#anyone know any good fix it fics for when i finish the series

[wistfxlwishes]

me, 3 hours ago, full of hubris: i've been wanting to watch sk8 the infinity... maybe i should try it out!

me now, 8 episodes in and all of my hopes and dreams crushed: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO REKI STOP IT

#sk8 #sk8 the infinity #sk8 reki #reki kyan #im holding on to the denial that reki and langa won't be sad #they need to be happy #i am going to cry over them i know it #anyone know any good fix it fics for when i finish the series #new fandom blues

[supercutszns]

rotten to the touch; luke castellan

series masterlist

wc: 3.2k

pairing: pre-tlt luke castellan x f! reader

synopsis: you’re pretty sure you’re an awful person. you’re pretty sure luke castellan is too. and you’re pretty sure you want to make out with him.

warnings: reader is flawed & not the greatest, luke is ... a little dark🫣, small mention of blood, swearing, lots of making out but no explicit nsfw, a bit toxic, & no more more ‘i can fix him’ or ‘i can make him worse’ it’s ‘he can make ME worse’

notes: this is… sluttier than my usual stuff so it’s not as good but i’m trying, feedback is appreciated! also i wonder what cabin we think this reader would be in, let me know where you’d place her im curious :) maybe i’ll write more of her in the future she’s interesting!! and thank you for 100 followers i am so grateful<3 designated song for this fic is crush by ethel cain

You are a miserable, wicked, asshole of a person, and everybody knows it. Including you.

It’s unclear to you why you turned out this way—every reason to blame never satiates the fury searing your insides. All the campers hate you. The counsellors, too. Even Chiron looks down on the viciousness inside you. You are Camp Half-Blood’s black sheep; a mean, bitter person with no love for the people around you. And it’s not just for show. You know you’re rotten. You know the anger will never go away.

It’s evident in the things you think about other people—the way you pick them apart in your head, toss them aside, because they just don’t see it. This miserable, unforgiving world, with children sleeping on wooden floors because the people who created you think you disposable. Because they can just make more of you. More, more, more, until one of you comes out rotten, born of all the ugliness they have inside them. You are the worst parts of Godly blood. The wrathful parts.

Everyone hates you. Everyone hates a person with an unquenchable anger.

But everyone loves Luke Castellan.

He’s a saint at Camp Half-Blood if there ever was one. Handsome, generous, kind. Goes out of his way to help out the new kids and gives them homes in his cabin. He’s the best swordsman in camp by a mile. Shit, you’d even love Luke Castellan if you didn’t know any better.

But you do, and you don’t, and it’s complicated, okay?

Because there’s something you know about Luke Castellan that nobody else does: he’s miserable and wicked, too.

You see it in his eyes sometimes. The way they look at you at dinner, when you’re picking at your food away from anyone else at your table. Something familiar rises in them, and your stomach twists. His body tenses whenever someone mentions his father, but the smiles he flashes are so charismatic nobody notices. But you do. It’s exciting.

During sword practice, he quips back and forth with the kids and laughs whenever they take a jab at him. He’s light, easy, carefree. But you see how he holds back, the tension in his shoulder, the way the arc of his sword never fully finishes. So you wait until everybody leaves and he’s alone, with the training dummies and the setting sun. And you. Hiding.

He slashes through them and spears through their heads. You see it, the gnashing of his teeth, the sweat curling down his cheeks. There’s something there. A chasm he’s hopeless to fill.

Before you know it, you’re going out of your way to catch him training alone. It’s creepy, you know, and awful, you know, but the more you watch him the more you see a sort of violence scabbed under his skin.

Whenever you see him now, the feeling you get is entirely foreign to you. It’s almost . . . longing.

Wherever she is, you’re pretty sure Aphrodite’s having a cosmic fucking laugh. And you’re sure she’s laughing double tonight.

The Aphrodite cabin is hosting some secret party for the older counsellors. You’re definitely of age to be a counsellor, but you’ve never been made one because that would probably make half the campers drop out. Chiron and Mr. D don’t know what to do with you. You’re sure you’ll be kicked out of camp soon for good.

But you’re here anyways, for a reason you don’t want to admit, and you stay tucked in a corner as the world around you mingles. Luke is on the other side of the room, lovely as always, laughing with a few other counsellors. He brings a drink up to his lips, and you have a startling thought of what it would be like to kiss him. And you’re fucked. You’re so fucked. Because for the first time in your life you want something tangible, something real. You want to hear him and feel him and pry him apart, and a part of you wants him to actually see you, see all the awful things that might make you the same. You feel like a teenage girl with a crush, and it is infuriating.

An Aphrodite girl comes up to you with a foolish smile. “Hey, sorry, you want a drink?”

“Fuck off, you idiot,” you snarl.

You wait for her to leave. She doesn’t. “You know, you don’t have to be so mean all the time,” she says evenly. “If you’re here, you might as well enjoy it. So yes, I want to give you a drink.”

“Have you ever thought that I’m not being mean? Maybe I just am.”

You glare at her. She looks you up and down. “Sure,” she shrugs, walking away. There’s a vivid picture in your mind of her falling through a hole in the cabin floor. It doesn’t soothe you, but at least the fantasy is there.

The night drones on. You’re sick of the smells and the laughs and the heat. And you’re sick of yourself. You can’t believe, underneath all your sourness, you came here to stare at a boy you barely know, and you don’t even know why. He’s fascinating, and you resent him, and he’s also beautiful. But he’s looked back at you all of three times tonight and you’re sick of the way your skin crawls when he does.

Leaving the cabin brings the relief of the cool night air, and the singularity of your body. You are the only one who feels this rage. You are the only one who hates.

To stave off your discomfort you walk around to the back of the cabin, to the crest of the hill facing the water. The stars above twinkle at you in spite. There’s a bitterness in your throat you want to wash down with something worse (maybe you should have taken that drink), but you know it won’t matter. Nothing matters. Those stars and whatever they hide are apparently the only important things in the universe, so why should anyone care about anything?

They stars only get brighter. It’s probably their goal to piss you off. You grunt, “Oh, fuck you,” to them. It’s not enough, never nearly enough to expel the rotten part of you. “Fuck you. Fuck off!” You groan at the sky. Nothing happens. Until:

“I’m guessing you’re not having a fun night.”

You whirl around. It’s hard to see in the dark, but whatever light is left catches a long scar on a cheek. Your stomach knots.

“Yeah, me neither,” Luke Castellan says, hands in his pockets as he meanders towards you.

Even when he’s close enough, you don’t say anything. If you do, you’re afraid it’ll be something ugly. Like I kind of want to make out with you. Are you awful too? I need a lobotomy.

The thoughts almost make you laugh. Been a long time since you’ve been funny.

He nods at the sky. “Those things don’t talk. You do know that, right?” He’s still so captivating, so self-assured, even when there’s no one around but you.

“Gods, you’re the worst,” you scoff. You really mean it, so you can’t look him in the eye.

“Then why have you been staring at me all night?”

It catches you so off-guard that you whip back to face him. He has an eyebrow raised and the itch of a smile that makes you burn with shame. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He shrugs, leaning against the cabin wall. “I’m not stupid. You’ve been brooding in the corner watching me the second you came in.” He cocks his head to the side, adding, “Actually, you stare at me all the time. At meals and stuff. I really hope you don’t think you’re being subtle.”

You huff. “Okay, if we’re really being honest here, you started that! You do it too! All the time!”

His hands shot up like he was being arrested. “Hey, I never said I minded it. A guy’s . . . just gotta wonder. What’s up with you spying on me when I’m training alone, anyways?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You watch me when there’s nobody else around. I’m not blind. It’s weird. If you want tips you can just ask me. Or if you like what you’re looking at, at least be upfront about it.”

You speak before you can take in that last sentence, or the way his smile took pride in itself when he said it, or how embarrassed you should probably feel. “You didn’t answer my question about why you started staring at me first.”

The anger (shame) blinding you made you forget how close you are to him right now. Close enough to touch, but not enough to see. But almost there. Almost.

“People think you’re mean,” Luke says after a moment, his dark eyes probing you. The words curl out of his mouth slowly, like he’s choosing them all with care. “You’re rude. You never listen to anyone. You judge everything. They all think you’re awful.” Again, he looks you over. “I’m not so sure.”

“If I’m awful, then you’re awful,” you spit before he can say anything else.

He just shrugs. “Well, I guess that’s why I’m not sure.”

It’s irritating, his calmness. He has the same anger you do. How come he can just . . . shove it down? You try to unearth any fury in his eyes, but it’s too far back. Simmering. “Jesus,” you mutter, “You’re worse than me.”

He looks genuinely taken aback by this. His scar deepens when his brows wrinkle. “What?”

“You’re a pretender—that’s what you are.” It’s your turn now, to step closer, to make his skin crawl. “Look at you. Everyone loves you. You’re this perfect golden boy and you’re sweet and attentive and whatever the fuck but you know it’s one giant lie. At least I’m honest, but you just sit pretty and act like you don’t have that . . . thing that I have. Resentment. Insanity. Whatever you want to call it. We’re the same, but I’m the only one getting shit for it.”

Now, you are close enough to really see him. The patterns on the wood behind him frame the vision of his ever-shifting face. You realize that this, like most things are to Luke Castellan, is a challenge. You also can’t remember the last time you saw him lose one.

But when you play, you play to win.

“You don’t know that,” he dares.

“Oh, I do. You’re rotten, Castellan,” you sneer, index finger jabbed into his chest. You can feel his heartbeat if you concentrate. “And you’re not owning up to it, so you’re also a coward.”

However scathing you look, it isn’t enough. If anything it only makes Luke’s manner more playful. Nothing feels playful anymore. Everything, inside and outside of your mind, feels like constant, exhausting war. Maybe that’s why you don’t slap his hand off you when it wraps around your wrist, keeping it pressed to the middle of his chest. His heartbeat thrums through you.

He tilts his face towards you, grinning, “Then why do you want to kiss me?”

All right. What the fuck. It feels like you’ve been electrocuted.

“What the—what are you talking about?” You blunder, but he knows, of course he knows, because there’s something between the two of you that has been formed and understood by eye contact alone. He can probably read your mind. As much as you don’t want to admit it, you’d like to read his just as much.

He cocks his head. “I mean, you did call me pretty,” he teases, and it’s almost endearing. “You’re pretty like this too.” His other hand comes up to your face, and you’re surprised you don’t flinch when his thumb gently smooths the crease in your eyebrows. “Don’t call me a coward, heathen. Then we’ll both be embarrassed.”

The nickname makes you want to fight, but the touch makes you dizzy. “You don’t want to kiss me, Luke,” you say with all the control you have, which, right now, is increasingly sparse.

“You’ve gotta stop telling people what they want,” he muses. The hand on your wrist traces further down your forearm. The one on your face snakes around your hips. “One of your more disagreeable qualities.”

His words fan over you. That fire simmering in his eyes has finally come to the surface.

“One of?” You challenge.

“You let me make out with you and I’ll give you a whole list.”

You snort, hoping it hides the shortness in your breath. “What a charmer you are.”

His lips brush yours. “Well, that’s what makes me so rotten, isn’t it?”

There’s hardly time to unravel if that’s a question or a statement because you grab a fistful of his shirt and he kisses you. Your heart detonates. It is not rotten in the slightest.

His body is warm and firm. You smell the cabin wood and the drink on his breath. It all matters, and none of it does. You’re warm everywhere as he wraps both arms around your back, and the way he kisses is, unfortunately, exactly how you thought he would. Your hands are tentative in his hair. So is your mouth on his. But Luke is so deliberate in the way he kisses that you know he’s thought about this, too. It makes you all the warmer.

His hand takes your jaw and tilts it up. You know your neck is shaky with breath, and you’re pretty sure he’s admiring it. You don’t complain when he presses a kiss to your jaw, then another one, like he’s testing the waters. “You’re so nice like this,” he mutters almost to himself, thumb running across your neck. “If only people could see you.”

“Then they’d see how mean you are too, no?” You huff. “You don’t want that.”

Another kiss to your jaw. “Not yet, sweetheart.”

Whatever feeling is harbouring in your body right now, it’s so fulfilling it almost makes you uncomfortable. You want to reject it. You’re not supposed to want things. Worse, you’re not supposed to get things. Luke starts marking a path down your neck and you are so determined to enjoy this that you’d kiss a fucking baby if someone asked you to. You might as well be a saint.

He bites the pulse point on your neck, sure to leave a mark, and a shudder rips through you. You’re pretty sure the bastard starts laughing. You hit his shoulder in retaliation.

“Easy, heathen,” he reprimands in your ear, and you know he’s still smiling.

“Don’t—don’t call me that.” You hate that you start to smile, too, and that your stomach burgeons with butterflies when he pulls back to look at you.

He touches the corner of your upturned mouth, kiss-bitten and red. His expression is boyish. “Hard to when it makes your face do that,” he goads. “I thought it was impossible for you to smile.”

“Be quiet.” You thread a hand through his camp necklace and bring him closer. You can almost taste his mouth on yours, but he sweeps past you at the last minute.

He gently tugs your earlobe with his teeth and whispers, “Yes ma’am.”

Fuck him. Seriously. You might have to.

It’s a tangle of teeth and hands and smiles kept hidden, as you slip your fingertips beneath his shirt and he does the same, and you’re both angry and greedy and incredibly destructive, but it doesn’t matter yet. Now you’re just teenagers fooling around at the back of a party, and it’s the first good thing either of you have had in a long time. Luke leaves you gasping whenever his mouth hits certain places, maybe too many places, and he teases you accordingly. “So sensitive,” he taunts, pressing his knee between your legs so he can see you squirm. You rake your nails through his scalp and he tilts his head back to groan. It shuts him up for a while.

He bites your neck until you say his name. You trace lines on his stomach till he takes your hand in his own. You’ve been hungry for something your whole life, and you finally have something to sink your teeth into. For better or for worse.

After Hades knows how long, laughter floats out from the front of the cabin. Sounds of feet tripping over each other and muffled goodbyes. You pull away from Luke, chests heaving together. His hair is wild, his shirt crumpled, and he looks entirely satisfied with it. Smug little shit. “Party’s letting out,” you mutter.

“What a damn shame.” His hand rubs your jaw, and it’s too tender a gesture so you angle your head away to peek over the side of the cabin. You barely pay attention to the kids straggling back to their bunks.

“Is now the time you tell me all my horrible qualities?” You ask once you’re ready to look at him again.

He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Actually, I came up with more since I said that so I’m pretty sure it’ll take more than one night.” He fakes a wince, “Might have to spread it out for a few days.”

You roll your eyes, “Oh, you ass.”

“I’ll give you one for starters.” You feel like a tornado when he kisses the juncture between your jaw and your neck. “Your hands are too cold.” They’re tucked underneath his shirt right now, pressed against his back. You don’t move them. “And,” he adds, “you’re incredibly crass.”

“Thanks, dipshit.”

“Thank you for proving my point, heathen.”

The commotion at the front gets louder, and you know your time to go undiscovered runs short. “You meet me again tomorrow, and I start telling you the rest?” He raises his brows.

The prospect both repulses and excites you, although perhaps they’re hand-in-hand. You tentatively reach up to trace the scar on his face. A faint, jagged line that holds scripture within it. His eyes flutter shut for a moment. “Even though I’m rotten?” You ask, and there’s an echo of mischief in your voice, too.

He’s got a strange expression when he looks at you. “That’s not true.”

He leans down, angles his head to kiss you. It’s slow, but bitter, and he bites down on your lip until you’re pretty sure there’s blood. “Luke,” you murmur, and he kisses you softer. You lean into him like a hapless, lovesick fool.

After you part, he loosens his grip on you. The bumbling campers have gotten louder. He stares at you, and you see the chasm in his eyes again, brimming with fire. Same as yours. You know you’ll see him tomorrow.

He says, “You’re not rotten. You’re right.”

And damn it, you really do believe him.

#perrie’s fics #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #percy jackson #percy jackson and the olympians #pjo x reader #pjo series #pjo tv show #luke castellan smut #pjo #heroes of olympus #charlie bushnell #i like sexy evil people making out okay. #maybe will make a part 2 to this series because i’m just so fascinated by their weird little dynamic but we’ll see #i kind of hate this but WE MOVE ANYWAYS!!

[malice-ov-mercy]

Music, Love, and Sex

Summary: Lillian is filming a music video for a new single. Only problem is, it’s the duet, which means Will is also present for filming. Having him in the track was already horrible enough, now he has to be in the video too?

Song & Video: The Promise - In This Moment

Playlist for further vibes

Pairing: Will Ramos x OFC (Lillian)

Content Warnings: 18+!, smut, unprotected (p in v) sex, fingering, oral (female receiving), alcohol consumption, angst

A/N: Remember when I said something about a Will hatefuck fic??? Well…… here. The “hate” part of the hatefuck kinda got lost I think, but that’s okay I guess???? This shit fought me so hard. I want this to be a series, but with how fucking much I struggled with just this, I don’t know if I can manage. also totally unrelated, but y’all don’t know how BADLY I want a version of that song with Will. And Noah. AND Corey Taylor.

Word Count: 6.7k

Tag list: @circle-with-me @xxrainstorm @foliosriot @nyxthedestroyerofworlds @reader13000 @sammyjoeee @cookiesupplier @concretenoah @witchyweeb34 @agravemisstake @an-insane-day @lyschko666 @calisto-thoughts @agravemisstake @emzandthevoid @shroomfairy24

If you would like to be added, please let me know for who! If you tell me everyone/everything, just know that includes anything I may write for Bad Omens AND/OR Lorna Shore.

Will Ramos Masterlist

Warmth filled my mouth then throat, the hot tea and honey soothing the soreness and scratchiness I’d been dealing with for the past few days. Admittedly, I’d not been taking the best care of my voice lately, and it was starting to show. I’d been pushing myself far beyond my limits, blatantly ignoring my body telling me to stop. The strain every time I screamed or forced myself to hit notes I knew I struggled with came to a head this morning during my warm ups.

A million tiny little needles poked and scraped along my esophagus every time I spoke. My voice was all rasp and sounded like I’d been chain smoking for thirty years. Everyone asked if I was sick, but I wasn’t. Filming was almost done and I didn’t want to drag it out any longer. I could power through the final day and worry about the repercussions of pushing myself later.

“You know,”

I heaved a sigh and reluctantly looked at the man whose voice grated against my ears.

I leered at Will, pure disdain plastered on my face. His smug fucking smile sparked a fire under my skin. He hadn’t even bothered to try with his appearance, sporting his usual incredibly distressed and torn jeans and black hoodie. The director thought it was a nice contrast to my dress, stating that it further enhanced the story the video and song were trying to convey. I disagreed, but my protesting fell on deaf ears.

“I could offer you some tips to take care of your voice so you don’t ruin it.” He finished, stopping directly in front of me.

Overconfidence and prideful spite coursed in my blood, festering throughout my body. I had nothing to prove to anyone, I knew my ability and talent. The audacity of this man to think I needed his help with anything was insulting. I’d gotten this far on my own, and I damn sure wasn’t going to take advice from someone whose crowning moment was making dumb animal noises.

“If I wanted your help, I would’ve asked.” I spat.

The light chuckle he let out only angered me more.

“What’s with the hostility, Lilli?” Will said.

He placed both of his hands on the arm rests of my chair, effectively caging me in. I narrowed my eyes as he leaned down. His face was much too close to mine. The soothing, comforting spiced warmth of his cologne invaded my nostrils, casting a cloud around my head and enveloping me.

Will’s eyes deliberately landed on my lips.

“You should wear red lipstick.” His voice was low, a touch of seduction behind his tone. “I think it’d look good smeared on my face.”

