#i wanted to write fics too that people would want to print on paper

[bunnys-kisses]

the jailbird

prisoner!simon 'ghost' riley

a full fic based on this post

cw: prison!au, civilian!reader, pen-pals, smut,romance/romantic!simon, domestic, missonary, wife kink, size kink, nudity, tattoo kink, body worship, cuddling

bunny says: like the fic? leave a comment! really like the fic? suggest your own! reblogs are always welcomed!

it started out as a flyer at the bus stop near your house. it was for a service that connected prisoners at a nearby prison with civilians as pen-pals. you had seen the flyer often over the course of work as you went to work.

you honestly felt bad, those people must be isolated. the organization prided itself on giving prisoners a bit of their humanity back by not cutting them off from those on the outside. so on a rainy friday you took a photo of the flyer and filled out the form on the organization's website.

that was how you met simon riley, or as he was called on the inside 'ghost'. what caught your attention wasn't his face scar that ran from under his nose down to the left side of his chin, but rather his brown eyes. how intense they stared into the camera. it was almost intimidating.

but you kept the photo on your desk as you typed out your first letter to send to him. you heard of places who did it through email, but screen time for those could often be limited and to send a physical letter would ensure that it would be sent to them.

the letter started out simple, you asked how he was and if it was okay to ask what he was in prison for. you asked him other questions, like if his health was doing well, what did he do most days while on the inside. you ended the letter with a little information about yourself.

you thought it would be nice to take a few photos and print them out on photo paper to be included with your letter. just so he had a better idea of who he was talking about. once you tweaked the letter with a bit of editing, you printed it out and thanks to the Royal Mail, your letter was sent to him.

you didn't actually expect for him to respond. nor did you expect for the letter to be do detailed. it was almost three pages double sided in neat hand writing. your eyes went wide when you saw the thickness of the envelope with the stamp of approval from the prison for it to be sent to you.

simon sent you a bracelet made of string that had been braided together. he said you were the first person from the outside to reach out since he got locked up. that broke your heart. it only broke further the more you read.

he was a military man who was tossed aside once the ptsd got too intense. he had been between jobs, and it felt like everything was just too much for him. he got wrapped up in large scale theft, while it paid good, you could only rob so many banks before it all caught up. he had been in for three years now, he was thankful it wasn't a life sentence. not much was stolen, and there was minimal violence. he said that his stature alone intimidated enough people that he didn't need to be violent.

you re-read his letters and it wouldn't be until almost six months of speaking that you finally wore the bracelet. when he said, "i want to see you in it, since i can't buy you a ring." you sent a photo of you wearing it and since then you hadn't taken it off.

the letters were nice, you sent them at least twice a week. even though you two had never met face to face, and the only photos you had of him were mugshots, he knew all the gossip in your work place. he knew the names of all your friends, your favourite saturday night treat and how you took your coffee.

he told you he'd be happy to make you coffee every morning before you went to work. that comment made your cheeks burn.

he often called you his 'wife' to the other prisoners. he had your photos on the wall near his bunk. he even kept the pictures where you looked terrible after you tried to cut your bangs one night. he knew the exact location of where your favourite take out was. he said that he was writing down ideas of where to take you once he got out. "i gotta make the missus feel special."

he even made you a birthday card. his cellmate 'soap' even signed it. you knew all about the explosives expert mactavish. when you looked into his case on the news, your eyes went a little wide. this guy was.. something.

simon did admit that 'soap' had a bit of a crush on you. but he said that 'johnny' was harmless and probably just liked the photo of a woman in the cell.

"he hurt ya, there will be no cell that could keep me from killin' him. no god either."

simon remembered everything.

the way he spoke about you and to you in his letters were nothing but soft. while he had to put on a tough guy exterior, his letters were filled with gentle words. like when he wrote out that he loved you in big text on a spare piece of paper so you could tape it on your mirror to look at every morning.

"i want to be what you get ready to."

"i want to be with you when you wake up."

"i want to come home to you every night. please make me an honest man."

you knew he was a trained killer. he was in special forces before his brief stint as a criminal. he was trained to kill, but in the margins of your letters, his love shined through. despite it all, he was capable of love.

and he wanted to pour all that love into you, his (future) wife.

you two would go on to write letters every week, for almost two years. when you got the letter from him asking if he could put you down as a permanent address when he got out, you cried. of course!

it was a cold spring morning, the sky was misty as you stood outside the gates of the prison. your heart raced, you even arrived early in the hopes he'd be released sooner.

and then you saw him.

those eyes. hard and stern, until he caught sight of you. his shoulder visibly dropped and his pace quickened as he made his way towards you. before you could step forward to meet him, he had you in his arms. his strong arms, littered with tattoos, wrapped around you as he held you close to his strong chest.

you held onto him as the air left your chest from the force he held you. you clutched onto his shoulders and choked out a sob. you squeaked, "holy shit."

he pulled away from you, but still kept you in his arms. you swore you saw minimal mistiness in his eyes. he reached to cup your face. he said quietly, "soft... like i imagined."

you beamed up at him, "of course, si."

"your voice is so nice." he groaned as he then pulled you close once more and buried his nose in your hair. he inhaled the scent of your shampoo and relaxed, "i'm home."

you thought transitioning from being the only person in the flat, to having this hulking, strong man in your home as well, was going to be a bit hard. but that didn't matter when simon got you through the door. his hands were on you, he promised on the universe that he'd romance you tomorrow.

but tonight was just going to be the two of you.

you managed to get his hands off you in order to get your shoes off before you led him to your bedroom. he was close behind you, he had a hand on one of your hips. he wanted to be as close to you as he could, you two had spent enough time apart.

you couldn't even close the bedroom door before he was pulling at the waistband on your pants. his calloused, strong hands felt delicate on you. it was like he was going to break you and he had to be as delicate as possible.

"si."

"i know, darling." he said quietly as he started to undress you. with your help the both of you were soon nude in the afternoon light in your bedroom. you tried to cover your chest with your arms but he pulled your arms away and looked at you.

your eyes met and you got up on your tip-toes to kiss him gently on the lips. soon he picked you up like you weighed less than a bag of potatoes.

he placed you on the bed gently when you half expected him to toss you like a shot-put. he admired your body down on your soft covers and soon got onto the bed too.

you reached for him as he pulled you into a tight kiss. his lips were chapped and you could tease the fresh skin underneath. your nails raked at his strong back, that you knew was covered in tattoos.

you wrapped your legs around him and held him. from a moment he dropped to his side and you two held each other. you tucked his head under your chin as you laid together naked.

it wasn't even meant to be sexually stimulating, you both just wanted to feel one another. to hear your lover's heartbeat meant more to you than anything in that moment.

you kissed the top of his head, you felt his blond hair against your face as you soaked in his warmth. you could almost cry from how nice it felt to be so close to him.

after everything, you had your man.

he said in his low tone, "you feel so soft. after everything, i have you. you made every day in the can worth it." he sighed, "thank you." he kissed at your bare chest.

you replied, "i loved your letters, i have them still." you chuckled, "i didn't want to throw any of them away. it made me feel closer."

"well. i'm not goin' anywhere." he looked up at you and smiled, "you're home and i'm finally here." he pulled away and got him between your legs. he rested on his knees and carefully moved you to his liking. he sat there between your legs and waited for your command.

you looked at him and nodded, "yeah, si. you can go." then tightened your legs around your lover. you held your breath as he slowly pushed his cock into you. you didn't realize how big it was until he was fully inside of you.

"are you alright, love?"

"golden."

the two of you moved together. it took a little bit to get used to the size, but the pressure and speed of his movements made heat spread through your body. like two pieces of the same puzzle, you fit together perfect soon after. it was like you two were always meant to be.

you felt so loved by him, it was so sweet. this was your first time with him and you only had a few sexual experiences with others prior to him. but the entire time you knew each other you didn't sleep with others, you wanted to wait for your man.

"that's my good wife." he groaned as he held onto your hips, "i know, you wanted this for a long time. i bet you thought about me when i was locked up."

you blushed and replied, "i did, si. i thought about you all the time, i even had your picture in my office. i wanted this, i wanted to be with you!" you whined a little as his cock dragged against a sensitive spot.

he chuckled softly, "yeah. i thought about my missus when i was locked up. i used to jerk off to your letters, your photos. messed one of 'em up by gettin' my spunk all over it." he licked his lips, "but now i can see it every day in person."

you smiled when he rested his body against you and continued to thrust up into you. you felt the curl of pleasure of your gut get together which each of his heavy thrusts.

the kisses you shared were intimate and hot. the air of your bedroom was warmed as you made love on the bed you would share together. your soft noises together filled the air.

you clenched onto him, you dug your nails into his shoulders. they were so strong and broad that they were much bigger than your hands.

he kissed you one last time as he quickened his pace. the bed moved against your movements as you both climaxed at the same time. it was like a shock to the system, the heightened euphoria before your head felt full of cotton.

you let out a soft groan as your grip on his loosened and you relaxed into the bed. you felt yourself partially get crushed by your lover but he gave a few more earnest thrusts as he made sure that his cum shot to the back of your womb.

he pulled out and dropped beside you. he tucked some hair behind your ear and wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of his hand. your breathing was heavy, but you were both so happy. to share your first time together felt so special.

you nestled yourself into his arms and held his hand. you exhaled contently then said, "my husband."

he kissed the top of your head, he felt complete, "my missus."

part two

#jailhouse rock au #bunny writes #call of duty #reader insert #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty smut #simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #call of duty x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost #simon riley x reader #simon riley #ghost mw2 #ghost #ghost smut #simon ghost smut #call of duty fanfic #ghost cod #prisoner au #prison au

[headkiss]

steady hand

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader

summary: hotch catches you at the worst times, but you’re not mad about it. or: 4 times you need hotch’s help +1 time he needs yours.

word count: 6.1k

warnings: probably very inaccurate descriptions of r’s job (it’s for the plot, okay??), shy!reader, a very small injury description, yearning (?), first kiss, fluff !!!

a/n: hiiiii this is my very first hotch fic (gasp) so i hope i did okay!!! i’m excited to be writing for him and i have enjoyed it so far and i hope you will too!!! please please let me know what you think and if you’d want to see more of him from me <33

༄

People are usually impressed when you tell them you work at the BAU.

Which, you won’t lie, is something to be proud of, but their first thought is always that you’re doing something big and solving cases. They ask you if you were there when this case was solved or when that killer was caught.

Then there’s the nodding and dissipation of their excitement when you explain that you work a desk job there. Organize files, write reports, that sort of thing. That is a lot less impressive to most.

You’re no Agent Morgan, or Dr. Reid. Certainly no Agent Hotchner or Prentiss. Instead of being on the field, you spend your time fighting with a printer.

Getting the papers you needed should have been simple, a quick in and out that would have you back hiding behind your desk in minutes. Of course, the universe or something must be against you, because instead, you’ve spent at least twenty minutes trying to figure out what’s wrong.

It isn’t jammed (you’ve checked about five times to be sure) and you’re not educated in printers enough to know how to fix whatever’s going on. You’re just lucky nobody else has needed it yet.

“Come on,” you mutter, trying to pull it away from the wall to get a better look.

You’re sure there’s stress sweat building on your forehead. The last thing you want to do is ask someone for help, to make yourself too visible in this place full of important, intimidating people. You’d rather struggle on your own for now.

You make sure that the thing is plugged in (it is) and then check if it’s jammed. Again.

“Piece of shit,” you’re mumbling at the thing, leaning over it looking for anything out of place.

That’s when you hear someone clear their throat behind you. The sound has you jumping, your knuckles smacking against the wall where your hand had been wedged between it and the printer. You turn around to find Agent Hotchner.

He’d been walking by the printer room when he heard the grumbled curse words. Peeking inside, he’d been pleasantly surprised to find you fussing over the printer. He bit back a chuckle before making his presence known.

You tug your skirt down where it’d ridden up, fiddling with the hem as you try to push down your embarrassment. Of course he’d be the one to see you, in his crisp suit and all. He’s leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, his arms crossed loosely. You swallow and try not to look at his biceps.

“Sorry, sir. The printer doesn’t seem to be, um, printing.”

“I’m assuming that’s why you were fighting with it.”

You fight a wince, “you heard that?”

“Heard what?” He asks, though by the twitch of his lips, you know that he’s well aware of what you’re talking about. He then gestures at the cause of your issues behind you, “it’s not jammed, is it?”

“I don’t think so. It wasn’t when I checked, at least.”

You’re trying not to act as nervous as you are. You don’t think you’ve ever really spoken to Agent Hotchner, save for small ‘hello’s and that one time you apologized for bumping into him. He’s handsome—you’ve always thought so—and, more importantly, he’s basically your boss.

“Let me take a look,” he says, walking over. You step aside, staying out of the way.

“It’s alright,” you start as he looks over it, “I’m sure you have much more important things to do than fix a printer, sir.”

Hotch’s eyes flick over to where you stand, a hand still fiddling with the hem of your skirt, your hair a little messy, your eyes a little wide and worried. You look pretty, he thinks. And sure, he does have things he should be doing instead of trying to fix this printer, but he doesn’t really care.

“Don’t worry about that,” he tells you.

He looks back to the printer, and he seems pretty convinced about trying to help, so you drop it.

While he’s distracted, you take the opportunity to look at his profile. The slope of his nose, the cut of his jaw, the way his brows are pinched a little in focus. It’s unfair, you think, for him to be smart and brave, and be so good-looking on top of it all.

Like he’d heard your thoughts, felt your gaze, he looks over at you again. You turn your eyes toward the floor quickly.

It’s a couple of minutes before anyone speaks. You, staring at the carpet until your vision goes a little fuzzy. Hotch, pushing buttons and flicking switches trying to figure out whatever was going on with the damn printer.

Then, the sound of the ink swiping over the pages, the papers spitting from the printer. You look over at it, mouth slightly parted. What can’t he do?

The sound of your name has your eyes snapping up to his. It’s yet another surprise, him knowing your name. You’re not that important, in the grand scheme of things at the BAU, in the world, really. Someone meant to stay hidden in the background. And still, he knows your name.

“It should be fine now,” he says, grabbing your papers from the cartridge and handing them to you as he stands up straight. “Let me know if it gives you trouble again.”

