#very long snippet for a very long chapter

[caterpillarskimono]

Netflix & Chill

summary: set at the start of season two of Animal Kingdom; you moved to Oceanside, California six months ago, renting an apartment above an old bar that you were also hired to tend to full-time. in that time, you met Andrew Cody, and whatever this is between the two of you is finally reaching the point of no return.

word count: 1.7k

warnings/tags: 18+ only, MDNI, fem! reader, slight age gap (reader is 29, Andrew is mid to late 30s), suggestive themes, NSFW (just barely), kissing, Andrew Cody pleading with you, sexual tension, intense eye contact

author’s note: this is JUST a snippet of a series I’m working on. this is also the FIRST reader fic I’ve ever written, so please be gentle with me ❤️ I truly hope you enjoy this. you may have questions, but all will be answered once I start posting the different chapters in order. just kinda testing the waters with this one.

Your stomach tightens, an unfamiliar warmth stirring in your abdomen.

Well. Not entirely unfamiliar, you suppose. It’s become routine since you met Andrew. But it’s different this time. This time it pulses, it pounds. It slithers further down, resting heavy between your legs. You can practically feel the blood pumping there, and you press your thighs together as tightly as you can to stave off the growing ache between them.

If Andrew notices, he says nothing. Briefly, you look his way, at the intensity of his focus on what’s happening on the television in front of you both. A shiver races down your spine and back up again as you recall the many times you’ve felt the intensity of that stare on you. It’s a curious thing, the way you can feel his green eyes on you before you even notice he’s in the room. The way the air between you two always feels so charged when you meet his gaze. Countless moments passed between you fill your mind’s eye, and you bite down on your bottom lip to keep the moan that threatens to leave you at bay.

Suddenly, he’s looking at you, and his eyes are dark with… concern? You’re not sure. All you know is that his pupils are blown so wide all you can see is black. And there’s something behind them you’ve only seen glimpses of before now. Something primal. Hungry?

“Are you ok?” he says, and your face is suddenly very hot and you know your eyes are wide as saucers because holy fuck, did you just moan out loud?

You clear your throat and turn your gaze back to the television. “I’m fine, just something caught in my throat, it’s fine.”

“Fine…” Andrew repeats, as if he’s testing the word, repeating it back not so much as a question, but more like he’s trying to really dig into the meaning behind it.

“Yup,” you say, your lips making a popping sound for emphasis. You lean forward for your glass of red wine. You chug it in one go, slamming it back down on the coffee table unceremoniously. “Totally fine.”

A moment passes, long and heated and heavy because you don’t even have to look at him to know he’s staring. Studying you. Like you’re a puzzle he can’t solve, but is trying desperately to make sense of.

Finally, he looks away. You watch the scene unfolding in the Netflix Original you selected (and what the actual fuck is 365 Days about anyway) and you try your absolute damndest not to look at the handsome man to your left again.

The female lead is… definitely enjoying herself, her lover’s head barely visible between her legs. She reaches down to grip his dark hair, gripping hard by the looks of it, yanking and pushing his mouth deeper against her. She throws her head back and begins to cry his name over and over, in tandem with the way she’s bucking up into his mouth. He groans loudly, and you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding.

That’s enough for Andrew to turn his attention back on you, and instantly, your cheeks redden with embarrassment. You try not to look into his eyes, those gorgeous, gorgeous eyes that you’ve dreamt about every single night since he first walked into your bar six months ago.

But you fail in your efforts, just like every single time before when you’ve tried to hide from the weight of his stare. One look into those eyes, and you almost gasp.

You were right earlier. He does look hungry. And he looks as if he wants to devour you.

And you want him to. God, you want him to ruin you.

“Are you okay?” And his voice comes out so soft that it almost sounds like there’s a nervous tremor behind the words.

“Y-yeah,” you manage to stammer out. You suddenly want to hide, to take cover and not face him. Because you know what you’re about to confess, and try as you might, you can’t stop the words spilling awkwardly from your lips.

“That’s just… I’ve never… not that, anyway.”

A beat. And then Andrew crooks up an eyebrow. “You’ve never?…. What, exactly?”

“I mean,” and an exasperated huff passes from your lips. You throw your head back against the couch, squeezing your eyes shut. “That… All of that. What he’s doing, how he’s making her feel, I’ve never felt… that.”

He frowns. Quickly snatches the remote from the coffee table, pausing the film. The sudden silence is like a record scratch, and you lift your head up and stare ahead.

A shot of the female lead is frozen onscreen, her body arched like a cat stretching in satisfaction. Her mouth is wide open, her eyes slammed shut. You can’t stop looking and memorizing this shot of pure ecstasy. Wondering what it’s like to feel that. Wondering what it would be like to feel it with the handsome - albeit dangerous - man beside you.

“You’ve… never had an orgasm?”

You force yourself to look at him then, and you fight to maintain a poker face. You shake your head in response to his question. Your hands, the tips of your fingers begin to twitch, your veins seemingly trembling beneath the surface of your skin. You’re nervous, why the fuck are you nervous? What the actual fuck is happening right now?

Andrew no longer looks as if he wants to devour you. No, there’s something else there that you can’t quite place. But you feel your heart begin to race, you feel the ache between your legs grow so heavy, pulsing in tandem with the quickening of your breathing, and you become aware of one thing and one thing only.

He… he wants you. You think he wants you just as badly as you want him. Maybe even more.

And, God, you just wish he’d take you already. Make you his. You’ve never wanted to belong to someone else before. It’s strange and all-consuming in the way it weighs on you, rattling your bones

Your eyes fall to his mouth, and you bite your bottom lip again out of nervous habit. Every mouth that’s ever been on yours has been uninvited. But this man? You’ve already invited him in without even realizing it. You want this man to press his lips to your flesh and make you his home.

Maybe a second goes by, but it’s a second too long where neither of you says anything, and you just know you’ve misread his expression entirely. You tear your eyes from his, sitting up slightly, shaking your head. You don’t know where to put your hands, so you clasp them together and tuck them tight between your now bouncing knees.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I said that, I think it’s the wine and I’m just - I’m really tired, today was long, and just please forget -“

“Hey.” His voice interrupts you softly. Gently. It’s the same soothing tone you’ve heard used on frightened animals, and it cools the flames of your skin, calms the almost painful beating in your chest. You go quiet, but you don’t dare look at him. You don’t need - can’t handle - the confirmation that you’ve read him, read whatever this is between you two, completely and utterly wrong.

You hear the shift of his body as he sits up, too, mirroring the way you’re sitting. Then silence. One beat, two beats, three.

And then his hand is on your knee, squeezing it. Your body stills, and you gasp as he begins to smooth his hand up higher, fingers digging so slightly into your inner thigh, grip tightening the higher his touch travels. Instinctively, you part your legs, just enough for him to slide his fingers further between. He pauses his touch at the middle of your thigh, above your knee, but too far from where you’re dying for his touch. A whimper almost passes between your lips, but you bite your inner cheek just in time to keep it at bay until you can swallow it down.

It doesn’t register that he’s moved as close as he can to you, hard chest pressed at your side, mouth at your cheek. He gives you the gentlest kiss, the second kiss he’s ever given you and much more chaste than the first. His mouth slowly travels to just beneath your earlobe, and your body almost melts against him.

“Do you want to?” he whispers. “Feel that, I mean?”

Finally, your eyes meet his. His mouth hovers at yours, grazing your lips with the promise of a kiss. You want to say yes, you want to say it so fucking badly that the words sting at the tip of your tongue. But Andrew reaches up, thumb at your bottom lip, and all you can manage is a nod of your head.

Suddenly he exhales, the sound heavy. As if he’s been holding his breath so long that it’s a relief to breathe out. He presses his forehead to yours and gives you the ghost of a kiss. Light, quick, so quick you don’t even have time to kiss him back. His hand starts moving again, higher and higher up your thigh until he’s right there.

And then he stills. He doesn’t move. Just keeps his very large, hand, his calloused fingers pressed firmly at the heat between your legs. “Andrew…” you moan out, squirming into his touch, trying anything to get him to keep touching you.

