#first 3000 words

[rockcattomato]

How interested are y’all in a mumscarian fic in which Grian and Scar are arranged to be married but Grian is already dating Mumbo and so he asks to keep their relationship political. Except, as the husbands get closer, Scar also starts falling for the royal redstoner.

Because I for one am having a great time writing it.

Edit: (I’ve stated posting! Check the reblogs!)

[deeeaahh]

[nerves-nebula]

try to write smut without one of the characters getting turned on thinking about the other one dying brutally challenge: FAILED

[babyspacegay]

I saw a post about people making negative bookmarks on ao3 and thought no way that’s crazyyyyyyy so I checked my works and 💀💀💀💀💀💀

[clandestinegardenias]

Because @atkeks is having a bit of a rough day, a snippet of the fic I'm writing inspired by our joke that Sir John asks Francis and James to kiss and make up.

[...]

“Actually, a moment, gentleman,” Sir John calls. James feels as if his stomach has dropped to his ankles. He would very much like to go back to his cabin and sit with his head in his hands for a short while. It has been a trying morning. 

“One must always demonstrate love and understanding to one’s brothers, which all of the men on this ship are bound to be,” Sir John continues, “Before you go, it would please me greatly to see you kiss and make up.”

James had not thought Sir John a man of a particularly humorous inclination. 

He attempts to force a chuckle in response to this sorry attempt at a joke, struggling for several long seconds before the silent anticipation building around them begins to convey that, perhaps, Sir John was not joking after all. 

James nervously glances sidelong at Francis, who, he finds, is not laughing either. 

In fact, he looks downright murderous. Not in the usual way, however, and it surprises James to discover that he knows Francis’ various expressions well enough to make the distinction. This is not the look Francis fixes James with when they fight. That look is red, hot, mobile, alive. This look, right now, is its antithesis. It is pale, cold, and far, far more dangerous. 

It occurs to James that, perhaps, this is what Francis looks like when he is well and truly angry. 

Which suggests, oddly enough, that he has never once in their entire acquaintance been well and truly angry at James. 

As James is having this world-bending revelation, the silence is broken by Sir John’s sudden, booming laughter. 

It was, in fact, a joke after all. 

James experiences the strange sensation of simultaneously dizzying relief mixed with some strange dampening feeling for which he cannot account. He had been in the first, wobbly stages of imagining kissing Francis on the cheek, and finds that he mourns the death of the image.  

He manages a weak chuckle, glad that they are at least back on familiar ground, and shoots a wry smile at Francis beside him only to find that Francis is still not laughing. Not even the slightest hint of a smile graces his face. If anything, he looks angrier than ever. 

If James could bore a hole into Francis’ head with his eyes he would. The man should just accept the provided escape route and relieve the social tension. Just the smallest quirk of Francis' lips in Sir John’s general direction and the two of them could beat a hasty retreat. 

Instead, Francis’ eyes narrow, and James experiences a cold rush of fear because he knows that look, as well. 

Francis is about to do something extraordinarily foolhardy. 

Something that will probably get them both in a fit of trouble. 

[silverskye13]

In which there are many masks.

[0vergrowngraveyard]

why won’t this chapter end!!! i reached a good ending spot paragraphs ago and it’s still going!!!!!

[darling-writings]

[kratosnaturals]

The Language of Flowers WIP #1

She always looked his way. Nick could see it from the corner of his mechanical eye. Always passing him glances with an unreadable expression, something between anger and disgust, if he had to guess by her constantly furrowed brows. Nothing unusual for him, really. He had gotten used to it long ago, but something about that look in her grassy eyes sent a shiver down his titanium spine. It was like her eyes were glowing, too, like his. They were so full of life, yet so dead. Those scarred lips opened and told sweet lies, uncomfortable truths and spouted hypocrisy like psalms.

This case would be the end of him, he knew deep inside. In one way or the other, somewhere along the way. Torn to bits and pieces he would be, like his breathren, burned to ash and left for dead himself, like she was. His heart would break and she would be the reason, and the cure. He would kill, and kill, and kill, until he'd choke and suffocate on the blood.

· · ───────────── ·✿· ───────────── · · Nick didn’t exactly ‘dream’ like a human, or a 3rd gen Synth would. It was more so memories that his wires and circuits for brains replayed. Still, it was close enough for him. He didn’t exactly have another choice, having been stuck like that for over a century now, barely a decent copy of a long dead man from before the Great War. It felt like his very existence was mocking that man. An abomination of science. A disgrace to Mother Nature.

Those dreams haunted him still, even after all that time. It didn’t happen every time he ran a diagnostic, luckily, but whenever it did it sent him for a loop anew. Vague flashes of a life never his; childhood days spent in the sun, his first kiss behind a school dumpster, misty faces posing as parents, a fiancé not his own, cigarettes and bourbon that didn’t taste so stale yet. Never enough to really do anything with. Always taunting him.