You grab the pages from him slowly, still shocked at the whole exchange. Your fingers brush against his as you do. “I- Thank you, sir.”

He nods, moving towards the hall. He pauses in the doorway, turning back towards you. “Hotch is fine.”

“Sorry?”

“You keep calling me ‘sir.’ You don’t have to. Just Hotch is fine.”

“Right. Sorry, sir- I mean, Hotch,” you test it out. “Thank you again.”

Yes, Hotch thinks, he likes you saying his name a whole lot more. He sends you a kind smile, “no problem.”

Hotch walks away, probably towards his office where he has very important things to do. Stuff that was surely delayed because he paused to help you. You stare at the doorway for a minute, until you give yourself a papercut and look down at it.

Aaron Hotchner knows who you are.

-

You’re two shitty coffees deep so far, your report open on your desk, the typing bar blinking on the screen of your computer.

There’s pages to go, though you’re not sure how many. You’ve been doing the sort of mindless, robot typing you do when you’re tired. When you’re preoccupied with trying not to glance in the direction of Hotch’s office.

The team got back sometime last night, long after you’d already gone home. From somewhere in Indiana, you think. You’re not sure how they do it, flying about and still coming into the office. You’re tired and you can’t even remember the last time you’ve been on a plane. Add the crime fighting and you’d be a goner.

Blinking yourself from your thoughts, you look back at the blank pages spread out in front of you. It’s not unusual for you to be missing pieces that you need to complete things, it’s just inconvenient. You always end up having to ask someone for the files you need, and then you feel like a burden.

It’s stupid, but in a place full of important people, it’s easy to feel like you’re just in the way.

Anyway, it’s your job, so you push away from your desk and stand, tugging the sleeves of your sweater over your hands.

Your first thought is to go to Reid. As far as friendship goes, you’d consider yourself closest to that definition with him. He’s also the least intimidating of the bunch, probably because you see the most of yourself in him.

You find him in the kitchen with Agent Jareau, both holding their own mugs, probably filled with the same coffee as the one that sits on your desk. You knock gently on the door even though it’s open.

“Hi, sorry to bother you. I was just wondering if either of you have the files from that case you worked a couple weeks back. The one in Ohio,” you shuffle on your feet under their gaze. “I need them for this report.”

“Hey,” Reid speaks first, smiling kindly, “I don’t remember keeping them, but I can double check in my desk if you would like.”

“Oh, that’s okay. You don’t have to do that, I’m sure I’ll find them somewhere.”

You’re about to head out the door when Agent Jareau stops you, “wait, I’m pretty sure Hotch has them. I can go ask him for you.”

It’s silly to feel nervous talking to them, especially when nobody’s ever been anything but nice to you. A little bit of the twist in your gut comes undone.

“No, no. I’ll go ask him if he isn’t busy, thank you though.”

“You should be fine, the door’s open,” she tells you.

You nod, sending the both of them a smile you hope doesn’t look awkward. “Thanks again.”

Their voices picking up their conversation follow you out the door. You cross the space, saying small ‘hello’s to Agent Morgan and Agent Prentiss when they greet you. You try to ignore the prickle of eyes on you as you climb the steps and head to Hotch’s office.

His jacket is draped across the back of his chair, his sleeves rolled up on his forearms. It’s probably the most disheveled you’ve ever seen him, and he’s only missing a single layer. You look away from his arms when he says your name.

Hotch had his head bent, looking over a case when he’d heard footsteps, and he’d been glad to find you standing in his doorway. You work in the same place, yet he barely sees you. That’s probably why something lightens in his chest every time he does. The rarity, that’s all.

“Is this a bad time?” You ask.

“Not at all,” he leans back in his chair, “what can I do for you?”

“I’m really sorry to bother you, sir-”

“Hotch,” he reminds gently. His voice is easy, a hum that you think would sound good no matter what he was saying.

“Right, sorry. Hotch. I was just looking for some files that I need from a case you guys had for this report.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

Then, he smiles in that way that Aaron Hotchner so often does. A small twitch of his lips, a lift in the corners. One that you probably wouldn’t have caught if you weren’t paying so much attention. One that feels sort of like a gift.

You shake your head at yourself and elaborate, “the Ohio case. Three weeks ago, I think. I asked Agent Jareau, but she said you had them, so…”

Hotch wants to reassure you, but he’s not sure how to do it without standing up and letting himself grab your hand and squeeze it the way he’d like. And he can’t do that, not when you’re already nervous. Not when he’s not sure he could hold back after one touch.

“It’s no problem,” he opens one of his drawers, flips through folders until he finds what you’re looking for.

He stands up and walks around his desk until he’s in front of you, and he lets his gaze flick over your face while he has the chance. Your eyes find his easily, and you hope he can’t hear the catch in your breath.

Aaron isn’t usually so quiet with his affections, but that’s because he’s never found himself feeling this way at work. He wishes your desk was on his way to his office, just so he’d have an excuse to stop and talk to you. He makes sure never to use your favorite mug from the cupboard, just so you’ll be more likely to have it.

Hotch clears his throat, “here they are.”

He holds up the folder between you, his hand holding it loosely, the other hanging by his side. His fingers twitch.

You’re embarrassingly distracted by his exposed forearms, eyes trailing from his hand to the skin of his arm, to the way his shirt is tight where the sleeves are rolled. Then, it’s the color of his tie today, the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows.

His hand reaching for yours is enough to erase everything else. He lifts it and places the folder in your hold for you. Your skin burns even when he pulls away.

“You alright?” He asks. Probably because you’d been staring at him like a weirdo.

Get it together.

“Yeah. Yes, sorry. Just sort of spacey today, I guess.”

When you look back to his face, there’s nothing but a sort of softness in his eyes you can’t identify. He smiles at you, and for the second time, you feel like you’ve won something.

“Is that what you needed?” He asks.

You open the folder and peek inside. You find exactly what you’d been looking for, not that you’re surprised. Hotch knew what you’d meant and you didn’t doubt that.

“It is. Thank you, Hotch,” you grin lightly when you get that part right. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“You’re not in my way.”

Hotch says the words like he’d known you needed to hear them, like he’d known what runs through your mind so often, like he can read you. He probably can, you think. He is a profiler after all.

Still, the words make your heart do a stupid little jump.

“I’ll bring them back when I’m done,” you say.

“No rush. They’ll just be going back in the drawer anyway.”

“Well, thank you again.”

“It’s no problem, really.”

Hotch watches you walk back to your desk with your head down. Looking at the folder in your hand, he thinks, at least it’s an excuse for you to come see him again.

-

Hotch isn’t in his office when you return the files.

Since you can’t thank him in person—assuming he’s off with the team somewhere saving lives—you leave a sticky note on top of the folder. You drop it on his desk and leave before you second-guess yourself and rip the note off.

You can’t help but think that the office feels sort of empty without the team there. Without Hotch there. It’s how it is most days, so you’re not sure why the absence feels so present now. You shake it off.

The day passes by, then your drive home, and the rest of your night, too. Through it all, you can’t stop wondering what Hotch is doing, wherever he is. Hoping he’s safe.

You’re certainly not expecting to see him the next day, back so soon, but you can’t say you’re upset about it. It’s a brief glance, him walking into his office, the rest of the team and their chatter following, but it’s enough to make your work seem less tiring for some reason.

It was a quick case, and Aaron was glad to at least get a couple of hours of sleep in before coming into the office. When he sits at his desk, the first thing he notices is the folder you’ve left there. The small note in your handwriting.

‘Thank you :)’

He peels the note away and folds it up. Without thinking, it ends up tucked into the inside pocket of his jacket. It’s a simple piece of paper, but it’s heavy where it sits. He rubs a hand over the pocket where the note is and gets to work.

It’s not until a couple of hours later that Hotch ends up leaving his office. Conveniently, in the direction of your desk.

You’ve been burying yourself in your work, your leg bouncing nonstop, your nose inches away from the pages on your desk, your chair pushed in as close as it’ll go. You have to, because if you take a break, if you look away, your eyes will search for Hotch, and you don’t really want to think about what that means right now.

About the ache in your chest when he’s gone, the urge to go ask him a stupid question just to talk to him. It’s awful.

The pen you’re using suddenly runs out of ink, and it makes you pause long enough to feel a cramp in your hand. You sit up and huff, pulling your drawer open and digging around for another pen. Your name in Hotch’s voice has you shutting the drawer and spinning quickly.

It’s just your luck that your shirt gets caught, that the sound of the rip is too loud to play off or ignore.

“Oh gosh,” you whisper, looking down at the damage.

It’s a cheap shirt, you shouldn’t be surprised, but it’s worse than you’d expected. This is what you get for sitting so damn close. The side seam is split, and if you move too much, your bra would probably be visible.

“This is so embarrassing,” you say, holding the rip shut with one hand and holding the other on your forehead. Of course this would happen to you in front of him.

Aaron’s eyes hover where your skin had been exposed, even now that you hold your shirt shut, wondering if it’d feel as soft as it looks. He can’t even remember what he came over to do or say.

He swallows and looks at your face, “do you have another?”

You shake your head, still hiding behind your hand, “no. I really, really wish I did, though.”

“I have an extra one in my go bag. If you’d like?” He hears himself say the words, and he doesn’t regret them, necessarily, but it’s clear to him that you mess with his brain. He doesn’t think straight where you’re involved.

You peek up at him, dropping your hand to your side. “Are you sure? I could probably just use some paper clips, or something.”

“Nonsense. I’ll go get it, okay? I’ll bring it to the bathroom so you can change.”

“You don’t have to-”

Your name leaves his mouth again, gentle but firm. “I’ll grab it.”

“Okay.”

You speed-walk over to the washroom and walk in, closing the door only to block out the rest of the office, who surely noticed what just happened. You’re probably never gonna live this down.

Your overthinking doesn’t get very far, because after only a minute, Hotch is knocking on the door.

“It’s just me,” he says. ‘Just,’ like that word could ever be used to describe him. “You can just open the door a crack and I’ll pass the shirt through.”

You do as he says, tugging the door open until you can see a white dress shirt (of course) in his hand. You reach out and he hands it to you easily.

“Thank you, Hotch. I’ll wash it and give it back, I promise. Sorry for this.”

“Don’t worry about it.” You can’t see his face, but you can hear the sincerity in his voice. “I mean it.”

“Thanks,” you say quietly, closing the door.

His shirt is wrinkled from being packed in his bag, and the sleeves are long when you put it on, but it smells like him and isn’t ripped so you really can’t complain. You roll the sleeves and tuck the bottom into your pants, looking in the mirror to make sure you look at least a little bit put together.

Holy shit, you think. I’m wearing Aaron Hotchner’s shirt. What world have you been living in recently? To be interacting with him more often, to be feeling this sick skip in your heartbeat whenever you do.

You toss your ripped shirt in the garbage, look up, and huff out a breath before leaving the bathroom. You’re surprised to see Hotch still standing there.

“Oh,” you nearly bump into his chest when you walk out the door, but the warmth of his hand on your shoulder steadies you. “I didn’t know you were still there, sorry.”

“You don’t need to say sorry so much, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You’re dreaming, surely. You pinch yourself on the inside of your arm, just in case. You don’t wake up.

“I- um,” you’re fumbling for words because he’s standing there, looking at you softly, calling you ‘sweetheart’ in that voice of his.

Aaron doesn’t know where that came from, but he’s said it and it’s happened. With the way he thinks about you, how often he does, he can’t really be surprised. Besides, seeing you get flustered because of him is absolutely worth it.

“I wanted to thank you for getting those files back to me so quickly.”

Your eyes flick over to his arm, and it’s then he realizes that his hand is still on your shoulder. He pulls it away and stuffs it in his pocket. He’s probably imagining it, but he swears his palm is tingling.

You wipe your hands over your thighs, “right. It was no problem, really. I was mostly done with my report, so… Thanks for giving them to me.”

“I’m glad to be able to help,” he says. Then he walks back to his office.

You’re standing in front of the bathroom for what’s surely an odd amount of time. Even back at your desk, you can’t shake the haze you feel, a pink tint to your vision, a flutter in your gut.

You spend the rest of your day with your nose buried in the collar of Hotch’s shirt, avoiding the gazes of your coworkers around you.

Aaron spends the rest of the day thinking about how you looked in his shirt. About how you’d look in it and nothing else. He drags a hand over his face when that pops into his head.

“You good, boss?” Morgan asks from the doorway.

“I’m fine.” He doesn’t miss the knowing smirk on Morgan’s face.

-

It’s very rare that Aaron leaves work at a reasonable time. So rare that he can’t remember the last time he wasn’t the last person there.

He’s used to the late nights, the empty spaces, deserted desks. Even so, it’s nice to finish up earlier than he’d expected. He looks forward to the extra sleep he’ll get, the longer time frame to decompress.

Leaving work early already felt like a small victory for the day, and he feels like he’s won something bigger when he sees you in your car, still in the parking lot.

You’d left maybe twenty minutes before Hotch, though you’d assumed he’d be leaving hours after you like he usually does. Everything was fine, normal as you bid your goodbyes to your desk neighbors, as you rode the elevator down.

The sun has started setting, and the air gets cooler as it sinks. You fish your car keys from your bag and unlock it, getting in quickly and tossing your bag onto the passenger seat.

You like your job, sometimes you love it, even, but you look forward to going home either way. You think about the warm shower you’ll take, the shitty dinner you’ll end up eating. Your lonely plans are ruined as you twist your car key in the ignition, it sputters and doesn’t start.

“No, no. Come on,” your head falls back, you huff and take the key out.

You try again, and still, no luck. And again, and once more until you’re fed up with it and drop the keys in your lap. Your head is dropped against the steering wheel, allowing yourself a moment of dramatics from your defeat.

A knock on your window startles you upright. Your heart races for reasons other than fear when you look at who it is.

Hotch stands outside, leaning towards your window with a scrunch in his brows. When he catches your eye, he steps back from your door and gives you room to open it and step out.

You shut your car door behind you and lean your back against it, “hi.”

“Hi. Sorry to scare you, but I wanted to check that you were alright?”

“It’s okay,” your arms are folded behind your back, your hands twisting. “Um, it’s nothing, just some car troubles.”

