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Dirty Work 31
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.
Characters: Loki
Note: it's the weekend but I got schoolwork so I leave you with this.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
Your sleep is shallow and sparse. You surrender to consciousness as the sky dulls to dim blue. You watch the slow advance of dawn through the slit between the curtain, languishing in the even rhythm of Mr. Laufeyson’s breath. His warmth clouds beneath the covers and makes you sweat, even as you sidle to the edge of the bed.
It isn’t just the blankets that make you swelter. Shame nips at your cheeks and ears as you try to forget the scene in the library. Yet, you know it will likely play out again when you make another mistake.
As the morning hue pales to yellow, you dare to sit up. The covers fall away and you peek back at Mr. Laufeyson. He sleeps soundly, content and calm. If only he could be so placid when awake.
You stand cautiously, certain not to jostle the bed. Waking him would be another sin to tally. You tiptoe around the foot of the bed and flit into the bathroom. You close the door gently, the clasp clicking a bit too loudly in the early lull.
You stop before the mirror but don’t look at yourself. You can’t. You shimmy out of the silky nightgown and fold it on the counter. You shiver and pad across the cold tiles to the shower. You step inside and close the glass door. You can’t wash away what happened but you can start again and do better.
You crank on the shower head and nearly squeal as it pours out cold water. Just as quickly, it turns scalding and you press yourself to the wall of the booth, just outside the umbrella of the deluge. You adjust the faucet and test the temperature with your fingertips. You sigh and step under the flow once more.
You close your eyes and tilt your head back, letting the warmth slake over you. Chills spiral over your skin as water trickles from the swell of your chest. You’re caught in the still moment. You breathe, in, out, deep, slow.
The steam plumes around you, enshrining you in a misty cocoon. Then, all once, the peace breaks and you wince as the glass door opens. The heat puffs out as frigid air washes in and raises bumps on your skin.
Mr. Laufeyson enters without a word, frightening you. He shuts the door, closing you in with him as he steps behind you. You cower and hug yourself as he reaches to adjust the shower head so it sprays past you. He groans and pulls his arms back to stretch by his head. He looms over your withering form.
He touches your shoulder, startling you again. What is he doing? Is this real or a distorted dream you can’t escape? You’re so tired that everything blurs at the edges.
He grips you tighter and turns you to face him. He doesn’t say a word as he bows, bringing his hand to your chin to angle your head back. He presses his lips to yours and hums, his other arm hooking around to bring you flush to him. He kisses you, a man determined, as his hand trails down your back, groping your bottom until you whine.
The peace fractures completely. Your skin buzzes and your insides writhe. His thumb stretches to caress your chin as he consumes you. His nakedness mingles with your own and twitching prod tickles your skin.
He parts and frames your face with his long fingers. Sleep still weighs down his lashes and pales his complexion. He flutters his fingers down your neck and draws both hands to your shoulders. He follows the lines of your arms and guides your hands to his chest. He holds them, pressing so you can feel the taut muscle.
You're alright with more than the water’s temperature. The firmness, the tension in him plucks inside of you. He terrifies you yet enthralls you. The power he has over you is both suffocating and seductive.
He moves your hands down to his stomach. You feel his muscles clench as you do and he lets out a shuddery breath. You stare at his throat, too shy to watch the descent of your touch. He groans as he trails your hands closer together. He closes them around his rigid length and growls.
“Pet,” he rasps as his throat constricts, “I woke and you were gone.”
You swallow, your tongue sticks before you can muster your voice, “Mr. Laufeyson, I’m sor…”
He hushes you and lets you go. You don’t rescind your touch, you don’t dare. He purrs again and grabs your head with both hands, drawing you into another hungry kiss. He devours you until you're breathless and your grip tightens around him. He gasps and nibbles your lower lip.
“Ahhhh,” he sighs and reaches to pull your hands away from him, “no, no…”
He grips your shoulder again, nudging you to face the shower head once more. You quiver as let his hands fall and trace the curves of your sides and hips. He braces you and pulls you against him. He bows his head, looming over you, encircling you with an arm. He dips his nose down to nuzzle your neck.
“It is a new day,” he snarls between nips, “yes?”
“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you tremble even more as his arousal presses to your back.
“Mmm,” he drags his nose up and down the crook of your neck, biting down suddenly so you gasp.
The arm hooked around you bends and he brings his hand to fondle your chest. His other ventures down your pelvis as he wiggles his own, reminding you of his need. He slips his foot between both of yours and inches them apart. He feels along your folds and delves between them, pushing down on that most tender spot.
You squeak as he rolls your clit. You grasp his hip to steady yourself, extending your other arm to the wall. He tweaks and gropes your chest, your nipples budding beneath the downpour. He pulls you back as his fingers work at your cunt, teasing you until you’re slick.
His teeth pinch down on the muscle along your shoulder. Pressure builds as he tortures your flesh with his mouth, sucking until you can’t bear it. He unlatches from you and stands straight, hooking his arm around your neck to pull your head back.
You reach to his wrist, clasping on as your other hand latches tightly to his hip. He rocks slightly against you as his fingers coil your nerves around him. He swirls and flicks around your clit, embers sparking to a flame.
You babble as your head lolls back and your lips part. Your heart beats furiously as you feel the peak building inside of you. His hand crawls further and he feels along your entrance. You twitch and he bends his arm tighter around your neck. He pokes along your cunt, slowly easing a finger into you.
You moan at the sensation of his intrusion. Fiery and fraught as he sinks past his knuckle and to the next. He slides in and out of you, wiggling and curling his finger to test your limits. He slips out complete and presses two fingers to your entrance.
You gasp as he urges both into you. You arch your back and dig your nails into his forearm. There’s pain this time. A sear that stretches you as you teeter on your toes. He’s the only thing keeping you on your feet.
He pushes the heel of his hand to your clit and rocks his hand. The cluster of pressure of sensations knot together and tangle your muscles. You heave, fighting to catch your breath as he plays with you so expertly. You lean your head back and close your eyes. He presses his lips to your temple as his hand carries its motion.
“Oh, pet, you see how nice I can be? Hm? If you’re good for me,” he rams his fingers deeper, squeezing on your bud as your thighs quake.
He moves so his dick is firm against your ass, gliding along your lower back as he rolls his hips. He tilts his hand faster and faster, your breath shaky as pathetic mewls flutter through your lips. You can’t take much more.
“That’s it, pet, you’re so close,” he sneers behind your ear, “remember you must obey…” he nearly shakes you with the violent motion of his hand, “cum for me, pet.”
All at once, you unravel. You cry out as the swell within you bursts and spills into his hand. You shake as you succumb to the violent tides gushing around you. He coils you tighter, his bicep bulging against your neck as he straightens. He bucks against your back and groans as the friction turns erratic.
He grunts and a new warmth pools along your lower back. He spasms as he spurts onto your flesh, quaking as he slows and turns you with him as he staggers to lean against the shower wall. His arm falls from around your neck, instead locking across your chest as he keeps you flush to him. He huffs out as you lean into him, clinging to his arm.
“Pet,” he rasps, “you do make as many messes as you tidy.”
✨
It’s Wednesday. It’s supposed to be your day off, but given the nonentity of Monday, you’re not sure you can still claim that time. You’re too afraid to ask, paranoid that it would come across as lazy. Or worse, neglectful.
Mr. Laufeyson hasn’t said much since the shower. He left you in there and dressed before you emerged. Stunned, you hardly remember picking out the light-blue skirt and blouse in a dark shade of the hue.
Without guidance or permission, you go to the library to tend to the list. Even if it is meant to be your day, you won’t be able to relax so long as there are tasks undone. You peek over at the door to the study, firmly shut, and refocus on the glowing screen.
Your phone, not the touch screen, the flip, chirps. You silence it and check the missed calls. It’s getting worse. The electric, the landlord, and Leslie. You have dozens of unanswered calls. You don’t know what to do. You know you can’t abandon your dad but you feel paralysed to do anything about him.
You shut the phone and hide it away in your bag, sliding it under the desk. Out of sight, out of mind. You rub your eyes and bring your hands to cradle your chin. You stare at the screen, unable to decipher the bullet points as your eyes gloss.
The noise of the door pulling back on its hinges jars you. You sit up abruptly and bat away the haze. You look at Mr. Laufeyson as he fills the door frame.
“Tea.”
Just a single word before he retreats. You furrow your brow and brace the desk, pushing yourself to your feet. You stand and mechanically set off on the task. You need the simple duty to keep you from thinking too much.
In the kitchen, you pace as you wait for the kettle. You fill the pot and arrange a tray. With thee breakfast tea steeped and everything in place, you balance it all and set about the treacherous climb back to the second floor.
You enter through the library, clearing your throat as you pass into the study. Mr. Laufeyson polishes what appears to be a telescope with a cloth as you set down the tray. You step back, folding your hands as you expect your next order.
“I should like it from a cup,” he peeks up pointedly.
You pour a cup and place the pot back down.
“Milk?” You offer.
He shakes his head and his eyes recenter on the telescope. You watch him wipe the edges with the cloth, his finger making a point in the fabric as he traces the finger ridges. You’re hypnotised by his intense attention.
You assume it’s part of his work. From what you know, he collects old things. Maybe sells them too?
“Well,” he stops his work and lowers the telescope, “was there something else?”
“No, Mr. Laufeyson, sorry, I…” you drop your arms straight and push your shoulders back.
You turn on your heel and march to the door. As you reach it, uncertain if you should close it, a chime interrupts that menial concern. You spin and look at Mr. Laufeyson as he arches a brow.
“I’m not expecting visitors,” he states, “I didn’t think the carpenter scheduled.”
“No, it can’t be Ronan,” you murmur thoughtfully.
He sighs, “well, go see who it is.”
