sevikas-whistle

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Reblog for a larger sample size!

No "show results", if you're not a fanfic writer just be patient.

I saw a post about an anon saying it was embarrasing to have an ao3 account in your 30s (it's absolutely not), so I want to do a poll and see what the age range actually is.

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Does your Mother know?

Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x fem!Reader

Summary: Somebody catches Maverick's eye at the bar. There's just a slight problem.

Tags: Fluff, AGE GAP!! but everybody involved is an adult, inspired by the ABBA song, sexy old man Mav

Notes: This is something old I once wrote about Slash but just changed it to Mav cause. Babygirl who's actually a wrinkly old man. Is obviously inspired by the ABBA song and I also used one of the lyrics lines. ALSO this is my first ever TGM imagine on here and I'm lowkey nervous so, please be nice. Also sorry if there are any spelling or grammar mistakes!!!

Story after cut ✂️

Mav never thought he would end up in a situation like this. After the most recent Mission he just wanted to chill at The Hard Deck and let off some steam. The whole Dagger Squad had been tough on him.

But there he saw her. She was beautiful, but most importantly young. Probably in her late-twenties. He couldn't help but watch her throughout the night as she was hanging out with her friends. 

He was taking a sip from his glass when he suddenly felt eyes on him. He looked around and noticed that it was one of her friends. She was whispering to her while looking over at him. 

Out of nowhere, she suddenly stood up from the table and started walking towards him. She was wearing a gorgeous outfit and it took him all of his strength to not stare. This is inappropriate, Pete. You're old enough to be her dad, stop staring at her like that. He thought. 

"Hey" She smiled softly. "Can I sit with you?" 

He chuckled a little and shrugged, a bit caught off guard. “Suit yourself.” Her voice was even prettier than he thought.

"So.. what's a girl like you doing talking to an old man like me?" He asked, raising an eyebrow, he was seriously surprised. 

"I noticed you looking at me and so I got curious" She grinned in response. Maverick chuckled, a bit embarrassed he was caught staring. "Sorry, you just.. caught my attention" He mumbled under his breath. 

"So, what's your name?" He asked curiously. "It's Y/N. And they call you…?" 

"Maverick." He smiled. 

Y/N. That name kept echoing in his head for a moment. 

They just looked at each other for a moment, unsure what to say next. She suddenly pulled out a piece of paper from her leather jacket, scribbling something on it. She put the little piece of paper right into Mav's hand and his heart skipped a beat at the contact. What the fuck was happening?

"Give me a call" She winked at him and was just about to get up until he stopped her. "Wait- Are you serious?" He asked. 

"You do know I'm old enough to be your dad, right?" He chuckled. "You seem pretty young to be searching for that kind of fun"

"I know, but you don't seem like the other older men staring at me. You're not as creepy as them" She replied teasingly. Soon she left again to sit down at the table with her friends.  

Maverick just slightly shook his head with a smile before taking a sip from his drink, still caught off guard by the whole situation that just went down. He looked down at the note in his hand before putting it into his jacket, just to keep it safe for later.

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When you're reading fanfiction, do you ever just pause, let out a little strangled velociraptor sound, and then continue when you get to a line that just hits you some type of way, or is that just me

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more self-indulgence from yours truly ❤️

anchored to the ocean floor (dracula x gender neutral!reader, van helsing)

The ballroom is filled with the titter of voices and clinking glass, the slow lilt of a woman’s voice and the haunting melody of the quartet at her back. You feel the weight of eyes upon you as you’re led into the fray, your hand - cold, clammy with fear - tucked into the arm of your host.

Your heartbeat is a constant drum in your ears, pounding at the base of your throat. You’re certain they can hear it. The monster masquerading as a man at your side certainly can, if the slow curl of his lips as your fingers tighten around his arm is any indication. 

He is your safety here, within the heart of the devil’s den, your only certainty that you will not be snatched away by the creatures that prowl among the ballroom in silken garbs and feathered masks, who look upon you with curious disdain and ill-concealed hunger.

And yet he is one of them, the very devil who haunts the dreams of you and yours, who sends his vicious wives into the village to feast upon your friends and kin and allows ravenous beasts to steal away your livestock and livelihoods.

“There is no need for such fear,” he murmurs to you, his voice a silken drawl. “You are amongst friends.”

