#it's hard to justify spending time writing fic when i have no time and get no feedback/attn so ig it'll be original when i do get to it

[altfire]

i do wanna start writing again btw. idk what or when. but i do want to

#watch your feet #this year was a toughie idk what to tell u #once im settled in at work #i will. Try to find time #im not gonna even try nano this year lol #it's hard to justify spending time writing fic when i have no time and get no feedback/attn so ig it'll be original when i do get to it #idk tho. idk #i gotta stop askin ''if there's anything u wanna see lmk!!!'' i should accept silence as an answer #ANYWAY im going 2 bed gnight

[mangoshorthand]

Love your fics so much good lord 🫶🏻 especially your latest smut one. Which made me remember how S3 had some kinda unnecessary sex jokes.. like when Klaus told Five about Lila and Diego doing it one the stairs and Five said yeah I get it everybody was banging everybody last night 😭 kinda had to imagine Five and his wife drinking and spending the night together as well and getting the love he deserves. Not sure if its a smut request you’re interested in but i loved the wedding episode.

Awh- thanks. You're a sweetie! ❤️ I stuck a little twist on this one- I hope that's ok! I have a quirk as an author in that I don't like to explicitly contradict canon plus I would like Five to be physically 18+ canonically when I write about him. We have fluff and mild, romantic smut. Schmaltzier than I'd usually produce, but we all need a little schmaltz now and again.

If Tonight Was Our Last | Five Hargreeves/ F Reader 2.4k words, Rated M

All in all, Diego and Lila’s wedding had been like them: informal, loud and chaotic. The ceremony part was executed in the courthouse as quick as humanly possible in order to get to the important part: dancing and partying in the punk nightclub they’d hired for the evening. 

Five hovered awkwardly by the bar. He was wearing what, on reflection, was an entirely inappropriate tuxedo and was becoming uncomfortably sweaty. He watched the crowd dancing to The Sex Pistols, Lila jumping and headbanging with a crazed look in her eye and Diego drinking shot after shot with Luther. He himself ordered a martini and was stirring it with his olive awkwardly, wondering when he could justify leaving. 

There was a joy in being part of this family that Five didn’t always appreciate: it presented him countless opportunities to exercise his brain with a conundrum. He knew that spending over forty years in the apocalypse was preferable to both, but whether Lila and Diego's wedding was worse than Luther and Sloane’s, he couldn’t yet decide. 

But when his eyes found you, screaming along with Johnny Rotten about how the queen of England wasn’t a human being, he knew that this sweaty, musty club was the only place in the world he’d choose to be right now. You caught his eye, face lighting up and worked your way across the dancefloor towards him. On the way, you stole a tequila slammer off the tray beside Luther and presented it to Five. 

Before you pulled him onto the dancefloor with you, he knocked back the shot and chased it with his remaining half martini. Perhaps it was the booze or maybe your hyperactive vibes were infectious, because Five let loose and spent the rest of the night dancing along with The Clash.  He got bashed and buffeted by the crowd and his siblings. Since then, Five had drunk heavily. Even if he had a slow start, he more than caught up with the rest of you. 

He kissed you several times throughout the evening, when his adrenaline was high and the music pumped with it through his veins. The kisses were hard, boisterous and joy-filled. Once, he lifted you off your feet with the force of it, earning him a small shove from Diego for ‘lowering the tone of the evening’. 

Viktor, the only one of you who stayed sober enough to be responsible, had shepherded first Lila and Diego to their hotel room, and then everyone else back to the Academy. He left you and Five still drinking in one of the lesser-used sitting rooms that was occupied by Reginald in years gone by.

A large order of fries and the journey home had sobered you up, but Five’s hand swayed as he tried to pour a glass of his father’s cognac, spilling it all over the side table.

“Ah shit. That was Hennesy,” he murmured, regretfully, wiping it up with a bar towel. He’d already discarded his jacket and now his hand fumbled at his bow tie, removing it and tucking into his pants pocket.

“You shouldn’t have any more,” you said, from the armchair. Your voice was slightly hoarse from having to shout to be heard all night, “you’ve been drinking like it’s your last night on earth.”

Five returned to the handsome chaise lounge with the little drink he’d managed to successfully pour, laughing softly.

“No I haven’t. That was the last wedding I went to.”

“Luther and Sloane’s?” you asked, tentatively. 

Five nodded. 

He didn’t like to talk about it often. The period following his return to 2019 was a chaotic tumble through timelines and apocalypses. You knew Luther and Sloane got married under the impression that they would all die the next day, but you hadn’t ever asked Five for details. Tonight, however, he seemed open to it. 

“When you got twenty-four to forty-eight hours left to live,” he said, laughing reminiscently,  “there’s no point in holding back.

I sorta remember making this…punch out of vodka, gin, coconut rum and god knows what else. I drank the whole bowl," he laughed, "Well, wouldn’t you? ” he asked, catching your disapproving eye.

You rocked your head from side to side, weighing it up.

“Probably,” you admitted, “I just don’t like to think about it. As it turned out, you all survived anyway. But that would have been no good if you died from alcohol poisoning.”

He took your hand in the gap between the two pieces of furniture. 

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t, but right then it seemed like a good option.”

You caught his eyes, deep tonight, and saw that he wasn’t as drunk as you thought. His lips twitched into a sad smile as he continued.

“I guess I had nothing else to do. They were all pairing off: Luther and Sloane, Lila and Diego, Klaus and alternate Ben-” he caught your expression and amended himself, “-I don’t mean boning, necessarily…” and then he looked nauseated, “oh god, I really hope not, anyway.”

“You’re a weird family,” you said, matter-of-factly.

“That we are.” he agreed, “At least four of them were going at it, anyway, and there I was trapped in the body of an extra from Bugsy Malone: hormonal, horny as hell and living the last few hours of my life. What is a self-respecting guy supposed to do?”

“Drink and jerk off?”

“Drink and jerk off, correct. You know me so well.”

You smiled, leaned over and poured yourself a small cognac.

“Sounds lonely for your last night on earth.”

He shrugged, reciprocating your raised glass to him before you took a sip. The honey-smelling warmth of the cognac went down nice and easy, even after the tequila and fries.

Five looked into his drink.

“What would you do?” he said, almost too quietly to hear, “on your last night on earth, I mean.”

You don’t hesitate, “I’d spend it with you.”

He smiled down into his glass. It’s one of his arrogant smiles masking the real emotion beneath.

“Of course you would.”

You could always tell when he was hiding emotion by the spots of  delicate color he developed high in his cheeks.

“And what about you?” you asked, gently.

He considered, the smile still playing around his lips.

“I’d probably drink and jerk off.”

You laughed and stretched out in the chair, closing your eyes and enjoying the feeling of being there with him. After a quiet minute, his voice sounded again.

smut below cut

“I’d make love to you.”

You turned your head to look at him, still starting into his drink. It’s not a term you’d ever heard him use before. In day-to-day conversation, he referred to sex as ‘boning’, ‘banging’ or occasionally used a trite metaphor like ‘making the beast with two backs.’ Even in the throes of passion, you’d only ever heard him say that he wanted to ‘fuck’ you.

He looked at you, eyes speaking a depth of feeling you hoped you would never be able to fully share. The look in his eyes brought home the weight of what he was saying: Five knew what it was to face the end of everything. He was saying this with that experience behind him. 

“If tonight was our last, I’d want you to know what you mean to me…except words can be blunt instruments, so I’d want to show you…”

He trailed off.

You put down your drink and, drawn like a magnet to his bared vulnerability, joined him on the couch. Eyes not leaving this, you raised your hand to cup his face. As he closed his eyes, you kissed him on the corner of his mouth, hoping that the touch of your lips against him conveyed what you were feeling. 

With his eyes still closed, he leaned into your touch almost wearily, rubbing his cheek against your hand and letting out a long breath through his nose.

“Show me now,” you whispered, “as if tonight was our last night.”

Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, and he fixed you with his unwavering gaze. Though the room was dimly lit, what little light there was reflected in his eyes. Without another word, he leaned in and pressed his mouth to yours in a soft, tender kiss. His warm lips brushed yours, feather-light. You responded to him eagerly, meeting his affection with your own and wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. 

He deepened the kiss, hands beginning to roam. He caressed you, palms exploring the contours of your body; the landscape of hills and valleys. Though he’d done this countless times before, his touch felt somehow new: sending trembling, fluttering energy across your body. His breath was sweet, tasting of the cognac: you felt and savored the warmth of his mouth on yours 

As the kiss reached its peak, you felt a rush of emotion you hadn’t expected: though he was gentle, cherishing and loving, you could nevertheless feel a flavor of desperation behind this kiss. It was as if this really was it; as if tonight really was the last night. He was right: words weren’t enough, and this was the most important thing you and he would ever say to each other. 

His fingers became more urgent, slipping beneath your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin beneath. You raised your arms and he lifted it carefully over your head, unable to resist leaning in and peppering your newly exposed skin with kisses before he fully removed it.

Meanwhile, one of your hands popped open the buttons of his shirt while the other traced the lines of his chest and pectorals. When his stomach was revealed, you pulled the fabric apart and snaked both hands in, reveling in his warmth and the soft smattering of hair disappearing into his pants.

Your hands moved in unison, undressing each other with sensual eagerness: not too fast, not too slow, only keen to feel each new inch of flesh as it was exposed. As he reached around to unhook your bra, you worked on freeing him from his pants. You could already feel the arousal beneath. 

