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seyaryminamoto · 2 months

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Fic-to-Art #38: Ozai carries Azula to the physicians' wing

This has been done for A WHILE now, but I didn't post it because the past days have been chaotic and not just on a personal level. For one thing, I really wasn't eager to drop this when people were losing their shit massively over the liveaction and its recontextualization of Azula and Ozai's dynamics, I didn't look forward to releasing this just to be told that whatever I've done in my story is somehow wrong, sooooooooo... that held me back, for a few days.

Then? The AI-Tumblr deal started to be talked about and I may or may not have freaked out about that too. Sooo... this is the first glazed and nightshaded piece of my creation, as consequence. The original, clean and proper version is available in my Patreon. Is this me being a dick to Tumblr-only people? Unfortunately, it very much isn't, I'm not trying to say that if you want the best iterations of my art, you should pay me for it... this is squarely, entirely, at staff/the CEO's feet. Obviously, there's the insecure side of me that goes "what makes you think they'd steal YOUR art when there are so many better artists out there!" but ultimately? AI is about taking everything en masse. It isn't a matter of developing a criteria about who makes the better art... it's just taking EVERYTHING and trying to repurpose it in whatever twisted way it needs to. Therefore? I think my choice is more of a matter of caution than anything else. Once AI bullshit dies out (and I really hope it does), we may just return to the same level of quality across all my accounts. For now, it is what it is.

ANYWAY! Point is this artwork is very much what my Patrons happened to vote for this month, a very shocking scene where Ozai reacted in the least foreseen way to Azula being attacked. Azula's confusion/terror comes from a place of not knowing what to do and being powerless to stop her father even if she doesn't feel comfortable with his help... but for once, Ozai isn't making a dreadful choice that will only devastate his daughter. He's actually worried about her health... and feeling genuine guilt over what landed her in the situation where she was in danger in the first place. Yes. I like me my complex Ozai who finally learned actions have consequences. He bores me to death otherwise :') if anyone STILL doesn't know that this whole situation is Gladiator-specific, then I shall clarify fully: this is artwork based on my fic. It's about a story that has been developing these characters for ALMOST ELEVEN YEARS now. It has nothing to do with whatever's going on in canon or in the liveaction, the scene in question was written almost two years ago and the artwork proposed and voted for several days before the liveaction aired. Ergo: there is no connection between this and that. Nor am I saying through this piece that Ozai is a good father. He is not. He can still be an interesting character to work with on a narrative level anyway :')

Alright. With that out of the way, hope you guys like this piece! The big one I haven't posted is ALSO finished, also glazed and nightshaded, but I think I might just end up posting it on the 26th if I don't have time to do anything big for our eleventh anniversary... yep, I'm so busy I don't even have a huge project in mind this time. Also? I have a lot to write and I'm finally happily writing it, and I would like to continue doing that...

Anyway! If you would like to be part of the creative process behind this piece, as well as see it in its proper, OG, less color-bleeding clunky version? A $1 Patreon pledge gives you the chance to join in suggesting prompts, voting for them and reading Gladiator snippets 6 days before a new chapter is released!

#fic-to-art project #ozai #azula #obviously this was the February piece #and I'm very sorry for the long time it took me to post it but #god I hate it every time there's any “new” thing going on in this franchise #has nothing to do with me and yet it's always a pain because people with the STALEST takes #start to spring out and start trying to police what's going on in the fandom #even people with sense are saying things that blow my mind lately #... so yeah I don't feel entirely safe posting anything to do with my work lately #but hopefully that will change :')#for now enjoy this one

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cha-melodius · 8 days

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Fic Pride Weekend

Rules: Post your favourite line or passage from as many of your published works as you’d like. Let yourself feel proud of your creations! Tag as many people as you post snippets, so your fellow fic friends can be proud, too.

@kiwiana-writes tagged me for "Fic Pride Friday" but let's face it, no one is actually doing this on a Friday anymore and Fic Pride should go the whole weekend.

So I decided to try to give some superlatives—my favorite action sequence, my favorite kiss, my favorite love confession, my favorite comedy moment, etc etc. But the problem was I came up with a LOT of superlatives! Oh well. A few up top, and the rest below the cut. Oh, and there are some spoilers below, so be warned!

Favorite Shouted Love Confession: Love is a Losing Game

“Then what, Illya?” Napoleon demands sharply, frustration heating his face. “What exactly was the problem?” “I love you, Napoleon!” Illya nearly shouts, the words ringing loudly in quiet of the club, and the silence that follows is only broken by Illya’s ragged breaths as Napoleon stares at him in shock. Illya closes his eyes, as if trying to steady himself, and when he opens them again the raw vulnerability in them is startling. “I love you,” he says again, with something like resignation in his voice, “and when they told me you quit I thought I would never see you again, and— and that was not something I could bear.”

Favorite Action Sequence (Duo): This Hell of a Season

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the headlamp rapidly approaching. He’s not sure if it will be fast enough. Henry watches as the dark shape of the man, little more than a shadow under the meagre moonlight, shifts slightly out from behind the hedges again. A few more shots, fired near where the shadow lurks, buys Henry some time, but Alex’s approach feels impossibly slow, as if he were travelling through treacle. One heartbeat passes. Two. Three. Four. The motorbike gets close enough to bathe Henry in a wash of yellow-tinted light; he’s now far too tempting a target, and the man shifts out from behind his cover again. Alex nearly puts the bike on its side as he skids into a stop, cutting the lamp at the last minute and plunging them into darkness. “Here!” he yells, and Henry flings himself in his direction, nearly blind after the brightness of the headlamp.

Favorite Action Sequence (Solo): A Good Man is Hard to Find

Pulling a rope off his belt, Mobius ties it securely around the empty window frame then measures out what he guesses is the right length before attaching the other end to his belt again. On the other side of the table, the guards have stopped firing, but he has no doubt they’ll be advancing on him now that they’ve realized that he’s not shooting back. He’ll need to stand up to be able to jump out far enough, which unfortunately means making an easy target of himself for at least a few seconds. He peeks around the table and sends a couple of bullets toward their feet, which succeeds in making them scatter and retreat backwards. Then, holding onto the window frame for support, Mobius takes a deep, steadying breath and rises to his feet. In the second before he jumps, the guards start shooting at him again and a bullet tears through the outside of his upper arm, but he barely feels it past the adrenaline coursing through his veins. He launches himself out as far as he can until he feels the rope snap tight at his belt, punching the breath out of his body. The line starts swinging him in an arc down toward the window, and he twists wildly as he tries desperately to orient himself in the air. Just before he smashes into the huge sheet of plate glass, he manages to fire twice into it and, in a rain of glass, crashes back into the building two floors down. The shouts of the guards are audible from above, as is the sound of running feet; no doubt they’re already heading back down the stairs. Mobius scrambles up and over toward the delivery entrance where he and Sylvie first came in, smearing the blood that’s dripping down his arm along the floor and doorway in a trail. Satisfied at the feint, he takes off toward the utility room and gets through the door, closing it carefully behind him.

Favorite Car Chase: The Hardest Cut (continues from here, hard to put the whole thing in!)

They turn again, away from the courthouse, and Mobius can unmistakably feel the horrible cocktail of adrenaline and dread that floods into his veins. Loki doesn’t answer his question, but his hands tighten on the steering wheel as he stares fixedly out the windshield, knuckles going painfully white. “You’re starting to worry me, you know,” Mobius says with a nervous chuckle, like it’s a joke. “Little heads up on what we’re doing would be great right about now.” Finally, Loki glances sideways at him—once, twice, then a third, lingering look—then he takes a deep, shuddery breath like he’s coming to a decision. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he swears emphatically, then jerks the wheel hard to the right, sending them fishtailing into a wild skid and down an alley that looks entirely too narrow. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”

Favorite Moment of Slapstick Comedy: The Makings of a Perfect Christmastime

Waverly, on the other hand, looks surprisingly unperturbed. “Oh, I know,” he says, incredibly. “Because what it looks like is that my war hero is playing home-wrecker to my star author’s marriage.” He looks pointedly at Illya, who’s mouth opens wordlessly as he flushes a deep scarlet, before his gaze slide back to Napoleon. “But that’s not actually what’s happening here, is it?” Napoleon’s mind is whirring as he tries desperately to figure out what the hell is going on, but before he can think of anything that might offer some kind of reasonable explanation, the door to the kitchen opens again. “I’m hoping that the fact that you didn’t come back to the room means you were getting laid and not in here cooking all night,” Gaby says as she comes in, so focused on the coffee that she doesn’t even see Waverly standing off to the side. For a moment, no one moves, until she turns with a mug of coffee in her hand, spots Waverly, and proceeds to drop it on the floor.