“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”
You scurry out as your skin speckles with embarrassment. You’re so confused. You can’t get the scene in the shower out of your head but he’s acting like none of it happened. Even as if the night before is just a figment of your own naughty fantasies. You’re starting to think it might be.
You stop at the front door to step into your flats and pad out into the daylight. It’s bright but the sun is crested with pillowy clouds. You can feel a rainstorm brewing in the air. You shade your eyes as you squint across at the gate. You can’t see much beyond it.
You follow the curve of the drive to the control box and peek out through the bars of the gate. You don’t recognise the large SUV on the other side. You push the button to talk through the speaker box.
“Hello?” You utter dumbly into the box.
“Ah, little maid, I’ve come to see my brother,” Thor’s voice booms like thunder, echoing as you hear him both through the speaker and through the gate.
“Erm…” you babble before letting the button go. What do you do?
You turn to look up at the house. You don’t have your phone. You’ll have to run back in and ask. You flee, scrambling back to the door and racing inside without shedding your shoes. Your soles clap up the stairs and you rush into the library, stopping yourself at the threshold of the study. You’re out of breath.
A loud, long honk comes from outside. You gulp as Mr. Laufeyson scowls. His mouth clamps in a tight line.
“Mr. Laufeyson, it’s your brother,” you heave.
He visibly cringes and his eyes flit away in thought. His cheek twitches and he slowly puts down his cup. He stands and rolls his shoulders. He shakes his head as he nears you.
“Stay in the library,” he points you out of the study, “and do not come out until I bid you.”
“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson,” you recite.
“Not even to use the bathroom, you understand?”
A chill ripples over you at his foreboding tone. Once more, you acquiesce. He’s already closing the study door, shutting you in. You go to secure the other one and back up, staring at it as you hear him stomping down the hallway.
As thankful as you are not to encounter Thor again, you can’t help but be unsettled. Why should Mr. Laufeyson be so concerned about his own brother’s presence? Why would he ever need to lock you up away from his own family?
#loki#dark loki#dark!loki#loki x reader#fic#dark fic#dark!fic#series#dirty work#au#maid au#marvel#mcu#avengers#thor
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have some snack-sized 1941 angst, i have way too many of those just. sitting in my wip folders
—
"It's not—listen, I don't—"
"Angel," Crowley interrupts him, far more gently than he thought himself capable of. "I know."
Some of the tension bleeds from Aziraphale's body, and his fingers still, unclenching and leaving behind pale half-moon scars on the outside of his wrist. His cheeks are flushed with a bottle of wine and the taste of it on Crowley's tongue, and when he inhales to calm his own trembling hands, he is hit with a wave of unconcealed desire. For a second, it is impossible to tell where Aziraphale's ends and his begins—not that it matters anymore, not with three feet of space and the weight of God's gaze separating them.
"I know," he repeats, trying to forget the caress of tear-stained lips on his throat, the press of warm hands on his face, his ribs, sliding down and down, and—
He pulls his shades out of wherever he had banished them and slides them back into place, gritting his teeth at the disappointment settling on Aziraphale's face. Dawn is an hour away, and the pleasant chill of angel-blue eyes meeting the hidden gold of his makes him consider staying until the sky turns grey; yearning for another taste of something is so much more dangerous than the temptation of the unknown. Crowley knows that if he does not leave now, he probably never will.
"See you soon?"
Aziraphale smiles, fragile, hopeful, scared. The brittle glass inside his chest holding back centuries of desperate longing is beginning to crack, forming the tiniest fracture, and Crowley allows the next sentence to slip through; just this once, he lets himself be honest.
"Couldn't live without you, angel."
Within one inhale and the next, he is gone, and Aziraphale watches the door unblinking until the sun washes away Crowley's shadow.
#alex writes good omens#good omens#crowley#aziraphale#good omens season 2#go2#aziracrow#crowley x aziraphale#ineffable husbands#ineffable wives#ineffable spouses#good omens ficlet#good omens 1941
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Hidden Gems 6: A Shadowgast Rec List
This week, we have the 6th hidden gems grab bag! Check out under the cut for 9 fics that have less than 150 kudos and cover a wide range of genres, and don't forget to kudos and comment if you like them!
Perfection by Defira (330, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes
Through the luxon, drow spend lifetimes reaching for perfection. Essek has already found it.
Reccer says: I liked it!
Burn to Gold and Crumble Away by The_Hybrid (1526, General) Reccer's Content Notes: Major Character Death
It's a funeral fic for the m9 set in the future.
Reccer says: It's sweet.
How to Rest by eeveev (14420, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes
After Aeor, after making their feelings clear, Caleb is in Rexxentrum and Essek is on the run. Still, they find ways to be together. or Six months in the lives of wizards falling in love.
Reccer says: Cute!
Dawn by Allinna (2950, General) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes
a really short and sweet dive into essek's canon story arc, themed around the sun
Reccer says: the sun is caleb!!! the darkness and light imagery!!
Love in Creation by LuckyOwlsFoot (1662, General) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes
Essek works on a project for Jester's wedding
Reccer says: A sweet and tender moment, some fun worldbuilding, and that feeling that if you start something even before there's any hint of a need of it, you might finish in time felt so real.
we'll be gone just like the gentle breeze of yesterday by quinn_of_aebradore (3351, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes
Essek Thelyss is many things: a master of dunamancy, a scholar of the arcane renowned across Exandria, and rather skilled when it comes to the theft of magical artifacts. The third, unfortunately, puts him in the path of Caleb Widogast, another talented thief. When social circumstance pushes them to complete their latest heist together, Essek finds his carefully maintained house of cards beginning to crumple and his orbit drawn ever closer to Caleb's.
Reccer says: It's a delicious crime/thief AU that hits all of the right notes - rivals, having to pretend closeness, secrets and mystery
Cascade Effect by firefright (6867, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: Omegaverse
Essek follows the Nein into Aeor, where the already daunting task of saving the world is further complicated by yet another twist in his and Caleb's fractured relationship.
Reccer says: A wip continuation of an already wonderful a/b/o series
come back to me (i've been waiting patiently) by glossolali (1286, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: disassociation, ptsd
Memory overtakes Caleb, but Essek is at his side.
Reccer says: Soft and cozy and tender
Whiskey Waltz by echoplexx (1742, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes
During an evening of merriment with the Mighty Nein, Caleb convinces Essek to dance. Post-main campaign, pre M9 reunited.
Reccer says: A sweet and lovely moment between the two of them
Aeor is for Lovers is an 18+ Shadowgast Discord server. The above fanfic recommendations were pulled from our community for this weekly event. All fics, unless otherwise specified, will primarily feature Shadowgast. Have any questions about what this is? Check out the FAQ! Next week, we’ll be back with fake relationships!
#shadowgast#caleb widogast#essek thelyss#critical role#cr fic recs#fan fiction rec list#aeor is for lovers#critical role fan fiction#cr fics#cr fic#hidden gems
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Masterlist
All of my stories explore mature themes and are intended for audiences 18 and older. While I’m not responsible for what you choose to read, I kindly ask that minors refrain from interacting with me.
Thank you to all who show interest and support in my stories. I hope you enjoy the journey with me as my stories continue to grow and develop.
THE COLOR OF YOU (WIP)
༊*·˚ Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader
Summary: Falling in love is never easy, but what if your heart pulls you towards the two people you should never fall for? For years, you've admired Natasha from afar, your best friend Yelena's captivating older sister. Complicated? Absolutely, especially since the innocent admiration slowly turns into a full-blown crush. But it gets even messier because Natasha is married to Wanda, the kindest, most gentle-hearted person you've ever met. As you grapple with the fear and confusion of your forbidden feelings, you find yourself drawn to Wanda as well, her warmth and kindness like a soothing balm to your fragile heart. Caught between the intense pull of your feelings for Natasha and Wanda and the fear of your best friend Yelena discovering the truth, you find yourself in a storm of conflicting desires that could shatter everything you hold dear.
Dive into a story of forbidden love, heart-wrenching choices, and the painful beauty of how love can be both the sweetest joy and the most painful challenge.
Warning(s): mentions of past traumas, slow burn.
Featuring: bdsm dynamics, smut, legal age gap relationship, alternative universe (no powers), reader insert.
➺ The Color Of You
➺ Stuie
LOVE IS THE WARMEST COLOR (WIP)
༊*·˚ Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader
Summary: Let's explore Natasha and Wanda's journey, where love and desires shakes the very foundation of their marriage. Dive into their struggles as they grapple with the reality that the heart wants what it wants, no matter how challenging it may be.
Warning(s): A side story of 'The Color of You' from Natasha and Wanda's point of view.
Featuring: bdsm dynamics, smut, legal age gap relationship, alternative universe (no powers), reader insert.
➺ Love Is The Warmest Color
➺ Stuie
BE MY REDEMPTION (WIP)
༊*·˚ Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader
Summary: Everything you had worked so hard for came true when you were recruited to the department dedicated to capturing the notorious serial killer haunting the country for over a decade. Eager and hopeful, you saw yourself solving the mystery and bringing the cold-blooded killer to justice. However, what you never foresaw was becoming the obsession of the red-headed killer. As the line blurs between holding onto your principles and succumbing to the allure of her dangerous fixation, the question remains: will you uphold your beliefs or risk being consumed by the allure of everything she is?
Warning(s): Dark themes, violence, blood.
Featuring: future smut, age gap relationship, reader insert.
➺ Be My Redemption
➺ Stuie
LOVE ME AGAIN, ONE LAST TIME (WIP)
༊*·˚ Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader, Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff
Summary: Occasionally, Wanda could endure days without craving the sound of your voice and the scent of your skin. Yet, two or three nights a week, she allowed herself to indulge in the illusion. It was all she possessed of you, a fractured psyche's futile attempt to resurrect what was lost. However, with each dawn, reality rudely intruded, casting her directionless in a world that felt irreparably broken, a world where breathing was a tiring task, and where loss was her only constant companion.