Before you could remove the fabric around him, he leaned in and captured your newly bared nipple, gently licking and sucking on it. You couldn’t help but moan, even despite the necessity of keeping your voice low. His hand came to rub and softly press your other breast, feeling your shape in the palm of his hand. 

At last, you pulled him from his pants, stroking his shaft gently and feeling him grow even harder at your touch. His breath stuttered around your breast. 

At last, you sat beside each other naked. His kisses felt like moths’ wings across your breasts, your collarbone, your neck. He leaned towards you, urging you gently backwards until your back hit the velvet of the chaise. You pulled him to you and kissed him again, caressing his lips with your own. When he pulled back, you were surprised to see tears pricking the corner of his eyes. 

When he spoke, looking at you with those earnest, sad eyes, it was in a whisper. You had the sense that he didn’t trust his voice any louder.

“If tonight were our last night, I’d want to kiss you like that.”

You stroked his face again and he briefly closed his eyes, one of the tears forming into a drop and running slowly down his cheek. When he opened them, he shifted his kneeling position and you spread your thighs to accommodate him. 

“What else would you do?” you asked, your own voice not much more than a whisper. 

He lowered himself so that your bodies were pressed together, skin on skin and warmth on warmth. 

“I’d want you like this,” he said, “I’d want to be inside you.”

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him gently to you and entwining your body with his. He entered you slowly and you let out identical exhales. It was a feeling like coming home after a long day. Five gave a pleasurable wince as the clenching of your walls had its effect on him: perfect intensity.

As he moved in you, as you moved together, every caress was a whispered affirmation of love; every twinge of pleasure a promise kept. Each of his slow, sensual thrusts was a pledge of undying devotion. The slow build of your orgasm was a life of love and loyalty spent together.

He buried his head in your neck, simultaneously breathing you in and hiding his tears. Your arms wrapped themselves over his back, your hand finding the back of his head and holding him safely to you as, inside you, the twin heats of love and of pleasure bloomed.

“I’ve got you, baby.” you whispered, inhaling the clean smell of his hair. 

With your arms and legs wrapped around him this way, you met his hips with your own, giving him the same promises he gave to you. You kissed his temple, wrapping yourself around him more snugly. Wrapped in the warmth of your shared love, your bodies writhed together. From his stuttering breath and increasing tension, you could tell he was nearing his peak. You could feel his heart beating against your chest like that of a small animal. 

He gave an ecstatic cry and exploded inside you, body shuddering in the current of his release. As he came, he kissed and licked at your neck, unrefined and uncontrolled but desperate to taste some part of you. Finally, he collapsed onto the couch, his full weight upon you, trying to catch his breath in short gasps. 

“If tonight was our last night,” he mumbled, after a few moments to compose himself, “I’d want to savor it. I'd hope not to come after two minutes like that.”

You smiled into his hair.

“Lucky tonight isn’t our last night,” you said. 

Responding to the pang of shame in his voice, however, you continued more seriously.

“If tonight was our last night, I’d die happy after that. No, really,” you said, responding to his disbelieving snort, “that was…”

You didn’t need to finish. The awe and love in your tone was enough of a balm.

You could lie here forever with his warm weight on top of you, your bodies still connected with him still inside you. You could be happy here, with his breath in your ear and your hand in his hair. If tonight was your last night, you would have lived a whole lifetime in it.

Request Masterlist >> HERE

NOTE: I take Five requests, I'm fairly versatile in what I write (fluff, smut, angst, psychological character study- I'll try it all) but I will consider them on a case by case basis. See masterlist for request status and more.

#the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy imagine #umbrella academy x reader #the umbrella academy smut #the umbrella academy five #umbrella academy number five #umbrella academy five x reader #umbrella academy five x you #five hargreaves x you #five hargreaves x reader #number five imagine #five hargreeves imagine #number 5 imagine #number 5 x reader #number five x you #five hargreeves x f reader

[strwberri-milk]

First time requesting so sorry if this sounds weird I just really love how you write Kaeya😭 I’m on an angst-comfort kick so I was wondering if you’d be down to write a fic or Drabble of Kaeya essentially falling out of love with reader and breakup. BUT THEN like a few months or years later they see each other and like try to rekindle things! All good if you can’t/don’t want to though 😭

another pointer towards amidst my memory!! it is more smut based so i got you. a little drabble here that’s just going to be the getting back together like?? first date ish vibes :D

When the two of you broke up, a part of you refused to believe that it was really happening. Kaeya, the Kaeya that devoted his entire being to you, the man that showed you what it means to love someone with your entire being? Leaving you? You couldn’t understand what made him change his mind so abruptly, why when you tried to talk to him about the fact that he became so distant he simply shrugged his shoulders and told you he didn’t love you anymore. You wish he could have at least told you sooner, prevented you from spending even a day more with him than he would have to.

The cold look in his eye paired with the way he closed his body off to you just solidified things for you and you decided then that if that’s how he felt about you then you could walk away from him too.

That didn’t stop you from missing him occasionally as time went by, dating other people casually but never knowing if you’d ever feel the same way about them the way you did Kaeya. The two of you just understood each other on a level you never thought you could recreate with anybody else, no matter how badly you wished it could work out. Instead, you just let it be and waited patiently for the day that you would feel that spark again.

You thought that if you saw him again, you’d be okay. You went out of your way to avoid him and that worked for the most part, knowing that seeing him would just reopen old wounds that you didn’t want to deal with right now. However, when he taps you on your shoulder with that soft smile on his face that used to be just for you it invites butterflies rather than nerves.

“Hey. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

You don’t have the heart to tell him that somewhere along the way you stopped counting the days until his return, nodding stiffly as you try to escape his attention.

“It has. I’m sure you’re busy with work though so I’ll leave you to it.”

He can feel the way your eyes graze over his form, chest puffing a little in pride at the reminder that he’s worked hard his entire life and even if he is on the slimmer side, he has the muscles to show for it. You can easily see how he’s grown to fill out his clothes more, hands resting on his hips as he shifts his weight to one foot in a way that always seemed to fluster you.

“Not at the moment. I really wanted to see you again and I’m glad I caught you when I did,” he says with a touch of sadness, biting his lip slightly when your brows furrow.

“You wanted to see me again? After what happened I can’t help but doubt that,” you scoff lightly, rolling your eyes.

“I know. I’m sorry for what I said to you. I thought I didn’t love you anymore but I think I was just…afraid of messing things up.” Your ears perk up as he says that, blinking at him incredulously.

“You were just so good to me I started to justify everything nice you did as something malicious. I loved you, I still do. I just ruined everything because I was worried that one day things would end and I’d be caught by surprise and i just couldn’t do that, not with you.”

His hand twitches and you know that he wants to reach out and take your hand in his to interlace your fingers together and you want that more than you thought you ever could in this moment but you keep your hand at your side, Kaeya doing the same as he tries to continue to explain himself.

“I don’t expect us to start over completely, or for you to give me another chance but just know that if you wanted it, I’d say yes.”

His voice is earnest and you can’t hear anything over the rushing of your blood in your ears as you try to process his question. He’s not forcing you to do anything, simply standing in front of you nervously. You can read him much better now than before, recognizing that he was choosing not to hide behind a mask this time. He’s being truthful, trying to earn your trust back.

“Kaeya, I don’t know…” you start, sighing a little as he laughs nervously.

“I know. That’s why I’m telling you I don’t expect you to make a decision or expect you to say yes. Really, this is my last ditch attempt to get you to take me back but I know I don’t have much of a shot. I don’t think you waited for me and I don’t expect you would have. It’s fine, really.”

He starts to run again, turning away from you to hide the hurt that he feels despite his words. He really doesn’t want to make you feel like you owe him anything but he can’t deny the sting from your rejection no matter how much he might want to.

“I want to try again,” you mumble quietly, reaching out to take his hand.

He can’t believe his ears, wouldn’t if it weren’t for the loose hold of his fingers in yours.

“I want to try us again. I’ve missed you too.”

Those words make his heart sing again and despite the overwhelming urge to hug you tightly and pepper you in kisses he simply smiles at you, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Thank you. I make sure you never regret it. I’ll spend the rest of my life giving you my love.”

It was those words that sang in your ear years later with the chiming of bells, Kaeya’s lips firmly pressed against yours in the shower of flower petals and well wishes.

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #kaeya x reader #kaeya alberich x reader

[tokkias]

jealous bone ship: natsu dragneel x lucy heartfilia summary: The sight of Natsu with another woman, her hand running up his thigh and her less than innocent flirtatious giggles makes Lucy sick to her stomach. She knows that he doesn't belong to her, she has no right to feel the way she does, but seeing another women try to get romantically involved with her best friend makes her think that if anyone should be filling that role, it should be her. ao3

like a month or so ago i asked @celestialulu to pick a fic off of my list to write and she picked this one. i didn't forget about it, it just ended up being double the length i originally intended it to be..... i hope it meets ur expectations :]

It was supposed to be a nice outing, a fun way to spend their last night in Crocus before they were to head back in the morning.

And it was, for the most part, anyway.

Sting had recommended a bar in the middle of town with good vibes and even better drinks, and Lucy was more than willing to see off their trip with a few more cocktails than she could handle. Natsu had been happy to tag along, as he always was, not exactly keen to spend the evening alone at the inn.

The two had quickly come to the conclusion that Sting had in fact been justified in his praises, with a shot of fire whiskey that had a delicious burn going down and a fruity little cocktail that Lucy was certain she could get sloshed on without even noticing.

