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juyeonszn · 4 months

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PRINCESS AND THE PAUPER (PT. 2)

PAIRING kevin moon x f!reader

WORD COUNT 5.60k

GENRES angst ﹒little bit of fluff ﹒little bit of smut

WARNINGS 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, mature language, reader is better than me cause i would not let kevin do all the shit he’s done 😭, ANYWAY i digress, this part is very reader-centric — whereas part one is very kevin-centric, inner turmoil goes absolutely crazy, most of this fic is reader putting kevin in his place and him realizing how big of an asshole he truly is, mentions of injury (past tense), mentions of insecurity, lots of arguing, reader cries at one point or another, the smut places a very minimal role in this, but unprotected sex, public sex (the auditorium dressing room), no foreplay but wtv we fall like soldiers in battle, pussy job lowkey (high key…), creampie, lmk if i missed anything!

SUMMARY it wasn’t like you and kevin hated each other. in fact, you quite admired him despite his somewhat indifferent attitude toward you. well, now that you’re paired up for the last dance of the year, you guess it’s the perfect time to find out why.

MORE oh my god. it’s finally fucking here. A MONTH, 2 SICKNESSES AND MANY MANY STRESSFUL NIGHTS LATER— part two of princess and the pauper is here!!! i’m so sorry to those of u who have been itching and waiting on me to get ‘er done,,, it’s been an ordeal to say the least, and while it’s nearing the two month mark since the black out or back out collab was announced, SHE FINALLY FINISHED!!! for once i saw something through omg i can sleep peacefully and work on my other wips without guilt now… 😭 ALSO THANK U SO MUCH MAYA @/kimsohn FOR PUSHING ME THROUGH THIS and for making me thug it out bc without u it definitely would’ve taken much longer to finish 💔 please dont forget to read part one and the other fics in the series if u haven’t!! both are linked below! and as always, pls reblog if u enjoyed <3

PART ONE | SERIES MASTERLIST

PERM TAGLIST @winterchimez @maessseongs @itsbeeble @zzoguri @deoboyznet @cloverdaisies @vernyangel @ericlvr @sunwooverse @kimsohn

TAGLIST @millksea @deobibbang @deobi0412

Never in your life have you felt so… Confused.

It wasn’t just confusion that settled deep in the pit of your stomach. There was a sharp pain there too, like someone stabbed you and twisted the knife. That was probably the best way to describe what you were feeling. You were bleeding out, and no one was coming to save you.

Kevin wasn’t answering your calls. He wasn’t answering your texts. He ran out of the lecture hall as soon as class was over, never giving you a moment to speak to him. It was making you nervous.

You still had half of a dance to choreograph and a fuck ton of pressure riding on your back. After the last performance you and him did together, you’d have a lot of eyes on you. It most definitely wasn’t your fault that he dropped you. How many people willingly want to acquire a broken ankle? The crutches were a bitch to maneuver around with. But like every single thing that’s happened in the three years you’ve known Kevin Moon, he’s managed to place the blame on you like it was.

It was crucial that you make amends with him even if it was momentarily. Your final grades were dependent on your performance. If he couldn’t get his shit together for at least that, he was a lost cause in your mind. Not even your professor would be able to refute that fact. Actually, nobody would be able to refute that fact.

Your lips form an O as you blow the steam away from your coffee, pulling out your phone to try Kevin’s phone once again. The line rings a few times before going straight to voicemail like it has the past couple weeks. You kiss your teeth, tying your sweater around your waist as you slump in your chair. The baristas at the campus cafe were probably sick of seeing you sitting in the same high-top counter spot since the incident with Kevin in the studio.

“Y/N?”

Ji Changmin appears beside you and you click your phone off, so he wouldn’t see his friend’s contact on the screen. You give the Early Childhood Dev major a weak smile.

“Changmin! What’s up? How are you and your girlfriend?” You hope he can’t recognize the distress written all over your features. You highly doubt it, though. You can feel the wrinkles pulling at your skin.

“We’re good! How’s the showcase performance going with Kev?” He asks like he knows something you don’t. When your lips fall to a thin line, an all too familiar grimace, he sighs a knowing sigh. “Do I have to smack some sense into him?”

“Not gonna lie, yeah, you do. He’s being really fucking difficult and like half of our dance is unfinished. I can’t even get a hold of him, so I’m starting to lose my patience.” You express your annoyance. The border between complacency and free-will was a lot slimmer than one might think. For example; your feelings when it comes to Kevin Moon.

You don’t expect to get a returning call later that night when you’re washing dishes after dinner.

In fact, you don’t even hear it at first, too absorbed in scrubbing the staining out of your bowl. It’s when your roommate yells out to you, that you snap out of your reverie, albeit dazedly. You dry your hands on a nearby tea towel, hitting the green answer button without a second glance at the caller ID.

“Hello?”

“Are you free tomorrow?”

Your heart catches in your throat. You recognize the owner of the voice practically by the first breath into the receiver alone. It’s actually kind of unhealthy how quickly it took to realize who was on the other end. You swallow heavily, praying he doesn’t hear the gulp.

“In the latter part of the afternoon, I believe. Why?” You try not to sound hopeful. That’s one thing you’ve learned being in the same vicinity as Kevin Moon. You could never be too expecting, because it would only lead to disappointment. And you’d dealt with enough of that the past few years.

“We need to finish this fuck ass choreography,” he grunts, and it takes everything in you to bite your tongue. “I’ll meet you in the same studio at 4.”

He doesn’t let you get anything else in, hanging up swiftly. You deflate as you set your phone back on the counter. All you had to do was push through these next couple weeks, like you always have when it came to him.

That should be a piece of cake, right?

Wrong.

“No, that looks stupid.”

You grit your teeth, swiping the back of your hand on your forehead. You’d been inside of this studio maybe 30 minutes tops, and you were on the verge of strangling Kevin. With as long as you’d been putting up with his shit, you thought getting through this wouldn’t be as rough as it’s been. But if there was one thing Kevin Moon had, it was pride.

“We don’t have time for you to nitpick right now. Let’s just finish the choreography and clean it after.” Your hands rest on your hips, nostrils flaring.

“If we clean as we go, we’ll have more time to drill it into our systems and get down muscle memory. It’ll be a stronger performance.” He argues. You roll your eyes as you turn away from him, taking a water break to calm yourself. “Why do you have so much fucking attitude today? You were the one preaching to the choir about me making things difficult. It seems the tables have turned.”

Usually, you were pretty good at keeping your frustration at bay when it came to Kevin’s remarks. You liked to think it was because you were down bad for the guy, despite him always wanting nothing to do with you. But as of late, (Read: Since your performance of Princess and the Pauper) every little comment he’s made has managed to crawl under your skin like a damn parasite. You were beginning to get real sick of it.

“God, you’re so—“ You interrupt yourself to groan, fingers curling into fists. “You’re fucking insufferable. Do you know that? I’ve been bending over backwards to ensure we aren’t kicked out of the goddamn program and you don’t even fucking care. Over what? A kiss that you initiated?”

Kevin is stunned into silence, not at all prepared for you to blow up on him like that. After all, that razor thin line between complacency and free-will had yet to be crossed. And well, it appears that you just crossed it. You whip around toward him, pulling down the collar of your t-shirt to reveal the faintest of bruises that still remains from your impromptu act of intimacy.

“I’ve had to look at this every day for a week and all it’s done is make me feel shitty, ashamed of something I didn’t even start. Now I need you to stop acting like an ass and get it together so we can finish this and perform the best dance this university has ever seen.” Your chest is heaving up and down, similarly to when you made out against the mirrors last week. Except this time isn’t out of breathlessness, but rather anger and exhaustion.

Kevin’s eyes don’t leave the hickey on the base of your throat, something undetectable swimming in them as he stares. You can’t read the emotions swirling rampantly in his irises, a mixture of too many blurring into one another. Honestly, it’s funny. It’s funny that it’s taken you this long to get him to shut his mouth for once.

So you laugh.

It’s a snort at first, an off handed projection of how comical the situation has become to you. But then it metamorphoses into a small giggle, which leads to full scale laughter that has you hunching over your knees and wiping away tears. This whole thing is stupid. Absolutely fucking stupid.

“What are you laughing at?” His eyebrow raises in question, broken from his weird trance.

“I just can’t believe it took three years for me to shut you up,” you shake your head slowly, rubbing your eye with the heel of your palm. “You’re always the one who can’t stop talking.”

Kevin deadpans, mouth pulled pin-straight as his expression drops. “You’re so unserious.”

As the height of your laughter reaches a valley, you collapse onto the ground, resting your back against the mirror. You take another long sip of water before sighing. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal. Trust me, I know. But, we’ve gotta set aside our differences just this once. Please, for the sake of the department.”

“Fine,” he murmurs, plopping down beside you to stretch his back. “Let’s finish choreographing so we can start cleaning it up.”

It’s a victory in your book, and probably the most obedient the Pisces has ever been. Maybe this wouldn’t end in complete disaster like you assumed it would. It turns out Kevin Moon wasn’t entirely brainless and knew when he was wrong. Sometimes. Maybe. We’ll see.

You shut your eyes and visualize what you’ve choreographed so far, going over the moves in your head to see if the rest will come to you like a prophecy. It’s wishful thinking, but with how much you’ve accomplished since setting foot in the studio, you’re willing to try anything. The track would be nice for elements of hip hop style choreography, but you knew the audience wouldn’t eat it up as much as they would the route you’re currently taking.

Driver roll up the partition, please…

The song plays through the speakers and you watch as Kevin stands to run through everything you have. You’re entranced by his movements, the flow of his body on certain points. It’ll look ten times better once you’re doing it with him, costumed and performing it perfectly in front of a crowd. You can picture it now, the gentle but controlled glide of his hands along your arms when Beyoncé sings “We ain’t even gonna make it to this club”. He was right. You very well might be seduced by your enemy.

“Should we use props?” You suddenly voice, eyes narrowed in thought. He hums.

“That’s… not a half-bad idea, actually,” his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “What did you have in mind?”

“A chair, maybe,” you look away from him, placing your focus on the way your toes alternate between a tendu and relaxed position. “That could take up a good chunk of the choreo.”

Kevin stalks over to the supply closet in the corner of the studio, pulling out a folding chair. He puts it in the center of the room gently, careful to not scratch up the wooden, lacquered flooring. You spend the next couple of hours brainstorming through numerous versions of the dance. While it was a lot easier than your past practices, there were still the occasional argument over which movements looked good and whatnot.

At a certain point, everything becomes cohesive and the end is near. You gulp down some water as Kevin does some random choreography. It’s then that it comes to you, like a vision from That’s So Raven. You practically drop your water bottle, scrambling to your feet and stopping him. Your breath is heavy from fatigue and you’re slightly afraid of even suggesting this, but it’s exactly what this dance needs. It’s exactly what everyone wants to see from the two of you.

He pauses the music and gestures for you to get on with it. You push down the lump in your throat, scared of rejection. But maybe he was smart and he would agree that this is what you have to do. “What if we did a lift?”

You see the hesitation swirling in his eyes and you raise a finger before he can shut you down entirely. “Nothing crazy like… um— you know— Princess and the Pauper, but something smaller. Something… sexy? Like, Dancing with the Stars type beat.”

When he shrugs instead of outright dismissing your idea, you know you’ve won. He nods slowly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Okay, sure. But we better clean up everything else fast so we can perfect the lift.”

The two of you take another three hours running the entirety of the choreography, ingraining the moves into your brains and muscles. You still had a bit until the actual showcase, but your priority now lies with the lift. If you nailed it, the entire department would very well grovel after you in reparation for all of the slack you got after Kevin dropped you. Hell, the entire university would kiss your feet. This was your redemption. In more ways than one.

You both decide to call it a day at around 9:30 PM. Your hands reach for your belongings and then you halt yourself, a thought coming to mind. While you had him in this weird state of obedience, you figured it was as good a time as any to ask the question that’s been weighing on you for the past few years. Your fingers swipe away the sweat beading around your hairline.

”Kevin,” you start, voice a lot softer than before. “Why do you— what did I do to make you dislike me so much?”

He’s caught completely off guard, eyes widening in surprise. If he was anticipating you to say anything else prior to parting ways tonight, he didn’t think this would be it. He’s actually a little off put that you hadn’t asked him this already in the span of your definitely-one-sided rivalry. He takes a large gulp of water.