“That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

“I guess not. It won’t start for some reason. I don’t know.” If he wasn’t standing right there, you’d probably smack yourself for how unsure you sound. “You keep catching me at the worst times, Hotch.”

He disagrees. Aaron can’t think of a time where seeing you could ever be a bad thing.

“You’re fine,” he says, his voice suddenly softer, “trust me.”

Despite the bite of the wind outside, the way he speaks warms you. He’s so honest in the way he speaks, in the sense that he sounds sure, even if it isn’t necessarily vulnerable. You don’t know how he does it.

A small smile spreads on your face before you can stop it, “okay, good. And thank you for checking on me. I’ll just call a cab and figure this out tomorrow.”

There’s no way he can let you take a cab. It’s obvious that with what he does, the things he sees, he’d rather know for sure you’d be safe getting home. But then, there’s the sort of floating feeling he has when he’s around you, one he’d like to feel for a little longer if he could.

“Let me drive you.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that, really. I’ll be fine.”

He ducks his head a little, catches your eye and holds you with that soft gaze of his. “Please, it’s not a problem. For my peace of mind.”

It doesn’t take much convincing, really. You’d much rather sit in a car that probably smells like him than in the back of a cab that smells like sweat.

“For your peace of mind, then. That’d be great.”

You grab your bag from your car before following Aaron to his, where he opens the passenger door for you and makes sure your legs are tucked inside before shutting it. He jogs around the front of his car and gets in.

“Where am I taking you?” He asks, starting his car. The radio hums softly through the speakers, and Hotch reaches over to turn on the heating when he catches you shivering a little.

You tell him your address, “you don’t have to drive me if it’s out of your way, Hotch. I mean it.”

“It isn’t out of my way,” he assures you, and he could easily be lying, but you accept it anyway.

It’s quiet for a little bit, besides the odd question from Aaron for which way to turn. You take the chance to look at him as he drives, his hands on the wheel, the street lights hitting his face. Your head lulls against the seat.

“You’re finished earlier than usual today,” you say. “Not that I know your schedule, or anything, I just-”

“Sweetheart,” he stops you, a smile spreading. It’s wider than what you’ve seen at work, unguarded enough to show his teeth. It’s really pretty. “It’s alright. It’s work I can be doing at home.”

“That’s good. A change of scenery, at least.”

“Exactly.”

You’re not sure what it is that feels different now, in the car. Maybe it’s because it’s only you and him, no prying eyes in the office, no concerns about what this is, what’s allowed. It might only be you, that feels this sort of spark with him, fizzing i’m the air between you. Either way, you’ll soak it up for the duration of the ride to yours.

Maybe that’s why you’re saying, “you know, I always thought you didn’t even know who I was. Until the printer thing.”

Aaron peeks over at you, leaned in his passenger seat. You look like you belong there, like there’s always been a spot for you in his life. Even when you’d started at the BAU, when he first saw you, he felt like it was right that you were there.

Hell, he’d asked Garcia who you were and has had your name in the back of his head since.

“I’ve always liked you,” he admits. He doesn’t say he’s always known you. Liked.

“Really?” You can’t help but ask. Someone like him even noticing you seemed unfathomable. But liking you? He’s gotta be lying.

“Really. Even when you were bumping into me.”

“You remember that?”

“Yeah, I do. You were looking down at the ground, walking like you were being timed. And you had on this light pink sweater.”

Your eyes go wide, focused on his face. You had been wearing a light pink sweater that day. And he remembers all of that? You think, if you looked at yourself in the mirror right now, your eyes would be in the shape of hearts, pulsing in your pupils.

“I can’t believe you noticed all of that.”

“I notice a lot of things,” he says.

Aaron has always had his guard up around new people, has always made himself more serious at work than anywhere else. Then you came along and he had to fight to keep things that way. It makes sense that the minute he sees you outside of work his walls would crumble to dust.

It was inevitable, really.

“I’ve always liked you, too.” Then, before he can say anything, you point at your building, “it’s this one here.”

The car rolls to a stop slowly, his turn signal flashing as he pulls over by the entrance of your apartment building. He puts the car in park and turns to you fully.

“Thank you for driving me.”

“No problem, sweetheart.”

His hand reaches out before he can really think about it, fingertips featherlight over your cheekbone, sliding over to tuck your hair behind your ear. Then, like it was never there, he pulls back. There’s a glow in his fingers where they’d brushed your skin, golden.

It matches the one you feel on your cheek, sparkling.

“Get in safe, okay?”

“It’s a few feet from here to the front door, Hotch. I’ll be alright.”

He huffs softly, twin smiles on your faces. Lovesick and shy, nervous and pink-hazed all at once.

“For my peace of mind,” he says.

“Fine, then. Your peace of mind,” you reach for the door handle, tugging it and pushing the door open. You look at Hotch again, like you can’t get yourself to stop. “Thanks again.”

“See you, sweetheart.”

“Bye.”

You step out and head to your door, turning around before walking inside to give him a wave. Aaron grins and waves back, watching you walk inside.

He stays parked by the curb until he sees a light flick on a couple of floors up.

-

+1

There’s a reason that Hotch is Unit Chief. He thinks quickly, keeps his head straight even with what he deals with every day. There’s also a reason his leadership has been questioned before, but never revoked.

He can be reckless, throwing himself into situations when he knows he probably should’ve waited for backup. This time, it only got him a split eyebrow and a few stitches. It’s been worse; this is nothing.

It is, however, proving to be an inconvenience. He’d gotten stitched up in the ER of whatever hospital was closest to where the team had caught their unsub. It had to be quick, from the hospital straight to the jet.

They’d told him to clean it up again and put a new bandage on it when he got back, which is what he’s trying to do now, in his office, with his laptop’s grainy camera as a mirror. He has the supplies the hospital gave him on his desk, but he can’t really see what he’s doing, and the task is taking much longer than he’d like.

His hands are a little shaky from the adrenaline of his day, and every time his arm comes up to reach his stitches, it blocks his view.

Then, he sees you walking up to his office.

Usually, you’d already be home by now, but you’d been yourself and messed up some of your paperwork, so you had to stay late to re-do it. When you catch sight of Hotch in his office, you’re not so annoyed with yourself.

You notice the things on his desk, the blood on the front of his shirt. Your feet carry you to his doorway easily. Last time you’d really spoken to him was that night in his car, and ever since, there’s been something boiling, a noticeable shift.

You tap your knuckles on his open door twice, “you okay?”

He gives up on dealing with his cut and looks at you instead, the slightly rumpled state of your clothes from a long day, the smile you wear that doesn’t exactly hide the concern in your eyes, the light from the hallway a halo around you. You’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“I’m alright. Just can't seem to do this right,” he says, gesturing to his eyebrow.

“Do you need help?”

Aaron has never been one to accept help easily, always one to do things on his own. But, when you’re offering so sweetly, when your help means your hands on his skin, how could he ever say no?

“That would be great.”

He pushes his chair back to give you room to stand in front of him. Your legs between his, leaning against the edge of his desk. His knees bump into the sides of your legs, little bursts of the kind of warmth sunlight emits on skin.

You reach for the wipes first, holding them in one hand and reaching up to his eyebrow, the other grasping his chin gently to keep his head steady.

His hand reaches up to hold your elbow. It could so easily be innocent, be almost nothing, but it feels like more. His thumb running back and forth, your face close enough to his to have your breaths mingling. It really feels like more.

“You’re here late,” he says, low and quiet.

“Spilled coffee all over my work. Had to start over. Can you believe it?” You speak just as quietly, eyes flicking from his cut down to his, just for a second.

“I can, actually. You’re sort of clumsy.”

“Hey!” He’s right, of course, but the warm chuckle he lets out is worth your dramatic gasp.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he assures you, squeezing your elbow. “I think it’s cute.”

“Well, thank you, then.”

You set the wipe aside and reach for the bandage next, placing it over his eyebrow and smoothing down the edges with a light touch. When you’re done, you pull back but don’t go far. Your hands fall from his face to grasp the edge of his desk instead.

“All done,” you say.

Aaron’s hands have shifted to your waist. His touch is so delicate, but you’d never ignore it. It might as well be bruising, the way his hands affect you.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Hotch.”

Now would be the time to walk out the door, to say ‘goodnight’ and head home, but you’re in no hurry. Not when his eyes are shining in the dimmed light of his office, soft and practically melting.

They seem to beckon you closer, and though you don’t have a reason this time, your face ends up near his, noses almost touching. It’s as far as you go, afraid you’re misreading things, afraid you’ll be wrong about this.

Hotch closes the space for you.

His chin tilts up, his mouth catching yours softly at first. His hands tighten on your waist, his lips slightly chapped and completely perfect against yours.

You think your knees might buckle, so you put your hands on his shoulders, thumbs digging into his skin, like you’re trying to make sure he’s real. You’re not sure how you manage to kiss him back but you do, and you hear the sharp intake of breath he takes when you push back.

The kiss doesn’t deepen, but it doesn’t have to. You can feel plenty in it already.

It’s not long before Hotch pulls away, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head to look up at you. He removes one of your hands from his shoulder and holds it in his.

“We shouldn’t do this here,” he says, his thumb running over your knuckles.

You look down at your feet, at his legs next to yours. The hand still on his shoulder falls to your side, suddenly feeling nervous.

“You’re right, I’m so-”

“But,” he stops your apology before you can say it. As if you’d ever need to apologize for kissing him. “I’d like to take you to dinner sometime. If you’d want that.”

You look back at his face, eyes searching. He smiles so softly at you, it’s the kind of smile you could only ever give someone you like in this way. Someone you like enough to kiss.

“I’d really like that, Hotch.”

“Good,” he stands, but his hands don’t leave you. “And sweetheart?”

“Hm?”

“Call me Aaron.”

When you test it out, he’s sure of it; his name on your lips is his absolute favorite sound.

༄

thank you so much for reading!!! please please consider reblogging if you enjoyed, it helps a whole bunch more than you’d think and would mean a lot!! <3

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner imagines #aaron hotchner one shot #aaron hotchner request #aaron hotchner requests #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner blurbs #aaron hotchner x bau!reader #aaron hotch fluff #aaron hotch fic #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotch x you #aaron hotch fanfiction #hotch #criminal minds #cm #hotch criminal minds #aaron hotch story #aaron hotchner criminal minds #criminal minds fic

[saintvainglorious]

My First Fanbind! A Black Sails Fic Anthology Series

It took me a year (and a lot of anxious research) before I worked up the courage to bookbind fanfiction, and after months of on-again-off-again work, my first fanbind is finally done!

I knew that if I was going to bookbind fic, I had to bind something from the Black Sails fandom, aka the fandom and show that have had the biggest impact on my life. Y'all, I almost went into academia to study slavery in the 17th-18th century Caribbean because of this show - when folks say this show rewires your brain chemistry, they are NOT kidding. THEE show of all time. Happy 10th anniversary to Black Sails! This fandom is small but mighty. May we continue to get our hearts and souls blasted to smithereens by this show for many years to come.

Ao3 abounds with magnificent Black Sails oneshots, so I decided to put together an anthology of my favorite Silverflint fics under 20k, which I split into two volumes. Included are works by @justlikeeddie, @vowel-in-thug, @balloonstand, @annevbonny, @francisthegreat, @nysscientia, and more! Thank you, thank you all, you brilliant wonderful people, for gracing the Internet with such amazing writing. When I read the fics in these anthologies I want to fling myself into the sun.

More on the design and binding process below the cut!

Vol. 1 Page Count: 270 (12 fics) Vol. 2 Page Count: 248 (11 fics) Body Font: Sabon Next LT (10.5 pt) Title Font: Goudy Old Style Other Fonts: IM Fell English, pirates pw

The typeset (which I did in Word) took a while, mainly because I'd never done it before. Manually adjusting the hyphenation line-by-line was especially tedious. After making these books, I abandoned Word in favor of InDesign, in large part because InDesign gives you way finer control over your justification and hyphenation settings.

Regarding my actual design choices, I'm happy with how the ocean motif on the title page turned out (it's not the same pattern as my endpapers, but they're complimentary) and I'm very fond of my divider dingbats, which are little swords! Goudy Old Style was a fun title font to use, since it's the font that Black Sails uses as its logo. The stories in Vol. 1 are divided into parts based on what Silver WAS at that point in the show (cook, quartermaster, or king), and Vol. 2 is split up into comedies, histories (AUs set in the canon universe) and tragedies - befitting Black Sails' Shakespearean ~vibes~.

I stuck to a flatback binding, as I wasn't feeling quite ambitious enough to try rounding and/or backing. I've learned that I ~Anakin Skywalker voice~ hate sanding, enjoy folding/sewing, and don't LIKE edge trimming but enjoy the results enough to make it worth it.

The real adventure was decorating the cover, which remained bare for months. After agonizing over Illustrator and experimenting unsuccessfully with HTV and lokta paper embossing, I ultimately turned to using stencil vinyl to paint on the designs. There was a bit of seepage under some of the stencils, but I was able to scrape off the excess with my Cricut weeding tool without damaging the coated surface of the bookcloth (probably Arrestox Blue Ribbon from Hollander's). Even though it was very time-consuming, I'm so happy with the end result of the stenciled paint job and I intend to stick with stencils for my foreseeable future binds.

Are there things I would change? Sure. It was humid out when I printed, so the pages have got a wave. There’s an extra two pages in Vol 2. that I have no idea how I missed, and I got a line of glue in the middle of one of my Vol. 2 endpapers. I’m pretty sure I didn’t case in quite right, since my endpapers pull away from the case at the spine. I think the inner margins are a bit too big, and despite going line-by-line there’s still some wacky justification spacing in the typeset. But man, am I proud of these books! It is so satisfying to learn a new skill - MANY new skills, if we’re being honest - and to make something both beautiful and practical. If I’m still binding in two years or so, I can see myself redoing the typeset in InDesign, cutting out the existing text block, and reusing the cases. I’m also already planning for Vol. 3, which will be Silverflint Modern AUs.

Thanks for reading!