Favorite Wrestling Scene: Double Dutch with a Hand Grenade

Two can play, and all that, and he is not having this conversation on his back. Not when Illya has been seemingly holding all the cards to this point. He cants his hips under Illya—slowly, deliberately—and is gratified when his partner’s eyes go wide. More importantly, the distraction makes his grip on Napoleon’s wrists loosen. Napoleon yanks his hands down, out of Illya’s hold, then slams the heel of his palm hard into his sternum. Illya grunts in pain and surprise, shoulders curling inward, which gives Napoleon enough of an opening to grab the front of his t-shirt and roll them both sideways until Illya’s back thunks hard against the mat. It’s Illya’s turn to glare up at him, still grimacing. Napoleon has effectively reversed their positions, pinning Illya’s wrists to the mat over his head, though he hasn’t managed to secure his lower body. Instead, Illya’s legs are wrapped around his waist, preventing him from maneuvering or getting any better leverage for a subsequent attack. Of course, that also means Illya’s legs are wrapped around his waist, which is something he’d been valiantly trying not to imagine ever since that encounter at the café. So much for that. Neither of them is completely in control of this situation, and it’s rapidly starting to seem like that’s true in more ways than one.

Favorite Emotional "Confession": Please Don't Let Me Be So Understood

“Yeah, I mean, it hurts,” he says with a nonchalant shrug he’s pretty sure doesn’t land. He wants to ask, ‘what makes me different? why are you friends with everyone but me?’, but that would give up the game for sure. Instead, he aims for something close. “Sometimes it feels like you’re more distant with me than with other people at the office.” “You’re right,” Henry replies with shocking matter-of-factness. “Casual friends are easy, Alex. There’s no risk when you don’t want anything more from someone than the ability to hold a five minute conversation over coffee in the break room. It’s different when it’s… someone you might truly care about. You’re different.” Alex doesn’t really know what to do with that. It’s quickly becoming difficult to tell where the lies end and the truth begins. “Oh,” he says, floundering a little. “I guess I can see that.”

Favorite Flirty Email: Class(room) Warfare

To: Alexander Claremont-Diaz <[email protected]> From: Henry Fox-Mountchristen <[email protected]> Subject: Re: your shirts Dr. Acerbic Cocky-Disaster I am quite certain you’ve never given anyone a break in your life. Regretfully, Henry Assistant Professor of What Did I Do To Deserve This

Favorite Seductive Spoon-licking (yes, I have more than one): All the Old Showstoppers

Locating a clean tasting spoon, he scoops a bit of the buttercream out of his mixer and holds it out to Alex across the top of his station. Their fingers brush when Alex reaches out to take it, and an image of Alex holding a very similar spoon up to his lips flashes through Henry’s mind. His mouth goes slightly dry at the memory, and that’s before Alex proceeds to stick the spoon deep into his mouth and draw it slowly out between his lips. Alex’s low hum, which skirts dangerously close to a moan, is somehow audible over the buzz of activity in the tent, and his eyelids flutter slightly as his pink tongue slips out to lick the back of the spoon in a manner that is far too seductive for their current setting. Who could have guessed that giving Alex a spoon would be such a massive mistake? Because Henry can see a camera currently filming them out of the corner of his eye, but he still can’t seem to force his own bloody mouth closed, nor can he hope to control the flush that is no doubt painting his cheeks a rather lurid pink, if he knows himself. The best he can hope for is that he just looks stunned rather than incredibly turned on by the display before him. “Ok, yeah, that’s good,” Alex says, snapping him out of the daze he finds himself in. He grins, and the mischief sparkling in his eyes is enough to make Henry believe he did that on purpose. “Guess you’re gonna make things hard for me, huh Wales?”

Favorite Movie Adaptation Moment: False Dichotomy

“Sometimes I wonder,” Alex says, staring up at the leaves fluttering in the breeze over the sidewalk. “If you hadn’t been Mountchristen, and I hadn’t been Under the Rainbow Books…” “Alex,” Henry breathes, a little unsteadily. Alex keeps going because he is, as previously established, an idiot. He can’t quite bring himself to look at Henry, though. “Maybe I’d have gotten up the courage to ask for your number.” “I’d have asked for yours,” Henry says firmly, surprising him. That does make Alex turn back toward him again. “That first day in the shop. Wouldn’t have been able to wait even twenty-four hours before asking you out to dinner.” “We’d never have been at war,” Alex continues. “The only thing we’d fight about is what to watch on Saturday night.” “Only because you have terrible taste in Star Wars movies,” Henry teases.

Favorite Angsty Kiss: So Close to Something Better Left Unknown

Alex hesitates a moment too long for it not to be an answer. Henry’s eyes are dark and wild with primal desire and something else, something more terrifying than even that, and Alex murmurs, “It doesn’t matter.” “Alex—” Alex turns in his arms and drags him into a kiss that catches like dry tinder, lighting such an inferno under his skin that Alex feels like he’s the one who’s been drugged. This is a fucking mistake, he thinks desperately, then his mind goes blissfully blank as Henry’s tongue slides into his mouth. It’s rough, demanding, as much as sparring match as a kiss, particularly when Henry sinks a hand into his hair and tugs hard, then bites down on Alex’s lower lip when he gasps as stars burst in his vision. Alex gives as good as he gets, though, finally getting his teeth on those sinful fucking lips and swallowing Henry’s answering moans.

Favorite Almost Kiss: White Knuckles

When he comes out of his last spin, Napoleon joins him for the final movements, an expansive trip across the ice that usually ends with Illya hunched over, almost on one knee, as if clutching an apparently dead Juliet. Now, though, there is an actual body in his grasp: Napoleon is underneath him, back bent into a graceful arc, being held off the ice only by Illya’s grip on his hip and his palm splayed between his shoulder blades. As the music comes to its grand conclusion he meets Napoleon’s eyes, and suddenly Napoleon doesn’t seem so unaffected anymore. He’s certainly breathless, all right, his eyes wide and his lips slightly parted, and it would be so easy for Illya to flex his arms and draw him upward until their lips meet. Illya considers it a true testament to his self control that he doesn’t do it. “Wow,” Napoleon breathes, after a long moment in which he has made no move to disentangle himself from Illya. Then one corner of his mouth quirks upward into a smirk. “Now that’s more like it.” It is also a testament to Illya’s self control that he doesn’t drop him on the ice.

Favorite Cliffhanger: Nova, Baby

A couple of officers with red crosses on their helmets hurry forward as Raf grabs Alex’s arm and tries to pull him to the side. Somewhere deep inside, Alex knows that he has to let go, that Henry’s only hope is the medical team. The panic choking him has fully taken over now, though, and he only clutches Henry more tightly to his chest. “N-no, Raf, please,” he pleads. “You have to let go of him, kid.” “No, no, I can’t, I can’t—“ “Alex! Look at me!” Raf commands sharply. The order catches Alex full in the chest and he responds instinctively, his gaze snapping up to meet dark, worried eyes. A face much like his own, but lined and careworn after years at the agency. A face that has seen more than its share of hopeless situations. A face that is telling Alex, now, to trust him. “You have to,” Raf says again, his voice gentle but firm. Alex lets go.

Favorite First Meeting: Cold Light

“That doesn’t sound good,” the man replies as he straightens up again. Whatever he was doing he seems to be done with, even though he hasn’t touched a thing. He stares up at the sky for a moment, as if lost in thought; in the silence that follows, Mobius watches ribbons of what’s shaping up to be a rather spectacular display of the aurora borealis begin winding their way across the night’s sky behind him. “So? What do you think?” “Hm?” “About the engine.” “Oh, I don’t actually know anything about engines.” Mobius stares at him for a beat in disbelief. “Then why’d you want to see it?” The man shrugs, a vaguely amused expression playing on his features. “Seemed like a thing one does when your vehicle breaks down.”

Favorite Outsider Perspective: That's What Other People Do

“You know me so well, Peril,” Solo says to him before taking a huge bite. He briefly looks, somewhat bizarrely, like a chipmunk. “I know you are somehow always hungry,” Kuryakin returns. “And you get as excited about greasy diner food as gourmet restaurant.” Solo swallows and grins broadly. “Sometimes there’s nothing better than greasy diner food. If I’m gonna have to go to Jersey for this mission, I might as well indulge. Gimme some of your milkshake, would you?” Kuryakin lets out a put-upon sigh, but his mouth is unmistakably tugging up at the corners as he slides the half empty glass over toward his partner. Robin chews slowly as she watches them continue to banter about the food as if she wasn’t there at all. Kuryakin stretches an arm out along the back of the booth behind Solo’s shoulders, and when Solo finally polishes off the burger he settles back against it, almost but not quite tucked against Kuryakin’s side, looking immensely satisfied.