”I’d call it indifference, not dislike,” he corrects after a pregnant silence. “It’s really fucking stupid thinking about it in hindsight. I don’t know if you remember this time, way back in our first year, we ran into each other at the campus cafe— literally, might I add— and you spilled your coffee all over this white shirt of mine that Changmin had gotten for me as a birthday gift. I only recently found out that it wasn’t as expensive as he made it out to be.”

You blink at his admission, processing his words as thoroughly as possible. You don’t know what you wanted him to say. You weren’t even sure if there was a concrete reason for him to be so fucking mean to you all this time. And now that you know, you come to the conclusion that Kevin Moon isn’t as smart as you’ve painted him out to be in your head. He’s actually a gigantic idiot. Because who in their right mind goes through these lengths to form a distance between the only other person on par with their talent?

Before you can stop yourself, you’re bursting into another fit of laughter. Kevin falters at your reaction. He was waiting for you to blow up on him, to scream in his face for causing you so much pain and unnecessary drama over something so silly. So when you do none of that, when you start fucking laughing like a damn hyena, he feels dumb. Like his entire college career has been built off of nothing.

”This is so—“ you pause to gather your bearings, wiping away the tears that managed to escape. “We’ve spent so much time going back and forth over some spilled coffee? Surely you’ve realized how insane that is at some point.”

”It took a lengthy argument with Changmin, but yeah, I did,” he nods, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

You worry your lower lip between your teeth, finally getting your things together. The two of you bid each other an awkward goodbye. Neither of you knew what to make of your relationship now that things had been partially sorted through. There was a fuck ton of baggage that still had to be sifted, but at least you had an answer.

That was enough to push through this showcase performance. You think.

You’re nervous.

Never in your entire life have you ever been this nervous for a performance.

You grew up doing musical theatre and dancing, it’s always been the one constant presence you could rely on. But standing here, backstage at the showcase, you think you’re going to throw up. Your palms are clamming up uncontrollably and your chest feels unbearably heavy as you watch the quartet doing a contemporary piece to some ballad you couldn’t be bothered to remember the name of. There were still a couple groups before you.

Not even when you had to perform fuckass Princess and the Pauper were you this anxious. You wince, trying to stop the incessant bouncing of your leg. Your weight keeps shifting from one hip to the other. As a seasoned veteran, you don’t know why you feel this way. Maybe it had to do with all the pressure riding on this very dance. Every single eye in that crowd was going to scrutinize your every move on that stage.

“Calm down,” a voice whispers harshly from beside you. “You’re making me nervous.”

Kevin wraps his fingers around your wrist, stopping the annoying tap-tap-tap your own were doing against your thigh. He gives you a look, and you sigh. “Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

That’s a lie. Not only was the high expectations from the entire school getting to you, but so was the fear of history repeating itself. He knows this, it was inevitable. After what happened the last time he was tasked with lifting you, it was only natural.

”We’ve drilled this dance hundreds, if not thousands, of times, Y/N. We’ll do just fine.” Kevin assures you.

His hand feels foreign holding yours, like it was illegal for his skin to be touching your own. You feel your lower lip quiver, a sense of trepidation that you’ve never once felt creeping down your spine. Your mind was spiraling, and quite honestly, Kevin being so close was making it worse. All you could think about was him dropping you again, leaving you in the middle of the stage with a broken leg and a broken heart. You release a shaky breath and he turns to face you.

Your eyes widen and he searches your face for any disingenuity. When he finds his answer, he brings the hand that was holding yours up to cup your cheek. He’s cautious, afraid he might break you like he always does. He waits for you to shove him away and to yell at him for being a fucking coward.

You don’t. You stay still, hoping he follows through with what you think he’s about to do. And then he does.

It’s such a featherlight peck of his lips on your own, you almost don’t even register. But sparks shoot from the source all the way to the tips of your fingers. You feel as if you were dealt a static shock of electricity, your whole body buzzing from the small kiss alone.

He pulls away just in time for the stage manager to inform you that you’re next. Kevin rolls his neck jogging over to the wings to patiently await your performance like he hadn’t just kissed you a moment ago. You blink dumbly, two fingers coming up to touch where his lips had been. Sure the nerves were gone now, but the sensation of butterflies swarming about in your stomach easily replaced that. What the fuck was his problem?

“Our last performance is one I’m sure all of you have been waiting for. Kevin Moon and Y/N L/N with Partition!”

Before you know it, you and Kevin are in position, your body squared upstage and his to the crowd. Your eyes are closed, but you can feel his arm wrapped around your waist and his steady breathing on your nose. The spotlight switches on, the heat of the lighting warm against the side of your face. It’s silent in the auditorium, but it rings in your ears. You could do this.

Let me hear you say ‘Hey Miss Carter’…

You move on reflex, muscle memory kicking in instantaneously. Each circle of your hips, every turn you make— a fouetté here, a pirouette there, a couple coupes, each roll of your body. But what really gets you is the long brushes of Kevin’s skin on your own. You’d practiced with distance between the two of you. There was a tension that had been there for years. Now it’s all coming to a rolling boil, a new uncharted tension that every single member in that audience could see.

And then comes the lift.

You, along with everybody in the auditorium, practically hold your breath when Kevin’s hands grip your hips. He raises you above him with all of his strength, completely focused on you and only you. You shut your eyes and feel the moment, like, really feel it. Your body is relaxed, the Dirty Dancing-esque lift bringing the whole performance together just like you knew it would. The only difference from the movie and real life is the fact that you’re flipped, your backside to Kevin and your chest to the ceiling.

Your eyes flutter open, the spotlight all but blinding you, and you finally feel content. Like everything has fallen into the right place for once in your life. Especially so when Kevin sets you down gently and you finish your dance with the utmost confidence.

The crowd erupts into a roaring chorus of applause, going as far as giving you a standing ovation. Holy shit. You pulled it off. You actually managed to pull it off.

Your face feels like it might split from how big your smile is. You and Kevin bow, walking off stage. You’re entirely too happy right now, a newfound energy overtaking you as you trail behind him.

“We did it!” You cheer as you follow him towards the dressing room where your things are. You’re the only ones left backstage, everyone else filtering out between performances. Kevin doesn’t give you much of a response, just a small nod of acknowledgment. Your smile falters. “What the hell is your problem?”

”Nothing, Y/N, fuck. Can you just mind your own fucking business?” He snaps, turning around to glare at you just as the door slams behind you. You instinctively flinch at both loud noises. His features soften but you take a step back from him.

You aren’t sure why you’re surprised. This isn’t anything new. Kevin has always made it crystal clear that he wasn’t your number one fan. Being neutral for your performance wasn’t enough to repair all the holes in whatever your relationship was, and you should’ve known better. You shouldn’t have let your guard down so easily. You should’ve expected this. Old dogs can never learn new tricks.

But Kevin’s scared. He’s afraid of letting you in after all the mess he’s put you through. The only thing he’s good at doing is hurting you, over and over like there was a prize that came out of it.

”Look…”

”No, you listen to me,” you swallow heavily, tears already tight lining your eyes. “Kevin, I have taken so much shit from you. Over these past few years I have just sat there and let you unload all your fucked up insecurities onto me. Have you ever wondered why? Have you ever thought to stop and think about why I let you be so mean to me without even questioning it?”

He says nothing, just stares with his lips parted. They open and close like a fish out of water, words there at the tip of his tongue but refusing to make their escape. And then one of your tears rolls down your cheeks and he’s directly in front you, his heart on his sleeve for the first time since you’ve met him.

”Why?” The simple question is so quiet, you almost don’t hear him. But his eyes hold so much hurt, so much anguish that you’ve never seen in a person before.

“I’ve had feelings for you for so long, it’s actually starting to ache. You’ve only ever seen me as this thing, this obstacle. And I’m afraid that that’s all I’ll ever be to you, because you won’t let me be anything else. You won’t—“

”That’s not true, Y/N,” Kevin sighs, looking off to the side, away from you. “I just— it’s complicated. It’s more than just being rivals.”

”So help me understand,” you frown. “Let me in, please.”

”My entire life I’ve had to work to get to where I am. I’ve fought tooth and nail to be as good of a performer as I am today. There were so many hoops I had to go through to even get into this program and— and I thought I’d finally become the best I could be. I thought that there was no way anyone could ever be better than me. And then you showed up. You and your pretty smile and your natural ability to be the best at everything you do. It was like you were the real life manifestation of all of my critics, of every challenge I faced to get here. Where I had to practice day and night to perfect something, it just came to you like second nature. During Princess and the Pauper, when I dropped you, it truly was an accident. But we’d spent so much time nailing it, that it— I just made myself feel better by saying it was your fault. ‘How could it have been my fault if I perfected it?’ I was jealous and petty and it was just easier to blame hating— to blame my indifference on you spilling coffee on my stupid shirt. For that, I’m sorry.”

You don’t know what you were waiting to hear, but it wasn’t that. Your tears turn into full on blubbering, because what the fuck? That’s so much burden for someone to carry on their shoulders for three years.

“Why are you— why are you crying?” He flounders, reaching up to swipe away your tears.

“I wish I knew… I wish I could’ve helped you somehow,” you sniffle. “Kev, I’ve always admired you and your work ethic. I hoped one day I’d be half as disciplined as you, half as determined.”

He blinks. You’re both dumb, aren’t you? Too focused on the wrong things. You both could’ve been a lot less hateful, a lot less miserable, had you just spoken your differences out. This entire rivalry has been completely one sided, but also built off of plain stupidity and ignorance. He supposes it’s not too late to make amends if you aren’t running in the opposite direction despite everything he’s put you through.

Kevin leans forward, hand still pressed to your cheek, and connects your lips softly. He’s testing the waters, making sure you’re comfortable before he continues anything. When you don’t back away just yet, he adds more force, deepening the kiss like a man starved. You whine against his lips.

This is what you’ve been wanting from him. More than what he gave you before your performance, but not what happened in the studio a few weeks ago. This desperation isn’t abashed lust, it’s unbridled affection— it’s everything he’s holed inside of himself for years, unwilling to let it see the light of day until now. If you were to label anything as perfection, it wouldn’t be a dance or a moment on stage, it would be this. Just you and Kevin finally bringing yourselves together in the most intimately emotional union.

He pulls you closer to him, hands sliding down to grasp at your waist, bunching up the thin fabric of your leotard. You can’t help but bury your fingers in his hair, tugging when he nips at your lower lip. A gasp permeates the air when his mouth travels south, along your jaw and down the side of your neck. He bites and sucks the tender skin at the base of your throat, ensuring he leaves his mark on you. This time isn’t careless, this time he has purpose. He wants everybody to know that you’re his, that you’re the only person insane enough to put up with him.

Your breathing is shaky when you reach behind you to lock the dressing room, dragging him over to the long vanity adjacent to you. He slots between your legs when you hoist yourself onto the surface. He pecks your lips and pauses his movements, rubbing up and down your thighs. In the dim, yellow lighting of the room, you look so gorgeous. He’s always thought you were beautiful, the most stunning thing he’s ever laid his eyes on, but he’s repressed it for so long. He wants to take his time staring at what he’s avoided.

”You’re so pretty,” he says quietly, kissing you again and again and again. “I don’t think I can last long with you.”

“Can we skip the foreplay?” You ask, bottom lip jutted into a pout. “Need you to just fuck me like you mean it.”

Kevin’s forehead falls to your shoulder with a groan. “I don’t deserve you,” God, he’s such an idiot for holding out from this. You should’ve been given the world and so much more. He has a lot of lost time to make up for. He kisses your shoulder with a sigh. “Yeah, baby, I can do that.”

You don’t waste another second, slipping your arms through the sleeves of your leotard. He has to bite down on his tongue when he sees that you’re braless, fingers going slack as they unbutton the rest of his silk shirt. You shimmy out of the one piece, left in nothing but the fishnet stockings you wore underneath and your lacy panties. Kevin thinks he must’ve done at least something right in a past life to experience this.

Your eyes sparkle as you look up at him, undoing his slacks and kicking them down his legs with your feet. Something takes over him when he rips a bigger hole in your stockings, pushing your underwear to the side. His thumb glides through your folds with ease, your slick providing enough lubricant. He pushes your lower lips apart while you busy yourself shoving his underwear to his ankles.