“I need to hear you say it. Use those pretty lips and tell me what you want. Can you do that for me? Say the word, and I’ll make you come. I’ll make you come so hard on my fingers, my mouth, my cock. Fuck, I just wanna taste you, please just say it, baby. Let me make you feel good.”

He takes your breath away with his words, with the way he goes back to kissing your cheek, nipping your earlobe between his teeth, all the while begging you. “Please, please, baby…” Over and over again like a song, like a prayer. Like he’s found salvation, and salvation is you.

“Yes,” you moan out. “Please just make me feel good. That’s all I want. Please, Andrew.”

Anyway, that’s that for now! Please let me know what you think in comments and reblogs; they motivate me and help me so much. Thx for reading! 🫶🏼❤️

[faggotbeloved]

Hiya! May I please request some Wesker headcanons?

How would he react to a Reader that has no filter?

Reader is straightforward and doesn't take nonsense from anybody. Their sass is unmatched.

Wesker: 7 minutes, 7 minutes is all I can spare to play with you.

Reader: ...Not in that slutty ass outfit.

Following the 3SA timeline! Alternate snippets from S.T.A.R.S. and chapter 1 plus a little insight on each. I put a bit of a spin on it, I am super sorry if what I wrote wasn't what you intended.

Cw: suggestive

└───────────────────────��

Wesker thought you were annoying at first. He doesn't feel guilty when thinking back to it; he loves you for it now, but by god it pissed him off when you first joined S.T.A.R.S. You were blunt and argumentative, a walking HR violation, and you had a quip for everything.

-

(WESKER walks into the S.T.A.R.S. BRIEFING ROOM, groggy and already scowling. WESKER watches the coffee pot boil, leaning on the counter with his backside facing out. READER approaches from behind, wolf whistling.)

READER: Damn, Captain! Are you trying to detain criminals or seduce them?

WESKER: (Scowling) Keep it up, and you'll be moving to Bravo team.

READER: Yeah, I'm sure. How'd you even get your pants on?

-

But once he got to know you, he found it endearing, if not sexy. He was a brat first, Captain of S.T.A.R.S. second. You knew just how to wrangle him into submission. You were also a good partner, fiercely loyal, and attractive in general.

-

(WESKER and READER are speaking over radios.)

READER: Captain, have you found somewhere out of the line of fire? Sending reinforcements. Over.

WESKER: Yes, I've found a safe area. I'm near the east exit. Over.

READER: Copy. Good boy. Over and out.

WESKER: (Spluttering) You can't say that! There's other people on the line!

-

Of course, he wasn't sure what to do about the whole... leading S.T.A.R.S. into the mansion and betraying everyone. He'd try to sneak it into conversation, just to see if his far-fetched fantasy of you joining him and spearheading research together. Unfortunately, that doesn't happen, and he ends up leaving you after the mansion incident.

For years, it's radio silence from him. You recover from the betrayal, get right back into action, and work with the BSAA to stop the likes of him. Wesker, however, thought of you constantly. Your dry humor and quick wit was refreshing, and surrounded by yes-men and suckups he longs for someone to treat him sarcastically again.

When you reunite, he's (internally) ecstatic to see you, to get another chance to recruit you, and this time it surprisingly goes well.

-

READER: Well... I did miss fucking you. And, let's be honest, your global saturation plan is kinda hard to beat. It's an uphill battle here.

WESKER: (Flushing, for the first time in years, though remaining blank-faced) Excellent.

READER: Do I get to become your coruler? That'd be pretty cool.

WESKER: (Smiling softly) ...we'll see.

-

Then, you and him would be like Good Cop, Bad Cop except for the fact you're both chaotic. The major difference is that you're funny, he's stuffy.

You do not get along with Irving, interestingly enough. He's got the kind of humor you find grating on your very soul. You don't get along much with Excella, mainly because she wanted your spot as Wesker's partner.

You never really fight with him. Your relationship is unique in that blunt nature makes you trustworthy, so when you say you're on his side he believes you. He doesn't give you the shock collar because he knows you're telling the truth, so not needing to train you skips the majority of conflict.

Overall... surprisingly healthy?

┌───────────────────────┐

I was thinking of reader speaking similarly to Gale from BG3 during this, just... without the awkwardness

Read my other Wesker works?

[hemi-demi]

I have no idea what TMA is about because I've only read Oathbreaker (please God tell me a new chapter is close), and TBH I don't want to listen to the main show because there's no way it's more interesting than what you wrote. I love fantasy, I love the romance, I love the (very realistic) religious guilt, your writing is so good its made me not want to spoil it.

You are so incredibly sweet, thank you 😭

I do highly recommend the show if you have any interest in slow, quiet horror, anthology horror with a meta plot and genuinely complex characters, or long form stories with a lot of interconnected details. (Don't want to spoil, but while romance isn't the main focus, it's not entirely removed either)

This show has truly consumed my brain, even now after hitting the two year mark of finishing my first listen, and I'll convert as many people as I can, lol.

But I also have been very much enjoying making this AU! It's the most fandom blind of anything I've made so far, to the point it is stretching very close to being original work. I love my idiots so much, and it's been wonderful getting to view these characters I love in this completely new lens.

As far as the next chapter, I am working on it and hopefully won't take me much longer! But honestly this ask was so nice, I went ahead and just grabbed a bonus snippet I wrote recently that happens shortly after the last chapter I posted and dropped it on ao3.

Nothing much, but hopefully a light snack to tide you over until I can get the next chapter up ❤️

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66752977

[alicenchanted]

A Court of Silver Storms, Chapter 5

FMC is Nesta Archeron’s twin sister

Word Count: 1,942

Potential Pairings: Azriel x Archeron!OC, Archeron!OC X Illyrian!OC, Nesta x Cassian, Elain x Azriel (pairings are unconfirmed)

Summary: Elain meets with Azriel the night before he embarcks on the journey to Montesere.

Taryn and Tristan spend the night training her mental shields in preparation.

Nesta finds out the morning of that her sister is gone, and she will not be returning for a week

Warnings: allusions to self harm, mentions of trauma and memory relapses, depictions of drowning, allusions to child abuse/neglect

Author's Note: The warnings sound terrible, dw it's really not that bad yall. The time line here is chronological btw, in case anyone gets a little confused. This chapter is a bit short, mostly to transition to 'part two' of this fic!

Getting a little Elain action here. I think she's neglected a lot in sf, so I wanted to explore her character a little more!

Thank you all for the support you've given me on this, I love interacting with you and seeing your opinions!

Read on Ao3 / Chapter 1 / Chapter 4

There, she thought to herself, finally. The last of Autumn’s yellow roses brightened up her kitchen. The kitchen, she corrected, but it felt like hers now. Elain filled the glass vase with water, a sprinkle of ground eggshells. It had grown late, and she was alone. 

Alone doesn’t feel very good, she pursed her lips. Nuala and Cerridwen were gone on Rhys’s orders. It was something to do with one of the queens. She remembered their visit to the Archeron Manor so long ago. Politeness and good manners hadn’t gotten her very far with them. Power struggles were at play, but Elain didn’t understand them. She had tried listening in, lingering at the edges while Feyre talked with Rhys and Azriel in the early hours of morning. She had nothing better to do after all, not when sleep eluded her. She let it stay blissfully far away, like a cat that had grown tired of playing with a toy. Sleep filled her mind with too many thoughts. Unhelpful thoughts. 

Elain fussed with the flowers, arranging them again and again. If she stayed idle too long, those thoughts would find her, and that couldn’t happen. Not when it scared her sisters so much. She did not remember everything that happened to her, but Feyre often expressed how pleased she was that Elain was better now, healed. Oh Elain… so worried… and Nesta, she was half-mad with fear… do you even remember… the balcony… knives out of the kitchen when Taryn… 

Little snippets. She rearranged the flowers. Perhaps the fuller ones should face the island… Yes, that was where everyone would sit. Once morning came. In nine hours. There would be no one for the next nine hours. She rearranged the flowers as her head began to split. Water, not like the icy chill of the Cauldron. Warm. Laughter. And then a staircase, one with a big looming spiral. Sparks of silver. A storm rolled in. 