Favorite Angsty Confrontation: Little by Little

“How many have there been?” Napoleon whispers. Suddenly his proximity is unbearable. Close enough that Illya could lean in and kiss him in an instant, and wouldn’t that just be the perfect cap on all of this misery? He can almost imagine the slide of his lips and the heat of his mouth for a moment before the fantasy threatens to choke him. Illya drops his arm and turns away, striding across the room as he scrubs his hands over his face. “I don’t know,” he says into his palms, and it’s nearly inaudible to even him so he knows Napoleon did not hear the answer. “How many, Peril? I mean are we talking a one or two, or a handful, or—” “I don’t know!” Illya bellows, wheeling back toward him.

Tagging @orchidscript, @historicallysam, @leaves-of-laurelin, @tintagel-or-cockleshells, @three-drink-amy

@loki-is-my-kink-awakening, @nicijones, @justabigoldnerd, @magicandarchery, @14carrotghoul

@mirilyawrites, @eusuntgratie, @cactusdragon517, @violetbaudelaire-quagmire, @magicandarchery

@myheartalivewrites

So that's the number of snippets I posted, but PLEASE if you see this and want to do it, jump in!! Be proud of your fics!

#fic pride friday #fic pride weekend #rwrb #firstprince #napollya #tmfu #lokius

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optiwashere · 25 days

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WIP Wednesday

Holy shit, it's actually on a Wednesday this time?

I really wanted to do one of these this week since I've gone a bit rabid on a few WIPs.

I'll post a little bit about each of those WIPs later, some snippets and a blurb about why I'm so excited. But first! Folks to tag! Since I'm so excited for these, I'm gonna tag a lot this time.

If you have anything you want to share WIP writing-wise, please do... @quitefair @bottombatch @siyurikspakvariisis @causticcontemplation @jasminethetransvampire @underworldobsessed @assarivanguard @amorficzna @funwithnix @askweisswolf @linka-from-captain-planet @tief4tief

If you don't want to do this, or have nothing you want to share, feel free to ignore. If anyone else wants to do this, please feel free to consider yourself tagged. Now, onto my obsessions.

WIP 1: New chapter of Nightsongs

After spending some chapters in a kind of angst zone after the relatively light (relatively) first 4-5 chapters, this next chapter is going to be a kind of upswing. There's lots left to do with the AU, so I'm expecting to chug along and write more and more as time permits.

This AU is a lot for me to handle, especially after having so many chapters ready to post and then... falling way behind on writing the chapters afterwards. But it's fanfiction, and we're having fun here. So, who cares? The game's fandom heyday is already over, so at this point I'm just writing whatever feels best to me.

This chapter is mostly done, I think. I'm giving it a few days/a week to sit before I go back to edit it with fresher eyes. Also, we return to Ash's POV!

Lae’zel walked into Ash’s back office without a word on the seventh day and Ash nodded her way without looking up. Papers sat in strewn piles all over the desk, a handful of old incident reports and assessments that still needed working for Wulbren’s accountants. The absolute worst part of the job remained for the year – paperwork – and Ash intended to get them caught up in the hours that remained of her day. It was a useful, meaningful task. It gave her something else to think about. Anything other than green eyes. “We should talk,” Lae’zel said, sitting down without being offered one of the folding chairs in front of the desk. “Aren’t we doing that?” Ash scanned the paper in front of her and quickly jotted down her signature. [...] “You begin working on a van,” Lae’zel said matter-of-factly, counting off on her fingers as she spoke. “You talk to a pretty girl. You suddenly work more often on that van. Then, you disappear inside yourself and act bitter all day because suddenly the girl no longer shows up. There is more to it than you say.” “I think this might be the first time you’ve spoken more than five words to me, you know that?” Ash chuckled. “Am I that obvious?”

WIP 2: New chapter of Blades in the Night

The need to write more plot for this has been burrowing in my skull for a long time. I initially stopped myself from writing too much of it because I wanted to do Nightsongs first in its entirety before getting to this, but I think I'm just too impatient for that.

I also love the fact that this fic turned from a simple PWP one-shot into this much more expansive, plotty story that's now pretty important for what I want to do with my babies post-canon. Something about that makes me smile.

Plus, you know how I've been lamenting my inability to write happy endings for certain characters?

Either way, this isn't really complete, but the hardest part is complete and now I just have to start connecting the dots and filling in the blanks. I'd say it's about a third done?

The room filled with the same aura of a distant gaze leveled their way that Shadowheart had felt back in the cloister. Asheera had made an oath to protect Shadowheart then, and the flooding of a dense, real presence had nearly swallowed her whole in the cloister's barracks. A weight of importance sunk down on her shoulders there in Hobb's Hovel as well. A smell like molten metal cooling lilted in the air with a lingering, acrid tang. It tasted of blood in Shadowheart's mouth, as if the forging was tainted with some other foul presence in the mixture. [...] Little could have compared better to that feeling of a weight lifted from her shoulders. Worry disappeared and gave way to earnest joy in Shadowheart, and she thrived on it. She hadn't felt such keen happiness since she'd been so readily accepted into Asheera's family by her parents.

WIP 3: Gauntlet of Shar fic

Wow, I know! I've been talking about writing this fic for so long that it's almost become a sort of mythical never-to-be-slain beast for me. I'm not normally someone that talks about my ideas too often, I just write them before they can flee me.

I tend to also get in my own head about what I "should" be writing in the first place. Frankly, I'm getting kinda tired of writing so many ships, though fear not - I'll still have ideas that can only work with ships that aren't Shadowheart/Asheera. It's just that, for a while, I want to focus back on my loves.

This fic is one of those that I've wanted to finish for months. I know that at this point in the fandom's life cycle, I'm pretty much writing just for the dedicated, lovely folks that still read my stuff and I'm extremely happy to have y'all around! Maybe this will make Light Casts a Shadow ring a little more true for some, maybe it will be just another fic that I post, who knows.

Also, one thing I'm planning on experimenting with for this fic is alternate endings for Fun. This is a fic where the ending hinges on choices that Shadowheart makes in the game, so it's only fitting that I explore what would happen if she made those other choices.

But anywho, enough blabbing. Excerpt time!

Those touches and more, Asheera cherished. She watched in silence as Shadowheart turned her devotions to each of those tasks. Perhaps it was the nature of clerics to give themselves entirely to seemingly mundane tasks much the same Asheera felt compelled to consider her oaths in nearly every conversation, battle, or even moments like Shadowheart carefully buckling a cuisse to her leg with straps of leather at the backs of Asheera's knees. Fingertips trailed against her clothed skin, and Shadowheart stood up once more. "There," she said, "all's taken care of, then. Tell me, how's my handiwork? Be honest. I can handle the criticism." Asheera brought her balled fist to her chest in an arm curl. She flexed the elbow out and tested her shoulders, knees, ankles, and hips for motion. None of the plates caught on one another, and none of the straps across her hands, arms, knees, or chest restricted her. "Perfect," Asheera said at last. "Marvelous work." Shadowheart offered a quick smile. "I'll take a Gondian's compliment on such things any day." "Can't say I would've done a better job." "Ah, there's the honesty I was waiting for. Truly, where would you be without me?"

#random rambling about writing #bg3 #shadowheart #shadowtav #shadowheart x tav #oc: asheera #my fic #nightsongs au #amongst other things................

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thewolvesof1998 · 8 months

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WIP Wednesday

Tagged by no one because it's not even Wednesday yet (52 minutes away) but I've finally written something?!?! Thank you to everyone who has been tagging me - it honestly makes my day reading your snippets and while I'm so busy and stressed and struggling to write atm I love reading your fics so keep tagging me!

So here's the beginning of Chapter 3 of Alright, Cowboy, Go Get 'Em my Rodeo AU:

Eddie’s eyelids are heavy when they blink open and close in the early morning light, it streams in between the poorly made blinds that- Blinds. Eddie almost bolts upright in the hotel bed but the arm curled over his waist stops him before he rudely wakes up the person who was currently clinging to him like an octopus- Chris had become fascinated with them after a trip to the aquarium a few months back, Eddie has seen many clips of octopi clinging to humans and can only assume this is what it is like if that octopus was a 6’2 man. Buck is spooning him. His head is tucked in between Eddie’s shoulder and neck, soft sleepy breaths causing goosebumps to rise on bare skin. Buck’s arm curls around Eddie’s waist and his hand comes to rest against Eddie’s ribs and rises and falls with every quickened breath. His whole body is pressed into Eddie’s in a hot line down his back, so close that he swears he can feel Buck’s steady heartbeat through skin and muscle. There’s a hairy thigh tucked between his and he thinks he probably should be freaking out more but it's so fucking nice being held so he relaxes back into Buck’s hold.