His cock slips inside of you with less friction than he would’ve thought, but he doesn’t complain, screwing his eyes shut as he acclimates to the feeling of your walls surrounding him. You moan, such a soft sound that he nearly loses his balance.

“You feel so good, baby,” he coos, digging his fingers into your hips as he rocks his own. “You’re so so perfect.”

The praise is too much for you, given the circumstances. Your brain is already cloudy, stuffed with what could only be described as cotton. You watch with half lidded eyes as he begins to piston into you at a faster speed. This all feels like a fever dream, something that was only possible in your craziest fantasies. Even then, it seemed unlikely.

“‘M close, Kev,” you whine, unable to stay still and attempting to match his thrusts.

“Already? We’ve only just started, gorgeous.” He laughs, but it’s breathy, strained from the exertion of his body. You hardly have the strength in you to be embarrassed about it, especially since he’s seen you in much worse situations.

You nod frantically, snaking a hand between you to circle your clit with nimble fingers. Kevin halts you and pulls out momentarily, sliding his cock between your folds like it was your hand. The tip catches your sensitive bundle of nerves repeatedly, making you dizzier than you already were.

He presses back into you with ease, resuming his sloppy but animalistic pace. He uses his thumb to continue your handywork, your cunt fluttering around him needily. You’re both losing your sanity quickly, both going batshit insane over the bare minimum. You’ve just needed this for so long, yearned for this moment for a humiliating amount of time.

Your moans start to rise in pitch and he groans. “Fuck, baby, you can cum for me.”

He could cry, he thinks, when your back arches and your legs shake with your orgasm. It hits you like a freight train, triggering his own release just as fast.

You stay like that for a bit, regaining yourselves and comprehending everything that’s just happened. So much for the whole hating each other narrative.

“What does this mean for us?” You suddenly ask, arms hooked around Kevin’s neck. You’re still connected by your lower halves, but he makes no effort to pull away. Part of you likes it that way, it gives you hope that this isn’t a one time affair.

“It’ll be hard for things to change overnight,” he says, massaging your sides. “We have a lot of unresolved issues and insecurities that we still have to push past. But I’m willing to do that with you. I want to take a chance on us.”

Your lips pull into a smile, an expression you don’t think you’ve worn around him genuinely in the years you’ve known him. “I do, too.”

“It’s kind of ironic that it was a performance that tore us apart and brought us back together, don’t you think?” He laughs.

“And we fucked in the dressing room…” You add, glancing to the top corner where a security camera is stationed.

“Maybe we should get out of here before someone checks the footage,” he suggests. “Tau Beta Zeta is conveniently hosting our end of semester party tonight, do you wanna be my plus one?”

“I would be honored.” You grin, pecking his lips tenderly.

Perhaps happy endings existed after all.

#deoboyznet #the boyz #the boyz x reader #the boyz smut #tbz #tbz x reader #tbz smut #the boyz kevin #tbz kevin #kevin moon x reader #kevin moon smut #kevin x reader #kevin smut #moon hyungseo #blackoutorbackout🍻#juyeonszn

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rickie-the-storyteller · 4 months

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“Notice Me, Reader!” Tag Game

Thank you very much for the tag, @mysticstarlightduck!

Rules: Share 3 (or more!) small details from your WIP that you feel have gone/will go unnoticed. (You can choose whether or not to share why the detail is significant!)

Here's some for the Steph adventures:

I’ve actually been meaning to write a detailed post about this, but Stephanie and Bret mirror each other in a lot of ways. They’re both pretty traumatised and flawed, they both crave attention and connection to a certain degree, hating the feeling of loneliness, and they both have a capacity for being quite selfish, impulsive and hedonistic (as well as being major fans of instant gratification). This is partially why their affair storyline is so significant and impactful the more you think about it (and to think, it almost wasn’t going to happen…). An example of their connection that often goes unnoticed is that their dialogue has a bit of a parallel… in the beginning of book one, Bret says something along the lines of “Grades don’t actually mean anything in the real world when you think about it.” This was back when he hated school, before his whole self growth arc and wanting to change his life for the better. And towards the end, Stephanie basically says that same exact thing, almost word for word (despite disagreeing with Bret at the start of the story). It was in the context of her and Ben contemplating leaving the country together right before sitting her final exams. There are other small examples of parallels between their two arcs and thought processes in the story, too… many of which actually existed before I even wrote their affair storyline. Perhaps it was always meant to be lol.

I tried to write my characters in a way where you can kind of tell which parent they take after more. This is one of the reasons why I have the parents and family members be such a prominent part of the story - big part of who you are stems from your environment, and this includes the people you are surrounded by. It also adds a bit of mystery to our main protagonist… Stephanie doesn’t know her parents, so we don’t know why she is the way she is (like, we even know why Bret is the way he is, despite the fact that his parents are no longer around. He remembers his parents and we get a strong sense of what they were like, and this is something we don't get with Steph). A big example of this is Elise and Adam. Elise takes after both Maggie and Paul (maybe Paul a little more than Maggie) - she shares her mother’s drive and determination (comes in handy when you’re a lawyer), and her father’s empathy and intuition (comes in handy when you’re a therapist). Adam takes after Maggie, as well as his grandmother to an extent, in terms of his natural creativity (he has a heart of gold, but he is also very stubborn and prefers to do things his way. Whenever he gets pushback, he fights harder in the opposite direction. Very much like his mother… not that Maggie would ever admit that. Good thing both of them grew out of it somewhat after becoming parents! And by that, I mean she was much worse when she was Adam’s age lol). There are other examples of this in the story, but this one’s my favourite.

I got a fair amount of inspiration from the shows I mentioned in my intro post lol (plus Gossip Girl, which wasn’t included in the post. That's where I got the secret blogger idea from. Speaking of... I was meant to reveal that to you guys ages ago. Sorry about the delay lol. Saving that for a proper future post alongside the Bretanie analysis). Especially Bojack Horseman. I don’t know if I want to elaborate on this point… I think it’s more effective if you check out the shows for yourself, and see what I mean that way. But to give a vague little example of what I mean… Stephanie is sort of in and out of the crew’s lives, and whenever she’s not around, the others tend to thrive and live relatively peaceful, normal lives. In many ways, she’s the root of a lot of their drama. She does a lot of crazy things that cause damage to a lot of people, and she wrecks a lot of her relationships beyond repair. And throughout the course of the trilogy, the main crew members often find themselves wondering whether they should stay loyal to their friend, set some boundaries with her, or cut ties and separate themselves from her completely. Kind of like in a certain show (Bojack). They all take different approaches to this, each saying a lot about them as characters (Elise, for example, decides to cut Stephanie off. May seem out of character at first, but then you remember that this is after ages and ages of being patient and understanding with Steph… as well as everyone else who has hurt her immensely in her life. That makes her choice to end her friendship with Stephanie a little more understandable… she reached her last straw in book two), but they’re all better off once they reevaluate their relationships with one another.

I didn't mean to write so much... but what can you do.

Hopefully this was interesting! This tag game is such a good idea. Inspires you to look deeper into the stories and pay attention to small but significant details.

Tagging these folks next: @gummybugg, @winterandwords, @jessicagailwrites, @dyrewrites, @harleyacoincidence, @exquisitecrow, @leisoree, @wmlittlemore-is-writing, @mjparkerwriting and @janec23.

#rickie-the-storyteller #tag game #writeblr tag game #notice me reader tag game

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darkkitty1208 · 1 year

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Hello there, may I steal a bit of your time? I recently reread Defender Strange's comic and couldn't get this idea out of my head, so I'm asking ya out, can you please write something regarding this- Stephen was gathered from a battle field and SIMTony takes him to Tower with him after kicking the bad guy's ass and takes care of that worn out.

That's it. Thanks ya for hearing me out. Lots of love!

Thank you for the prompt, lovely! 💖 Super sorry it took quite a while. (I say, knowing full well it took longer than just 'quite a while' for me to finish this. *stares at my towering pile of WIPs and prompts sitting in my ask box that I've yet to finish*)

I feel like I've sort of lost touch on my writing style (and writing as a whole) a little bit but, hey, I finished this! Haha.

Disclaimer: I haven't read the defenders or SIM comics yet, so this whole thing is just based on my assumptions of their characters. I'm only familiar with MoM's Defender Strange, and prompter seems okay if I'd write him instead, thankfully, so yeah. ^^ Feel free to point out anything that stood out, though!

TW: This fic contains NON-CONSENSUAL TOUCHING but NO RAPE.

Stephen stumbled back with a grunt, but quickly managed to catch himself before his back could land on the ground. Dodging the whip Mordo sent his way, he conjured twin mandalas over his wrists that glowed a bright blue.

"It's not too late, Stephen!" the man called out, and slid his feet away from Stephen's attack. He took rapid, calculated steps towards the other sorcerer, getting close enough to loop his arm over the man's neck in a tight grip.

"You can still join me," he said, "we can work together."

Stephen struggled against him, clawing at the arm that constructed his breathing.

"Like hell that would convince me," Stephen huffed out, strangled, and knocked Mordo's stomach by his elbow, who stumbled back, enough to let go of him. He panted, readying his next attack as Mordo stood back up. His limbs worked almost on their own volition as they danced their familiar dance in battle, and for a moment the only sounds echoing in the air were their grunts and puffs of air, the way their boots slid against the ground, the swish of their robes flapping at each turn, the way each new band and shield and mandala they conjured emanated familiar sparks.

Just when Stephen thought he had the upper hand, one slip of his feet and a kick to his chest had him toppling to the ground with an 'oomph', and quickly found himself wrapped around bands. He let out a yelp as his hands were squeezed against his body, and struggled against the constraints. But it was to no avail, as it held a tight, inescapable grip around him. Struggling against it only proved to make the pain worse.

It was useless, he thought, as he stopped his ministrations and settled on glaring at the eyes staring down on him. Mordo's stern eyes, looking straight at him, suddenly shifted at the sight, turning almost… soft, to his dismay, and Stephen hardened his glare in return.

"We could've been so good together," Mordo breathed out, almost in a whisper. "I didn't want it to end this way, Stephen. But you must know I have no other choice. You must know that this is for the greater good."

Mordo lifted his hands, and Stephen knew that, at that moment, despite his panicked struggling, he couldn't do anything as the spell was about to be cast on him. It was a simple spell, really – even a novice could cast it – but it was a deadly one. It would render any sorcerer useless if cast against them, blocking their access to channelling interdimensional energy permanently, reducing them to what they once were before being introduced to the Mystic Arts. Mordo always had great capabilities, especially in terms of magic, but to think that he had managed to master that spell for such purposes was… beyond Stephen, to put simply.

The spell wasn’t meant to incapacitate him, he knew that much. Mordo needed something more permanent – he couldn’t risk the possibility of all else.

The spell, he knew, was meant to break him.

“You should be grateful, you know. Many sorcerers have died at my hand in my quest to rectify what they have meddled in the natural law,” he remarked, and Stephen scowled at him. “I do not wish for you to fall in the same fate as they do, Stephen. You are like a brother to me. And perhaps… Perhaps so much more.”

His eyes flickered away for a moment, before they resumed their steely gaze towards him.

Stephen turned his head to the side, clenching his eyes shut and taking in ragged breaths as he braced himself for the inevitable pain. His mind swirled about in a million ways to think of an escape, but he knew there wasn't any counterspell to this, knew that hoping would only lead to nothing.

Mordo sighed.

"It was the only way I could think of that would be quick and painless, Stephen," he said, "So please, consider this a mercy."

Before his mind could process the words, he felt a hit over the side of his neck that made him let out a choked sound. Just as he was about to lose consciousness, there was a sudden, almost electrifying flash of blue that blasted somewhere from beside him to hit against Mordo's head, and the last thing he heard was a familiar, menacing voice that drawled in a way that had always made the hair on his nape bristle.

There was only one thought that flitted through his head as he finally lost consciousness; Tony.

*.~ ◇ ~.*

Mordo stumbled to the ground as something blasted against him, head whipping about as he quickly looked around for its source.