This time it was Jenny again; she was resting on his naked chest, in the nude herself, arms draped lazily over his middle. A little snore would slips past her lips occasionally, and he’d chuckle every single time, the movement making her shake a little. The heady smell of sex was still thick in the air, now accompanied by her favourite soap and his cigarettes. The buzz of his orgasm was just wearing off as the sun started to go down, leaving the sky orange and pink. Nick sighed and brushed a few loose stands from Jenny’s face, a smile on his lips. The evening light always painted her face in such a beautiful way, like a maestro’s painting, like only the finest art. But, to him, no mortal man could capture such beauty with a mere brush and paint. Nobody could capture those high cheek bones, those rosy lips, that soft, shining hair and those big brown deer eyes, and those thin lines resting on their edges.

This was a pleasant dream, nothing like some of the others; heartbreak and workplace injuries, the day Jenny was taken from the world and from him. It was one he didn’t want to leave again. Nick was content to simply ‘sleep’ for a while longer, maybe just a few hours, and truly rest, in the embrace of someone he trusted. Or, rather, he thought he trusted her. It wasn’t like he actually ever knew Jenny, not really. He wasn’t Nick Valentine. So how could he even love someone he didn’t actually know?

“-ck… Nick…” a voice whispered, lulling him gently out of his synthetic sleep, but he didn’t stir. These memories were too pleasant.

“Nick…” firmer this time. Still, he didn’t react. Not yet.

“Nick. Nick!”

The synth detective startled awake, his diagnostics cut off immediately with a sharp stabbing pain in his head. His ‘brain’ sent him all sorts of errors and warning messages that he chose to ignore, for now, with a resounding groan, cupping his temple. His optics needed a moment to come back online, but he recognized Ellie by her voice.

“I’m sorry, Nick-” Ellie started, pity painting her face, clearly feeling some guilt for ripping him out of his ‘sleep”, “but Garvey called in on the HAM. He needs you at Sanctuary right away.”

Nick sighed, sitting up properly from the bed. The 3rd call this month alone, “another missing persons case?”

“Yeah. Kid this time, and his dad. Didn’t return from a trip to a nearby settlement. No trace of them,” Ellie informed him with a sombre expression. Raiders, Gunners, maybe even some wild animals, Nick guessed. Not a rare occurrence at all, but that didn’t make it any less tragic. One got get used to it, however.

“Not even Dogmeat?”

“He’s gone with Nate. In Goodneighbor, according to Garvey.”

Another sigh, “alright. Can you call Hancock and tell him to send Nate and Dogmeat to Sanctuary?”

Ellie nodded, heading back upstairs, “done.”

“Thank you, Ellie,” Nick said with a wave. The synth heard her call into Goodneighbor as he strolled back into the main room to grab his hat and coat. The dim light in the agency made him a little groggy, but at least he no longer had any stray boxes to stumble over or case files to slip on anymore, not since Ellie and Nate really hounded him to properly clean up his space and fix his furniture. He checked his coat pockets – a pack of cigarettes, his lighter, and another pack of ammo. Then he tapped at his ribs – his gun was holstered in place. As it always was – he never took it off. He was set. By sundown Nick would be at Sanctuary, and at daybreak he could start his search, hopefully with Dogmeat by his side.

“Alright Ellie, I’m going out. Don’t know when I’ll be back, but I’ll call when I’m at Sanctuary,” Nick yelled. Ellie bade him farewell and to stay safe, and he set off with an ache in his heart, feeling like he had just lost someone important again.

· · ───────────── ·✿· ───────────── · ·

Nick exhaled, shakily, ragged, put a hand over his mouth, fingers digging into his cheek and jaw, then bit his knuckles, mind and processors racing with a million unasked and unanswered questions, a million possibilities. He already knew he couldn’t say no. Not with so many lives on the line, not with people like that running around the Commonwealth and threatening the safety of the innocent. The look she was giving him burned, it itched, it stung, it hurt. Deep inside, on his skin, under his skin, everywhere at once. This was dangerous. This person was dangerous. The people she wanted to maim and hang were dangerous. And once again his sense of duty and conscience got the better of the soft-hearted detective.

“How many are there?”

“Plenty. A whole legion, maybe. They travel in small groups. Have a big one somewhere nearby.”

He wagged his finger as he eyed the notebook again, “how many did you already take out?”

“Each fingerprint is one.”

Counted, and counted, and counted, and counted, and counted again until he got dizzy and shut it again, “you’ve been busy.”

He got to twenty-two before stopping, inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

“They always come back, like roaches. They’ve figured out someone is on their tail.”

A cigarette was lit and put between his lips, fingers crossed on his metal desk, “what’s your plan?”

Everything in him screamed and wailed; stop! This is wrong! Blood money is trouble!

Yet he couldn’t look away, ignore her words and the clear tone of her voice, “have the little roaches lead us back to the nest and take out the big guys.”