His words ring hollowly in the face of their hunger, the depth of it writ across their faces as they track your path through the grand ballroom. Remnants of red cling to their glasses, the scent of iron nearly inescapable, and your grip upon Dracula’s arm tightens.

“Come now,” he coaxes, though you have not said a word. You’ve reached the center of the ballroom, and Dracula draws you effortlessly into a turn, one hand tangling with yours and the other gripping your waist. “There is no need to fret. No harm shall come to you so long as you remain by my side.”

It is a reassurance and an ill omen all at once. You are safe, yes, but only for as long as Dracula deems you so. 

Bereft of any other choice, you allow him to turn you about the floor in time with the melancholy music drifting through the air. You’ve no head for dancing, nor for the intricate dips and turns Dracula coaxes you into, but it matters not. Dracula guides you across the floor with ease.

The others disappear from your mind - folly on your part, for even with Dracula’s reassurances, the chance that one would succumb to their bloodlust and lunge for your throat remains a true and very present threat.

“What do you want from me?” you ask, your breath catching as Dracula draws you against his breast, your racing pulse a stark contrast to his unbeating heart. You are no one, unfamiliar and desperately unfit for the crowd which ebbs around you now. Creature or no, the men and women dancing about you are resplendent, clad in finery the likes of which you’ve never seen. The clothing Dracula had insisted upon you felt strange and unbecoming, as though you were merely pretending at occupying a station far above your own. A sheep amongst wolves.

Dracula smiles. His canines glint in the firelight. How many had met their end beneath their bite? 

“Why, the pleasure of your company, of course,” he answers, his dark eyes gleaming beneath his golden mask. He urges you away, twisting your body with a guiding hand along your hip, and then draws you close once more, your back flush with his chest. Your heart climbs into your throat as he ducks his head and murmurs into your ear. “Unless there is more you’d like to offer?”

His nails rasp along your hip, your belly, palm wide and warm - how can a dead thing carry such warmth? - against your chest, until it settles at the base of your throat and squeezes, the touch as light as a feather’s kiss. His lips press against your ear. “More that I can take?”

“Don’t - “ you murmur, your voice breaking as his fingers curl around your throat, his breath hot against your ear, your cheek.

“No?” he wonders, nosing along your jaw. You turn your head, a last-moment instinct to protect your throat from that deadly bite, only to find your chin captured and your eyes locked with his. 

He’s removed his mask, the candlelight gleaming within his dark eyes and along the crown of his head. You’re frozen beneath his stare, your pulse rushing at the base of your throat, and at the sound of its beat Dracula’s eyes flutter shut, his lips parting in a smile. “Such stubborn words,” he murmurs against your lips, his eyes flaring a piercing blue. “Why must you deny yourself? Deny me? Can you not hear it?”

He tilts your chin, exposing the line of your throat to his hungry gaze. “How your heart calls to me? How deeply it yearns? How it beckons me… “

An animal whine builds in your throat, your vision swimming as it’s guided toward the ceiling of the grand ballroom. The music fades, the other guests little more than ghosts at the corners of your eyes. Your senses dull to everything save the creature at your back and the fangs along your throat, and then those teeth are finding purchase, catching skin, sinking in, and your senses are dull no longer. They sing, your body flooding with electricity, with pain, with blood, arching against Dracula’s chest and folded within his fierce embrace. 

Your hands grapple for purchase within the storm, fingers digging into his sleeve and groping desperately for his dark hair, twining within the strands and urging him, not away, but closer. 

And it is then, trapped within the arms of the devil and feeling the life blood drain from your body, that you know the truth, that it wraps around your throat and threatens to choke you, drown you, rip you from your moorings and leave you gasping for air, for sanity, for hope.

You are marked - marked for slaughter or amusement, or worse - by Dracula’s fangs upon your throat, and there is no salvation for you. No hope. 

You are lost.

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A Kandomere Sleepy Time Imagine

SFW-fluffy-snuggles

The house was dark, but for the stove light, casting a pale yellow glow down the entrance hall. You slipped through the front door as quietly as possible, opting to leave your keys in a jacket pocket. Tricky business if you left in the morning without said jacket, but a risk worth taking.

The apartment was dead still, dead silent. Kandomere had probably gone to bed hours ago. You ventured into the kitchen to see if he left you any ‘gifts’ in the refrigerator. Ding, ding, ding, and score. He had made you a delectable salad in a Tupperware. ‘Good man’ you thought to yourself with a smile as you retrieved it.