Warning(s): A story that dives into grief and the pain that comes with losing someone you love. But also the road to recovery and finding love again.
Featuring: grief, romance, friendship, healing, hurt/comfort, reader insert.
➺ Love Me Again, One Last Time
➺ Stuie
A Dangerous Game
༊*·˚ Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader
Summary: Finding out you were the secret daughter of one of America’s richest men was like winning the lottery—if the jackpot came with a catch: everyone who knew absolutely hated you for it. Tony Stark, in all his billionaire, genius, playboy glory, decided to take you under his wing the only way he knew how—Stark-style. Cue the sarcastic quips, awkward side-hugs, and job "opportunities" that always came with a few strings attached. Working as his receptionist? Pfft, sounded like a breeze, right? Wrong.
Nothing could’ve prepared you for the chaos that came with the title. Or, more specifically, for who came with it—Wanda Maximoff. A total powerhouse with a face that could stop traffic, and someone who, for some reason, had it out for Tony... and possibly you too. And now, you might just find yourself caught in the middle of whatever explosive game they’re playing.
Warning(s): Sexual themes.
Featuring: smut, age gap relationship, reader insert.
➺ A Dangerous Game
➺ Stuie
#wandanat#wandanat x reader#ao3#natasha romanoff x wanda maximoff#wanda maximoff x reader#natasha romanoff x reader#fanfiction#ao3 fanfic#masterlist#wanda maximoff x female reader#natasha romanoff x female#lesbian fanfiction#poly fic
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WIP Wednesday
Here's another sneak peek at the latest chapter I'm working on for my Klaroline mafia story, An Offer He Can't Refuse:
Sandwiched between Kat and Bonnie was a man so beaten down he was little more than a meaty lump. Caroline strolled in behind them, heels clacking on the ceramic tile. With a careless flick of her wrist, she coldly ordered, “Drop him there.”
With stone-faced indifference, the women dumped the groaning man onto a raised exam chair, backing away with a nod in Klaus’ direction. It was his first unobstructed look at the man, and he noted with growing dread that it wasn’t a ruddy complexion the man possessed — he’d been partially flayed. From the disturbing array of confounding angles, Klaus suspected a multitude of comminuted fractures — not to mention internal hemorrhaging.
Clearly observing the dawning horror on Klaus’ face, Caroline wordlessly took his arm and led him into his adjacent office. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, she commanded, “Whatever you’re dying to say — do it in here. Not out there.”
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Ooo please tell me about Pumping Ass part 2.
I'm invested.
[WIP ASKS]
The stars aligned when he received an email at noon a couple days later, telling him not to come to shift today, that someone had backed their truck directly into the front entrance (gods, what he would pay to have been there to see that clusterfuck) and they were replacing the sliding doors that should’ve been replaced years ago. Normally he’d spend his break arguing online over stock prices with people whose opinions don’t matter, but the moderators of his latest circle had banned him (over threats of violence—what was he about to do, strangle someone over the screen?) and he was still fuming too hard to find a new one.
So when he slipped out of his pants and saw a white card fluttering onto the ground, he picked it up. The cardstock was wrinkled and soft from how he’d shoved it in his pocket, but Lambert’s name and address were still visible. Driving distance. Walking distance, if he was willing to suffer an hour in public in exchange for saving gas.
Which is how Narinder found himself slouched in front of a tacky McMansion in broad daylight, judging the topiary.
Seriously, how were they not embarrassed to put these things in public? He could flash himself and retain more modesty than what these trimmed bushes were doing to their property. And then there was that eyesore set of marble columns, scrunched halfway into the wall next to windows that looked to be drawn on blindfolded. Then there were the four garage doors on the side; if Lambert admitted to him that they were housing a small army for war in their garage, he’d believe it over the cars.
A towering black bull in a suit answered the door when he rang. He took one look at Narinder, then began to close the door.
“Wait!” Narinder shoved his foot inside. “I have an appointment with Lambert.”
“We do not accept solicitors nor beggars.” Already he could hear a tinge of irritation in the bull’s voice.
Rude. He’d actually dressed nice for this: black pants and a blazer that had been in the laundromat instead of on the floor, and an undershirt that wasn’t stained with anything. “I’m not, Lambert said I was welcome. Here, I have their…” He reached for the card, but realized that handing someone a crumpled piece of paper wasn’t exactly solid evidence. “Just. Just let them know I’m here, they know who I am.”
“You can contact them through the proper channels then.”
It was getting difficult to keep the door open with how hard the bull was pushing it closed. Narinder was about to step back before his foot got smashed before another voice joined in from the back.
“Thoryn! Let him in pal, I told him he could come here whenever he likes.”
Narinder stumbled a bit as the bull, Thoryn, swung the door inwards. Standing at the foot of a grand staircase was Lambert, clad in fuzzy white pajamas and slippers. They smiled upon seeing him. “Great timing, you caught me on one of my days off. I don’t have anything planned until evening.”
“Sir—he—” Thoryn looked between them, before understanding quickly dawned on his expression. “Understood. I’ll leave you to it, sir.” With that, the bull walked away with far more speed than necessary, hooves clicking against the tiled floor.
Narinder watched him disappear off into a corner. “He doesn’t think I’m a hooker, does he.”
“Hopefully not, but the circumstances fit—”
“I’m not a hooker.” Narinder spat, hands shoved tight into his pockets.
-
"Bastard broke all of his bones falling. You know what they say about the impact on the water, from high up. Nobody can bounce back from that."
"But you're still here," Lambert said. A hand gripped Narinder's wrist, solid and real. "Maybe the myth was wrong. Maybe Icarus drowned, but in the middle of the pain all his ribs fracturing he realized that one of his arms wasn't broken, and he dragged himself to shore."
Narinder sat up, blankets falling off his figure. It was too dark to make out more than shadows, but he traced silhouette of Lambert in greyscale, the rise and fall of their chest. It all felt like a surreal dream, a hell he'd wake up from and be back in his mansion with his wife and kids. "Life should've pummeled that kind of blind optimism out of you decades ago."
"It's helped, though." Lambert was looking at him as well. His eyes adjusted to the darkness just enough to catch their smile. "Wouldn't be where I am without it."
Maybe he didn't want this dream to end.
yeah it's just a potential continuation of Tropical Sunset (aka gas station au). can you tell i browsed McMansion Hell posts before i wrote this haha. need to absorb angry architect power.
i'm actually kind of excited to write it because there's a scene i have planned that just. gets really dark and serious all of a sudden that i have planned and i wanna tackle something that i don't particularly see people portraying. gas station au is my silly little test au and i'm taking it for a roller coaster ride.
#cw suggestive#failed elon musk narinder has a special place in my heart ok#it's so DUMB but that's why it's so fun#insane about icarus metaphors#i'm so attracted to characters who've had some kind of fall from grace it's unreal#couldn't find a good place to end the snippet so you're getting a full ass worddump#my asks
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Ye local infodump pinned post. hi
so anyway
i am your local idiot that is hopelessly addicted to a chunk of select fandoms and constantly makes stupid amounts of AU's on them because, you see, i can
!!!! i try my best, but i forget shit a lot so this blog may contain reblogs with untagged blood/gore/body horror/etc typical to fandoms i'm in (ultrakill, murder drones, project moon for example). it's absolutely not in irl form, but. yknow. still.
they're not a daily occurrence kind of thing but they're there. delve at your own risk
(this hellhole is large and i don't think i can find every untagged post i have ever on my own so like. if you do stumble upon anything i forgotted to tag please let me know in dms or askbox or hell even in a reblog or something, i'll locate and tag it)
anyway yeah uhhhhhhhhhhhh basic human being (totally not an iterator or FallenAngel with internet access) that draws and has a tendency to randomly disappear for amounts of time approximately close to 6000 years.
generally i use she/her to refer to myself but i'm fine with anything
the art i do is mostly the physical kind (y'know, the average pen + paper combo), but i can and will do digital too occasionally
i will mostly post about my massive mass of au's and original worlds that also happen to be i guess interconnected if that's the correct term because i like it when more lore. the whole thing unified is just called Lesoverse for now because i have the naming skills of someone that lacks naming skills
here's a WIP googledoc that explains a bunch of Lesoverse terms, mechanics and stuff.
Also, i may occasionally roleplay as some of my OCs in broad daylight for no particular reason. When making posts or reblogging something as them, i'll use a tag for the respective OC i'm roleplaying as.
Current List:
1. No Particular Reason (Rain World) - Iterator sona. tag - #partiposting
2. The SOLUTION Collective (Sekaiju: a World of Creatures) - Lost Ocean collective OC. tag - #solutionposting on main (no posts as of yet)
3. unidentified FallenAngel with internet access (Sekaiju: a World of Creatures) - ..pretty self-explanatory i guess, FallenAngel OC. No tag as of yet. (no posts as of yet)
4. unidentified entity that Speaks Somewhat Like Othala Does. No tag as of yet. probably won't have a tag it's funnier that way. but if i reply to something while Typing Like This The Entire Time and it sounds awfully like i'm doing roleplay i probably am
oh and general roleplay tag is #the rp sure is commencing
i probably will use it really scarcely but its a thing
Other Blogs:
-Reblog Sideblog (mostly dead)
-Ask The C262 Trio Anything
-Ask Tablet And Z Anything
current main hyperfixation: sekaiju and limbus company
current secondary hyperfixations: Rain World, Phighting, Murder Drones, Steven Universe, fallen london/sunless sea/sunless skies, Cavern Crusher, my OUs
anyway here's a guide to my tags (this one will get updated on the rare occasions when i'm not deader than Pink Diamond)
______________________________________________________________
#soup jar. / #soup jar. that's it. that's all i'm willing to say = universal tag for my stuff in general i guess
#MD-Colony 262 = tag for stuff related to my silly current main murder drones AU.