She rearranged the flowers. The stems had not been de-thorned. She pushed her finger tips into the sharp little daggers and sighed as a pin-prick of blood welled up. The visions faded out like mist on the horizon. 

As she pressed her fingertip to her lips to suck the blood away, she felt a familiar presence. His shadows were warm, and she felt them brush her arm in greeting. He made sure not to startle her.

“Azriel, you’re up late.”

“I could say the same to you. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

She smiled and let the flowers fall naturally into the vase. “Oh, I couldn’t sleep…” She brushed her fingers across the soft, butter colored petals. “I wanted to make sure these beauties were saved before the first snows hit Velaris.”

He stepped closer. So close to her. She could feel the willowy pressure of his shadows, slightly warm with his scent. Mmm, something woody. She slowed her breathing, trying not to seem… excited? Interested? It was so much easier to talk to the human boys. They couldn’t hear the fluttering of a heart. 

“Yellow?” he asked, his voice deceptively bored.

“Do you dislike yellow?” She asked. Maybe next time she would plant red.

“No, they’re very nice Elain. The River House always feels more home-like with your touches.”

Something bubbly and warm welled up in her. She didn’t think many people noticed the little changes she made. Feyre had an eye for decorating, sure, but her style was far more moody, regal. Elain preferred the subtle elegance of a brighter palate. It seemed Azriel had noticed. 

“How was training today?” she tried to sound cheerful, but weariness weaved its way through her tone. Cassian hadn’t been by the River House to update Feyre on Nesta’s progress, but Elain assumed there was none to report. Taryn was a bit more unpredictable on where she drew her lines.

His lips titled to the side, hesitant. “Her blade work has gotten stronger, she wields truth teller almost as well as you did-” Elain couldn’t keep the smile from her face. A small one. This was about Taryn, not herself. Azriel went on without noticing. “But when I left her with Tris… I suppose you and Nesta are lucky. Mental shields take a lot of work to employ for those who haven’t had them magically fortified. I wanted to tell you though-”

She turned, her face tipped up to meet his gaze. So close. Azriel paused, taking in a breath, as if he had suddenly realized the proximity between them. 

“I’ll be gone for a few days. Rhys is sending Tristan and I east, to Montesere,” another pause, “Taryn will be accompanying us to speak with their court about preparations for another war.”

“Taryn?” Elain’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Azriel shrugged, but his gaze turned interested, as if he sensed Elain knew something that he didn’t, “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“She dislikes high society. When we were girls there was a lot of… pressure on her and Nesta.” Elain had missed her debut. The year she had come of age was the year they lost their fortune. Sometimes she was jealous of the attention her sisters, mostly Nesta, had garnered for the family. Most of the time, she was thankful that the weight of expectation had avoided her shoulders in those formative years. Nesta was their mother’s little queen. She was the oldest, after all. Taryn had come a few minutes after her. But there was a unique kind of pressure there too, one Taryn could never live up to. If Nesta were to fail at securing an advantageous match, Taryn was essentially the spare heir. She was coached just as rigorously, waiting in the trenches to see if she’d be needed. 

“Feyre seems to think she’ll do well,” Azriel said, bracing his hands on the kitchen counter. His gaze drifted through the window, out, she imagined, toward the House of Wind. 

Elain pursed her lips. It didn’t really matter what she thought, the decisions Feyre made were always final. “I’m sure it will all go as planned.” 

That splitting feeling returned. Now was not the time. She looked around, suddenly antsy. Her trimmed fingernails found their way to the little cut on her finger. It had stopped bleeding after she let go of the thorns. She dug the crescent of her nail into the wound, pressing until the feeling banked into nothing. 

Azriel’s eyes widened. “Elain, I didn’t know you were bleeding.” His nose flared at the sudden tang in the air.

“It’s nothing, the roses got me earlier.”

He took her by the wrist, forcing her to show him the wound. He hummed, reaching for the weapon belt around his hips. There was a small roll of gauze tucked into it, and he unrolled a piece, ripping it off with his teeth.

She didn't realize she was trembling until he gripped her hand again, holding it still as he wrapped it with an almost painful gentleness.

He noticed her trembling. “Are you afraid of blood?”

Her throat tightened. “Yes,” she lied.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆

Get out Get out Get out Get out, she screamed at him. Oh he would have it coming to him after this. 

Tristan’s voice, calm and steady despite it being hour three of training, washed across her mind. Every time Taryn thought she had managed to push him out, she would hear his deep, rumbling echo. It was like a riptide, the kind of surge that dragged you back and back, further out to sea no matter how desperately you paddled toward shore.

You need to relax, Taryn. You’re not focused.

She growled, then flinched at the sound of her own voice. She had been forced silent this whole time. She was finally getting somewhere. 

“Get- out,” the words came out choked and garbled, and then she was under again. A man was dancing with her, spinning her around the dance floor. She couldn’t keep up. She tripped, fell past his arms and to the floor. But there was no floor. Only water. Deep and cold, endless water. She reached out for someone, for something, but there was nothing. Her hands were empty… and then they weren’t. There was a knife in her hands. The image of the knife was warbled through the icy water, but the piercing metal was aimed for herself. She forced her eyes further open, fighting the weight of the water. Gone again. The village boys surfaced. Tomas and Isaac, Grayson and Wendell. Wendell, the butcher’s boy… Tomas’s voice echoed in her head. He doesn’t mind a little meat on the bones. She shivered, wrenching her gown closer to her body. It was soaked through with cold. Let me go, she yelled, but no sound came out.

I said focus, Taryn, you were so close. She tried to hold onto the sound, as if those words were a tether that would lead her back out.

Hands were wrenching her away, pulling her from the Cauldron with a roar. Nesta? Her mother looked down at her. Those hands tightened, pulling her away from another failed Gala. You are useless, a burden on your sister, her mother said. Do not speak to her again, I don't want her seen with you.

Let me go, she choked again, swallowing mouthfulls of cold air. She could see Nesta’s small face in the window, watching her as she curled up in the chilly brambles outside. Her body trembled, and she could not tell if it was real or just memory.

The patience and calm in Tristan’s voice was turning sour, I can’t. Not until you can push me out.

He was mad at her. Nesta was mad at her, mad at Taryn for ignoring her all night, her small fists clenched. Her mother was mad at her, angry that she could be so careless as to ruin the future of all of her sisters. She was mad. So mad at herself. And confused. She stared at herself, at her broken body reforged, the white nightgown sticking to every violated inch of her. 

Something fluttered inside her, clicking and whirring like an automaton. Light flared beneath her skin, arcing like lightning through the darkness. She saw threads of shadow, weary now, as if they too wanted to leave this place in her mind. 

Taryn extended her hand. It seemed her body knew what to do, even if her mind did not. The blue of her veins turned fluorescent, glimmering violet as pure power sluggishly swam from her heart to her fingertips. It sparked. It struck. 

She felt a low hiss thunder through her mind, but the voice gritted out, Good, again.

The hollow space between her breasts flickered and surged, churning like a storm. She made herself the eye. That whirling storm grew thick and heavy. Like a shield around her. A shield. She put all her energy into reinforcing it. The Cauldron had boiled when its icy heart was torn out. She pulled clouds from its heat, coiling mist around herself. She felt the shadowy threads again as they brushed up against the raging hurricane inside her, and each time, her lightning found its mark. 

The darkness retreated. Taryn was back in Windhaven, though she had never really left. She felt dizzy. Strong, rough hands gripped her before she hit the forest floor.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆

Nesta ate in a silence that Cassian seemed determined to keep breaking.

“I already told you, I will not train in that miserable village.”

She watched him huff a breath, shovel more of the bland porridge into his mouth angrily. He was an animal, and so were all those other Illyrian brutes in Windhaven. Dawn crinkled the clouds, turning them iridescent and rosy. It was too early for this.

“Why can’t you be more like Taryn. Azriel tells me she’s doing well. So well, she’s been promoted,” Cassian said.

“Azriel,” she gritted her teeth, “must be a better teacher.” Not to mention, Taryn didn’t have a hundred pairs of eyes on her, calculating how weak she was at every interval. Nesta chanced another bite. She was starving, but she didn’t want Cassian to know that. 