#bookbinding #fanbinding #ficbinding #my books #black sails #silverflint #fanfiction #bsanniversary #10yearsblacksails #10bsfest

[copperbadge]

I mentioned recently that Sherlock Holmes was fully entering the public domain soon, and that I was considering expanding some of my old fanfic for print. I got quite a few encouraging asks/comments, which was kind and very validating, but it made me consider the fact that my Sherlock Holmes portfolio is actually quite slim. There’s really only one substantial classic Holmes canon fic, and many of the others are highly specific to TV Sherlock. Paper Chase is conceptually fun but only if you already know the characters’ personalities, it’s not an appropriate opener as it were.

The bulk of what I’ve got is The Rational Mind, which is about Holmes and Watson learning to live around Watson’s trauma, and Sherlock And Watson, which is about Watson’s daughter taking over the family duties -- and that is the entirety of the plot, so that one’s quite a short fic. 

So I’m curious and I thought I’d ask, what is it you’d want to see in a Holmes novel written by a fan? I think there’s the obvious, more queer content, although I’d be interested to see where the breakout is regarding Holmes’ sexuality along a number of axes. I think probably a lot of people would like a race/gender-bent interpretation, too. 

I guess I’m thinking more of what narratives you’d like, even what tropes you’d like to see -- do we want mystery with a dash of romance, or vice versa? Do we want to talk about neurodivergence and/or trauma extensively? What are our opinions on modern-day AUs? Would it be the actual funniest thing to write them as TV ghost hunters, given Holmes’ disdain of the supernatural and Conan Doyle’s passion for it?

Talk it out, I’m interested in a completely anecdotal and non-data-driven way what you guys want to see. 

#sherlock holmes #storytelling #fanfic #transformative works

[arcielee]

Interview With a Writer

Here is part 3 of my Interview With a Writer series. You can go to this post to review the other amazing authors I have spoken with ♥ Just a BTS of some of the talented minds on Tumblr and ao3.

Name: inthedayswhenlandswerefew

Story: North to the Future

Paring: modern Aegon Targaryen x Reader

Rating/Warning: Sexual themes, substance abuse, acts of violence, and there is a serial killer, so murder.

So when did you start writing?  I can remember working on pieces of stories as far back as elementary school, but I never thought of myself as wanting to be a writer. Then in 2010, when I was 15, I got my first vivid, all-consuming, lightning bolt of an idea. It took over my life in the best possible way and I wrote a novel over 9 months. 

Now, to be clear, the novel was very bad. But you have to read a lot and write a lot before you start getting good at it, and that experience was absolutely transformative for me. 

I had a lot of chaotic life situations and a bit of a crisis of confidence, and I wrote only sporadically during college and for several years afterwards. Then in 2018, I saw Bohemian Rhapsody and it became my only personality trait for a while. 

As I was reblogging a million gifsets on Tumblr, I stumbled across fanfiction for the first time, and I was like…wait…other people make up self-insert stories every time they get obsessed with a movie/show too?! It was so exciting, I finally felt like I had an outlet to put my ideas and characters out into the world. I’ve been writing pretty consistently since February 2019, and I would consider that the point when I really became a writer.

I think it is safe to say every writer has that first, all-consuming novel. Does it still exist? Oh yeah, it definitely still exists! I have a Word Doc, and also a paper copy that I had printed and bound at Staples back in the day. It’s a dystopian story about a man who has to pretend to be a true believer in an oppressive regime in order to rise to the top and change it from within, but by the end of the journey he’s become sort of genuinely evil. I keep the paper copy in a box under my bed. Poor quality notwithstanding, it has a lot of sentimental value.

Okay, where did the plot for North to the Future come from? What inspired the story? Towards the end of writing my Aemond fic—Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep?—I started feeling this fascination with Aegon as a character, and I could kind of sense that there was a story about him ready to be excavated from wherever ideas wait to be discovered. 

I kept picturing him in an unassuming little bar filled with Christmas lights as snow fell outside: sad, drunk, wearing all black. But I didn’t have a story yet, just a vision. And the songs I kept hearing when I thought about this tortured modern Aegon were 90s songs: Everlong, A Long December, Drive. 

Then one day out of nowhere, the plot showed up. 

The first real idea I get for a story is always the very end, and I saw Aegon and the protagonist barreling down the Pacific Coast Highway in a red convertible. I knew that Aegon was sober and going back home to face some terrible past, and that the girl he loved was experiencing California for the first time, and that they were both finally free of demons they’d been running from their whole lives. Once I knew the ending, the rest of the details started falling into place, and within a few days I had an outline and chapter list.

Explain your interpretation of Aegon. What drives him? Why is he the way he is in NttF? Aegon is a talented and intuitive person, but he’s clearly not suited for running a venture capital empire or corporate work in general. So his earliest, most formative memories are of his parents (and grandfather) being disappointed in him. He experienced abuse, both emotional and physical, and developed extremely harmful coping mechanisms that at a certain point he no longer knew how to function without. He was suicidal in part because of his self-loathing and the futility of his situation, but also because the only time he received even vague compassion from his parents was after he had swallowed a bottle of pills or stabbed himself with four of his mother’s EpiPens. 

Of course what Aegon overlooked was that he did have people back in Miami who cared about and wanted to help him, although they were too young to effectively communicate it: Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron.

After the accident that claimed Aemond’s eye and three innocent lives, Aegon can’t cope with reminders of what he’s done because he’s fundamentally not someone who ever wants to hurt others. He directs his destructiveness inwards, not outwards, and even when striking out in self-defense he runs away as soon as the opportunity presents itself. That’s the real difference between Aegon and Jesse. When Dadtini talks about Jesse, he mentions bruises and kicked down doors. That’s not Aegon. Jesse gives bruises, Aegon gets them.

Was there anything in specific that inspired your Reader portrayal? I didn’t consciously have anyone in mind when I was writing Appletini, but most of my Readers tend to be snarky, studious, and guarded (yet reluctantly hopeful), so that’s probably my own personality bleeding into the characters! I envisioned someone who was well-intentioned and ostensibly responsible, yet under the surface struggling in a way that she felt she couldn’t share with anybody else. I think most people have felt like that at some point in their lives, so it’s just a matter of being able to take the essence of that feeling and shape it to fit with the story’s narrative. Honestly, the most difficult part of writing Appletini was her relationship with her extremely supportive and functional parents, as that’s not something I have much experience with. I was really relieved when people connected with Momtini and Dadtini as characters because I wasn’t sure if I was doing them justice. In what ways do you feel your Reader compliments Aegon? The defining characteristic of the Aegon/Appletini relationship is that she wants him to become the best version of himself, and truly believes that he has the capacity to if he’ll work for it. She knows he’s brilliant, she knows he’s a genuinely good person under all of his issues and mistakes, she knows he’s fine af, and she knows she loves him. But none of that is enough if he’s not sober.

Someone like Heather or Joyce wouldn’t see value in Aegon, and someone like Kimmie wouldn’t push him to change. The story is in the war that Appletini fights to prove that Aegon can and should conquer his demons. Similarly, Aegon wants Appletini to break free of her suffocating obligations in Juneau, and it causes him genuine pain to see her not living the life she wants. They really want the best for each other, even in their worst moments.

Was there another character (OC or canon) in your story you enjoyed portraying? (And why?) Firstly, I really enjoyed writing Kimmie because she’s a twist on the trope of the attractive, overtly-sexual, not terribly intellectual girl always getting killed in horror movies. Kimmie is the “hot friend” and she loves to party, but she’s also deeply loyal and affectionate, and she notices certain things that other people don’t. I wanted the readers to underestimate her, and then hate her, and then come back to realizing that she wasn’t a villain after all. She could use a better sense of boundaries, but she’s a good person. I feel like by the end of NTTF, it’s clear why Heather, Joyce, and Appletini are friends with Kimmie despite all her…peculiarities.

Secondly, Trent was a super fun character to write, because he’s unnerving without being completely unrealistic. He reminds me of a lot of the frat boys I went to college with…superficially pleasant yet entitled, less malicious than willfully ignorant about anything that doesn’t fit with what he wants in life. He’s a product of the “boys will be boys” era that he grew up in, especially with Alaska being more old-fashioned than the rest of the country, so the 1990s there feel like the 1960s or 70s in some ways. Also, I can’t lie, I loved all the dumb horse boi jokes.

Finally, I absolutely adored Aemond as a character and I was just as impatient as the readers were for him to finally show up in Chapter 11. He’s so stoic and fierce, but he has a tremendous amount of love for Aegon and this blind faith in his ability to change for the better. Aemond’s personality is a lot like Appletini’s, which is why they end up having this tacit respect for each other. I think they end up as close friends eventually, probably even closer than Aemond and Aegon.

Was there an OC character that reflects the author? Out of all the NTTF characters, I am definitely the most like Heather! I’m that friend who is snarky and judgmental on the surface, but also ferociously protective…which can be tough when you’re watching your friends make questionable decisions, like our poor beloved Heather was forced to throughout the series. I know she was thrilled to see that everyone ended up happy. That’s all we really want, us Heathers of the world.

You mentioned your retirement from fan fiction, so what is next? What’s next is writing a novel, which I am super excited about! I’ve had the plot figured out for a few years now and have written bits and pieces of it already, but now I’m determined to dive in without any creative detours and get it written, hopefully within a year. 

I do have some trepidation about the project—What if the idea isn’t good? What if I can’t do it justice? What if I can’t keep to a schedule now that I don’t have an amazingly wonderful audience expecting weekly updates?—but I’ve come to realize that if I never try to be a “real” writer, I’m going to regret it my whole life. I’m trying to be logical about it and tell myself that even if my first book isn’t perfect, I can always write others, so it’s not like my whole future is contingent upon this one project. I’ve had the idea for so long that the characters feel real to me, and I just want to tell their story well.

#interview with a writer #iwaw3 #bts #of their brilliant writing #i hope you all enjoy #♥ #aegon targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii x you #biiiiiiitch

[bardicbeetle]

hey. Hey. You got any analysis of the Lost Boys or thoughts on the movie to share? who's your favorite character in it and why??

@abalonetea

Analysis on the movie I've been many levels of obsessed with since age 14 you ask?

...this is going to end up undercut for length I can already feel it.

The Lost Boys is my comfort movie, my I-feel-like-shit-nothing-is-fixing-it movie, my I-can't-write-please-help movie and my go-to for when I am inflicting media upon a new friend. I know it backwards forwards, upside down and inside out, I own the out of print novelization written by Craig Shaw Gardener, I posted the original prequel script to fanfiction.net in the early 2010s because I found it buried in a forum post and wanted it to be easier to find, I have listened to every version of cry little sister that G Tom Mac has ever put out in addition to the entire stage musical he produced. The fic I wrote for it in 2011 is still on Wattpad and to this day for some fuck ass reason gets 1000s of hits per year. I have another fic for it on ao3 that still takes up brainspace for me on a minimum weekly basis.

I.

Honestly do not know who I am as a writer if not for this film.

It is such a huge part of who I am as both a fan of media and a vampire writer and as a horror enjoyer in general.

And it is undeniably, baked into its bones, queer as fuck.

Not just from the overt point of here is a film in the 1980s about men sharing blood, directed by an openly gay man, hands us platonic and familial and romantic interactions between male characters, who are allowed to hold one another, allowed to express emotion, allowed to exist freely and without shame I am--so very abnormal about this movie.

I'll be the first to admit it's not perfect by any means, it very much exists a time capsule of its era, but also, to momentarily put the bar on the floor, it isn't slur laden and full of take-backs for any of the emotional vulnerability like other things around then were (see: Once Bitten, which while unarguably very much more on the comedy side of horror-comedy, i'm going to put into the same category by virtue of Camp Vampire Movies of the 80s).

It hands us one of my favorite mothers of all time. Lucy Emerson is a treasure, she spends the whole movie trying her goddamn best to remember that she is stronger than anyone gives her credit for. That she chose to divorce an abusive man, pick up her two sons, and leave without more than signing the papers and getting out. She doesn't care if they're poor, she doesn't care if she could have gotten something from her ex-husband, she wants her boys safe and there is a very large implication that sticking around to do the whole song and dance would have ended badly. Lucy lives for her sons, she wants so badly to make the world easier for them than it was for her, she wants to be part of their lives and part of their interests even if she does not understand them, and I maintain that Had Max Actually Succeeded, it would not have been long before the Lost Boys themselves were Lucy's as much as her own two sons, and that would not have ended well for Max. Protecting mother, lioness, made to be underestimated so you are always caught off guard.

Edgar and Alan Frog are near and dear to my heart, these idiot vampire hunter children were just so very much what my brother and I were in terms of Making Up Games To Play--ignoring the fact that for these two it's real, not that it ever had been before the Emerson family rolled into town and Sam's brother got mixed into the Lost Boys group. Edgar wanting to be in charge of things and wanting to protect the people he cares about and the town he is too stubborn to admit he loves despite being what, 12? 14? Alan being quieter but just as absolutely ready to go "yeah we are totally experts at this" as his twin, the fact that neither of them have any idea what they are getting into. Dipping barely into the sequels territory (which...they aren't good. by any definition. but Edgar and Alan are the best part of them both) we get Edgar dealing not only with his perceived loss of Alan to half-vampirism, but his whole loss of Sam after having to kill him and I just.

Ugh.

NOW, dipping into the main event there is Michael, who spends this whole movie just trying to figure out where the hell he's supposed to belong at this point. He doesn't see any point in starting a new high school in his senior year, he doesn't want to upset his mother by just absolutely dropping off the planet, he cares deeply about his family and wants to help however he can because they are struggling for money. So what does this seventeen year old kid do? He starts picking trash up off the beach for eight hours a day. He gives that money to his mother under the guise of it being "leftover from christmas" because he doesn't want her to worry about him working. He feels so fucking lonely without the friends he left behind in Phoenix and he feels like he's too old to supplant himself into a new friend group in Santa Carla before everyone goes their separate ways after high school anyways.

Enter Star and the Lost Boys.

Yes, Michael is taken in by Star because she's beautiful and mysterious and he's a teenage boy seeing nipples through a tank top, but beyond that he sees in her, in David and the others, how self sure they all are of the decisions they've made. This group is all within his age, they're all living in a goddamn sunken hotel half claimed by the ocean, they have motorcycles like him, they smoke weed and eat chinese food and Marko keeps pigeons and Dwayne can skateboard and Paul is a music nerd and what the fuck how do they manage to seem like they have their lives more together as a group of teenage runaways than he does?