He parted his lips and leaned in ever so slightly, fixing his eyes on mine. A smirk spread on his face as I stiffened.

“Try not to catch feelings.” Will whispered.

His warm breath fanned over my lips. An overwhelming urge to spit in his face came over me, but I was a grown ass adult. I couldn’t resort to that—as much as I would have loved to see the look on his face.

“I’d rather eat my own shit.”

Neither of us moved. We stayed locked in our stare down. I refused to give him the satisfaction of letting him win. The shit eating grin on his face boiled my blood. A deep scowl embedded itself on my face.

Will shifted, slotting himself even closer to me. I had to angle my neck to keep eye contact with him.

“I’d hate to see that pretty face of yours get stuck like that, petal.”

As I was about to reach up and slap the taste from his mouth, Austin’s voice cut through the tension.

“What’s going on here? You two getting in some practice?” He joked, either ignoring or not picking up the clear and utter rage seeping from me.

“Get him away from me Austin, before you guys have to find another vocalist.” The threat tumbled from my mouth. It didn’t sound as dangerous as I intended.

Will licked his lips, tongue dangerously close to grazing mine. He studied me a moment longer then scoffed, stealing a portion of my breath as he stepped back. He turned on his heel and walked away, keeping his focus in front of him.

My head pounded in time with my heart. I kept my eyes on him until he disappeared somewhere on set.

“That was a little fucked up Lillian.” Austin scolded me.

He handed me a bag of throat lozenges, a disapproving expression on his face.

“I’ll apologize to you, but he can kiss my ass.” I rolled my eyes and tossed a lozenge in my mouth. “He’s done nothing but get under my skin since meeting him. He shouldn’t even be here anyway. He wasn’t my choice for the song.”

I could feel the annoyance and irritation radiating off of Austin. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily. I knew it bothered him how much I disliked Will, but their bond wasn’t important to me. I only cared about mine and Austin’s. Will was nothing but a thorn in my side.

“It’s not Will’s fault the shit with Noah fell through.” He reminded me.

“I know that.”

Austin fixed his eyes on me. His scrutinizing stare made me squirm.

“I’m gonna tell you this again,” he raised his brows, wagging his finger at me while he spoke. “It was a blessing in disguise. Will fits the song better, whether you want to admit it or not Lillian.”

If I rolled my eyes any harder, they’d be stuck in the back of my head—but Austin was right.

What little I managed to work on with Noah sounded good, it just didn’t have the vibe I was hoping for. After that first session together, he and the rest of his band unexpectedly became incredibly busy. We couldn’t make the time to finish the song and eventually it fell apart, leaving me panicked and scrambling to find a replacement.

Austin being the wonderful, supportive, best friend he is, suggested Will. On paper, it looked great. His band and myself were gaining traction like crazy. It would give everyone exposure to our differing fanbases. I would’ve been an idiot to decline, but I still tried to find someone else before eventually agreeing.

Everything started off great and promising. We were polite and friendly, excited to be working together. However, Will and I quickly began to butt heads, resulting in heated arguments and having to stand my ground more than I would’ve liked. It’s a miracle we managed to work together at all, let alone actually finish the song.

“I don’t appreciate the lecture you’re trying to give me.” I turned my attention back to my now lukewarm tea. “Thank you for the lozenges, though.”

Austin heaved a sigh. “I’m not trying to lecture you Lilli. Honest.”

I ignored him, focusing intensely on my cup and the lingering flavor of the honey lemon lozenge. He waited a few beats before giving up and scrubbing his hands over his face.

“Okay. Well, we’re going out after wrapping up. You should come.”

“I have things I need to do.” I lied. Literally anything else sounded better than spending even more time with Will.

Austin wrapped an arm above my chest and hugged me. I gave his arm a few quick pats.

“Adam’s gonna be there.”

My heart jumped.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I felt the smirk on his lips as he pressed a quick kiss to the side of my head.

“I’ll shoot a text with the details. Have fun with Will.”

Austin squeezed me one last time before disappearing in the same direction after Will.

I did everything in my power to wear anything but red lipstick. Various different shades of pink, nudes—even black, but unfortunately for me, the director insisted on the red.

“It looks better with the dress and it’ll make the pay off for the kiss even better.” I quietly mocked.

The kiss. The big scene. The thing I’ve been dreading all morning. I thought about eating copious amounts of garlic and onion beforehand, but Austin scolded the hell outta me. He knew I’d flip my lid if Will did that to me. Instead, I made sure to pop a mint before taking my place. I just hoped he didn’t like spearmint.

Pins and needles pricked my hands and fingers. I rubbed them together hoping to ease the tingling, only to be met with more stinging pain. I grimaced and shook out my hands.

Deep breaths, Lillian. You’re almost done.

I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing.

It’s just a stupid kiss. It’s part of the job. Just… Think of anyone else.

Hands settled themselves on my shoulders, startling me out of my head.

“Relax, petal, it’s just me.” Will whispered in my ear.

The warmth of his touch and the gentleness of his hands caressing my arms soothed my anxiety and nerves a smidge—not that I would ever let him know that. Or how soft his hands were. Or that the infuriatingly sweet sound of the pet name made me blush.

“Okay! Last scene! Let’s make it a good one!” The director yelled out. “Will, Lillian, make it believable!”

He pressed his forehead to the back of my head as the track kicked on again. I instantly threw out the creeping thoughts of Will.

“My promise is I will hurt you.”

Will’s breath was light and warm on my neck as he sang. He slid his hand down and up my arm. I turned around in his embrace, his hand slipping to my waist. He pulled me closer and I clutched his side. I tried to ignore the deafening thud of my heart in my ears.

“My promise is I will hurt you.”

His other hand caressed the back of my neck. My lips parted slightly as he tipped my head back. He softly tugged my bottom lip with his thumb. Lust billowed from his eyes, like smoke from a raging fire, surrounding me and making it difficult to breathe. I found myself being dragged under his spell and I couldn’t stop it.

“My promise is I will hurt you.”

Our voices blended together, the sound hauntingly beautiful.

As the last few notes of the song played, Will’s eyes flicked to my crimson painted lips, his own parting in anticipation. I leaned in. My tongue delicately licked his bottom lip, capturing it in a sensual, hot kiss. Will’s hand at my neck flexed, gently tightening his grasp and pulling me closer. His tongue slipped in my mouth, a small, content sigh escaping him as ours met and tangled together.

His lips were soft and slotted perfectly with mine. Every breath I took, he stole. I felt detached from myself, lost in the moment and sensation of him. Will teasingly nipped my bottom lip. A tiny smirk tugged the corners of his mouth at the quiet, involuntary moan I made.

Will slipped his hand from my neck, trailing it slowly down to the top of my chest, thumb resting at my pulse. My heart pounded behind my rib cage like it was trying to escape its confines. There was no way he didn’t feel it.

Delicately, he pressed his fingers into my neck, not enough to choke, but enough to make me short circuit and cling to him. My head felt empty, but so full of air. He moved to cradle the back of my skull, his fingers gripping strands of my hair with a gentle roughness. His arm wrapped entirely around my waist.

With a barely there breath, I broke our passionate kiss. My lungs burned from the lack of oxygen. Will nuzzled his nose to my cheek. He kissed the corner of my mouth. His hand slipped from my hair, moving it back to my neck. He pressed his thumb firmly to my pulse.

“Your heart’s racing, Lilli.” He whispered, low and sultry.

I dared a glance at him. Bright crimson was smeared all over his mouth and kiss swollen lips. Will’s eyes burned fiercely with a deep carnal desire so intense, it my stomach flip. He looked at me as if he wanted to devour me whole, like he hadn’t had a meal in days and I was the only thing that could satisfy his voracious appetite. A wave of goosebumps prickled over my skin. The fervency in his gaze stirred something inside me. I craved more.

A chorus of applause and whistling erupted, popping the bubble around me and Will. I quickly pushed myself out of his grasp and hurried off set. I needed out of here and away from this place—especially Will. Without even looking back, I knew he was watching me. I coud feel his scorching eyes on my back.

My face burned like hot coals and the thoughts clambering in my head were giving me a headache. His uncanny ability to claw his way under my skin and twist me around was infuriating.

How could I have let him trap me like that? How could I have let myself enjoy kissing him?

The rest of my day was spent trying to forget the video shoot. No amount of scrubbing or cold water helped me shake the lingering sensation of Will’s lips. It spread like a poison through my body. Every time my eyes closed, the scene replayed on the back of my lids. His soft touch, the warmth and glossed over look in his eyes. My lungs still felt empty.

BZZT! BZZT!

My phone lit up with a text from Austin. I gave the message a quick read, happy to see that the bar was within walking distance of my apartment and one that I frequented often enough to have become a regular. They were all already there and waiting for me. I hadn’t told Austin if I planned to join them because truthfully I was still deciding. It wouldn’t take me long to get ready. I really just did not want to be near Will again.

Another message came through and I sighed, making my way to my closet to find the little black dress that hugged my curves in all the right ways.

“Just an hour,” I muttered to myself, stripping out of the sweats I was wearing. “I’m only staying for an hour. That’s all I have.”

I stared at the dress on the hanger, deciding to forego wearing underwear. Panty lines were something I didn’t want to subconsciously worry about tonight.

Damn Adam and my schoolgirl crush.

Loud music and a barrage of voices greeted me as I entered the bar. Glancing around, I spotted a small group of people far in the back laughing, instantly recognizing Austin’s figure. As if he felt me staring, he looked my direction. His brows raised as he took in my appearance and smirked. I saw him subtly nudge Adam’s foot with his own. Quickly, I turned away and walked towards the bar, taking the first seat I saw.

I gestured to the bartender who nodded in my direction. A searing gaze heated my skin. I glanced over my shoulder, immediately catching Will’s eyes boring into me. He stared a moment longer before hastily excusing himself and disappearing somewhere. I shifted in my seat to try and shake the lingering warmth.

A body blocked my view. I glanced up, a big smile spreading across my face.

“Is this seat taken?” He asked.

Standing up, I wrapped my arms around Adam’s neck, hugging him closely. His arms wrapped low around my waist.

“Of course not.” I sat down. “I’d be more offended if you didn’t sit.”

His chuckle and bright grin made my heart flutter.

“What’re you drinking?”

I brushed my hair away from my neck, gathering it all on my shoulder opposite of Adam. His eyes followed my movements like a hawk, not caring at all for subtly. Smoothing my hands over my thighs, I smiled coyly and pretended I didn’t notice his lingering gaze on my chest.

“I haven’t started yet.” I answered. Adam fixed his pretty blue eyes on mine.

The bartender came around and placed two lemon drop shots on the counter. I handed them my card then slid one of the shots to Adam.

“I can’t stay for long, so make it worth my while?”

Adam smiled again, a flirty glint in his eye. Grabbing the shot, he tipped it towards me.

“I can do that.”

We clinked our glasses together, tapping them on the counter before tossing them back. The sour sweetness of lemon hit harder than I expected. My whole body shivered. Adam grimaced slightly.

“So, tell me about the album.”

My evening with Adam would have been more enjoyable if Will didn’t spend his blatantly staring at me from across the bar. Every time I glanced up, his eyes were burning into me. Each look was more heated than the last. My body felt red hot, either from the alcohol or Will practically eye fucking me, I couldn’t tell. I definitely stayed longer than intended. The hour I allotted turned into three.

“I think I’ve hit my limit.” Adam said with a slur.

I pouted, batting my lashes. “One more shot? For me?”

Adam squinted. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Maybe.”

His scrunched face cracked into a smile. “You’ve convinced me, but this is the last one.”

He signaled for the bartender again while I sensed a familiar gaze on me. Despite the annoyance and anger bubbling in my stomach, I ignored it. I looked Will’s way every time, but I’ve had it with him. If he was trying to get under my skin, it worked.

The bartender returned with our shots. Before Adam could toss it back, I stopped him by hooking my arm around his. He looked stunned by our sudden closeness. In my periphery, I noticed Will stiffen.

“Last one. Might as well make it count, right?” I said, low and sultry.

Adam’s eyes flicked to my lips then back to me.

“Absolutely.”

I felt the rumble in his voice deep in my bones—and pussy. Our eyes and arms stayed locked together as we struggled to take our shots through our giggles. We spilled more than half of them on ourselves, but neither of us cared. Being so close to Adam was far more intoxicating than the booze flowing in my blood. His lips were so close I could almost taste them.

“You have really pretty eyes.” Adam leaned in closer. “They’re like sapphires.”

My cheeks flushed. Our faces were mere inches apart. It wouldn’t take much to close the distance. Adam’s large hand delicately landed on my knee. A set of brown daggers bore into the side of my face.

“Your card, Lillian.” The bartender’s voice broke through mine and Adam’s atmosphere.

Adam retracted his hand. Coldness quickly replaced the warmth he left. All the alcohol I consumed rushed to my head. I thanked them and shoved the card back in my purse.

“I, uh, should probably head home.” I forced a polite smile. “I stayed way too late.”

He mimicked my smile though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sure. You have a ride home?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

I wanted to tell him I was walking home, ask him if he’d walk me there, but that felt juvenile. Instead, I hugged him as tightly as I could and left him alone at the bar.

The temperature dropped quite a bit since I arrived. I shivered as I sat down on the bench, silently cursing myself for wearing such a short dress. It may have been black and long sleeved, but it damn near exposed my entire ass and certainly didn’t leave much to the imagination.

I ran my hands over my thighs in a poor attempt to warm them. The sound of the bar door opening caught my attention. I looked towards the sound, hoping to see Adam, only to be severely let down by Will’s unwelcome presence.

I didn’t even try to make the irritated groan I let out.

“Lilli—“

“Go away, Will.”

He walked over towards me and stopped. I refused to look at him. My head was already fuzzy and jumbled enough. I didn’t need his warm eyes or gentle expression fucking me up further.

Running a hand over his face, he sighed heavily.

“I’m not letting you sit out here drunk and alone.” Will said, sitting on the opposite side of the bench. “I was raised better than that.”

He draped an arm across the top of the bench and crossed his legs. There was a hint of malice behind that ‘I’, and it seemed like he was trying to imply something.

I scoffed. “I don’t need you to babysit me.”

Stifling tension grew between us. Even out here, his damn eyes warmed my skin. It infuriated me. I was sick of him staring at me.

I jumped off the bench and stormed off in the direction of my apartment.

“Lilli? Lilli!” He called after me. I hurried my pace when I heard him get up.

“Where are you going?! Lillian!”

The use of my full name stopped me dead in my tracks. I reeled around, momentarily startled by how close he was.

“Home!” My body trembled with the volume I shouted. “And more importantly: away from you!”

Will looked stunned at my sudden outburst. I hoped he felt the anger radiating from me.

Huffing another frustrated breath, I turned and continued stomping along the pavement. A shiver spread through my body. My blood was boiling but not enough to keep me warm. I hastily rummaged through my purse in search of my keys. A second set of footsteps started following a few paces behind me. Any fight or argument I had in me died when I felt something pleasantly warm settle on my shoulders

I turned my head just enough to see Will’s jacket draped over my shoulders, his spiced cologne swarming my nose.

“You’re shivering.” He said flatly.

Deciding it would be a waste of breath to argue, I let Will follow me home. He left plenty of space between us. His jacket was as close as I wanted him. The rest of the walk was uncomfortably quiet. Drunken exhaustion tugged heavily at my bones with every step. My bed had never been so enticing before. I was beyond ready to sleep this day away.

My building came into view and I sighed, feeling relieved. Will hurried to stand by my side. I punched in the code and the door unlocked.

“You can leave now, you annoying prick.” I yanked the door open.

“Not until I know you’re in your apartment.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re literally worse than a stray fucking puppy.”

My words seemed to have struck a nerve. He grabbed my wrist as I stepped through the door.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He tried pulling me back to him, but I ripped out of his grasp. Ignoring his angry yells after me, I took the steps two at a time. All the rage festering in my blood was on the verge of bursting open my skin. I don’t know how much more clear I could be with Will.

My fingers trembled as I desperately tried to unlock my door before Will followed.

“Sonuvabitch!” I spat, dropping my keys.

“LILLIAN!”

Will emerged from the stairwell. The neighbors were about to be very rudely awoken.

“FUCK OFF WILL!”

Finally, I got the door unlocked. Unfortunately, I couldn’t close it fast enough. Will snaked his way through, narrowly avoiding being crushed between the door frame and door.

“What the fuck is your problem, Lillian?!”

“YOU!” I shoved him against the door, causing it to slam shut. “You’ve done nothing but piss me off and get under my skin all day!”

I kicked off my shoes and forcefully shrugged off Will’s jacket, no longer finding the gesture kind or nice. He took a step towards me as I threw my purse down. I was seething. If looks could kill, Will would be dead where he stood. I closed the short distance between us and glared up defiantly at him. His own anger was evident on his face.

“You weren’t even my first choice for the song to begin with! You were hardly my second! I was too fucking nice to tell Austin no when he suggested you!”

Will scoffed. “You should be thanking him and me! If it wasn’t for me, you’re fucking song wouldn’t have taken off the way it did!”

Skin on skin echoed off the walls of my small apartment. My hand stung from the smack, but the red mark on Will’s face certainly helped ease the pain. Will licked his lips. His jaw tensed as he glared at me.

“How fucking dare you?” My voice shook with rage.

I raised my hand to slap him again, but he caught my wrist mid swing. He looked like he wanted to say something else. Will yanked me close to him, leaving whatever he wanted to say unspoken as he crashed our lips together. My tongue instantly slipped between his teeth, desperately seeking to tangle with his. His hands grabbed at my waist, needy and rough.

There was no tenderness in the kiss. Could it be passionate if it was fueled by hate and rage?

Will walked us backwards, pushing me against the nearest wall he could. He broke the kiss with a loud gasp, then kissed every millimeter of my jaw, trailing them down to my neck.

“You’re so hot when you act like you hate me.” Will husked, his breath searing my neck and covering the sensitive skin in playful, quick nips.

“It’s not an act.” My voice was breathless, almost needy.

His lips curved into a small smirk. “If you hated me, you wouldn’t be letting me kiss you.”

I muttered a quiet swear. He teasingly brushed his lips across my throat to get to the other side of my neck, taking great care to cover it just as thoroughly with soft bites.

Will inhaled deeply, pressing his body closer to mine. “You smell so good.”

His mouth attached to my neck again, licking a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses everywhere he could reach. I clutched his sides with a breathless sigh. Will softly rutted his hips into me. My head spun feeling the erection confined in his jeans. I arched my back in a silent plea, one he was more than happy to answer.

Will detached from me briefly and wrapped his arms around me, lifting me off the ground. I threaded my fingers in his hair, panting heavily.

“Where?” He asked in between a series of kisses.

I hooked my legs behind him as he walked over to my sofa. “Couch.”

Gently, Will set me on the plush cushions. My dress slid up, fully exposing my pussy. He planted a hand on the back of the couch and straddled my lap, caging me in.

His lustful eyes sliced into me. For the second time today, I found myself under his spell. I was frozen, hypnotized. My heart pounded against my ribs, the thudding deafening my ears. Will dipped his head and parted his lips, his warm breath fanning over mine. His free hand slipped between our bodies.

“I’d ask why you’re not wearing panties, but I don’t care.” His voice was low, drenched in desire. “Easier for me to get to.”

“Sure you don’t wanna make a snide remark? Don’t wanna call me me slut? Maybe a whore?”

He chuckled lightly against my neck. “Only if you’re into that, petal.”

Long, slender fingers delicately caressed my center. My eyes fluttered shut and my head fell back, giving Will total and complete access to my neck.