Dating Kandomere on it’s own had been a whirlwind of fancy dinners and romance. Living with him on the other hand, well, things became a lot more…real life. It took a while to find your groove, but things were starting to wind down a bit. And in the end, it was more rewarding to have someone to come home to at night. Even if it was usually one of the two of you tiptoeing in during the wee hours.

After a late dinner, you started to feel the true weight of the day pulling on your muscles and sinking down behind your eyes. Shower time. Teeth brushing time. Bedtime.

Now, it is impossible to be quiet turning on a shower, but you hoped against the odds not to wake him, but it was probably for not. Damn him and his freakishly good hearing. You loved and hated it. A night spent at a cocktail party popped into your head as you exited the shower. Where you whispered across a crowded room, something decidedly adult, just to see if he could hear you while he was talking to a visiting senator. His cheeks had flushed bright pink and you knew you’d hit pay dirt. You stifled a laugh as you finished brushing your teeth.

He had left a neatly folded pair of pajamas on the bathroom shelf for you. You ran your hand over the embroidery. Another ‘gift’ that just happened to appear one day. Two elegant initials in your favorite color on lavish silk. Kandomere was, above all else, too thoughtful for words. You donned them with pride and gratitude and crept into the master bedroom.

His familiar form was bathed in moonlight, his breathing light and regular, all of him a comforting presence.

You tried to ease onto the edge of the bed without disturbing him, silently kicking off your slippers. Acutely you became aware of a warm hand creeping up beneath your shirt. Delicate knuckles cruised casually up your spine and back down. A small gesture of welcoming that bloomed into a deep seated serenity.

You closed your eyes and let your head hang in a half-hearted kind of defeat, “I’m sorry I woke you.”

You knew he wore a tired smile on his face, “I told you to stop worrying. I am always going to wake when you come home. No matter how quiet you are.”

His voice was wrought with exhaustion, but also gentility and kindness. He was just happy to have you next to him again. If ever pressed he would have to confess it was the only way he ever rested soundly.

You laid down on your side, fiddling with the buttons on the alarm clock. Kandomere’s body greeted yours, by pulling the covers up around you and holding you firmly to him with an arm around your waist. There it was; a bliss unparalleled.

You could feel him nuzzling into your shoulder, grazing lips through slippery silk. He breathed in the scent of you, relishing this most sacred of moments, when you were finally all his own for the night.

He peppered kisses after a short appreciative spell. They’d fall upon your neck and cheek and temple. Each one held a soothing power. Anxiety, worry, regret, anger, all of it faded. He pulled you tighter, burying his nose in your hair, always uncaring as to whether it was wet or dry. Just enjoyed the way it fell, the way it felt, the way it smelled.

“How did your meeting go?” he asked as his lips ghosted over your ear.

You shrugged haphazardly, “So not worth getting out of bed at 5:30 in the morning.”

His breath danced playfully on your ear as he chuckled, “Not nearly as scintillating as you had hoped?”

“I think I fell asleep half way through…nobody noticed.”

His chest reverberated with laughter. You tucked your arm beneath his. His hand on yours, he traced circles with his thumb.

“I am happy to have you home, my love, to have you in my arms,” he murmured.

“There’s no place I’d rather be,” you returned as your eyelids started to droop.

“There is no greater pleasure.”

“I can think of a few,” you joked through a growing fog.

You felt him smile against your neck before settling himself.

A new silence gathered, pierced only by steady breathing. Darkness and security. Peace and intense inner pleasure. And thusly a surrender to sleep.

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2 genres of fanfiction:

1) put that guy into situations

2) take that guy OUT of situations for the love of GOD let them REST 

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Gemini Venus things

the whole point of life is just knowing a bunch of weird stuff and being kinda flirty

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watching someone in your notes go through your entire catalogue of work

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when u come up with a tiny change for your story that not only makes the writing flow better but also hammers in the character motivations and story theme

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starting to think i might be kind of a perv :/

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I often wonder what happened to authors of unfinished fanfictions.

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all of my ocs are inherently neurodivergent in someway because i dont know how neurotypical people work

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You know what sucks?? Not having a writers block, but being too busy to write

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someone take my phone away

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