He's enamored with it, obsessed with it, the movie speeds up a timeline of something that does in fact happen over the course of a couple weeks, of him hanging out with them, slowly experiencing more and more symptoms of vampirism from the blood he drank the first night, unable to stop coming back, unable to really figure out what it is they have figured out that he doesn't, and hoping that maybe if he stays with them he will eventually feel the same confidence in his own existence that they do.

But couple that with the horrifying reality that he is becoming a monster. His younger brother is terrified of him, the family dog bites him, the horses won't go near him, he pulls a mouse out of a trap freshly dead and squeezes it like a spent juice box into his mouth, he is falling apart at the seams by the time David decides it's time to finish things. And that's what David wants, he wants Michael in a position where he is no longer lucid enough to resist once there's blood in the air.

And it almost fucking works.

I stand by my belief that the entire movie hinges on the beach party where the Lost Boys kill a whole bunch of Surf Nazis. The whole thing, the outcome of the final fight, the failure of Max's plan, all of it hangs on that one night, and whether or not Michael can actually manage not to give into the bloodlust. He does manage, obviously, he leans into the shock and fear and near throws himself out of that tree because he knows that if he doesn't, he will join the blood bath happening not ten feet away. He is starving and exhausted and everything in him is screaming that if he just gave in, it would all feel so much better.

But he doesn't.

He lays in the sand until he cannot hear any heartbeats left.

Lays there clawing his hands into the ground like if he can hold himself still enough then maybe this will stop being real.

Three of the four boys don't pay much mind to this, Dwayne Paul and Marko have slipped back into regular antics despite being coated red. Their faces have returned to normal, their eyes no longer brilliant gold rimmed red, they are laughing and shoving and having a good time.

But David is furious. He's quiet about it, he isn't loudly angry, something I think he probably absorbed from Max over the years, he tells Michael what needs to be done if he wants to stay with them, and then he and the other Lost Boys leave him there in the sand, burnt flesh and ashes drifting down to him on the breeze.

The thing about David is that he realized the night on the train bridge that he didn't care about Max's bullshit plan. He didn't care that he was originally going to feed Michael to Star. He is fixated on getting Michael to join them, not just for himself, not just to keep Star around, but also because there's a refusal to give up in this kid that has him excited, a stubbornness that he wants to break. It's the thing that eventually leads to his death.

ANYWAYS.

I think, perhaps, I have yelled enough.

Oh, shit, favorite character.

I think without any doubt it has to be David. Especially after reading the novelization, the comics, the original prequel script, he's just, he is such an interesting character and his motivations are so obvious despite how much he would appear to hold them close to his chest. He's a root character I can trace a lot of the tropes that carry over in my own antagonists to, and some of my protagonists as well.

double anyways, camp vampires from 1987 my beloved.

Thank you Katie <3

#the magician cries #questions concerns and or rotten tomatoes #piles of vampire bs #tlb #the lost boys

[rainytomorrows]

Hunk x GN!reader | Leaping for Love Letters

Hey, y'all! I have had no willpower to write my ao3 fics, so I thought I'd throw up a cute little one-shot. I've had violent Hunk brain rot for a while now, so I made him ANOTHER fic. He totally deserves it. Enjoy! Gender neutral as always. (1,995 words)

♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡

Letters had begun showing up from under your door. Beautiful colored envelopes closed with cute little stickers. Though, miraculously, whenever you opened the door to check who had sent them the hallway would always be hauntingly barren. A particular silence overtook it each time as you’d return to your room to read them. The paper was always decorated in a way that pertained to you. A faded print of your favorite flowers in the back, a pretty color you liked, never dull white paper. They read like old-time poets and Hozier songs, yearning dearly for you in such a beautifully worded way you couldn’t do anything but wonder who sent it. Realistically, there were only three people who could be sending these. Unless one or more of them were in cahoots with some alien and indirectly handing these off to you. You continued to sit on your bed, thinking of each and every possibility. Any singular way that it could be anyone but Hunk.

It’s not that you didn’t want it to be him, you dearly hoped so. There were just risks with getting your hopes up. You were stuck in space with him- with everybody. Making things awkward would be so much worse.

The endless cycle of overthinking was killing you. Who could it be? It ate at you nightly like a dog gnawing on a bone. A deep part of you seemed to find hints that didn’t truly exist, the same part that hoped desperately that it was Hunk behind the correspondence. You’d wake up in the mornings wishing, and spend waking nights hoping. Though with no hope, as every night that the letters came in there seemed to be no trace leftover. You were one letter away from performing high-level espionage.

Then came the fateful afternoon, you were reading another letter when you heard a knock at the door. Setting aside the letter you called out, “Come in!” and Pidge walked their way into the room. They could see a particular air around you, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside you. Having solved many problems on the ship with Hunk, they began to notice whenever someone was trying to mentally figure something out. Seeing this they moved from the other side of the room to sit next to you.

“Whatcha thinkin' about?” Pidge questioned, their usual voice quirk raising at the end of the sentence. Their head in their hands as their legs dangled off of the bed beside you. “Well,” You hesitated, unsure whether or not to bring Pidge into this. “I’ve been receiving what seems to be love letters, and I have no idea who is sending them.” You admitted, picking up the said letter and handing it to Pidge. “…Do you have someone you hope it is?” Pidge asked, almost seeming as if to interrogate. You turned your head a little, looking off in thought. “…Maybe”

The two of you talked for a while, you had some unshakeable feeling that they knew more than they let on but you tried not to test it. Ever since the letters started you were suspicious enough of everything as is, it’d be best not to jump to suspect any single person you talk to as some sort of accomplice to the letters.

Pidge had talked with you every so often, but not all of the time. It almost seemed obvious, but at the same time, it could just be your predisposed hopes. The letters were loving and well thought out. They had attention to detail and were tooth-rotting-ly sweet. The only people on the ship around your age were Hunk, Keith, and Lance. High hopes on the former, Hunk. Keith was too much of an edge lord. Sure he could have a soft side, and maybe you were being judgemental, but the letters just did not seem his style. Not to mention, the way they were written just seemed too, intricate, for Lance. He was flirtatious for sure and you could see him writing daily letters way easier than you could see Keith doing it, but something told you any love letter written by Lance would be a lot less formal and a lot more amorous.

Then again- what if Hunk was simply helping them write their letters? That would be a real punch in the gut. Or back to an earlier suspicion- what if an alien you met on another planet was simply getting these letters delivered to you? You relayed memories, trying to remember any alien that was any sort of a romantic. Admittedly there weren’t many you could think of, but it still wasn’t a crossed-off possibility. Hunk seemed more the type for these kinds of letters, but the concept of it was stuck behind a mental jail cell. That possibility entirely depended on him even liking you back. The concept seemed too foreign. The idea that a guy such as him, a total catch, had reciprocated such feelings. Not only regularly, but to the degree to send secret letters and on occasion even well thought gifts alongside them. It was unthinkable. He was amiable and adorably friendly to you- but that didn’t mean squat. I mean, he was friendly to most people. He was a nice guy. You had no right to assume based on just that. Sure you were also a total catch, and no doubt incredibly attractive. Though still, with any crush there’s a sense of doubt.

Days dragged on and hints grew thin, you had no real valid proof or reason. At this point, it wasn’t far-fetched to imagine you hanging up a corkboard littered with pins and string in your room. The same way they do when they solve mysteries in the movies. Letters stockpiled within your desk, notes in journals. You were desperate to find who was sending them, in the same breath desperate for the author to be Hunk.

More weeks passed and no closer. It was a Saturday, and by the time noon had shown itself on your clock nearly all you did all day was try and figure out who was writing you. By now, everything about their handwriting down to the exact way they dot their i’s was memorized. The way they spoke, their mannerisms. Exhausted, you dramatically sat up from your chair. Cracking your back, stretching your arms and legs. It was time for a break. You fixed yourself a snack and roamed the halls, whoever you spotted first you’d likely try and join them out of boredom. Taking miscellaneous sips of your drink whilst looking into any doorway you came across.

On your way, you cross Hunk’s room. The door was left open but he wasn’t there. Strange. You were about to leave when a pile of various colors spot your eye. It was a pile of cute decorative paper. Similar to the ones used for the letters you were receiving. Next to it, the same cute envelopes you always found them in. And a sticker book, the ones they always got closed with. Next to all this, a piece of cute paper with an unfinished letter. Was this the final hint? Was it truly him? Not yet, you told yourself. One more hint though, one more sign, and you might just lose it. Finally, you leave without poking around too much. Continuing your journey to find people.

Just your luck you finally spot some people, it just happened to be Pidge and Hunk problem-solving at a blackboard. There had been some issues with the ship that Allura and Coran couldn’t figure out. It was very minimal, but nipping things like this in the bud was always good. You sat yourself down before taking a good look at the board, leaning back in your chair and asking Pidge what was going on. Hunk was busy on the blackboard writing down some equations alongside some notes to try and solve the aforementioned issues.

“Well, there are some navigation issues and general glitches. Doors won’t close when they’re supposed to, the food machine is being weird again, and on top of all that the map seems to be-” They didn’t even get a chance to finish their sentence before you suddenly spat out your drink, hopping out of your chair and running towards the board. Your gaze shot back and forth between him and the board fervently, placing your drink and snack down to run a lap around the room. Once you were done you returned to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him in excitement.

“I KNEW IT! I FUCKING KNEW IT!” You shouted eagerly, spinning around and pumping a fist in the air. Part of you wanted to stop- to think of what other explanation there could be for the similar handwriting. All silenced by your overflowing joy at the possibility of it realistically being him. “What? Knew what??” He asked confused, unsure what about his equation could be sparking this sort of revelation in you. “YOU’RE THE ONE WRITING ME ALL THE GODDAMN LETTERS!” You exclaimed vehemently, throwing your hands up before gesturing at the board. “I’ve been studying them this whole time! All day every day! I’ve memorized the handwriting, it’s the same! The same way you dot your i’s, the same way you write your a’s, it’s identical!!!” You laid out your observations. Unaware of how crazy you sounded. “You uh,” He started nervously, a light blush only further proving any point you had. “You memorized my handwriting that- acutely?” He questioned, impressed with the dedication you had clearly put forth. You were unsure from your perspective how he felt, however. “Well, yes.” You began, now a lot less energetic and confident than before. “I uh, I really wanted it to be you.” You backed off a little, unsure of how to read his expression.

“I TOLD YOU!” Pidge responded for him, also jumping from their seat now. “I TOLD YOU THEY WERE TOTALLY INTO YOU! BUT ‘NOOOO THERE’S NO WAY’!” Pidge asserted. As it turned out, Pidge was in on it the whole time. Pidge delivered all of the letters, and while they had no input on what went into the letters they were deadset on it working. Absolutely sure that the two of you were uselessly pining for each other. Hunk was a blushing mess, hand on the nape of his neck while he tried to gather his words.

It seemed Pidge had enough of this, as before he could successfully do so they were pushing y’all out the door and shutting it. Not without struggle, as they still hadn’t fixed the doors, but they did so. You were stuck, also without words, with the man you had only now learned had reciprocated feelings for you.

“GO ON A DATE ALREADY!!” Pidge shouted, muffled by the door they had just managed to shut. Leaving you alone without any sort of plan to follow up with. Or your food. Hunk turned to you slowly, clearly also unsure of what to say. Until he noticed at the same time you did that your food was stuck in there.

“How about for our first date,” He began, gaining your full attention. You were so alluring, he choked on his words for a minute before gaining the ability to speak again. “I cook you some more food to make up for the stuff you lost in there?” He offered, hands shaking and face going red. “I’d love that.”

Y’all hung out in the kitchen for a while, him cooking and you giving the rundown on all the notes you took on the letters. An impressively long conversation in that regard. He returned it by mentioning the work it took to find all your favorite things. Your favorite flowers, colors, snacks, and interests. All the things he mentioned and used in his letters.

The two of you started out starstruck, and as you started to date that never seemed to go away. ♡~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♡ Hope you enjoyed it! I had a lot of fun writing it, lord knows I'm a sucker for big strong men with a soft spot. I just know he could throw me around like a paperweight and would totally care about you. What else do you need in life? Anyhow, have a good day/night, and a great life!!

#fanfic #fanfiction #fan fiction #fiction #vld fandom #voltron #voltron fandom #voltron legendary defender #fan fic #fic writing #hunk vld #hunk garrett #voltron hunk #Tsuyoshi Garrett #vld fanfic #vld x reader #comfort #crush #fantasy #fluff #garrett #tumblr help #story prompt #short story #stories #story #wholesome #write #waaaa #xreader

[hislittleraincloud]

Tor, how do you write SO MUCH?! I’m out here struggling to reach 1,000 words and you’re pumping out 10K word chapters? Please teach me your ways 🙏

Alas, Young Jedi, I cannot teach the ways, as the ways are long and lifetime. I've been writing and drawing since I could pick up a pencil.

Reading for longer...there's a photo of me somewhere where I'm about 1 or so, and I had crawled over to a pile of Sunday papers, slid out the Comics section, sat my ass down in my diaper, and opened the paper like anyone else would open and read a newspaper...I was quite attracted to the Dick Tracy comic, and I remember seeing the words "Dick Tracy" but being unable to communicate anything about it because hello...I was a freaking baby. But my father was freaking out after my mother pointed to what I was doing and he rushed to go grab his camera (I remember his freak out too, he was so excited 🤣💕). If I can find that photo, I'll post it (it's somewhere, it was used on the photo posters printed for when my grandmother passed back in the 00's).

By the way, the science that says that babies can't have such memories is wrong. I am proof of that. My hippocampus must have been very highly developed/advanced, because I remember a shitload of things from when I was a baby, some of which I'd like to forget. Anyway.