The urgency he had earlier waned. He explored the canvas of my throat, softly painting my skin with his tongue. A breathless moan ghosted past my lips as he nipped just above my collarbone. His middle fingers teasingly ran along my slit, then dipped into my wetness.

Will groaned quietly, becoming more aggressive with his bites as he collected my arousal. He teased my entrance, barely slipping inside, but enough to make me whine softly. The noise I made prompted him to insert his finger. I rewarded him with another moan, louder and more needy this time. The gentleness of his intimate touch and his roughness of teeth overwhelmed me. Every movement was purposeful and deliberate, working to figure out what made me tick. It didn’t take him long to find perfection.

“Shit,” I gasped, feeling a second finger slip inside.

“Lilli,” the sound of my name in Will’s sultry tone nearly broke me.

All I offered was a “hm?”

“I can’t help but wonder,” he curled his fingers, finding my sweet spot with such ease, it’s like he’d done it a thousand and one times, “Do you taste as good as you feel?”

Will smirked devilishly in the crook of my neck when he felt me throb.

“I’m pretty good with my tongue.”

“Put your money where your mouth is then.” I challenged him.

His lips curved then he harshly bit my neck.

“With fucking pleasure, petal.”

Will pulled his fingers from me and quickly sank to his knees. He spread my thighs open, eyes fixed on the dripping mess he helped make.

“What a pretty pussy.” He whispered to himself.

His lips connected to my thigh, warm breath fanning over the sensitive skin. He split his time, making sure to give each thigh adequate attention. Will followed the trail of bite marks, kissing every one of them so softly, I would have missed it if I wasn’t watching him.

I gasped quietly when his mouth ghosted over my outer lips. My eyes fluttered shut. He blessed my pussy with light, gentle kisses before licking a long stripe and spreading me open.

“God I fucking hate you,” I moaned, arching my back.

Will groaned between my legs, licking my pussy like a man starved. His experienced tongue worked in ways I don’t think even sober me could comprehend. The noises he pulled from me were loud and shameful. Every whimper I made fueled him. He pushed my thighs further open and back. I glanced down at him, instantly finding his lustful stare. I ignored the fluttering in my chest.

An inhuman grunt sounded from Will, almost resembling a snarl. The noise vibrated through me, causing me to buck my hips and toss my head back.

“Fuck.”

His nose brushed my clit as he lapped desperately. The obscene, feral snarling was insanely hot and arousing. The starving man was gone and had been replaced with a rabid, unhinged animal. He couldn’t devour me fast enough. I grabbed a fistful of his wild curls, tugging the locks roughly at the root. Will grunted as I guided his head where I wanted him. He sucked my clit between his lips, and flattened his tongue, firmly pressing his tongue against the sensitive bud.

My eyes rolled back, a tense knot forming in my gut. I gripped his hair tighter. Will noticed the change in my breathing. His fingers dug into my thighs. He submissively let me grind his face against me, going where I moved him.

His name set heavily on the tip of my tongue, but I managed to swallow it down before the knot loosened, giving way to my climax. Stars plastered the back of my eyelids. An erotic, depraved cacophony filled my apartment. My chest heaved with a blend of loud and whisper quiet moans. Will didn’t stop until my wailing did.

He softly brought my legs down, peppering my pussy and inner thighs with more kisses peered up at me. The tip of his nose to the bottom of his chin glistening. He looked great down on his knees.

Something overcame me. In a quick motion, I reached for Will’s face, bringing his lips back to mine. I’d tasted myself plenty, but something about Will made the taste better. Carnal desire buzzed under my skin. I never needed anyone as badly as I needed Will right now

I broke the kiss and leaned away from Will so I could look in his eyes. He followed after me trying to chase my lips. The absolute pure, unadulterated lust in his eyes washed over me, saturating me entirely. An unfamiliar emotion swelled in my chest.

“I need you.” I whispered, scared I would break through the world we created.

“You can have me, Lillian.” Will breathed against my lips then connected them once more.

My hands left Will’s face and went for his jeans. I palmed his bulge, relishing in the small noise he made. He rutted into my hand, his own desperation giving way. I unbuttoned and unzipped him then tugged at the waistbands of his pants and underwear, freeing him slightly.

With a gentle touch, I wrapped my hand around his hard cock. We both moaned, me at his size and Will at my firm grip. I swiped my thumb over his leaking tip. Will gasped softly, gripping the back of the couch. His quiet whimpers as I touched him, jerking slow and methodical, greatly turned me on. I brought my other hand to my pussy, not at all surprised to find myself soaked.

Will’s eyes were scrunched tight. I ran my slick covered fingers over the head of his cock, and he whined. The needy, outright pathetic sound shot straight to my core. He started thrusting as I continued to stroke him. Seeing him melt into a mess at just my hands almost made me forget how desperately I needed him inside me.

“Lillian,” he whined, lost in his own pleasure.

“What is it, pretty boy?” I brushed our lips together, a small smirk on my face. His dick twitched ever so slightly.

Without warning, Will ripped my hands away from him. Momentarily confused, I watched as he hastily removed his shoes and shoved his bottoms down past his knees, his cock springing free. I hurriedly shifted so I was laying on my back. I spread my legs as wide as could, giving him plenty of access. Will came back to me, hovering over my body and staring deep into the depths of my being.

He grabbed his dick and slid the tip up and down my slit.

“For someone who says they hate me, you sure are wet.”

I squirmed under him as he rubbed my clit with his tip.

“Believe me, I do fucking hate you.”

Will huffed a laugh. He leaned down, pressing his lips to my ear and cock to my entrance.

“I’m gonna enjoy fucking that attitude out of you.”

His voice was dark and seedy, a complete and utter contrast to everything else I’ve known from him. The words sent a delightful shudder through my bones.

My retort died in my throat as Will slammed into me, making me cry out. He pulled out, leaving just his tip inside, then pounded me again, bottoming out. His cock stretched me, filling me entirely. My walls clenched, molding around his size. His thrusts were deep and long. It didn’t take me long to be rendered speechless.

“Fuck, you feel so. Fucking. Good,” Will grunted, accentuating his words with powerful thrusts.

One of his hands roughly grabbed my breast. His teeth grazed along my jaw. My hands slipped under his shirt and I pressed my fingertips into his taut abs. His skin was so warm and soft.

“I wish I could feel more of your skin.” He husked.

A shrill moan erupted from me. I dug my nails into his waist. The tip of Will’s cock hit the sensitive spongy spot inside. My mouth fell open, a string of incoherent babbling and salacious moans escaping me with every strained breath I took, unable to think of anything but the immense pleasure as he kept his pace.

“You sound so fucking pretty falling apart, petal,” Will rasped into my neck. “I need you to sing louder for me.”

And I did. I cried out every sound he wanted to hear, his own pleasure filled sounds drowned out by mine.

“That’s it,” his breath was blindingly hot on my mouth, “Sing for me, my little songbird.”

A second orgasm barreled through me. I clutched shamelessly and desperately to Will. I pulled his chest flush to mine and wrapped my legs around him, keeping him buried inside as my walls clenched around his dick. He murmured something, but I was lost to ecstasy.

Will licked my bottom lip into his mouth then unloaded, his strained whimper getting caught in our sloppy, desperate mashing of lips and tongues. He thrust with each spasm of his cock, fucking his cum inside me slow and deep, making sure my cunt received every last drop.

The fire between us dwindled as exhaustion pulled at our muscles. Our kiss became lazy, turning to simple soft pecks then to merely ghosting together. He tenderly pressed his forehead to mine, breath heavy on my lips. Gently, I placed my hand on his cheek. Will lifted his head enough to look me in my eyes. The heat I felt all night from his stare washed over me once again, only this time it was calmer, more like a comforting warmth of a fireplace on a snowy winter’s night.

Will kept his intense gaze fixed on mine and kissed the inside of my wrist. My heart skipped and I wondered if he felt it. I craned my neck and brought our lips together again, overcome with the desire for him to steal every breath I had remaining in my lungs.

For that moment, I forgot all about how much I despised Will.

WILL’S POV

I could have left her to sleep on the couch. I didn’t need to carry her to bed, but she looked so uncomfortable curled up on the couch. Soft snores fluttered past her lips. She looked ethereal in the moonlight, a soft silver glow illuminating her figure. Her chest and neck was littered in tiny little bruises from my teeth. She would be furious when she saw them, I’m sure of it. I brushed strands of her onyx colored hair from her angelic face. My heart lurched. Fuck she was gorgeous.

I leaned down and softly kissed her plump lips. A small whine left her. I chuckled lightly and kissed her again, this time her lips curved in a tiny smile, one I would have missed if I wasn’t already focused on her mouth. Lillian shifted in her sleep and turned her body away from me.

With a defeated sigh, I pulled myself away from her. I doubt she would want me here in the morning, so I decided I should probably leave. I exited her room and walked towards the kitchen. Quietly, I looked through her cabinets for cups. Once I found them, I grabbed one and filled it with water. Next I went to her bathroom in search of ibuprofen. It felt like an invasion of privacy to rummage through her medicine cabinet, but leaving her water and medication was the least I could do.

My reflection grabbed my attention. Faintly, I could see color on my cheek from her smack. It still stung—and stirred something inside me that I would need to unpacked later—but it was rightfully deserved. Her song was great with or without me. She had immense talent. I don’t know why I said such a cruel thing.

I set the water and meds on her bedside table. I allowed myself to admire her one last time before placing one final kiss on her cheek.

Shutting the bedroom door behind me, I glanced around the living room for my jacket. It laid in a crumpled pile at the front door. I stared at it, internally debating if I should leave it or not.

If I take it, I have no reason to come back, but if I leave it, there’s a chance I do.

I scoffed at myself.

“‘I fucking hate you.’” I repeated her words. “Yeah, I wish that was a mutual feeling.”

I turned the handle, leaving my jacket on the floor as I left her apartment.

The irony of me telling her to not catch feelings only to fall victim to my own warning.

#will ramos x ofc #will ramos fanfiction #will ramos fanfic #will ramos fic #lorna shore fanfiction #lorna shore fanfic #lorna shore fic

[t00muchheart]

As I do when I am hyperfixating on something, I have read a LOT of supernatural fanfiction in the last few months, and I get a lot of the titles I read from other peoples’ recommendations or collections on ao3, so I figured I’d share some of my favorites in case anyone else is looking for recs :)

AUs:

Spirit of the West by teen_dean

This is a shock to literally no one who follows me because I regularly bring it up, but it honestly is one of the best things I’ve ever read. The 90s horse girl AU of your dreams (or, if you haven’t dreamed of one, that you never knew you needed). The storytelling is immaculate, the symbolism rich, and it only improves on re-reading

And this, your living kiss by opal_bullets

Poet Dean AU featuring genuinely beautiful comments on language and writing and how we encounter stories and words and what they can do, and also some honestly incredible poetry

where there is darkness by quiettewandering

Lighthouse keepers AU! this one is a bit mysterious and I did scream into a pillow after finishing it. If you know the story of the Flannan Isles lighthouse keepers, it is loosely inspired by that.

Phantasma by thisisapaige

Messy Dean, my beloved. Messy, Stanford-Era Dean, my beloved. Dean breaks off from John and buys a haunted house, and things sort of escalate.

For All You Young Hockey Players Out There, Pay Attention by thursdaysfallenangel

I don’t even watch hockey, but this AU kind of made me want to start. Rivals to friends to lovers all while dealing with the homophobia in the NHL

time has come today series by teen_dean

Team Free Will brings in teen Dean Winchester to help with a case, parallel worlds come into play; every version of Dean Winchester falls in love with Castiel & all the good stuff like that

What Baking Can Do by cowlovely

Baker & Dad Dean fic and Doctor Cas? What more could you ask for?

Everyone’s a Critic by Englandwouldfall

Food Critic Cas and Chef Dean meet in a truly unfortunate way. This is worth it for Cas’s reviews alone, but also the Dean-Gabriel dynamic

FROTUS by kathscradle

A President Cas, Restaurant Owner Dean romance that was honestly just a good time

Fix-Its:

take the bones, begin anew by JustStandingHere

This was one of the first fics I read and it is sort of peak disaster™ Dean Winchester. I love a good “I fixed up a house for you and didn’t realize it meant I was in love” fic and this one is iconic

i want to do with you (what spring does with cherry trees) by sobsicles

I ugly cry every time I read this fic. It is a run of Cas and Dean’s relationship in seasons 13-15 and has Dean making a friend and it hurts but also it’s so good. Maybe my favorite Sam line of any fic comes from this fic ("If he thinks what you two do is friendship, then I must just be some guy he happens to speak to sometimes.”)

break the skin (to break the barriers) by sobsicles

Dean gets tattoos, and as he does, he tells the tattoo artist his life story. This is a post-15x19 fic told from an outside perspective and it is so well-done

Dumbassery, Denial, Doing by sobsicles

Listen tbh this list could be dominated by sobsicles and so I am showing restraint by only including three of their works. Their Dean characterization is everything to me and this fic really highlights Dean growing to understand himself better when given the freedom to

Revisions by bizarrestars

THEE what if Dean and Cas got together earlier and Chuck just wrote it out? fic.

a turn of the earth by microcomets

I love a work that explores pre-series Dean, and this one is great. Basically, think what-if later seasons Cas and pre-series Dean met (Strandlines by aeli_kindara is another good example of this premise, but in Strandlines, it is pre-series Cas as well as pre-series Dean).

psalm 40:2 by unicornpoe

On a similar note, psalm 40:2 is a great pre-series Dean, future-Cas fic. I am a bi Dean believer but this fic did sway me toward the gay Dean camp because it’s simply so good.

You Belong Among the Wildflowers by ImYourHoneyBee

Dean fixing his relationship with Jack? You got it. Dean trying to work through losing Cas? Yep. Dean getting Cas back by being stubborn? It’s there.

Who You Gonna Call? by saintedcastiel

Dean has a ghost following him around as he tries to start a life post-series, and for a while, he can’t figure out what’s happening. I love nothing more than Dean telling people he and Cas were married because he doesn’t know how else to explain and this fic delivers so hard

quilts by fleeceframe

A “Cas didn’t confess before getting taken to the Empty” fic. Soft things all around

Miscellaneous:

Fathers & Daughters by sinnabonka

On a different note, this is one of my favorite Claire fics. It looks at Claire’s relationship with Cas and the impossibility of it, and it’s so artfully done.

Bus Loop Madness by batz_in_blue

Literally just a “what if everyone lived, Jack was a toddler, and they all picked him up from school?” AU. I audibly laughed while reading this, and it’s an essential pick-me-up from the heavier fics.

More of my favorite sobsicles fics include: gorging myself on you, still can’t get full (insatiable), and he’s back (with a mind of his own), six hundred sundays (and many more), oh sooner or later it all comes down to faith, things happen (they do, they do, and they do), according to all known laws of life, and profoundly bonded (by law)

Also, honorable mentions to Ninety One Whiskey, which is such a good fic, and Make a Believer Outta Me, which is a Hocus Pocus AU that is honestly just a fun time.

#spn #supernatural #dean winchester #castiel #cas #destiel #deancas #casdean #claire novak #jack kline #supernatural fanfiction #fic recs

[cafecliche]

fic writer meme!

[RISES FROM THE DEPTHS] I'm here!! Thank you so much @uhuraisgay and @englishsub for the tags, and also for reminding me that I've missed Tumblr

1. how many works do you have on ao3? 50 even - which was more than I thought!

2. what's your total ao3 wordcount? 187,448

3. what fandoms do you write for?

My fic-writing impulses come along like cicada seasons, except without any regularity whatsoever: I do a lot of dabbling in a lot of fandoms, I can never really tell if something's going to light my brain on fire. Most of my fic output came from Yuletide for a long while (I loved the grab bag aspect and writing little treats for small fandoms, but then my holidays got busier), and then Yuri on Ice and MDZS were my biggest fandoms by far, especially MDZS. I've written Yuwu recently, and I'd love to write some Trigun, LoZ, or Mysterious Lotus Casebook one of these days.

4. what are your top 5 fics by kudos?

grow

the only way out

The Guests of Cloud Recesses

detente

bespoke

And the soft animal is our runner-up at #6!

5. do you respond to comments?

I usually don't unless it's a request or a question, but I read and treasure every one.

6. what is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I am too tender for Bad Endings for the most part, but my canon-verse Nie Huaisang fic after me comes the flood does not end in a particularly good place for anyone involved. (But even then, we know it gets better for him eventually... albeit at the expense of several bystanders)

7. what's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I tend to write pretty gentle, occasionally LIGHTLY bittersweet happy endings (that's the cafecliche guarantee baby) but part of me wants to say 'the only way out' (and probably 'the yunmeng accords' series in general) here. I tend to write fic when I want to play around with the emotions or relationship dynamics that can already be found in canon, so 'the yunmeng accords' is probably as close to a fix-it as I'm going to get.

8. do you get hate on fics?

Not usually! I was part of the Great MDZS Anon Hate Train of 2021, but that was the worst I've ever gotten by several magnitudes - the vast majority of commenters are fabulous.

9. do you write smut?

Not yet! It's not off the table, though.

10. do you write crossovers? what's the craziest one you have written?

I actually don't think I've ever written a crossover! The closest I've ever gotten was when I look over my shoulder, but even that's 'Wangxian in a Conjuring-esque ghosthunters in love situation' and not really a formal Conjuring AU.

11. have you ever had a fic stolen?

I've had plagiarism brought to my attention a couple times, but truly just a handful. I still remember getting a message on FF.net that someone had ripped off a line from my Black Lagoon fic. The SCANDAL of it all.

12. have you ever had a fic translated?

MDZS is the first fandom where I've gotten translation requests, which is always so cool! To my knowledge, I've had fics translated into Russian, Spanish, and Ukranian.

13. have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, but brainstorming fic concepts with my brilliant friends is one of my favorite thing in the world.

14. what's your all time favorite ship?

omg ever? Well Victuuri and Wangxian have been the ones that really lit my brain on fire (if I own the Nendos, it's serious) but let me also throw it back to Fakir and Ahiru in Princess Tutu. That is ROMANCE.

15. what is a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I would have really liked to have one more entry to 'the yunmeng accords!' I had a couple of ideas that I really liked, but nothing that caught fire quite enough to dive into it. That said, I am currently working on something short and Yunmeng Shuangjie-related, at the very least...

16. what are your writing strengths?

Emotional through-lines, pacing, and that sweet, sweet catharsis. I'm drawn to particular fandoms when they leave me with an emotion that I need to break down over the course of several thousand words, and I know that shows through in my writing.

17. what are your writing weaknesses?

Choreography! I'm not a very visual thinker, so sometimes it takes me a while just to figure out how to block the characters in a given scene. I also have a lot of trouble getting into a draft until I figure out the voice, which, when it comes to fanfic, will either come to me extremely easily or not at all.

18. thoughts of writing dialogue in another language in fics?

Yeah, absolutely! (But if you don't speak the language, do your research!)

19. first fandom you wrote for?

[rubs my temples] an X-Men crackfic.

20. favorite fic you have written?

Oh my god. WELL. 'grow' and 'the only way out' I think are the best fics I've written, and 'when I look over my shoulder' and 'the soft animal' are also extremely close to my heart. But 'detente' might be the favorite child. It just gushed out of me.

I think a great many of you have been tagged at this point, so sorry for any double-tags, but: @bluecrystalrainingdaggers @tigerjpg @floofyfluff @vinelark and anyone else who'd like to go for it!