He heard heavy footsteps thump against the ground, and it took a while for him to regain his footing to face whoever – or whatever – it was. Once he adjusted his vision, he noticed there seemed to be a sharp blue glow emanating as the smoke dissipated away from the shadowy figure that was stepping towards him. Mordo wasted no time and automatically went on fighting stance, his defences up in case the man prepared another surprise attack against him. He looked to the side, finding Stephen's unconscious, prone body on the ground a few feet away.

"You really thought it'd be that easy to get your hands on him, did you?" The low voice said to the air.

"Who are you?"

The smoke cleared out. A very light blue, almost white, sort of liquid danced about to then solidify into an armour, its helmet forming around a grinning face.

"C'mon. Everybody knows me," he said, a toothy smile on display but no emotions found in his eyes, his arms spread out. The smile dropped suddenly, and the next words were spoken in a way that could send shivers down anyone's spine: "Now back off. He's not yours."

Mordo's eyes flicked hastily to Stephen's body, back to the man, trying to think of a quick way out.

"Tony Stark," Mordo frowned, "I should have known Stephen had gained… unexpected allies. I didn't know he was so desperate."

There were no possible ways to escape this, he thought, and begrudgingly decided to face him. Mordo conjured a band that whipped through the air and towards the man, but failed to have any intended effect as Stark flew up to avoid it. He conjured a couple of more blasts, which were easily avoided as Stark twirled about with little 'Woah!'s and an 'Oh! Almost got me!', occasionally forming a shield around him but ultimately left unscathed at each attack, as his laughter rang in Mordo's ears. Mordo continued to grunt at each conjured attack, getting irritated by the second. At some point, the laughter ended with a nonchalant sigh.

"Okay, it's getting boring now," he said, "My turn."

He thrusts out his repulsors, whining a short warning before an electric flash of blue striked right ahead to send Mordo flying backwards before he could think of a way to dodge it. And then he blasted another, and another, slowly floating down to the ground as he did so, playfully experimenting different positions on each blast, humming a tune meanwhile. When he was satisfied, he took his time to step ever so slowly towards Mordo's body, which was lying on its side. He turned him over to lay on his back by nudging his side with a foot. Tony stared down at him, and then tilted his head to the side, huffed, and let a menacing smile slowly form on his lips. When Mordo tried to lean up and land a punch on his face, quite successfully, he clicked his tongue, wiped the blood trickling down the slight cut on his face, huffed again, and then carded a hand through his hair. He kicked the man then, straight in the stomach, and repeated so just a couple times. Just enough so that moving any muscle would hurt. And then he pressed his foot down over the sorcerer's chest, delighting in the pained wheeze and the cough that sent blood splattering about. He pressed his foot harder down, twisting it just so that he could hear another one of Mordo's wet, ragged cough, and made a sound that was intended as a delighted giggle but came out sounding like a huff as he leaned down to whisper: "Now let that be a lesson for you to never touch what's mine ever again."

He gave the body a last kick, turning around just as Mordo's body rolled helplessly on the ground.

"Well, that was easy," he huffed, dusting his hands off, and turned to look at Stephen's still unconscious body. "Now to claim my lovely prize…"

The smile returned, but this time, something glinted in his eyes.

*.~ ◇ ~.*

When Stephen came to, it was to the sight of bright, blue lights assaulting his eyes and vague, muffled sounds of what sounded like whirring machines filtering through his ears. His eyes shut closed against the onslaught of light almost on its own accord, and he quickly regretted shaking his head as it did nothing to lessen the pounding in his temples – if anything, it grew much worse.

Gently, he fluttered his eyes back open, squinting as he adjusted to the lighting. He looked down on himself, noting the wrapped up and bandaged wounds over his body and the absence of his robes.

“Ah, my sleeping beauty has finally awoken.” Stephen barely suppressed a flinch at the voice. “How was your sleep, sweetheart?”

He tried to make out the blurry figure walking over to him – even though he already had a solid guess from the voice he had heard – and when the shifting blur of the man finally came to a focus, he lifted himself by the elbows.

"T–" he tried to croak out, and then coughed when he realised his throat was dry as a desert.

Tony sauntered over, grabbed a cup of water from a nearby bedside table, and gently lifted it to his lips, making a gesture with his head to urge Stephen to drink. Stephen stared at the cup, glared up at the engineer, and then snatched the cup with his own trembling fingers. If Tony saw the shaking in his hands and the way he tried desperately to look casual as the water splashed onto his fingers (and if anything, was failing to), he didn’t say anything.

He did, however, huff out in amusement.

Stephen downed the rest of the cup, and then placed it carefully upon the table Tony had taken it from. He felt the bed dip as the engineer sat beside him, and resisted the urge to scoot over and distance himself from the man.

A calloused hand sneaked its way to a loose strand of hair on his face, tucking it over behind his ear in unsolicited gentleness. The same fingers – again, ever so gently – gripped his chin, leaning his head down to face the man. Tony traced a thumb over the cut on his lip, and Stephen tried not to bodily shiver.

The smirk he earned, coupled with the intent stare of the man's steely blue eyes on his own, told him he had probably failed to do so.

Tony’s eyes were a sharp blue, and now that Stephen was looking directly at it, he noticed there seemed to be something in it he couldn’t quite put his finger on. There was something buried in them, something sinister and twisted and wrong in a way that made him feel unsettled.

"You cut your lip…" Tony mumbled, "Does it hurt, sweetheart?"

"Stop calling me that," he spat out.

"I can call my sweetheart whatever I want," was his response, followed with a nonchalant shrug. "Now, answer my question. Does it hurt?"

"Not if you stop touching it like that."

Tony hummed.

"He hurt you…" Tony said, a sudden sternness in his voice, a sudden shift in his expression, a silent burning in his eyes. The grip on his chin tightened, and Stephen had to stifle a wince. Tony's face gentled at that, thumb moving to rub (not) soothingly over his jaw in apology.

"What did you do to Mordo?" Stephen asked. If and whenever Tony was involved, nothing really ended well. Mordo was his business, after all – Tony had nothing to do with it.

"Took care of him." was the only response he received. The hand gently made its way to card over his hair, pulling out his tie and settling over his nape. Tony pulled him forward, breath inching closer to each other. "And now, I just need to take care of you."

Stephen's breath stuttered as he exhaled.

"Stop touching me."

"But you aren't pushing me away."

"I still don't want you to."

Tony smirked.

"You can continue to deny yourself, sweetheart, but I know you want it."

And that was the last straw for him. Stephen lifted his hand, tried to call upon his magic, but barely managed to create sparks before he realised the ever present tingle of magic in his fingers had faded. There was… something blocking his access to channel energy and conjure magic. What previously felt like a steady stream was now blocked by some sort of unbreakable dam.

He inspected his hand, finding what seemed to be… a bracelet, of some sort. A quick check over his other hand confirmed that a matching one wrapped around his other wrist, effectively blocking him from channelling any of his magic.

This wasn't any worse than Mordo's spell, he thought, and a sour expression took its place upon his face.

"Like it?" Tony asked, hands finally pulled away. "Made them just for you."

Stephen grunted in frustration, and attempted to swing a punch towards the man, only to find it unable to move.

A chain formed from his wrist from what seemed to be nanites that crawled its way to attach to the headboard, the other following suit. Stephen tried pulling himself forward, only to be pulled back harshly as the chain suddenly shortened itself. He struggled against the constraints, for only God knows how many times in how many occasions he had that day, and tried not to growl in frustration as Tony just chuckled at him.

The hand snaked back towards his chest, rubbing back and forth in a way that made acid burn in the back of his throat.

"Look at you," he said, "I like it when you struggle. It’s cute. I like having you like this, baby,” Tony smoothed out Stephen’s hair again, fingers tracing the lines of his face and down his cheekbone, thumb tracing his lips as those blue eyes flickered down on it. “Now be a good boy and stay still."

Before Stephen could protest, his words were quickly cut short as a sudden, heavy feeling clouded his head.

"Shh, it's alright. That's it, darling. That's it," he heard Tony murmur, voice slowly morphing away.

"Wh… 've you d…" his tongue felt heavy, his voice felt far away. His vision was blurring out at the edges, eyes drooping, and Tony's voice sounded muffled when he spoke.

"It's okay, sweetheart, it's okay. Just go back to sleep for now. Go back to sleep.”

Stephen: Fuck off. Don't touch me.

SIM:

SIM: Denial is a river in South Africa. You love me

Stephen: I literally told you to fuck off???

Once again super sorry took a while to get back to you, prompter. My writer self is not The Best at the moment and needs some time to get back to my past writing rhythm. There's no guarantee I'll be as active as last time?

But I really do hope you enjoyed this. <3 Despite the whole… 'lowering Defender's capabilities and overpowering SIM for plot purposes' thing. I really couldn't think of another way to write it without it seeming like that. :P

#ironstrange #fanfiction #stephen strange #tony stark #defender strange #SIM!tony #superior iron man #tw #non-con #non con touching #no rape #my fic #my writing

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dilatorywriting · 1 year

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hello ~ hello ~

Hope you're feeling better! I, personally, have been a bit dead to the world since late April. This past May was kinda odd, honestly. I think everyone I know and know of just. died for the month. Collectively. At once.

I actually wanted to slide in here and pick your brain about your ongoing Monster Mayhem stuff, if you're up for it? Just like a general status overview question, since I feel kinda out of the loop 😭 And also because I know that I tend to like talking about my feelings on my current wips, so I figured maybe you might too? If not, dw!

I'll put these in bullet points since it's kinda easier for me to organize my thoughts that way

Jack: I remember you saying awhile back that you expect Part 2 to be the final part. Is that still holding up, or does it feel like it'll be longer?

Rook: From the pacing, I'm getting the vibe that this one might be another 4 part story? mayhaps? Or maybe Rook isn't like the other girls TM and gets something different.

Vil: I haven't read this one yet, but I'm excited to sit down with it soon! What's the overall length/number of parts you're planning for at the moment?

I'm pretty sure this was asked at some point before, but what's your stance on epilogues? There has been... discussion. about a Leona epilogue before, I recall, but are you considering epilogues for all of them, or only specific characters?

What's like. your vibe, rn? With each of the stories? Like in terms of "I'm really feeling this, so I'm working on it and it might be posted in the nearish future, assuming no disasters" to like "I plan to continue this, but not rn. I've got a different worm chewing on the brain lettuce atm". Ik you literally just answered an ask similar to this, and said Leona part 4 & Vil part 2 are the one's you're focused on, so I guess this is more so geared towards the Jack and Rook ones? Or other stuff you're secretly planning. I have a vague memory of a "forgot your birthday" scenario that was on a poll a few months back

I'm honestly just curious, really. Back from the dead and wanted to catch up

Also I. have a third Monster Mayhem Azul brainrot. It's not a fluffy one. If I can wrangle it into something more coherent, I may send it your way. Not dissimilar to the fashion of throwing a pebble at someone's window to get their attention, but accidentally putting a hole through the glass, and taking off running.

-Reaper

I'm gonna put this all under a little cut thing just because I feel like there's quite a lot! So here we go~

Jack -- It would still only be two parts I think! I only had short plans for that going forward, and it's currently at the bottom of my bucket list so to speak, not for any big reason just because Jack isn't one of my favorites so he falls behind on what I actually want to write.

Rook -- Was a bit more up in the air in terms of what I wanted to do. Had started writing a third part for it, but Rook's in particular felt very like, episodic? If that makes sense? Rather than an overarching cohesive arc. So I could write so much more little random side stories! But aside from a bit I had sort of planned regarding Riddle, there wasn't too much specific I had in mind.