“There are things, Nes, that you’d learn in lessons with me. You would be a hell of a lot more impressive if you could back all of your threats up.”

Tch- Nes. She eyed her fork, wondering how hard it would be to stab him with it.

“You could do that, too,” he said, reading the direction of her stare. “I could teach you how to turn anything into a weapon. Even a fork.”

She ignored him, taking another delicate bite of the fruit she had been mercifully provided. It made the sloppy porridge bearable. At the height of their poverty, the Archerons hadn’t been able to afford delicacies like strawberries. They couldn’t even afford salt.

Nesta chewed quietly. Suddenly, something clicked in her head. ‘So well, she’s been promoted.’ “What do you mean?” she demanded.

“Huh?” Cassian looked at her funny, and her jaw tightened.

“What do you mean Taryn has ‘been promoted’?” Something clawed at her insides, threatening to escape.

“No one told you? Taryn is going with Az and Tris out to Montesere for the week. Something about needing her as a statement piece for good intentions.”

“Who else would have fucking told me, Cassian. You’re the only one here. Feyre hasn’t visited, Elain-” she swallowed hard. “When does she leave?” This had Rhysand written all over it, and Feyre? Why would she let him put Taryn up to this?

Cassian glanced at the clock. “They left before dawn. It’s a long flight out there, and they’ll need breaks for their wings.”

Nesta tamped down a growl of anger. Why hadn’t Taryn said anything? She could have found Nesta, explained. That anger paused. Nesta still hadn’t spoken to her since… well, since their last fight. The Prison, The Hewn City. Everything the Inner Circle had planned to put Nesta through still pinched at her mind. Silence was not what she owed Taryn, but she couldn’t bring herself to say thank you just yet. The wound still pulsed, bleeding her out each time it reopened with her thoughts. 

“A week,” Nesta asked, drowning out the silent roaring in her mind.

Cassian nodded. He stuck another spoonful of porridge into his mouth, swallowing it down. “Why does it even matter to you, you haven’t been speaking to her.”

Nesta hadn’t realized they noticed. She had only imagined the tension to be between her and her sister. It wasn’t supposed to be a visible rift, only a quiet, temporary thing. “Why didn’t they ask me to do it? I could’ve-”

“Are you fucking kidding Nesta? You haven’t participated in anything we’ve asked of you for months. You won’t even pick up a training sword.” 

Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “Because I shouldn’t have to involve myself in your schemes at all.”

“Well, there’s your answer. No one wants to touch you with a ten foot pole. They trusted Taryn,” he added quietly, under his breath, “for some reason.”

She wanted to yell. She wanted to march upstairs and find Taryn. They could figure something out. She was gone. Nesta was stuck here, with Cassian, without even Azriel as a buffer, useless as he was in her arguments with Cassian. They were long gone. She needed a drink, a fuck, something. What if she got hurt, what if something went wrong? Nesta didn’t trust Tristan, not even Azriel. They were still Rhysand’s court, no matter how much they played nice. Taryn wasn’t cut out for this.

She felt her lungs seize, and she held a breath. The rapid beating of her heart rose with her panic. She needed a distraction. The door to the ten thousand steps was already open, the faelights in the hall dimmed to near darkness. Her boots scuffed on the stones as she approached, glancing behind her to make sure Cassian was staying put. This was her business. 

She began the descent.

[kidspawn]

wip wednesday

hello! thank you for the tag @ronanlynchian this is incredibly sweet! i'm also very honoured you thought of me! this week has been really odd for me in terms of getting work done, even a little bit, so my wip progress has been all over the place. i hate being busy (i love being busy).

tagging (no pressure ofc): @rederiss @witchbitchadam @tartadxfresa @fieldsofred (you don't have to i swear to god i can't tell if i'm being held at gunpoint or just tagging people) @fredddoloso @sunflowersandscreams (none of you have to, ignore me if you want i just think you're all neat that's all i love your brains i wanna know what you're writing)

even if i didn't tag you please feel free to jump in and share. i cannot stress enough how bad i mean that. yes, even you. do not doubt me. i mean it. i wanna read your words.

I have three snippets here, two aus, one NSFW i may or may not finish. I'm still figuring the mechanics out.

so, my vigilante fic is almost almost ready to post, the first two chapters are being edited right now. i do have some later chapter snippets i've been ironing out for continuity purposes, so here's some of that:

==

“Yeah.” He settled for. “You're right.” It made his tongue numb. 

“Could you sound pissier?” Ronan snorted. “Jesus. I'm trying to be helpful.”

“No, but Blue had the exact same argument.” Adam scowled, “I hate both of you.”

“Maybe we just don't want you to crash and burn.” Ronan reached out and pinched Adam's arm. “Those eyebags would need checked in at an airport.” 

Adam slapped his hand away. “Nice. Love the concern.”

“Oh its not concern it's self preservation.” Ronan yawned, feigned and over the top to accentuate his point. “I already told you, it's a carry down. I'm cutting the stress off at the source.” 

“No of course. Nothing else.” 

“Never.” Ronan grinned, rolled his head to flash teeth Adam's way. There was a sincerity behind the cut of his grin, tucked beneath levity.

“Well, good to know where you stand.” Adam looked away to cover the warmth flooding his face. He knew, objectively, his flushes and emotions weren't transparent, subdued by complexion. But it felt like exposure all the same. “Thanks.” He said, to the window. 

“Yeah sure.” Ronan said, and Adam resisted the urge to turn and analyze his expression. “You saved me from boredom and eavesdropping on Gansey's midnight club.”

“Club?” Adam raised an eyebrow, directed it the other's way, “Has it grown?”

“Cheng has started chiming in.” Ronan scowled, “Proper three way phone call.”

Adam bit back the frustration at Henry for not telling him, and fought down the shame over not noticing. “Oh.” He said. “Well.”

“They're unbearable.” Ronan said, “So your problems are a blessing in comparison.”

“Well as long as it's a blessing, I'll just keep at it.” Adam scoffed, “Since you enjoy them so much.”

“Only over the musketeers.” A tap on the radio. The car flooded now with the thrum of electronica, a soft bass and syncopated synths. “They're a nightmare.”

“I'm flattered to take priority.” 

“Obviously. Why wouldn't you?”

There was something to be said about how earnest Ronan could be, despite all his dancing around and his half truths and sardonic deflections. Not because he was free of emotional obscurity, but he saw nothing wrong with the admittance of something that stripped his intentions to their bare bones. Adam felt a curl of envy, and wondered how he'd be capable of matching such a vulnerability. It was the push and pull of it, the way he'd been coaxed into such a relaxed state by the joking and sneering and quips, then marked by stark honesty.

It wasn’t a trick, he knew. It couldn't be. Not from Ronan.

The music was just loud enough it dulled the more abrasive edge of his thoughts, sanded away the hits his mind took at his self esteem. By all measures, it would've been easy to reach over and give his equal effort. He felt wholly unprepared, had no idea what to do, paralysis and indecision.

It was easier to expose yourself to someone who kept themselves at arm’s length. Or, in some fucked up recess of Adam's mind, he felt like it gave him the upper hand, the high ground. The fact he felt more at ease with platitudes and discretion was one of the many things he catalogued with the many, many reasons why relationships were a particular trial of his.

“We haven't known each other long. That's why.” He finally answered. It hadn't been a long silence, but it had stretched time enough to wind a rope of tension over the radio. 

“So?” Ronan began chewing the cord at his wrist, a habit Adam once again knew he ought to find repulsive, but on Ronan it was tantalizing and evocative. Something in the action of mouth and teeth.

“That doesn't scare you? Getting that attached that fast?” Adam said, attempting honesty. It left an open hole in his chest.

“No.” It was immediate. An answer born from confidence. That gaping wound began to scald and fester.

“How?”

“I don't know.” Ronan scowled around his gnawing. “I'm not scared of Hennessy or you or Gansey. I'm not... I don't know.”

“You're scared of something, though.” 

“Seriously?” Ronan shot him a scathing sneer.

Adam slacked his shoulders up and down, going for casual. “Showed you mine.” He said.