#hi! I'm still here #writing meme

[captainjunglegym]

WIP Wednesday - 31/01/2024

Tagged by jon @bigassbowlingballhead <3

Uhhh so much in my brain here's a few things. Once I've finished my groundhog day fic, Henry Fox is Alive (which shall b soon) I'll do another long form firstprince fic AND some other short smutty ones too i believe

Untitled 'Other Woman' Fic (Firstprince, AU, chaptered)

Alex isn’t a detective. In fact, Alex is oblivious to most things. He didn’t know that his sister and his best friend were dating until Nora (the best friend) and June (the sister) were practically dry humping on his futon after his birthday party. He didn’t know that one of his law professors was part of a scheme that was laundering money for a corrupt business, even though the signs were there in hindsight. And his parents divorce? Well that certainly caught him off guard. But he isn’t stupid. Despite the aforementioned corrupt law professor, Alex does actually have a law degree from NYU and he does work at a very prestigious law firm in New York City. So, when the guy he’s been seeing, Marcus, accidentally texts him using the wrong name – well, he knows how it goes. Guys are cheaters. The texts say the following: Marcus 🍆 H, I’m going to be out of town thurs – Sunday for meetings (Lie, he's going upstate with Alex for a vacation.) Marcus 🍆 I love you and I’m kissing you (Barf) Marcus 🍆 Also remember the plumber is coming Friday to fix the sink in our ensuite (Oh, goodie they live together, and they have an ensuite. Pretentious pricks.) It takes Alex too long to realise, after he’d received these texts, that if Marcus lives with this H person, then it's Alex who is ‘the other woman.’ Fucking shit. And so, the detective work begins. He ghosts Marcus’ cheating ass, then sets about to find H and tell him he’s living with a lying cheating piece of shit. What could possibly go wrong?

No pressure tags for a few moots but it's late in the game y'all probs already been tagged! @eusuntgratie @sunnysideprince @nocoastposts @anincompletelist (and @ anyone who wants to get tagged! Again i've barely had this blog two minutes so let me know if you wanna get tagged in this stuff!)

other (more depraved) wips under the cut:

Untitled watersports fic (firstprince, canon, oneshot) 😵‍💫😳

Alex’s depraved mind lights up. “Get your cock out baby.” “What?” Henry squeaks. “Get your cock out,” Alex commands. “Let me get you hard so you can hold it better.” And Alex really is a certified freak, getting so much enjoyment out of this. But Henry, forever his good boy, does as he’s told and lets out little breathy moans as he pulls his cock out of his pants. He’s already a little hard, chubbed up from the pressure, and Alex wastes no time in getting his hands on it. He squeezes Henry’s cock in a way he knows feels good when you’re dying for a piss. Henry lets out a punchy little ‘uh’ and lets his head flop backwards onto the headrest. Alex begins pumping Henry’s cock slowly as it hardens, and it’s a little dry, but Alex has a feeling it won’t be dry for much longer.

An Invitation to fuck my mouth (Nick/Taylor RPF, oneshot, part of a series)

He finds himself staring. Any and all opportunity, Taylor will stare slack jawed and dumb, captivated by Nick’s elegant neck and those ridiculous lips. Nick could be talking to someone, a friend or something. He could be just sat there watching his dumb Arsenal on tv and Taylor will have to pinch the skin of his thigh to stop staring, to stop getting hard just from looking at him. But those lips. Taylor knows they feel good on his cock. And that neck. Well, Taylor isn’t unused to wrapping a hand around it. He wants more though. He wants to choke Nick with his cock. He wants to see his big dick fuck that throat raw. It’s depraved and dirty and a little scary. Nick’s not a delicate flower, but Taylor doesn’t want to hurt him. Wait. No. He kind of does. “Fuck.” He says out loud. “You alright darling?” Nick asks, oblivious. Yeah, he wants to fuck this man’s throat.

#fic tag #wip wednesday #its also barely wednesday for me now its 23:54 lol

[zgvlt]

acquired tastes trey clover x reader

summary: how food has brought you and trey together as friends, and later on as something more

tags: gender neutral reader, sfw, fluff, friends to lovers, 3.2k+ words, kissing, not descriptive but food is mentioned a lot, not beta read

author’s note (see end notes for more): The second fic to my five senses series. also, i did not write half of this sober oops and still not very sober, so if you see any typos... i will fix them when i can

[you can also read this on AO3]

You had shocked everyone the day you called him your husband, although nobody was more shocked than he was. As far as he was aware, he was not even your boyfriend, so being handed the title of your husband felt like… a promotion through nepotism and bribery. 

The nepotism equating to his being your close friend, the bribery being the food he began to habitually make for you. Honestly, it hadn’t even occurred to him that it happened so often that once-in-a-while gifts and favors had turned into routine and grateful expectations.

“Husband?!”

And of all people you had to say it in front of, it just had to be Riddle, who was somehow more flustered than he was… which was saying quite a lot, considering he was one wrongly-timed swallow away from choking. That would probably lead to the both of you getting lectured by his childhood friend.

Well, Trey thought to himself, he was probably going to get dragged into this conversation anyway, and he had no real plans of being in opposition to it.

There wasn’t like he had much to explain, considering he was relatively curious as well.

“Oh, you know, like a work husband… but for school?”

“A what?! Why would you have a separate spouse for work?” asked Riddle, and Trey wondered why you would even think that Riddle would know what a work husband was. “Or is it like the opposite of a stay-at-home husband? So… if it’s for school, a student husband? I know that Trey had his birthday recently, but that’s still…”

“Okay, okay, I’m not married. No one is, Riddle,” Trey finally interrupted, not sure he would like the way his friend’s train of thought was heading. 

“I don’t actually think the two of you are married,” Riddle said with a huff, although Trey’s not quite sure he buys it completely. Perhaps that had been Riddle’s attempt at mocking a friend? “It’s just… a weird choice for an endearment for two people of your age.”

“I mean, in this case it’s less endearment and more… It’s just an expression for two people who share a close relationship, and those two happen to work together. A relationship as friends.”

“Yeah! It’s like… because Trey is so supportive and trustworthy and kind and—”

“Okay, I know you want to help explain, but aren’t you saying too much?” Trey interjected, self-consciousness growing as he watched the look of realization slowly appear on Riddle’s face. What exactly was being realized Trey could not determine, but he doubted it was anything short of embarrassing. 

“—and Trey also makes the best pastries and desserts, and he’s also gotten pretty good at making lunch as well, and also he’s…” you trailed off upon catching his eye, as if you saw something to convince you enough compliments had been said, “basically, he’s wonderful and the epitome of an ideal partner in marriage, or just partner in general. So, you know, school husband!”

After a moment of silence, likely held for Trey more than anyone else, Riddle nodded his head in understanding.

“Not that I don’t agree, because I would say Trey possesses the qualities you speak of, but… isn’t husband quite a step too far? People will get visceral reactions,“ case in point, Riddle, “so why don’t you just call him your–”

“Riddle, fifteen minutes have passed since you’ve finished your meal. Shouldn’t we all head out of the hall now?”

Heartslabyul’s vice dorm leader never thought he would bring up the rules like this, especially in front of Riddle who he wished would stop following the rules too much, but he realized he was not against doing so if it helped him escape a tough situation. 

As Riddle grumbled over how he was less than a minute away from breaking a rule, he did not miss the pointed stare you threw him. 

“Maybe Riddle has a point. Should I just call you my school boyfriend, then?”

Boyfriend or husband, one thing stayed the same—Trey could not say he minded you considering him as either one, and that fact had served as the primary reason as to why he did not stop you from calling him as such.

It was easy to see where it had all begun—easy for him to see, at the very least. 

It had to be the night you chose to sneak into Heartslabyul's kitchen, far past bedtime, perhaps not quite realizing that he would still be in there, busy making sure every tart and cake would be put into the refrigerator for cooling, that no one would go steal something without replacing it. 

He tried not to make a habit of staying up too late for anything other than academics, but he supposed some habits were meant to be broken once or twice or every once in a while. Maybe he should be thankful he had been awake that night, only because he didn’t think he could ever have gotten close to you otherwise.

“Midnight snacking?” he had asked calmly, only really staring you down to make sure the food you retrieved wouldn’t be needed for tomorrow’s unbirthday party. On that note… were there actually any? His dorm’s first years were growing boys who enjoyed large portions, so premade food was usually low in quality. “Just make sure to brush your teeth after.”

“Will do~” he remembered you agreeing quite easily, too busy opening cupboard to cupboard in search of something edible to argue against the importance of good dental hygiene. By the disappointed look on your face, though, it was evident you couldn’t find any outside of the ingredients he often used in baking. 

To this day, Trey wonders if he would have stopped you then if you had asked to take some of the berries and chocolates reserved for pastries, or if he would have offered you a tart of your choosing from the selection to be served later that afternoon.

“You usually aren’t here this late, so I didn’t think I’d see you here.”

“So you’ve been here past midnight more than a few times?”

You had only laughed, although it appeared as though you were more ashamed of admitting it to him rather than the actions themselves. 

“On occasion,” you had replied with a hum, quietly eyeing him as he worked away with the last tray of dough. Back then, he had expected you to ask him for one—perhaps you were, wordlessly, a stare that remained intense even as you innocently batted your eyes at him. “Would you kick me out, then?”

“I’m not doing that,” he shrugged, more concerned over the fact that someone else was up this late rather than curfews or rule-breaking or anything of the sort, “but you should probably go back to bed. I can’t send you off with anything to eat, but what about a drink? Tea, milk, hot cocoa…?”

Trey remembers what you asked for, of course but what had really stuck in his mind was the way you gave him a knowing smile—he had never really had the chance to properly talk to you before then, but there you were, smiling at him like you’ve known him for years, like you understood him and his very being.

“Trey is a really caring person, isn’t he?”

Because Trey has been far gone for far longer than he would like to admit, he’s increasingly lenient with you. That’s not to say he just lets you get away with whatever you want (although you’ve never actually asked for something unreasonable before) but he definitely lets you get away with more things than he should.

“Now that’s not very nice,” Trey chided playfully… or, what he presumed had come off as playful. People tended to take his jokes seriously, and by the way you froze mid-scoop of the batter, he really did think you thought he was actually scolding you. Seriously, what had become of his reputation… “as long as the spoon is clean and you don’t double scoop, you can taste it.”

“Ah, I mean, I can just wait,” you laughed awkwardly, as though you felt bad all of a sudden, “geez, now it’s coming off as if I’m expecting you to give me… whatever it is you’re making.”

“Because you do expect it, and I always end up giving you some of everything,” Trey said, perhaps more self-aware than you at this moment. “I don’t mind, really, it’s always nice to get a second opinion.”

“Why are you making it sound like it’s my fault you give in so quickly?” you said, giving him an accusatory glance, “and hello, we know you’re confident when it comes to sweets. You’re wonderful 99% of the time—”

“Just 99%...?”

“—and the other 1%, you can just use your UM. You messing up is not even in the realm of possibilities.”

“Well, that aside, you were going to taste it if I didn’t catch you, so might as well?”

It takes Trey a while to realize what he’s really doing. He’s conscious enough to know that he’s grabbing a spoon from one of the drawers, to know that he’s scooping up a small but sufficient serving of batter with it. It’s only when the spoon is already against your lips that he recognizes the implications of his actions. What’s more, he can’t even retract his hand, not when you take a small bite, ultimately spoon fed by him.

Both of you look shocked—at each other’s actions, and at the actions you yourselves have committed. With the way the both of you reacted, it was as though some obscure rule by the Queen of Hearts had been broken, although from the half that Trey had memorized, he sincerely doubted it.  

What question had prevailed more in Trey’s head—the question of why he tried to give you a taste in that manner, or why you took a bite anyway instead of calling him out immediately?

“Aha, um, Trey–”

“It’s not what you think,” Trey immediately cut in, trying to look for a justification. Perhaps he should have thought harder, taking the time to word an explanation in his head rather than simply pouring his thoughts out like piping hot tea. “It’s not that I think of you as one of my siblings or as a kid. That’s not it at all.”

He said it as if that was the pressing matter, the misunderstanding to be avoided.

Perhaps it was, by the way your confused expression changed into relief with just a lingering hint of surprise. 

“That’s… pfft, that’s good to know. Thank you for letting me know, Trey.”

Trey’s not dense—he knows why his juniors have begun teasing him (and you), he knows the reason behind Vil’s snickering near-perfectly covered by his gloved hand, and he recognizes the inspiration behind the countless poems Rook has insisted he listen to.

The both of you, he thinks, are sensible people (sensible enough to not repeat the same actions in public, to keep everything in the kitchen—although he’s had one or two close calls, usually when you can’t help yourself from joking about it), but sense and sensibility can only go so far when his mouth listens less to the brain and more to the heart.

“Sure, I gotcha,” Trey agreed, not quite grasping what he’d committed to doing until the words leave his lips, “I’ll make lunch for you tomorrow.”

By all means it probably should not sound so big a deal—he made you small snacks and sweets all the time, taste and ingredients used adjusted to your liking. There was no denying anymore that those were for you specifically, not just things he was willing to give you bite-sized portions of.

But a meal was a big deal. The moment sugar and flour get taken away from the recipe, Trey’s confidence dwindles in his abilities. 

Not completely. He’s decent in regular cooking, just as he thinks himself decent in most things, but just decent would be troublesome in the long run. There was the Salisbury steak he specialized in, some variations of that, and the recipes he learned from the cooking elective program, but what would happen after that?

Yes, Trey knows that once he cooks lunch for you, there will be more and more times—whether it be by your request or his own volition—where he cooks you breakfast, or lunch, or dinner. Trey understands himself quite well, after all, so that much is just an inevitability. 

Should he search up recipes online, or should he consult the books in the library? He could send a text message to his parents and hope that he’ll sound normal enough—though they might question his intent considering there’s plenty of cooked food for purchase and consumption at school… 

“Wait, you don’t have to,” you protest, “wow, I can’t believe I’m actually protesting receiving food from you, but… isn’t that a waste of time? I should at least pay you.”

Trey’s natural instinct is to outright refuse. He doesn’t do these things to gain something out of it, just does it because he can; that your time and the evident admiration you hold for him—whatever extent that may truly be—was more than enough payment, enough to convince him to keep going.

His and your respective actions hurt neither one of you, so there was no reason to stop.

Trey’s second instinct is to joke, to tell you that you could pay for the ingredients, perhaps ask for an incredibly absurd amount of money that would be easily understood as a joke even with his line delivery.

He does neither. Instead, he asks—

“Maybe you could help me make lunch instead?”

The both of you are in the kitchen again. At some point, it had become common knowledge that if anyone needed to find either one of you, the first and best place to look would be Heartslabyul’s kitchen.

With all the time spent there, people would assume the both of you were cooking 24/7… but how sorely mistaken they would be.

Not to say there were no attempts, it was just… slow. Particularly when there was no schedule to be followed or deadline to be had.

Trey’s not one to push blame onto one person even for the most obvious of faults, definitely not so candidly, but the turn of events would be more your fault than his. It was a current that Trey did not get caught up in, but rather a flow he willingly went along with.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Trey asked, absentmindedly flipping through the recipe book displayed on the stand. The cake to be served for this afternoon’s unbirthday party had already been prepared, simply cooling in the fridge and waiting to be served, so there was no real reason to be looking through the pages.

If you asked, he was simply thinking about dinner… even though the book was primarily for sweets and pastries.

“Actually, it was husband first, and then boyfriend,” you corrected.

“Yeah, almost forgot my demotion there for a sec… or was it meant to be some form of promotion?”

“Not really, they’re the same thing. I was just letting you choose which one you liked more,” you laughed, opening the fridge to retrieve the sweets to be served in just a bit. That was the reason both of you were in the kitchen, after all, to get the food and not to chat, not to tease and be teased, and certainly not… would this classify as flirting? 

Yes, absolutely yes. He supposed he’s just been lulled to the idea that you simply do act differently with him, but there are certain things that you do and say that are new, as if something had finally clicked for you. 

As for Trey, something’s clicked for him too.

“Hmm… I suppose I’ll leave the choice to you,” Trey replied, pretending to look for the cake knives. He knows where they are, he’s simply… stalling. He wouldn’t call himself a coward, but building up courage requires time away from you in his line of sight. “But aren’t you worried?”

“Of what? Having other people hear?” you seemed to find his question funny, and he could imagine you rolling your eyes behind his back. “I said it in front of Riddle. The only reaction worse would be Ace’s—he’d pretend to be nauseated by us all the time if he heard.”

“Haha, yeah, but that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“I mean, won’t you… people are going to think I’m actually your boyfriend, so there’ll be less people approaching you,” he said. While he wasn’t exactly satisfied with his wording choice, he thought it got the job done without having to outright ask you directly.

“Ah, I thought it was already obvious that I don’t care about that?” If that wasn’t enough of a green light, you continued, “I… Do I seem interested in others, Trey?”

“Not really, no,” Trey answered with a surprising amount of ease. With how much time he had spent around you, he would notice… and he would admit with the slightest bit of a flush that he was aware that your eyes weren’t wandering around, looking for some other student you were interested in. You kept them on him and when they were not, he kept his own on you.

“I just needed to make sure.”

“Okay… and now that you’re sure, what will you do about it?” 

He pushed the question back to you, “what do you want to do about it?”

He finally turned to face you again, but your eyes did not meet his, not at first. You looked down at the cake on the table, a pretty purple thing with his favorite candies violets topping it.

“I’ll tell you some other time,” you responded. Without missing a beat, leaving no room for Trey to be disappointed, you added, “what I want right now… is a taste.”

Trey does not need to clarify what you pertain to, not when you blatantly look back up in time. Instead, he asks, “are you sure?”

You nod, and he takes a deep breath, holding it, a second for each step towards you. 

“Alright.”

You taste like the biscuits he gave you earlier—that’s the first thing Trey notices the instant his lips touched yours. There are other things, of course, like the spinning of his head and beating of his heart, and some other descriptions he would be able to write out if he had been granted the ability to wax poetic, but it is that lingering taste he focuses on.

It should be embarrassing how much he likes the idea—and more than just the idea—of it, the taste of his cooking in your mouth. Egotistic, something that provides him an unnecessary amount of pride. 

But he likes it for the mere fact that it reminds him of what brought you together in the first place. It is a simple reason, but it is reason enough for him to keep his lips hovered over yours, as if ready to go for another should you allow it.

You laughed, the movement and breath felt against his skin. Then, still quite joyfully, you murmured, “you taste like toothpaste… and maybe mouthwash, too.”

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” you said, shaking your head, “it reminds me of you, so I like it.”

my other trey fic and the sequel to the other trey fic end notes | masterlist of all my works | series masterlist

[1] This WHOLE thing... the original plan was just to have them kiss and for reader to go "haha you taste like mouthwash", yeah I just wanted to clown on Trey, but then I decided to give them some plot. It's quite standard and not exactly original, I admit, but hopefully it gives some background on how they see each other and their dynamic.

[2] This will probably be my last Trey x Reader for a while… meaning this year. I like him a lot, but it's time to put some focus on other characters, lol. I have characters I've yet to write for, so I should complete my WIPs for them.

[3] The fic banner… I chose the design because candied violets are Trey's favorite food. The cake I was imagining was ube (purple yam) and chocolate cheesecake, topped with candied violets… although I only put one in the design, lol. I got lazy to add more, sorry!

[4] Title Choice: acquired tastes… I usually take a while to figure out a title, but I knew this was the title I wanted even before writing out the fic. I just like how it's like they have acquired a taste of each other, but also they are each other's types -> to their tastes, but also just… food therefore taste. Yeah.

[5] Reading Trey's birthday story, I thought it was amusing that people took his jokes seriously, so I wanted to write Trey more playfully here. Reader is also playful in a different way than Trey, so because their teasing styles are different they get affected by each other, lol.

