#post-lightning fic snippet

[the-amber-raven]

@icyfox17 you've put this on my dash so many times that I had to write a scene about it 😅😅 This is genuinely just like pure self-indulgent fluff x1000 (You can also consider it my apology for the depressing texting fic)

--

Bobby jumped out as soon as the car slowed to park at the curb, drops of rain hitting his skin like frozen pinpricks and exacerbating the concern he’d been trying to control. 

“Bobby, the umbrella –” Athena called after him, exasperated. “You can’t help if you also get soaked.”

He cursed internally but turned to grab the umbrella. He didn’t care so much about himself, but the quicker that Buck was shielded from the freezing sheet of rain bearing down on them the better. 

Buck had noticed their arrival – that was good, it meant he was reactive and responsive to his surroundings. He pushed himself forward, using his body weight to leverage himself into a standing position, which was less good as it spoke to how exhausted the incredibly fit young man must be. 

Bobby lengthened his stride, opening the umbrella as he walked, and made it to the bench right as Buck got to his feet. 

“I’ve got you, kid.” 

His mind momentarily flashed back to the last time he’d said those exact words – but this was different, Buck’s eyes were open and he was breathing and the arm underneath his hand was moving this time.

He was alive. 

Absolutely sodden, but alive. 

“Th – thanks, Bobby – I’m sorry –”

“Don’t apologise,” Bobby said insistently, gripping Buck’s shoulder to lead him towards the running car. He was glad to see that the kid had at least worn something a little warmer for his run but unfortunately the hoodie was now completely soaked through. 

“C’mon, let’s get you into the car.” 

Buck was a little shaky on his feet, not unlike when he’d first been allowed out of bed, which was fine. 

It was fine. Buck was still recovering, it was all normal and fine. 

So long as he didn’t get set back by some awful cold. 

“Hi – hi, Athena,” Buck said, mustering up a smile for her as he reached to grip the car door that Bobby opened for him. 

“You look like a drowned rat, Buckaroo,” Athena said sympathetically, leaning across to look through the gap between the two front seats so that she could take him in properly. “Probably wasn’t the best night for getting some fresh air…”

“The doc said some daily light cardio would be good for me,” Buck explained, sinking into the backseat gratefully, his face visibly softening when the blast of hot air from the heating reached him. “I’ve done this run for the last couple of days but – I don’t even know, it was like a wave of exhaustion came and and I had to stop and it wouldn’t go away and –” 

“I’m sure that’s probably normal when you’re recovering from such a serious injury,” Athena said, swiftly jumping in to interrupt before he could get lost in the frustration that was clearly building. 

“It’s been two weeks,” Buck muttered petulantly, crossing his arms. Bobby winced at the squelching noise the fabric made.

“Which is not a long time,” Athena pointed out, raising her eyebrow at him meaningfully, making Buck sink down further into the seat with an obvious pout. His hood left a dark mark on the seat behind him. 

“Kid, take that thing off,” Bobby directed, ducking half into the car and wrestling with the umbrella so that it was mostly covering him from the rain while he took his own hoodie off. 

Buck frowned at him, confused. “What – Bobby, no, I’m fine.” 

“You’re going to get yourself sick and then you’ll really feel too exhausted for your cardio and your physio exercises,” Bobby said, his voice muffled. “Take it off; this will warm you up faster.”

“What about you?” Buck protested, still not making a move.

“I’m not wet,” Bobby pointed out. He levelled Buck with a commanding look, silently telling him to get a move on. 

“He can sit in the back with you, I’ve got the heat on the highest setting there for you,” Athena added, sounding amused. 

“Thanks, Athena,” Bobby said, a little sheepish, but of course his amazing wife just gave him a knowing look and told him to get the umbrella inside and close the door. 

Buck, realising that he was outnumbered, finally acquiesced, pulling his soaked hoodie off and trading it for Bobby’s dry one. His skin wasn’t flushed or feverish, easing some of Bobby’s concern, but it was damp and clammy, so getting him warm was definitely still a high priority.

Bobby nudged him to the side so that he could sit down properly and clip his seatbelt on and then immediately leaned forward to adjust the vents to blast their blessed heat towards Buck (he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and had barely been outside for two minutes, he didn’t need it. Rubbing his hands together to get the circulation going in his hands again would suffice). 

When Athena heard the second click from Buck’s seatbelt, she moved away from the curb, performing a U-turn to take them back from where they came from.

“Oh, you can take Elm up ahead,” Buck said, leaning forward slightly. “It’s a shortcut back to my street.”

“Buck, I certainly hope that you don’t actually believe we’re dropping you home and leaving you alone after all of this,” Athena said reprovingly.

“Um –” Buck flicked his gaze over to Bobby. It took him a second to register that the kid was looking at him, because Bobby was already preoccupied with trying to remember whether or not they had all the ingredients for his spicy chicken noodle soup. 

“Of course you’re coming home with us.” Bobby was slightly incredulous that it even had to be said; he’d thought it was so obvious that he hadn’t even bothered to tell Athena to head straight back to theirs. “What, did you think we were going to drop you off so you could shiver in your apartment on your own and end up cold and sick with no one to look out for you?” 

“My apartment has heating,” Buck muttered.

His cheeks were flushed, which was probably because he was a little embarrassed about the fussing. 

But his hands were also still shaking.

“Bobby!” Buck squawked, trying to shift away from the hand that Bobby placed on his forehead. 

Thanks to the seatbelt, he couldn’t move far, so Bobby was easily able to also check his cheeks to confirm that his temperature seemed normal. 

“There was a machine doing your breathing for you two weeks ago, kid, I’d like to make sure you won’t be needing that again anytime soon,” Bobby scolded lightly, dropping his hand back into his lap. 