Masterlist of posts about this fic- 18+

Read Chapter One and Two on ao3- 18+

Tagging (no pressure): @wikiangela @wildlife4life @alyxmastershipper @disasterbuckdiaz @spotsandsocks @try-set-me-on-fire @jesuisici33 @ @bekkachaos @buddierights @forthewolves @911-on-abc @hippolotamus @shitouttabuck @911onabc @exhuastedpigeon @eddiediaztho @your-catfish-friend @loserdiaz @ladydorian05 @watchyourbuck @king-buckley @chaoticgremlinwholikescheese @fortheloveofbuddie @steadfastsaturnsrings @mangacat201 @theotherluciferr

#9-1-1 #buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #thewolvesof1998 writes #ao3 #buddie fic #fic: alright cowboy go get em #buddie rodeo au #cowboy smut #cowboy buddie au #cowboy Buck

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meanlesbean · 10 months

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For the WIP game 3, 18 and 11

For Cadence chapter 2:

3. Who's your favorite character for this chapter/fic?

So even though this fic is Twilight POV, and therefore very Twilight-centric, I am 100% writing this because I wanted more Time (including younger Time) content, and I have 20+ years of brainrot about Ocarina of Time to get outta me. So uhh my favorite LU boy is Time. by a longshot (lol). And that holds true for this fic. But the plot I came up with does not work at all with Time as the POV character, so it turned into a Twilight & Time relationship fic as well.

When it comes to the fic, it feels unfair to choose between Mask and Time, but I'll choose Mask because he is a delight to write. For this chapter in particular, I'll pick Hyrule, because he ended up with a lot of good dialogue.

11. What scene are you most hyped for this chapter/fic?

Previously answered, but I'll give you another. In the current outline for chapter 4 (estimate, don't hold me to this, chapter 3's outline is already so incredibly long) we have a Plot Critical Fishing Trip that I'm excited to write.

18. Share the scene you just wrote, written from another character’s POV.

Snippet of Mask's POV at the beginning of the Grown-Up Talk scene. Disclaimer that Mask should not be taken as a super reliable source for so many reasons, one being that he is 11. This also has zero editing so don't judge it too harshly. This now has some editing but nowhere near what I do for posted chapters. Anyway, bone apple teeth:

The one with the pink hair pulls the prissy guy away. “Finally,” Link mutters to Epona, and he gets about five full seconds to himself before there's another one taking prissy guy’s place.

It’s the skinny kid, the only one with enough magic to cause a problem besides the wolf and him—the other one. Skinny kid's magic tastes like the waters from a fairy fountain. It’s rolling off of him in waves even though the healing session’s stopped, the tips of his fingers still glowing a faint green. He’s young, but he should have better control by now.

Link unwinds another braid from Epona’s mane. Her coat and hooves look nice enough, but he’s going to have words with the wolf about mane lengths and stupid hairstyles. His fingers catch on another tangle. Maybe he should just cut her mane himself.

The kid is talking at him now, but Link looks past him to the clearing’s edge where the wolf is arguing with pinky and prissy. It’s problem number two on his list, and not something he can deal with until he has a chance to talk with the other guy.

Problem number one is laying across the lap of the guy with the white cape. There’s no mistaking the sword even in its sheath. The guy is running his fingers over its etchings in a circular rhythm, back and forth, back and forth. Stupid, holding that sword like it’s some kind of security blanket.

Unlike you?

Stupid, shut up.

Something sharp flicks his forehead and drops in his lap. A still-green acorn sits in the curve of his tunic. He glares up at the skinny kid, gets another mouthful of fairy water, and flings the acorn back at his stupid face.

The kid dodges, but Link still gets him in the shoulder. Should’ve thrown it harder.

“Fuck off,” he says.

Skinny kid smirks. “Managed to get your attention, didn’t I?”

“Managed to piss me off is what you did.” He sinks his fingers in the soil, clenches his teeth so he won’t start pulling up clumps of dirt and pelting him with it.

“The rancher explained who we are, right?” the skinny kid asks.

“Yeah,” Link says. The dirt digs under his nails. He can feel the eyes of the other one on him. He wants a rock in his fist to throw, he wants to stop choking on fairy water, he wants to stick his hands in the ground and turn this whole clearing into an abyss, he—

He bites at the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.

Idiots, every single one of them.

And you?

Especially me, shut up.

The skinny kid is still talking. “You don’t want to learn about any of the other heroes?”

Link can’t help but make a face. “No?”

#thank you for the asks I am sending you flowers and chocolates #for Mask pov: yes the 'him' is Time and yes Mask is mentally throwing daggers at his face #kane25 #cadence fic #lu fic #fic asks

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miraculousalamode · 1 year

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cake decorators, we need your help! our bakers (writers) have been working hard in the kitchen preparing something delicious, but now we need your help to make it look as good as it tastes!

throughout the week, we will be posting snippets and summaries from our bakers with a fic ID attached to them in order to keep the writer anonymous. please write down the fic IDs of the fics that you would be willing to work with, as well as the fic IDs of the fics you would absolutely not under any circumstance want to collaborate with.

at the end of all of these posts, we will post the artist applications for you to submit your answers!

FIC ID: N11

Pairing: Luka/Marinette

Rating: E

Archive Warnings: None

Trigger Warnings: None

Summary: She’s been hunting him for the whole night— chasing him across rooftops, almost cornering him on many alley walls and having her way with him, only for him to distract her enough to teasingly escape. But she’s caught him, finally, and now there is nowhere left to run.

Lady Noire latches onto him the second he opens his door to his room.

How she’s fit through that porthole, Luka has no idea— but one moment he’s shouldering through the squeaky hinges of a door that’s barely older than him, and the next— he’s backed up against the wall with a tongue in his mouth and a warm body against his.

He’d expected this. She’s been hunting him for the whole night— chasing him across rooftops, almost cornering him on many alley walls and having her way with him, only for him to distract her enough to teasingly escape.

But she’s caught him, finally.

There’s barely a light on in his room except of the flicker of his laptop, because he can’t figure out how to get the screensaver to turn off after more than an hour of being idle, and it’s been at least five hours since he’s touched it— and it still blinks impassively in the dark of the room. But he doesn’t need to see.

He knows its her— her— because the last thing he saw before the back of his head made contact with the wall and made his eyesight go hazy was a blur of neon green. His hands make it to her waist with a groan— and there’s such a pretty line to her spine, now, as she fists the fabric of his jean jacket with a purr as she continues to greet and have a conversation with the back of his throat with her tongue.

“Try not to make my clothes into a scratching post, pretty kitty.” He groans when she lets him breathe— choosing instead to assault the skin below his mouth with nips to his jaw.

“You don’t want me to give you an authentic distressed feel to your clothes?” Her voice sounds like heat— his vision goes hazy again when her hands rub up and down his shirt— teasingly slipping underneath the hem to trace nonsensical patterns onto the skin of his abs. “What a shame— I was looking for something to get my hands on tonight. I’m so pent up I could tear up steel with my teeth alone. Why don’t I use you instead?”

“Lady Noire using a civilian as a cat toy?” he gasps out— and nearly goes blind entirely when she lifts his shirt up enough so that she can nip at his sternum, and then lower, and then lower— the poor little kitten. She’s hungry, it seems— he’s kept her starving for hours during patrol— and nothing of his own miraculous being just as predatory as hers can stop the way he’s powerless and rooted to the spot from the way her eyes glow at him in the dark.

“Maybe even more, if you’re lucky enough,” He can’t see the glint of her teeth and she smiles at him, but he knows it’s there. He groans at the feeling of her mouth against his hip— the feeling of her fangs pressing into his skin enough to make him shock himself into moving.

“You can’t be too loud.”

“There’s no one home,” she purrs, licking his thigh so softly and so sweetly it should be considered a sin. “You’re all mine tonight, Vai.”

Because of course Noire’s checked for noise as soon as she’d come in. She eases him out of his jeans so easily that it almost feels wrong, and pulls the fabric down to his knees. She ignores his arousal in favor of teething his thighs, humming to herself, pressing her chest into his calf. Her claws are as delicate with him as they possibly can be— which is to say his head hits back against the door frame again when he feels her drag those sharp points lightly against his skin to the point he’s seeing stars.

“Make it hurt,” he hisses.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” she whispers, but she grins nonetheless. He can feel her smile against his thigh— how she presses her teeth into the tenseness of his muscle as she cups his balls. He pants, head hitting the door again, helpless to do nothing but swallow as she laughs.