[6] Like I mentioned, I wanted to get this out for Trey's birthday, but I figured that this wouldn't be very good at all if I tried to make it to the deadline. Anyway, this was originally written for the Five Senses Mini Series I have and not his birthday, so I decided to take my time.

#trey clover x reader #trey clover x you #twst x reader #trey clover #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #twst x you #twst imagines #nathya twst writing #disney twisted wonderland

[the-revisionist]

Questions for Writers

Jeez, I forgot I left this in my drafts! Thanks for the tag, @calunalilly

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

31

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

My initial reaction to this question was, why are these fucking people asking me to do more math? Then I realized it's listed in the statistics tab on my dash. Which tells me 792,881 words. That seems low to me? (My writerly self-image is a verbose motherfucker.)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Currently Last Tango in Halifax, Happy Valley, Collateral. In the past I wrote a lot of words about Xena, well, uber Xena.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

The Tristan Chord, the marriage plot, The Wandering Star, The Argentinian Maneuver, and The Wild Nothing.

5. Do you respond to comments?

Absolutely. If ever I miss a response, it's likely because I have my head up the ass of real life. So if you've commented and I've not responded, I apologize.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I feel like they're all angsty? But I'd have to go way back to the Xena stuff for the truly angsty shit, probably Coup de Grace or Venezia.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Maybe The Argentinian Maneuver or a good fixed star.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not really. I've gotten a couple passive-aggressive comments here and there, but overall I'd say our tiny corner of fandom is filled with folks who have excellent manners and are very supportive of their writers. ;)

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

On occasion. You have to dig through a lot of adjectives and dubious metaphors, but it's there.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I guess Happy Valley/Collateral is crossover territory, no? Unfortunately it's not crazy.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware of but if I find anyone who does, I will seriously go Catherine Cawood on your ass.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, a series of old Uber Xena stories. Some brave soul translated them into French (!). I think there may have been one translated into Spanish as well. I have no idea if any of them are still available online.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Cowrote a mad little uber-Xena tale eons ago with my dear beloved @thelnjames. Good times!

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Caroline/Gillian on LTiH, and the uber-Xena pairing of Mel/Janice.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I would like to finish Perihelion, the crazy western LTiH AU I started years ago. Might have to rewatch Deadwood for inspo.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Knowing when all the shit I threw in the kitchen sink is too much (i.e., editing).

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I get too caught up in trying to write pretty and make everything a big old fucking metaphor.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

It gives me the shits. I tend to research a lot, so I would try to find a native speaker of said language to verify that what I've written is accurate.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Xena.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

This is like asking a mother, who is your favorite child?

I'm tagging anyone who's interested in doing this!

#writing #me

[dollypopup]

You are obviously THE Stein/Marie person of the Soul Eater fandom. Couple questions if you’d be so kind.

Any fanfics besides your own you’d recommend for Stein/Marie?

Also, would you mind sharing whatever your thoughts are on Stein and Spirit’s relationship?

(I finally finished the manga, so I can dive into your fics at last without fear of spoilers! 😊)

Oh wow! I am? Haha, I just love them so much as a couple! I think they bring out the absolute best in each other, and several years after the fact, I do still get giddy about them as a pair! That warms my heart that so many years later, people think of me when they think of this pairing <3

I have soooo many fanfic recommendations! I made a post ages ago about them, you can find it HERE but since making it there have been several great stories that have come out.

If You Read Anything, Read This

Worthy by @flourchildwrites (the best SteinMarie fic ever written. Period. and I'll say that with my entire chest over and over again. An exploration of them growing up together as Meister-Weapon pair. Poignant, perfectly in character, and so so well written)

Marie's Guide to Dating a Self-Proclaimed Sociopath by @ohmytheon (anything ohmytheon writes that's SteinMarie is a guaranteed BANGER. every single time. other fantastic fics by them include Just Breathe , From Great Heights , Who Did I Think We Were? , and if M and E are more your style, Sexology and there's something at work in my soul (FMA AU!!! brilliantly made)

Some one shots that are fun reads

Fluff

20/20 vision by supine_with_stein (eclaire_and_pocky)

Study Buddy

False Alarm! by benedicteggs

I Simply Must Be Loving You by lukieee

Cold Hands, Warm Heart by thehopelessunromantic (DoctorCannoli)

Kid Fics

Room for Two by MicrosuedeMouse

Paradigm Shift

Father Figure by benjaminfinns

Angst

Not Quite Lichtenberg by Webtrinsic

Becoming Naive by raspberryfanfics

Smut

Stitched by secret_wanderer19

As for Stein and Spirit, I'll put that one under a read more

I have some complicated feelings about Stein and Spirit. I think what Stein did to him is an irreparable harm, honestly, to the point where even at the end of the Manga and Series, Spirit has a lot of complex PTSD to work through regarding him. He's his watchdog, his babysitter, chained to him through circumstance whether he wants it or not. Spirit is a lonely man. I don't know how often that's discussed, but by the end of the series, truly, Spirit has lost everything.

At the start of it, this dynamic is different. Stein is the one who has nothing to his name save his talents when he first comes to and leaves the DWMA, and Spirit is the one who has everything. He has friends, a family. A daughter and a wife and a good job, a good meister. THE best meister, arguably, considering he is Lord Death's weapon. And then he ends it with nothing: a shattered relationship with his daughter he is still in the midst of attempting to fix, an ex-wife who cannot stand to be in the same country as him, friends who roll their eyes at his antics, a dead meister, a dead God.

You contrast this with Stein, who begins with nothing. A belief he cannot love, cannot be close to anyone, who experiments on his partner like a lab rat, distancing himself from the realities of this breach of trust. And then he ends the series with everything Spirit once had, on the up and up. A loving partner, close connections, a position of authority in his workplace, a daughter on the way.

Stein and Spirit are foils, when one is heads up, the other is tails. And I think there's a lot that Spirit wants to say to him that he can't, because he still has fear toward Stein. Very justifiable fear. And in truth, though I think Stein has some form of comradery with Spirit, he doesn't view him as a full person, which leads to a very strained relationship between them, if it can be truly called such. They're drawn together partly against their will, partly through circumstance, partly through the past. They have a lot to work through if they actually want to be friends (something I personally wouldn't consider them), but I think the reality is that Stein wasn't sorry, and that will always be a wall between them that will be insurmountable. He doesn't have remorse for what he did to Spirit, and I think Spirit may always feel some kind of way about 'What was it about me? You could do that to me but not to someone else? To Marie?'

Spirit has a lot to work through, personally, and Stein exacerbates that because he is the wound that Spirit cannot ever fully heal. Stein was, in many ways, Spirit's first heartbreak. Part of why he drinks, part of why he looks for escape in other things, other people. And though time has softened that, though Spirit may show up to a wedding (if there is one) or to visit Baby Shelley (my own HC for the baby girl he and Marie have), there will always have to be some distance there, so Spirit doesn't fully break.

And for Stein? I think Stein considered Spirit his friend at first, and then his warden afterward. Come to check on him to make sure he hasn't found his end at the wrong side of a scalpel. Wandering into his home with deadened eyes and distance on Death's account. At the end, on the Battle of the Moon, when Spirit says he watches out for him more than he does his own daughter, it's not born out of tenderness, but obligation. And with Death dead and the world beginning in new form, I don't think even that will be in place, anymore.

And truthfully? I think that distance is what may truly help him heal.

Thank you so much for your ask! <3 <3

#steinmarie #soul eater

[whatislovevavy]

WC: 4.4k

Synopsis: An exploration of why Bucky decided to cut his hair

AN: This has been in my Google Drive for about two years and finally got around/had the motivation to finish this. This piece was technically my first ever piece of fanfiction I ever wrote. My writing mostly pertains to Top Gun and Top Gun Maverick so this was a nice little brain break from that. I thought I'd include the original author's note I put together, having never written fanfiction at the time, just for nostalgic sake and if anyone wants to know just how new to this I was lol. Also this divider is not mine and I was unable to tag the account that made it since it was deleted. This work will be posted on my side blog @sophs-writing-nook.

Original Author’s Note: Hello everyone :) This is the first fanfiction I’ve ever written and I really hope you guys like it because I’m a bit nervous about it. I’ve had this idea since I saw the first promotions for the Falcon and Winter Soldier series and didn't really do anything about it for a variety of reasons. I haven’t seen a lot of fics exploring this concept so I decided to write this on a camping trip in my notes app where I didn’t have reception so I apologize if there is bad grammar, spelling errors, etc. If there happens to be a similarity to another fic, it is purely coincidence and I don’t intend to plagiarize anyone. Please let me know if it does appear I have. I have a lot of respect for fanfic writers and don’t want to disrespect anyone and steal anyone’s work unintentionally. 

Warnings: Blood, Trauma (PTSD), sadness with some bittersweet moments sprinkled in, supportive Sam because that’s a warning in itself. 

None of these characters are mine. Read at your own discretion.

Bucky had tried finding a routine after coming back: Get up by 7, go on a run make breakfast, try to keep in touch with his friends he had made since coming back, try a new recipe, maybe try online dating, catch up on what he missed the past 70 years, try to forgive himself for all the atrocities he didn't have a choice in committing, make dinner, shower, and sleep by 9.

That's what his therapist, Darlene, told him to do at least.

She wanted him to write in a journal the names of the people and families he wanted to make amends with, things he wanted to explore and try out, and good things he remembered before he was the Winter Soldier.

Darlene had kept encouraging him to keep referring to the Winter Soldier as if he were his own separate person, and not affiliated with James Buchanan Barnes.

It helped a bit with passing the blame, but not by much. He, naturally, chose the last remnant of Steve he had- his journal- to hold these thoughts.

Steve saw the best in him when he couldn't. 

He made an effort to try and forgive himself for everything he did, for Steve’s sake. 

Why Steve had left him, he didn't fully understand. 

It didn't make the "forgiving himself" part any easier. 

If his lifelong friend, who had been with him through thick and thin, decided to leave him now in this time of his broken, mutilated life, what did that say about him? 

Was he wrong about him? 

Did he truly believe he was worth being fixed and forgiven? 

There were small moments of hope that he could be fixed, but they were few and far inbetween.

His nightmares had gotten worse.

If Darlene would ask, he’d tell her, “no, they haven't", "they've stopped", or "I haven't had one for a while.” Bullshit excuses that anybody who saw the dark circles under his eyes wouldn't believe. Darlene knew he was lying and would try to reassure him that their space was safe and it would help him to get his nightmares out in the open.

He didn't think so.

This woman didn't know what it was like to have the same horrific scenarios play out in his mind every time he went to sleep. 

To see himself killing innocent people like he was in the backseat of his mind. 

The blood. 

Their faces, some close friends and others strangers. 

Their pleas and calls for mercy were what always broke him. 

He was forced again and again to witness himself taking their lives and couldn't do anything to stop himself. Forced to use any part of himself for Hydra.

Nothing was spared.

He felt unforgivable, these nightmares were a sign of the Winter Soldier still being in his head, buried and ready if Hydra got their hands on him again. 

He was tired of fighting and worrying, only wanting lasting peace and a full night's rest.

He had started renting an apartment in downtown Brooklyn near where his family had lived during the 40's. It was near the church cemetery his mother, father and sister, Rebecca, were buried. They were placed in the row closest to the street behind the church his family frequented during his youth. 

His parents had passed from old age when he was imprisoned by Hydra. 

A small part of him was thankful for that. 

They never had to learn that their son had done such horrible things.

They lived with the good memories of him.

His sister had passed during the time half the population was gone, the Blip people called it, from Alzheimer's. He visited her once before, but she was in the late stages, and was a shell of who he remembered growing up. 

His little sister Rebecca, whom he protected, opened jars for, teased, and made sure the boys she liked would be good to her, was now unable to remember him. He was told she passed peacefully in her sleep a few months after he disappeared.

Darlene thought that buying an apartment so close to his family's resting place might be overwhelming for him, but he wanted to be close to them and the memories he had.

The apartment consisted of a basic floor plan; kitchen, bathroom with a shower and bath, living room, bedroom, closet. However, he only used the kitchen, bathroom, and living room.

He didn't have many things when he moved in, and didn't feel he needed all the space allotted to him.

He had invested in a modest tv set, a microwave, blender, and a camping mat, courtesy of Sam's encouragement. 

He had tried sleeping on a mattress, but he felt that he was going to sink through into the floor with how soft and marshmallow-like it felt. He always slept on the floor with a few blankets and sheets. 

Sam had the same experience when he came back from Afghanistan.

Sam had tried to help him adjust to things since coming back, and had done a lot for him, including to help him find his apartment and encourage him to try new things.

There were times he had trouble getting out of his headspace to return Sam's calls and initiate with his friend. Darlene had been saying that for a person who allegedly had no one left, he seemed to have a safety net in Sam. She pushed him to call someone other than her and initiate with him. It was another case where he felt she didn't fully understand how difficult it was for him to build relationships, and "get his nightmares out in the open" since coming back.

He had gotten home late that night from the store, buying ingredients to make a recipe Darlene recommended: chicken tikka masala, he thought she called it.

He was amazed at the amount of change he had missed, especially from a grocery store. His family would boil everything with what minimal spices were available, other than the usual salt and pepper. He found solace in trying new recipes and exposing himself to the technological wonders of the 21st century, including learning how to use a DVD player and the iPhone he recently bought. He tried online dating but found it was too overwhelming and made him feel like a fish out of water. Asking people on dates and seeking relationships came easily to him when he was younger before the war, but everything felt so different now. 

He felt so different and foreign to himself. His arm. His mind. He felt like a shell of the person he was before the Winter Soldier.

His groceries were unloaded into the fridge and he started to prepare his dinner. He placed a bowl on the counter for mixing chicken marinade and marinating the soon to be cooked slices of chicken. The chicken slices were placed into a pan on a low heat to begin cooking. They wouldn't take long since they only had to cook halfway through initially. He gathered the spices for the marinade.

The soft smells of turmeric, ginger, cumin, and garam masala reminded him of the evenings he spent helping his mother cook during the summer. His mother would rummage together some cash every once in a while to buy a few sachets of spices from the local grocery. It was an indulgence she took part in that, compared to now, seemed simple and less of an everyday luxury. 

Sure, the spices she would bring home were more mild and less "exotic" than what he had available to him now, but it was the familiar memory of being taught to cook and the soft smells of his mother's cooking.

His conscience told him to use the spices sparingly despite himself being confronted with a substantially sized grocery aisle complete with spices from almost every corner of the world a mere few hours ago.

Maybe it was his upbringing during the Great Depression and watching his parents worry about where the next paycheck would come from.

Or maybe it was his instinct telling him this small semblance of peace he had found in his Brooklyn apartment would be snatched away, and that he needed to savor every new experience in stride. 

Because if he let himself enjoy them too much, it would make the snatching that much more painful.

He couldn't decide.

He finished the marinade and would have to wait an hour or two to start the sauce and cook the chicken. He placed it in the fridge and made his way to the bathroom for a shower.

The warm water felt nice on his warped, scarred flesh around his arm on his left side. The area would often become sore and plagued by knots. Sam recommended warm showers, aloe vera, a massage and spa place nearby, and Advil. The thought of people he didn't know touching his scarred flesh made him feel nervous, so the rest of his suggestions were his go to. 

His scar tissue and long hair were the last physical mark of Hydra on him. 

He was thankful he didn't have to see the red star that had branded him for so many years when he looked in the mirror anymore, since leaving Wakanda.

But there was still his hair.

His hair that had blood, dirt and grime stained into it for his 70 years of service. No matter how many times he showered, he knew the blood would never leave his hair or his hands. His mind would drift through waves of hopelessness in quiet moments like these more often than not.

He dried himself off with a soft towel, changed into a pair of boxers, and began to gingerly apply aloe vera to the junction where his arm met his shoulder. His shoulder was still a bit sensitive after all these years despite the enhanced healing from the serum. Shuri theorized it was because the metal cavity of his arm continuously tore through the underlying tissue. She was able to remove the bits and pieces of metal embedded in his shoulder. His arm was in the healing process, but it would take a while after years of damage even with the serum. After he finished rubbing in the aloe vera, He put on a dark t-shirt and made his way back into the kitchen to finish the sauce.

He carefully prepared the onions, garlic, and spices for the sauce the way his mother taught him to. 

He couldn't help but think about how his parents and sister would have loved to have tried this recipe with him.

He could almost hear his mother's voice in his head telling him to "cut the onions a bit smaller" or "don't let the garlic and onions burn in the pan".

Rebecca's eagerness to try the sauce prematurely with a perfected pout and whines of protest when denied so.

His father's quiet yet strong presence at the kitchen table reading the daily paper and soft scolding of his sister.

Steve drawing in his journal at the dinner table on evenings when Sarah Rogers would be working late at the hospital.

The radio softly playing in the background as a soothing ambiance.

The kitchen window opened to let the aroma of the Barnes’ family dinner wander through the back alley of the apartment building, and let in the sounds of the neighbors' soft conversations, clothes oscillating in the wind on the clothes line, and car engines humming as people made their way home at dusk.

All qualities of his family's evening routine and upbringing he longed for, but took for granted in his youth.

The stark smell of overcooked onions brought him back to the task at hand, pulling him from his thoughts but leaving his buildup of emotions he felt were about to rupture. He added the heavy cream, spices, brown sugar, and let them stir with the marinated onions and garlic. He felt tears start to form in his eyes. Letting the sauce thicken, he turned the pan onto a low heat, and added the marinated chicken to finish cooking. 

He placed the spatula down on the counter top with a shaky hand, placing his hands on the counter to support himself as he let out a shaky breath, blinking away tears that formed in the corners of his eyes.

God, he wished they were here with him. Steve. His mom. His dad. Rebecca.

He wished he had somebody who knew him before the Winter Soldier that could help him to pick up the broken pieces of himself and to become the person he was again.

He wished he could have said goodbye to his parents, Rebecca, and that Steve hadn't left him.

He wished he could've held his parents one last time before they passed, met the man that Rebecca fell in love with and had a family with, and fought harder for Steve to stay with him and help pick up the pieces.

All things that he couldn't do anything about now.

He wiped his tears away and returned to stirring his chicken masala. Thoughts of his family blending with the thoughts of his recipe like the spices and heavy cream in his pan as a cope. Darlene had mentioned that the recipe goes best with garlic buttered rice or naan, so he had bought ingredients for both, but opted for the naan. He turned on the oven, placed some naan from the store on a baking sheet, and into the oven before returning to stirring the contents of the pan. 

He remembered Sam wanted to come over and check in on how he was settling into his apartment, sometime the next day. Maybe he would want to try some of his dish. 

"Initiate, take small steps to initiate". This counted as initiating, right? He hoped so.

His chicken masala was well blended and deemed done. His naan close behind. He placed a bowl and plate on the counter, served up his recipe and naan, and sat down at his two person dinner table, and prepared to eat. Darlene had told him that making a makeshift taco with the naan tasted good if he opted to not make the garlic butter rice. He took his first bite and let himself experience each incredible flavor. 

He would definitely be making this recipe again.

Maybe he could make a batch for Sam. 

It would be a small way to return the favor.

He made his way through his dinner, and would start heading to bed soon. It was almost 9 anyway. Shuri told him that consistent good sleep would also help him heal mentally along with his therapy and the treatment she provided.

He made a mental note to try making the garlic butter rice, thank Darlene for the recipe, and ask her if she had any more favorite recipes he should try during his next session.

He brought his dishes to the sink, moved to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and shed himself of his shirt. Sleeping shirtless was normal for him both during the war and after getting the serum, finding that he would warm up easily and end up tossing and turning in the night. 