“It’s just a little rain,” Buck whined, slouching back in the seat with a pout. “I just need to – to warm up and probably get some sleep.” 

“Well, we’ll get you some soup and some dry clothes and then we have a perfectly good bed you can use,” Bobby said matter-of-factly. 

Maybe the kid would sleep a little easier with someone else with him.  

He’d noticed Buck’s difficulty with sleeping over a week ago. The fact that the bags under his eyes only got heavier despite days away from the hospital would have been enough to betray him, but Bobby also had the numerous texts which came through at all hours of the night. It hadn’t taken him long to realise that many of the daytime texts must have come through after Buck attempted to take a nap, either. 

Bobby wasn’t sure if actual company would satiate whatever need Buck had that was dragging him out of sleep and pushing him to text Bobby, but he could hope. 

Hope had already worked once to give him his kid back. Maybe it could work again to put him back together. 

“You guys really don’t need to do that,” Buck said softly. 

Bobby sighed.

It was the same thing he’d said when Bobby had offered to stay at the loft for a few days after Phillip and Margaret Buckley left (he’d been quite proud of himself for refraining from any scathing commentary about how quickly they’d left – at least until Buck had casually mentioned that they’d actually been staying at their hotel even before leaving LA altogether, only dropping in a few times a day, at which point Bobby had unleashed a rant so uncharacteristically vicious that May drove forty-five minutes to buy him the brownies that reminded him of his favourite bakery in St Paul.) 

“Kid, will you stop being so stubborn and just let us look after you.” He threw his arm around Buck’s shoulders to lessen the sting of his light exasperation, leaning his head back to hide his pleased smile when Buck melted into the half hug. “It’s not a bad thing to need help. In fact, when you lo – care for someone, it actually brings peace when you get to provide it.” 

“‘M not stubborn,” Buck said stubbornly. 

Athena snorted. “You’re both too stubborn for your own good. And we both know you aren’t winning with Bobby when he gets like this, Buck, so you might as well stop complaining for all our sakes.” 

Buck nodded, but he wasn’t quite cowed enough to stop defending himself just yet. 

“I did call and ask for you to come,” he reminded them, his hands twisting together between the sleeves of Bobby’s Minnesota Wilds hoodie, “so I’m – I am getting better at the whole asking for help thing.” 

Bobby gave him a subtle squeeze with the arm that was still holding him in a half-hug. 

“That’s true,” he conceded fondly, glancing down at the mop of hair resting on his shoulder that was finally starting to dry into the curls that Buck very rarely allowed the world to see. “Thank you. I’m glad you reached out to me when you were struggling instead of trying to push through it.” 

“Thank you for coming,” Buck said quietly, directing the words to his wringing hands. “I, um – I wasn’t –” he stopped, taking a deep breath and then letting it out with an audible ‘whoosh.’ “Just. Thanks. For answering and – and for coming.” 

“You don’t need to say thank you for that,” Bobby said, matching his quiet tone. 

He shifted his head so that he could look at Buck properly – a thick swell of pride was unfurling in his chest and putting pressure on his throat. 

This kid, who looked older than the hotheaded brat that had waltzed into his firehouse six and a half years ago but somehow also managed to seem younger because he had allowed that hard protective bravado to soften, showing and accepting the vulnerability that lurked within.

The Buck of six years ago never would have asked for help.

The Buck of three years ago would have put up a bigger fuss at accepting anything more than the bare minimum of help, insisting that he could manage it himself. 

But this Buck was finally ready to accept that he had people in his corner who wanted to help. Was able to recognise when asking for help would be better for him, and knew that he had people in his corner who would provide it as soon as he asked for it. 

He understood his worth, and he understood how loved he was. 

Bobby was so, so proud of him. 

It was hard to believe how close he’d come to losing him forever. 

The familiar pain of his deferred grief crashed over him as it hit him once again exactly how close he had come to losing this incredible kid. 

He swallowed down the lump in his throat, squeezing Buck to his side again and resting his chin on Buck’s head, using the warmth of Buck’s body to remind himself that Buck was right here, alive and safe and okay. 

Buck was fine. He needed warmth, some soup, some calm and quiet and a bit more time and patience and support to fully recover from his ordeal both physically and mentally but there were all things that Bobby could provide for him. 

Bobby breathed in deeply, the blended scent of rain and Buck’s shampoo filling his nostrils and, driven by some mix of paternal instinct and intense gratitude, he pressed a kiss to Buck’s head.

Buck stiffened beneath his arms, and this time Bobby was sure that it was his cheeks that were flushing – but the awkwardness lasted barely a moment and Buck slumped back into the half-hug, even shifting a little bit so that more of his weight rested on Bobby.

He couldn’t see Buck’s face from this angle, but he was sure that he was probably sporting that tiny pleased smile that Bobby adored seeing on him, the one that told him that the kid was content down to his very bones. 

Going by the fondly knowing look Athena was sending him through the rearview mirror, Bobby knew that he must be radiating the exact same level of contentment. 

riding home in the backseat

[daffi-990]

WIP Wednesday ✍️

Tagged by @jesuisici33 . Thank you lovely ❤️

A continuation of the very first snippet I shared from The Lightning Amnesia Fic, which was also the very first thing I wrote for this fic as well. Now it’s at 28k and I’m close to finishing it 😳.

The rain has begun to pick up and Buck thinks briefly that during the rain of a lightning storm, his memories, his future with Eddie was wiped away so it’s only fitting that the rain is accompanying him to get that future back. He glances at the sky and is thankful that there is no lightning at play tonight. He’d still face the storm if there was. Nothing can keep him from the man who lives behind this front door.