It seemed as though everyone else in Crocus had had the same idea that night, with every seat in the establishment occupied and chatter filling the air.

The bartender slid over a plate of fries Natsu had ordered earlier, and Lucy wasted no time in helping herself to some.

"Hey, those are mine," Natsu scolded, but didn’t make any attempt to stop her nonetheless.

Lucy merely flashed him a coy smile and continued to steal off of his plate. If it were anyone else, he would have stopped her in her tracks, by force if he had to, but Lucy was already well aware that she held a coveted position at the top of the list of people Natsu was willing to share his food with, and she was going to take advantage of that.

"You want one?"

He didn’t reply; only opened his mouth up for her to share with him. Picking up his cue, she tossed one into his mouth, which he caught with no issue before chomping down on it and flashing Lucy a wide grin as she giggled along to his antics.

Natsu’s hand moved to the basket, picking up another chip or two, which she simply assumed were to feed himself, only to be pleasantly surprised when he held them out for her.

"Open up."

Lucy promptly did as she was told, and Natsu responded in turn by flicking them into her mouth, though her catch wasn’t as successful as his as it dropped down into her lap, where she looked down at it with a pout on her face.

Flagging down the bartender, Lucy ordered one, two, three more of those delectable cocktails. The drunken flush was quick to take hold on Lucy, who was already feeling the alcohol that she certainly couldn’t taste. It hadn’t hit her too hard yet, but she certainly felt slightly wobbly, something that was made evident by her poor aim the next time she tried to toss a fry at Natsu, sending it right over his shoulder where it hit the man sitting next to him, who was none the wiser as the duo burst into a fit of giggles together.

When a lull in the conversation hit, Lucy shuffled uncomfortably in her seat slightly, glancing around the bar until she finally located the restroom.

"I have to pee," she told him, holding onto his shoulder for balance as she hopped off the stool.

He nodded in understanding before she tottered off to the bathroom, pushing her way through the crowd. She was prompt and quick with it, keen to get back to Natsu so she could continue to order them shots until she got so hammered that he had to carry her back to the inn.

Lucy could have sworn she had been gone no more than five minutes before she returned to find her seat taken by another girl who was currently engaged in a more-than-friendly conversation with her partner.

Natsu could talk to whoever he wanted to; she had no control or say over his autonomy; he didn’t "belong" to her. It didn’t matter how many people mistook them for a couple, Natsu was still very much an eligible bachelor, and without Lucy by his side, he certainly looked the part. Lucy knew that, but that didn’t stop the horrible sinking feeling in her stomach as she watched this woman practically drool all over Natsu.

Her actions held no subtlety to them; even Natsu, as oblivious as he was, knew what was going on; she was certain of it. She swooned over how big and strong he was, and he was more than accepting of her praises, willing to indulge her with stories of his epic adventures as she gasped in awe as he recounted tales that Lucy already knew because she was there when they happened. She laughed when he spoke, an overexaggerated giggle covered by one hand as the other bashfully brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, laughing at something Lucy was certain wasn’t all that funny.

It wasn’t the flirting or giggling that got under her skin, though; it was the touches. It was the way she’d lightly bat his arm as she laughed at his tales, the way her hand came to rest on his thigh as she leant forwards, no doubt relishing in the comforting heat his body emanated as her fingertips trailed up, up, up his thigh. Natsu shifted slightly but otherwise didn’t stop her, and suddenly Lucy felt like she was going to vomit.

Every part of her brain was telling her to look away, save herself the pain, and pretend she hadn’t noticed, but the scene was like a train wreck that she couldn’t tear her eyes away from.

Natsu had never shown interest in women before, or at least, she hadn’t thought he had, but maybe it was because he’d never been given the chance to. The women at the guild were his family, it would be weird for them to show an interest in them, and his time spent outside the guild left him little time for socialising. Perhaps Lucy’s assumption had been one made with insufficient evidence because now, watching him indulge a random flirt at a bar, she was questioning everything she thought she knew about him.

She was so used to his undivided attention, to being the one attached to his hip, to being the only girl Natsu was willing to even give the time of day to, that suddenly seeing him with another woman made her suddenly feel... inadequate. Almost as if her place in her life had been taken along with that stupid barstool she had been sitting in just a moment prior—that she had been replaced.

That was a stupid thought. There was no way that Natsu finding himself a woman was going to change the relationship they had. Sure, he might have less time for her, and they probably couldn’t go out for dinner together like they always did, and he couldn’t spend the night in bed with her anymore, and he wouldn’t hold her hand or spontaneously put his arms around her, or tuck her head beneath his chin when he held her.

But she could live without those things.

Maybe.

So why did the thought of losing that make her want to cry in the middle of this bar?

She was just drunk; that was it. She couldn’t think straight. She was just confusing all of these feelings she had for Natsu with love.

Because there’s no way she was in love with Natsu.

Right?

Lucy didn’t want him to go home with that girl, or anyone else for that matter.

Just her.

The mere thought of it made her skin crawl. It wasn’t like she expected Natsu to bed some random stranger, but the thought of it wouldn’t leave her head, and it just felt so… gross.

Perhaps it was the alcohol flowing through her veins—the dose of liquid courage—that, in her jealous frenzy, compelled her to do something she would never have done otherwise.

She licked her lips slightly to replace the glossy sheen that had been lost on the rim of her glass throughout the night and mustered her best doe-eyed look before finally approaching Natsu. Her hand gently grazed his arm, capturing his attention before it ran down his bicep and down to his hand, her fingertips brushing against the back of it. Perhaps if she had let herself order just one more cocktail, she might have mustered the courage to intertwine his fingers with hers, but she was already pushing her luck with her cutesy showing; if she had done that, he would have known for sure something was up.

"Natsu?" She pouted, "Can you take me home now, please?"

"Everything okay?" He asked, brows furrowed in concern.

"I‘m just tired," she answered, not wanting to elaborate any further on why she needed to cut their outing short.

He gave her an unconvinced look, confused by her sudden change in demeanour, but didn’t choose to press her any further.

"Alright," he conceded.

Lucy tried her best to hold back the sigh of relief trying to pass through her lips now that her plan had succeeded. She’d never done something quite so… manipulative before, if you could even call it that. Regardless of whether it was or wasn’t, doing so still planted a seed of guilt in her stomach, ready to grow into something bigger and more sinister. She didn’t like the feeling, but there was no going back now. She couldn’t simply apologise to the girl, give her Natsu back to her, and pretend that it was all a big misunderstanding. She was in too deep now, the seed sewn within her consciousness.

Before that seed could sprout, however, it was quickly kicked through the dirt at the feeling of Natsu’s arm thrown around her shoulder, pulling her comfortably into his side, just like he always did.

"Oh."

The soft voice came from the very girl seated where Lucy had once been. She could see the realisation in her eyes as she watched her ease into the space between Natsu’s arm and torso, fitting so comfortably in there as if it were a spot made for her.

"I didn’t know you had a girlfriend."

There came the eternal line, the obvious assumption that everyone else seemed to make. The one thing that Lucy would scramble to correct every time she heard it.

But she didn’t this time.

Seemingly following her lead, neither did Natsu.

Tonight, she would let herself fill that role.

The side of her head nestled comfortably against Natsu’s chest, arms wrapped around his torso as they walked, their steps in tandem even as she clung to his side. The night air was cool against her skin, but Natsu’s unusually high body heat kept her warm as she clung to his side. Lucy was simply content to continue on as they were the rest of the way to the inn, to enjoy his company, and to not bring up what had just happened.

Ever.

The silence was never uncomfortable between them; they were both happy to enjoy each other's company without the burden of banter, and tonight was no exception. Lucy fully expected the quiet to follow them home, where they would exchange sleepy goodnights before heading off to rest for the night. That expectation was quickly dashed when she finally heard Natsu speak up for the first time since they left the bar.

"What’s wrong?"

Moving her gaze from the path in front of them, Lucy looked up at him and saw a look of concern painted across his face.

"What? No, nothing’s wrong," she tried to reassure. "Why would anything be wrong?"

"Because you’re trembling," he pointed out. "And you haven’t let go of me since we left."

Her breath got caught in her throat as she realised that he had realised something was up. She didn’t even notice she was shaking until he pointed it out to her.

"Did something happen while you were in the bathroom?" He asked, concern growing in his voice and becoming evident on his face. "Do you need me to go back there and kick someone’s ass?"

"Like I said, I’m just tired," Lucy repeated, guilt returning to gnaw on her consciousness as she saw just how much worry she had caused him.

It wasn’t technically a lie, but it wasn’t the entire truth either. It’s not like she could tell him what was really on her mind. What would she even say?

Seeing you talk to that girl made me so sick that if I didn’t get both of us out of there immediately, I was going to throw up or do something stupid. Maybe both.

He probably wouldn’t even believe her anyway. Lucy wasn’t a vindictive person; she would never hurt a hair on someone’s head without good reason, and being a little jealous over the way she touched him hardly constituted a good reason. It wasn’t like her to get jealous, either. She had everything she wanted in life, so much to be grateful for, she didn’t have the right to be jealous, so why was she feeling this way?

Because Natsu was the best thing she had ever had.

That was why.

Because in her stupid will to keep things the way they were, she’d convinced herself that what she was feeling towards him wasn’t love and that these feelings would pass. But she didn’t want to keep things the way they were, did she? Seeing someone else have the courage to take the step that Lucy was too afraid to take was the wake-up call she needed. If she wasn’t going to take what she wanted, then someone else would.