His escalated body heat helped him to survive the frigid Siberian winters during his imprisonment, but not the mild to warm summer nights in Brooklyn.

Laying on the hardwood floor with the lights out left him with his thoughts. He remembered the nights he and Steve spent laying on couch cushions on the living room floor of his parents apartment. 

The nights he and his sister would read The Hobbit under the covers of his bed when they were younger, while their parents thought they were sleeping. 

He liked to sleep with the TV on at a low volume and the window opened so he wouldn't be lost in his thoughts for too long. 

He didn't have as much trouble falling asleep as before. Darlene told him to take deep breaths while resting his eyes and had gotten better at it since seeing her. 

Breathe in for 5 seconds, exhale for 10, and repeat till he felt calm enough to drift to sleep.

He steadily awoke hours later, feeling warm and groggy.

 It was quiet. 

The TV was off and the window was shut. 

He was none the wiser in his hindered state of being as he lifted himself off of the floor and trudged to the bathroom, the soft sound of his bare feet pattering on the wood floor like rain drops on a window, encompassing his apartment in a soft echo.

He turned on the soft bathroom light and twisted the cold faucet on, leaned down and scooped cold water in his hand, and poured it on his face. Supporting himself by his forearms, he closed his eyes and relished in the feeling of cold on his face and cascading down his neck. 

The water felt warmer now and had a distinct iron smell to it.

He opened his eyes and was met with his hands drenched in blood. Blood flowing into the sink from the tap. 

He slowly turned to meet his reflection. Met with the cold, dark, blank eyes of the Winter Soldier. The blood stained leather vest, black muzzle, and the long brunette hair stained black from blood falling over his face. 

He was there with him, as clear as day. 

He felt a stark and deep rooted sense of fear awaken and burrow itself in his chest as he quickly retreated from the sink, pressing himself against the opposing wall. Eyes wide and breathing heavy, he felt the walls of the bathroom constricting him.

The Winter Soldier reached out his metal arm, severing the separation between the mirror and his bathroom, and brought it down onto the counter top with a resounding crack, small remnants of the cheap countertop tumbling to the floor. He lunged for the door and twisted the knob but it wouldn't budge. Desperately, he tried to break down the door, knuckles bleeding and eyes teary. He could feel the Winter Soldier getting closer to him and was too terrified to turn back and face him. He broke through the door with a splitting crack, splinters in his hands. Awaiting on the other side was a long dimly lit corridor lined with bars and cold concrete walls. 

His heart stopped. 

He knew this corridor. 

He would always know this corridor. 

He didn't want to go forward, but he had no choice. Breaking into a sprint, not looking back and praying he didn't trip over himself, he felt a sudden, strong grip on his leg, pulling him backwards. Landing on the hard concrete with a groan and turning himself to face his captor: Two dark, army clad figures awaited him. He shuffled away from them as fast as he could but couldn't get to his feet fast enough to avoid being dragged to by his feet towards the bathroom. His screams echoing off the walls, and hands burning from friction against the cement floor at his attempts to escape their grasp.

He couldn't believe what was happening, he thought he was free from Hydra. 

Free from these corridors. 

Free from the chair.

He felt his nails fruitlessly catching on the small ridges of the cement floor as he was mercilessly dragged. The hallway enclosed in darkness behind him and the bathroom light ahead of him, serving as a beacon of pain and suffering. 

He was left on the bathroom floor, shaking and crying, accentuated by the sound of the slamming of a steel door. His teary eyes searched for the figures but found none. Instead, his eyes landed on the dull gleam of the worn metal frame in his bathtub, tinged with small droplets of blood, smoothed down edges, and strained leather straps.

If he wasn't sobbing before, he was now. He felt so trapped, his heart beating out of his chest; his lungs made of tin, unable to expand.

His shaking frame was folded on the floor by the bathroom door. A few moments of silence flooded by the drops of his sink tap and his attempts to catch his breath. 

Abruptly, a handful of his hair was grabbed, his body dragged to the chair as he let out seethes of pain and cries. 

He was held down in the chair as he was strapped in by faceless, dark army figures. Soft whispers and murmurs of pleas for mercy and forgiveness settled around him, originating from every vent and faucet in his bathroom, nestled their way to his ears. 

They grew louder and droned out the sound of leather going through buckles and the mechanical "wrrrrr" of the head plates assembling towards the top of the chair. 

He struggled and screamed, but it was no use. 

Trapped in the chair, no chance of escape; Limited by his mind and not his body. 

He anxiously waited and dreaded for the excruciating pain of electricity to course through his body, to hear the words Hydra spent so much time and care to drill into his mind.

But both never came.

He awoke with a startle, eyes wide, body and blanket soaked with sweat, lungs gasping for breath. 

His window open, letting in his neighbors everyday routine squeeze into his apartment. 

The TV on a low volume, playing auctions for nic-nacs and heirlooms people didn't find use for. All drowned out by his racing thoughts and attempts at breathing.

The blanket pooled around his waist as he shifted to lean against the wall, closing his eyes and trying to focus on his breathing. 

He needed his hair gone. 

Like a wounded animal, he made his way to the bathroom with shaky breaths and uneasy strides. He flipped the bathroom light on, feverishly opening and closing drawers to find what he needed most.

A pair of scissors.

A raspy sigh left his lips as his hands met the plastic frame of the twin bladed tool.

His eyes shifted from his reflection to his hold on the scissors. 

Carefully, he brought his metal hand to his hair, extending one of his many locks of hair.

His eyes drifted from the lock of hair to the metal blades that almost fully encased it. 

Snip.

He watched as the lock frayed till it was severed completely, feeling the freed lock in his hand and watching it fall to the counter.

A sigh of relief left his lips as tears pricked his eyes as he met his reflection in the mirror. 

Snip.

Snip.

Snip. 

His tears were flowing fully down his cheeks as almost the entirety of his left side was covered in frayed, unevenly cut hair. 

He gingerly ran his flesh hand along his head, relishing in the short tufts of hair, and began repeating the same frenzied cutting on the other side of his head, and towards the back

If the tears weren’t flowing before, they were now. 

He placed the scissors onto the hair ridden counter with a clang, keeping his relieved gaze on himself, feeling his chest wrack with sobs, body slowly crumbling against the sink and to the floor.

He had never felt such relief in his life. 

His hands ran over the chopped hair, savoring the uneven patched of hair, his head laying back to rest against the wood cabinet below his sink,  eyes fluttering shut.

Muffled knocks softly rose his mind from the depths of sleep. 

He let his eyes adjust to the bathroom light, feeling his neck ache from how he slept against the drawers of the cabinet. 

Sam. 

He rose up to his feet with a groan, trudging to his front door.

His front door opened with a click.

“Hey, man-woah.”

He rose his eyes to meet Sam’s wide ones, giving him a small smile, “Hi, Sam.”

Sam swallowed.

“Late night hack job, huh?”

He gave Sam a tight-lipped smile, nodding. 

Sam’s lip quirked. 

“I, um, I made something for you if you’d like to try it.”

Sam watched as he rubbed the back of his neck with his flesh hand.

He moved from the door, leaving it open for Sam to come in.

Sam carefully stepped into his apartment, taking in the rumple of blankets on the livingroom floor. 

“It’s chicken tikka masala, my therapist recommended it.”

Sam took the plastic container he held out for him.

“Thanks for this…We should go get you a haircut. You can’t be walking around Brooklyn looking like you had a blender cut your hair.”

His lip quirked, nodding.

After a few minutes, he met him back at the front door in jeans, a t-shirt, and his bomber jacket, and glove.

“Ready to go?”

He wordlessly nodded, closing, and locking the door behind them. 

—

“Alright, what do you think?” 

The hairdresser adjusted his chair so he could see himself fully in the mirror. 

He could feel his eyes glaze over.

His previously poorly chopped locks were no where to be found, replaced by almost buzzed cut hair with a bit of length towards the top. Barely enough for anyone to get a good grip in.

“It’s perfect, thank you Melissa,” he muttered to the woman that gave him a kind smile in return. 

He tried to hand the man at the cashier station some cash, but Sam interjected with his card.

He looked at Sam with slight bewilderment.

“You’ll cover me next time.”

His lip quirked, as Sam nudged his shoulder as they made their way to the exit.

He stopped in front of a window for a store on the way back to his apartment, seeing his reflection in the storefront.

And for once, he didn’t have a deeprooted distaste or fear of what he saw. 

It almost made him cry.

He needed this.

His long hair gone. The last remnant of his time in Siberia, of the shackles that held his mind down under water like an anchor, gone. 

Out of sight. Out of mind.

Sam stopped a few paces ahead of him.

“You wanna stop in?”

Sam’s voice broke him from his trance.

He gave Sam a small smile.

“No, just taking it all in.”

Sam gave him a comforting smile as he caught up with him.

They continued on to his apartment to give Sam some of his chicken tikka masala, running his hand through his hair periodically with a smile on his face. 

#bucky barnes #marvel mcu #bucky barnes angst #sam wilson #winter soldier #mcu fanfiction #mcu #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes

[chronic-ghost]

Chapter 3 of Recovery Road

chapter rating: E (18+)

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

word count: 7266

chapter summary: dieter and natalie finally figure out why the hell they can’t seem to get along.

chapter warnings/tags: masturbation, discussions of addiction/rehab/drug use, angst, discussions of shitty parents, cursing, discussions of infidelity/cheating

a/n: i've finally put together a taglist request form if anyone wants notifications about this fic or any of my other series! This fic will update every Thursday now!

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Somewhere, out there, in some sliver of the universe, someone might possibly– curiously– be looking out for him. 

The five days, counting down to the possible end of his life, extended into a week. Then two. 

While most of the shooting had taken place at the soundstage in south LA, the new director – Scott Manley – had found a new location out in a real desert in New Mexico where some of the beginning scenes could be reshot without adding too much to the budget. Maybe he agreed too quickly to getting out of the city, but Dieter put up no argument against the reshoots. Two weeks to do his scenes again with Mark, play the guitar, maybe finally get that drink with Mark he’d been meaning to. He even paid for the AirBnB just outside of Albuquerque for himself. Hell, he rented a car without telling anyone. He got up there a day early to drive the 511 all by himself. 

Scott even seemed like a reasonable guy. Not possessing an ounce of Heidi’s creative talent, but all he had to do was stick to her notes and not fuck it up, and he seemed to be capable of that. 

For a few brief moments, it seemed like things were back on track.

And then the universe forcibly reminded him exactly what it thought of him.

“Close quarters character work?” Dieter parrots back to Scott, who nods seriously. “What the fuck – sorry – what is that?”  

Scott always wears a black ball cap and thick 70s glasses. He looks like he grew up on too much George Lucas and too little social interaction. He knows how to run a set, and aim a camera, but human emotion seems like a foreign concept to him. Dieter vaguely wonders if his good behavior got him here; if it was the old Dieter, then maybe they would have sent someone who could carry a conversation instead. 

“Close quarters character work is designed to enhance chemistry and create a sense of comradery between otherwise antagonistic talent,” Scott says with all the inflection of wet cardboard. 

Dieter sputters. “‘Otherwise antagonistic talent’? What are you talking about?” 

“You two fight a lot. I need that fixed.” Scott’s expression does not change. 

Fuck, maybe they did send the right guy for the job. 

Dieter swallows. 

He couldn’t exactly disagree with the man. Since Heidi left, the barrier between whatever was going on between you and Dieter had completely disintegrated. 

But better way to phrase it might be: it burned up in a colossal fire of rage, yelling, and walk offs. What had been subtle and hidden arguments behind stages had ignited into almost knock-down, drag-out fights. 

Everything you did irritated the shit out of him. The way you walked. Your voice. Even the way you breathed. Every single goddamn thing you did was wrong and he was going to let you know it. 

You still showed up casually high to most scenes, and because he was such a fucking upstanding guy, he never brought it up in public once. 

You fought and you yelled and you screamed at each other. Which worked for a while because that’s what the characters were going through. But then the arguments continued past when Scott called cut. They continued over the crafts table, at lunch, into the makeup rooms. You’d stand in the parking lot until midnight to finish an argument that started at three that afternoon. You made him want to claw his own eyes out. 

“We’re getting complaints, Dieter.” Scott continues, just as deadpanned as ever. 

He cringes. “From the crew?”

“From the janitorial staff.” 

“Got it.” He fiddles with his ring. Not the gold one. Another black one. “Okay, what does this close quarters character work look like?”

“Two hour sessions every day until we get things running back up here. Shouldn’t be more than a week or two.” 

He runs his tongue against the back of his teeth, trying to ignore the high-pitched screaming in his ears. 

“Okay. Where?”

“Anywhere you want. Just have to clock in and out with one of the PA’s here.”

“That’s it?” 

“That’s it.” 

“Does she know about this?”

“She does.”

“How did she take it?” 

“About as well as you are.” 

Fuck, he wants to be more obviously casual.

Dieter twists his jaw and scratches the back of his neck. “And if it doesn’t work out. If we keep fighting?” 

For a man with little social skills, the look on his face clearly reads, you know exactly what will happen. 

“Okay, then, when do we start?”

The air is warm and he tastes the desert sand in his mouth. He’s got the top down of the blue coup he rented and his hair is longer than it has been in years. Sweat sparks along the back of his neck, but the sensation isn’t unpleasant. There’s something about the sun, the sand that makes him feel alive, that whatever out there is also in him and it’s more ageless than the world itself. He wants to rub himself in sunlight like a cat. 

If he imagines with his whole heart, he can picture himself alone in the car. 

But he’s not. His rings on his fingers knock against the hard black steering wheel. 

Neither one of you has so much as looked at the other since leaving the parking lot.

He thought you’d scoff when he drove up to the temporary studio the project was using in New Mexico with the top down – my haaair, he imagined you screeching – but you just threw your purse over the lip of the car door and dropped down onto the waiting leather seat. 

At least, this time, you had the decency to wear pants. Jean leggings so tight he was sure he could see your thong, but whatever. He floored it so hard, the tires squealed, smoke fluttering into the face of the bewildered PA left behind.

He drives north, towards the mesas and the open plains. The road curves up, and around, and around, and around, Albuquerque a small bundle of toy buildings over the edge of the cliff. It’s about two in the afternoon and he’s pretty sure this is already the longest day of his life. He fears he might stall out the clutch at the speed he’s going but he’d sooner drive you both off this cliff than slow down. As if that would somehow shorten the time he’d have to spend near you.

The car swerves into the white stone driveway of his AirBnb and he cuts the engine. He probably should have spent the drive thinking of ways to somehow talk to you like a normal person, but his brain was just a static hum. Not quite rage but the two seconds before it where everything goes white and blank and you exist only in a void. 

Calling Chloe wouldn’t help with this one. In fact, he scowled at the mere idea you’d ever hear her beautiful voice. He’d smash his phone before he let that happen. 

Dieter slams the car door shut as he shoves the keys into his pocket. He taps the code in the keypad and strides in, not looking back and not holding the door for you. If you fell off the top of the mesa, that was hardly his problem. 

This is the part where he’d pop open a stopper of outrageously expensive whiskey and drink until his body released the tension, until the white noise in his head quieted. But he’s not that Dieter, so he goes right for the fridge. He snatches out the carafe of orange juice, pulpy as it was legally allowed to be, and takes three gulps. Sometimes, ice water didn’t burn enough. He needed something acidic. 

He breathes. The knot in his chest eases. 

Fuck, if you had fallen off the edge, they would assume he pushed you. 

He calls out for you, licking the last bit of orange juice off his mustache. He calls again, when you waltz in. 

You’re no longer scowling, which is an improvement from when he picked you up, but you look about as comfortable as a tomcat that’s been out on the streets suddenly forced to live indoors. You seem eager not to touch anything, your eyes roaming every square inch of the room.

“You want anything?” He asks gruffly. “Soda? Water? Sparkling water?”

“I’d kill for a shot of vodka and a lime.” 

He glares at you. “Fresh out.” 

You nod, as if this confirmed something for you. You wander to the edge of the long white marble countertop, eying a brass bar cart with every single bottle empty. You stand up right and look at him.

“I Googled you, you know.” 

“Congratulations on being able to work technology a five year old can do in their sleep.” 

“I know you went to rehab after you got arrested for possession of illicit substances, in amounts that would make Escobar blush,” you continue as though he hadn’t spoken. You slid into one of the black and gold bar chairs at the island countertop, your hands folding over one another as you lean forward into your shoulders. “I know you’ve been doing movies and television every year since you were twenty-five, whether or not you were as high as a kite. I know Heidi thinks very highly of you, even if she won’t give me a real reason. He’s talented, she says, but I don’t believe her.”

He lowers the carafe. “You don’t think I’m talented?”

“I think you owe your life to Heidi Morgan,” you snap, but then recoil your fangs. “But you’ve been through hell to get your life back. 

“And . . .” you add begrudgingly, “I think you’re an insanely talented actor. Sometimes I’m actually intimidated by you.” 

He swallows. “Thanks. Uh, you too. You’re good – great – I mean. You’re a natural.”

You smile smugly because you cannot take a compliment. “I know.” 

He rolls his eyes.

A moment passes and he knows Heidi would want him to figure this out. 

“Look, you saw the arrest photo, right?” He works his jaw and you nod. “So, no, I don’t drink. There’s not a drop of alcohol anywhere in this house. No uppers, no downers, either. Nothing.” 

You nod again, glancing up to the top shelves of the cabinets as if there might be something stashed up there. 

“And I know how quickly things can get out of hand,” he says slowly. You tense, perched on the chair, your gaze still up turned. The golden desert light from the window behind him makes your throat glow. “I know some good centers nearby. They can get you help. They’ll be discrete–,”

“And I know I don’t have a problem,” you say, your voice raising. “I don’t need your help or anyone else’s for that matter.”

Maybe this can’t be solved. Maybe this would end in a murder-suicide. He does think about the inside of your skull, sometimes, before he drifts off to sleep. 

They were having problems with scenes of vulnerability. The rage, the hatred – that all came naturally. But when he exposed himself to her, or she let the truth filter in, everything came off stilted and wrong. 

And maybe all that came down to the fact they’d never once had a normal conversation. They weren’t coworkers, or friends. They weren’t even castmates. They were something else. 

“Is that why it started?” He asks, gently because he knows you’re not afraid to pull his hair if he pisses you off enough. He runs his thumb against the cold bottom of the carafe, not looking quite at you. “Because you want to do everything on your own and the drugs keep you awake. Keep you going. Keep you from thinking.”

Your eyes narrow at him, black holes inside your skull. He definitely found a nerve. “Oh, fuck off, Dieter.” 

You stand up and push away from the counter, stalking off to some other corner of the house. “That’s none of your goddamn business.”

“It doesn’t have to be, but you’ve gotta give me something.”

He follows you to the living room. You’re standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the canyon below, your arms bunched up around yourself. He can’t see your face, but he knows your mouth is contorted, knotted. You want to crawl into yourself, he knows it. 

“Either we figure out how to work together, or we’re both out of a fucking job. More than that, my career is over and so is yours, even before it really began. We don’t even have to like each other, but we do have to work together.”

Your fingers wrapped around your bicep clench. “Jesus Christ– and I have to do this sober?” 

Dieter snorts, unable to help himself. “We both know you aren’t sober right now so let’s not start with that.” 

You whirl around, fists clenched tightly. “I don’t even need the drugs, you know? I can quit whenever I want.”

“Oh yeah? Prove it. Take whatever you’ve got in your purse and flush it down the toilet right now.” 

There’s a flicker of hesitation across your face before your scowl tightens. “Fine.” 

He watches you stride back to the kitchen, low-heeled black boots clicking on the tile. Glaring at him, you snatch up your purse and he waves down the hall.