Ronan wormed a finger under his bracelet and began to snap it against his wrist. Up, out, snap. Up, out, snap. “Myself, probably.” He bit, like it hurt him to admit. It was said less like a confession, more like tugging a knife from a gaping wound, knowing you'd bleed out.

“Why?”

Another glare. It felt like a gift in its own way. Adam blinked, unfazed.

“The way I make people feel. The things I do.” He started fiddling with one of the AC flaps. Up, down, side to side. “Things get fucked up when I'm around.”

Adam didn't know the best response for that. He licked his lips up buy himself a moment, though Ronan was too busy fiddling with the car to notice or even care. The sentiments of self hatred were deeply relatable, though that opened opportunity for worse topics still. 

“What exactly have you fucked up?” He settled for, because inquiry was safer than assumption. 

Ronan shrugged. “Stuff.”

“Descriptive.”

“You want an itemized list?”

“Laminated.”

Another glare. “I just make things messy. Spiral. Hurt people. Whatever. Point is, I fuck things up.”

“Gansey.” Adam pointed out. “I think he'd disagree. And Hennessey, from what you've told me. I think they're both grateful you're here.”

“I didn't say anything about not being here.” 

“Don't have to.” There were two places that line of thinking went, when your self worth fragmented and convinced you to disappear.

However inappropriate the statement was, it struck enough of a cord for Ronan to start fidgeting once more. “I don't think like that anymore.”

“Just telling you.” Adam hummed, “Feel like you need the reminder.”

Ronan took a second. His silence always drew attention, his paucity of noise magnetic. “I think I've done things I'm not proud of. For the wrong reasons.” He drummed a finger against the radio dial. “Hurt people.”

“Did they deserve it?”

“Some of them, probably.” It was an easy admittance, unlike the rest. 

“I already told you where I stand on this.” Adam said, “Intent is everything. If you did it for a good reason-”

“I don't know.” Ronan said, “If the reason is good. I just know people got hurt and it was because of me.”

Adam watched him pick at a cut in the leather of the wheel, honing in on its grooves and imperfections as if it’d distract from his own. He had nothing to say that would ease his hurt, lessen that ache. Gansey would have had the right words, he knew. Hennessey would’ve distracted, or related on some level that clicked just so. Blue would have had a gentle hand, a compassion Adam didn’t think he was capable of. Even Henry would have been, at least, armed with few words and even more syllables, a turn of phrase to be dissected or misinterpreted. Even a fight would have been a sufficient solution. 

“We all hurt people.” He settled on saying. “Everyone hurts someone. That doesn’t make you bad, I don’t think.” He picked at one of his too-short nails, peeled a layer too close to the bed, stopped when the sting grew too fierce, “I think it’s... how you feel about it. Bad people might feel guilty, but they’ll still feel right.” He glanced up at Ronan, “I don’t think you’re a bad person. You wouldn’t be so torn up over whatever you did if you were.” Because he knew bad people, and he knew people who deserved revenge, and he didn’t think Ronan was either. Didn’t spike the caution signals installed in the back of Adam’s head. 

Ronan met his eyes, indiscernibly softer than Adam had ever seen. He held his breath, watched Ronan glance from his hands, to Adam’s face, the car window. His jaw tightened, eyebrows scrunched and furrowed and twitched. He was the picture of turmoil, painted in sharp, bold lines. Adam waited for him to do something in the silence, but knew whatever kept Ronan quiet was suffocating and consuming. A flick of his wrist, the snap of a wristband. He glanced at Adam and back to the dash once more. 

==

on a lighter note, i do have this workshopped thing i might commit to in the long-term revolving around Blue and Adam and witches and maybe sorta i was watching old supernatural tv shows and thought that a fun little witch story would be fun so this is obviously au and i messed with dynamics a bit but Persephone dies and leaves them this mysterious house on the countryside. Adam left for college and kind of dipped on Blue, who had to stay for familial reasons (Henry and Gansey were not there, either, to convince her to try leaving Henrietta. So she's felt trapped in her hometown.) Tensions arise.

=

“I swear to god,” Blue murmured, nudging at the attic door with a slipper-wrapped toe. “I heard something up here.”

“Like what?” Adam deadpanned, arms folded and glowering at the door like it had been the thing to wake him. “A ghost? You heard something go bump in the night?”

“Don't be an ass.” She scowled, “And maybe. It could be. We don't know.” It would be unfortunately in character for Persephone to leave them a haunted house. The frustration of it all numbed the grief magnificently. 

“Except we do.” Adam cut in, “Ghosts aren't real.”

“You don't know that.” She pointed up at him, had to raise on tip toes to properly get in his space, but watching his eyes go criss cross made the effort worthwhile. “You don't know they don't exist.”

“You could say that about anything.” He argued. “You don't know they do. There could or couldn't be a ghost behind there.”

“Schrödinger's ghost.” She suggested.

He wrinkled his nose. “I mean... I guess? You're not...” His eyebrows knit, “Yeah, you're not wrong, on principle? Kind of sounds like you're implying the ghost may or may not be dead, though. Technically, it’d be hey this person could or could not be dead in there. It’s about the cat maybe or maybe not being dead.”

“Hush, psych major,” She waved him off, before he got carried away regurgitating that laminated degree of his, “The saying worked, didn't it? You got what I meant.”

“I’m just pointing out-”

“You’re being pedantic.” She scowled, “It’s condescending. We get it, you went to Harvard. God, you weren’t like this before. It’s like you want me to feel stupid.”

“There is nothing wrong with making sure you’re using the saying right!” He tugged at an uneven cut of hair jutting out by his ear, working at it as his wrist bone rolled and flexed beneath prominent veins. 

“No, but you’re nitpicking. And you know it. And when did you become all oh there’s no such thing as ghosts? You know better than anyone-”

“No, I don’t, actually.” He hissed, “Blue, it is three in the morning and you’re pulling me over here to...what? Maybe find a ghost that probably doesn’t exist? It’s an old house, it’s not some great sign from beyond the grave. She’s not leaving us a message. It’s a house.”

“How can you say that?” She asked, “Adam, how can you think this isn’t significant from her? I get you’re all science guy now, that you just had to go out to the city and leave the rest of us behind-”

“No, good, I was hoping this would come up.” He snorted, “Don’t get shitty.”

“Let me finish.” She snapped, “Do you know how frustrating it is to hear you dismiss all that time you got with her? As, what, childhood fancy? You had something with Persephone I would have killed for. No one in the family would even try teaching me magic. You had one on one lessons, and you think... what, she was making it up?”

“I was a terrified kid who had just gone through something traumatic.” He bit out. “She was trying to give me anything I could grasp onto. We never did magic, we looked at cards. We moved stones around. I’ve never been anything less than grateful for Persephone, but I have enough sense to know that was an illusion built for comfort. And don’t get mad at me for getting out just because you never tried.”

She flinched. It was a particularly brutal slash in the chinks of her armour, prodding a thumb on a yellowed bruise, squeezing a bone that had never healed right.

==

and finally this sickfic i started when i got COVID last week and couldn't leave my bed and it devolved into smut for some godforsaken reason. idk if i will finish it. but i like how the writing itself came out. (i don't post a lot of nsfw ignore this if this isn't your jam)

==

If he thought about it, the bodily sensations were the same. Heat that radiated from his center, his head, his mouth, hot and swampy breath in puffs where no other airways could allow. It made his responding gasp airier than usual, nowhere else to go and no energy to push further. That kick of his pulse, so harsh he could feel it breaching his chest. Tinged with an slip of pain, the crick in his neck, the stab in his tailbone. Worse still, when his spine curled in response, bending further than a worn system could take. That was a peculiarity he could reroute into pleasure, and the snap of his waistband gave proof enough. 

“What are you doing?” Ronan said, hand on the doorway, frown unsteady. It curled with a feigned disinterest.

“You're not touching me.” Adam accused. “Your loss. You can watch if you want.”

“Do you think jerking it will magically fix your cold?”

In lieu of an answer, Adam tugged his sweatpants - Ronan’s sweatpants, though they shared custody - to mid thigh. 