I was also raised on Daytime Soap Dramas (aside from the usual Sesame Street and Electric Company that was for us kids on PBS). I've seen years and years of writers writing the wildest, most dramatic shit. I've watched characters come back from the dead with wild — but plausible — explanations. Daytime Soaps got and still get a bad rap, but depending on which one, the storytelling is compelling, which is why there were fans who stayed loyal to their soap (my mother was an AMC & OLTL loyalist...she didn't care for GH or non-ABC Soaps). How to write compelling stories is hidden in plain sight with those. Back from the dead? Check. Drawing out a scene for days because of the angst? Check. Cliffhangers? Double, triple, quadruple check. Cliffhangers are prevalent in soaps and probably the main thing that kept people coming back to the stories and wanting more. Media has changed, unfortunately, and there are no regular, daily dramas (well, GH is one of three surviving American soaps) that children are stuck watching because there's nothing else on TV to entertain SAHMs. SAHMs have their pick of apps, movies, and shows now, and most fans of soaps are generationally conditioned...like me, but my soaps are gone. (Fun fact: I appeared on Hulu with my dog via Skype to ask actor Robert S. Woods a question during their interactive OLTL session, when OLTL was shifted to Hulu. I was way too excited, since I'd been watching him for over 35 years. My dog, however, was asleep in my arms with his tongue hanging out...and that was caught on camera 💩). Some of it is highly repetitive, so it trains your brain to tolerate and accept the multiple variations of storyline that are, but aren't, the same.

But anyway, back to present day since ABC gutted their soaps in favor of bullshit no one watches: I write when inspired. Sometimes it comes out with strong weed (like a good Wenjax scene that I'm deliberating whether it should go into the main Afterburn story or into the Deleted Scenes). Sometimes I just write dialogue for a couple of hours. UVC was mostly dialogue when written at first (the fic wives have seen it in its halfway mark, when it was completely lacking Jon's exploration of her house).

I also write a lot of poetry and have done so since just before I met Allen Ginsberg. My father had exposed me to the Beats before, but I was too stuck in my kid head until I met the master at 14. I was enamored by him and his freeform writing, even though I was heavily into the American Romantics like Walt Whitman (such is going to be explored in the UVCniverse). But while I could write like them, I wanted more freedom of structure with lyricism, and Beat poetry (along with non-Beats like e.e. cummings and a few others) afforded me that. The bulk of my youth poems are gone/destroyed when my fucking ex and fucking building manager emptied my apartment when I was in Rome ten years ago (so if I go quiet in November, it's me mourning those poems...since I'm not like Jon or Cairo, I can't retrieve them from m brain 😞 I have a really sharp memory, but it's not like theirs... it's more like ABW's). FTR, in my youth I was also a huge Edgar Allen Poe fan, and won the class contest to write like him in the 6th grade. I might've mentioned that before. First prize was a large (the big bar type) Hershey bar. I gave it to my father bc I didn't like regular Hershey chocolate LOL. At the time, my favorite book was a very old dictionary/thesaurus/almanac combo book, and reading bits of it every day helped my writing.

Writing poetry for me is a little harder these days, but the muse is whispering a little, and 'In Three Bites' (from the screencap I posted before about the shit I'm writing) is Jon and Cairo slinging a form of poetry at each other during class via text. Poetry can be practice for bigger things, so look into just writing down your thoughts. Stream of consciousness writings, stuff like that can be poetic or it can be rambling, who cares? Write.

Write what you know to practice, even if it's a private diary entry. Expand your vocabulary. Collect thesauruses and READ THEM, and write down (with a pen/pencil on paper) the most interesting words that appeal to you and remember/retain them for future use — don't just let your teachers hand you a list to memorize (do what they tell you to do re: vocab words, but don't be limiting yourself to what they want you to learn). Learn a second language, one that is structurally atypical to English's SVO [subject, verb, object], so that you can see the world from someone else's culture. Never stop learning words that are new to you. Never stop learning like that, would probably be my ultimate advice.

But also? Fuck word counts, unless you're writing a 100 word drabble. In fact, write more 100 word drabbles. It will teach you to pick and choose your words for effective expression of the scene/thought. I don't really worry about meeting word counts, unless it starts to get long (which is where AB is, and which is why I've had to split chapters up). Half of the UVC/MG ones I listed are at under 1K words so far, but I'm not concerned about word count on them and probably won't be, unless one of them turns into a monster (I can see 'Project Drop Down' (Cairo meets Bea) taking that turn, but I can probably make that one a 10K one shot). Don't struggle to get to 1K. Just write what you want and need to. It'll go where it needs to go, especially when you're inspired. And if you never get inspired over an idea? Move on to the next one, or move to something that does inspire you enough to write over 1K of it in one go. Some people are satisfied writing 200 word 'chapters'. I am not. There's too much going on in my head to limit everything to 200 words, so I just keep writing and writing. Might be genetic, since my father's been opining to me about how he needs to type up all of his writings (and I have a Paperblank journal that I gave him to fill up, which he did 💀).

Write!

And keep writing to whatever passion calls to you. If it isn't calling, don't angst over it. It's not the end of the world if you can't get to 1K.

#on writing #on writers #creative writing #writing #anon #nice anons #nice anon #answering anons #answering asks

[lovelyhan]

What are your mutual awards?

i'm so sorry it took me so a while to get to this ㅠㅠ partly bc i suck at thinking of cutesy awards to hand to my mutuals but here we go anyway~

p.s. i'm an actual Sap that says way too much so i'm hiding all this under a cut 🧍‍♀️

@hwanghyunjinenthusiast — i'm giving you the #1 hypeman award bc you're always so supportive of all the writers in the community 💘 literally every time i see your feedback towards both mine and other ppl's fics i smile a little bc u'll always be part of the reason why people would want to stay and do what they love doing on this hellsite 😽

(i'll also hand you the homie award bc you put up with each and every one of my antics whether it's spite writing or my shenanigans with skz 🤩🤩 our moot means sooo much to me, i hope we remain pals for a long, long time 🛐)

@toruro — you get the social butterfly award bc you're very interactive and easygoing to speak with 🦋 it's always a neat and dandy day whenever i see mika toruro sliding into my inbox to ask about my day. you're the sweetest, always 💘

@multi-kpop-fanfics — you're more than worthy of the best supporter award 🥇 because you almost always read my stuff moments after i post em 😭 i'll also be handing you a phd in making me lose my mind because i have not forgotten that one time i binged through the zeta fic discography (that and i'm still suffering from irreversible psychic damage courtesy of half past five high🧍‍♀️)

@duhnova — you immediately get the enabler award bc we always egg each other on to spend exorbitant amounts of money for little kpop boys printed on paper 🤒 an additional would be the (talks a lot) (listens) award bc you're always there to hear out everything i air out under the sun 🥹🥹 i hope you know that i'll gladly do the same for you 💘💐

@sluttyminghao — definitely the top contender for the all in a day's work award bc damn ?? you're always so consistent with putting out content?! i will actually fight every single ingrate in your inbox with my bare hands bc it takes so much dedication to cater to all the reqs you receive 🥹

@junkissed — june junkissed gets the osmosis award bc i swear i didn't love jun as much as i do now that we're mutuals 🧍‍♀️ it's your effect, i believe

@cheolhub — you're getting the nation's sweetheart award bc everyone is absolutely enamored w you (myself included <3) both ur moots and anons would do anything for you i fear ! 💐💐

@gyukult — gyu deserves the holy shit how did we become friends award bc i still can't believe u're in my dms talking abt cute merch w me when i was Just losing my mind over ybny a few weeks ago ㅠㅠ

@rubyreduji — *hands you the life of the dash award* bc you always fill my dashboard with ur shenanigans (along w mika) nd it's nice seeing fellow writers just vibing~ i'd love to talk to you more 🤝🤝

(p.s. sheep in wolf's clothing did a number on my wellbeing so i hope you're ready to take responsibility for your actions)

@etherealyoungk — i would like to give you the refreshing award bc every time i see you on my dash, i just think oh it's skye, i hope they're having a nice day ^_^ bc ur vibe just generally puts me in a good mood for some reason ASKJDKA

@97-liners — i actually thought abt it for a while if i should tag you bc i didn't wanna seem overly familiar but i'm awarding you the funniest person to ever exist in caratblr award bc i eat up your text posts like i've got munchies 24/7 🧍‍♀️

(i've always been a liiittle reluctant to interact bc surprise i'm actually capable of being shy ! but i'm shooting my shot now bc you're cool and i really love how your humor translates to your writing as well 🥰)

i reaaally wanted to make this stuff w all my mutuals but the brain is Not braining so lmk if you'd like one nd i'll personally write you a love letter on top of the silly little award i'd give out 😽

#🍵 tea time #💌 anon #🎲 ask games

[ughmyreality]

you should make a fic involving stephanie, just putting it out there

So, this fic might be ooc but I actually like how it turned out. This is somewhat more wholesome and cutesy vs the other fics I've written but Stephanie deserves it. Anyway, I present, "Oh Stefany, Stefanie, Stephany"

Stephanie knows she should be crying. After all funerals are meant to be sad, that is unless you were having a celebration of life. But in her case this couldn’t be any farther from the truth. The person in question was her mother but even knowing this would be the last time she’d see her didn’t change her attitude.

It was a rather small affair, with less than 20 people. Her mother was never one for friends. Stephanie was in no way in charge of setting up the funeral despite being the daughter of the deceased. It was up to the rest of the small family to take over, whether that be because they wanted to help ease the burden or because they thought that she was going to ruin it she doesn’t know.

Her hands grip down on the obituary, an ugly pastel purple. She looks down to read it and see what brilliant lies they wrote about her mother. Because heaven forbid that people write about how people were actually like. Not everyone lights up a room or would give someone the shirt off their back, especially not her mom.

In Loving Memory

-Gladys Foamwire-

Gladys was a sweet woman taken far too soon. She spent her last days alongside her daughter Stefany…

‘Stefany’?

They couldn’t even be bothered to spell her name correctly. Sure, the feeling stung, but what more could she expect. No one knows the real her, the real Stephanie. She’ll just have to learn to be ok with that.

“Hi, I’m Stephanie, here to sign the lease.”

A balding man grins at her. He opens the door wider and ushers her in.

“Of course, Of course! Follow me this way.”

After the death of her Mom, she had to do some soul searching. For so long she had been tied down to her mother that now that she was finally free she didn’t know what to do. But she’s made her decision now. She’s ready to start a new chapter in her life.

She was going to buy this rusty old building and turn it into something of her own. Redecorate it from the ground up and prove that she has what it takes to stand out from the crowd. It was going to be perfect, and even better yet, she’s sure that her Mom would be rolling over in her grave if she found out.

“Well, it’s great to see you! I have all the paperwork filled out already. Feel free to look it over and make sure everything is correct and then sign away!”

Stephanie’s eyes skim the paper. Date of birth, correct. Today’s date, correct. Name, corr-

Buyer: Stefanie

“Um… my name is Stephanie as in ‘S t e p h a n i e’, not with a f.”

“Oh, my apologies, Stephanie. I’ll have a new paper printed right away. Do you mind coming back a little bit later?”

She holds back the urge to sigh. Was it that hard to spell her name? But she shouldn’t care anyway. She won’t have to deal with this man for very much longer anyway.

“Sure, that’s fine.”

Moralton isn’t a place for the youth. There are very few things to do and even fewer for those non church going. That’s why every once in a while Stephanie ventures out of her comfort zone and leaves for the night. It’s how she ended up in this situation to begin with.

“Hey!”

The woman beside her practically yells in her ear. It was already a loud atmosphere, obviously in a club, but the girl's voice wasn’t helping matters.

She was short with reddish brown hair draped over her shoulder. They’d talked off and on throughout the night saying her name is Victoria but it was clear that she’d had more drinks than she could handle.

“I’m about to leave but here take this! I’ll see you later babe!”

The woman stubbles forward and shoves a napkin in her hands. A person who she could only assume was her friend waves at her apologetically. Apparently this was Victoria’s usual drunk behavior.

“Byeeee!”

The napkin was written on with plain black ink with a subtle mark of red lipstick. It reads ‘Call me Stephany, it’s your girl Vic xoxo’ with a hastily written phone number on the side.

She had spelled her name wrong. Typical. It’s no big deal. Besides she’d much rather have a true connection with someone rather than whatever this was. She’ll be ok, she always was.

“Do you think that getting a cross tattoo would be blasphemous?” Orel asks in his usual innocent way.

“Orel, you know that I don’t know about these things. Why do you want a tattoo anyway?”

The boy clasps his hands together “Well, some kid at school told me tha-”

“Orel, please don’t let what other people say dictate your life. You’re too short, shortie, to be worried about what other people think. What until you're a bit taller.”

“Fine, I guess you're right. Well, I’ve to get to church bef-. I almost forgot! We were talking about how we all need to be appreciative and giving in church the other week. How it’s important for us to let go of all our worldly possessions. So, I have a gift for you since I won’t be needing it anymore. I’ve become one with nature!”

He throws a little box up on the counter with a smile and takes a look at the clock.

“Sorry, but I’ve really got to get going, Bye!”

Orel runs out the door leaving Stephanie alone with only the box with her. The note on top of it says From Orel to Stephanie. She couldn’t help but laugh, at least someone spelled it right.

Stephanie used to think that no one cared to know the real her. But maybe she was wrong, she was just looking in all the wrong places.

She delicately peels off the paper and opens the box to see a shiny gold key. How strange. On further inspection she sees a keychain attached to it reading ‘Orel’s house key’. What had that boy gotten into this time. Had he been sleeping outside for the last week?

“OREL! Get back here you can’t give this to me!”

#stephanie putty #moral orel #orel puppington #Gladys Foamwire #fanfic #fanfiction

[recurring-polynya]

Congrats on 1500!!!!! You deserve it :) I’d be interested to see any deleted scenes from Portions for Foxes!

There are two good deleted scenes from Portions for Foxes. Here is the angsty/sappy one (I have another request in the queue, so you' can'll see the bonkers one later). This happens near the end of the fic, so I'm gonna stick the explanation under the cut for spoilers, in case anyone out there has not read my four-year-old fanfic.

So, the first time I wrote the part in Chapter 4 where Renji accidentally tells Rukia that he loves her in the middle of the night, I had her get up in the morning and just go to work, so she wasn't there when he woke up. This is how that scene continued after that. The beginning may feel familiar because I scrounged most of it back into the fic later, but put it here for context.