“Go on. Bathroom’s right down there.” 

He leans against the doorframe as you kick the toilet seat – bamboo lid – up with the toe of your boot. Your hand dives into your purse and pulls out two orange prescription pill bottles. You rattle them once for good measure, smile deranged, and then with a flick of your thumbs, you pop the caps off and pour the contents down the porcelain bowl. 

He does not break eye contact with you as the blue and red pills swirl down and away in a rush of water. 

“Satisfied?” You bark. You almost bare your teeth at him.

He is waiting for you to drop to your knees and stick your hand down the hole to grasp at the pills before they’re all gone. 

“No,” Dieter snaps, crowding you against the sink. “Empty your pockets.”

“Do it for me,” you reply, your smile so flat and broad you look a little bit unhinged. 

“Fine.” Without further prompting, he shoves his fingers into your front pockets. The lip of your pants sway and rub against your skin as he digs in. That delirious smile still plastered on your face is going to haunt his dreams. He thinks he feels the line of your panties. 

Finding nothing, he then cups the meat of your ass, his fingers diving into the back pockets of your jeans. He takes his time molding and squeezing your ass, the real search of his conquest only vaguely in the back of his mind. 

Pills. Find pills. 

He pulls his hands off you, your gazes connected as if tied by string. 

It could be sunburn, but he swears your cheeks are pink. 

“Want to check my bra next? Since you’ve already copped a feel and a half.” 

“Give me your purse.” You shove it into his chest, but do not step away. You’re both pressed up inside the small bathroom and he doesn’t even think about breathing in deeply.

He digs around for a bit, before rattling it. There’s a clear metallic clacking – his chest sparks at the way you go slightly pale – and he pokes around until he finds the hidden pocket. Triumphant, he plucks the silver compact out your purse and drops the rest onto the ground. He opens the compact over the toilet, and a dozen pills tumble out into the stagnant water. 

You watch the pills break down and disappear as the water rushes down the hole. There is concern, uneasiness, in the rims of your eyes. Your mouth is soft, parted. All at once, he feels sort of guilty – but it had to be done. 

“Now will you get off my dick?” You glare at him, the softness gone and that distinct displeasure at his mere existence burning in your eyes. “Now that you’ve gotten rid of any chance that this will be tolerable?” 

For the first time around you, he smiles. “Buck up, buttercup. How about I make you dinner, so you stop trying to think of ways to kill me in my sleep.” 

He leaves the bathroom, the air less stifling. He hears you snort behind him.

“That wouldn’t happen even with a birthday cake shoved up my ass.” 

*~*~*

It’s not dinner under the stars, with fresh pasta and mozzarella and basil, with a smooth glass of red wine to top it off. 

It’s not that. But it is something. 

Turns out when you’re not at each other’s throats, you’ve got a lot in common.

“No fucking way, I love Coney Island too.”

You smile and lean back in your seat, the heels of your bare feet balancing on the edge of the white patio chair. You both are sitting outside on the second floor patio, the great black maw of the canyon in the distance below. The sun is fading fast and the air is growing colder by the minute. But he doesn’t mind and, it seems, neither do you.

The ivy around the back patio pergola shudders in the faint breeze. Water from the pool below laps at the edges of the white concrete, the sound soothing like a rhyme. The plates of arroz con pollo are empty. He was quite sure if you were alone, you would have licked the plate clean. 

You prefer sparkling water while his is still and ice cold, but that’s at least something else in common. 

“Yes, Coney Island is the best! We went there one summer as a kid and I’ve dreamed about it every day since.” 

He smiles and drinks from his glass, legs spread wide as he rests comfortably in his chair. “So did you see the rest of New York when you were there?”

“God, I love New York,” you groan, grinning widely. “I’d live there if I could, but everything filmed is out in LA. Would love to do theater again, someday.”

“Fuck, I know what you mean. Six months of production, live shows, all of it in one place.” Dieter shakes his head. “I used to do a bunch of off-Broadway stuff up there. I really miss it sometimes.”

You jerk an eyebrow at him, that grin turning warm. “Yeah, I know. I told you I Googled you.” 

He twists his mouth, fighting between a smile and a scowl. “I Googled you too.” It feels like a confession when he doesn’t want it to be.

“Oh my God, really?” You clutch the glass to your chest, toes flexing on the edge of the seat. “What does it say? I am wildly curious.”

“What do you mean? You’ve never Googled yourself?”

You shake your head as you take a sip. “Nope. I lived it. And the internet always takes things and twists them. Make the good things bad and the bad things worse. Plus, I don’t need to know how many photos of my ass there are online.”

“If you wore pants, that might not happen as much.”

“Ha, ha, Bravo. Don’t slut-shame me when I’m this close to having a good time.” 

Something passes between your gazes and it makes his heart flutter. He drops the connection like it burned him.

“But seriously, what did you find out about me?” 

He shrugs and leans forward onto his elbows on his knees. “If it helps, I only looked at Wikipedia.”

“Yeah, and? C’mon, man, I’m in suspense here.” 

“You worked in smaller parts in the early 2000s. Mostly movies where they needed a cute kid to save or have a line about the big scary monster. Then, when you were in your early teen years you got that part on Red Money with Sean Connery, as his daughter. That was big. Lots of articles about that. You got a few, higher profile roles – Helen Miriam’s niece, Gerard Butler’s step-daughter – you’d hit the big leagues. There were talks of you getting an Oscar but then . . . it all just stopped. The entry ends with, ‘she lives in California today’.”

He stops, waiting to see if you’ll yell at him or throw your glass of water in his face. Instead, you nod and drink slowly. 

“Does it say my father is Henry Milklen?”

His eyes go wide. “No. No, it doesn’t. Your father is the Henry Milklen, the CEO of MaxWide Entertainment?”

“Biologically, yes,” you say, a bit prickly, “but I haven’t seen him in-person since I was eight. Mom kinda went off the rails when I said I wanted to do acting, but unfortunately for her, I was really fucking good. I think she thought I wanted to do it to be close to him.”

“Did you? Did you want to get close to him?”

You shake your head. 

“Nah. If anything, I did it in spite of him. I wanted to know if I could do this without his help.” You hold up your glass like an award. “‘You didn’t give me shit growing up and you didn’t give me my first Oscar,’ – because I plan on owning several – ‘so, eat shit, old man.’”

He grins in spite of himself. “Winning an Oscar is definitely one way to tell your old man to fuck off. There might be other, easier ways to do that, though.”

“C’mon, don’t act like you don’t do it all for that moment. That moment of standing on stage, in front of all your peers – in front of everyone who told you you couldn’t do it – and be recognized as someone of value, of real talent.”

You’re close to touching something very close to his heart. He drinks from his ice cold water. “Nah, it’s always been about the money for me.”

You roll your eyes and he chuckles. 

“Sure, I do it for that,” he says softly, thumb nail scraping against the glass. “The art, that’s what really matters, but having other people see value in your art . . . it’s a good feeling.”

“Cheers to a night on stage.” You raise your glass to him. Something was fundamentally different about the way you looked at him. “Hope we see each other there.”

He accepts your toast with his own, his heart beating mildly faster, as he thinks of a way to steer this conversation back into something he’s capable of handling.

“So your mom had some issues with you acting –  how’d you end up back in LA then?” 

You smile wryly, your defenses going back up so quickly, he was surprised he didn’t hear a clicking sound.

“She got over it pretty fast when she realized she never had to work again, once things started going well. I think she liked being a sugar mama to men half her age. Men that never hesitated to hit on me while she was out of the room, even when I was fourteen. The money was coming in, but not as fast as she was spending it. I wanted a way to hide in my own room so I didn’t have to hear her literally fuck my money away . . . So, drugs. Got caught twice drunk driving but Dad managed to get all blown away — without ever actually having to see me. There were no real consequences in my life so it felt like I didn’t have one. The day I turned eighteen, I left and never went back. Pulled together the scraps she left me, got a place on my own, and now I’m trying show biz again.” You roll your bottom lip between your teeth. “But I don’t really blame her, or my dad, you know. They were forced to be parents when neither of them have a nurturing bone in their bodies. Anyways . . . does my drug use have to be their fault? Can’t I just be fucked up on my own?”

Dieter snorts softly. He taps your glass with the rim of his. “Cheers to being fucked up on our own.” 

You both drink, letting the ding of the glasses ring out into the night air. His bare feet are starting to get cold but he doesn’t really want to go back inside. Not yet.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” You ask and drop your arms over your knees, glass dangling from your fingertips. 

“I think that’s the whole point of this, so sure. Fire away.” 

“What’s with you and drugs, man? You gotta know everyone’s on something in this town.” You say, without a hint of malice. “And more specifically, why are you always on my ass? Roxie and that gang do shrooms in the back lots all the time but you never go after them about it. Why me?”

He chews on his lip and sits back in his seat.  

“Because I’ve been where you are,” he says to you under his eyelashes. “You’re too fucking talented to throw your career in the garbage because you’re too high to show up to casting on time. I know you think you have it under control, that you can stop when you want, and maybe you do. But there’s too much at risk to go fucking around with shit like that.” He drops his elbows onto his knees. “And to be entirely honest, because I don’t trust you when the parking brakes are off.” 

It’s a bigger admission than he means it to be, but it’s there and he can’t take it back. He looks up at your face from his bent-over position. 

Your eyebrow twitches as if you want to frown from confusion, but are actively fighting it. You want to ask just what the fuck he means by that – he can tell – but for once in your life, you keep your mouth shut. Instead you throw back the rest of your water and stand up.

His mouth is inches from the seam of your pants.

“Wanna watch a movie?” 

“Okay, his stuff is good but it’s not the pinnacle of acting, alright?”

“I never said it was but it’s raw and real and every single performance he gives everything,” he says adamantly as you step over his legs stretched out on the table in front of him with a bowl of popcorn on your hip. You had insisted on the popcorn, even though you both just ate. What the fuck is the film experience without buttery popcorn? You asked him indignantly and he found he couldn’t argue with you. 

You huff as you settle in next to him on the black leather couch in the living room. The lights are off and the TV screen glows in the dark. 

“And, you know, art is subjective. Who's to say what the ‘pinnacle of acting’ is anyway?” He snatches up a handful of popcorn as you narrow your eyes scornfully at him.

“That is such a cop out. You’re just saying that so I don’t have an argument against watching Vampire’s Kiss.” You say as though the name of the movie burned the inside of your mouth. “It’s a thought terminating cliché, most common in cults.” 

“I’d gladly join the cult of Nicolas Cage,” Dieter admits, his mouth half full of popcorn, as he clicks the remote to play the movie. 

“Okay, but this is your one freebie.” You say as you dig into the bowl yourself. “Next time I’m gonna make you watch Amélie or some shit.”

“I happen to love Amélie,” he says, eyes still on the screen. 

You’ve gone quiet, which is never a good thing, so he glances over at you. 

There’s something soft about your face. Your mouth hovers open, lips parted and warm. This is the look you should have been giving him at the table read.

When you begged him to never, ever leave you. 

His blush is so hot and fast, it shoots down from his ears into his cheeks before he can stop it.

“What?”

Slowly, you blink. 

“Sorry . . . it’s just . . . I really love Amélie and I couldn’t imagine you’ve ever seen it. It just . . . surprised me, I guess.”

“What can I say, princess?” He folds his arms over himself to ensure not a single patch of skin touches yours. “I’m surprising.” 

He can hear you swallow as you turn back to the movie. 

It's the 80s and it’s trash and Dieter can’t remember the last time he had this much fun. Chloe was never a big fan of movies, didn’t like to sit still that long, and all of his other friends hadn’t been around since the arrest. 

He can’t remember the last time he was this relaxed. 

So relaxed, in fact, he falls asleep before the third act, his head dropping to the back of the couch.

He’s crawling out the depths of a warm, plush sleep when he hears it. 

At first, he’s not quite sure what exactly he’s hearing. It’s familiar, he knows he’s heard it before, but it’s at the same time foreign, too. Like he’s never heard this exactly before.

His eyes flicker open. The room is pleasantly warm and his back doesn’t ache as bad as it usually does when he falls asleep on the couch. 

His gaze focusing, he realizes something’s different about the TV. The movie is no longer playing – rather Vampire’s Kiss is no longer playing and instead, it’s one of his old movies. Back when he didn’t need to exercise to have v-lines in his hips and his skin was naturally sun-kissed. It’s the high fantasy one where he kissed so many men and women during shooting, he found out he definitely wasn’t straight by the end of it – and –

You’re moaning. 

That’s what that noise is. Moans. Stifled, but high-pitched, breathless, tense moans. 

He knows exactly what that sound is, but he had never, ever heard it come from you before. It’s not him, it’s not the movie, so it has to be – 

You are arched against the back of the couch, chest rising and falling, with your hand down your pants. The buttons are undone and the zipper is halfway down and the fabric bunches and twists against your knuckles.

You’ve got your lip between your teeth, cheeks flushed, air rushing out of your nose, and your eyes are glued, attached, bound to the screen.

To him. 

You lick your lips as his character takes off his cloak, revealing a broad, sculpted back and you whine, almost panicked. Your mouth falls open, eyes falling shut as you work your hand faster in your pants. There’s sweat on your forehead.

You’re masturbating, right here on his couch.

You’re masturbating to him. 

He’s on top of you before he knows what he’s doing. 

His fingers dig around your wrists, pinning them above your head, your tits inches from his chest. You look up at him in bewilderment and beside his head, your fingers glisten in the light from the screen. 

You were using three of them, judging by the shine. 

He drops his head, fighting the body-wracking groan that’s pulsating in his throat. 

God, he can fucking smell it, you, from here. If your fingers are anything to go by, your panties must be drenched. 

He’s shaking– actually shaking – from restraint. 

He cannot look at your face, cannot see what’s in your eyes. 

The word ballistic is knocking around in his brain. 

I’m gonna go ballistic. You’re making me go ballistic. This is the night I go ballistic. 

He might actually drool. 

You breathe in and he squeezes your wrists harshly. No, no talking from you. But of course, you don’t listen. When in the history of the fucking world did you ever listen to him?

“In my defense,” you begin slowly and he can picture the shameless coy smirk on your face, “I thought you were asleep. I checked. Twice.”

He doesn’t know whether he’s going to kiss you and fuck you, or split you apart with his bare hands.

“FUUUCK!” Dieter roars and physically shoves you deeper into the couch. 

He bounds up, and snatches your purse off the floor. He’s rifling through it as he slams open the sliding door to the pool so hard the glass shakes. He finds what he’s looking for and chucks your purse behind him. 

His hands are still trembling as he lights the cigarette in his mouth.

He inhales so deeply, he can’t breathe right. 

It doesn’t slow the hurricane in his mind, but it does ease the knife wound between his ribs.

His feet are cold against the concrete by the pool.

Water laps behind him and the stars above are indifferent to one man’s plunge into insanity.

“What’s got you so wound up?” You come out from the open door, with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. It might be cold, if his skin wasn’t burning from the inside out. You’re scowling as this is somehow his fault. 

“No. Fuck off. Go back inside. I’m not talking to you.” 

“What’s your actual fucking problem, dude?”

His eyes grow wide and he plucks the cigarette out from between his teeth. “Are you fucking serious? Is that a real question?”

“Look, I figured out why we can’t have a scene together that even fringes on vulnerability.”

He huffs darkly. “Since you’re not going to leave me alone, feel free to fucking enlighten me.”

“You see this project as the be-all-end-all to your career, right? And you’re afraid you’ll screw things up with your wife permanently if you have one more fuck up. That’s why you can’t be vulnerable with me, because you’re scared someone will see the truth in it. Well, baby, the truth is a matter of perspective.” 

He balks. He can feel the heat of the cigarette burn his skin but he doesn’t care.

“‘Truth is a matter of perspective’? What the fuck are you talking about? Do you hear what comes out of your mouth sometimes? Nobody talks like that! That is not how normal people talk!” 

“If it’s not that, then what? Tell me, Dieter! What are you so fucking mad about?” 

“You were masturbating– to me! That’s like some kind of violation, right? I should call the fucking police on you.” 

“Why does it bother you so much? You’re an actor, you've gotta know people do sick shit online all the time!” 

“Yeah, but I don’t know them. I don’t. . .” He swallows. “I don’t know– it doesn’t bother me so much thinking about the nebulous them.” 

“Then what the fuck is up your ass about . . .” You trail off. His heart by his ears, he turns to you. You’re watching him, your eyes the size of silver dollars, your earrings glistening like diamonds in your ears. “Oh my god . . .”  

He doesn’t like that tone of voice at all, doesn’t like the look in your eyes. You step closer and he steps back. You take another step and he almost falls backwards into the pool fully clothed.

“Oh my god, Dieter . . .”

“What?”

A smile breaks out across your face. Relief. Hope. Shock. Delight. A joy that verges on cruel. 

  “That’s it, isn’t it?” 

He turns his shoulder away from you, trying to wiggle out from under the pin of your eyes.

“The fuck are you talking about? What’s it?” 

You stepside him and he catches your wicked smile again. Your eyes are glittering. Victory.

“You’ve masturbated thinking about me, haven’t you?” 

“. . . no. What?” He turns away towards the house, but you block him. He could pick you up and just move you, but he doesn’t. “Get out of my face.” 

Triumphant, you snatch the last bit of cigarette out of his fingers and inhale. Your hip cocked, maroon shirt trembling in the night air, you look like you own the mesa and all the stars in the sky. You lick your bottom lip, transcendence shining in your eyes.

“You’ve totally jerked yourself off thinking about what it would be like to fuck me,” you whisper, a secret just for the two of you. “Was it big? Was it messy? Did it go everywhere?” 

Dieter nearly snarls again and claps his hands over your shoulders. He wants to shake some sense into you or pull you closer. 

Despite everything, having his hands on you is a balm. It quiets some part of him. 

“For the love of God, stop fucking talking. I am literally begging you to. stop. talking.” 

You don’t say anything, but that boastful grin is still on your face. He doesn’t drop his hands and you don’t step back. You are farther apart than in the bathroom, and somehow, out in the open air, it feels even tighter, enclosed. He can see the individual lashes around your eyes, the barely-there wrinkles forming at the corners. You’ve got freckles in places that he’d very much like to taste. 

God, how you love a challenge. You bring the cigarette to your mouth. You inhale, then slowly dip your head forward to his mouth. You don’t go any further, but then you exhale, smoke escaping past your lips and dousing him. His eyes flutter shut from the heat, the warmth, the burn of the smoke. He thinks he can smell bubble-gum. The smoke kisses him on the lips, gentle, inviting. A promise of many, many possible futures. 

The smoke passes, flits away on the desert wind. And there’s your face, emerging from behind obscurity. The smirk is gone. Instead, you’ve gone soft, wanting, full of desire. Your eyelids are halfway closed against the smoke and the flood of need scorching you from head to toe. He thinks you and hurricanes share the same sort of powerful, thunderous beauty. 

It would be easy.

It would be so easy. No one else had to know. 

But he would know. He wasn’t quite there. 

Not yet. 

He takes the cigarette back from between your fingers, careful not to touch you. 

“That one’s mine,” he murmurs, hoping his words land where he wants to put his mouth. “Almost gone anyway.” 

He flicks the butt across the white concrete as he goes back to your purse. He gets two this time, the lighter in his back pocket, and he sits at the edge of the pool. He rolls his jeans up to his knees before easing his legs into the cool water. The pool light below him throws constellations of blue-silver onto his calves. 

You sit next to him, after a moment, the blanket still around your shoulders. You roll up your jeans just like he did and find a matching position next to him. He offers you the other cigarette wordlessly and you take it and light it. Faint smoke trails waft up into the night sky from between your fingers and his, inches from each other. 