#FR-Dawn Of Flight = tag for stuff related to my silly current main flight rising AU. no i don't know why i called it that either
#Sekaiju: Broken Veil = tag for my one and only silly sekaiju AU
#LV-The Antiverse = tag for things related to that specific multiverse some of my AU/OU's exist in.
#LV-The Beyond = tag for things related to that one code controller infested hellhole i made
#Fissured Together = tag for that one fandom-mash AU i own
#SU-Reality Fractures = tag for that specific anomalous hell of a Steven Universe AU i made once
#ask local soup idiot and local soup idiot shall answer = tag for my asks in general lol
#toaster drones content = ....self-explanatory. toaster drones.
#consumes your content = reblogs
#RW: Storm Fluctations AU - my abnormal as all hell rain world au
#your average pinned infodump post what else do i classify this as#soup jar. that's it. that's all i'm willing to say
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Bergamot and Beans Ch2
AstarionxTav, Coffee/Tea Shop AU - set post endgame. First meetings, falling in love, eventual smut. (And a little angst!) No warnings apply.
WIP - subscribe on Ao3 or follow for more.
Maeve tucked the bag of coin away, mentally updating her tally. It was a small dent in what she owed, but a dent nonetheless. Still shadowed in the doorway, she pulled her hood up over her head and pushed her hair back into it, hiding the red that was starting to show through where the brown sweated off.
“Well done tonight, Morrigan,” Darmund said proudly, walking up behind her and escorting her out to the steps. “You had me worried for a moment there though, Feloda got some solid hits in. You’re getting slow!”
“Forgot what it was like to have real competition I suppose!” Maeve laughed, a twinge of pain shooting through her ribs. “But I’ll get some practice in, just in case. See you next week.”
Darmund waved her off as she scurried past him into the night, eager to get home before dawn. She stopped by the docks on her way, hanging over the edge and dipping her hair in the water to scrub out the brown colour.
Still lying on the dock, Maeve let the water go still, struggling in the faint lamplight to discern if any brown still remained, and tried to ignore the shadows under her eyes. She squeezed the water out of her hair and tucked it back under her cloak as she stood up. A cold dribble of water ran down her spine, making her shiver as she slipped back into the shadows.
Walking back towards the city streets, she rolled her shoulders, her wrists, her ankles, taking stock of a new round of aches and pains. Her knuckles felt stiff and sore, especially after being in the cold water. She flexed her hands, shook them out, and ran them over her body to check for tender spots. Her ribs she left for last, and the gentle press of her fingertips into them made her wince.
“ Only a fracture, ” she thought. “ Need to guard that right side better. ” Sparring under Master Waelen would be unpleasant this week.
She turned to the staircase, ready to return home, but a noise made her pause.
A boot scuff, Maeve suspected. It was a barely-there noise that she would have missed if it wasn’t so quiet. Hugging the wall, she stepped carefully up the stairs and peered around the corner.
She waited, listening intently, but heard nothing else.
Must have been a rat.
Maeve shrugged, stepped out into the walkway, and collided with someone tall and slim.
Their hands wrapped around Maeve’s arms at the same time she caught theirs, both of them held in place by the other.
“...Maeve?” asked a familiar voice.
She looked up, her hood falling back, and she was struck by the beautiful chiaroscuro of a face half caught by lamplight. Someone had carved a look of surprise into it.
“Astarion?! What in the hells are you doing out here in the wee hours?”
“I could ask you the same question…” he mused, schooling his face back into a playful expression. “But I think it might be more pertinent to ask instead, why is your hair sopping wet?”
“Oh, ha, yeah,” she said, one hand flying instinctively to her hair and pushing it back, sending a fresh cascade of water down her neck. “Just went for an early, uh, very early, morning swim. Really wakes you up!”
Astarion didn’t look at all convinced, but Maeve was relieved when he didn’t press the matter.
“What a coincidence... Me too.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, until Astarion’s eyes flicked down to her neck, following a trail of water running from her hair into her shirt.
When his eyes left hers, it was like being released from a spell, and Maeve realised that they were both still holding onto each other. She let go, taking a half step back as his hands slid away from her, and she felt tiredness prickle behind her eyes. She clenched her jaw to suppress a yawn.
“I should be getting back home, big day ahead of me,” she lied again, not moving any further.
Astarion eyes darted to her jaw for just a second, where her bruise had been. And then his whole demeanour shifted, darkening. He placed his forearm on the stone wall above her and leant into it, tilting his head down so it was just inches from hers, eyes half-lidded.
“Why don’t you let me walk you home then?”
He practically purred it, looking every bit the tomcat playing with a mouse.
Maeve snorted.
“Admirable attempt,” she said, tapping him on the hip and grinning up at him. “Come on, then, Mr Chivalry.”
Maeve started off in the direction of home, widening her eyes and blinking hard. Once upon a time, he might’ve had her with that, but she wasn’t about to admit it - not when their little game had only just begun.
Astarion chuckled behind her and quickly fell in step, Maeve keeping him on her left side, reflexively covering her weaknesses.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet calm of the sleeping city.
Maeve glanced over at Astarion, trying to figure him out. His clothes were neatly tailored and high quality, but they were rumpled in a way that suggested his day, much like hers, was at its end rather than its beginning.
“What is it you do, Astarion?” she asked. “When you’re not pretending to enjoy tea, that is.”
“For coin or for pleasure?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“Well for coin I… procure things, magical items, luxurious trinkets and the like for the discerning noble,” he said, mimicking the affectation of the wealthy. “For pleasure… well…”
“Outside of drunken debauchery.”
“That doesn’t leave much. But I embroider, I read…”
“And what do you read?”
“Gods below, I wasn’t expecting some kind of Barovian Inquisition. Not before dawn, anyway,” he said, amused.
Maeve laughed. “Sorry. 5 years of being around expositors will do that to you.”
She looked over at him, catching a curious look on his face.
“And what is it you do Maeve? For pleasure, given I already know what you do for coin.”
“ Ha. Do you now ?” she thought, and then a hint of doubt hit her. “... Does he ?”
“I read, as well. I train. Gamble of course… read… drink like a fish… dance. Swim. And I read some more,” she said, making up a few just to see if he would pick up on it.
“But do you read?”
“Y’know,” she said, raising her hand to her chin as if deep in thought, “I’ve thought about it once or twice.”
“You should consider it. I’ve heard from a credible source that Aumar has a fantastic history of Faerun. Very accurate.”
“Does he now? How could I resist with such a glowing review? Although, I have heard…”
Astarion indulged her in the ironic banter for several more minutes, their quiet laughter bouncing back at them from silent walls, until they approached Bergamot and Beans.
Maeve gestured down the building’s adjoining alleyway.
“I thought I was walking you home?” Astarion asked, “Or do you sleep under the counter, eagerly awaiting the next potential convert?”
Maeve huffed a laugh, nodding up at the apartment above the cafe.
“I live up there, ya twit. But serving tea to people who don’t like it? That is my reason to get up in the morning.”
Astarion smiled softly, nodding gently, making no move to leave.
“Will you be round the shop later then?” she asked.
“Most likely. Gale will be needing a concerning amount of caffeine I suspect.”
“Then I’ll see you tonight.”
Astarion tipped his head in the imitation of a bow.
“Goodn–” he started, looking up the sky. “...morning, Maeve.”
He walked backwards for a few steps, holding her gaze with a suspicious smirk, before turning and walking away.
Maeve watched his retreating figure until he turned the corner, and then hurried up into her bedroom. She pulled the curtains tighter as the pre-dawn light started to filter in, and collapsed into her bed.
“ Something with ginger perhaps? ” she thought, running through her mental catalogue for his next experience. “ Maybe fruity… Or a red bush… ”
Maeve drifted off to sleep quickly, the flavours swirling in her mind.
-
Hope you've enjoyed the second chapter! Subscribe on Ao3 or follow for more.
#astarion x tav#bg3#bg3 fanfiction#astarion fanfic#ao3 fanfic#ao3 writer#ao3 author#ao3fic#astarion ancunin#fanfiction#fanfic#astarion love#baldur's gate 3#astarion#bg3 au#astarion au#coffee shop au
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WIP Title Ask Game
I was tagged by @rms-writes
Rules: reveal the titles of the documents in your wip folder and tag as many people as there are documents. Let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit!
All of these are folders rather than files 'cause all of my files are nondescript within the folders, haha.
Birthright
Bloodline
Chokehold
Daybreak
Deadhouse
Endgame
Frostbite
Ghostland
Headcase
Madtown
Mountain Dawn
NaNoWriMo 2012
Outcast
Sickday
Turncoat
I also had to open a folder 'cause most of the above are from my series. The folder is literally just 'Other Novels' haha.
16. Charybdis Rising 17. Crossing the Storm 18. Fractured Starlight 19. July Camp 2018 20. NaNoWriMo 2018 21. NaNoWriMo 2019
Ummmmm I don't know if I even know 21 writers, my gosh.
Tagging: @daisyneptune @doublegoblin @evilwriter-originals @ettawritesnstudies @erdarielthewhumper @gigglebug @inky-duchess @jealous-rage @kjscottwrites @lettersandinkstains @mariahwritesstuff @notalazysod @pens-swords-stuff @perringwrites @rexxles @sleepyowlwrites @skalidra @talesofsorrowandofruin @theboarsbride @zmwrites @abalonetea
Holy shit I do.
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Ao3 First Lines
Rules: Post the first lines of your last 10 fics posted to AO3 (Sort by date posted). If you have less than 10 fics posted, post what you have!
Tagged by the wonderful @magniloquent-raven approximately one hundred years ago. Thanks for thinking of me, bb!