This scene is actually kind of an interesting insight into my writing process-- I wrote it, it felt wrong to me, I was Angry for a week, and then I replaced it with the version that ended up in the final story. The flaw here, as I eventually identified it, is that the characters Say Too Much. I have a tendency to write my characters explaining everything about the story to the reader, which is not what I want-- I want to keep things subtle, I want to let the reader make connections themselves. Also, while I, personally, am constantly deconstructing and analyzing my own feelings and behavior, that's not a thing that realistic and interesting characters should be doing in stories. On the other hand, this kind of thing definitely definitely falls into the "no writing is wasted" category, because having a piece of text where I have spelled out what is going on can be enormously helpful for making sure it got sprinkled in there.

🌺 🍡 🍂

It's late morning when Renji rolls into the offices of the 13th Division, his arms full.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do with these?" Rukia exclaims, as he dumps an enormous bouquet of red camellias into her arms.

"I'll find a vase," he promises, "I'm sure Captain Ukitake kept some around?"

"Leftmost bottom cabinet," Rukia grudgingly supplies. "Next to the extra paper." She eyes the white paper bag he has also deposited on her desk. It is printed with the label of her favorite confectionery shop. "And you know that's not what I meant."

Renji returns with a vase and relieves her of the flowers. "We need to talk."

She watches him try to fluff the flowers in the vase. "You don't know anything about flowers, do you?"

"I know about camellias," he responds simply.

She swallows. "Renji, don't."

He regards her for a moment. "You're right. I don't want to do this at the office. Let's play hooky."

She looks skeptical, so he snatches up the bag of wagashi and shakes it tantalizingly. "I'm going for a walk and taking these with me."

Rukia wrinkles her nose. "Fine. But only because I know you're going to subject me to this sooner or later, you never let anything lie. Now, help me get out of this chair."

He gives her a hand up.

"Did Brother do this often?" Rukia asks as they walk, trying to needle him. "Play hooky?"

She has repossessed her bag of sweets, although she did give him one. 

"He did, actually," Renji replies, a fond smile on his face. "It took me a while to figure out, but he used to say, 'Lieutenant! Attend me!' and then he'd go off somewhere, walking fast, very serious face on, me trying to keep up. And we'd go somewhere-- the first time, it was Soukyoku Hill, I remember that. And he would just stand there for a while, twenty, thirty minutes and then we'd go back. The cherry grove over near the Academy. The Royal Botanical Gardens. Those ugly sculptures outside the Art Museum. I think he took me along because it made it look like he was off doing something official, but I'm pretty sure he just liked getting out of the office once in a while."    

Rukia is making a face. "I think he liked being with people, but he didn't like talking to them. He did that to me all the time, too, although it was more often the woods behind the Manor or the gardens. He liked to sit and draw together, too."

They are both silent for a long moment.

"Only took us five months," Renji says quietly, "to be able to talk about him." 

"Is that what you wanted to talk about?" Rukia snaps, a bit too harshly.

"No," Renji replies. "Look, we're here, you wanna find a spot to sit?"

He's brought them out to the Red Hollow Gate Overlook, a place they have spent many an hour, the best view of South Rukongai in the Seireitei. It is the analog of the overlook in Inuzuri where they used to stand, looking inward. It was the place where they buried their dead, but it never felt morbid to them. It was just a place they all liked to be, a place they might pick to be forever, when the time came.

It is getting into late autumn, and Rukongai is mostly brown now, just a small ring around the Seireitei ablaze in scarlets and oranges. Renji tries to guesstimate where the color ends. 18, maybe? They've probably already had snow in Inuzuri. 

No one is up here today. Fall colors have lost their charm and it’s pretty chilly. Renji spreads his haori on the ground and helps Rukia sit before plopping down beside her.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

"You don't have to--" Rukia tries to interrupt.

"I do, actually. This has been killing me, Rukia, so let me say my piece, will ya?"

Her mouth snaps shut.

"I have spent my entire adult life trying to be better than I am," he sighs. "A good part of my adolescence, too, for that matter." He smiles sadly. "I wasn't exactly close, but I was gettin' there."

"Close to what?" Rukia demands.

"To being good enough," he explains, as though this clarifies anything. "To feel like I would have something--anything-- to offer you if I were to, y'know, ask you to marry me."

Rukia takes a sharp intake of breath.

"And then-- just after the biggest failure of my whole life-- failed my captain, failed you, failed everyone, and I let myself fall back into being an absolute trash heap of a person, you had to go and ask me, instead."

"Renji, you were grieving. You're still grieving. I shouldn't have--"

"I'm not trying to blame you! I'm just trying to explain why I haven't been the husband I always wanted to be for you. That I'm not even sure if that's something you want. That even though I've been a miserable pile of shit, I still love you, for whatever the love of a miserable pile of shit is worth."

"Oh, Renji," Rukia manages, throwing her arms around him. "You act like I've been any better. The only good thing I've been able to do-- the only thing that's kept me from giving up-- has been trying to hold you together. And lately, it seems like you're doing so much better and I'm not, I'm not better at all, and you don't need me anymore and I don't know-- I don't--"

"Shh, shh," Renji says, taking her in his arms. "Of course I need you. I've always needed you. I've only managed to get my shit in line because I thought that's what you needed. I can go back to drinking my breakfast if that's what you'd prefer."

"It's not," she scowls back at him. 

"Okay," he nods. "But maybe instead of being two sad people who can't even talk to each other, maybe we can try to be two sad people who are trying to help each other. Who are trying to get better, for each other's sake, if not for our own."   

She nods, unable to speak, and stuffs her face into his side. A muffled “I love you, too. I’m sorry,” eventually emerges.

“You’re sorry? For what?”

She turns her head a little. “For making you marry me. For roping you into Kuchiki family politics.”

He guffaws. “I was the one who told you gettin’ adopted was a good idea, all those years ago. And you shut up about our wedding, I loved our wedding. Fuck Ichigo and his dumb ideas, gettin’ married in secret and fucking over a bunch of nobles was awesome.”

“I liked it, too,” she says in a tiny little voice.

Renji sighs. “Speaking of Ichigo, though… I guess it’s probably about time I go apologize to him, huh?”

“Why is he mad at you anyway?”

“He didn’t think I was doing a very good job of taking care of you. And I got mad at him back because he was right.”

“Do you have to go right now?”

Renji shakes his head, and tightens his arms around her. “Naw," he says. "He can wait. I’m busy right now.”

#1500 follower deleted scenes fest

[sleepless-nxghts]

Mona Lisa

Masterlist

➤ (Highschool AU; Heizou, Kaeya, Albedo, Thoma x G!N Reader) SEPARATE

➤ Little short fics <3

➤ Warnings; None!

“She lives a double life, puts on a show…”

Heizou was the first one to figure you out. He would watch you from afar and up close, trying to see why he would get an odd feeling from you. It’s just, he didn’t realize the odd feeling was because OF you.

The way you would help the teachers and your classmates out with random errands like printing paper or lending a hand to someone doing homework. He loved how respectful and lovely you looked when interacting with people you weren’t as close to versus your friends.

His heart fluttered every time he heard your booming laughter. The sound of your snorts making him let out a chuckle of his own. The way you sounded more… you! It was enough to have him swoon all over you. He wanted to make you laugh like that too!

“Everyone’s lining up to see her…”

Kaeya never thought he’d have such competition with someone who’s taking all of HIS attention. Like sure, he knows that all eyes don’t have to be on him, but he can’t accept the idea someone’s more attractive than him- oh my-

The moment he walked into the door and made eye contact with you, he felt his heart stop as he felt the world spin backwards. He couldn’t help but have a lingering stare as you chuckled awkwardly, “Um.. yes?”

HELL EVEN YOUR VOICE WAS ANGELIC- Poor man cried on the inside in defeat, realizing even he fell for your charm…

“There must be something bout those features…”

Albedo would always find himself making sketches of you in his little portable art journal. He would just zone out and poof! There’s a picture of your smiling face right there or well- everywhere on the page. Your smiling face, sad, angry, pouty, you name it.

He couldn’t stop staring at you features, the way you would simply stand was enough to get him scribbling in his book, occasionally looking up to compare his piece to the real version.

He just couldn’t stop staring at you, no matter how hard he tried.

“You’ll find her beauty goes much deeper, once you get to meet her.”

Thoma couldn’t help but smile when you continued talking about your day and how amazing your project turned out to be. Sure, you both had just met, him being your seat mate, yet he didn’t mind. Well, he loved hearing you ramble!

He learned you liked similar things to him and as well as what classes you’re taking and when. He also loved gazing at your smiling face. Your hand gestures also being cute to watch as you waved them around as you explained a story.

He just loved everything about you.

You’ve reached the end!!

I hope you enjoyed this headcanon fic!! I tried writing for characters I usually don’t write for and I actually like this! Anywho, stay hydrated, my darlings <3

#Spotify #genshin impact #genshin #genshin headcanons #genshin heizou #shikanoin heizou #heizou #heizou x reader #heizou x you #genshin kaeya #kaeya alberich #kaeya #kaeya x reader #kaeya x y/n #genshin albedo #albedo kreideprinz #albedo #albedo x reader #albedo x y/n #genshin thoma #genshin impact thoma #thoma #thoma x reader #thoma x you #fanfic #fanfiction #not proofread #sfw

[islaytonlost]

What Have I Done? LB;MR Fic

First Part, Previous Part, Next Part

Disclamer: Alfendi isnt a representation of DID. Real shooting is bad but I do enjoy a bit of fictional shooting.

----------

It’d been a day since Hilda had seen Alfendi. Ever since he’d been shot he’d grown withdrawn, sometimes he was completely devoid of himself. Maybe she'd been too harsh continuously sending him home instead of letting him stay. They were in the office. No one got hurt in the office, right?

Still, she'd done the right thing. It was regulation. They might ignore it sometimes but Alfendi's health wasn't something she'd ever want to gamble. Him getting shot had been terrible. Working with him made her feel invulnerable sometimes. Every lie, any criminal, no matter who they were he knew. He always knew. Always so happy to work it out. So happy to prove it…

It was why she loved him. His unending devotion. The highs of the chase. He was passionate about this. He would always be passionate about it.

This was different though. He’d always been passionate about her. Rough and rugged and right. She loved that. He would always fight for justice. They could do anything. He made her feel like they could do anything.

Where had that man been in that last interaction? He was confused meek, vulnerable.

She needed to talk to him.

Alfendi had never brought a house. He lived in a small flat at the top of a massive block. Opting to pay for a view over the space. It was easy to walk in. Everyone had seen her before. The crazy woman who seemed to trust their overly aggressive neighbour. Not that she minded. There was always a level of respect in the way they looked at her.

Breaking and entering was illegal but he hadn't answered the door and she was worried and… well she was sure she'd find something. Besides, Alfendi wouldn't press charges against her. 

The place was messy. More than usual. Alfendi wasn't exactly a neat person but he liked things in their place and they weren't in their place. The table was covered in papers. With one in the middle. 

Hilda creeps closer, not exactly knowing why but the paper, a scroll? Looked out of place and some irrational part of her felt like it was watching. She snatches it off the table. Turning it around. 

The grand, extravagant writing was weird. It looked hand written. Hilda scans it, and then spots Alfendi's signature. This warranted some looking.

The fine print was hidden in the embossed sides on the back. It made her heart stop.

He'd thrown Lucy Baker under the bus. This poor young woman's life had been stolen. 

Wasn't she the murder suspect?

"Ain't this illegal? I thought the police didn't break in." An unfamiliar voice calls from the doorway. Hilda turns. Lucy.

She was sporting lime green lipstick which matched her dress. Bold choice, she would be easy to pick up on the cctv.

"I had a key," Hilda lies, "and even if i was it's not as bad as murder."

"Eh, I think it's worse. You go around, loading how much better you are than the rest of us but behind closed doors your just as bad."

"I didn't break in."

"Just like your boyfriend didn't break into the station."

"Where is Alfendi?'

"I were hoping you could tell me that. He's an odd one."

"So you haven't hurt him?"

"Nope! Why ain't you arresting me?"

"I read something on you."

"My file? Ah I'm sure you've seen worse. My parents are loving and alive. Very disappointed in me."

Hilda hesitates.

"What is it?" Lucy sits on the worn down sofa, leaving toward Hilda, "you look concerned."

"I am."

"You can tell me anything."

"No, no I can't Lucy. You're a murderer."

"Not a gossip!"

"How can I even trust that. You've murdered people. This is stupid." Hilda scoffs.

"You're worried about something. Now I am a great catch for a copper like yourself so if I try to share with anyone like you I won't survive will I? I'll find myself all locked up." Lucy stares at Hilda, "come on. Who else is going to listen?"

Lucy was right. She didn't have anyone. She was so utterly involved in her work and she also couldn't tell anyone. Hopefully, maybe, Lucy had the answers.

"I don't think Alfendi is who I thought he was." She admits, "he's changed. Ever since he got shot. I think it has something to do with you."

"I did shoot him." Lucy agrees, sympathetically.

"Not that. Well… he's just different. Look at this," Hilda hands the scroll to Lucy.

The criminal scans it, "You're joking. You're insane."

"Look at the back. It's got the fine print." Hilda's voice comes out horse.

Lucy scans it, "tell me this is a joke."

"Do you know him? Did you know him?"

"There's no way he could have met me," She shakes her head, "I knew you two, after catching Justin. Made you famous."

"Oh, so…" Hilda's voice trails off.

"This isn't real." Lucy’s voice is hard, "my life isn't run by some idiot."

"He couldn't have known."

"He didn't try to know hard enough," Lucy looks it over.

The silence was tense. Fir the moment Lucy and Hilda were in the same side, investigating and exposing Alfendi. She'd never expected to be here.

"He gave up a life working in the mystery room with me, I dreamed of this…" Hilda looks over, wondering what she could say, could she defend Alfendi? "He did some of this for you."

It's an accusation. Lucy was implicating Hilda.

"I never knew. I never would sign something like this!"

"Do you love him? After this do you still live him?"

"...Yes" knew it was an admittance of guilt. She knew Lucy wouldn't respond well.

Lucy was on her feet first. Hand darting to her pocket, Hilda went straight for hhe gun, knowing there was no time for anything else bit Luvy was faster to draw. 

BANG

The bullet scrapes Hilda's neck, drawing blood and pushing her back.