#miraculous a la mode fics #lukanette #pro luka mari #pro lukamari #marinette dupain cheng #luka couffaine #lady noire #viperion

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actual-bill-potts · 1 year

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hi! i just wanted to drop by and say, i think your last prompt fic rewired the chemistry in my brain. i've been rotating that interaction between finarfin and olwe in my mind for hours now. that's probably the best take i saw on them & and on why finarfin didn't return immediately after the first kinslaying. that was amazing and your writing is wonderful

also i'm in love with your "and all our towers cast down" fic, with your portrayal of finrod and his trauma, it's honestly fascinating

hope you're having a good day/night <3

omg tysm for this incredibly kind message!!!! it literally made my entire day. tbh i didn't expect much of a response to that ficlet bc it was such a struggle to write - Aegnor and Angrod are not characters I think about often and Alqualondë is so odd narratively to me bc it feels like it should be a major turning point for everyone but it kind of...isn't? So this was my best attempt at making it make sense in my own mind. I need to write a full meta post on the subject soon haha to put my thoughts in order. I'm so glad you liked it!! Though I don't really write about them much, Olwë and Finarfin are such interesting characters to me so I'm glad they came through properly.

And thank u so so much!! i have absolutely adored writing towers, it's so much fun to explore the character dynamics and really dive into leithian and make everyone's choices make more sense in my own brain. in my mind finrod's death is really what sealed the doom of nirnaeth, cuz politically fingon lost so much with finrod. so i am really looking forward to exploring the ramifications of his survival and how the events of tol-in-gaurhoth affected him. i really see his role in leithian as him finally snapping and being like I'm going to help this person I love no matter the cost. I've always headcanoned that a big part of the reason he went to middle earth was to support both the nolofinwions and his own people who loved feanor. and in middle-earth he's had to make the hard pragmatic choice so many times, between splitting from turgon pretty much forever, letting his brothers go to the front lines, sending balan's people to the front lines, constantly smoothing things over between the Fëanorions, the nolofinwions, the doriathrim, the bëorians, and the laiquendi, and at the point of leithian he's just seen so much of that work burst into flames around him and he basically pulls a fingolfin. he's like fuck what happens to me, fuck what happens to my kingdom: thingol is insane, two of my brothers are dead, pretty much all of balan's people that i worked so hard to help are dead except this one guy who is determined to go on a suicide mission. so im gonna help balan's descendant and no one can stop me.

But now he's survived and he's going to have to reckon with...all of that...with fingon who just lost his father to a similar impulse, and with orodreth, and with himself. and of course sauron's mind games didn't help him any. so he's in a pretty bad headspace right now and is going to have to deal with a lot of the losses he's just been shoving away and not looking at up until now.

Anyway sorry for the ramble! I'm just very passionate abt this project lol.

Also, I know you like Finarfin, and this ask made literally my whole entire day, so here's a Finarfin+Finrod snippet for you! I hope you enjoy <3

That morning, Arafinwë's eldest son does not so much walk into the dining room as swim. He is encased in layers upon layers of swishing fabric that billow before and after him, making it necessary to sway carefully to avoid tripping; his hair, loosed and straightened, falls nearly to his feet, and keeps tangling about his knees; and he looks inordinately proud of himself.

Arafinwë glances at Eärwen in bewilderment, wondering if wardrobe-related madness is a symptom among the Returned that he has forgotten about. She looks just as confused as he feels, if significantly more amused.

"Good morning, Finrod!" he says aloud. "Er - is there a special occasion?"

Finrod moves carefully to his chair, then sweeps his massive skirts behind him, swiftly moves the chair out, and sinks into it with a whoosh. He looks up cheerfully.

"Good morning, Atya, Ammë!" he says, beaming. "No special occasion - this is cultural. It is the latest in Vanyarin fashion!"

"Is it?" Arafinwë asks weakly. "It seems - difficult to move in."

"Oh, yes," Finrod responds, grinning even wider. The effect, in conjunction with the sparkling, billowing skirts and tangled hair, is nearly blinding. "That's the point, you see! It is intended to emulate the care with which the Valar must move, encased in the forms they take to walk among us. I thought the idea was fascinating. And the fabrics they use are so beautiful!"

"Ah - that is indeed interesting," Arafinwë responds, wondering who among his mother's people he will have to take aside later for a quick word on not telling Finrod about Vanyar fads. "Surely it is not intended to go out in...?"

"Oh, but of course it is!" Finrod says. "I plan to go out to market as soon as we are done breakfasting, to experience the full effect. Would you like to come? It could be quite interesting."

"Alas, your mother and I must hold court soon after breakfast, and cannot join," Arafinwë says without much regret.

"You must tell us about the experience, though!" Eärwen chimes in, sounding as if she is suppressing laughter.

"Ah, very well," Finrod says cheerfully; and after he has breakfasted he does indeed rise carefully - barely snatching his garment away from the remnants of jelly on his plate before it can be stained - and swim out of the room.

Eärwen and Arafinwë look at each other and burst into laughter.

"The skirts!" Eärwen gasps, "The folds! It will take him an hour to exit the palace!"

"Oh dear," Arafinwë says at last, wiping his eyes. "Oh dear. Was he like this before?"

"He was!" Eärwen exclaims. "Do you remember, he used to creep into your father's closet and try on his best robes? Then he would swan about the halls, trying not to trip."

"I had forgotten," Arafinwë admits, a smile curving his lips, "but you are quite right. He always did love beautiful clothing. I only hope that his pursuit of high Vanyarin fashion will not send him home with a broken collarbone."

"It is so good to have our son home," Eärwen says abruptly. "Our children gave me such joy. I had nearly forgotten."

Arafinwë reaches across the table to take her hand. "It is," he agrees. The image of Finrod leaving the room, having to angle his hips to fit through the door and bundling his hair about himself so as not to trip, floats across his mind and he chuckles again. "Do you remember when bustles were all the rage, and Artanis got caught on a turn of the stairway? She was furious."

Eärwen's laughter is a welcome peal, more light of heart than he had heard in years. "As I recall, it was Finrod who convinced her of their merits in the first place."

"She did not take his advice on fashion again, after that!" Arafinwë agrees. He cannot stop smiling as he begins to gather up the breakfast things and neaten his own robes. It feels as if his heart is singing within him: Our son is home. He is home. He is home!

#my writing #finarfin #earwen #finrod #silm fic #nice people saying nice things #the silmarillion

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martsonmars · 2 years

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Hello hello!!! This week was exciting but exhausting (I moved into a new flat for uni!!! Finally living without my family, though I'll have flatmates from Friday 😭), so I'm happy it's over.

I have SO many fic deadlines coming up (a couple of secret projects with self imposed deadlines, COTTA in less than two weeks, prompt fest) and I have to get back to my COBB because I miss it, but I'm feeling weirdly confident that the change of environment will give me my creativity back. Maybe I'm wrong, but tonight/this morning I wrote an entire fic, so that's promising: went to sleep at 10pm, woke up at 2am and I wasn't tired anymore, so I started writing and I didn't stop until the fic was complete, which is something I wouldn't have been able to do at home, but now that I'm alone I can write all night and sleep during the day!!! Exciting!!! (At least until classes start 🥲)

So here is a longish snippet (carefully chosen by @johnwgrey because I didn't want to reread the whole thing) from said fic, which just needs some light editing and will hopefully be posted by the end of the day!

Baz presses his face deeper into the pillow, trying to drown out the low humming of the hoover that woke him up. He doesn’t understand why anyone would choose Sunday morning to do chores, when Sunday mornings clearly have the sole purpose of pretending the world doesn’t exist and sleeping in with your new boyfriend, but Baz will be the bigger person and won’t comment on it.

Let people decide how to spend their limited time on this cruel Earth — Baz knows he has his priorities set right.

Step one: snuggle closer to the warm body dozing off next to him.

Simon.

Even with his brain still clouded by sleep — Baz knows it can’t be later than 9, his body feels it and is screaming at him that it’s not natural to be anywhere but in dreamsworld this early in the morning, especially when the clock was slowly approaching a worrying 4 when he closed his eyes last night — Baz can relive every second of the previous day, sharp and crystal clear.

The lazy morning as Baz stared up at Simon with a stupid, blissed-out expression that would’ve made him gag just a couple of months before. (But dating Simon is also this — breaking out of his shell because he no longer feels like he should hide the softness of his heart. He knows Simon will cherish it with the same care he reserves for fragile shortcrust pastry.)

Tomorrow is the anniversary of my first Snowbaz fic, and I have an amazing surprise to share! I can't wait.