It would be the end of him, he knew deep inside. In one way or the other, somewhere along the way. Torn to bits and pieces he would be, burned to ash and left for dead himself. “How many caps?”

“As many as you want. I got plenty to spare.”

“This is going to cost you. A lot.”

“In that case,” Darcy started, rising up from her seat, “I can offer other services.”

There was something in her eyes, or maybe he was just imagining it, the way she looked at him. It was a wicked kind of expression. The detective cringed, his metal jaw creaking and face twisted so harshly he nearly dropped the burning cigarette between his lips. He pushed away from the desk, “I don’t take that kind of payment.”

“Not what I was implying,” the other said with a sour expression. Disgust. “You help me, I help you. Quid pro quo. One hand washes the other – we all need someone to watch our backs out in the wasteland. I can do that for you while you solve your cases.”

A sigh of relief, “you should have just said that. Maybe I could teach you some social cues, too.”

“Maybe you should get your mind out of the gutter. It’s slimy.”

His left eye twitched, just slightly. For a moment Nick regretted inviting her in.

“Do you want my help or not?” mild irritation laced his voice. Darcy frowned.

An outstretched hand, just like when they first met. No hesitation. When Nick grasped it it was just as warm and soft again, pliable in his own iron grip, “eight o’clock sharp. We just got another case in this evening. Ellie will fill you in.”

With a nod Darcy grabbed her coat and backpack, headed for the door but Nick stopped her, “oh, and one more thing – keep your caps for now.”

She turned to look at him, neutral expression, for a few seconds, then left. Moments later a groan ripped from his chest, face buried in his palms.

[pochapal]

i have a beautiful disease and it's called "physiologically incapable of telling a story within a reasonable word length"

[hiding-under-the-willow]

You ever write some shit where you're like 'oh yeah I'm totally just describing what this guy is doing in his free time nothing else im just setting the scene it's unnecessarily detailed for no particular reason' and then realize you are in fact just info dumping about some shit you are interested in actually

[winterwyrd]

So, I wrote a thing...

heal my heart and drown my woe

Frodo Baggins/Samwise Gamgee

words: 3,275 | general audiences | no archive warnings apply

"Get a hold of yourself, Frodo Baggins, he thought fiercely. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw his gardener's eyes were closed and his head was tipped back, face peaceful. The storm was blowing itself out beyond the window panes and the knot that had settled in Frodo's stomach when Sam first appeared in the hallway, pale-faced and shaking with the cold despite all attempts to hide it, eased slightly."

Apples and baths and garden-lore. Frodo and Sam take care of each other and try to avoid revealing too much of their hearts in the process.

It had only been a stray comment, made one crisp autumn morning as Frodo stopped to greet the gaffer and Sam, hard at work in the garden. The dahlias had been lifted and Sam was busily planting the last of the crocuses as his Da paused to fill his pipe and talk with Frodo, who always listened with the utmost respect to anything the old gaffer had to say - a habit picked up from Bilbo. This had endeared the newcomer to Sam almost immediately when he first arrived at Bag End as Bilbo's ward.

Truth be told, the young gentlehobbit had only continued to endear himself to Sam as time went on. The more they spoke (Frodo always impeccably courteous, despite the stories of his various oddities and queer behaviour which had begun circling down at the Ivy Bush) and the more that Sam saw of him (collar askew, shirt-sleeves rolled to the elbows and birds-nest-hair glowing a deep golden brown in the afternoon sun, most often escaping over the garden wall with a book in his hand and a sheepish smile thrown in Sam’s direction) the deeper his foolish feelings grew.

Deep enough and foolish enough, that when Frodo leaned back against the wall, face still lit up with laughter from one of the Gaffer’s stories, and glanced wistfully up at the gnarled apple tree whose offerings were long-since picked, Sam’s heart flipped at the distance that had crept into the other hobbit’s gaze.

Keep reading.

[apoptoses]

if you send me a prompt in the hopes of getting something intelligent and insightful in response just know there’s an 80:20 chance it’ll devolve into a 5k porno fantasy instead

[midnight-stormm]

id like to hear about 'i want you to love me- snf fic' it sounds angsty D:

Hi anon, you're right it is angsty.

'I want you to love me' is going in a direction where sapnap noticed his feelings for george has crossover over that platonic line. He knows that george doesn't feel the same way, well rather see that. He sees how dream and george are more soft with eachother while him and george act rough and he knows it's their dynamic. They push and pull but with feelings mix in, his mind just go haywire and he spirals. So he decides to distance himself from george but he ends up realizing he's hurting them both in the process. Still gathering everything but that's the main gist. It will have a happy ending😊

[television-overload]

the surest way of actually getting a fic written is to say you're not gonna write it

[badassindistress]

I saw a 30 second trailer with no dialogue, just vibes, then I saw this post and then I woke up at 5 in the morning with this story fully formed in my head. I wrote this in a day. Enjoy an alien-baker romance au.