BANG

Brains exploded everywhere, arching into the sky, splattering against the walls, the sofa, the papers, the ground and Lucy herself.

Blood spat out of Hilda for a moment, like a fountain, gushing down her clothes, staring her once pristine blouse scarlett. Her blazer scarlett, her hair matted and scarlett.

Lucy turns, running out.

#professor layton #alfendi layton #hilda pertinax #lucy baker #lbmr #fanfic #lmbr fic #layton brothers mystery room #I've been busy #writing is hard #shooting #I didnt give lucy the gun the writers did #original writers #not me #fictional #gun violence #blood #gore #violence #What have I done? LBMR

[marvellouspinecone]

My first attempt at ficbinding! I'm testing the waters a little bit, finding my way around the craft. I have bound books before, but only blank pages (and one zine i did with a coptic stitch with corrugated cardboard for cover panels, which is not exactly a traditional book).

The fic is a Doctor Who and Star Wars crossover i co-wrote with my best friend, and she made a little illustration, which i included.

The finished thing is a tiny A6 booklet, i made the cover from a gift bag, and old postcard, with double-sided tape sandwiched inbetween. Afaik it's not the most archive-safe method since adhesive from tapes can ruin paper overtime, but i figured both materials are a bit glossy and don't have any writing, so it'd be fine.

I did want to put an image on the cover (like one of those David Tennant stickers lmao), but the floral pattern is so pretty i didn't want to cover that up. Of course, the book needs some info on the cover, and the look doesn't really work with wacky time-space adventures happening in the fic, but i really wanted it to look nice, and it's got everything inside.

The endpapers are my mother's composituon studies from when she was in college, i believe. I've been long looking for a perfect excuse to use one of those special papers.

Overall i'm pretty happy with the project, but there are a couple of things i would do differently next time

the font is way too small for A6 format, even though it looks huge in the word document. I don't think i'd have the same issue with standard A5 though

i left too much space for the spine and now the book doesn't open very easily

the text isn't centered very well, i will have to find a way to print it in a way that would make it more even

a cover would have to be more informative, but right now i don't really know how to do that in a way that doesn't look tacky (i do however have a thing in mind, but it's a very specific vibe that would work only for my next project, i need to find a more universsl solution)

The whole thing went unexpectedly quickly! The process took me about a day from the moment i clicked "copy" and to the final photos, and that time included fighting to death with my printer, i swear this machine hates my guts.

I hope i can encourage other people to make their own bound fanfiction! It's actually so nice to hold your work in your hands.

#ficbinding #bookbinding #doctor who fic #doctor who #star wars fic #star wars

[sansaorgana]

Domestic!Gale figuring out how to build a crib

hello! 💗 thank you so much for this request, I had lots of fun writing it 😂 mr. I can build a homemade crystal radio experiencing problems with building a crib was making me giggle all the time 🤭😌

my inbox is open for blurb/short fic requests for major cleven 🤗

Almost everything had been already prepared in the nursery – Bucky had helped your husband to paint the walls and insulate the window. You had chosen the furniture and decorations and it all looked put together now except for one thing – the crib. You couldn’t find the one that you’d like enough and that would fit in the nursery design. You were slowly running out of time since the baby would come in less than two months so on that weekend Buck took you to one of those big stores in the city. It took two hours to drive there from your town but you promised him that this time you would choose the crib for sure.

“What about this one?” You asked after a while of staring at one of the cribs in front of you. It was light wood and there was a picture of a cute teddy bear on the side.

Your husband furrowed his brows and inspected the price tag. He hummed to himself for a while and began to examine the crib itself, knocking on wood and feeling the texture with his fingertips. You chuckled at the sight – one would think he was a carpenter and therefore an expert.

“So?” You asked, impatiently.

“It’s nice,” Buck admitted and straightened his back. “It’s convertible, too,” he added. “Are you sure you want this one? I won’t be coming back here to return it if you change your mind tomorrow.”

“Oh, I am sure!” You smiled at him and caressed his arm.

“Do you need some help?” The salesman approached you with a smile. “You seem to be interested in this model.”

“Yes, we are. We want to buy it,” Buck told him.

“Excellent,” the salesman nodded his head and pointed at the counter with the cash registers. “I’ll bring one from the storeroom,” he told you and walked away.

“From the storeroom?” Buck furrowed his brows at you. “I thought we could take this one,” he pointed at the crib behind you.

“Don’t be daft, it’s a big city store! They have these for display only,” you sighed and dragged him to the counter, excited to finally make this purchase.

The salesman joined you a moment later, barely holding a huge box with the image of the crib chosen by you printed on it.

“I’m paying all that money and I have to put it together on my own?” Buck asked and you tugged on his sleeve to shush him. The salesman raised an eyebrow at him.

“It’s designed to be assembled quickly and easily, sir,” he assured your husband. “But if you require an additional help, we can–”

“No, thank you,” Buck chuckled at him as he took his wallet out of the pocket. “I don’t need help with such things. I can build a homemade crystal radio out of a wire,” he casually bragged as he put the money on the counter. It was unlike your husband to act like that, so you assumed the salesman had upset him with his insinuation that building a crib would be too difficult to handle.

The salesman widened his eyes as he laid his eyes on you and you rolled his eyes and smiled at him. He relaxed and handed Buck the big box before taking the money. Your husband struggled way less with holding the box than the salesman had.

“Please, wait a second, I need to give you a receipt just in case you want to return,” the salesman brought out some papers.

“I’ll wait in the car,” Buck told you and you nodded at him. He walked away and when he was out of sight, you bit on your lower lip and approached the salesman.

“So… What if building a crib turns out to be more difficult than building a radio?” You asked him.

“There’s a manual inside the box. And a phone number in that manual. The factory that made that crib produces lots of furniture and they have a hotline for people experiencing problems.”

“Thank you,” you smiled at him and got the receipt.

Buck was determined to put the crib together on the same day. When you walked inside the house, he brought the box upstairs as you followed him.

“Gale, I’m about to prepare dinner now. It can wait for tomorrow,” you leaned on the doorframe of the nursery.

“Oh, please, baby, it’s gonna take me five minutes. You won’t even boil the water before I finish,” he opened the box and discarded the manual as he threw it across the room.

“Buck, I’d rather you not…” you crouched down clumsily to pick the manual up. “I mean it, Gale. I know you’re good at such things and you have nothing to prove,” you sighed. “I wish you assembled this crib according to the manual because I want it to be safe for the baby,” you pointed out.

“Go, make dinner. You can inspect later if I did it right if you know so much about building cribs,” he looked up at you. He was more playful than rude but you were sick of his attitude anyway. You threw your hands up in the air to show defeat.

“You know as much as me about building cribs… but fine,” you rolled your eyes and left the nursery with the manual still in your hands.

You went downstairs to boil the water for the pasta and began to work on the tomato sauce. Fifteen minutes later the food was ready but your husband was not.

“Gale!” You called for him. “The food is ready!”

“Give me five more minutes!” He shouted down and you nodded to yourself.

Five minutes later, you called for him again.

“Gale, I’m hungry!”

“Eat without me!” He answered in a tone more frustrated than before.

So you did eat alone and even washed the dishes while his plate still was on the table. You sighed and walked back upstairs.

“Baby, your food’s getting cold,” you entered the nursery and then you gasped at the sight of his focused and angry face and all the screws scattered all over the floor. The pieces of the crib were not put together almost at all. “Jesus, Gale,” you laughed and he looked up at you. His anger turned into embarrassment as he blushed immediately.

“I’ve never seen furniture like that! Don’t laugh at me, it’s the new generation or something,” he mumbled.

“Buck, baby…” you chuckled at him as you approached him to fix his ruffled hair. “Go downstairs and eat. We can deal with that tomorrow, alright?”

“Yeah,” he nodded and sighed in defeat.

You turned the light off and closed the door before going back downstairs after your husband. You sat by the table with him and watched him eat.

“Is it not too cold? I can heat it up for you,” you proposed.

“It’s fine,” he shook his head. He was still blushing and visibly avoiding your gaze.

“You know, in the manual, there’s a phone number. We can call them tomorrow, they have a hotline for people experiencing problems and…” you started.

“I’d rather die than call them,” Buck looked up as he told you, seriously.

“There’s no shame in not knowing everything, Gale,” you chuckled softly.

“It’s about honour,” he shook his head.

“Honour? Baby, for God’s sake, it’s only a crib!” You rolled your eyes. “Anyway, I can call them and pretend that it’s me experiencing problems.”

“You will not do such a thing,” Buck pointed his finger at you, sternly. “I can start following the manual, fine, but I will not call any hotline. And you will not either.”

“Okay, okay…” You rolled your eyes again at him. “But you’re so stubborn sometimes.”

“I’m the father of this baby and I will build that crib myself,” he told you.

“Alright, but I don’t mind calling the hotline, just so you know. It won’t change anything for me and I won’t tell anyone about it if it’s so important to you,” you assured your husband.

“It is important to me and it will change everything for me,” he stated.

That night before sleep, instead of reading a book, Buck was analysing the manual.

After breakfast you both went back to the nursery. You sat in the armchair with the manual book in your hands and watched Gale gather all the scattered screws to put them back in one place.

“Now, I will read the steps and you will do what I tell you, yes?” You asked for confirmation of the plan you two had for this special task.

“Yes, sir,” he nodded playfully and you chuckled at him.

With your help – and the pictures in the manual – fifteen minutes later the crib seemed to be already assembled. You stood up to examine it but it was stable and balanced properly. You showed Buck where you wanted it to stand and he moved it to that very spot as he stared at his creation proudly.

“You see? No hotline was needed,” he told you and put his hands on his hips.

“No, no hotline,” you approached him and put your arms around him to hug him tight. “Just listening to your wife, hm?”

“Yeah,” Buck chuckled and kissed the top of your head, “just listening to my wife.”

MASTERLIST || BUCK MASTERLIST

#sansaorgana: Answered #lovely anons #*buck #lilysfiction #austin butler x reader #gale cleven x reader

[crowfeatherquill]

Spider and Songbird Behind The Scenes: Currency! (Courtesy of Jackelope)

You may have noticed that in the most recent chapter of Spider and Songbird, money is exchanged for goods and services. Furthermore, you may have noticed that that money is Called Something Specific. That would be because Kel (@colormywords) has an economics degree and a passion for making sure all the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it details get just as much polish as the rest of the fic.

The essay you’re about to read outlines the process by which they figured out not only what the money should be called, but roughly how much money is being exchanged. Personally? I could never. But they can and did and now it’s here in front of you. Enjoy! Or else :)

‘Tis I, the nerd! In trying to decide what to call the currency in our modern setting, I thought long and hard about how much I wanted to be like this meme and call our currency coin or gold like it really is in Baldur’s Gate and how much I wanted it to be more unique in name.  I knew that gold was called Dragons in Waterdeep because I ran a Waterdeep based campaign once and know far too much about the City of Splendor (there’s more than one reason I love Gale) so I just kind of casually googled if Baldur’s Gate had the same thing. I found this fellow nerd with a similar question and went from there. If you don’t want to look at the analysis the title is enough: there’s no definitive canon spot where it says what Baldur’s Gate currency was called, but they did trade in Trade Bars. Further research (don’t knock my academic writing) showed that Baldur’s Gate set the standard weight for silver trade bars in the Sword Coast and possibly beyond (there’s only so many books I can read). 

For a list of the full terms of coins as collected by a few people, you can check this link or this one. 

With that established, I thought about how the British currency got its name (the pound). After researching to make sure I wasn’t fully insane about how that came about, the pound was the monetary value of one pound of silver (a fortune at the time). It retained the name after the UK established the currency with gold backing, in other words keeping enough gold somewhere in a vault that amounted to the total minted currency in the country. More recently, most economies have entered fiat currency, basically the principle of saying “bro you know I’m good for it” when they print their money. 

So imagining that Baldur’s Gate had a similar economic history: they started with physical trade bars with a government set weight and monetary value. They changed to paper because of convenience but continued to hold that much physical money in a vault somewhere and the single paper bill was equivalent to a 2lb Trade Bar represented in that vault. As they moved into the modern era and realized printed money was infinite but resources like silver and gold were limited they began practicing fiat backed currency. The paper is called a trade bar or bar because that’s what it represented so that’s what it was always called. Because the physical bars were 5 inches long they could be easily cut into inches and separated that way for partial payments back in the day so the biggest coins are bar fifths (think if the US did .20c fifths instead of .25c quarters) 

So Dehlia gets 10gp roughly in tips for her 5 song set. Now in the time BG3 is set, a “poor” lifestyle is 73gp a year. So does Dehlia earn 1/7th (roughly) of scraping together a living in 15 minutes? Making the fractions fract (not the verb for that using it anyway) 73gp/yr for a poor lifestyle should equal 1800L/yr (the 2022 UK poverty line not including housing). So by that estimation it’s 0.0406~ gp per L. So, Dehlia’s 10gp equivalent trade bar equals roughly 0.41L. Hardly enough for a tea or coffee. So then we take into account inflation! With inflation at roughly 1.3% a year, that takes the .41 to 333L. Which… also doesn’t make any sense. So we went digging for more nerds! And it turns out the math for a gold piece doesn’t make too much sense. http://www.kenthedm.com/blog/2019/8/7/how-much-is-a-gold-piece-worth-5e https://medium.com/@Swizzler/what-is-a-dungeons-and-dragons-gold-piece-worth-in-modern-dollars-fcd7670b285b 

Some other people have put a lot of thought into how money maths. And they end up with a 1492 (ish) gold piece would be worth about 35$ or 100$ based on whether you consider it across the economy or tied in worth specifically to food. The more conservative of which put us much closer to what our above math works out to. But is a nonsense amount for Dehlia to just carry in her pocket. 

So how do we get from a trade bar being equal to 10 gp and therefore 333L to a reasonable number? Well I arbitrarily decided to move the decimal up another place, putting into canon a world in which the trade bar at some point stopped being worth 10gp but instead became a stand in for a single gp. A trade bar is now worth roughly 33L. More than enough for a coffee while also not being a ridiculous number. I also decided to never try and make fictional currency make sense again.  

#bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #cults and coffee shops #spider and songbird