Tags and hellos under the cut! + bonus sentence from a secret WIP I'm excited about and terribly scared of 🤣

Bonus sentence:

@wellbelesbian @urban-sith @tea-brigade @sillyunicorn @mostlymaudlin @facewithoutheart @palimpsessed @otherpeoplesheartachept-2 @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @forabeatofadrum @johnwgrey @fatalfangirl @prettylightsbigcity @whatevertheweather @jbrrring @confused-bi-queer @moodandmist @bookish-bogwitch @letraspal @dragoneggo @captain-aralias @takitalks @theotherhufflepuff @otherworldsivelivedin @excalisbury @shemakesmeforget @starwarned @cutestkilla @ileadacharmedlife @gekkoinapeartree @bazzybelle @bloodiedpixie @stardustasincocaine @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @angelsfalling16 @basiltonbutliketheherb @messofthejess @ivelovedhimthroughworse @nightimedreamersworld @artsyunderstudy @foolofabookwyrm-activated @ionlydrinkhotwater @yellobb @orange-peony @ic3-que3n @whogaveyoupermission

[Redacted] stares down at the long blade pointing to his neck. He follows it to meet a pale muscled arm half covered in black cloth, and an equally pale face that screams annoyance more than murder, as if threatening [Redacted]'s life was just a mere inconvenience in the man's path.

We'll see if I ever write this.

#six sentence sunday #my writing

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evanbi-ckley · 1 year

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Oof what a fucking miserable week it was 😅 ngl, I've had some rough few days irl, but participating in these and seeing what my friends post always makes me feel good, so I'm here!

Between Fuck it Friday and Inspiration Saturday, I have tags from @alyxmastershipper @spotsandsocks @ajunerose @rogerzsteven and @shortsighted-owl ✨ I appreciate all of you so much! I'm making progress on chapter 2 of I'm Not Sure How I Was So Blind, so here is my moodboard for the fic as a whole and a new snippet 💚

Eddie's pulled out of the memory and back to the present by a crash behind him. He's out of his seat and moving before he even realizes what he's doing.

There's a sticky trail of orange juice wending its way across the cafeteria floor and a goopy mess of oatmeal next to a cracked bowl lying uselessly at the feet of a nurse who looks like he's ready to either evaporate from embarrassment or cry from exhaustion. His tray hangs limply in his hands, small droplets of leftover orange juice sliding toward the ground.

The nurse is familiar, and Eddie realizes he's one of the many ICU nurses on Buck's team. Victor? Vance? Something like that.

“Hey,” Eddie says, grabbing the empty tray just as - Eddie glances at the ID tag dangling from his lanyard - Vincent lets it go. “Let me help with that.”

Vincent blinks and shakes his head, furrowing his brow in confusion. He sways a bit as he mumbles, “Sorry, man. I don't know where my head is right now.”

Eddie nods and grabs Vincent's elbow, nudging him toward the table Eddie has just vacated. “Here, come sit down for a minute.”

He gets Vincent settled and wonders if he should clean up the spilled food, but when he looks up, he sees it's already been taken care of, a young man waving him off with the handle of a mop.

Eddie pulls his pen light out of his pocket and starts checking Vincent's pupillary response. “How are you feeling today, Vincent? Dizzy at all? Lightheaded?”

Vincent squints. “Aren't you a firefighter?”

“Yes,” Eddie smirks, “but I'm also a trained medic.”

"Oh, great. Hot and competent. Just what I needed."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Vincent looks horrified. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to say that."

Eddie hums. "Are you on any medications? Or have you changed anything in your routine lately?"

"Um," Vincent starts, looking like he really has to concentrate on his answer. "Yes. Yeah, I started a new antidepressant. Do you think that's it?"

"It could be. Are you having any other symptoms?"

“I've got a rash on my chest. And I've felt nauseated most of the day.”

Eddie nods. “Okay, yeah, I think it's safe to say you're experiencing some adverse effects. Is your doctor here in the hospital?”

“Yeah, yeah, she's here. I think she's here today.”

Vincent moves to stand, but Eddie holds out his hands to stop him. “Whoa, hold on. Why don't I walk with you?”

Since I'm so late to this I won't bother anyone with tags, but if you wanted to be tagged and haven't, then consider this your sign 😉

#inspiration saturday #fuck it friday #buddie #buddie wip #jules writes

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ussjellyfish · 2 months

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Fic writing asks: 1, 7, 40, 49, 51, 57, 72 (sorry if this is a lot, there were too many good questions in this one 🥲)

These are good!! thanks for asking, it's always lovely to be asked.

(thanks for waiting too).

Do you daydream a lot before you write, or go for it as soon as the ideas strike?

Having time and energy to write is harder for me than the ideas, so I daydream often, and sometimes don't get to write it down at all. I love throwing ideas at people, that's so fun and rewarding, but that hasn't been happening lately. (if anyone wants to volunteer as tribute...I would love to talk about Discovery fic). I should 'ship less niche things but...the heart wants what it wants.

7. Post a snippet from a wip.

(from Michael gets pon farr)

Michael sat up on the biobed in one smooth motion, her attention focused on Hugh, then Tilly. It wasn't that she didn't recognize them - she knew them all - but she'd never looked at any of them this way. Her gaze stung when it found Joann, like Georgiou's had in the beginning. Michael was there, but she wasn't. Michael fought the hunger behind her eyes, reigned it in a little so she could smile at Tilly and shiver.

"It's worse, isn't it?" Tilly asked.

Michael's eyes lingered on Keyla for a moment, as if she was hungry. Her gaze brushed across Joann again, scorching as if Joann were staring into a hot oven. Then Michael found the president, and she stopped moving her eyes. Tilting her head, Michael took a step, then another, her motion sinuous and quick.

When she smiled now, all apology was gone. Joann had never imagined herself as having any kind of telepathic skill, but she knew what Michael wanted, and it was to rip the president's silken blue nightgown off with her teeth.

40. What is your favorite world that you’ve created for a fic?

I am really partial to "Beverly Crusher and Kathryn Janeway, get married, save the galaxy, get punished for using Romulans to help save the galaxy by getting sent to the most boring, least resourced, end of the line space station, and then have a couple kids there. They also have a cat. I spent so much time world building that one, and I'm really happy with how it turned out.

I could do better now, but...you know, it was fun. Toreth is there, and she and Janeway are almost friends and there's a whole 7 seasons of a show that I didn't write but I know what happens. (somewhere). It would have been fun.

49. What fic of yours would you say is the best introduction to you as a writer?

Uncharted maybe? It's one of the best things I've written, just in terms of world building and feelings and actual thought that went into what I was making. It's definitely me at my best.

Me on an ordinary day is very... "In case of emergency please contact" (It's sick fic, the stakes are low, there's romance but it's subtle and there's a whole interlude where I get distracted by original characters).

Or migrations and other recurring phenomena, where there's some sex, some desire, but it's mostly dialogue and friendship and also very low stakes and nebulous.

Firefly is still the most just for me thing I've ever written, but it's really long, so probably not a good introduction.

51. Does what you like to write differ from what you like to read?

Other people can write things I am not good at, like fast plot, and snappy things, and I love the surprise of someone else's fic. I don't know what's going to happen, so even if it's the most similar thing to what I would write, I love it, because I don't know what is going to happen.

I write what I write because I'd like to read it, and there's not really enough of the soft floaty sort of things I love, so I keep writing them.

57. How conscious are you about including symbolism or foreshadowing in your fics?

I don't do it often, I'm not the most intentional writer. I'm much better at dialogue, so sometimes I can make that work? Character says something that ends up being funny later or hints at something that ends up happening, but it's not a neat sort of symbolism. Would be cool if I used it better.

72. What’s your favorite writing compliment you’ve gotten?

The most recent one, usually! I'm so honored when people read things I write and comment. I'd probably write them anyway, but comments feel like I'm writing something that matters.

Someone once wrote almost an essay about my character motivations, and that was really fun to read.

@aleksandrachaev has a real knack with comments. <3.

Comments make me feel loved and connected. That's fun.

(the asks are here)

#thank you for asking! these were fun #fanfic writing asks

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hell-heron · 1 year

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*inhumane screech* show me the forbidden: -TrisTheon -birthday Thyra -thou counterfeitst a bark, a sea, a wind (bb!Asha y/y???)

Also, what's "snuggles"? :)

Lol you know what the TrisTheon is ahahfh. For everyone else reading: its an AU where Tris goes with Theon to Winterfell, they kinda develop a stressed out fwb relationship there, and Ramsay used that against them when they're captured, lets try to post a slightly less graphic bit:

He doesn't know many prayers - his mother taught him the silent ways of Lonely Light, not those approved by the priests, and Baelor Blacktyde stopped praying to the Drowned God the day his father died.