Vil -- Probably one or two more parts to wrap up what I wanted with him; most likely one of the same length as the first. But that one of all of them may get a separate little piece because I am such a sucker for mermaids/sirens soooo that may get some special love

Epilogues -- bit of a mish mash. Really depends how I'm feeling tbh. If I want to write something, I'll word vomit like no one's business, but if I'm not overly invested then I probably won't bother writing one. But again

Vibe Check -- I’m absolutely wiped. Not with these stories, because I do genuinely love them. But like, back to back tough placements on top of illness is a trip. So I’m a bit more tired and less motivated than I normally am, just because most of my brain is chewing on actual school work and case reports and trying to not make myself look like an idiot every time I’m asked for a diagnosis list and go “uuuuhhhhhhhh.” But! I have some brain worms. Right now — big thing I’m working on is the second half of a very long commission. Which is loads of fun but also there’s so much to chew over there, so that takes a lot of my brain. On the side, I was really also writing my Vil Siren Part 2. Because that’s also a lot on the brain and it’s very different Vibe to the commission, so like it’s a good one to go back and forth between depending on what mood I’m in. Jamil is also very On My Brain right now oddly enough. I think because I read a short little Naga piece a while ago and it reminded me how much I love them. So that's on my brain a lot. As for the others, Jack has sorta fallen to the wayside admittedly. Mostly because I adore him as a Bro, but he’d just not usually a character my brain swoons over, so he’s sort of just… existing. I also wasn’t entirely sure where I wanted to go with that other than just “oh wow we fixed it together!” And that’s a factor too. As for other things, the birthday one comes back and forth depending on my mood, but idk if that’ll ever go up. I have lots of it written, but not enough to post or really toss together straight away. If that makes sense

#Asks

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thetragicallynerdy · 5 months

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wip wednesday - the die hard fic, continued

(AKA I'm writing Die Hard featuring Jim from OFMD as John McClane, Ed as Al Powell, but neither of them are cops. Also featuring the Badmintons as asshole cops.)

Staring up at the smoking building from the hood of his truck, Ed lifts the radio to his mouth and answers. “Yeah, Cowboy, I’m here. You alright?”

There’s a burst of laughter, followed by a hollow cough. “I’m fucking great, man.”

“You sure? That was a big fucking explosion, mate.” Big enough to take out an entire floor. He sure fucking hopes they weren’t near it.

More laughter. “Estoy bien, lo prometo. You remember those plastic explosives I told you about?”

Oh, fuck, they didn’t.

“Seemed like an appropriate time to use them,” Cowboy says, laughter breaking into a hoarse series of coughs. It’s a familiar sound, one he’s heard many times throughout his firefighting career – the sound of someone struggling to breathe because of smoke. Worry spikes. “Is the building on fire?”

A little bit. Not enough to put anyone on the thirtieth floor in danger, though.

“Nah. She’s gonna need a new paint job, though.”

“Eh, needed a facelift anyway.” Their voice goes serious. “Hey, muchacho, did I hit any cops with it?”

Ed shakes his head, makes his voice firm as he tucks his free hand around the hot chocolate thermos Stede sent with him. “Nope. You hit a few floors up. Looks like you took out the floor that the rockets were coming from.”

“Oh, thank fuck.”

There’s a noise to the side. Ed looks up and sees Nigel and Chauncey Badminton storming towards him, both looking pissed as hell. “Incoming,” he mutters, setting the hot chocolate aside and sliding off the hood of his car.

“Is that them?” Nigel demands, gesturing at Ed’s radio. “Let me speak to them.”

“Hell no –“

But Nigel just swipes the receiver out of his hand, giving Ed the finger as he snarls into it. “You listen here - I don’t know who you think you are, but you just did millions of dollars in property damage. We don’t want, or need, your help. Do you understand me? Stop trying to help. Because of you, all of my officers down here are covered in glass –“

“Glass?” Cowboy cuts in. “Who gives a fuck about glass? Who the fuck is this? Put Ed back on, I’m not fucking talking to you.”

Ed doesn’t think he’s ever seen Nigel turn quite so red before. He’s normally bored, almost lazy in his command – but now he just looks pissed.

“This is Deputy Chief of Police Nigel Badminton,” Nigel says stiffly. “I’m the one in charge of this situation. Ed will no longer be your –“

“Oh, you’re in charge?” Cowboy laughs. “Did you tell that to the assholes in here? Because from where I’m sitting, it doesn’t look like you’re in charge of shit.”

Now Chauncey’s turning red, too. Ah, twins. He swipes the receiver from Nigel, sputters into it. “Listen here, you little shit –“

“Jesucristo, what the fuck is it with cops? Each and every one of you is a fucking shithead. Stop blabbering and put Ed back on!”

“When you get out of there, I’m arresting you,” Chauncey hisses. “You’re mine, you hear?”

Cowboy gives the tiredest laugh he’s ever heard in his fucking life. “Man, you think I’m making it out of here alive? Fuck off.”

Before Chauncey or Nigel can make it worse, Ed grabs the receiver, drags it out of his hand. He glares at them both, angrier than he’s been in decades.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he says, voice low. “Go run your little show.”

Nigel points a finger at him. “You find us if they tell you anything, or I’m arresting you too, Teach.”

“I already said I would. Go.”

They leave. It’s a fucking relief.

Ed hoists himself back onto the hood of his car, forces himself to breathe through the anger. “Cowboy? You alright?”

“Sí, sí, I’m fine,” they mutter back. “Real fucking glad I’ve got tons of support down there.”

“Hey. You have me,” he says firmly. “Me, and all the firefighters down here, we love you. We’re on your side. A bunch of the cops who aren’t assholes are rooting for you, too.”

He can’t imagine what it’s like. They’re alone, in a burning building, with half a dozen men or more trying to end their life. They’d called the cops looking for help, but now…

Ed feels like shit for calling in the forces. It was necessary, he knows it was, but if it ends with Cowboy being arrested for just trying to stay alive –

“Alright,” Cowboy says quietly. “Gracias.”

“Hang in there, mate,” Ed says softly, wishing he could fucking go in and help them. “Keep doing what you’re doing, and I’ll be here to help you when it’s all over.”

There’s a long exhale, then another rasping cough. “I’ll hold you to it.”

“Please do. And Cowboy – get yourself out of the fucking smoke, okay? It’ll fuck up your lungs real quick.”

“Sí, don’t worry.” There’s something warmer in their voice, and it’s a fucking relief to hear it. “I’m already on my way.”

#jim jimenez #ed teach #ofmd fanfic #ofmd #ofmd jim #the die hard au #tragicallynerdy writes #this will not be ready by xmas but hopefully a few days after???

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deadendtracks · 7 months

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🎈 and/or 🕯️for the fic writers ask?

🎈describe your style as a writer; is it fixed? does it change?

I've been asked this before and I don't really know how to answer it; most of the time I'm not doing anything deliberate with style so I find it hard to articulate, though I do try to get a sense of the voice of the character whose POV I'm writing. I guess that could be style? The POV often dictates a bit of the style, maybe.

Alfie is of course more verbose and tends to do a lot of ruminating and self-rationalizing, though I probably write him as more self-aware than I think he is in canon. He's a story teller and has a bit of a circular thing going on. He avoids things in his thinking because he's not ready to admit them or face them, and covers with all that rumination and stream of consciousness stuff.

Tommy is more stripped down, fewer words, doesn't necessarily do a lot of overt thinking beyond the present moment, not in a verbalized way. Not that he *doesn't* think about things but in my view he's very present- or future-focused most of the time; when he *isn't* present-focused he runs into trouble and his 'voice' gets more fragmented. To me Tommy runs a lot more on instinct or nonverbal thinking than he'd ever admit to or be able to articulate, so I try to have a sense of things happening underneath and driving his conscious narration. Tommy's a highly compartmentalized, avoidant consciousness in many ways; things are locked in boxes that he knows are there-- he's self aware, he knows what is in most of the boxes, he just knows not to go into those places or he'll implode and he can't afford that. He's not wrong.

Charlie Strong's voice is fairly close to Tommy's though not as present-focused in the same way and not fragmented. The story I wrote from Polly's POV was my first fic in this fandom; if I had to write it over I'd probably think more about what her 'voice' sounds like, though I don't think it's terribly off in that fic it's not quite right. Ada and Lizzie when I've written their POVs are more straight-forward and pragmatic. I probably find Arthur the hardest to write.

The more overt stylistic pieces are probably short little things like hobnail, tenderfoot, or all soul's night, where I did play around a little bit with the writing in a more deliberate way.

Whatever style I have has probably changed since I started writing fanfiction many years ago, but my core interests haven't really changed.

🕯️was there a fic that was really hard on you to write, or took you to a place you didn't think it would take you?

Probably This Bed of Shattered Bone, mostly because the pandemic started somewhere around two-thirds of the way through writing it and at one point I didn't think I'd finish. Also it's my most researched story, the longest story I ever completed, and the ending wasn't really what I expected.

My current WIP is hard on me to write for a variety of reasons but primarily because I've had a harder time writing at all this year and also because it's just... probably too ambitious of an idea and it's taking forever to get to the point and I'm not entirely sure how to tell it.

To be honest most fics I write take me to places I don't think they will take me, because anything longer than a few thousand words usually starts off with very little plan or even really any idea what it's about or where it will go. Often I think I'm just going to write something short, lol. This Bed of Shattered Bone came to me with that first scene kind of pouring out of me and I had no idea really what was happening, just this image of Tommy showing up mute in Alfie's sitting room in Margate. Not was supposed to be a PWP. Famous last words.

I'm a seat of the pants writer for the most part.

#writing is hard

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aquadestinyswriting · 1 year

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7 Snippets, 7 People

This has been in my mentions for a while and I only now just remembered it was there. Thanks to @captain-kraken for the tag.

Tagging: @druidx, @asher-orion-writes, @homesteadchronicles, @warriorbookworm, @mariahwritesstuff, @ashirisu, @thesorcerersapprentice, @blind-the-winds (yes, I know that's 8)

Snippets under the cut to save peoples' dashes because some of these might be quite long. All of them taken from various wips that are sitting in my folders.

Untitled Drabble

“Edwin, why is this in here?” she asked, gesturing to the timekeeper with a nod of her head, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. Edwin glanced over to the timekeeper. The silvered finish glowed in the bright sunshine gleaming through the window, spots on the ceiling refracting off the spinning weights at the bottom as they circled one way, then the other, ticking gently before each pause then change in rotation. He looked back at Selene, who was looking more and more irritated the longer she stood there.

2. Untitled-Elowyn visits Fangthane post-DNS

“Leave yer things in the hall fer now. Get yersel’s in and settled first.” he said, chivvying Elowyn to the sofa. Aurianna leapt down from the woodling’s shoulder, the graceful cat landing on a cushion and settling down with a purr of contentment. Elowyn huffed slightly, but didn’t stop the grin that had spread across her face,

“Seriously, Gruk, it wouldn’t have taken two minutes to put our bags out of the way.” she protested. Gruk scoffed,

“Ye might have gotten a teleport intae the mountain, but ye still had to travel all the way here from the Cathedral.” he retorted, “Now, sit.”

3. The Family Meets Gavid

“Yoruk, what’ve I told ye about minding yer language aboot the wean?” his companion sighed, wrapping the dwarflet sitting in her arms up a bit tighter, stepping off the boat behind him. The dwarflet grumbled and pushed the blanket away with a pout, pointing to the ground,

“Down p’ease.” he stated, already leaning away from his mother in anticipation of his request being granted. Meredith huffed another sigh as she readjusted her grip and hauled the little man back towards her,

“Not yet, Gavid.” she said patiently, “It’s busy, and I don’t want ye getting lost before we’ve even got to where we’re staying.” Gavid simply pouted and grumbled some more, crossing his chubby little arms defiantly,

“Not get lost.” he muttered, “I a big boy.” Meredith bit back her chuckle and hugged the little boy,

"I know ye are Gavid, but folks round here are a lot bigger than back home. I'll let ye down when we get to where we're staying, aye?" All she got in response was a huffy ‘harrumph’ while her son sulked.

4. Where Selene comes clean about being Ace

Edwin drummed his fingers on the table, thinking. Things had been going well as far as his life went, especially now that Allansia had been spared annihilation for the second, or was it the third or fourth time, in the last thirty years. Well, things would be going even better if he could just get Selene to sit still for five minutes whenever he brought up the prospect of having an actual family together. He glanced at the timekeeper ticking away on the windowsill, the bright spring sunshine partially obscuring it, but not enough for him to be unable to tell what time it was. The Abouna grumbled to himself,

“Half an hour,'' she said. It’s been almost an hour now.” A shadow fell over his face, causing the bearded man to look up into the rafters of his kitchen. Chrackle blinked at him from his perch,

“On way.” the magpie croaked, “Dwena cornered Mistress after meeting.” Edwin huffed a sigh,

“Gnomes, I swear.”