They’d stopped walking, their feet instead planted on the sidewalk, lit only by the moonlight and a nearby flickering streetlamp. Natsu was looking down at her, clearly unconvinced by her weak excuse and concerned by her silence, as she seemed lost deep within the trenches of thought.

Her gaze rose to meet his, and she was met with a reminder of how pretty his eyes were, even as they were clouded with worry over her. His hair, wild as it was, framed his face perfectly, making him look so pretty in the gentle moonlight, even as he looked down at her in concern. It was deceptively soft—she was well aware of that from hours spent tangling her fingers through it on long train rides. His lips looked so soft, like they would feel perfect against hers, and she wished in this moment they weren’t curved into a frown so she could catch a glimpse of that smile of his that made her melt every. single. time. Oh, he was so handsome that it made her heart ache.

Natsu was everything she could ever want wrapped up in a perfect little package, and in her fear of losing that, she had inadvertently nearly done exactly that. If she wanted to keep him for real, she needed to let him know exactly what she wanted.

With the vodka still lingering in her system, just enough to override any hesitancy she may have felt otherwise, Lucy grabbed his face and she kissed him.

She kissed him like his body was the air she breathed, like his lips were the one thing keeping her tethered to this mortal plane. His hands came to rest on her waist to hold them both steady as her thumbs brushed against his cheeks, revelling in the feeling of his skin against hers.

Lucy was nothing short of breathless when they parted, her lips merely inches away from his, tempting her to take them again, hands still resting on his cheeks.

"Wh-" His eyes were glazed over slightly, and his breath caught in his throat as he tried to piece together what had just happened. "What’s going on, Lucy? What was that for?"

It wasn’t until she heard his voice that she came crashing down from her high, and she suddenly realised the gravity and consequences of what she had just done.

Yeah, Lucy. What the hell was that for?

She opened her mouth, but the words got caught in her throat, and she couldn’t do anything but stare helplessly at him. It wasn’t that she had nothing to say; it was more the fact that she had too much to say that her brain simply couldn’t settle on what the right words were.

"I- I-"

Normally Lucy prided herself on always being able to read Natsu, knowing him better than anyone else did, but right now his expression was inscrutable, and that only made her panic more. There was nothing she could say to undo whatever damage had been done; their relationship was now going to be irreparably defined by the time she had too much to drink and kissed him like her life depended on it.

If she could just move on without having to explain herself, she would. They’d never speak of this night again, and her little shame would live only in their minds, but Natsu was looking down at her expectantly, waiting for some sort of answer or explanation. His gaze was inescapable, and all she could do was crack under the pressure of it.

"I want to be your girlfriend!" She finally sputtered out. "And- and I know that’s weird because you’re my best friend and I shouldn’t be feeling this way about you, but I do."

"Lucy."

His voice only vaguely registered in her brain as she continued to ramble, paying little mind to the fact that he was trying to get her attention.

"I know it’s weird and selfish of me because what we have right now is so good, and that doesn’t have to change. I just needed you to know how I feel."

"Lucy."

Hearing him say her name like that stopped her thought spiral in their tracks.

"What?"

"You already are my girlfriend."

Now it was her time to be confused.

Her jaw fell open as if trying to mouth out the words that her brain could not muster, and instead of responding, all she could do was stand and gape at him like an idiot.

"Wh- what?" Was her brilliant reaction. "Since when?"

"Uh, since about fifteen minutes ago when that girl at the bar called you my girlfriend and you didn’t say no," Natsu shrugged.

He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Like it wasn’t the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard in her entire life.

"You think that constitutes us being in a relationship?" Lucy cried. "That is the craziest thing I have ever heard in my entire life! You can’t just assume things like that, Natsu!"

"Well, I was right, wasn’t I?" He said, completely matter-of-factly, ignoring any logic that might have come from her words. "You just said you wanna be my girlfriend."

Maybe it was just the alcohol, but this whole thing just seemed so absurd.

"You do want to be my girlfriend, right?" He clarified. "You’re not just saying that because you’re drunk?"

"I’m not drunk," she replied. "Only a little bit…"

Before she had time to process what was happening, Natsu’s hands were on her waist, pulling her close to him so they stood chest to chest. When she looked up at him, he was beaming down at her, and in that moment, she realised that all of her worries were for nothing.

"‘Cause I like being your boyfriend," he grinned, a look of pride plastered on his face despite the short period since their initial misunderstanding. "But I don’t wanna just be your boyfriend when you’re drunk."

"I don’t want you to just be my boyfriend when I’m drunk either," she murmured, fully aware of how close they were, feeling his breath against her nose, and feeling that wonderful temptation to close the space between them again.

Using all of her willpower, she held back her desire to taste his lips once more. As much as she wanted to drag her hands through his hair, feel his palm against the small of her back, holding her close as they kissed beneath the gaze of the moon, there was a much more important conversation at hand.

Because Natsu wanted to be her boyfriend.

If she had known that, maybe she would have kissed him earlier.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" She inquired, her voice soft, quiet, almost hesitant.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Natsu shot back.

"Because I didn’t think you were interested," she sighed, bringing her hands up to rest on his forearms. "I just thought that you kind of… didn’t care about this kind of stuff."

"Why’d you change your mind?" He asked, head cocked to the side in curiosity.

Her eyes darted away from his for a moment as shame suddenly filled her. She had sobered up slightly since they left the bar—not entirely so, but enough to be embarrassed by what had prompted her sudden kiss and confession.

Was she really about to admit this to him? That she was jealous of some… random?

In hindsight, she knew she shouldn’t have been worried. She was always going to be Natsu’s number one, but in the moment, she felt so threatened that she didn’t know what to do with herself. From the moment they stepped out of that place, Lucy had sworn that she would take those feelings to the grave, but not even an hour later, she was beginning to crack under Natsu’s questioning gaze.

He deserved to know, didn’t he?

Sucking in a breath, she began to confess.

"Seeing that girl flirting with you at the bar made me feel… I don’t know… like that should have been me."

Natsu blinked at her, dumbfounded.

"What?"

"The girl at the bar!" Lucy repeated, exasperated by his seeming lack of understanding. "She was cozying up with you, and you weren’t turning her away, and it made me feel…" She paused for a moment, considering the word she was about to use, experimenting with the feeling of it on her tongue, before she finally caved in. "Jealous."

"She wasn’t flirting with me," Natsu frowned, looking completely unconvinced by her words.

Surely, surely, he wasn’t that dumb. She couldn’t have been more obvious about it! Anyone else could see it from a mile away, but here Natsu was, just thinking she was being overtly friendly with him.

"Yes, she was," Lucy retorted. "She was touching your arm and laughing at all your jokes and doing that thing girls do where they tuck their hair behind their ear."

"But you do that to me all the time."

She could practically see the gears turning in his brain the moment those words left his lips.

"Oh."

"Yeah," she breathed.

At the very least, she knew that losing him to another woman wasn’t something she’d ever have to worry about.

"Well, I like it better when you flirt with me," he grinned, finally having put the pieces together, and Lucy felt her insides turn to mush.

Her arms snaked around his torso, and she rested her head on his chest. He eagerly reciprocated, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close, nuzzling his nose into the crown of her head.

It wasn’t fair that he could hardly realise when someone was flirting but could so easily turn her legs into jelly with cheesy little lines like that. Not that she could mind too much. All she could bring herself to care about was that after months of hopeless pining, she was finally nestled away in Natsu’s heart.

"Heh, my Lucy was jealous~" He immediately began to tease. "I’m so tellin’ Happy when we get back."

Lucy could immediately feel her face turn red in embarrassment as she realised that she was never going to live this one down for as long as she lived, and suddenly she almost began to regret letting him in on her feelings.

"You will not!" She whined, lips sticking out in a pout, with a less-than-intimidating frown on her face as she looked up at him.

Her scare tactics clearly didn’t work on him, as he just chortled in response.

She should have known better than to think his teasing remarks would end as they stepped into a new stage in their relationship. If anything, it would only get worse from here. She supposed that was simply the consequence of being his Lucy.

#nalu #fairy tail #natsu dragneel #lucy heartfilia #fanfiction #fan fiction #mya writes things

[janeyseymour]

How do you get so many notes on your fics and messages in your inbox?! I am a big fan, so this was not in any way meant out of malice! Sorry, if it came off that way! I have been writing for years now (not as frequently as you, but that's kinda because I don't seem to ever get the amount of reblogs/notes you get), and it feels as if nobody ever interacts with my works. Very few to no reblogs, never any messages in my inbox, and few comments. How do you do it? I just want a reason to write, but it's hard to be motivated when I never get requests or even an amount of interaction to justify the amount of time I spend writing! Thanks!

hi, no worries at all! to be quite honest with you, i’m really not sure.

i think a lot of the notes stems from the fact that i’ve always LOVED writing. i remember writing stories in elementary school and being thrilled to read them to anyone who listened. i took a bunch of writing courses in both high school and college, and during that time i was really able to find my voice and style. i figured out the things that helped my words being characters to life and ways to convey emotion.

in terms of messages in my inbox… from the start… even before i started writing for Abbott, i’ve always done my best to interact with everyone to comment on my works (sometimes i miss a few with the waves or if im just insanely busy) and foster an environment where everyone feels safe and loved.

above all though, i like to keep in mind what sara bareilles says during an AOL interview- granted, she’s speaking about becoming a recording artist, but the sentiment applies here too. “release yourself from the expectation of the outcome. just do good work, make good work, care about the things that you make and believe in them and it’s not your job to figure out who the audience is… just make good work and mean it.” so… i do my best to make good work, i care about the things that i write, and then i leave the rest up to everyone else. if hundreds of people like it, that’s fantastic- and if even my stories were to touch just one person (and that person might even just be myself), it’s worth it.

