5 SECOND REVIEW
* the amount of times i went like 🙃😬🙄🫠 throughout reading this book is unreal
* i was viscerally reminded of why i don't read romance anymore
* the ✨️toxicity✨️ and ✨️codependency✨️ were On Point 😌
* nothing, and I cannot stress this enough, nothing happened, except for SEX and fighting the same fights over and over again
* like, bestie, please, find a plot 🥴
* it's just... not my jam, despite the fact that I enjoyed the first 3 books in the series, sometimes it's okay to let things go
* also, and i stand by this, the sex is wholly and completely unrealistic, thanks for coming to my TED talk
* 2/5 ⭐️
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— WIP Intro: Caught in the Crossfire (18+)
Atria Cassi is tired. She's been abandoned, adopted, partially orphaned, parentified, traumatized, heartbroken, chewed up and spit out by a universe that doesn't seem to care very much whether she survives it. But someone has to put this goddamn family back together, and in the wake of tragedy after tragedy, it may as well be her.
Content Warnings: violence, substance abuse, some sexual content, dark themes*
More info, taglist, and planned books below the cut!
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*content varies by book; chapters tagged individually
Book I || Between a Rock and a Hard Place
Atria Cassi has enough problems trying to run her dad's garage on her own. When a squad of bloodthirsty slavers captures her to lure out an old flame, can she survive the ordeal by retreating into her memories, or will she break before the cavalry arrives?
C/W: graphic depictions of violence, major character death, torture, substance abuse, childhood trauma, ptsd, some sexual content
Read on AO3 || WIP Page || Tags: between a rock and a hard place, crossfire ocs
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Book II || It Takes Two to Tango
Prequel outlining the events leading up to Fira and Talus meeting, marrying, and tripping face-first into tragedy.
C/W: graphic depictions of violence, explicit sexual content, past child abuse, substance abuse, addiction
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Book III || Louder Than Words
Now that the family has fallen apart, let's put them back together. Kind of.
C/W: graphic depictions of violence, some sexual content, trauma recovery, ptsd, terrorism
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Taglist: @sparatus @thetrashbagswasteland @teamdilf @tabswrites @writernopal @starknstarwars @asher-orion-writes
Ask to +/- in the tags, replies, inbox, or DMs!
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I haven’t announced it on Tumblr, but in the past 6 months, I have been developing my own series called Drake Savers, where a small group of people create a definitive encyclopedia of dragons through various passions.
Here’s my drawing of Seedling (Sunflower Dragon) and Ivy (Human) admiring the sunset
I had a lot of fun coloring it in with markers and I really like how it turned out. I should do more drawings like these in the future ^^
I used a sketchbook by Master’s Touch, Microns for lineart, Ohuhu Markers for coloring, and a single Crayola colored pencil for shading
I definitely should share more Drake Savers content lol
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tw - body checking
In the high-rise apartment in Berlin, Angel steps out of the shower, steam swirling around him. He takes his time drying off with one of the absurdly plush towels. He rubs his hand through his hair, trying to judge its condition. The bleach is the fourth colour change in under six months; he isn't sure how much more it will take.
He uses the towel to wipe condensation from the mirror, then drops it to the floor as he turns his attention to his reflection. His gaze travels over his own naked form with the passionless, critical eye of someone judging livestock. Muscle definition, proportion, body fat - his exercise routines are intense, but improvements can always be made. For now, though, the view meets with his approval.
Dressed, he moves cautiously through to the kitchen - cautious, because the guy is still here, and has made himself coffee without asking. The cupboard door is still open, the french press left stranded on the clean white countertop.
Karl - no, it was Karsten; Angel grits his teeth in momentary annoyance at the error. Remembering names is important, even if the people they belong to are not. Karsten has mousy hair and a pleasant physique and is at least five cm shorter than his Grindr profile suggests. He'd been decent enough in bed, but now his presence grates on Angel's nerves like a wrong note in a song.
Angel had half been hoping he would have left in the time it took Angel to shower, but so few people are decently pragmatic. Not unexpected, but it chafes, having to slap on the mask of civility even for long enough to get rid of him, with all the appropriate smiling and talk of important appointments, and the lie of 'maybe we'll do this again some time'. He's not in the mood for socialising; there are more interesting things to turn his mind towards.
Alone again, Angel closes the cupboard door and puts the coffee things into the sink, where they are less of an offense to the stark white lines of the kitchen. Then he goes to the safe, where he always puts his various phones when there are strangers in the apartment, and takes out the 'work' phone.
He sinks into the buttery leather of the couch as he scrolls through the irritatingly few files he's been sent. He decides on one, casts it up to the widescreen, and rests his chin on his hands as he watches intently.
The security footage shows a fight, two on one. The two are not worth consideration; Angel's attention is focused solely on the one. He follows every blow, noting the mix of martial arts, the moves ripped straight from the textbook and the ones taken from the street. He observes their footwork, the speed and confidence with which each move flows into the next.
He looks for weaknesses.
Do they put more weight on their right foot than their left? Did they overextend on that punch? Is that a lapse of
awareness - ah no, a feint, nicely played. There, an over-rotation does leave their left side open for a fraction of
a second. They recover quickly, their opponent - fucking amateur - not noticing the lapse. He plays that part again, again, again, then moves on. Now he's sitting forwards in his seat, eyes still trained on the screen. He nods in professional approval when they grab an abandoned janitor's mop to use as an improvised weapon. And then the final blow, a beautifully executed kick, no wasted movement.
The figure on screen stands there for a second, the only movement their shoulders heaving with exertion. Then they straighten, toss their head in a gesture so deliciously haughty that he finds himself smiling at it. They glance towards the camera, head towards it, reach up, and the footage stops there.
Angel rewinds to the point where their face is clear in the centre of the screen. He sits back. How many fights have you won? he wonders. How many lost? How long did it take you to get to this level? Was your training like mine? So many questions that can't be answered by the scant data DIABLO can provide, that could never be enough because he wants to know everything.
The phone rings, startling him. Azazel.
When he accepts the call and opens his mouth for greeting or complaint, he is cut off by the uncharacteristically curt voice. "It's started. Drop whatever you're doing; I need you here now."
And before he can respond, Azazel hangs up on him. Hangs up on him! For a good second or two, Angel's more shocked by that than the actual content of the message. When the significance hits him, he curses softly under his breath - but the tone is more excitement then anything else. As he's heading towards the bedroom to grab his bag, he hesitates in the doorway, looking back at the face frozen on the screen, and he grins.
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