“Jesus christ.” Ronan groaned, tapped a curled first against the door's wooden frame. He turned, resting his forehead against the shell-curl of a distressed fist. 

“You're sick. We can have all the sex you want when you're not sick.”

“I want to have sex now.” Adam said, running a thumb along a vein. “And you don't want to. I'm compromising. Watch or not, I'm doing it.”

“That is not fair. Asshole.” Ronan refused to leave his fist's support. 

Adam frowned. “I'm not telling you to do anything.”

“I'm trying to be like... good and take care of you. Like, boyfriend shit. You're being...” He scowled at Adam, eyes pointedly on his face. Adam curled his hips up, inviting attention. 

“You can take care of me.” He said. 

“No.” Ronan's ears curved with a rosy flush. It formed a matching palette against the scarlet of his neck. “Yes. No. Stop it.”

Adam shrugged, “You can go. I don't care.” He lied. 

“I-” Ronan swallowed, breathed in and out in careful counts. That fluster kept rising, Adam curled a hand up in matching time, thumbing his head. He inhaled, sharp and audible, through his mouth. It came out breathier than from his nose.

There was little else to do in the absence of a response but slowly work at himself, eyes closed and mouth open to allow little sighs and hums and gasps. A languid pace, because all the heat simmered in his jaw, his throat, his temple, made movement and thoughts sluggish. Familiar coiling began in his gut, expectant and demanding, tingles along his lower half, electric under his fingerprints. A throw of his head, his crown scraping against the headboard with the shift of his hips into the motion. For all the work he could do, his hand an adequate substitute for desired touch, it was not quite enough, wrong size, callouses in the wrong spots, too-bony knuckles and wrist cricks from awkward ankles. For all the satisfaction it could have been, should have been, Adam hadn't ever dedicated study to this particular past time - walls too thin in puberty, evenings too packed at St. Agnes, having gone straight to the Barns thereafter and spoiled in touch until his own didn’t quite suffice. Harvard had been an especially brutal period, reacquisition of comfort in his own embrace with miles that made human contact impractical at best. In many ways, there'd been a strength in examining his own pleasure where he could apply lessons learned, where his instruction began and ended within the cradle of low thread polyester sheets. Something therapeutic in it, he'd rationalized, and ignored the ache, the fire in the pit of his stomach. Curling around Ronan and crossing back over the threshold of The Barns and the glowing heat of summer had been a stark reminder not to try substituting the real thing and expecting the same result.

==

okay i'm burning my hands now i'm trying to write my head is in such an odd place. pls enjoy i might continue these, depends on my mood. who knows. this has been a weird fucking week. sorry this is so much i couldn't pick a fic to share a snippet from.

[courfee]

“I’m gonna spend the evening with my alleged boyfriend and his two best friends,” James says. “I thought we should maybe talk over that again before that.”

“What for?”

“You know... boundaries and stuff.”

“We’ve already had this conversation,” Regulus says with a frown. Twice, he adds in his mind. He doesn’t need another reminder that everything between himself and James works on an agreed upon contract. “Is there something else you haven’t mentioned yet that you don’t want me to do?”

“No...”

“Then just do whatever you want, James. This is a pretend relationship, so just pretend I am your boyfriend for the evening.”

For a while nothing but the noise of the road James is walking along comes through the speaker. It’s silent for long enough that eventually Regulus has to tentatively ask, “James?”

“Yes, sorry,” James answers immediately. “I’ll treat you like my boyfriend. You know, it’s just...” he trails off again.

“What?” Regulus asks annoyed.

“I don’t know how to be your boyfriend,” James admits. “I don’t know what you would want from a partner, how you would want to be treated, how much physical affection you’d want or what kind. I don’t know these things about you.”

“Oh,” Regulus breathes out. It feels a little like a punch to his throat. “I also don’t know.”

chapter 15 of ritardando is here :)

[averycutesalamander]

NO!! SNAKE BITE BOOTHILL I'LL FOREVER WAIT FOR YOI...... MY BELOVED

Silliness apart I 100% understand. I'll love anything you write. Can you give a taste of what ur writing right now? The 18k draft? I'm curious.....

by the way, do you think boothill would like whiskey? With 2 ice cubes?

-Snake Bite anon

edit: i wrote most of this like right when i got the ask (like two months ago i am SO sorry 💀) and meant to finish it immediately after but uhhh obviously that didnt happen. and in retrospect it is extremely funny how nervous i was to talk about this considering how bad my newest newest draft is. anyway here you go

-

oh god anon the can of worms youve just opened.. 😭 im sort of nervous talking about it but. im too obsessed with it to not finish and post it eventually so i guess i should just rip off the bandaid now.

cw pseudoincest under the cut but HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT

ok so for the record this is NOT MY FAULT. i was talking with (redacted) about how sad it is that one of my favorite writers sees him as an uncle. like, it's a familial thing. and we were joking like "well that wouldnt stop me lmao am i right guys" and it was all in good fun.

and then i started. Thinking About It. and entirely against my will my brain formed a plot. and at first i was just gonna write like a drabble or something to get it out of my system but uh. well.

yeah. so. yeah. so. ok. i know this looks bad but HEAR ME OUT. also spoilers for the first uhhhhh maybe half of the fic ?? two thirds of the fic???

ok so. this initially takes place before the IPC arrival. the reader gets adopted by one of his sisters when she's 5 because she was alone in the desert. she cant talk, and by the time she can, she doesnt remember what happened, so whatever. she meets boothill (who i am presently calling ahiga because i literally could not dodge around the name for that long) when she's 7 and LET ME EMPHASIZE THAT IT IS COMPLETELY PLATONIC AT THAT POINT. 100% PLATONIC. THERE IS NO GROOMING IN THIS FIC. OR UNDERAGE. ZERO. ZIP. ZILCH.

so reader is like.. cripplingly lonely with some major attachment issues. her mama's farm is pretty far from everyone else and there aren't many kids her age in the family, so she doesn't have many connections when she's younger. and she's a quiet kid, so she doesnt get much attention from the rest of her relatives. boothill can kinda see this to some degree, and i think hes sort of acquainted with loneliness (although his is largely self-inflicted at this point) so he kinda goes out of his way to include her in stuff and be nice to her. NOT in a creepy way, just in a regular cool uncle way. he teaches her how to ride horses, gives her sweets when mama isnt looking, that kind of thing. they don't see each other all that often but it's enough that they have a pretty solid, positive relationship.

so when shes like 16 she forms a teeny tiny itty bitty crush on him. just like. a little thing. and shes VERY aware that that's fucked up and she should cut that out immediately, but the thoughts kind of linger. but like.. presumably that'll just.. iron itself out eventually. with time. it's fine.

and almost immediately after that the IPC shows up and shit goes down. she and mama get kicked off their ranch and have to go shelter with nick and graey, and in the next week or so many other relatives follow. boothill ends up dropping off his daughter (who im calling manaba in this fic for the sake of naming consistency) to join the rebellion. reader helps out with the war effort, does supply runs, that kinda thing. when the ipc finally gives the kill order, shes between towns, and since they're targeting population centers, she escapes the direct blasts and shelters in a river to avoid the ensuing wildfires.

not everyone is so lucky, obviously. no one in her family (that she knows of) survives. some shit happens, but she ends up getting picked up by a group of survivors. skipping the details, several years go by. she doesnt really make any new friends, and the loneliness sinks its teeth into her - so she relies on the past to keep her grounded. the memories of her mom feel too painful, but her memories of her uncle feel.. safer. kinder, in a way. and in the back of her head, that tiny crush starts to fester. subconsciously, she starts to feed it, because the loneliness is ripping her apart, and this weird fucked up little fantasy feels like the safest way for her to keep it at bay. it's not a conscious thing, though. she's actively disgusted and disturbed by it every time it crosses her mind. it just kind of.. stews in the background.

she starts sleeping around to sate that loneliness. "There's a void in you that you haven't managed to fill. Something about having someone's hands on you makes the ache a little quieter, a little more manageable, but not by much." it's not born out of love, or any kind of affection - just a feral sort of desperation.

she never really feels like her partners fit her. when she finally realizes that shes chasing people with features that remind her of her dead fucking uncle, she promptly declares herself a freak forever and sentences herself to celibacy until she can figure out whatever the fuck is wrong with her brain.