He raises his hand to said front door and knocks, aware that it’s 11pm on a Tuesday and that Eddie is probably asleep. He waits for about a minute and then knocks again. There is so much nervous energy in his body that he starts bouncing on the balls of his feet, opting to knock again even though it’s been less than 30 seconds because fuck, he’s impatient. He remembers and he just needs to see Eddie right the fuck now.

The front light turns on, the door opens and Buck lets out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. Eddie is standing there in his favourite pair of black sleep shorts and a white shirt. His eyes are still adjusting to the light, squinting at the brightness, his hair is tousled and Buck thinks he’s never looked more beautiful.

“Buck?” Eddie’s voice is low, and yeah, Buck definitely woke him up. “What are you doing here?”

There is so much Buck wants, needs, to say but right now there is only one thing on the tip of his tongue, clashing and clawing and wanting desperately to get out.

“I remember”

No pressure tagging: @callmenewbie @callaplums @captain-hen @devirnis @disasterbuckdiaz @exhuastedpigeon @eddiebabygirldiaz @eddiediaztho @fortheloveofbuddie @forthewolves @giddyupbuck @hippolotamus @honestlydarkprincess @lover-of-mine @loserdiaz @monsterrae1 @rainbow-nerdss @spotsandsocks @thewolvesof1998 @try-set-me-on-fire @wikiangela @wildlife4life

[altcvnningham]

canis major

adler x bell!reader

summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch. or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it. read on ao3

tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk wc: 2.7k

a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')

Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.

Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.

The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.

Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—

The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.

The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.

But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.

He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.

Not like Arctic air. Not like—

The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.

But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.

The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.

He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.

And you step out of the car.

A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.

Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.

He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.

And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—

Bell.

It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—

—you feel someone watching—

—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—

Open the door, Bell, open the door—

—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.

The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.

There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.

You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.

Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.

The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.

And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.

You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.

You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.

Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.

But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.

And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.

But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.

Maybe, then, he’s a fool.

But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.

(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)

The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.

Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.

[firefly-suite]

snippet from my ezran-is-royalty-and-the-poor-kid-probably-gets-assassination-attempts-four-times-a-week fic

guys, heads up, my hand is in a cast i make zero promises about when this is getting finished/posted (it's my right hand and ohoho guess what? i'm right handed JOY)

*******

Corvus can’t describe the utter terror that overtakes him at the sight of the arrow embedded in Ezran’s shoulder, just below his collarbone.

Above his heart.

The young man’s form is crumpled against the wall, his chest heaving with each breath and pale - too pale. Gritting down his panic and with his mind racing a mile a minute, Corvus is kneeling at his king’s side in an instant.

“We just need to get you to the Durenian healer,” Despite his face drawn tightly in pain, the Crownguard sees a muscle tighten in his jaw and the seventeen year old shakes his head.

“No, Corvus-” 

“Ezran, shut it- Soren can clear a path through the invaders, I’ll be with you the whole time. It’ll be okay, I promise, you just need to not touch it-”

“Corvus.”

And as Ezran pulls at his shirt, revealing inky lines shaped like lightning stretching from the arrow’s head, Corvus’ heart stutters, dread coiling in his insides like cold mercury. He hopes, he begs, he prays that he doesn’t know what Ezran’s next words are.

“It’s poisoned.”

And Corvus’ stomach plummets.

[getouyuri]

last teaser snippet for the oyabun gojo collared fic until I post it sometime between friday-sunday :3

MDNI, 18+

“Of course I did, baby,” you reply sincerely. A cocktail of emotion plays out over your features, relaxing your browbone and softening you around the edges. “I missed you so, so much.”

It’s silent for only a mere second, a silence that sits heavy and oppressive like the stillness before lightning crashes through the heavens, and suddenly your torsos are colliding as you rush to touch each other.

He seals your mouths together with a needy groan, his grip finally slipping around to your backside to squeeze at your ass, and you press one hand to his waist to hold steady as you crane up towards him like a flower unfurling and stretching for the nurturing comfort of the sun. Despite you both walking the line of desperation, the press of your lips is rife with affection. Devotion. An ‘I’m home,’ and a ‘welcome back.’ It feels like eons have passed rather than a week since the last time he’s been able to indulge in you.

The wet glide of your tongue sends a little shockwave through his system and he breaks before you, letting you slip in where he’s most tender and lick your way over his teeth. His hold tightens reflexively, fingers curling into the fabric of your nightgown. The way you sigh into him, the soft hitch in your breath as if you can finally relax in his hold, only kindles the flame he holds for you.

When they finally part, Satoru’s baby blues flutter open to meet your gaze. He’s sure there’s a vulnerability to his ocean-dark eyes and expression that he only allows you to see, to coax out of him. You blink up at him almost hazily, those pretty lips of yours glistening with saliva. Satoru murmurs your name, low and rough with emotion, and you press a chaster kiss to his mouth this time. A peck.

“Have you been good?” You ask much too slowly, relearning how to function now that you’re not entirely intertwined with your other half.

Satoru can see the finish line. Finally. He inhales sharply, releases it, trembling with anticipation. He can’t resist drawing you in one more time, breathing into you, tongue dragging over the crevices of your mouth before sucking on your tongue with so much sensuality that you shiver before drawing back a hairsbreadth, teeth scraping over his bottom lip. He can’t get enough of you. “Good as can be, sugar. Everything’s gone smoothly. No hiccups at all. I handled all that’s necessary and now... now I'm all yours.”

You assess him over the rim of your reading glasses before humming, satisfied with what you find. “Good.”

You walk backwards, guiding him to hasten forward, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of your king-sized bed. You pull away from him and plop down heavily on the cushy mattress with a sigh, making him immediately miss the feel of your soft body pressed against him.