1. Witchcraft does not reward shitty intentions I (finally) finished this bad boy in February, only two full years after I posted it! LOL.
Steve handed him his movies and opened his mouth like he was going to say something. Then he closed it again.
"Spit it out, Bambi," Billy said. Steve stared at him for a minute, glancing around to make sure Billy was the only customer at Family Video.
"I just wanted you to know that it's not your fault," he finally said tentatively. Billy thought about all the things Steve could be referring to and decided he needed more specifics.
"What are you talking about?"
"The...thing. The attraction thing." Steve gestured between them. "It's not your fault."
2. The best-laid plans I wrote this one because I love the idea of Steve Harrington: Actual Disney Prince. Of course everyone wants to kiss him, and of course that ruins Vecna’s plans. Twice.
Henry Creel was in a good mood.
Sure, he was still hideously deformed and trapped in this barren hell dimension—thanks to one very ungrateful little girl—but things were looking up. The weird hive mind that had inhabited this world before Henry arrived had found a way through the gate into Hawkins proper, and Henry could observe and affect events through his link to the creature. He was feeling optimistic.
Things had not gone according to plan the first time he had tried this, and they hadn’t exactly worked out the time after that either. This time, though, Henry had a good feeling. He had made some changes, and he felt like they were going to pan out.
3. All the Christmases Yet to Come My holiday exchange fic! This one was very fun to write, even if it is a little angstier than my usual fare.
It dawned like any other December day in Hawkins, bitterly cold and gray, with clouds piling up ominously on the horizon. Fresh snow from an overnight storm sat untouched on lawns and sidewalks and roads. Frost glittered on windowpanes and the brave few who were out and about this early sent plumes of warm breath into the frigid air. Hawkins came slowly and gradually to life as the sun crept up past the horizon, people going about their business as though it was a perfectly normal Friday.
Billy Hargrove woke up in a foul mood, as usual. Thin, gray light filtered through his curtained window, and he found himself missing the sun almost as much as he missed the distant susurration of waves meeting the shore. Hawkins had always been intended as a punishment, and it was a very effective one. This fucking town had only disappointment to offer him, especially after—
Well. Billy was still insisting—even to himself—that he had been even more short-tempered than usual since November because the weather sucked, and not because he couldn’t seem to forget the sensation of Steve Harrington’s cheekbone giving way under his fists. It was getting harder to lie to himself, though. He had fractured a certain pretty boy’s face, and thus ruined any future opportunity to touch that face with gentle, reverent hands, the way he had wanted to since he first laid eyes on it in the school parking lot. Not that it would have been a possibility before that awful night, probably, but it definitely wasn’t after. Billy had broken something he cared about with his own hands; these days, it wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling.
4. One Prize I’d Cheat to Win Listen, I know how long it has been since I updated this. I KNOW. But I swear to you that it is still an active WIP, and I am working on the upcoming chapters. Updates are coming!
“Talk to me, Max. Something feels off. This was too easy.”
“Everything’s fine, asshole. Stop being so paranoid.” Even through the earpiece, Billy could hear her irritated huff. “I told you, I did extensive research on this one. It's easy because we planned it that way.” Billy snagged a glass of champagne as a server with a tray passed him. He sipped it as he studied the dance floor below him. Couples in black tie swayed in circles to the music. The band was set up in a discreet corner, opposite the raised dais at the far end of the room. There was a podium on it. The auction was due to start in an hour, and Billy hadn’t seen his target yet.
“If everything's fine, then where is he?” he asked Max. “This is his party in his massive, ridiculous ballroom." Who the fuck had a house with a ballroom? "He should be schmoozing right now.”
“I don’t know, Billy. Aren’t rich people late all the time? Maybe he’s still getting ready.” Given what his hair had looked like in the photos Billy had studied, he could almost believe it. Still, Billy didn't like it. Something felt off. He opened his mouth to say that again, but two things happened at once. The double doors opposite the raised dais opened and Steve Harrington stepped through them. He was wearing a beautifully tailored dark blue tuxedo, and Billy’s mouth went a little dry. The photos really hadn’t done him justice. At the same time, someone leaned up against the railing right next to where Billy was tucked into the shadows, and he felt the unmistakable press of a gun muzzle against his ribs. He took a sharp breath and let it out slowly. God damn it, he had been right. This had been too easy because it was a fucking trap.
5. The One Word My first foray into the Captain America fandom! I’ve considered deleting this until I have more of it edited (life, ugghhhh), but I haven’t done it yet. I have so much more of it written, but editing is my nemesis.
Once upon a time, there lived two small boys. One was small and fair and fierce and the other tall and dark-haired and charming, and there are many, many stories about what happened to them over the months and years and decades of their lives.
In some stories, the boys grow up together. They laugh as they dart through grimy alleyways or cobblestoned courtyards or vast rooms where the sound of each footstep vanishes into deep, lush carpeting. They annoy each other and defend each other and vow, as children do, that they will be with each other forever.
In some stories, they keep that promise. They stand beside each other and take on every challenge with the warm, sure knowledge that there is nothing they have to face alone. In other stories, they are less fortunate. There are months and years and decades of dark and painful separation. And yet they find each other, again and again and again, on eerily silent streets and in deep forests, in coffee shops and dorm rooms, in subway cars and in quiet, too-empty apartments. They fall apart, and then they come back together.
In this story, they start out alone.
6. Almost Enough Ah yes, the post-S4 fic that I wrote before I watched S4. Truly, a simpler time.
It’s too quiet. Sure, there’s the soft beeping of whatever machines they have him hooked up to, and he can hear the murmur of quiet voices in the hall—even in this desolate stretch between midnight and morning, the hospital doesn’t truly sleep—but Billy was alone in the Upside Down for a long time. He craves light, and familiar voices, and the simple animal heat of other bodies close to his. Those things are not available, not here and now in the sterile hush of this hospital, but…well. Maybe he doesn’t have to be completely alone.
He carefully strips off the oxygen line and the sensors they plastered to him when he came in. There’s nothing specific wrong with him—nothing they’ve managed to identify, anyway—but his nurses all shoot each other looks and murmur about ‘sustained exposure’ and ‘delayed symptoms.’ He can’t bring himself to care. He’s alive and he’s not trapped in a terrifying mirror of Hawkins anymore and for right now, it’s enough. Almost. It’s almost enough.
He slips out of his room when the hall goes briefly still and silent. Steve’s room is three doors down on the right. The door is ajar, and Billy just stands there for a moment, staring.
Steve isn’t asleep. He’s sitting up against the headboard, knees pulled to his chest, staring blankly in the direction of the window. Billy can see a slight tremor in his hands where they’re wrapped around his knees.
7. the road not taken looks real good now I think this is still my most popular fic? I dug it out of my drafts and gave myself a public deadline, and finished it in like five days. There’s a lesson there somewhere.
Billy isn’t surprised when it’s Robin who opens Steve’s front door. He’s a little late, so Steve is almost surely in the midst of making dinner. He issurprised when she steps out onto the porch and closes the front door behind her. Billy blinks at her. She isn’t wearing a coat, and it’s freezing.
“Todd is here,” she says, voice pitched low. Billy stares at her blankly for a moment before the sentence sinks in.
“Steve brought his boyfriend back to Hawkins for the holidays?” he asks, tone surprisingly even. It isn’t the first time Steve has dated someone since he left for college, obviously, but it is the first time he’s brought anyone home. Billy tries to fight off the surge of disappointment that he will not, apparently, be spending the bulk of this vacation in Steve’s bed, the way he always does when they’re home at the same time. They’ve been hooking up whenever they see each other for the past three years, since the first time Steve came back to Hawkins from college for a visit. Robin nods, her expression bleak.
8. Six Gifts My other holiday exchange fic! Holiday fluff is my JAM.
It started with a cigarette.
Well. If Billy was being honest with himself, which he was trying to do a little more consistently lately, it started long before that. It started the first goddamn day, before any of the rest of it happened, with a single glimpse of big dark eyes and pale skin across a parking lot. But it didn’t go well, that first time, and Billy figured that once he’d died, he probably got to start over with a clean slate.
So it started with a cigarette.
Billy was standing in a shadowed corner of the porch at the Byers’ big new house, smoking a cigarette and half listening to the sounds of laughter and Christmas music from inside. He appreciated Max’s continuing efforts to include him in the larger group, but he didn’t really belong inside with them. Maybe he wasn’t the monster anymore, but he wasn’t one of the good guys either. It was fine. He could linger around the edges, helping out Max and doing his best to stay out of the way.
Suddenly he heard the creak of the porch door opening and a slam as it closed again. Then he heard light footsteps headed for the same darkened corner Billy had chosen. He knew exactly who it was—he had been paying attention to that specific tread for a long time. The steps stopped abruptly as they reached the corner of the house. There was a brief silence. Billy kept his eyes fixed on the line of trees visible across the side yard, fully expecting to hear those same footsteps moving away from him. Instead, he heard a quiet little sigh.
“I hear those’ll kill you,” Steve said softly as he walked up to stand next to Billy at the railing. He gestured at the cigarette in Billy’s hand. Billy stared at him and then snorted.
“Too late,” he said drily.
9. you should come with a warning label This one is a bit of a tease. I have a part 2 mostly drafted, but editing, boooooo.
Billy heard the door to Steve's room swing open, hard enough to slam against the wall. He glanced up to where his own door was open just a crack. He couldn't see Steve, but he could see the girl he had brought home. She was pretty. Tall, blonde, athletic. A little drunk and a lot angry, apparently.
"Come on, it's not like I lied about it," Steve pleaded. She whirled on him, pointing a finger.
"You should come with a fucking warning label," she hissed at him.