5. Extra Planar Road Trip

“Finally.” he muttered, “Right, I’ll pass on the info to the Cathedral so they can get a portal sorted out. In the meantime, the pair o’ ye can get to packin’. The sooner the pair of ye are out of danger, the happier we’ll all be.” he added, gesturing between Elowyn and Meredith.

“The happier everyone else will be ye mean.” Meredith groused, “I don’t see His Nibs or his family being shipped off plane every time there’s an assassination attempt.” Yoruk sent his wife a lop-sided smile,

“Oh, believe me, if Uncle Groh thought he could get away with suggesting it, he would.” He laid an encouraging hand on his wife’s shoulder and squeezed it, “It’s not going to be for long and I’m sure you and Elowyn can find enough mischief to get into to keep me and Aurianna on our toes.”

6. Beautiful World

“At least you made it back without spilling the beer.” Edwin slid into his seat with a huff,

“You learn not to pretty quick when you’re living with dwarves.” he said, “The slightest drop and they’re ribbing you all night.” he raised an eyebrow as Selene continued not to lift her head, but instead pat around the table for the mug, grabbing it and dragging it over towards her as she carried on writing, “What are you even doing anyway?”

7. Scene from the original The Trouble with Meredith wip

Once she had cleaned up and washed out her hair and beard, Meredith cautiously opened the package her mother had sent. In it was her favourite everyday dress, some fresh underclothes and an envelope with some kind of loose herb mixture inside with a separate note;

Meredith,

I hope that, following the attempted assassination of the King last night, that you are well and unharmed. Seeing as you didn’t come directly home after that disaster, I thought it prudent to send you a fresh set of clothes and underwear so you wouldn’t need to travel back in your good gown.

Given that I know exactly what else happened last night, I have also sent you a Moon Tea mixture. Take it as soon as you get up! Once you get home I’ll make you some more and then we’ll have a little chat about this concept called ‘Personal Responsibility’. You’re lucky that your father is as gullible as he is, or he’d be round there right now, making a new cloak out of your beloved, if Ionah hasn’t got to you both first.

See you soon,

Love, Mum.

#writeblr tag games #aquadestinyswriting #titan fighting fantasy #I should get around to writing some more for a lot of these #I have too many wips #all snippets are entirely out of context

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 2 years

Text

...Now What? (Good Omens Fanfic)

Something short, soft, and silly I found buried in my WIP pile. I have almost no memory of writing it. Enjoy!

Read on AO3

“So,” Aziraphale said, folding his hands neatly on top of the quilt. “…Now what?”

“Ngk,” Crowley confessed, staring a bit rigidly at the ceiling. “Ehrm. I sleep?”

They really should have discussed things a bit more before purchasing a cottage together. Before buying one large bed. Before moving into said cottage and setting up said bed. Certainly before climbing into it.

But here they were.

“And…” Aziraphale, sitting beside the demon, glanced around the room. “And what do I do?”

“Mrph.” Crowley hitched his shoulders—possibly a shrug—and moved a little further down his pillows. They should have discussed the bed linens at least. The combination of black silk and cotton tartan was quite absurd. “Read, maybe?”

Aziraphale gestured around the bedroom, the piles of boxes stacked in every corner. “I don’t have a lamp. Or a book for that matter.”

“Well, I dunno.” Good lord, was he going to wear those glasses all night? He may as well; there was no bedside table to put them on. "Miracle one up?"

“Crowley! For the hundredth time, I do not miracle my books!”

“I don’t see why not!” Crowley folded his arms in a way that looked truly uncomfortable, his back ramrod straight. “S’fine. Doesn’t hurt them.”

“Perhaps I should miracle your Bentley—”

“Don’t even joke about that!” Crowley growled, twisting onto his side. “No one messes with that car except me.”

“Well then.” Aziraphale spread his hands, indicating the discussion was over.

“But…” the demon went on, pointing a finger. “But I will miracle her if I need to. So you can miracle up a bloody novel to keep yourself occupied for eight hours.”

“Eight hours?” Aziraphale lay back, slumping onto his pillow in dismay. “Crowley that is—that is far too long to be sleeping! The sun will be up in a mere…” he glanced out the curtainless window. “Five and a half, I should think.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Crowley flapped a hand. “Eight hours is a perfectly normal amount of time to sleep. Maybe longer. I love a good long lie-in.”

“Longer? Crowley, it’s summer and we have our—our whole day ahead of us! There’s so much to do—so much to unpack—so much to explore—we haven’t even been down to the village yet—!”

“Angel.” He wriggled closer, voice low and threatening. “If you even think of waking me up before ten o’clock…”

“Ten o’clock? That’s much more than eight hours!”

“Well, we can do all that—that—we can do it after noon.”

“We can’t see the sunrise after noon.”

“You don’t want to see the sunrise.” Crowley pushed himself up to glare down at Aziraphale. “Never saw a sunrise in six thousand years.”

“Well. Perhaps I want to start now! Seems a better use of my time than just—just laying here for hours and hours listening to you breathe!”

“Well, no one said you had to!” Crowley pulled off his glasses and tossed them across the room. “If you don’t want to be here, you can go!”

“Perhaps I should, if I’m not wanted!”

There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of a single, hissing breath. Aziraphale’s heart didn’t even beat.

“Well?” Crowley finally growled.

“I…am I…not wanted?”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley dropped beside him, so close his ear brushed the tartan-clad shoulder. “Course you’re wanted. You’re always wanted.”

“Ah. Good.” Aziraphale shifted, sliding one arm under Crowley. “I…there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“S’right.” One long-fingered hand reached over Aziraphale, hovering above his stomach until another, softer hand took it, mismatched fingers lacing together. “S’where you should be.”

“Yes, dear.” Aziraphale tugged his demon closer, until their heads touched. “But…we really should have planned this better.”

Crowley grunted, and Aziraphale wrapped his arm tighter, drawing him in, letting him know it was alright to want, alright to be here. With a heavy breath through his nose, Crowley hooked one leg over Aziraphale’s thighs, and slid his head down to rest under the angel’s chin. “Sssssorry,” he grumbled. “We can…get up at sunrise, if you want.”

“I…do want to but…this is…quite comfortable.” His hand came up to rest in Crowley’s hair, lightly scratched at it. Like grooming a wing, really. “I can…try for a few hours at least.” He dug his fingers a little deeper, choosing a spot over Crowley’s ear. Just a quick experiment.

“Mmmmmmmh,” Crowley practically purred, arm and leg tightening, as if trying to burrow into the angel.

“Yes, I…suppose I can find something to entertain myself with.”

“M’gonna be sleeping,” Crowley warned him. “S’don’t…don’t pull any of that soft angel crap.”

“I don’t know what you could possibly mean.” Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair, root to tip, causing the demon to wriggle and bury his face in the angel’s chest. “This?”

“Yrph.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Nfffr.”

Aziraphale tipped his chin down, planted his lips on Crowley’s temple, the only bit of his face he could see. “Sleep well, my dearest.”

“Nhhh,” Crowley objected, muffled by thick tartan flannel. “G’night, Angel.”

Also on AO3

#good omens fan fiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable spouses #south downs cottage #cuddling #bed sharing #aziraphale and crowley #ficlet #short and sweet #aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale loves crowley #crowley loves aziraphale #my writing #ao3 link

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bobtheacorn · 1 year

Note

Pics or it didn't happen! (post a luca wip please, thank you, please again)

D'you know what that's fair lmao

Dumb fishboy shenanigans below the cut!!

Sunlight filters down from the surface, mottled and swaying.

Luca is sitting on his usual perch on that algae-covered rock in the center of the meadow while his family’s goatfish idle around him. The shepherding crook is resting against his shoulder. The fish bleat softly, munching the sea grass, blissfully unaware of their surroundings. Luca looks up periodically to check on them, but his attention gets dragged right back to the book in his hands, sealed inside a large ziplock bag to protect it from the water. He manages to turn the pages with a dexterity formed by habit.

It's impressive, if Alberto is being honest.

His vantage point at the top of the rocks, lying among a clutch of weeds and half-hidden behind a protruding rock, provides him with a great view.

He doesn’t really like waiting, but if he gets impatient now it will blow the whole operation, so Alberto contents himself with watching Luca a while longer; studying his profile, completely and hopelessly enamored. Luca’s muzzle has lengthened a bit since puberty, his skin and scales a slightly darker shade of green rather than the bright turquoise of his childhood. He’s still on the scrawny side of his growth spurt since hitting sixteen. His broad fins and peddles sway in the slight undercurrent, that effervescent sheen rippling over the vibrant blue of them. His amber eyes skim side to side while he reads, darting from fish to fish whenever he lifts his head to count them.

This time when Luca ducks his head to continue reading, Alberto slips down the wall and into the shadow of the base of the rocks at the edge of the meadow. He’s not quite in Luca’s blind spot and the flash of movement makes Luca turn around. He glances back and forth, his brow furrowed, but he only sees the goatfish nosing about.

Since no one seems to be in distress, he quickly returns to the book.

Alberto drifts between the rocks and the field, staying low, letting the current pull him along rather than swimming out-right. One displaced movement and his cover is blown. He’ll startle the goatfish, and then Luca will spot him.

That’s no fun.

Luckily, the goatfish are dumb as sponges. One of them catches sight of Alberto, crouched in the grass inches from its face, and it doesn’t even blink. It just stares around him, it’s pale, bulgy eyes completely vacant. Alberto brushes past it and into the field. The grass is just tall enough to hide him - if Luca turns and really looks, though, he could probably see Alberto’s caudal fins. He’s not meant to camouflage in the grass. He sticks out like a sore thumb. But he’s directly behind Luca now, inching closer, and as long as he moves slowly -

One of the goatfish bleats, piercing the quiet.

Luca's fins flare as he looks up.

Alberto tenses, pressing as close to the seafloor as he can, the rocks and sand cold against his belly. He grips the holdfasts around him with his paws and peers at the back of Luca’s head through the swaying grass, his heartbeat stampeding in his chest.

Luca twists and looks to his left.

"Giuseppe, what?" he snaps, shaken by the outburst.

Giuseppe bleats again, indifferent to Luca’s irritation, but this time it’s a mild sound that clearly indicates nothing is wrong. There's no telling what is was, honestly. Giuseppe is like that - prone to outbursts and mischief. After a moment, Luca settles back down, but the end of his tail is twitching and he keeps glancing up, scanning the meadow.

He never really turns fully to look behind himself, so he never spots Alberto hiding in the grass.

It doesn’t matter now, anyway. He’s on guard, unsettled by Giuseppe being a dumb little shit and sensing that something is amiss now that he’s been very rudely ripped from the fictional word that was dominating his attention.

Alberto wiggles minutely.

He tenses, and holds his breath, and then he pounces.

Luca shouts in alarm as Alberto collides with him and bears him down into the grass, but he realizes what's happening. His initial panic eases at once. He laughs, and Alberto laughs with him. They tumble around the rock, wrestling playfully, scattering the goatfish. After an acceptable struggle, Alberto lets Luca pin him down in the grass. He's out of breath, and also that's exactly where he wants to be: flat on his back with Luca on top of him.

"You're awful," Luca laughs, equally breathless.

If he were human, his cheeks would be flushed and rosy, his thick brown curls would be tousled. Like this, it’s his scent that changes the most. It makes Alberto’s mouth water and his gums ache, makes his stomach clench. He loves it.

#luberto #luca fanfic #alberto scorfano #luca paguro #asked #i miss them so much actually lmao #idiots (affectionate)#maybe this will motivate me fingers crossed

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genjishimemeda · 7 months

Text

been going through my WIPs and i'm gonna post a couple old old old ones that i really need to finish. this one was meant as a gift for someone but i think they went on to block me (lol)? idk. it was like almost ten years ago.

it's cloudgeal with the theme of gardening

Of all the areas in the Shinra building, Cloud likes the courtyard most.

Few even realize it's there, attached to the cafeteria like some awkward, bulbous tumor that everyone passes by, probably curious about, but doesn't bother to explore. It's weird and it's honestly rather ugly, obvious sod laid down over a metal floor with weak, meager sunlight filtered through glass, supported by flickering sun lamps, its only sources of light. The grass itself on the sod is just a pitiful excuse for grass, yellow and brown for the most part. They said nothing grows in Midgar, and it's probably true.