[drewsaturday]

i rly do have such a hard time these days telling if the reason i want to make a fanwork is because i genuinely want to make that fanwork, or because it feels like a habit or obligation existing in fandom spaces as someone who did spend a long time making fanworks.

like i can't turn off the part of my brain that's like "oh this is a cool idea we should do a fic/vid/etc for this franchise based on it" but i have so much trouble knowing if i actually... Want. to do that.

a few issues are that

i am hashtag medicated now so the "if i dont make this i will DIE" burning feeling i used to get has left the building, and that was the biggest indicator of me wanting to make something for myself and having the motivation to see it through.

fandom is kind of an escape mechanism and yeah, i know! but because i am trying to advance my life in other ways i do have a mental block now when it comes to spending time on escapism rather than things that actually move me forward. (plus... i just don't really have as much time to dig into these things as much as i need to these days as a result.)

i do think the primary motivation for most fanworks should be that you want to see it done (at least for me), rather than wanting to get positive attention/comments/etc. those are a nice bonus but it's easy to burn out when they're the only reason. but i do feel like when i come up with an idea, that's the predominant subconscious motivator now? or at least... not attention, but feeling like my place in a fandom space is justified etc. in the past, fanworks were a nice vessel for fandom socialization, whereas now i think that's become more of a primary motivator without me realizing when... i could just... talk to people, or something.

plus a few other things (insecurities - what i make isn't good enough or worth the time, other people have done this first or other people are filling this niche now so i'm not needed to, no matter how much time i spend on this someone else will always be better or get more positive feedback, etc) that come into play but on a lesser level.

i should also probably figure out... what other motivations there are that don't have to automatically be fandom-related. like am i thinking about this idea because i want to draw, and this just happens to be the fandom i'm in at the time and i'm used to pre-existing characters being my muse tm? did i ever even really like writing or did i just like exploring this show's worldbuilding?

in that case, i really should just do more with original things to pinpoint what specifically would bring me joy. and i'm aware of that, and i want to do more with it. and i think that would help me with identifying what motivator goes to what thing.

i just also don't want to lose fandom participation because that is such a special thing. but it is also okay to have phases of motivation with it i guess? and i think once my life is quite different i'll have less of those mental blocks in place and more time etc.

just a weird feeling to navigate as someone who misses having more clarity and productivity in this realm, or at least misses the things that came along with it when doing so in fandom. i think if i felt more passionate about my schoolwork i would be somewhat okay with the trade-off but at the very least i need to indulge more in creative hobbies, whatever those hobbies may be.

and maybe if i spent less time Thinking about it and more time Doing i would have more weird vague feelings about it to analyze and figure myself out with j;lsdfljksdf.

#txt

[son1c]

i won't lie part of the reason why i don't WRITE write anymore as in actually write fanfiction is because it gets way less feedback than art does. i will admit i'm very validation driven as a creator so when you spend days or weeks on a fic only for it to get like, 2 comments and a handful of favorites it's really hard for me to justify the time spent to myself. it's not that i don't enjoy writing (because i do) it's just my little squirrel brain doesn't like how underappreciated it is. at least in comparison to art. and i know part of that, too, is that art is just way easier to consume like at the very least it's faster since all you have to do is look at it to get the full picture (lmao. get it?) but still. it discouraged me so now i just draw silly little pictures instead and share my plot ideas thru them or separately in text posts. and i hope that's enough to satisfy everyone

#i used to write INSTEAD of draw. insane to think about #but yeah if you have a fic or author you really like you should tell them!!! tell them all the time #because i guarantee they don't hear it enough and would appreciate it

[lgbtlunaverse]

I often get a little annoyed when I see posts that are something along the lines of "Y'all have GOT to learn to engage in media without shipping. Art is not just for shipping. If you get into art for shipping and nothing else that's bad and you have no media literacy why won't you care about THEMES?" because, yeah, they are technically correct. If you only egage with art in this one hyperspecific way you're going to miss out on a lot of good art and miss a lot of good things about the art you do like because you're only busy shipping.

But also... it is literally impossible to tell if someone is doing that based on a tumblr blog. "Everywhere I go I can only find people shipping why doesn't anyone care about anything else?!" A lot of them probably do, they're just not talking about it on their ship blogs.

This is a fanfic focused blog. Fic, and shipping by extension, are a very specific way of engaging with a work that I only use with a small amount of the art I experience. You know what my favorite book that I read this year was? Piranesi. Favorite movie? Everything everywhere all at once. Favorite series? Midnight mass.

And guess what? I'm not gonna write fanfic about ANY of those. And while I'll reblog posts about them that cross my dash I am also not going to seek out other fans on tumblr for these works specifically. And so, from looking at my blog, you'll have no idea that I read and loved these works, or that I spend a lot of my time thinking about them, their atmosphere, characters, and themes.

And that's just the narrative art I loved most. I've also gone to museums, and I'm definitely not writing any fanfiction about mondriaan's paintings.

You know what work I'm thinking about most these days? The book Flatland by Edwin Abott Abott. (Yes he is named Abott twice) a book about A Square (first name A last name Square) living in a two dimensional world being visited by a sphere from our three-dimenaional world. I read it several years ago, interested in the mathematical aspect, because by looking through A Square's perspective of meeting a creature from a world with a dimension he cannot fundamentally comprehend, we can imagine what the fourth dimension might look like to us.

I read it, loved the mindfuckery aspect of it, but was at various points annoyed at the horrible misogyny. The men in flatland are polygons with social status based on he number of sides and the widness of their angles, circles on top and triangles at the bottom. But the women are all simple line segments, automatically lower in society than even the lowest ranking men. A Square tells us women have to emit a "peace cry" when they walk, because walking into them (due to their sharp point) can be deadly, and if they don't do this they're executed. And women with any sickness that causes "involuntary motions" which can be as little as sneezing too hard, is instantly killed. He seems to think these are rational laws in the interest of public safety and also in the best interest of the women themselves. He also says that due to their lack of angles, women "are wholy devoid of of brainpower, and have neither reflection, judgement, nor forethought."

Yikes.

"I like it, but you can definitelly tell this was written by a man in 1884" I remember telling my mom.

Well guess what? This year I found out that flatland isn't just about having a low-level existential crisis at imagining the fourth dimension (beings from the 4th dimension would be able to directly see and touch our insides guys. Like. Just entirely bypass your skin and poke at your spleen) it is also a satire and social critique of victorian society. The misogyny is there to criticize victorian concept of gender roles! The bogus and violent laws that are shoddily justified to be for "public safety", the complete exclusion from women in the advancement and social class, the made up standard of angles and sides pretending to be biologically sound such as to "scientifically" justify their oppression. That's misogyny, baby! It's on purpose!

And it's a flawed attempt. A Square, as a man of his time, has no respect whatsoever for women and the few female characters the book has get barely any pagetime. This is accurate for the sexist pov the story is written from, and Edward Abott Abott, in a foreword of a revised edition, makes it clear that thay was exactly his intention. But it does mean that we never get to actually hear what any of the women of flatland think about living in this horribly misogynistic society. It's intended as a critique of misogyny, but any misogynist reading the book who doesn't find the sexism of flatland all that outlandish, can read the whole book with those assumptions going unchallenged. The satire only works if you already agree women are people.

But it's still good, insofar as portraying a ridiculously sexist society and the mind bogglingly stupid and arbitrary justifications mysoginists try to give for their bigotry, it is accurate. By removing it from our own world and putting it in flatland, we can more clearly see that connecting social status to wideness of angles is ridiculous, and the misogyny has no material basis. As a person who does agree that women are people, and is no longer under the impression that, because it was written in the 1880s, the misogny must be genuine, I can now, on a reread, appreciate the satire.

Prior to this post, looking at my blog, YOU WOULD NOT KNOW THIS. And I don't plan on posting many essays about flatland in the future. I read it because my mom recommended it to me, and so the way I discuss my thoughts on it is mostly with her, in real life. And I enjoy that more than I would posting about it here.

So yes, people SHOULD approach media from different lenses than shipping alone. Because shipping only works well for a subset of all art out there, and it is only one of the many ways to engage with it. But posts on tumblr are not solid proof of whether people are doing that or not.

It's also funny because a lot of the complaints of "why is everyone only interested in shipping for X" are about, like, adaptations of ya novels or comic books or god forbid shounen anime. You know, the shows with huge casts of usually likable, attractive and varied characters? Where a big part of the appeal is the entertaining dynamics those characters have which each other? Aka prime material for shipping?

Like, yeah, it can suck when it feels like the rest of the fandom is too busy smashing fictional barbie dolls together to have interesting conversations about the things you liked about the show. But please don't watch the Ship Show and then complain that everyone is shipping.

I wanted to end this post by telling you to go read flatland because there's no fanfiction of that but there are, in fact, over 40 works on ao3 for flatland by edwin abott abott and over half of them are gravity falls fics. It completely undermines my point but it's too funny to leave out.

#fanfiction #shipping #fandom #shipping discourse #art #the ways we engage with fiction should be varied #please don't flatten them or deride the methods people choose to do that

[pebblysand]

For the asks - 🌈 (for castles), 🌻, 🍭

Thanks for the newest castles chapter!!

hi!! thanks!!