You toss your iPad further up the bed. Then you’re smiling, smirking, drawing your leopard-print nightgown up, up, up and parting your legs to give him the most delicious view of the print of your pussy against your flimsy panties. Watching you prop yourself up on your elbows on the silk duvet, back arched slightly and tits pushed up and out, the fabric of your nightgown thin enough that he swears he can see your nipples through it, does him further in.

Fuck.

You’re trying to kill him, aren’t you? This is domestic warfare. A trial of Nike that he absolutely cannot fail. Satoru swallows thickly, tongue feeling too big for his mouth as he stares at his wife with a hungry, almost feral expression.

He takes a step closer, then another, lifting his leg to sink his knee into the mattress between your legs and forcing you to bow yours further apart. Satoru leans down and crawls forward, bracing his hands on the bed on either side of your head, his white hair falling messily over his forehead.

"You're a cruel, cruel woman, you know that?” Satoru whispers, sounding helpless and small even as he looms over you. Pouting down at you, he huffs out a little noise of frustration. “Teasing me like this... I've been thinking about this sexy body of yours for ages, and now you're just... showing it off?"

Tilting your head, you poke your lips out in a teasing mimicry of him. “All I’m doing is lying down, babe.”

But what he hears with his incredibly selective hearing is “all I’m doing is some obedience training. Light work!”

‘Sicko’ Satoru mouths at you and your laugh that follows is borderline evil. You gesture over his head. “Okay, okay, I know. I’ve got you. You know the drill,” you coo.

You and Satoru learned about mantis shrimp on an aquarium date that you went on a while back (he rented out the entire building for a day so that only your laughter would ring through the halls that were empty aside from security guards, the people feeding the marine life, and janitors). According to the placard with information sitting in front of the tank, mantis shrimp move so quickly that the water around them briefly skyrockets in temperature until it reaches that of the sun’s.

He swears on everything that the air turns scalding with how swiftly he sidles backwards until he’s sliding off the bed, sinking to his knees between your calves. The action is so natural, so instinctive from doing this so many times that it's almost as if his body moves on its own accord, eager to make his wife happy.

Satoru doesn’t touch you once he gets comfortable on the carpet. Doesn’t slide in some sly comment to try and get his way that much faster.

He just waits.

Since Satoru’s always on a hair-trigger around you and could get hard if you snapped your fingers at him and demanded that he get his dick up so that they can hump, warmth is already starting to pump into his cock, making him fill out impressively fast. He itches to relieve the building ache, but still, he keeps his hands on his thighs and doesn’t try a thing in order to prove to you that he’s good. He’ll actually fucking die if he squanders this chance you’re giving him.

You look him up and down, pleasantly surprised. The silence is slaughtering him.

Then you have mercy on him and break it. “Good boy, baby. Go get your collar. The leash, too.”

Satoru instantly gets up and crosses the bedroom to obey you, because this is what he was put on this earth to do— follow you like Eurydice did Orpheus to the edge of the underworld and beyond, listening to your every word without question. There’s nowhere in the world that Satoru would rather be than at your side. At your beck and call.

He’s quick to return with both objects in hand and kneels before you again. You take the leash from him, clip it onto the collar, and wind it around his neck to buckle it into place. Just like always, he goes all gooey the second it’s on.

[fabrowrites]

WIP Challenge!

Rules: 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!  And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.  I have deemed that this isn’t just for writing either.  Sketch titles?  Comics?  DnD campaigns?  If you have an unfinished project, it counts!!  

Hi everyone! In honor of fanfic writer appreciation day, bringing this back!

My insane taglist under the cut, but if you see this in the wild feel free to jump on!!

tagging people from nwod and fic fest! ignore the ping if you didn't want it sorry dfkjlgh but i find these fun and thought some of you might, too :D

@only-lonely-stars @rosiehunterwolf @silvermags @starlightaxolotl @guplia @stars-brownies-n-metaphors @bananaplayzz @boba-pearl @caycubone @weekend-whip @pandemonium-kidz @aroninshonour @zebaji @kumoriwrites @spinbitchzu @tirednapentity @taddymason @psychologicalwarclaire @finn-m-corvex @knowledgequeenabc @tinywriterfairy @graceful-not @jays-supersonic-dynamo @artqueen02 @basicallyjaywalker @fruit-colored-ninja @summerf0x @nocturnal-nexu @riseleon @indigosky101 @miqotepotatoe @randomcrapstories @lightning-chicken @crikkit-kitterton @colesstar @lloydenthusiast @senseigrace @the-painted-siren @ataraxixx @parateuthis @curiositythecryptid @elemom @mikewheelerfan2022 @mcfanely @rainbow-flavoured-skittles @a-big-chicken-nerd @collectiveclams @stealingyourbones @abunnsburrow @survivalshipping @gravyhoney @officercooks @laziarteest @nin-jay-go @themilosquid @fandomsareforlife @goldenavenger02 @localguy2 @blu3cl0v3rs @ghostwalloper @cboffshore @bookworm-dork-fish @raven6229

HUGE BREATH HELLO

[qwordavoider]

Make Me Write

I have 6 tevan wips right now, which is a record high for me, and I need something to keep me motivated to write, so here we go!

💭 - Amnesia: Buck hits his head in the season 8 closing emergency and thinks he's waking up from the nightmare of Bobby being dead in his coma dream following the lightning strike. Only to find out that Bobby really is dead. More about that here.

🚁 - Tommy Begins: Tommy rushes into a collapsing building to save Buck and has flashbacks to some pivotal moments of his past. Takes place in an alternate version of 8x17 or 8x18 and the full fic is now posted on ao3.

