. 

Nate nods, his normally open expression cautious. 

Jenny sits back, thinking it over.  When Nate asks a serious question, she knows it comes after a long time of thought, always seeking an honest answer, so she tries to give him the same level of consideration. 

She’s not a believer in forever like her brother is. She’s so like their dad in so many ways, but in this one, she is her mother’s child. 

“I don’t think I’m ready for that. Maybe later. Way, way later, but not now.”

Nate nods, understanding. “I don’t think I am either.”

She lets out a breath.  

“So…” he trails off, “glad we’re on the same page?” 

She laughs. “Yeah. Yeah we are.”

She may not believe in forever, but if she had to draw it, it would look a lot like Nate. 

“And, who knows, maybe we can revisit this conversation at a later time, like…when we’re forty.” 

Nate grins, and presses a kiss to the back of her hand. “Sounds good to me.”

One word prompts

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

What happened to you? You got jaded about your twdg posts?

What happened? *shrug* Life, probably.

Honestly, I've been pretty jaded about TWDG for a while, mostly when it comes to the fandom and a lot of my old work. It's been freeing to not feel compelled to be here and constantly posting like I used to. I show up when I want, post what I want, and I've stopped caring what people might say or feel. That's definitely had an impact on what I do post these days.

Like... we've talked about everything, y'know? I've answered the same asks over and over again, we've discussed everything, and there's nothing new to talk about. Except for the comics. Hence why I'm mostly talking about that. Hate 'em all you want, but it's new and more fun to talk about than answering "what do you think happened to Christa?" for the hundredth time.

Even with Louis there just isn't anything more I can say about him. I've said it all. There's nothing new I can say. He's still my boy, I love him. But I can only write so many essays talking about his vote, or why he and Clementine are my favorite couple, or why he's my favorite character in TWDG. I know I always give y'all the ol' "Oh one day I'll write that Louis character analysis" but I've already done it. It's just spread out all over my blog.

I've talked about the burnout I experienced while running this blog a couple years ago when I was doing themed nights, writing fics and analyses, all that. As in the burnout was severe and I've only recently gotten back into creative writing and have been able to stick with it. And I'm not writing TWDG fics anymore.

After spending so much time away, I've gone back and looked through a lot of my old stuff on ao3 and I see it all through different eyes.

It's a complicated feeling to be like "I'm proud that I wrote this much and that people liked my stories, that's a feeling I'll always cherish" but also feeling "I hate everything I wrote for TWDG, how did any of you tolerate me?" at the same time. While I have a lot of positive feelings about my fics, I've become very critical of that stuff and have many negative feelings about [with you] in particular that tend to overshadow the good a lot of the time.

And I feel bad about that. [with you] was my most popular story but I made bad choices that prevented me from finishing it, and now it's discontinued and a lot of people are pissed at me for that and they're not shy about letting me know... well, actually they are shy; they always tell me on anon. But I feel bad about letting my readers down but I'm also not going to force myself to do something I don't want to do.

So... yeah, I'm jaded about TWDG and my content. There's nothing new to talk about, I'm not writing anymore TWDG fanfiction. I'm happy to talk about the Clementine comics, I answer asks, and occasionally I do get the itch to write about something else, but I've moved on. The creative writing I'm doing right now is for a Dragon Age fic and I'm trying to learn from my mistakes from my TWDG stuff to not repeat them with this. I have a DA side blog that I have posts planned for. That's about it.