Those he does remember he says under the whip, and it feels like every word is erased from his mind as soon as it's spoken, until all he can say is <i> What is dead may never die </i>, over and over again. It makes them angrier than anything else he said, even more than when he still had courage to call them mad beasts and turncloaks, but for that it feels like it has power. Every time they take a bit of skin he imagines shedding all his scales, not like a fish but like a snake, leaving a brand new creature beneath, and he can imagine rising again.

Birthday Thyra: that was supposed to be your birthday gift and then to be battleship Word count boss fodder and I could finish It for neither lol. I have about 3k of it and its a classic Theon and Kyra run away from the Dreadfort together thingie. A snippet:

She lets him stew for just a little before she huddles back-to-back to him, the cloak thrown over both as best as can be done. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to picture how very easily now, if he hadn’t fucked everything up, she could be wrapped around him and laying her head on his shoulder. He had been ashamed of how much he liked being held by her, back in lord Stark’s fucking bed, musing that the child was there and he was at a point of disgrace where he couldn’t exclude the gods to give him back his voice just in time to gossip about his frailty to the entire North, that the ironborn were used to ships and unaccustomed to knocking. Fully convinced the fucking army at war’s chief concern while he was leading them to their deaths was to pry into his fucking bedchamber.

Any concerns he had conceived when he had all his skin and a warm fireplace feel very far away now and immaterial, regardless of what danger had actually been there. It’s hard to evade the thought that when he was there and could have appreciated it, he should have drawn Kyra’s arms tighter around himself and showered them with kisses and perhaps even wept, though he probably didn’t feel like it then as he does now.

Yeah thou counterfeitst is the baby Asha fic and I don't have any new snippets to give you 😭 it's meant to extend from the very end of the rebellion to about a year later and encompass the whole Tris misadventure + lots of family drama, predictably. I had It so long i probably already put all the interesting parts on the Citadel

Snuggles is just a sequel to this fic where the Montacrew bois get to chill and snuggle after having rescued Romeo from the Capulets lol. V self consciously Italian and i have only disjointed bit.

#op

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mrs-steve-harrington · 10 months

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for the ask game! Do you daydream a lot before you write, or go for it as soon as the ideas strike?

Is there a particular fic that readers gravitated towards that you didn’t expect?

Post a snippet from a wip.

Do you daydream a lot before you write, or go for it as soon as the ideas strike?

Sort of a mix, maybe? Some of my fics, especially the ones where I need to make them longer (big bangs and the like), I do tend to outline and that involves some daydreaming in order to figure out when things need to happen. Others, I'll be thinking about nothing in particular and then I get hit with the first sentence of a fic and just start writing it. Then I'll have a wip or two that literally keep me tossing and turning all night because I keep imagining how the next line or scene or ending should go, but those are more dreams than daydreams. I get luckiest when other people (*cough*you*cough*) give me whole ideas and I don't really have to spend too long daydreaming because there's enough stuff there for me to work with and I can dive right in.

Is there a particular fic that readers gravitated towards that you didn’t expect?

I'm still SUPER surprised that so many people read Day Four: Green With Envy, back when it first posted. And it still shows up in my kudos email with surprising regularity. I don't know what draws people to it at all. I feel like the writing on it is really wooden. But I'm happy that people like it because I also love Steve being taken care of by the Hendersons!

Post a snippet from a wip.

From one of my too-many July Break Bingo wips!

Steve bends at the waist to sift through the stack of junk in the Byers' yard. Between the both of them, they've found a couple heaters already. They're stacked carefully out of the way of the rest of the mess, waiting for anything else they might find. Hard as he tries to keep his attention on what they're supposed to be doing, he can't help but repeatedly glance in Nancy's direction. The next thing he picks up to inspect slips out of his hands, crashing back into the pile with a startling crash. Nancy and Steve both jump in surprise. He doesn't know whether he dropped it due to nerves or the way his palms have begun to sweat, but heat rises up his neck all the same. Nancy's relieved laughter helps smother some of his initial embarrassment. She meets his eyes and they seem to glitter in the porch light. "Choose me instead." He doesn't know where the words come from. Or he does. They've been turning over and over again in his mind since Tommy first told him about Nancy skipping school with Jonathan. It's only gotten louder since finding them in the woods, seeing how they looked walking together. Watching how they work together; how comfortable Nancy seems with him when she's been anything but with Steve for longer than he wants to admit. So Steve knows where the words came from. But he never meant to say them out loud. Selfishly, it's not even that he doesn't want to make Nancy choose. He likes to think that he's a better person now than he'd been when they first started dating, but he hasn't changed that much. Of course he wants her to look at him, to choose him. Like she chose him last year when she came back to him a month after Will Byers went missing, but really mean it this time. Steve wants her to look at him, to choose him, to love him, and not regret it or resent him like she apparently has for the last year. The real reason he'd meant to hold those words inside until they stop hounding him is that he doesn't want to hear her answer. Doesn't want her to look up at him with pity— or worse— on her face and tell him, gently but no less painfully, that she can't. That Steve is the last person she would choose after spending the last year dealing with his bullshit.

#thanks for the ask!#asks #urisarang #fic writer asks #fic snippet #my writing

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gimmethatagustd · 1 year

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Are you going to do another poll after the vmin fic? I really want to see the abo fic omg 👀 (sorry if I’m getting ahead of myself lol)

i'm not going to do another poll once i post the top 3 fics, but i am going to write every fic on that list. so no worries! i honestly might do the A/B/O one after the top 3 cuz i have ADORED writing it 🥺

i'll give you a snippet tho! a lil tease (under the cut). also, you can check my "impossible love" tag (here) if you want to see some fic inspo

impossible love | myg + jjk

Never one to settle, Yoongi has always cut loose anything that might weigh him down. Jungkook just wants somewhere - or someone - to call home.

» pairing: rockstar!yoongi x stagehand!jungkook

» notes: alpha!yoongi x omega!jk. fair warning, the fic is very angsty, but i sWEAR it will end really cute and fluffy. I've just been in a hurt/comfort mood lately - cuz i love suffering before having a happy ending lmfao

“Jin hyung, you’re saying I have to fuck him.”

Against his wishes, tears burn in the corners of Jungkook’s eyes. Yoongi’s disgust is unmistakable.

“Yoongi,” the mystery man, Jin, hisses. “For one second of your life, have some fucking compassion. I did not say you have to have sex with him.”

“It was implied,” Yoongi grumbles.

Jin lets out a long sigh. “You must make sure he stays hydrated, eats, bathes in cool water so he doesn’t overheat, and doesn't accidentally hurt himself or shift. He’s inexperienced and since he’s late, this is likely going to hit him very hard. He’ll probably be miserable for anywhere between three days to a week.”

A week. Miserable, for a week.

Jungkook bends his legs against his chest and wraps his arms around his knees. The severity of the situation didn't truly dawn on him until that moment. The whole time he’d been worried about the shame of being an omega; he hadn’t once considered that it could hurt worse than it already did or that he wouldn’t be capable of caring for himself.

It’s that last fact - that he needs to be taken care of - that makes the tears finally burst. He doesn’t have anyone to take care of him, and Yoongi isn’t interested in taking on that responsibility.

Jungkook curses himself as he presses his fist into his mouth to quiet his sobs. Why is he so upset? It’s stupid, curling in on himself and shuddering as tears streak his face and snot collects on his upper lip. Jungkook is too soft. How many times did he need to be reminded that he is a burden before he finally stops crying about it? This behavior is exactly why people get tired of putting up with him. Clingy, pathetic, dependent, a baby - Jungkook knows what people think of him. Changwoo spends all his time reminding him.

Even Taehyung had given Jungkook the look - the look he has seen so many times, something like a mix of frustration and pity - when he’d finally broken the news that Jimin would be moving in with him and, therefore, Jungkook would need to move out.

“My apartment is really small, Jungkookie.”

Jungkook can’t blame him. Why should anyone pick him over their mate? Taehyung and Jimin are perfect together; Jungkook sees how they look at each other. It’s like there’s some secret Jungkook isn’t in on, something so special Taehyung and Jimin don’t need anything but their eyes to communicate. Like they see something Jungkook can’t see, no matter how hard he strains his heart.

#jai asks #fic spoiler #impossible love #Anonymous

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fastcardotmp3 · 2 years

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🤡💖👀?

ahh! thank you for asking friend!

🤡 What's a line, scene, or exchange you've written that made you laugh?