🦅 - Secret Service/First Son AU: Margaret Buckley is elected president, and Buck is forced to end his travels early to help her administration with photo ops and events. Two years in, he is assigned a new Secret Service agent, Tommy Kinard.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒 - Father's Day: the likely final epilogue to More Important Than Blood, about an extra-special Father's Day for Tommy. Here is a snippet of this I posted a while ago.

🔥 - Troubling Returns (911 series rewrite): the sequel to Parting Waves, and will follow some events from 3b canon.

🚒 - 122 Transfer: Buck still decides to transfer despite Chim’s speech. Eventual tevan reconciliation, but told from Ravi and Buck’s pov. First snippet here.

Feel free to ask about my plans for the fic or request several sentences from any of these! I'll likely post all of these as full fics on ao3 once I start having enough written to post consistently. But that probably won’t be for a while with some of these.

[boosandbirds]

shades of gotham

. (snippets posted under gotham hauntings)

rating: teen ships: pre-dead on main, wc: 3,500

fic linked in the title. .

It doesn’t quite start with footsteps, but that’s the best way to describe it. The knowledge that someone – or, something – is following him, not at a leisurely pace, but not urgently, either. There’s an unnatural sort of silence, too, like the kind before lightning strikes the earth, and Danny has to suppress a tremor at the thought.

The echoing sounds that begin to follow him aren’t natural, either.

Whistling wind, when there’s not even a slight breeze. Claws tapping against the ground, without a rat in sight. A lighter, clicking on and off and on and off, over and over again. Nails dragging against metal walls, when Danny knows he is the only living soul in this alley.

Though, he supposes that the term living makes all the difference.

[wheels-of-despair]

Eddie Munson (Stranger Things) Masterlist Vol. 2

Holy crap, I wrote so many Eddie fics, I needed a second masterlist.

Welcome to my Eddieverse, which I'm affectionately referring to as Evil Woman, Don't You Play Your Games With Me. These are snippets of a playful, prank-filled relationship that begins in 1984, starring Eddie Munson and a female reader I call Evil Woman.

These stories were originally designed to be standalones that could be read in any order, but as this world grows, a little organization might help. The list below, with descriptions, is the order in which they were posted. This is Volume 2, created in March 2025. Earlier stories can be found in Masterlist: Volume 1. There's also a list in chronological order. You can still pick and choose and read in any order you want. Both lists will be updated as I post new stuff.

If you are a blank or ageless blog who interacts with a fic that contains as Do Not Interact (DNI) warning, you will be blocked.

🧡 - Regularly scheduled light-hearted fun. 🖤 - Shit just got real. 💛 - IDK man, this one just kind of wrote itself. 💖 - Wait, there's romance now?

Ride the Lightning 🧡 In September of 1984, a girl who would one day be known as Evil Woman stepped into the halls of Hawkins High School for the very first time. A few minutes later, she met the love of her life.

Welcome Home 💛 Honey, they're hooome! Eddie and Evil Woman are back from their honeymoon and ready to move in together.

The Sluttiest Squirrel 🧡 Eddie brings home a surprise. Insert Evil Woman eyeroll.

The Sexiest Thing 🧡 What's the sexiest thing a girl can wear? The boys of Corroded Coffin debate.

You Missed 🧡 Evil Woman tries to do something cute but kinda misses her mark and breaks Eddie's brain a little.

Want to read the Eddie x Evil Woman stories in chronological order instead? Click here!

Blurbs Based on Emojis 🔪 - Worst Baby-Sitter in the World 🥺 - Ugh, Fine! 🧝‍♀️ - Yes, My Queen 🐈 - Eddie's Familiar 🎢 - Traveling Death Trap

...and sometimes I write for Other People's Eddies. funsonmunson-again's birthday game oneforthemunny's summer game oneforthemunny's one-derful year

[that-bloody-witch]

a snippet from the merthur fic I'm writing

“I can’t,” he whispered, voice breaking over the syllables like waves on a rocky shore. “I’m not sure I can keep him alive if I let go.” Gaius felt a sharp intake of breath as wide, golden eyes met his. This was much worse than he had feared. 

“You must,” he pleaded, “set him down, hold onto him if contact is needed, but I cannot work if I cannot see the damage.” The words, at last, seemed to convince Merlin into action. He took short, unsteady steps to the table, and laid his King down without letting go entirely. Arthur’s gloves had been removed, at some point, and Merlin’s first clenched around limp fingers like a prayer. At once, Gaius began ordering the guard to help remove his King’s armor, cutting his shirt off entirely so as to not disturb whatever fragile stasis Merlin had upheld this long. “What happened, my dear boy?”

“Camlann was worse than I imagined.” His voice was still shaky, but seemed to steady itself as he regaled the battle. Gaius took his tale in stride, nodding along in encouragement as he cleaned Arthur’s skin enough to see the wound’s extent. He took the story in as graciously as he was able, barely pausing as Merlin recounted laying waste to Morgana’s army, and the lady herself, with lightning. His apprentice spoke of a sea of bodies, of barely arriving in time to be of any use at all, of being too late to help Arthur when he was most needed. “They’re dead,” the words shattered over thin air as Merlin spoke them, seeming to finally run out of whatever strength he had pulled out of himself. 

“This wound should have killed Arthur,” Gaius whispered, feeling every year of his life in contrast to his young King. He had birthed the boy, now man, had held his squalling, naked body as Uther mourned his wife. The only thought which seemed to rise above the cacophony in his head was a prayer, to anyone who should listen, that his old hands would not carry Arthur into death as they had life. “Merlin, what exactly have you done to keep him breathing?”

thanks to @star-rie for the prompt which inspired this its gonna be a massive fic probably broken into a few chapters. I'll try to post updates as I can but I prefer to wait until a fic is finished to upload the entire thing <3

[diazsdimples]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday

I'm getting to everyone's snippets tonight, I promise! I'm a few days behind cause lectures have just started up again 😬 tagged for Tuesday by @thewolvesof1998 and @elvensorceress thank you friends 🫶. Also I'm updating my taglist for the first time ever so please interact with this post if you want to be on it!