“If it isn’t entirely obvious, I wanna fuck you too,” you confess to your thighs, voice small and edged. “I can’t tell you how disappointed I was that you didn’t take me up on my offer at the hotel.” 

His eyebrows slowly rise. “You remember that?” 

You nod. “I was ready to kick out those other two assholes if you had said yes. I wanted you all to myself.”

It was out there. You knew his secret and he knew yours. A monumental weight had been shifted and Dieter no longer feels like there is a burning knot of metal wool in his chest.

The paper crinkled as it burned. 

Still, something lingered.

“What do you want to do about it?” You swing your ankles through the water. It catches the light and your skin glows.

“About what?”

“About this. About us.”

“Nothing,” he says. The hand at his lips trembles. “Nothing can happen and it never will.” 

“Because you love your wife so much.” You make it sound genuine. But there’s enough bitterness inside of him to know it’s not.

“Because I can’t do that to her. Not again. She’s a better person than I am. A better person than I will ever be. I don’t know why she loves me but I don’t deserve her and I’m not putting her through that again.” 

You sit quiet for a moment, your mouth puckered and cocked to the side. He thinks– just for a moment, for a minute, as you stare out into the night-blue abyss– he thinks your eyes are wet. 

His heart, his whole chest, aches deeply. Just for a moment.

“Seems kinda fucked up to stay with someone out of guilt,” you say finally. Your voice is clear and maybe he was just imagining things. He swallows and smokes some more, hoping the burn in his mouth will somehow give him the right words to say. His fingers drum on his knee. 

“You only get two of those a day. From now on. Only two.” 

“Two what?” 

He grins because he really does like spending time with you. 

“Comments that make me feel like an asshole. You get two a day. That was one.” 

You scoff, tossing your hair over your shoulder. “Four. I want four.” 

“You get two.” 

“Three.” 

“God, you are bossy. Three and that’s it. You go over and I’m throwing you off this mesa.”

You smirk, and he lets you have this victory. You need it, he knows. 

You wade your feet some more, ankles spinning out in slow, small circles. He watches your thigh muscles move. How soft the backs of your knees are, he can only imagine.

“So, was this all worth it?” He waves his hand around, smoke trailing from between his middle and index finger. “Close quarters character work or whatever. Are we friends?”

His smile is teasing, but it falls off slowly when you don’t smile back. Your face is blank, but your eyes are dark as they stare, heated, at the water, a storm brewing in your thoughts. You pick at your nails, resting on your knee, the cigarette weakly chuffing silver smoke.

“I don’t want to be friends,” you murmur softly.

“Natalie, I —” 

“I don’t want to be friends.” You say louder, forcefully. You turn your gaze to him and he sees that girl on set that’s always a word away from pushing him over the limit, towards the edge of his sanity. “And I know you don’t want that either.” 

He works his jaw, buckling under the weight of your desire. He looks away. Your ankles are sparkling. 

“That’s all I can offer. I’m sorry.” 

“An apology. Wow.” You scoff scornfully. “You know, Dieter, I think that’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

Your voice is strained, grated, unpolished. Your face is tragically beautiful, even when it’s holding back tears. 

“This is the way it has to be. Do you want me in your life or not? Can we be friends?” 

He doesn’t know what he’s gonna do if you say no. He hadn’t really considered a life without you in it, in some shape or form. But the dread he felt when he made it an option, it was overwhelming.

He can’t swallow air right. He rubs his chest, suddenly light-headed from the smoke. He wants to lie down somewhere warm. 

Slowly, thankfully, with a grace he didn’t think you possessed, you nod. You switch the cigarette to the other hand and lift your palm. A greeting. The waving of a white flag. A rain-soaked battlefield full of ghosts and dreams. 

He takes your hand and shakes it once.

“Friends it is.”

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x reader #the bubble fanfic #the bubble fic #the bubble fanfiction #the bubble 2016 #dieter bravo/f!reader #dieter bravo/you #dieter bravo/reader

[piecesofeden11]

20 Questions Fic Writer Tag Thank you so much for the tag, @grapenehifics This looks so much fun!! 1.) How many works do you have on ao3? Officially 37 but like ... 25 of those are part of the Kinktober Series and another 6 for the Obianidala Series. So, 6? :D

2.) What's your ao3 word count?  132,934 Woof! Nice! 3.) What fandoms do you write for?  At the moment, purely Star Wars. I have three story in the MCU verse but that was a long time ago :D

4.) What are your top five fics by kudos? Counting down, Ms Mojo style! 5: When Sorrow Sang (MCU, Thor/Loki, AU, Discontinued) 4: Half-Pass and Half-Pipes (Star Wars, Obi-Wan/Anakin, Olympics AU, Almost finished :D) 3: Heel (Star Wars, Obi-Wan/Anakin, Sith AU, UFO) 2: Like Puppets on a Broken String (Star Wars, Obi-Wan/Anakin, Fix It GffA, UFO) 1: Flying Blind (MCU, Steve/Tony, Oneshot) Okay, the fact that ... Heel with it's less than 2K words being above all 10 chapters of Half-Pass cracks me up xD The Sith-Thirst is SO real!

5.) Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? Always! I am so, so grateful for every single comment I receive and I want to let people know! Also ... comment conversations/exchanging thoughts are the best!!

6.) What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? A Tapestry of Broken Hope ... which makes sense because it follows canon :D and does it get angstier than that?

7.) What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? This would be such a spoiler but ... Half-Pass! I mean ... common! We all know where this is going 🎩💍🎩💕

8.) Do you get hate on fics? Fortunately, I have not gotten any. I'd probably just delete the comment, though (not that I would not hurt ...)

9.) Do you write smut? If so what kind? *glances at 25 stories of Kinktober* ... I try. I gotta admit though ... the heavier stuff ... is probably gonna go back into my reading-only corner :D

10.) Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written? I have written a MCU/Pacific Rim Crossover :D Find it here! I like it!

11.) Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I'm aware of and I hope it stays that way!

12.) Have you ever had a fic translated? No. I thought about translating on my own into German but ... haven't gotten around to it. I think it would be an interesting challenge actually. That being said ... I'd love if anyone did it. (Or Podfic any of mine ... like ... that would be incredible)

13.) Have you ever cowritten a fic before? Not in the traditional sense I think, but I've exchanged thoughts voraciously with @grapenehifics on Half-Pass, and I'm currently collaborating with @wibzenadarksiderwithasoftheart on the new Dancing with the Stars AU (Coming to an Archive of our Own near you soon!)

14.) What's your all time favorite ship? Don't make me chose! (Obikin ... who am I kidding?)

15.) What's a WIP you'd like to finish, but doubt you ever will? When Sorrow Sang was actually a very cool idea and I remember being so hyped about it but then the energy just fizzled out.

16.) What are your writing strengths I hate this question 🥺 I don't know :( I'm not good at praising myself

17.) What are your writing weaknesses? Overthinking, Conversations, Cohesion?

18.) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic? I love bringing the element of multi-linguality into stories. Sometimes I will use my native tongue as a stand-in for non-basic (in SW terms :D)

19.) First fandom you wrote for? Harry Potter

20.) Favorite fic you've ever written? Nah ... I'm not doing this! :D (I do adore Half-Pass ...) I'm tagging YOU! Yes, you! Reading this rn!!

#eden rambles #ask game #writers ask

[summerspectre]

Hello! I'm opening ghostwriting/fanfiction commissions! To request one, all you have to do is fill out the form here! examples of writing are beneath the cut or can be found at alltheghosties on ao3!

I will write anything for any of the fandoms listed as options (all of which will be tagged in this post's tags as I want this post to reach those audiences), however if OCs are requested as part of the fic, there may be extra charge. Additionally, if I don't know the fandom requested well (ex: hermitcraft, double life, amphibia), extra charges may be incurred.

All transactions are made through Venmo & after the form is filled out, further discussion can be made in DMs! Usually products will be given via an exerpt when it is finished, then payment will be made, and then the final fic will be send over/posted, depending on consumer preference.

Excerpt #1 - Dream SMP

People are fragile, and with fragile people-hearts, the empaths that roam the great earth want nothing more than to live and to love forever. It is often found, in anyone's life, that immortality is impossible. King Tubbo the Tenacious had seen in the way Dream cackled, the unhappiness the man had from reviving anyone- if he ever had, or if it was just a sick form of grieving. When a soul has moved on, the body is a mere vessel for infinity to puppeteer.

Tubbo died peacefully, as everyone did, when he grew old, Ranboo following him into the dark. He died doing what he loved: Dancing.

His soul would dance again, perhaps, in another life. Perhaps then, it is good that immortality was simply never meant to be.

-Sick of Losing Soulmates - A Royal C!Tubbo AU

Excerpt #2 - Dream SMP

Ranboo loved Tubbo like a partner, like someone who didn't see him as less, and wasn't there to use him.

Ranboo didn't fix Tubbo, and they weren't trying to. They were there to love the broken bits just as much as the well-working.

For that reason, Tubbo found the air that his lungs had been lacking. He found a breath, and a simple four words that fell off his tongue. They were simultaneously the most difficult and the easiest words he'd ever said:

"I love you, too."

-that fragile capricorn... - A C!Beeduo Oneshot

Except #3 - Dream SMP

Ranboo is a survivor. Tubbo craves death.

There is something inherently poetic about this, something so deeply wrong with this, and something beautiful envelopes this. They are like balance itself, in living there is a risk of death. In wanting to die, life remains and remains. Tubbo won't take his own life, not as long as Michael is around, and Ranboo won't die for anyone but Michael. Two souls tethered by a baby, and a hell of a lot of trauma.

It's both entertaining, and a bit sad.

-Unreleased Excerpt - Prologue to the Learning to Live With Ourselves series

#dream smp #rwby #don't hug me i'm scared #dhmis #wednesday #camp camp #the owl house #gravity falls #spop #she-ra and the princesses of power #my little pony #mlp #mystreet #aphmau #commission info #writing

[dodger-chan]

20 Questions for fic writers:

Tagged by @cchapsticck

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

59, if you count the very old stuff I archived there. 39, if you only count the stuff I originally posted there.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

194,755

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Recently, it's been all Stranger Things. If I start writing other fandoms again, tumblr will be the first to know.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Their Wedding Night (cowritten with @sharpbutsoft )

Adventures in Housekeeping

The Opposite of Love

The House Dick

Her Double Life

All but The Opposite of Love are part of A Bliss Like This

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try to. I used to not, but I've gotten into some nice conversations with other authors who responded to my comments, so I decided to try it. And I'm a very small author (don't let the word/ count fool you; I've been posting fic online since the late 90s) so there aren't that many comments to reply to.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably that sin, through which I run. Though it's told backwards, so it might depend on what you consider the ending.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Any fic in A Bliss Like This. It's a guaranteed happiness series.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Never on AO3.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I've written, but not published smut. I'm not good enough at it.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I don't, really. Nothing wrong with crossovers, I'm just not usually inspired in that way.

I did work with a couple of friends once on a wild, universe hopping crossover that involved Sonic characters, Gundam Wing, Dragonball Z, The Old Man from Scene 24 (Holy Grail) and others with a friend that I think she posted somewhere. Probably fanfiction.net, but it was like 25 years ago (I am very old) and I'm a little scared of how awful it must have been so I'm not looking.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that anyone's mentioned to me.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not in the sense that we've blended our writing into a single story, but @sharpbutsoft and I built a 1920s AU together. Individual stories in A Bliss Like This are often hers or mine but they build off each other and all the major details are a joint endeavor.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

This is an impossible question.

I have noticed a preference for jock/nerd or similar such pairings. Where one half of the couple is "normal" or socially acceptable and the other half is very, very weird. But only when the relationship develops without either of them giving up that aspect of their personality. No makeovers!

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

A Nancy POV fic tentatively called 'Three Truths and No Lies' that I started between the two volumes of season four. Because there were all these "fruity four" fics and I thought Nancy would likely try to fix or at least find closure in her relationship with Jonathan as soon as he got to Hawkins, leading to her feeling a little left out of the Eddie and Stobin closeness.

Also a third part of Coming Out with a Purpose, where Robin and Steve come out to Joyce to test her reaction and give her the opportunity to learn from the mistakes she makes with them so that she doesn't fuck up when Will finally comes out.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Limited POVs. I think I'm decent at character voices, too, but I'm less confident there.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Actually writing words down (what do you mean just thinking about the fic doesn't make it exist?). The urge to edit while I write. Spelling. Plots.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I'm not good enough at it to really do it, unless the character speaking is not supposed to be fluent.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

That I published online? Fushigi Yuugi, as I recall. Maybe Gundam Wing. But as a kid I used to write Real Ghostbusters fic for my parents (they wanted to encourage my creativity). Mostly fleshed out (no pun intended) back stories for the ghosts.

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

I'm still writing it. I'm gonna finish it, I swear.

Of what I've published, it's probably Her Double Life, because genderqueer drag queen Eddie of the 1920s is just so much fun. I have so many thoughts and feelings about her. So, so many.

No pressure tags for: @sharpbutsoft , @greenlikethesea, um, who else writes? If you do, and you want to answer these, please consider yourself tagged.

#tag game

[maeve-on-mustafar]

For your absolutely incredible Mace Trains Anakin Series, i would honestly really enjoy seeing you write Mace possibly interacting with like. cultural differences between the jedi and tatooine, and helping anakin to reconcile them (they are two entirely different Planets with different Religions and Languages and Power Structures, it’s impossible to say that they have the exact same cultural values. like tpm anakin is Down to go behind someone’s back and trick his primary authority figure, has kept a Whole Entire Podracer a secret from the man who owns him, and by the time of revenge of the sith he is like Secrets Is Bad And This Is Killing Us, implying possible jedi influence in this) mostly bc you are a very good author and i feel like you would be able to write this subject very well but also in a way that doesn’t needlessly demonize one party as either Backwater Habits that he should Grow Past Because The Third World Allegory Has Nothing Of Value Whatsoever or The Jedi Are Horrible Monsters to Anakin Specifically

Thank you Very much and have a nice day

Hi anon, thank you so much for your your enthusiasm and interest. It really means a lot to me that you enjoyed my fics and wanted to reach out and share your own ideas with me. And I definitely agree that I’d love to see more TPM aftermath fic of Anakin struggling with the culture shock life among the Jedi on Coruscant compared personally.

As for if I'll ever write another fic for my "Mace trains Anakin" AU . . . maybe I will someday. I have three fics in my docs folder, all of them more than halfway finished or more. I'd like to complete them someday, especially because two of them involves Anakin bonding with Depa, and I had a lot of fun with those scenes.

But I hate my own writing. I hate it, and I don't know how not to hate it, and whenever I write, all I can do is worry that other people will hate my writing too. I can never get past this anxiety that my writing is a waste of time and that with the next fic I publish, everyone will decide my writing sucks and that they never again want to give any of my fics a chance.

And then there's my inability to make sustained connections in fandom. I've tried writing meta, I've tried reblogging art or gifs I think are nice, I've tried to offer thoughtful, well-reasoned points or counterpoints to meta I see going around. None of it seems to work, and it seems like everyone else already has their established friend group and that no one is ever interested in chatting with anyone new. I feel completely isolated from almost everyone in fandom, and I feel exhausted by it, too. I don't know how to fix this or what changes to make or how to summon up the energy to make any of them even if I did. It just seems so pointless; I struggle over and over again to connect with people, and I don't know why.

I wish I could write more of my "Mace trains Anakin" AU. I liked that AU. But I think I waited too long to publish the next part, and then too long again after that, because now I don't think anyone would be interested. I wish I were better at marketing my fics and striking while the iron is hot when it comes to updating series; it's one more thing I could better at if I tried but I'm not.

I just feel so burned out and tired. Fic writing is a constant battle for me because I have so many ideas that I want to share, but I'm so afraid of writing them and posting them only for them to be overlooked, and for me to be forced to realize that maybe my writing and ideas sucked all along, and that everyone else will realize it, too.

I don't know if I'll update my AU or not. I just know I constantly feel exhausted from worry about my writing, and I don't know how to go back to having fun with it anymore.

#anakin skywalker #mace windu #my asks #answered asks #anon answered #star wars prequels

[silversoulstardust]

Tag Game To Better Know You! Send this to people you'd like to know better!

tagged by @abitofboth (thank you for the tag mills🥺)

what book are you currently reading?

under the whispering door by by TJ Klune. the book is fine, I like reading TJ Klune’s work but it’s taking me forever to finish because of its heavy subjects. (death and afterlife, and it’s hard for me because of recent losses)

what do you usually wear?

depends on what I’m doing, I guess. currently staying up in bed past midnight so i’m in my comfy jammy and a yellow sweater <3 

how tall are you?

5 ft 2. AND OLY @olyollyoxenfree BEFORE YOU COME FOR ME I AM TALL FOR AN ASIAN LMAO 

what’s your star sign? do you share a birthday with a celebrity or historical event? 

sagittarius. I share birthday with Scarlet Johanson, Mark Ruffalo and Jamie-Lee Curtis!

do you go by your name or a nickname?

I go by Chromie online. it’s a nickname given by someone I talked to on tumblr in the past, and I like it so much it stuck with me even though we part ways not on so good terms. wherever she is I hope she’s doing fine <3 

did you grow up to become what you wanted to be as a child?  

yeah but I kinda wish I didn’t, honestly. working in healthcare is taxing both mentally and physically, and I have assholes for colleagues. (tho I think that’s applicable everywhere.)

what’s something you’re good at vs something you’re bad at?

good at: showing up and being there for people I care about

bad at: asking for help

if you draw/write, or create in any way, what's your favorite picture/favorite line/favorite etc. from something you created this year? 

This is from my Steddie time travel fix it AU, and I don’t know why but I really loved it.

Steve never really had anyone to split chores with before. His parents are almost never home. Robin does stay over from time to time, but she prefers ordering pizza, it’s her comfort food that’s almost always denied when she’s home, so she takes the chance to order it whenever she’s sleeping over at Steve’s place. Steve never thought having someone do the dishes for him as romantic, but here he is, staring at this metalhead in his kitchen, with glorious long hair and tattoos all over his skin wearing all black ensemble, wiping a spatula using dry cloth over the sink, occasionally smiling at Steve, a domestic bliss in the unlikeliest of time. Eddie caught him staring and when he asks why, there’s just a jumbled up emotions inside Steve that he can’t possibly put into words. So instead he turns the stove off and makes out with Eddie against the counter, thinking that this, this is what he’s been missing his entire life.

dogs or cats?

a cat person through and through. cant live with them, cant live without them, y’know? 

what's something you would like to create content for?

thinking of writing some ronance fics in the future! maybe loid/yor tooth rotting fluff and some nanami kento/haibara yu content because those two deserve better than their fate in the manga 

what’s something you’re currently obsessed with?

if you’ve been on my tumblr for the last six months, you’d notice I have been entirely consumed by steddie brainrot and stranger things lol

what's something you were excited about that turned out to be disappointing this year?

Dr Strange: multiverse of madness. wandavision series was so spectacular and I was giddy for it until months later they revealed that the writer was mike waldron. the bar of my expectation was so low it was basically on the floor and yet I was still disappointed 

what’s a hidden talent of yours? 

I can write with both hands. does that count??

what's something you wish to have at this moment? 

a long hug and a shoulder to cry on would be nice. cant exactly cry on cue but I think if someone hold me long enough I might start crying lol 

tagging @mygeekcorner @olyollyoxenfree @harrringtons @steviesmunson @froof-of-the-loof @princessstevemunson @cursedfoxteeth @iprefertheterminsane @gundamthey17 <3

#ask game #chrmz.txt #get to know chromie