"Hey," Steve said, sounding offended, but she had already turned and was stomping toward the front door. It slammed behind her. Steve made a frustrated noise and Billy heard the door to his room slam shut, and then silence.
Fifteen minutes later, Billy was sitting at the kitchen table when Steve emerged from his room. This wasn't an accident; Steve always got snacky when he was drinking, especially if he wasn't getting laid. He was still wearing his date outfit and a scowl. Billy took a moment to admire the way his ass looked in his date jeans when he leaned into the fridge, and waited until Steve was sniffing a box of leftovers before he spoke.
10. A few lines at a time The postcard fic! I wrote it for the 2021 Big Bang. It started as a very different story, but I’m so happy with where it went instead.
“Billy is alive!”
Max burst into a Friday night D&D session in March and dropped that bomb, and Steve promptly dropped the glass he was filling at the sink. He took a few long moments to stare at the new crack in the glass before it occurred to him to turn off the water. He spent another minute slowing his breathing to something more manageable before he turned back to face the group eating snacks at his kitchen table. No one appeared to have noticed his reaction; their attention was firmly on Max.
Steve caught up to the conversation just as Max announced that she had, in fact, just gotten off the phone with her less-dead-than-previously-assumed step-brother. She was met with skepticism, even though they had all already lived through the miracle of Hopper reappearing, too thin and bearded and even more pissed off than usual, and telling an insane story about a Russian prison camp and the Upside Down. But this was different. After all, Joyce had told them all that Hopper was dead, and they had believed her, but they had all watched Billy die, and they could trust their own eyes.
Except that they clearly couldn’t, because Billy was alive and generally fine, living in California and calling his sister to tell her that he survived--surprise! --and was recovering in some lab.
This was so fun! I haven’t looked at some of these in a while. I’ll tag @passivenovember and @thatharringrovehoe, only if you feel like it.
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i was tagged by @ainulindaelynn, who thinks i don't recognize their main account url but i do and also i appreciate the comments you left on my fics very very much <3
rules: post the first lines of your last 10 fics posted to ao3. if you have less than 10 fics posted, post the first lines of all your fics.
i only have three fics on ao3 because my publishing threshold is apparently ~1500 per year 😭 so i'm cheating by also including some wips here. and then i am cheating further still because i usually write out of order which means some of these are literally just the first line in the doc, not the intended first line of the story. but rules were made to be broken etc etc.
Leofrith had heard the stories. (Honor Bound - AC Valhalla WIP)
Protected by the dark, he waits. (Hideaway - The Mandalorian)
The sky is dark, the rain pours, and Eivor digs. (Early Mourning Hours - AC Valhalla WIP)
The Razor Crest’s landing gear creaks as the ship touches down on the moon’s grassy surface. (Bright Skies - The Mandalorian)
Everything else falls away and she sees only Brasidas, diving headfirst to meet his glorious death, same as he always is. (A Fixed Point - AC Odyssey WIP)
Dawn breaks over the sprawling forests and towering mountains of Garos. (Press On, Move Along - The Clone Wars)
The village is still cloaked in darkness when Hytham finally gives up on the prospect of rest. (Indigo Sky - AC Valhalla WIP)
His mission fulfilled at last, he drifts. (A Gathering of Fractures - The Mandalorian WIP)
Every day begins the same. (First Frost - AC Valhalla WIP)
"Still think I'm imaginary?" (I'll Be Seeing you - AC Valhalla WIP)
i feel like i've been tagging people in these constantly over the last little bit so no pressure obviously!! and also pls tell me if you want me to stop tagging y'all in these jasgdjasfj @deathstars, @lonelyquadsquad, @beroyas, @kkrazy256, @orphiceonian, @reiverreturns, @alethiometry, @woahpip, @jate-kara
#reading all of these and coming to the realization that i'm not very good at first lines ajsghfsdhfhjdgs#this isn't even me being self-critical. i mean i guess by definition i absolutely am#but most of them are just. pretty unmemorable on their own#something to work on i guess!!#gonna hit post before i think about it too hard akjshdkdgksdg#tag games#ky posts text
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New WIP on Wattpad!
Account: @Bosedisha
:・゚✧:・.☽˚。・゚✧:・.:
In the quiet little town of Mussoorie, Dehradun, the elite college of Westview is known for its classist campus culture and thriving music scene. And at the heart of it all lies it's immensely popular band, "New Dawn".
However, everything takes a drastic turn when a mysterious incident rocks the foundation of the band, causing them to break apart. Lead singer, Kaushik Wadia, not only leaves the band but severs his lifelong friendship with Armaan Raiprakash, the lead guitarist. Kaushik becomes an enigmatic figure, retreating into solitude and surprising everyone with his sudden transformation.
Amidst this turmoil, an awkward yet ambitious girl named Inara Ghai arrives at the college with her eyes set on a dream: to win Electra, Westview's most famous music festival and get the hell out of their little town.
As Inara immerses herself in her pursuit, she unwittingly becomes entangled in the bitter rivalry between the past and present members of "New Dawn". As her path intersects with Kaushik's and Armaan's, she finds herself torn between loyalty to her own dreams and the desire to heal the wounds of the past. With time running out before the music festival, Inara must navigate the complicated dynamics, confront her own fears, and reconcile the fractured relationships within the band.
Will Inara be able to mend the broken bonds and unite the once inseparable band, or will their rift echo through the halls of Westview , forever changing its musical landscape?
a twisted tale of love, heartbreak and everything in between!
tune in to find out!
:・゚✧:・.☽˚。・゚✧:・.:
#wattpad#wattpad books#indian books#aesthetic#desi aesthetic#desi books#bookstagram#enemies to lovers#richkidsofinstagram#musical drama#youth#bollywood#bollywoodstyle#author#writing#writers on tumblr#generationhum
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Feed the Wolf Chapter 8 Excerpt (WIP)
A hunter having grown complacent, a predator turned prey, I come to a sudden halt as I feel the air turn ice-cold. A shiver runs down my spine as I feel a breath on the back of my neck, somehow colder still than the surrounding air. Why does this feel so real? I know for a fact that it isn’t, because I recognise the presence lurking behind me. After so many years of forced companionship, how could I not? It doesn’t usually feel this real though, so clear and defined and vivid. If I don’t turn around, I don’t have to face it – to face myself, or the fractured reflection of myself. Following the shattering of my psyche, two piles were formed from the shards: the pieces I was desperate to hold onto and scrambled to collect, and those that I allowed to fall into the grasp of my wolf. In the moment, perhaps some fraction of my mind recognised that I was letting go of the worst parts of myself, but knowing what I know now I would’ve much sooner remained whole. Leaving those parts of me under the guard of such an untrustworthy keeper, it’s no wonder they festered in the way they did.
That shambling mess of broken parts stands behind me now, corrupted and twisted almost beyond recognition. Almost, but not quite. Even as it radiates pure malevolence, preparing to strike me down, I feel a certain kinship towards it. I recognise the parts that I once lost and wish that I could reclaim them, as much as they disgust me, but I know that isn’t possible. No, it’s too late for such pleasantries. Tonight, all I can do is face myself. And face myself I do, turning slowly as I prepare to confront all that I most despise and pity. Despite everything, I don’t truly fear my wolf – not in here. Out in the real world its influence brings out the worst in me, but in my dreams all it can do is torment me. Nothing it can do to me here is real. Of course, pain doesn’t have to be real in order to be felt, the link between the mental and the physical being far too intimate to be broken by such meagre boundaries. I’m no stranger to pain though, and I’m a firm believer that the dark always precedes the dawn. Pain can be overcome, and most pains come to an end, given enough time. Does reliance on that hope make me an optimist? Perish the thought.
It’s not often I get the chance to see my wolf so clearly. In my dreams it usually remains hidden, torturing me with memories both true and false, hiding behind a smokescreen fuelled by the fires of hatred. Even now, its form is obscured by that smoke, thick rolling fumes rising and falling from the surface of what passes for its body. It’s almost fluid, moving unnaturally and without the restraint expected of a living being. Ripples spread throughout its form as it raises an arm, far too long and thin to be made of flesh and bone, jagged like broken glass in some places and closer to a liquid in others. I shudder at its touch, its claws trailing my jawline as it stares down at me with empty eyes – bright, but lacking life. My wolf is tall, taller than me, but not as tall as our shared bestial form; tall enough to intimidate me, at least. It’s not real, I feel the need to remind myself. As its hand moves down to my throat and its claws curve their way around my neck, I search for a sign of empathy in its scarce few features, but find none. All I see is a predator uncontested, a creature seeking pleasure in cruelty due to going unchallenged by its peers – myself, I suppose, in this case.
The human mind is amazing, perhaps most so in its capacity for imagination. So many experiences that the body has never undergone, the human mind knows how to replicate the feeling almost perfectly. That is perhaps the purest form of empathy – an instinctual understanding rooted most commonly in physical suffering. Some would say such things are passed down through our genetics, others point to the concept of a collective unconscious; the origin of this ability doesn’t matter. What matters is that when my wolf’s claws rip through the flesh of my throat, slicing the jugular and the carotid, tearing my vocal chords asunder, I feel everything. Logically, I have no way of knowing that the experience is true to life, but instinct insists upon that fact regardless. A pained, choked breath escapes me as nerve endings usually protected are born to the outside world, set ablaze by the air as it escapes through newly created openings. I struggle to maintain my footing as the blood begins to pool around me, my strength disappearing with each and every millilitre that pours from the carnage. My blood pressure drops and my vision becomes hazy, my brain desperately trying to apply logic to the dream, ensuring that everything is consistent with my perception of reality. Sometimes, I really wish it wouldn’t.