Figured I should probably get cracking on my 7x06 spec fic before the episode comes out so please enjoy a bit of Buck getting roasted by his best friend and boyfriend.

Eddie frowns, looking a little confused. “I thought you guys were all good?” “We are,” Buck replies, his eyes never leaving his parents as he watches them greet guests, both looking the brightest and bubbliest he’s seen them in years. From afar he’s sure they look like a regular, happy older couple enjoying their daughter’s wedding, but Buck can’t hide the way seeing them still makes his gut twist uncomfortably. Tommy snorts beside him, bringing him back to reality. “Except Evan decided it was a good idea not to mention me until today” Eddie does a little double take, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. “Wait, you haven’t told them yet?” “I’m gonna go find Denny,” Christopher announces, bored of listening to the adults. “Is that okay, Dad?” “Yeah, of course bud. See you in a bit,” Eddie says, ruffling Christopher’s hair. The three of them watch as he shoots off, making his way towards Hen, Karen and Denny as fast as his legs can carry him. When he’s safely out of earshot, Eddie rounds on Buck again, fixing him with an incredulous look. “Seriously, Buck, in what world did you think springing this on them today was a good idea?” “That’s what I said!” Tommy says, flicking Buck a smirk as he squeezes his side. “Hey, you’re meant to be on my side!” Buck protests, elbowing Tommy in the ribs, but it’s all forgiven when Tommy brushes a light kiss against Buck’s temple.  “And I didn’t want to tell them in person, I thought doing it like this would be… easier,” Buck finishes lamely, aware of how delusional he’s sounding. “Uh huh, cause telling your parents big, life changing things has always been easy in person hasn’t it,” Eddie deadpans, crossing his arms over his chest and raising his eyebrow at Buck in a way that screams you’re an idiot and you know it. “Listen, I wasn’t exactly thinking -” “Clearly,” Tommy and Eddie say in unison, turning to one another with shit-eating grins as Buck gives them both a flat look, before continuing.  “- but, I didn’t want them to gripe at me and say they would have rather heard it face to face than from behind a phone.” “I think they probably would have had a go at you either way, honestly,” Eddie says with a sympathetic shrug, and he reaches over to squeeze Buck’s shoulder. Buck sighs and burrows closer into Tommy’s side, resting his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder. Tommy runs his hand down Buck’s spine, rubbing at each spinous process as he encourages Buck to relax. Buck softens a little, biting back a whine as Tommy nuzzles his nose against Buck’s hairline.  “You’re probably right,” he admits with a sigh. He’d really wanted nothing more than to heal his relationship with his parents but turns out it takes more than a little lightning strike and some shitty therapy sessions to mend years of trauma.

No pressure tagging @theotherbuckley @hippolotamus @watchyourbuck @bidisasterevankinard @neverevan

@babybibuck @fortheloveofbuddie @spotsandsocks @aroeddiediaz @daffi-990

@jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @wikiangela @bibuckbuckgoose @exhuastedpigeon

@cal-daisies-and-briars @wildlife4life @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @evanbegins @nmcggg

@alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @weewootruck @rainbow-nerdss @kitteneddiediaz @epicbuddieficrecs

@smilingbuckley @actuallyitsellie @spagheddiediaz @loserdiaz @thekristen999

@loveyouanyway (Remember to interact with this post if you want to be on my taglist and lmk if you want to be removed)

[rriavian]

It's been so long since I posted a fic snippet, even though I've got so many ideas nearly completed. The last 6 months or so I've hit a wall with struggling on final edits. And titles.

So please enjoy this currently untitled 'The Corinthian asks Dream for a strip tease' fic that I nearly finished months ago and has instead been sitting in my drafts.

-

The expression said it all.

Which, yeah, is pretty much always the case with Dream. Right now it’s heading somewhere past the usual definition of solemn and speeding right into outright stony, zipping through so fast unimpressed doesn’t really cover it. The Corinthian watches it settle over his face like a shroud. Oh yeah—Dream’s clouding over like a storm. It’s dignified in the way Dream always is, even with his pretty lips forced to one thin line, tense like he’s too proud to allow himself to sulk the way he so obviously wants to.

Dream looks at him like the Corinthian has just said the stupidest thing he’s ever heard, and then managed to find something even stupider to add to it.

Honestly even his disappointment is disappointed.

The Corinthian isn’t the slightest bit ashamed.

In fact he’s more than happy to prod, to see if he can really get some thunder rumbling. There’s a skill to crafting the specific insult he stitches into his voice. “You do know what a strip tease is right?”

Dream’s eyes don’t quite flash, but his tone implies that if the Corinthian plays his cards right there may well be lightning on the way.

“Corinthian.”

Ah.

Now there’s that lovely, tasty morsel of a warning.

“Oh, so you don’t you think you can do it?” The Corinthian mocks, all shit eating grin and cruel cooing condescension, shivering with the pleasure of testing Dream without so much as a ‘my lord’ for plausible deniability.

He rakes his gaze down Dream’s black clad form, over the black coat, the sleeves going right down to fall over the wrists, the high neckline of his t-shirt touching the delicate base of his throat, a reminder of what had started this. It’s modest. It’s practically virginal. Seriously even those tight black jeans are hidden beneath the coat, the perfect cling of them unappreciated. The Corinthian still leers of course, enjoys him right down to the ankles, then drags his eyes right back up, teeth skimming even from so far away, smirking the whole time. “So shy. So uncertain. You already put all those layers on, surely you can take them back off?”