Except, and Cloud notices this, there's one corner of the courtyard where the lamp doesn't flicker, the grass is a little less brown-and-yellow, and there's obvious signs of work.

He's drawn to the courtyard in the first place because, being a mountain-dweller, nature's in his blood. He didn't have to (and didn't want to) ask about its existence; it just sort of happened that he took the wrong door out of the cafeteria when he wasn't paying attention and wound up looking at a small patch of greenery wondering how he got there. For a brief moment, it had reminded him of when the snow finally melted and the grass hadn't yet grown back after a winter in Nibelheim; returning there, he smiles as he notices the grass is just a little bit greener than before.

And over in the corner, there's a little row of pots.

As he nears, he counts maybe six of them, sitting in neatly arranged rows. The soil's still moist and the lamps are fixed on them, but not directly. He makes a noise of curiosity, kneeling down and examining them. Nothing on them says who put them there, or even what species of seed was planted in them. Just nondescript clay pots, sitting and waiting.

A little confused, he leaves for the day.

Some time a few weeks later, he pops back in just to have his lunch in relative quiet, and the pots are still there. It's a little warmer, and he notices the thermostat is set to almost 27°—going to sit by the pots, he notices one has a tiny shoot sticking up from the center. It's not quite like the green, fleshy stem of a flower, but like a thin, bladed leaf. The soil is damp again, as if they've been recently tended to, and the watering can is, in fact, still there.

Cloud picks it up and examines it. Again, like the pots, it's nondescript to the point of blandness. He places it back down, gently, and just looks at the tiny shoot with masked wonder.

By the next time he has a chance to return, early one morning before breakfast is even ready, all the pots are bearing several little shoots, but this time, the soil is dry. He realizes the time of day and, glancing at the schedule that seemed to have mystically appeared on the wall, the plants have yet to be watered. Curious, he looks to the can, and gingerly lifts it to see if there's any water in it.

Barely…

Shrugging to himself, he goes to the spigot on the wall and starts filling it. The water is cloudy, obviously not filtered tap. He's not sure if it's the best choice, but it's all there is—maybe the plants need the extra minerals? Hoping he's not destroying anything, he sprinkles water over all of them, kneeling before them and ensuring they've each had an equal amount.

To himself, or maybe to the plants, he mutters, "That should be okay…"

He sits there a while longer, checking each one over. The original one has a few more leaves, and they're a nice, vibrant shade of green. Not too dark, not too pale. He can't be sure, but he thinks they're bromeliads. He'd only seen a few in his lifetime, as they were more well-suited to warmer climates than Nibelheim (and possibly even Midgar), but he knew what they looked like in a vague sense.

He looks at the schedule again and notices "drain the cups" written in small writing beneath the watering notes. When he glances at the pots again, he notices the bottoms slip out. Removing each one, he pours the excess water onto the grass… probably how it got so green in the first place. He continues to pour out the water as it drips down, and eventually they all stop leaking.

With caution, he picks up the permanent marker by the schedule and checks off the watering.

* * *

From then on, he checks up on the plants daily. When he gets there before their caretaker does, he completes the tasks himself. That is, up until one day he comes in and there's a note attached to the schedule.

I'd certainly like to know who's been tending to the plants, the note says. Succinct and clearly written, though the handwriting is quite obviously masculine.

Cloud pops open the marker and scrawls his name and rank onto the paper.

They exchange words in notes over the next few weeks, and the plants have become handsome bunches of leaves. Cloud is gently stroking the leaves as he waters them this morning, reading over the last note written.

It's not the first time I've planted bromeliads here, but they always die before they flower. I'd like to have this batch actually bloom this year.

When Cloud leaves, he decides to do a bit of research.

As far as he reads, bromeliads are mostly tropical, though can survive a drought if needed. Some need lots of sunlight, some shrivel up under too much. They're not supposed to soak, thus the draining, and their flowers come naturally. Cloud wonders if they're perhaps exercising a little too much care, rather than too little.

We should meet, he writes on his next note, the book from the library tucked under his arm. What's your schedule?

Unfortunately, the next note leaves him disappointed. My schedule is so spontaneous I couldn't give you a set time.

* * *

Cloud's next eating lunch with some of his squadmates, barely listening as he's thinking about the note and eyes fixed on the courtyard door. He's hoping he'll see someone go in and figure out who tends to the plants, who's been writing back and forth with him… and who shares his love of nature in this gods-forsaken city.

"Y'know that Second, uh… Zack's his name, yeah?" one of the guys says.

"Mm?"

"Heard him in the hall earlier whinin' that the guy who trains him showed up late or somethin'."

"And we care, why?"

"He bitches like a damn dog in heat, man. It was grating as hell."

Cloud just tunes out the conversation and wanders over to the courtyard door. It's not like he cares what they had to say about some SOLDIER he doesn't even know. He goes for the door, though freezes when he notices someone's in there.

Surreptitiously, he glances through the fog of the door and barely makes out a large black shape amongst the silver walls and greenery. Backing away, he tries to find a place to look inconspicuous, and waits. This is the moment he's been waiting for, swapping those notes like they were little kids or something. He tries not to stare at the door, and waits.

He hardly notices when a SOLDIER Second with hair rivaling his own comes marching through the cafeteria and opens the door.

"Angeal, what the heck?" the Second half-whines. "We were supposed to train like twenty minutes ago."

"I'm sorry, Zack," came the voice from inside, and Cloud cranes his neck a little. "I had… business to attend to."

"More important than me?"

A deep chuckle. "Just a little."

The black-haired young man just sighed. "I'll see ya in the VR room, then." He then muttered something under his breath about 'Genesis' and 'bugs.' Cloud doesn't know what to make of that, but he has a name!

Angeal… Where does he know that name? As he's mulling it over, he misses the man pass entirely, only shaking out of it when he doesn't hear any shuffling anymore.

Armed with half of the identity of the man he was looking for, he scampers off to see if he can actually nail down just where he heard that name.

* * *

A SOLDIER.

Not only that, a SOLDIER First.

Angeal Hewley.

Cloud's mouth goes dry as he reads the SOLDIER roster again, and doesn't find another instance of the name. He can't believe he's been corresponding with one of the triumvirate of SOLDIER Firsts (and subtly thanks the gods it isn't Sephiroth, he'd die of a heart attack even at such a tender young age). He'd never be able to approach him, even if they planned the meeting, and dear gods he was alone and he was shaking like a leaf.

When he returns to his room, he looks to the library book sitting on his bunk looking, for all a book could be, so forlorn. He flops down on the bed and opens it up, looking at the card inside and reading through the names.

Sure enough, multiple times, Angeal's name. Going back several years, at that.

He closes it slowly, then rolls over and looks at the bunk above his. He kicks his one leg, not fully on the bed, and tries to think.

After several hours of tossing, turning, trying to nap, and grinding his palms onto his eyes, he makes his decision.

He may be shy, but gods-dammit, Cloud knows he's not a pussy.

#cloudgeal #cloud strife #angeal hewley #fanfic #final fantasy vii #i'll definitely finish it at some point but hey #why not contribute to a rarepair

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tzeetzeethirteen · 9 months

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Planning #26 - Uhm 3: The End of Uhms

Here we are.

Sorry about the extreme delay. While I understand not many people are following me on tumblr and most people interested in my stories simply follow/subscribed to my stories on FFnet and AO3, I think that a more elaborate post describing what's going on right now should serve as a nice point of reference if you happen to see or check this blog at some point.

I have the usual attempt at explaining myself below the ‘keep reading’ line - but before that I'd like to show some actual plans first.

Priorities have shifted only a little bit for my WIPs. My plan is to resume posting new chapters with this order from higher priority to lowest:

The Butterfly Bane (SVTFOE)

Time Woes with a Pinch of Frogs (Amphibia + AHIT)

Pacifica over Yonder (GF + WOY) - hiatus

The Powerpuff Legacy (PPG OG) - hiatus

While only 'The Butterfly Bane' will likely receive new updates with some semblance of consistency in timing, resuming updates is something I would like to do for all of the stories above, including those on hiatus, and as soon as possible.

I may also churn out a one-shot or two. I have multiple ideas in the oven on that front and I don't want to mention them too much since some may never see the light of day. For now, just keep in mind that the stories I mentioned in previous posts -- the crossover 'Role Models', as well as the next story in the Tales of the Queens of Mewni series, 'By Your Side' -- are still planned to be posted at some point.

Now, about the lack of updates for more than a year from me, you can check below for more info if you care about that.

Long story short, a lot has changed in my life lately in the last 13 months and I lost all traces of writing bunnies or even just willingness to sit down in front of a word processor as a result - indeed, it’s been a year or so since my last update to any of my stories, and a few of my stories or series haven’t gotten updates for much longer than that. The little I managed to write didn’t satisfy me, either, which led me to thrash two one-shots while I was writing them (for new fandoms) and some content for my WIP multi-chapter fics.

Now, I am not saying that this situation has improved: it's still very hard to find the time to sit down and write, and to keep my focus while I do it, due to my current IRL occupation and other problems. However, I will still say (stubbornly if you will) that there's no way I'm leaving my stories unfinished, no matter what. All of them (and I’m counting the SvtFoE one-shot series in it too, despite its nature as a collection of partially self-contained works) will be finished, sooner or later, even if it takes one little step every odd month to do so. And, even in this new situation, I would like to keep writing fanfiction for quite a while.

So, with all that said: for the time being I just hope that I’ll recover most of the writing juice back. With it, I'll try to resume updating my unfinished works and posting new ones over time, and if that proves too hard, then I'll try to keep writing little bit by little, bit by bit, to keep my projects moving forward one small step at a time. It likely will take a while, but I'll try not to stop!

#status

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ghostalservice · 7 months

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Quantum Boys for the WIP game please! :D

quantum boys is part two of Lagrange Point! I'm gonna finish it someday i promise but here is a little bit of what's to come!!

The sleeper car is luxurious: it’s cramped by the nature of the space, but its narrow angularity is softened with velvet curtains and an oak desk polished to a shine. He can’t sit in it too long, the small window barely big enough to see the trees flash by. He sits in the dining car instead, stretches lunch’s baguette and potatoes for a few hours, watching farmland and towns speed past. Lyon rises around them, all red tiled roofs and narrow cobbled streets, then the cathedrals and marble of Montpellier. He sits up, presses in close to the window as they pull out of the Montpellier station, because there’s the water, glistening in the midafternoon sun. It’s high summer, the light bright and shimmering with heat, and Ed breathes in the scent of salt and sea. It’s not quite the ocean smell he remembers from home—although it’s been so long he’s not sure he’d recognize it if he did smell the Pacific—but it’s something, and it settles a piece of him that’s been restless and pained for longer than the last few weeks. The Mediterranean is a deep blue-green, a turquoise he’s never quite seen before, and he can’t look away as the train rushes through. He knows the waiters are tapping their feet, waiting for him to finally leave lunch so they can prepare the car for dinner, but his sleeper’s window faces west and he’s not missing this, not for anything. The water makes him think of Stede, and he lets himself, finally, lets the thoughts out of the box he’s locked them in. He wonders what Stede’s doing, eight thousand miles almost straight down. Ed wonders if Stede’s thinking of him. If he thinks hard enough, will Stede feel it? If he never thinks of Stede again, will Stede forget him?

okay now that I'm looking at this, it's actually got some really good bits and maybe i'll move it back up the list 👀👀

#ofmd #tag games #wip

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non-un-topo · 2 years

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💔👀🦅🎶🎢🥺 !!!

Apple, thank you love! <333

💔 Is there a fic of yours that broke your heart?

Oh boy, well I did a number with Dahlia back in the day. Haven't written angst quite like that in a while and I still feel the urge to write a happy kid fic as an apology. My brother spits blood. hurt in a different way, with all the Booker & Nicky brotherly feelings.

👀 Tell me about an up and coming wip please!