My legs finally give out from beneath me, buckling at the knees and forcing me into freefall. I fall backwards, my back arching as my balance, too, fails me. In my fall, through clouded vision, I can make out my wolf raising its hand to its mouth, crimson streams trickling down the length of its arm from something pink within its grasp. The flesh seems to writhe in its own agony, as if still connected to me and yearning to return. In some twisted sense it does return, as my wolf consumes the stray chunk in one bite. In that recognition it feels as if I’ve lost something – something small, something inconsequential, but something. Even more pressing though, is just how familiar this feels. It’s more than just instinct though. I’m not just vaguely familiar with the concept, but intimately so with the details. I’m on the other side of the pantomime this time around, though… Ah, so this is how my father felt. There are differences, but the final outcome is the same. This re-enactment from my wolf, what does it hope to accomplish? Whether mere torment or a grand lesson, I cannot say; in either case, it all comes down to empathy once again.
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A quick excerpt from the dream sequence that kicks off Chapter 8 in my ongoing Wednesday fic, Feed the Wolf. I post this now because, well, I'm quite happy with the opening segment (this is but a small portion of it) but I just can't get the rest of the chapter down for some reason. I finished the opening probably a couple weeks ago by now, but for whatever reason the remainder evades me. It's annoying timing too, since I'm in a rare period of having minimal real life obligations for a little while, but writing just isn't working. Posting this, then, makes me feel like I'm at least writing for more than just myself, if that makes sense?
Ah well, I'll get it done eventually, I'm sure. I was really hoping to get this chapter out within a month of the previous one, so as to avoid starting a downward trend on the (admittedly non-existent) release schedule. Still, this fic is still very much present in my mind, which is more than I can say for some of my creative ventures!
Since I'm already posting this, I suppose it would be remiss not to shamelessly self-promote in earnest at the same time. Find the fic on AO3 here or on FF here. There are 7 chapters so far, and I can promise that it isn't dead and abandoned. Oh, and I suppose it's only fair that I warn ahead of time that there is a non-Wenclair romantic relationship involving Enid, so if that's something you want to avoid, I completely understand!
If you've read this far, thank you! Have a wonderful day :)
#wip#writing wip#fanfic writer#ao3 writer#writing excerpt#wednesday#wednesday fanfic#one of the main reasons it's taking a while is that I may be writing a cringe scene#and boy is that a difficult thing to bring myself to do#honestly considering dropping the scene altogether or moving it to the next chapter#but that's kind of a band-aid solution huh#writeblr
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You'll just have to learn the hard way, pt 1
Brad Bakshi/f!Reader part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5 PG (for now) Content warnings: none so far afaik (It’s a WIP so it could prob use some more work but I’m tired and drunk and impatient)
From a distance, Brad seems like a perfectly nice (and distractingly handsome) man. When you start working at Mythic Quest, he catches you looking on your very first day and happily lets you misunderstand him; by the time you realise what he’s really like, you find yourself already entangled. “Friends” to enemies-with-benefits, conflicted feelings, hate fucking with a slow build and all that good stuff.
——–
“Going up?”
You’d been so lost in thought you’d barely noticed the man who’d followed you into the elevator. There were just too many fractured thoughts to contend with - were your clothes still smooth? Did your pits feel dry? Were you on time? Would you survive if you failed this interview? Now you turned to face him with a panicked smile and an unsteady “yes, please.”
Beside you stood a tall, slim man with neat clothes, unruly hair and angular, handsome features. He seemed completely at ease and looked down at you with unembarrassed interest. Since he didn’t turn his gaze even as he pressed the button, he caught your double take and his own smile widened.
“First day?”
Was he implying that he would’ve remembered you if you’d crossed paths before or did your jitters show that badly? He still hadn’t broken eye contact... and you realised with dread that neither had you.
“I’m here for an interview,” you managed and finally wrestled back control over yourself long enough to lower both your shoulders and your eyes.
“Ah,” was all the reply he gave.
If you hadn’t been so close to a panic already, you never would have betrayed yourself so badly even if he’d been twice as good looking. Your shallow breaths had drawn in too much of his cologne and made you light headed, that was all. The slightest unexpected noise would’ve been enough to startle you. Too bad you couldn’t tell him that without coming off even worse than you already had.
The elevator came to a halt on the top floor and your co-passenger took a polite step back to let you exit ahead of him. Since you had to halt almost immediately to get your bearings, this meant he was trapped as your shadow a little longer. Perhaps that was intentional.
“Can I help you get anywhere?” he asked and you clung to his smiles and politeness as to a life preserver.
“Would you? I’m supposed to meet miss Li in conference room four.” It was much too late to try to impress this guy anyway and this way you didn’t have to risk exposing your nerves to a second person.
“Of course.” He slipped past you and walked ahead down one of the corridors. “So what brings you to Mythic Quest? Love of the game or is this more of a cynical career move?”
“Well...” It was impossible to guess which answer he’d prefer. “Obviously it would be wonderful to help create something that makes so many people happy.”
“Obviously.” His tone was carefully neutral.
There was something so disarming about him that it was hard to give him the usual interview bullshit. “I guess, besides being a dedicated team player and all that, one of my real passions is being able to pay my bills.”
He leaned his head to one side as he pondered this. It dawned on you that in less than five minutes, you’d shown him nearly every card in your hand and he hadn’t even told you his name. “You know,” he said at last, “I can’t think of a single reason why you shouldn’t bring that up during the interview.”
He stopped by the door to one of the conference rooms and held it open for you, but in a way that would force you to get rather close if you wanted to pass him. This time his smile was sarcastic, almost a little mean... but after the way you’d stared at him, that was probably no more than fair.
You stepped into his warmth, passed the threshold and forced yourself not to linger near him. Whatever this was, it hadn’t crossed the line into open flirtation and you couldn’t let it.
“I’d offer to get you a cup of coffee, but you seem jittery enough already.” He was out the door before you’d even found a seat. You’d meant to thank him but with a lazy wave and a “I’ll see you around” he shut the door behind him and was off.
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Somehow (you’d never piece together how) the interview went well and you were hired. Part of it might have been that Poppy seemed to have been almost as on edge as you, for totally different reasons. It didn’t take more than a day before you realised that as long as you could keep your cool, do your job and keep a healthy distance between you and your co-workers, you’d already be doing better than most of them.
Brad made every part of this difficult. He didn’t spend a lot of time in his office, so you saw him forever just across the room or walking absent-mindedly into your path, forcing you to plan around him, only managing to avoid him by being hyper aware of his comings and goings. You couldn’t determine whether attraction or embarrassment had more say over your actions. You’d put a name to that handsome face almost immediately simply by asking someone - it seemed the logical first step towards recovering a little of the power you’d accidentally handed over to him.
The second would be to prove, nonchalantly yet unequivocally, that you could be near him without melting into a puddle by his feet. Since this couldn’t happen by design, you lived in dread until the moment you both went for coffee at the same time.
You knew he was behind you before he’d made a sound and only turned when you were sure you could keep your face blank.
“You made it, then,” he said. He looked mildly pleased, that was all you could make out.
“I did. Thank you so much for helping me find my way, I was a bag of nerves.”
Brad nodded. “And is it everything you’d hoped?”
“Oh, yes. I’m ecstatic.” You hadn’t meant to smile, but there it was.
“Yeah, managing Poppy’s meltdowns must be a dream.”
You were prepared this time. You refused to be lead into saying something you shouldn’t, no matter how much he angled for it. “Poppy’s great. Everyone here has been so welcoming.”
It was true, too, but that didn’t seem to help. Brad pointedly looked you over and then raised his eyebrows. “I’m not surprised.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He sighed. “I appreciate how desperate you are to kiss everyone’s asses all at once, but you could be a little more subtle about it.”
Your drink was ready. You took your mug, stepped out to a safe distance and used the excuse of cream and sugar to linger while he made himself an espresso.
“I don’t need to kiss your ass, do I?” What’d happened to your script? How had the conversation gotten this dangerous this quickly? He seemed determined to catch you out one way or another and now he had. “I mean, you’re not really my boss.”
Brad pursed his lips and seemed to genuinely consider this. “Yeah... I see what you mean. I certainly don’t have a need for your expertise, whatever that is.” Then he smiled very widely. “But on the other hand, if you think about it, I might as well be your boss. At least in every way that counts.”
There was nothing in his expression or his tone to indicate how much he was joking, or even if it was a joke you were meant to be in on. You shook your head and tried to laugh it off - what else could you do? “Yeah, well. I was brought up to work hard for what I want in life and let my contribution speak for itself.”
Brad laughed. “Now, that is funny.” He raised his elegant little cup of coffee to you. “Thanks, I needed that. You’re gonna go far around here.”
#brad bakshi x reader#brad bakshi#mythic quest#mythic quest: raven’s banquet#brad bakshi imagine#my fics
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haven’t worked much on any WIPs in a few days because I’ve been so busy but I have a few hours of free time here and there now that I’m not working and I’m hoping that sharing a sizable snippet will motivate me to keep writing !!!
this is from a piece I haven’t really talked about before. it’s a 5+1 piece as it stands right now but I think it might be turning into more of a 6 or 7 +1 piece. I can’t decide if I want to post chapter by chapter or as one long oneshot lol. I think if it starts to go much further over the 8k mark im gonna have to chop it into smaller portions
ANYWAY here’s some pre-slash obikin pain and yearning to sate y’all until I can get my life together enough to update my WIPs or publish smthn. please feel free to let me know what you think !!! I love feedback
cw for mild sexual themes a very brief canon typical description of injury and death
Anakin stares at the ceiling, fingers knit over his chest, until he can hear Padmé’s quiet snores beside him. He peels back the blankets with utmost care, delicately tucking them back in before waving his hand over the door panel and padding out to pace the dark cavern of the living room.
He starts, following a strip of light filtering in through the blinds as it stretches across the sunken floor, stretching out and out and out to the half-moon couch in the formal sitting area.
He stops.