Dream’s expression doesn’t so much as buckle.

Humiliation slides right off him. Pride though, well, that stays right where it is; a heavy drag at Dream’s unsmiling mouth, a torch in his glowing eyes, still just a precursor to lightning. Dream has a dignity so prim he makes it look bored.

And a criticism so sharp it cuts steel.

“This is inane.”

“Don’t worry baby, I can talk you through it if you want.” The Corinthian’s crooning tone is pointed, dirty, demeaning in all the ways that get a nightmare like him running hot. He knows his tastes alright, and this is one of them—treating Dream like he’s just a thing never fails to get him off. “You’ll be earning top dollar in no time.”

For a moment Dream just looks at him.

And the next he’s dragging a chair to the middle of the room.

One hand wrapped around the back; all manual labour, no powers bar the initial conjuration, the Corinthian treated to the sight of him getting physical with it just like a human. Dream positions it to his satisfaction, then steps back, gestures towards it with one flick of his head, imperial, still a king holding court even as he’s inviting the Corinthian to quite a different show. It’s unclear what changed his mind. Dream hardly forthcoming; remains so solemn and cold when the Corinthian chuckles, when he slinks towards the chair, stopping just short of sitting in it, arms crossed, smirking challengingly because fuck yeah Dream might actually be doing this but the Corinthian is far from impressed yet.

“C’mon Dream,” he croons, another assessing glance from head to toe. “Let’s see how well you can perform.”

There is no retort.

Just Dream hands rising to the collar of his coat.

The jaw is still set; firm, he holds disappointment a beat longer, a curtain call, a moment granted for the audience to find their way to silence. To ensure attention is in the right place.

All at once the expression melts seamlessly into something else; pouty, bedroom eyes, a come hither that damn near punches the Corinthian full in the chest. Tricks him into an inhale he doesn’t even need then lodges the breath right in his throat. The wild disarray of dark hair compliments devastatingly well. Dream looks the kind of hazy that only comes with a good, hard fuck, and the Corinthian feels hazy like he’d already been fucked, and shit it’s not even started yet. Dream is still slipping the coat from his shoulders, all long elegant fingers, all electrifying eye contact, times like these that he meets the empty pits of the Corinthian’s eyes like he can fill them at a distance.

And as always the Corinthian opens his eyes to take as much of it in as he can.

Because Dream’s full attention crams every spark of his light and cold darkness right between the Corinthian’s greedy teeth.

They haven’t even touched.

Dream isn’t even close enough to reach with an outstretched hand. The coat drops, a shadow left to pool on the floor; Dream prowling forwards—yeah, he actually fucking prowled—a stalk to his stride that has never actually been needed. It manifests here like a predator strutting down a runway, like a wild god, like a monster showing up to Paris Fashion Week fresh from the slaughter and taking to the stage still covered in blood. The Corinthian watches each deliberate step and knows this is how a demon decides to preen. Dream doesn’t stop when he reaches him, only slows, then circles, silent steps around him and the chair, right hand raised and near touching.

Not quite though. The Corinthian feels it still in how the air quivers just above his shoulder, feels it fluttering across his back, twitching like he stands beneath the beating of wings.

Or the blade of a guillotine.

[trentcrimminallybeautiful]

2024 wrapped ! fic writing year in review ! whatever you want to call it ! even though it's the beginning of december !

i was tagged by: No one! I am doing it: Anyway !

note for my post specifically: some stats have been manually adjusted to account for "collection" fics (which i've largely stopped doing, but are still part of the stats in 2024) that have different oneshots in each chapter but count as one "work" on ao3. i'm also going to focus on my trentcrimminallybeautiful pseud and ted lasso related works for 99 percent of the post.

i spent so much time on this. and why? why. i have no idea. i don't know why i did this. i don't even have spotify.

special thanks to @fade-in-the-dark, for our long, riveting conversations, and @medecineformelancholy, whose clever thoughts and kind words have fueled many a fic-writing session <3

tags/rules & links to all fics mentioned under the cut.

rules: fuck da rules. post whatever stats you want. ao3 stats recommended for ease, but anything from quantitative (top 5 most bookmarked fic, most commented fic, most kudos'd fic, etc.; how many kudos/comments/bookmarks you got this year, longest/shortest, number of user subscriptions, top fandom written for, , word count, whatever you like) to qualitative (favorite fic written, favorite comment received, best smut/angst/fluff fic written, fic that was hardest to write, etc, get creative) to a secret third thing. it doesn't even have to be fanfiction you can talk about original fiction if you want. just have fun with it man. you can do plain text or fun little graphics. then tag some people. yay

tagging: no pressure, and you absolutely do not have to do the same level as what i've done, because i don't know why i did it at all. i mean you're welcome to, but please don't feel like you have to. you don't even have to do it at all, man. just have fun if you want to. hell, if you see this and i've not tagged you but you wanna do it, this is me tagging you. tag me as if i tagged you normally by name. it's fine. do it. and if you're tagged here and you don't wanna or whatever don't worry about it. it's cool. no problem

anyway, tagging: @mvshortcut get over here you rascal. @oflightningandstars @writer-and-thrasher @plentyghosts @fade-in-the-dark @thehouseofgrey @vamplanaut

all fics mentioned:

countdown, baby!

delayed reaction

fall into you, sweet thing

hold me down

lend you my lips

lightning and roses

mea culpa

melt like this

moonlight madness

{ pair / pretty / play }

rainy days

reflections

secure

stress relief

suffer the feathers for the song

vita nova

snippets, which were largely excluded from stats because it'd be a lot of work untangling them from one work tbh:

ted lasso tumblr snippets 3 - 8 through 12 done in 2024.

ted lasso snippets 4 - all done in 2024.