I'm not a ha-ha funny writer this one was hard, but this whole interaction makes me smile because they are, in fact, so stupid (sorry it's so long 😫)

“Your version of foreplay is both endearing and the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen, God bless you both, the dykery is unmatched.” Robin cackles and Nancy shakes her head fondly as she smacks him lightly upside the head and, yeah, that’s better. That’s easier. This is a dynamic Eddie knows well and this is— “I know way too much about you for you to be throwing foreplay stones, Munson.” Eddie’s heart is in his throat and deep down low in his gut, somehow simultaneously, because Steve is giving him this look over his shoulder, all cocky smirking and knowing amusement and something a little too hot to be reasonable too. Steve knows a lot about him, Steve knows way too much about Eddie, but that’s never been an issue before because usually they don’t talk about the fact that they’re fucking out loud in front of their friends and— “Careful, big boy, that works in reverse too,” he shoots Steve his best mocking grin despite the too-fast thrum of his heart and it seems to work, at the very least gets Steve to look back where he’s walking when he laughs brightly into the night sky and giving Eddie the reprieve of his gaze to almost double over with the reeling of his head and heart. Nancy keeps an arm around him as he makes a desperate face at her, screaming silently with the questioning dance of his hands and all the crazy in his spilling out from the wide-open lock of his eyes. She just rubs his back, looks at him apologetically because Eddie Munson is the most pathetic, pining idiot on the face of the fucking planet. “If I run back and get your gun outta the safe,” he speaks quiet enough that they can’t hear him up ahead and fast enough that he doesn’t have the option to stop once he’s started, “would you be willing to shoot me with it?” Nancy’s apologetic look shifts to something unamused and even a little bit displeased. “Talk to him, you big baby,” she hisses under the blow of the cold wind in their faces. “Absolutely not,” Eddie tells her adamantly and Nancy sighs heavily as she leans into her hold on the crook of his arm. “You’re both so stupid.”

💖 What made you start writing?

I've been writing in general in one way or another for most of my life! but the thing that got me to break down and write for stranger things now even though I've been watching it since S1 was the specific sort of potential that came out of season 4 that left so many gaps I want to play around in filling. fic for me is all about filling in the pieces to a world that I love but which doesn't give me everything I want from it, so here I am creating my own satisfaction fjaskldfj

👀 Tell me about an up and coming wip please!

the one that is eating me alive currently is a post-S4, post-possession, Eddie-centric recovery fic in which I am truly putting the poor guy Through It fjksadlj here is a snippet for you because I'm leaving for a work trip this week and probably won't be able to post the first chapter until mid-November

Eddie doesn’t really have nightmares in the traditional sense. He supposes he should be grateful, either because he’s dodging the same fate that he can hear El going through at three o’clock in the morning some nights or because at least his trauma is interesting or unique or something, but he’s not feeling a whole lot of gratitude lately. No nightmares. He sleeps through the month of May and even still his body is healing through June and then July, so he doesn’t deal with insomnia either, but it’s just. It’s the waking up. The coming back to his body. Eddie will drift his way up from a dead sleep, the world still fuzzy and his grasp on existence thin, and in those moments between sleep and wakefulness, he’ll just forget. He’ll forget that he’s back, that he’s him, that he won, and he’ll forget that he’s not stuck. Where an abrupt waking may have him flailing on instinct and— and hurting— hitting— It’s the drifting. The slow. Coming back to the world in that way that’s supposed to be peaceful and nice but instead just locks his muscles up and clenches down on his jaw and makes him scream somewhere deep inside of his own head where no one can hear him, no one knows he’s there, no one realizes that it’s not him he’s not in control it’s Vecna it’s the Upside Down it’s Kas— There’s no consistent way so far as Eddie can find, to come out of the state of pseudo-paralysis he finds himself in upon waking up on these mornings, but he consistently faces them nonetheless. Consistently has to drag himself out of bed and move around just to prove to himself he can. Consistently ends up on the front porch with a cigarette burning between his lips as the hazy sunrise glows mottled and eerie through the trees surrounding the cabin.

#guestbook #dot post #thank you for asking I'm sorry these snippets make this post so long on your dash fajskldfj

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shackleton2 · 2 years

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I need to learn more about making my profile not boring and sad but I want to share stuff more than I want to do that SO here's a flashback snippet from my post-WS fic I'm trying to figure out.

1943

“C’n I tell you a secret?” Bucky’s voice was slurred and soft as they stared at the dark ceiling. They were lying side by side after Bucky had stumbled in late, bragging about the girls while changing, and then slid into Steve’s bed with artful thoughtlessness.

Steve tried not to focus on the teetering, unreal feeling the question filled the space between them with. Infinite possibilities. He didn’t know what he wanted to hear or what he would even guess he was about to hear, he just knew it was Bucky’s last night and he was afraid.

“Course, Buck.” He didn’t turn to look at him and neither did Bucky. Secrets were easiest spoken to a dark ceiling or a night sky. They’d known that for a long time, they’d told each other a lot of secrets.

“I know I fight a lot. Well, you do,” Steve snorted, “and I get involved. Plus boxing. But. Well, ” Steve could hear him lick his lips, uncertain and confessional, “boxing, you know the other guy’s in it just as you are, for money or fun or whatever reason, even if it gets bloody, it’s not personal. And the fights you pick, even if you pick far too many of ‘m, they’re, they’re for good reasons every time. ‘N keeping assholes from beatin you to death in alleys is a good cause if I ever knew one. ‘S just…” he sighed and his voice was clear but he had to be pretty drunk to be talking this way and for there to be the quiver Steve heard in his exhale, “I never…wanted to hurt anyone. ‘N I still don’t, Stevie. An’ they act like that’s wrong, in boot camp, like we gotta be excited to kill these guys. I know we gotta do it, I know it’s right, but liking it… I don’t wanna do that, I don’t wanna be that. And these other guys are so— bloodthirsty, they talk like they’ll be havin a fuckin ball shooting and killing people. And they want me to be a sharpshooter, that’s not even a fair fight, that’s picking guys off who don’t even know you’re there, how’s—whassat gonna be—”

“Buck, listen.” And now they were turned to each other, Bucky’s eyes shining and face creased in distress in the dark. “I guess this war’s gonna turn a lot of us into…into killers.” Bucky’s eyes narrowed at the us that implied Steve was still determined to make it over there, but Steve soldiered on; he wasn’t sure what he was saying but lack of plan never stopped him before.

“There’s nothing wrong with being bothered by that. Nobody should want to kill another person. But it seems like they’re sending you over there and you’re gonna have to do it anyway, so listen. Hurting people’s never been who you are, Bucky, and it never will be, even if a whole lotta blood gets spilled in this war, and you’re right there in the thick of it.” Steve couldn’t bear to picture the things he was saying so confidently, but if he couldn’t be by his friend’s side he could at least try to give him something to hold onto with his measly words. “All that shit that comes with fighting, even killing, that’ll never define you, Bucky. You don’t hurt people. You protect ‘em. And that’s what you’re going over there to do, and that’s what you’ll be doing the whole time, even if it doesn’t feel like it. That’s who you are, and nobody could ever make you anything else.”

Bucky blinked. He looked a little thunderstruck.

“Hell of a speech, buddy. They oughtta put you in the pictures.” Then his eyes crinkled the way they did, and everything on his face was warmth. “You’re a real good pal to have, Steve,” and as he said it his hand laced with Steve’s quick and smooth as thought and squeezed it firmly, and his eyes were even shinier, and he would be gone in the morning and Steve could hardly remember Brooklyn without Bucky in it except that he had been real lonely there, and there wasn’t anything else to say or do but squeeze back and force a smile and the words,

“Well, good or bad you got me, Barnes. Till the end of the line.

…Now if we’re done bein sappy you’ve got a train in a few hours, and we ain’t gotta say some big goodbye cuz I ain’t your dame and I’ll be joining you before you know it.”

He felt a surge of thrilling resolve at the truth of his words, at the 1A stamp he had just gotten hours before that Bucky didn’t know about because Steve was really a skunk who kept secrets from his best friend the night before he shipped out. Bucky just humphed and rolled his eyes dramatically as he started to turn over. “Get some sleep.”

“Well maybe I would if you’d put a sock in it for once,” as they turned back to back.

“Jerk.”

“Punk.”

In 2014, in another dark room, miles from Brooklyn, Steve Rogers put his head in his hands and sobbed.

------I don't really get down with comic canon but I DO get down with certain fantastic images in the comics. This is definitely inspired by this scene/page where Steve is reading the Winter Soldier file knowing it's Bucky and remembering him from the past:

#fic snippet #WS fanfiction #captain america #winter soldier #winter solider fanfiction #sad steve rogers #1940s #my fic

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