There is a chip in the corner of the coffee table.
It’s small, really. Hardly noticeable. It does not take away from the beauty of the piece, Anakin thinks, though he was never one to get caught up in the little details. Padmé says that it is a rich stained wood, strong and solid, carved by hand and imported from the old growth forests of the lake country. Not a true antique, she says, but a very convincing replica, as authentic as money can buy, and now there is a chip in the corner of the leg of the great low table. The splinter exposes only a few millimeters of the dry meat of the wood, then splits its hairline fracture down the seam of a fissure. From the right angle, in the dark, with only the lights of traffic outside blinking in through the bay of the balcony, it disappears entirely into the natural grooves around it.
Anakin wonders how much weight it might bear before the leg finally snaps and sends its spray of splinters into the soft buff carpet below.
He wonders if there is a universe in which he too is soft. In which his fingers don’t plant bruises into the delicate skin of his wife’s throat as he pistons their bodies into one because she asks it of him. In which he doesn’t have to hold his own men in his arms as the essence of their life siphons out of them in rivulets of red because his republic asks it of him. In which he doesn’t have to smother the air from the corrupted lungs of alleyway pimps and backwater slavers because the ink black essence of the Force inside him demands it of him. In which he doesn’t have to plant himself between the end of a blaster cannon and his master’s fallible tender mortal body because Anakin demands it of himself.
His personal holoprojector at the center of the table hums and blinks its blue light where it lays discarded with the rest of his clothing. The black dragon inside him snaps its hungry jaws at his heart.
There are only three people who would call so late, and one of them is sleeping soundly in the room behind him. If he stretches his awareness just a little, he can feel the lassitude of her presence, a contentment that only ever seems to be brought upon by sleep.
That leaves two.
Anakin scrubs his flesh hand down his face before he drops to the couch with a sigh, staring down the blinking light of the holo like he can intimidate the call into dropping. He’s not sure he has the energy or the presence of mind at this hour to help Ahsoka cram for her materials science exam. It’s tomorrow, he knows, because she had so very helpfully reminded him with a bat of her lashes that said I know it’s not your fault that I haven’t been studying, but I am definitely going to make it your problem. Like Padawan like Master.
Resigned, Anakin scoots the device closer to the edge of the table and accepts the call.
The blue-tinted projection of his former master blinks back at him.
Even through the fizzling lines of the holo, Anakin can make out that worried scowl that Obi-Wan seems to wear like a uniform. He’s still clad in his robes, too, which in and of itself wouldn’t be strange if dawn wasn’t still hours from breaking. It’s only when he tracks Obi-Wan’s gaze to where it’s fixed on the bare expanse of his chest left uncovered by his thin night robe that Anakin realizes he’s supposed to say something.
“Uh,” he says thickly, clearing his throat as he folds his arms over his chest. “The meeting ran a little late, I take it.”
“That’s quite an understatement,” Obi-Wan says, though not unkindly. His expression softens. “But yes.” For a moment, Anakin thinks he might say something else, but he just just purses his lips and crosses his arms, mirroring Anakin’s posture, probably without even thinking about it. It’s kind of sweet.
Anakin moves to break the awkward silence between them. “Master, why did–“
“We’re being sent to Corellia.”
Anakin blinks.
“What? We haven’t even been back a full day.”
“Yes, well, you and I know better than most that war does not stop to give us a break, regardless of how well-deserved it might be.”
Anakin stops himself from turning on instinct to look over the back of the couch towards the closed door of the bedroom, but not before Obi-Wan catches the suggested movement in the tilt of his shoulders.
His old master quirks a brow. “Surely any prior engagements can stand to wait for you to return.”
And Anakin can’t help the panicked flush that heats his face at that, can’t help the dangerous swoop of his stomach. Surely Obi-Wan doesn’t know, right? At least, he’d never been so forward with Anakin about it before, if one could call Obi-Wan’s particularly evasive brand of subversiveness forward. As far as Anakin can remember, Obi-Wan hasn’t mentioned it once. Not when Anakin had failed to return to the temple until the next morning morning after his knighting ceremony with fat purple hickeys peeking out over the high collar of his tunics. Not when Anakin had fled from the temple hangar only moments after touching down for the first time following a two month siege that had flung them across the deserts of arid moons, nor when he finally returned a full day later wearing the same outfit he’d left in, freshly laundered, his curls still incriminatingly dark and damp from a real water shower.
“It’s–“ he starts, suddenly unable to meet Obi-Wan’s piercing gaze. “I– Of course, I mean–“
#anidala is very heavily implied here and though it’s pre slash its still obikin endgame#obi wan kenobi#anakin skywalker#obikin#star wars#star wars prequels#the clone wars#my writing
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Tagged by @obstinaterixatrix !!
Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!
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I have fewer that 20 published, But I guess I can list some of the unpublished ones too ;)
1. Untitled WIP (Wandersong, unpublished 2021) The flight home was long enough that, despite Miriam's unease, by the time they had made it to her house, the worst of her anxiety had been replaced by a heavy blanket of exhausted resignation.
2. Echoing Notes (Wandersong 2020) The world was ending, until it wasn’t. The sun rose again, against all odds, casting its beams of light across an improbable planet, bathing its inhabitants in the most welcome daybreak.
3. Still The World Keeps Turning (Doctor Who, 2020) She sees the world afire, again.
4. OSTINATI (Wandersong, unpublished 2020) An unfamiliar face greeted the Bard as they made their way up the hill towards Langtree Village.
5. Split Complementaries, And Other Approaches to Musical Composition (Wandersong, unpublished 2020) Kiwi rose with the sun, impossible though it was to see through the Chismest haze; the date on the calendar hesitantly suggested it might have been early summer, although the weather all but shouted otherwise.
6. What Do You Want To Hear? (Doctor Who, 2020) "So, Doc, any thoughts yet?"
7. Untitled WIP (Doctor Who, 2020) The wonderful thing about time is that it never stops, so if you happen to find yourself in a bad situation, eventually you will be carried away from it into hopefully a better situation.
8. An Urgent Request (Good Omens, 2020) The door crashed open, jangling the entrance bell with all the alarm of an air raid siren.
9. Fracture (Doctor Who, 2020) He scans the horizon, under the Australian sun, brimming with anticipation.
10. New Year’s Fic (Good Omens, unpublished 2019) And now it was 2009.
11. As a River Flows on a Pathway to the Sea (Good Omens, unpublished 2019) Geological timescales are a funny thing, to angels.
12. Black Magic on Mulholland Drive (Lucifer/Good Omens crossover, unpublished 2019) A sunny morning in LA is par for the course. A rainy morning in LA, while uncommon, isn't entirely outside of the realm of possibility*. A foggy morning in LA, however, suggests something surreal is afoot.
13. Heaven’s Over Us (Good Omens, 2019) Aziraphale stood at the edge of a precipice.
14. Aziraphale Gets A Smartphone (Good Omens, 2019) If one were to believe that the universe isn't just one single instance of existence created by God according to the ineffable plan, but rather a collection of several universes—a multiverse, if you will—one might believe that each of the other universes contains something almost, but not quite, entirely unlike any other.
15. About Face (Good Omens, 2019) By the time they arrived at the front door of Crowley’s flat, it was the dead hour, too late to be night and too early to be dawn.
16. Identity, Ineffability, and Other Things we Don’t Understand (Good Omens, 2019) "Crowley."
17. V1 (Good Omens, unpublished 2019) The problem, Crowley had decided, was feelings.
18. Hard Landing (Good Omens, 2019) The problem, Aziraphale had decided, was feelings.
19. Adventures in Attempting to Purchase a Book From that Weird Old Soho Bookshop, A.Z. Fell & Co. (Good Omens, 2019) [New Topic] Does Anyone Have A Copy Of Clockwork House Vol. 6?
20. The Question of Who (Sherlock, 2012) "I've told you before. You see, but you don't observe."
Also as a bonus have two original stories:
1. Untitled WIP (original, 2019) A star shot through the sky and landed right outside my window, at a horrible hour of the morning.
2. Untitled WIP (original, 2019) There was a witch at the top of the mountain, or so I had been told; I had never been there—I had neither the means nor inclination.
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Patterns, hm... Well, I certainly like to go for either a highly descriptive line that establishes the scenario right away, or a short and catchy line that’s intriguing enough to make you want to read the next line, which is then usually the highly descriptive line. Generally speaking I do favour a compact writing style that fits as much information as possible into as few words as possible in each sentence, so it’s not surprising my opening lines are like that too.
I’m often tempted to open with a line of dialogue, but I’ve heard that’s offputting, so I try to avoid it. Still, there are some cases when that works best, usually when the dialogue itself establishes some important information right away. (In the case of #16, that’s an entirely dialogue-only piece, so the first line establishes it’s Aziraphale who speaks first.)
It’s kind of hard to pick a favourite because I’m very fond of all of these for different reasons. For example, 4 looks very plain, but leads into scenario where the “unfamiliar face” is quickly established to be someone the Bard should know, but doesn’t. And then later the same line gets repeated again in different contexts, developing the theme further. I love 9 because not only does it quickly locate where in the timeline this canon divergence begins, it also establishes a metaphor that, when combined with the next two lines, becomes relevant to the entire fic. 12 and 14 were both jokes I wrote to myself to make myself laugh and fell in love with especially as I developed the jokes further. 17 and 18 make a pair.... except I never actually published 17 so the joke is lost too RIP
Honestly I think the main takeaway here is I should actually finish my WIPs sometime lmao
TAGGING: @wyvernquill @fremulon @gottagobuycheese @theoldaquarian @theplatinthehat @picnokinesis @maskedhero
IDK HOW MANY MORE FRIENDS WRITE FIC TBH and i dont remember everyones usernames either if you’re reading this and u write stuff consider urself tagged
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