she ends up leaving the planet, because staying is too painful. im a little foggy on the details here, but tldr she finds a mentor and gets into the tech scene, then the hacking scene, then starts doing what she can do fuck with the ipc wherever possible, etc etc. somehow, experiencing the impossible vastness of the universe, being surrounded by a functionally infinite amount of people, feels more lonely than ever. she's just kind of adrift in the world - sending money back home to help people make end's meet, generally just trying to find a reason to live beyond fear. there's a storm of emotions brewing inside of her - the hatred and the terror and the grief. she does all she can to spite the IPC, but it never feels like enough. it never feels like it does any good.

and then, years after the massacre, she's at a bar meeting with a client, and she sees him, and he sees her. and she's thinking "holy fucking shit that's my dead uncle" and he's thinking "holy fucking shit that's my dead niece" and they reunite and stuff. very heartwarming, very sweet, lots of tears (well. from her at least. he can't partake obviously 💀) and they start catching up over drinks.

and that's when he tells her his mission - that he knows who pulled the trigger, and who was behind the slaughter of their people. and she latches onto that HARD, because now she has a specific target for her emotional turmoil instead of the vague, amorphous concept of "the company." etc etc etc they agree to team up because he could use someone to help with behind-the-scenes stuff. and also because it's really nice to have someone around from home. so they exchange contact info and stuff, yay yay yippee

so they chat more, and they drink more, and reader maaaaaybe kinda sorta drinks a little too much. more than a little, actually. more than enough that her hold on her inner monologue slips and she starts thinking about how pretty he is. and suddenly that dormant little harmless crush that she was subconsciously feeding is swinging back around with a vengeance, because now it's real, and he's here, and he's ALIVE, and god did his lips always look that soft or-

and. well. eventually she uh. she might maybe kinda sorta ask if she can kiss him. and then processes the words that just came out of her mouth and starts CRYING because what the FUCK is wrong with her. and he like.. never addresses it directly. he just calms her down and makes sure she gets back to her hotel room and fucking DIPS.

BUT THE THING IS. THE THING IS. SHE WAKES UP THE NEXT MORNING. AND DOESN'T REMEMBER DOING IT. SO NOW HE KNOWS!! BUT SHE DOESN'T KNOW THAT HE KNOWS!!!! AND THEY HAVE TO ACT NORMAL!!!!!!!!!!!!

so the next bit is kinda loose and im probably gonna tweak some things. but. but. they have to go on a mission together. and.

yeah. im. yeah. they have to go to a bdsm club. together. and im sure you can guess. where im going with that. theres a particular section from the club scene that has been absolutely CONSUMING ME but idk if i should share that yet jawhbdjahwdbjawbajd unless somebody asks nicely ig. but jesus christtttttttttt it makes me feel insane. this whole fic makes me feel insane. the ending makes me want to chew my hands off but we'll get there when we get there. fucking pray for me because im not seeing the gates of heaven with this one

[aeoneskova]

Perciver wip snippet!

In honour of our great success on the battlefield (ao3 is back up) I thought I'd share a sneak peak of the next Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy chapter :)

“There you are, Percy!” George exclaimed breathlessly. He then nodded at Penelope. “And Percy’s girlfriend…”

“If you say so,” Penelope mumbled.

Priya rose her hand. “I’m here too.”

“What’re you doing here, George?” Percy questioned. “Where’s Fred?”

“Trying to have a bloody shower, though he’s not having much luck. We can’t get Oliver out.”

Percy frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s gone and locked himself in the changing rooms. The shower’s been running for the last half hour and the rest of us need to get in.”

“Okay… what’s that got to do with me?”

“You’re Head Boy, aren’t you?”

Percy scoffed. “Since when do you care about that?”

“Since our Captain’s trying to drown himself, that’s when I care. You’re his roommate, you know how to deal with him, don’t you?”

“He does,” Penelope supplied unhelpfully.

“Great!” George dragged Percy up by the arm. “Come on!”

[phoenixtakaramono]

Truce Ch3 - Preview 5/?

Y’don’t know I toy, briefly, with thoughts of killing the boy, to rid that accursed bloodline from existence, Billy thought. Pictured laying Ryan’s body at the feet of his monster of a father. Homelander would be furious no doubt; he would clutch his prized only son tight against his breast and weep over his corpse. But as soon as Billy thought that, he was surprised to find that he derived no satisfaction from that image, only a cold sensation in the pit of his stomach.

That boy. Billy had looked at that honest face and felt the yawning chasm of time that separated their generation. Glimpsed Becca’s soft features beneath the adolescent traces of baby fat and his father’s near-identical likeliness. Had felt both the revulsion and the joy curl in his veins when those small arms collided against his waist. Killing the boy was not the closure that he wanted. He wanted rage. He wanted revenge. He wanted to gain the upper hand, and reduce the superhero to his truest self. He wanted to see the caped cunt on his knees, and his back—which’d always been straight and proud and imposing—bent over from grief and the helplessness of it all.

Billy wanted him to hurt.

—(snippet from Truce ch3)

[tashiduncandonaldson]

wip wednesday: untitled fic about art's injury & recovery through tashi's eyes

“Come on.  Let’s get cleaned up and get you back in bed.”

Art scowls. “I don’t want to go back to bed.  I’ve spent too much time in bed already.”

“Fine.  The couch.  How about that?”

Art’s lips purse as he thinks it over, and then he gives a short nod. “Fine.  Couch.”

As Tashi detangles herself from him, her eyes lingering on his sling again.  Her right hand unconsciously drifts down to her knee, and she presses her thumb over the neat slash.  The surgeon assured her Art’s scars would be minimal, hardly noticeable.  Her scar feels so thick and clunky, and no matter how many brands of scar cream she’s tested and applied in vain over the years, it’s never faded or flattened as much as she’s hoped it would.  But Art’s should be ok, and that’s what she reminds herself, even as she feels resentment pull tight like a coiled muscle in her gut.  Bitterness fills her mouth, and she forces herself to stop touching her knee, to stop thinking about what his scar will look like compared to hers.  What his recovery is going to be like compared to hers.  What his career is going to be like once he’s better.  She tears her eyes away from his shoulder, and when she lifts her gaze, she meets Art’s quiet, thoughtful stare.  She doesn’t know how long he’s been watching her, but based on the way his mouth sits at the precipice of a pout, she knows he’s seen enough.

Making the muscles of her mouth curve upward even as her heart sinks down to the floor, Tashi places her palm against his cheek. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He blinks, his face unreadable.

“I love you.”

He blinks again.  Turns his face into the heel of her hand and speaks, voice muffled by the soft skin of her shaving cream-scented palm. “I love you, too.”

[bleaksqueak]

Woah dang, waking up to 99+ notifs on tumblr almost always means that an old Homestuck piece is going around again... imagine my delighted surprise to see it was all notifs about Soli! That was a great thing to wake up to. Felt an actual flutter in my chest. Thank you so much, everyone! And apologies for how Elias' hair keeps subtly changing. You always kind of figure out exactly how a character looks and how to draw them as you go along with sequential art. It, funny enough, largely comes from figuring out their acting (so lots and lots of different angles and features that need to shift/change slightly to carry the weight of looking like they should feel, for lack of a better way to describe it ) At any rate, glad to see people are excited for chapter 3! next update will be next week, and will be a two page spread.

[thefloatingwriter]

💔

hi!! the most recent lines i’ve written for the beetee fic spoil too much for me to post them, but i can post a scene i wrote a little while back!!

Someone pats him on the back, interrupting his intense eye contact with his computer screen. When he looks up, it’s Anna Claire’s face he sees. She’s smiling at him, even though he can see grief for her own tributes in her eyes. “You brought one home.”

He brought one home. Attican brought one home. He unceremoniously stood up and embraced the other victor, ignoring her squeak as she’s pressed to his chest. A moment later, he feels her arm encircle him as well, and he holds her for a long moment.