[ask game here]

🌈 (for castles) is there a fic that you worked *really fucking hard on* that no one would ever know? maybe a scene/theme you struggled with?

so generally, i don't tend to think there's anything that i worked on really hard that you guys wouldn't know about because truth be told, i kind of think hard work ... shows? like, i know you asked this about castles but taking the broader fic question for a second, i think it shows that i worked harder on something like the fault in faulty manufacturing, than i did for, say, a louisville slugger to both headlights. i like both fics, don't get me wrong, but i think it shows when you spend hundreds of hours on something, versus just a couple, you know?

having said that, with regards to castles (but also with writing generally), i think what i struggle with often is probably just knowing how much to show, how much to tell, how much to let you infer. like, for example, this, in chapter 18:

He is silent for a bit. Tired. Ginny bumps the shoulder of his Levi’s jacket against the fabric of his jumper. ‘I mean, I’m sure we can keep yelling about it but we both know what this is really about.’ He breathes. In, out. Feels the weight of her head drop against his shoulder. There’s stuff they don’t even need to say, anymore. Like: the fact that the idea of her using sex to get what she wants out of a world that’s so fucked up it considers ‘sexy’ to be a currency will always make him want to retch. That: he regrets his choice of words, ‘whoring out,’ but. That he loves her - so much, and wants to protect her, and what if this all turns sour? What if she’s not okay , again, like she wasn’t on those nights she woke up next to strangers and didn’t know where she was?  He knows what she’d say as well, though. That time’s passed, that she’s better, that it’s her life and she feels ready and she gets to choose. That Samira’s right, too, that it’s time for women to be treated differently and if that’s something she can contribute to by adopting this persona, that’s not even that far from the truth, then the end justifies a little bit of self-sacrifice for the greater good. That, after him, it took ages for her to feel like her body was her own again, and that now, she likes people looking. That it makes her feel good - powerful. That because of the things she’s done, they’ll always talk about it anyway, so she might as well take the conversation somewhere useful. Control it and take anything she can gain from it. That, also, she doesn’t care if some sorry bloke wanks off to pictures of her in his basement because that’s all he’s ever going to get. That: she prefers Samira’s plan to the alternative, which would be to hide and apologise for herself, and which makes her want to retch.  Under his shoe, Amycus Carrow’s like this piece of gum they can never quite get rid of, Harry thinks. Ginny smiles at him. ‘If that’s all he is now, a dirty piece of gum, then that sounds lovely, actually.’

in the first draft of this, the two middle paragraphs in italics were actually dialogue. i was "showing" (by H&G explaining how they felt) but i felt like that was too heavy and redundant in terms of what we already know (plus, i don't love heart-to-hearts in dialogue, i find them really hard to write convincingly). so, in the second draft, i took everything out. then, i thought: wait, am i gonna get comments from people asking me what the whole exchange meant?

to tell you the truth, i sat there for a very long time last tuesday being like: to delete or not to delete? redundant or not? to me, personally, all of this is inferable. like, at that point, i feel like we know both of them and what their positions are well enough to know that that is what they're thinking. so, i do think it is all a bit redundant in a way. i think i certainly could have deleted these two paragraphs.

i think this is one of the reasons i would love to have beta for castles. like, sometimes, i just need someone to do a sanity check of: is this understandable for anyone but me, or is it just clear in my head? that's a part i often struggle with. i think the reason why i kept it here in the end was that i asked myself: am i okay with people misinterpreting this exchange, though? like, sometimes, you sort of have to cater to the lower common denominator and think even if 90% of people would be capable of inferring that on the basis of their reading comprehension skills, am i okay with 10% not doing so? and here, because i think it's a very important exchange, i didn't think i was okay with taht. especially because i didn't want to misinterpret it by thinking ginny was doing this to piss off harry, or that he was that resistant just because he was jealous, you know?

so yeah, it's obviously easier when you have a beta but it is something i do struggle with a little.

.

🌻what makes you want to give up on writing? what makes you keep going?

lol, that exhausted, burnt out post from this summer will haunt me for decades, won't it?

more seriously, what makes me want to give up is capitalism. what keeps me going is spite.

.

🍭why did you start writing?

i think that's such an interesting question, which i don't have the answer to. for a lot of people, they seem to get into fandom, start seeing fanfics and are like: "oh, i'd love to do that too," or "i'd love to provide my own take" and start writing like that, as a hobby they more or less consciously picked. i think that's super cool.

that wasn't really my case, though, in the way that i was writing (albeit badly) before i even discovered fandom/fanfiction. i just loved writing from as far back as i can remember. i always tell this story but when i was 4/5 years old, i couldn't even write yet, but i had a babysitter and i would dictate stories to her. i would fold sheets of paper like a book and would do the drawings. then, when something needed to be written, i would ask her to write it down Exactly How I Wanted (yes, i was born type A ^^). so, i guess even back then, before i had even learnt to write, i already loved "writing", you know?

but also, it's difficult because i think that's something a lot of children do - i don't think i was "exceptional" in that sense. yet, they probably don't all end up being writers. and, as i've said before, i'm not really someone who believes in talent or in something "innate," when it comes to writing. so, of course, if you asked me where my current skills come from, i would obviously say "hard work", that's easy. and, obviously, a massive dose of privilege in being born in a country and to a family where it was possible to foster writing skills due to an array of economic and social advantages - but anyway, what i mean to say is that i don't think writing skills are innate, i think they are learnt.

having said that, as much as i like emphasising the fact that writing is work (and therefore, you can hone those skills), there is still this question of: why did you pursue it, versus 1) other people born in roughly the same conditions and 2) other hobbies like painting, music, etc.? the question being, in sum: why did you start writing? and, that, i can't explain. my mum loves reading, but she's not a writer (or an artist in general, tbh). my father was a wannabe writer but never did much with it and i didn't grow up around him at all. my maternal grandmother apparently loved writing really long letters to her children after they left home, telling them about life - could it be genetic somehow? i reckon there are enough nepobabies trying to follow the footsteps of their talented parents and miserably failing for us to conclude that it's probably not, though.

to me, it's the age-old question of: why do artists start making art? why are artists artists, and not everyone is an artist? because although i believe in hard work, i also believe that you either are a writer, or you aren't. and i don't think it has anything to do with being published or not, being "good" or not ("good" is not an objective standard, anyway), or being "successful" or not. i think it has to do with an inexplicable "spark" that exists in some and not in others. by which i mean: there are people on AO3 who publish very good, high quality stories, but for whom writing is a hobby. if they stopped tomorrow (because #life), they would probably miss their hobby (and their fandom friends, etc.) but they wouldn't collapse. it's a bit like me and hiking. i love going on hikes but if i don't go for 6 months in the winter, i'm fine, you know?

writing, for me, is totally different. if i don't write, i can't breathe. if you wanted to, you could literally track my periods of depression on my AO3. all the years i didn't post a single thing - those were the darkest times where i couldn't get my head out of the water. it's also why i'm ready to sacrifice so much for it, my weekends and my sleep - because i have learnt over the years that me not writing is worse than me writing to a level of true exhaustion. of course, stopping short term as a breather is fine but long term, for more than a few months? it sounds like a good thing at first, but it really isn't. and so regardless of talent, regardless of kudos, regardless of potential publishing deals, regardless of everything else, writers write because they need to, or else they will collapse.

and, that - that, i can't explain why.

#asked and answered #writing

[fearowkenya]

Winds of Change -

Chapter 2: The Perfect Storm

Shuuji hangs there, breathless in its grip, and everything fades away until there’s nothing left but what he can see in that wild pair crimson eyes, swirling with anger, anguish, and above all else—fear. Maybe he’s too afraid to string together an apology, or maybe it’s that he knows there’s no use in offering one.  Either way, what a fitting end, for a pair of monsters to destroy one another.  But there’s always a critic, and today it’s Ryo.

Shuuji makes it out of the fight in the waterway alive, but somehow, it still goes horribly, horribly wrong.

AO3 link in source, and, as always, extended author's notes under the cut! (:

whoops! the chapter is late. I thought I'd have time to post it before my dads wedding yesterday, but wouldnt you know it, there wasnt quite enough time to get everything formatted properly without rushing thru it.  I was super tired after the wedding and tried my best to at least do my first proofreading before bed, but i kept dozing off. so here I am. better late then never!

this chapter was an absolute blast to write! i figured that one good way to really justify the groups collective paranoia was to let wendimon get VERY close to accomplishing a total party wipe. the mood I was going for was something similar to the hopelessness of trying to take down plutomon or boltboutamon - no matter how many megas get thrown at them, it never seems like enough. that's why I made wendimon a fair bit stronger than what's typical of a champion level digimon.

as I said in my author's notes on ao3, I think this kind of situation would definitely justify falcomons behavior too, both while hes actively arguing with minoru, as well as the time he spends refusing to return to the group even after minoru apologizes. falcomon has his insecurities like the rest of them, but hes always seemed to me like the one who is the most self-assured in who he is and what he cares about.

that's not to say that the others arent, but in terms of his understanding of the world and of himself, I find that falcomon is the one whose identity has the strongest foundation, and I think watching something like this happen to arguably the most gentle member of their group shakes that foundation to its core. 

even when the professor explains that this only happened because of a partner bond sustained severe damage, i think it would do very little to ease falcomon's worries -  it's hard to tell just how messed up minoru's self-image is under the big smiley front he puts up to hide his insecurities, and falcomon KNOWS that. but that's beyond the scope of what I'm exploring in this fic lol. it might be something I circle back to later on though! minoru is the character I find most interesting on my second run of truthful; there are SO many subtleties about him that i absolutely did not notice the first time around.