Ohhh okie. I have greatly missed writing weird mysterious horror-themed fics but I get shy, so I've tried not to pull my punches this time and just have fun. I can tell you that it will take place in Iceland, in the early 17th century and will address a significant point in the lives of the guard---rather, who is left of it. It will be Nicky's pov (for reasons I cannot yet say other than it having something to do with centrality and steadfastness in the group dynamic---okay I just explained it lol), and I'm hoping to put more horror elements into this one too (Nicky + horror is my special tea). For this fic I'm really exploring liminal space, daylight horror (w the midnight sun), renewal, the sense of being adrift and the urge to keep everything and everyone together. So, uhh. Angst. I'll say one more thing just because: There is an inciting incident that occurs before the plot begins. It's what ends up convincing them to take a break from their search for Quynh and settle on solid ground. It's also why I'm writing it in Nicky's pov and why he has this pervasive sense of losing his footing, or being sent adrift. 👀👀

🦅 Do you outline fics or fly by the seat of your pants?

I outline like a beast. Usually I prefer to have the entire plot from start to finish outlined in bullet points before I start properly writing.

For my current wip I have three different documents and then the fic itself. Are the three documents comprehensible? Do they make sense? Are they more than just random philosophical thoughts and ideas and scattered research notes? Nah. But they get more organized with each new document lol. Sometimes, though, when the writing bug hits I just write a whole oneshot without planning too much.

🎶 Do you listen to music while you write? What song have you been playing on loop lately?

I do!! I have very specific songs for very specific moods. Sometimes soundtracks, sometimes opera or classical music, sometimes like... weird medieval music. For my current wip I've been listening to three main songs that encapsulate the whole vibe of the fic: Your Bones by OMAM, Familiar by Agnes Obel, and Caesar by The Oh Hellos.

I tend to listen to the same artists over and over, or sort of atmospheric instrumental stuff. I found this yesterday and it's really gotten me in the writing spirit!

🎢 Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

Honestly, Dying of the Light was a pretty insane experience, both in terms of writing and just its plot. I had thousands of words written, then scrapped almost all of it and re-wrote almost the whole thing in one sitting. I was up at 4am when I wrote the goat scene and I think I finished around 6. All its wild trippy moments come from the fact that I was literally losing my mind a bit at the time lol. Bad life circumstances, but it ended up being one of the fics I'm most proud of.

But in terms of plot only, I think Tangerine and Roc was kind of wild. It has a lot going on thematically and plot-wise, and has a longer word count.

🥺 Is there a certain type of moment or common interaction between your characters that never fails to put you in your feels?

I don't have a knack for fluff, but I think I might have a soft spot for that sort of casual, close and familiar family dynamic? Like I hadn't realized how many moments I'd written in which one of the queer quartet members is doing another one's hair until I read them all back lol.

Casual intimacy and platonic touches really get me in my feels. Specifically Andy's affection for any of the other characters (back of the neck touch my beloved). Dancing makes me feel insane, I love it and need to write more of it. Same with platonic cuddles. I definitely have a soft spot for pals sitting around a fire and drinking/dancing/laughing. Makes me feel alive <3 Like: Yes, that's family.

#ty apple beloved <333 #ask game #sage writes #maybe i spoiled too much about my wip but it's okie. nothing's really a spoiler

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paulinedorchester · 2 years

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Hastings, August 1945

This takes place during (a reimagined version of) ‘The Hide.’ It’s a highly preliminary version of something that may or may not end up in a future story. It contains a very subtle preview into my official WIP (new OC!), but it’s way out of sequence in the Victory Roll universe, so for the time being, at least, it’s a Tumblr exclusive.

Andrew isn’t going into marriage as some sort of wide-eyed innocent. Foyle knows that much. He doesn’t know who any of those girls might have been (excepting one, apparently). Not sure that I want to, he thinks.

He’s in no position to disapprove, though. He knows that as well. At some point he’s going to have to tell Andrew about the consequences of that fact. Sooner rather than later, to judge from what’s in the Brighton papers today.

On the other hand, he can’t help wondering how well prepared Sam is for what’s ahead of her. How much would a vicar’s only daughter — nearly twenty-six years old now, been away from home since early in the war — but her parents were no longer young by the time she was born, products of an earlier era, her father tried to prevail on her to return home in 1940, kept talking about ‘moral hygiene’ — how much would she be likely to know about, well, physical intimacy? Perhaps he ought to ask his sister-in-law to sound her out. They’d got on well when Pamela was in Hastings on war business, a couple of years ago.

The point, however, is Andrew. Surely, as his father, I have a duty to offer him some sort of guidance. And indeed, he has noticed Andrew looking at times, not as though he’s getting cold feet, but pensive and, yes, faintly worried.

They play chess that evening: badly, both of them. A hot day has turned into an uncomfortably warm night. Foyle is distracted by the day’s news. Sam has gone to Brighton overnight and wouldn’t say why, which has left Andrew unsettled. After a bit more than an hour they agree to a draw.

‘I’m beginning to understand why the Yanks like ice in their drinks,’ Andrew remarks.

His father offers one of his upside-down smiles. ‘A few years ago, when... ’ he begins, then stops abruptly, realising that he’s come dangerously close to a blunder. Though it’s quite possible Andrew knows about that by now, he thinks. Still... ‘Well, a few years ago I met an American soldier who told me that he wanted to come back to England after the war was over and go into business, selling plumbing and heating equipment. Perhaps he’ll do refrigeration as well.’

Andrew laughs.

‘Andrew,’ Foyle goes on. ‘If there’s anything at all that you want to, um, discuss — well, look, you’ve only to say so.’

Andrew’s smile fades a bit. ‘Thank you,’ he replies, and then falls silent, looking into the near distance.

The next day dawns cooler, with a hint of Autumn in the air, almost. Andrew meets Sam’s coach. She is cheerful, she holds his free hand as they make their way to Stonefield Road, but she won’t say what took her to Brighton — only that she wasn’t able to accomplish her errand, and that it’s perfectly all right for now, but she’ll have to go back at the end of the month, after the wedding.

‘I’ve already made an appointment,’ she says, and then abruptly changes the subject. ‘I stopped with the Milners,’ she tells him. ‘Clemmie — the baby — is perfectly lovely. And you know, I’m beginning to quite like Edith. She’s a bit of a pepper pot, I suppose, but I get the feeling that she’d be an awfully good person to have on your side if there were any trouble!’

After supper is put away Andrew goes upstairs for a time. Then Foyle hears his son descending the stairs very slowly, as though so preoccupied with something that he must remind himself to take each step.

Reaching the ground floor, Andrew remains in the hall for a moment, lost in thought. Then he moves to the sitting room doorway and stands there uncertainly.

‘Sam’s visit to Brighton — go well?’ Foyle asks.

‘Oh — well, she had a pleasant time, apparently, but whatever it she went there to do, she wasn’t able to do it. I still don’t know what it was. Said she’d have to go back after we’re married.’

‘Hm.’

‘Dad, um, you said last night... ’ Andrew trails off, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

‘What’s on your mind, Andrew?’ his father offers after a moment.

Andrew makes a visible effort to gather himself together.

‘Is it true,’ he begins.

He breaks off, then starts again.

‘Is it true that it hurts girls the first time?’

Foyle tries to hide his surprise.

Not girls, then, he thinks. Women.

#foyle's war fan works #sam/andrew #for s/a wednesday #(a day late)

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greyias · 2 years

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Post-WIP Musings

Fair warning, this is just me blathering about my first draft process on this project I’ve been working on.

That post-first draft feeling is always a little odd, especially on longer projects. In a way, I’m not quite into the post-project blues yet, as I still do have quite a bit of revisions on my little monster left. But after the initial feeling of triumph fades on finishing a draft, there’s always this weird empty space where the project used to inhabit.

Right now I’m sitting here with an urge to do something, but I can’t quite figure out what that is. Maybe I’m just resisting buying the new kitty game that everyone’s playing.

As my day job today was mostly hands off transcoding work, I spent part of this afternoon going through scenes and making notes in the margins on all of the things that I had deliberately ignored in “fast” drafting (some of which I had made at the time they occurred to me), on various threads I had introduced or accidentally dropped to make sure I have a cohesive whole. I’m not quite in the editing mood/mindset tonight to start rewriting/revising from the beginning, but perhaps I can nudge my brain to start on that next week.

In a large part, the first draft of this story was a way for me to experiment with a different method to writing a longer work. Partially because I have gotten a little frustrated with myself on my longer WIPs stalling out for long periods of time. One of my secret hopes is that, in pushing forward and finishing this experiment, I might be able to finally finish off my albatross as well as some other long lingering projects that hit the back burner that I stubbornly refuse to give up on.

(And maybe one day slip a little original fiction into the mix. As a treat.)

The process was kind of half-baked and adjusted on the fly, but it kind of went like this:

Write out an extremely brief/overview of the idea/project as a whole. As I’m sort of adapting something with a “what if” type twist, this was easier than something formed wholly from the ground up. I also had a slapdash of scene ideas that I had scribbled out a while ago, either in talking to friends or just in a Scrivener document, so I had those to reference as well.

Wrote out a very brief, 1-2 sentence summary of each scene/chapter.

Expanded each scene summary into a skeleton of the basic outline of what would happen in each scene. This took about 3-4 days, maybe spending an hour at most in any given session. The references of my idea spilling/nattering to friends helped keep me on track, as I started to go a bit off on tangents at points and had to reel myself back in.

When the entire skeleton had been drafted, I went back to the first scene, and started writing “for real”.

I believe this may be an adaptation of something called the “Snowflake Method”, which I read about briefly a few years back but never wound up trying because it seemed really overwhelming at the time. I will probably actually find some articles/books to learn a bit more about the thinking/methodology behind that method, because I’m a little more intrigued now to see if there’s other bits of advice in there that might help.

While I don’t necessarily know if this experiment in outlining/fast drafting/whatever-this-was was the most efficient writing process, but other than a few instances where I hadn’t anticipated needing more of a scene than I had initially drafted up -- it was actually nice to have a roadmap of the basic flow of each scene written down before I got there. Instead of trying to think of both what was supposed to happen next within the scene, or where a conversation needed to end up, or what the gist/emotion I was going for, I could instead focus on the meat of how to express and expand on that. Instead of feeling boxed in and lacking motivation for what to write next, in a way I felt like I could experiment more? As I had guardrails for not forgetting what I was doing, I could play in the language a bit. Play with the characters and have fun with the dialogue. If I forgot where I was going in the middle of the sentence I could just look at the outline and go “oh yeah”, and backtrack, instead of just. Staring at an unfinished sentence for minutes on end wondering what I was trying to say.

The more I write, the more I think having constraints helps me as a writer. I think it’s part of the reasons I love doing prompts so much, because I both have guardrails (”try and answer the prompt in a way that makes sense”) as well as a way to indulge my inner contrary nature (”how can I push this to the boundary of its intent”). I don’t know, for some reason balancing between the two is a lot of fun for me, and maybe part of the reason it sometimes takes me forever and a day to fill out the prompts in my askbox. That push and pull of discovering the scene while writing is a lot easier on a sub-5000 word single scene story than it is on a 30K+ multi-chapter story.

TL;DR -- discovering the general path before writing helps create a cohesive whole. It’s like actually looking up a map before an epic road trip so you don’t get lost and run out of gas. I have no idea why I’ve been resisting it on my longer projects for so long.

This has already gotten long and unwieldy as is, but it’s funny. In between making editing notes, I was replying to some lovely epic comments someone left on an older fic over on AO3. As I was searching through my gmail account to remind myself of something from ye ancient story, I found an archive lost/locked post from like 2009 on my old livejournal where I was talking about my writing process. (The more things change--?) And while I was rambling much in the manner above trying to find motivation and the way to finish longer works, I noticed that while my understanding of the craft and underlying structure has grown, my motivation, what I find fun, and why I want to write really hasn’t.

Which I do find interesting.

Anyway, I won’t make this any longer and more rambly than its already gotten, but I’ve been listening to a lot of audiobooks on my commute lately about story structure/characters/inner story lately and would like to expound on them a bit in a separate post. There’s one in particular that I think has really crystalized/helped put into words something in my writing process that I was doing subconsciously, and having someone actually dissect those methods in detail makes me feel... less like I’m stumbling in the dark. And I’m hoping to integrate some of its advice in future projects.

...once my brain has space again for those that is.

#these musings got long #so under a cut they go #(and fyi i have some caveats and qualms about the book linked)#(but i had gone on long enough and didn't feel like expanding on them)#(but despite that i feel like i had a net gain from reading/listening to it)#(and will probably buy a copy of an ebook or printed version for quick reference)

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