When he does let go, it’s because he feels someone tap him on the shoulder. Attican is barely able to turn around before a man bulldozes into him. He doesn’t need to look at his face to see it’s Harrison and he laughed as the man crushed him in a bear hug. Paris is close behind her father, and even though she seems startled by Harrison’s behavior, she’s still smiling slightly as she folds her arms over her body.

thank you for the ask 💗

[phoenixiancrystallist]

You know, I should probably have written the Susurrus/First Tanta AU before I wrote the epilogue, but I did not. Gonna share that epilogue, though, because I enjoy what I've done and I want to share :)

Cuff murmured in his sleep, a sleep that was apparently fitful and riddled with nightmares. Frey debated waking him up, but before she could get far in that thought, he gasped a name and she felt his consciousness return with a start.

"Astra!"

"Hey," Frey said to catch his attention and help pull him out of that nightmare. "It's just us here. You good?"

"Good...? I... Was I asleep?" Cuff asked. Frey guessed she hadn't given him enough time to come back to Athia. There was a lingering feeling of panic in his voice, probably the last shreds of whatever dream he'd been having.

"You had a nightmare."

"Did I? I wasn't even aware that I could dream."

"Really? Huh. Learn something new every day." Frey considered waiting for him to finish coming out of that nightmare, but she knew if she waited too long he'd clam up and she'd never get an answer. So: "Who's Astra?"

"I, I don't... I don't know. I don't remember. She was... important to me, once. My whole world, it... revolved around her, I think." He hissed, a pain in his voice that Frey couldn't figure out. There wasn't anything around to hurt him. "Ah, what is this emptiness...?"

Oh. That kind of pain. Was Cuff in love once? Man, that must have been a long time ago, if he'd forgotten who she was. And, somehow, just knowing he had loved someone made Frey regret asking. Like she'd pried into something private she had no business sticking her nose in.

"Never mind," Cuff said before Frey could figure out if she wanted to say anything. He sounded back to his usual sharp attitude, and made a sound like he was clearing a throat he didn't even have. "How close are we to Rheddah?"

"See for yourself," Frey offered, her eyes fixed on the horizon where she could see the leading edge of land. It looked nothing like the Visorian coast they'd set out from. Nothing like Praenost, Avoalet, or Junoon, either. Athia was bordered by jagged and rocky cliffs, and beaches of black sand that Cuff said were the result of the land Breaking.

Rheddah looked a thousand times worse. Even from here, miles from shore, Frey could see Break glowing against the setting sun. Black, twisted strands and spires rose into the air, clawed at the sky and shredded the clouds passing overhead to ribbons.

She counted at least three structures that looked horribly like the Tree of Offering.

"Are those what I think they are?" Cuff asked, something caught between awe and horror in his voice.

"I really, really hope not," Frey admitted. "I don't think I can handle three more of you."

"There's only one me, Frey," Cuff scoffed. But he hesitated, and his next words wavered with doubt. "I think."

[ghosts-and-blue-sweaters]

Wilbur opens his eyes. He knows that knock; quiet, light, taps more than anything. It’s Phil. Tommy always pounds his bloody fist against the wood, and Technoblade uses the doorbell. Phil knocks softly, like he’s afraid the door will collapse if he uses an ounce more of force. It’s Phil at the door.

~~~

Wilbur breathes a whistlely sigh. The dirt floor falls away, and the dancing light of the torch leaves his eyelids, and his feet are touching nothing but air. For the first time, he begins to reckon with the idea—the knowledge, the fact—that his eyes may never open again. He feels weightless. He doesn’t feel free, because he’s not dead, and that makes him desperately sad.

~~~

Wilbur laughs again. “You’re funny sometimes, y’know.”

Ghostbur’s face lights up. “Really?”

~~~

Techno swallows. His eyes trail over Ghostbur, catching on every single pulsing wound that won’t heal. He doesn’t say anything.

~~~

Every couple steps, one of them stumbles, but the other holds on and makes sure they don’t fall, so none of them fall. It’s really hard to think; with every step on the broken ground, thoughts of Dream fall away, until all that’s left is Tommy, and Ghostbur, and walking, and trying not to fall, and breathing.

“We’re almost there,” Tommy whispers, not looking up. “Please, please, we’re almost there.”

~~~

“I really like yogurt,” Ghostbur whispers. His eyes brighten even more, and he turns back to Wilbur with an expression so utterly touched that it makes Wilbur’s brow furrow. “Thank you for getting me this.”

“No problem,” Wilbur answers uncertainly. He clears his throat. “Next time, um, next time we go to a store we’ll have to get some yogurt. For uh, for you.”

Ghostbur gasps a second time. “Really?”

“Yeah?” Wilbur narrows his eyes. “Why not? It’s what you like, right?”

Ghostbur nods, staring down at his little yogurt container with eyes so wide it’s almost comical.

~~~

Snow crumbles as Techno rises to a stand. He becomes a silhouette against the snow-bright sky. “This… this isn’t going to affect our friendship, is it? You’re not gonna hold a grudge because of this?”

~~~

“Why are you in here? With me? You don’t have to be. You can go, if you want.” Wilbur nods his head towards her. “I know that chair must suck.”

“I don’t mind it.” Niki’s voice sounds genuine, but her continued restless shifting gives her away. “And I’m in here because I want to be.”

“Why?”

Her voice gets softer. “So you won’t be lonely.”

Wilbur’s jaw tightens. He looks away. “I don’t care.”

“Yes you do. You’re scared to be alone.”

~~~

“I don’t want an apple.” Tommy sighs again. “I want you to stop being weird.”

“Weird people make the world go round.”

Tommy wrinkles his nose. “No they don’t. Rich billionaires do.”

Ghostbur stares at him. “Try the apple.”

“I’m gonna be one someday, y’know.”

“An apple?”

“No. A billionaire. Then I’ll make the world go round, and I’ll flaunt my money like nobody’s business. All the girls will love me.”

Ghostbur offers his hand forward. “Try the apple.”

~~~

“With pickles?”

“Yes.”

“And mustard?”

“Yes, my love.”

Sally’s eyes widen. “And extra cheese?”

Wilbur smiles, just a touch exasperated, but mainly endeared. “Of course. I know how you like your burgers. What sort of married man would I be if I didn’t?”

~~~

Wilbur curls up, pressing that arm close to his chest. “Tommy? I don’t wanna forget how to love you. I don’t wanna love you not-right. That’d make me feel awful.” Quieter, he adds, “Mum feels awful when she realizes she forgot. That’s why she’s crying now, I think. She didn’t mean to not love me right. She didn’t mean to.”

~~~

“Every Jedi except me.” Ranboo closes his eyes, silently praying that no one other than Tommy is listening to this conversation. He should have faith, he knows, but he doesn’t think he has any. And that feels wrong.

[lost-technology]

That's a nice sentiment, but it doesn't work for me. I'm a pantster writer and I work out my ideas for new chapters and my one-shot fanfics in my head when doing other things - very often... at work! I'm doing my tedious job and I'm thinking while I'm doing it and my mind goes over fanfic-stuff and I sometimes get ideas for working with an WIP I hadn't thought of when I started out. So, yeah, I actually need to go through the obnoxious stuff of life in order to do fanfiction!

wishing I could freeze time so fanfic writers could write all of their slow-burn enemies to lovers and gay porn and fix-it fics and all of their WIPs and prompts without having to worry about life and other responsibilities

[megarywrites]

snippets from November: 4/30

The Silent Shore — Part II: Split - Ch14 "In Broad Daylight"

Solera’s shadow glided through the colorful gloom, drawing my thoughts back to the present. I sat up, propping my elbows up on one of the stairs below me, as she slouched onto the step by my knees, kicking her feet up against the wall, the skirt of her kapta pooling across my lap. She leaned her head back against the wall behind her, sighing heavily as her eyes slipped closed.  The radiant yet hazy hues embraced her silhouette, shining in her curls, gleaming across her the slope of her nose, the curve of her cheek, the soft ridges of her lips. She really was quite pretty… She lifted her head and I looked quickly away. Down at my hands as I began to pick at one of my nails.  “Do you want me to move?” she asked.  I didn’t look up at her, lest she somehow became able to read my thoughts. “No, I don’t mind,” I said, clearing my throat.