e-rated ted lasso snippets - just the fourth one done in 2024.

non ted lasso fics:

Bill Cipher Calls a Temporary Truce for Girl's Night????????? and other notes that Ford will HATE to read in the Journal later - Gravity Falls

dreams of falling - House MD

key without a lock - The Mysterious Benedict Society

The Did Nate Just Kill A Guy?!?! Job - Leverage

[seyaryminamoto]

Fic-to-Art #46: Azula's lightning backfires

It's been forever since I posted art because of a very simple reason... I forgot to! :'D frankly, we're at #47 by now but THAT ONE is a little bit inappropriate for the Tumblrs so... as proud as I am of how it turned out, you'd have to join my Patreon to see it since Tumblr is Dumblr. It'd get flagged instantly if I posted it at all :')

Anyway! This prompt was meant to be a scary scene, and to my surprise, my patrons voted for an old one: Azula's confrontation with the White Lotus members in the Palace. I specifically chose the most daunting moment of the whole thing for me, as in, just before Sokka turns up, right after Azula's attempt to bend lightning, while sick, goes really really poorly. I hope the spooky shadows work well here, I kinda worried that they wouldn't make enough sense. I figured nothing's quite so scary as not seeing the scary thing? So... this seemed the best way to go about this one :'D

Anyway! If you'd like to be part of the creative process behind these pieces, a $1 pledge is enough to make you eligible for suggesting prompts and voting for them, as well as reading Gladiator snippets 6 days before the new chapter is published!

[midnightmorpher]

💻 DCA AU Idea: Digital Horror 💻

This is my first time posting a DCA AU so I’m sorry if my post sounds more like disconnected rambling ahaha ���� But here goes!

The DCA duo in a digital horror setting.

Think KinitoPet but instead of Kinito as the mascot of a long-lost pet game, it’s Sun and Moon as the face of an old creature collection/virtual pet game created by Fazbear Corp on their old 90s company, kid-friendly website.

Think like a mix between Pokémon and Neopets, speaking as someone who played too much Pokemon and played literally zero Neopets 👍🏻

One day many years after the website has been shut down, You hear rumors about a “haunted” pet game made by the Fazbear Corp and decide to check it out, because you didn’t watch enough horror movies to know this is a terrible idea :>

The game (archived and run on a server supported by Fazbear fans, I don’t know much about tech so I dunno if this is even possible but whatever) runs like it should when you first enter it. However, it starts acting up when you input your old username…

I might start writing this as a fic once I’m further along on my current fic, so for now I’ll just be dumping my AU ideas on this blog haha

Here’s a summary and a brief snippet I wrote because the idea wouldn’t leave me alone:

Virtual pet game websites are a dime in a dozen. You might’ve tried out one or two in your childhood, but memories of that are fuzzy at best. It’s only when your classmate brings up a particular website hosted by Fazbear Corporation that you begin to remember playing it briefly during its heydays, and you decide to visit it for nostalgia’s sake.

=0=

“Welcome to Sun and Moon’s Superstar Daycare!” the computerized voice of the sunny jester character trills. He lounges on top of the window asking you to create a new account, kicking his curly-tipped shoes merrily in the air as he eagerly awaits your input. His bouncy avatar, its details showing hours of love and dedication poured into each brush stroke, paints a hilarious contrast against the shoddy art that makes up the background of the game. You don’t really care, though. It’s not like anyone plays these types of games for its art.

Your hands hover over the keyboard. After a moment’s hesitation, you try to enter your old username.

“Starbite”

Most likely the “Sorry, this username has already been taken” prompt will pop up since you clearly remember using it as a kid, but there’s no harm in trying. You click on the “Confirm” option.

Nothing happens.

Weird. Is it hanging? You click it again, and again. Nothing happens. Even Sun has frozen still. Yep, it’s definitely hanging. Pity, but it’s not too unexpected considering the game’s age. You decide to fall back on the good ol’ cure: spamming the mouse button. clickclickclickclickclickcli

his eyes flick up to stare at you

The shock shoots through your whole being like a lightning bolt. You gasp sharply, eyes fluttering close for a brief moment before they’re cast on the computer screen again.

“Welcome back, Starbite!” Sun says. He takes center stage in a field of rudimentarily drawn grass, the baby blue sky matching the bright smile stretching from “ear” to “ear”, like nothing had happened. “Go forth and pick a Faz Pet to be your forever companion, and I hope you enjoy your stay at our esteemed daycare!”

The character delivers his scripted lines like he should.

The character has his arms up in celebration like he should.

The character smiles at you like he should.

So what is this cold dread trickling down your spine…?

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

Fuck It Friday

I was tagged by @inell, thank you dear! I just posted a chapter but I have a terrible habit called "writing out of order" so here is a quick little snippet from later on in the BuddieTommy Sugar Baby Fic:

“I just—I didn’t want to lie to you.” Eddie nods. “You still seem nervous.” Buck chokes on a bad attempt at a laugh, rubbing his sweating palms together. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am.” “Would it help if I told you I was seeing someone, too?” Buck frowns. “Of course you’re seeing someone.” Marisol. Marisol with her perky smile and perky attitude and perky… other things. Buck really doesn’t like her. “A guy,” Eddie gently clarifies. “What if I told you I was seeing a man.” Y’know, love stories always talk about how meeting the love of your life feels like being struck by lightning, but in Buck’s experience, being struck by lightning just fucking hurts. It makes you feel like you’re floating, all right, but not in a good way. More like all of your atoms have decided to stop being a body and are just floating off in different directions. That’s kind of what he’s feeling now. “Oh.”

I'm sure Buck is going to handle all of this with the maturity and patience for which he is known, and there will be no messy, petty shenanigans whatsoever.

*laughs maniacally*