anyway, the waterway. hoo boy, the waterway. choreographing the waterway fight was probably the hardest part of writing this chapter. when I first drafted it, i was very confident in the image I had in my head of the waterway battlefield, but when I went to check screenshots, it turned out that I had it all wrong! so I had to rework the whole damn thing! which was really hard, because the biggest challenge was keeping track of where every single character was placed on the field!

the goal was to spread characters out so that they weren't all bunched together, but still located conveniently enough such that I could pull them into the fight with wendimon when necessary. in order to do this, i drew a big stupid diagram on actual physical paper made one big (temporary) change to the waterway battlefield which i doubt anybody noticed unless you, like me, are unhinged enough to study the structure of the in-game locations down to the smallest details.

in the game, a little behind the place on the map where you set your units, theres a gap on the left that usually has a treasure chest on the other side, one that you have to send a flying unit to retrieve unless you want to go alllllllllllll the way around. I needed to be able to get takuma, minoru, miu, and kaito over there so that arukenimon could be all menacing on the top of the stairs, but i couldnt figure out how to make it work without having to make them go past wendimon on the central path and around megaseadramon on the top left platform. so what I did is... close that gap.

but closing the gap created the problem where the kids could easily use that path to regroup with Shuuji and the others. which was inconvenient when i needed them to stay split up. so you can imagine how clever I felt when I had megaseadramon cut them off by destroying the stairs and putting the gap right back , which is what I meant when I said the change I made to the battlefield was temporary lmao

speaking of megaseadramon, when i was first writing this chapter, i was very overwhelmed at the idea of having to simultaneously balance the fight against wendimon with the fight against megaseadramon. splitting the party seemed like the obvious choice, but it felt very anticlimactic to be like "oh yeah here comes the other half of the group to the rescue, they kicked megaseadramon's ass off-camera lol"

by that same token, I didnt want to put TOO much focus on megaseadramon and detract from wendimon. so once again I felt like a genius when I realized that the solution was simply to have wendimon not only deal with megaseadramon, but raise the stakes and tension by demonstrating that it is on a completely other level compared to the other champion stage digimon. (in poor megaseadramon's defense, it was not at all expecting to be attacked by wendimon, and was likely at least a little worn-down by shellmon, sangloupmon, greymon, and diatrymon. I think it would have fared much better against wendimon in a clean one-on-one match.)

as for wendimons defeat, well... no matter how much I amp up its strength, I felt that taking a point-blank giga destroyer would probably do the trick. AND give us some truly horrific imagery. I struggled a LOT with that last couple of paragraphs, and I'm still not sure if I was able to give the exact image i wanted to leave off with at the very end.

while this chapter answered a bunch of questions asked in the first one, it also raised plenty more. theres some stuff i set up here that I'm really looking forward to people catching on to (: unless they've caught on already...?? heehee (: i wonder which things will take people by surprise, and which ones they saw coming a mile away...?

on that note, id love to hear what people think of the fic so far. kudos are nice and I greatly appreciate them, but nothing launches me over the moon quite like comments. I'm so curious to know what part(s) people liked best, both about this chapter and the first, as well as any predictions people have about the stuff I'm starting to hint at as I get further into the story. i won't confirm or deny anything of course, but it will make me smile so so so big.

please look forward to chapter 3! I'll evaluate when exactly I'm posting it as the week goes on, as im currently away from home and have a bunch of busy days coming up - I'll be sitting thru a 4 hour car ride on sunday and trying to see some friends on monday before I fly home on Tuesday , so I cant say with any certainty when chapter 3 will be out other than at some point within that Sunday-Monday-Tuesday timeframe. thank you for reading, please consider leaving a comment, and until next time!

#digimon survive #digimon #shuuji kayama #kayama shuuji #ryo tominaga #tominaga ryo #lopmon

[olderthannetfic]

I'm not American. But this is really interesting. I might be totally wrong, so don't get angry at me.

I think this type of Nationalism and cultural identity is usually constructed after historical events to reconstruct whatever division there used to be. For example, most people believe Mexican identity is a tangible thing that has existed the whole time. When in fact, it was created after the revolution by the greatest artist of the time, Frida Khalo, Diego Rivera, and their friends. The Mexican muralists are the true masterminds behind the whole visual theme of everything people associate with tradition and culture in this country.

So, America had its own cultural shock back in the civil war. The northern and southern states had very different views on culture, economy, social issues, and civil rights. It desperately needed to be mended and uninitiated, which probably is why nationalism was reinforced in full force during the 20th century.

It's no surprise that Americans are fiercely passionate about their "Greatness". We have to admit that at his core, they are all immigrants. Whites arrived from all over Europe on ships at some point. Then during the 19th century, from all over the world. I think it is part of why some people would prefer others get assimilated quickly and forget whatever they had before arriving in their country. So why would they allow kids to learn another language or keep the one they brought with them?. Why would they try to teach other cultural identities?, objectively, spending time and resources on teaching kids about each and every culture is maybe too big of an enterprise. This is wrong of course, it is obviously not working. They were and still are a very big soup of people from around the world, it was always like that, even between whites, some were Irish, and some were Russian, they tried to pretend this was not an issue because they figure they are all white, let's fight with the new ones coming down from the ships.

Then they had two worldwide wars, and they needed that one solid identity very fast and very strong. So yeah, it's really not that very surprising that they refuse to learn or are even allowed to learn about other languages and cultures. From my understanding, they still have too many cultural issues and they just patch over them the "Greatness" and the "Land of the free".

To be honest, Americans outside of their country are always funny, if you ever found yourself in an international mixed group, there's going to be a funny moment like in the Office, where two people look at each other and silently convey "Can you believe what this American just said?". If you don't believe it, just check one of those funny compilations of Reddit stories where people tell their experiences of Americans being Americans.

I mean no disrespect, nor do I try to justify their cultural insensitivity, the moment it turns entitled and rude, that's the part no one likes. And you know?, I have seen this act not only in your classical white American. Like, I have come across some very rude African Americans, Asian Americans, and even Latinos living for two or three generations over there. It's what they taught them at school. Some do get assimilated into their new identity.

Not everyone, of course, I'm not guilt-tripping you here either. It's just something to think about. As background info on me, I learned English as part of my middle school education, but there was no expectation of being fluent in it, teachers were seriously bad, and there was also a cultural rejection of the language because it's not hard as languages go. I learned on my own because I wanted to write fics, I understood that it's the language of the internet, it's where you'll find everything and everyone. And I am not wrong, there are people around the world sharing these experiences.

And there's a silver lining in this. Americans refusing to speak other languages, also means, that wherever you go traveling around the world at least one person would know English or enough of it to point you to the bathroom. I would love to learn german, or Japanese. But not very realistic because life is busy. And when I was in Germany last winter, I found it so much easier to just rely on English rather than hopelessly wait for some person to know a word of Spanish.

And yeah, we use English to communicate as a middle ground for the rest of us, don't we?. Americans just don't notice.

So, thank you, British people, for inventing it and violently forcing it with colonialism down other people's throats. haha it's a joke, a little poke so we don't constantly complain about Americans.

(And sorry for spelling mistakes, am not a native :D )

--

American whiteness exists, historically, in relation to blackness. New European immigrants became white in proportion to the need to swell the ranks of the haves with their boot on the necks of the have-nots.

Very early colonists just thought of themselves as English (or whatever culture they'd come from). That "melting pot" nonsense is less about any real assimilation (which has always taken a few generations here, no matter what people think) and more about a desire to add to the vaguely English-y strain of American culture and pretend that's the majority of Americans' background.

[downrightembarassing]

A Warm Meal

Cad Bane stops by for a hookup, you both get a lot more than you bargained for.

THIS INVOLVES PERIODS AND PERIOD BLOOD. Shouldn’t be too hard to figure out the premise of this story.

If you’re not into that then steer clear.

Hell I’m not into that, but this idea has been in my head and I couldn’t not write it out. So many fics portray Cad as a cold blooded predator and I just kinda…ran with it.

…I’m so sorry.

F/M, reader insert, swearing, downright toxic relationship, not healthy, Cad’s an ass and I’ll stand by that, not safe for damn anything/anywhere, 18+++, absolute self-indulgent trash. So basically my usual.

———————————————————————

Cad Bane rested a booted foot on the dash of his ship, idly rolling a toothpick between his thin lips. The last bounty had been a wicked bitch to bring in, but the credits he had earned almost made up for the hassle. No new target had presented itself to him yet and he mused on how to fill the next few days. He supposed he could be proactive, track down a couple new leads, wring some information out of a couple contacts, or…..

He could get laid.

The lanky blue Duros growled under his breath and adjusted himself in the Justifier’s pilot seat. It had been a while, a couple jobs ago at least, since he’s gotten any. The thought of spending a night with someone warm and soft instead of that infernal droid…well he’s halfway hard just thinking about it.

While his ship drifts through space Bane flips through his mental little black book. Plenty of brothels in this part of the outer rim, but he was in the mood for something a bit more sporty. He continued his musing. There’s that one on…oh wait they’re dead. How about the other one…but the last round had been so boring it wasn’t worth the fuel burned getting there.

Well there’s that little minx on Tatooine? Bane groaned, remembering his last romp with her. Warm, sweet, mammalian flesh, and a mouth so hot he’d swear it scorched his cock the first time. She’d most likely still be pissed as hell after his abrupt departure several cycles ago. He grinned, sharp canines flashing in the dim light of the cockpit. That temper of hers always added that extra…spice he was in the mood for.

He set a course for the desert rat hole.

The best thing for a cold blooded reptile is heat and a nice warm meal.

——-

The Carina was busy. It seems every lowlife on this side of the planet crept in to avoid the twin suns. You threaded your way through the crowd, delivering the drinks and avoiding the groping hands, claws, and tentacles. Working as a waitress wasn’t ideal, but the tips were good. Sooner rather than later you’d have enough saved up to get off this baked rock of a planet.

As you deftly avoid the various obstacles you let yourself dream a little. The Galaxy was huge, so many places to see, there was no way you’re spending your life serving swill and picking the pockets of drunk customers. A girl’s got to make a living somehow and the there’s no way the clientele here got the money legally you’d reasoned to yourself. You’d gotten good at it too, supplementing your savings and bringing you closer to a transport ticket.

Absentmindedly you continued to pour, thinking back on the various customers who thought they were getting laid, only to wake up a few hundred credits poorer. It was almost too easy.

Except that one time. Your mouth twists in a slight frown. The Duros had seemed tipsy enough, sitting alone under a ridiculous hat. He hadn’t been bad looking and responded with interest to your flirting. Somehow it all went wrong. Instead of ending up a few hundred credits richer you’d ended up under him in a dark alley, drowning in pleasure as he pounded into you. Then he left.

The next shift was absolute chaos because the whole town knew Cad Bane had been there. You’d actually dropped the platter of drinks when you made the connection. The blue Duros who’d fucked you senseless was also the most notorious bounty hunter in the galaxy. You’d told yourself it was a one time thing, better to avoid attention.

He’d showed up again, and again, and again. Every time he showed up you’d tell yourself no, and every time you’d end up screaming his name. That blasted Duros had ruined you for any other partner, you’d taken a man home a couple months ago but had stopped him before your bra came off. It hadn’t been worth it.

Cad Bane had showed up the following night, in his usual fashion of breaking in and scaring the living hell out of you. Breaking his habit of getting immediately down to business this last time he stood in your doorway and stared.

“Ya had’a man in here.”

“What’s it to you?” You snapped back.

“I don’ like folks touchin’ whats MINE.” He growled, a warning rattle coming from his chest.

“I’m NOT…” you had shrieked back but he had grabbed you and bent your form over the sofa. With that dizzying speed of his your pants were on the floor and he was pushing one of those long fingers into you. He had taken you hard, chasing only his own release. You had been close, so damn close, when he pulled out and spent himself across your back.

He had leaned forward and rasped into your ear “only tha good girls get ta cum, bad lil’ sluts don’.”

You had turned around and attempted to slap him, but he caught your arm with ease.

“Behave betta’ next time lil’ lady.” Tipping his hat and walking out your door.

You’d done some reading on Duros after that experience. How had he even known you’d had a guest? A guest that nothing actually happened with. Reading through various articles gave you your answer. Duros evolved as apex predators, their senses light years better than a humans. The bounty hunter had smelled another person in your home.

Shaking your head to clear your thoughts you focused on your job. The blue bastard hadn’t been back and you needed to focus on getting off this rock.

An hour later things had slowed down and you were exhausted. A dull cramp had grown in your abdomen; you realized your period had well and truly started. No surprise there, but it was a good enough excuse to leave the cantina a little early. You walked yourself home, humming a few snatches of songs and planning what book to catch up on.

——-

Bane let himself into your small apartment. It was cozy, just the right temperature to keep him warm during the cold desert nights, and in a quiet alley where everyone minded their own business. Not that he’d actually let someone see him, he thought with a smirk. Stepping inside he took a deep breath, allowing his olfactory receptors to take in the various scents. The Duros grinned. No one else had been in this home since he’d last dropped by.

There was a new scent in the room, muted, barely there, and fresh. He inhaled again. Some deeply buried instinct twinged. The reptile portion of his brain, evolved from when Duros were simply predators, reacted to it…yearned for it. He was hungry.

Interesting smells aside, he was excited for the night’s activities. Knowing you’d be spitting mad he smirked, feeling himself harden at the thought. Chewing on a fresh toothpick he wandered to the small kitchen, poured himself a glass of whatever good stuff you’d nicked from the cantina, and settled in to wait.

——-

Your door was unlocked.

That only meant two things. Either someone had broken in, it happened often, or…

Or that damn Duros was here.

Your temper flared and you didn’t fight it. The blue asshole had some nerve after his last little visit. Well he DEFINITELY wasn’t getting anything tonight. You’d give him a piece of your mind, kick his scrawny ass out, and curl up with a book and a heating pad.

——-

The door slammed open, Bane grinned. Oh yeah, she’s madder than hell. Knocking back the last of his drink he felt himself harden. This was going to be a good romp.

He watches you stalk into the room, a sneer twisting across that pretty little face of yours.

“You giant blue ASSHOLE! I swear to whatever gods are out there I’m going kick your scrawny worthless ass out of…is that my BEST BOTTLE…….you arrogant useless fucking………GET OUT!”

Yup, spitting mad. The Duros’ cock was pressing against his pants.

Bane stood up and sauntered up to the furious human. She might even try hitting him again, that would make things fun. A lazy, cocky smile creeped onto his face.

“Thought you’d behave betta’ this time lil lady, gonna have ta teach another lesson in manners.” He growled out, a warning rattling in his chest.

He inhaled, and froze.

That smell, delicious. Warm. Coppery. Blood. It awoke everything primal buried deep in his consciousness. He lunged.

——-

You watched the Duros inhale, cheeks moving in that odd way of his species. You watched him freeze, eyes going unfocused. You watched his lips pull back in a snarl, canines on full display. The toothpick fell from his mouth.

Maybe you shouldn’t have called him an asshole…

He lunged. You choked back a scream and scrambled backwards but he was too fast. In seconds he pushed you against a wall, one large blue hand on your chest pinning you and the other wrapped around your hip, holding you still.

“….Bane” you gasp out “what…”

He growled at you.

Slowly he kneeled down until his face was level with your sex. Pressing his face into you so hard his hat tipped back he closed his eyes and inhaled.

Looking down all you see is the Duros’ broad hat pressed against your stomach. This isn’t normal behavior for Cad Bane. He’s never shown any interest in going down on you, and to be honest you’re not sure how close you want his canines to your sex. Thoughts ricochet through your mind, trying to understand this odd turn of events. The only thing different was your period…shit. All that reading on alien biology flooded back into your mind. Duros are predators with an acute sense of smell.

You, a warm little mammal, had a cold reptilian predator pressed into your sex…and he smelled blood.

Bane stands. The look on his face is feral, no shred of anything civilized in his expression. A rattle comes from his chest.

“Sofa. Now.” He manages to hiss out.

“What….Bane this isn’t the time, I’m on my….”

“NOW” he snarls.

You’re trembling, but you meekly move to his desired location. You’ve always know the bounty hunter is dangerous, but you’ve never been actually scared of him. Now you’re terrified…and incredibly turned on. Well that’s a new kink, you think to yourself. Fear. You can feel a flood of warmth and wetness flows out of your core.

As soon as you’re seated Bane moves. His large hands shred your shorts, and he sinks between your thighs. You squeal when your clothing is destroyed but his violent actions send a bolt of desire through you.

With your lower half bare the Duros spreads your soft thighs. “Keep ‘dem like this…” he rasps, as he leans forward and takes another long inhale.

You’re shaking.

Completely exposed, aching for a touch, something, anything! Terrified of what this reptile will do to you, terrified of how much you want this, and the blue bastard is just smelling you!

“Fuck” you pant “dammit…Bane…..please.”

He doesn’t even look at you.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he presses one long finger into your dripping entrance. It reaches deep inside, deeper than any other species has been able to reach. Your back arches and you gasp. Fuck, this is why you can’t say no to this creature.

He begins to move. Pumping that one long finger into your slick heat. Whimpers escape you as you watch his single minded determination to reach as deep as he can. He adds a second finger, curling them slightly to hit that special spot. His strokes are slow, methodical, hitting just the right angle over and over again.

It doesn’t take long. Under the relentless assault your orgasm hits like a lightning strike. Pleasure burns through your core, setting every nerve ending alight as you writhe under Bane’s restraining hand. You gasp out his name as your thighs quiver.

Withdrawing his digits Bane stares at the fluids covering it. Blood mixed with your usual juices drips down into his palm. He spreads his fingers, watching the strings of your arousal spread between his fingers.

He licks it. His eyes close and he groans deeply. Eyes wide you watch as he cleans your arousal and blood off his fingers. This is fucked up, you think. Why the hell am I so turned on?

When his digits are clean he finally meets your gaze. His breath is rattling in his chest and he snarls.

“I want…more.”

——-

Cad Bane, dreaded bounty hunter, has his face buried between your thighs. And he is absolutely devouring you.

Why did you never let him go down on you, your orgasm-drunk mind is reeling. Why has this never happened before? It’s incredible.

His tongue dips inside you again, lapping up every trace of blood and juices. Deeper and deeper he probes, working his strangely cold tongue furiously as it fucks you. One large thumb presses on your clit, rubbing roughly.

Gasps, moans, are curses pour from your lips. Unconsciously your hips flex, pressing your sex closer to his face as you approach your climax. Sensing you’re close he raises his head. Fangs bared, he looks at you.

The lower half of his face is covered in your blood, framed between your thighs. It’s smeared from his nose plate to his chin, dripping into the fabric of his bodysuit. You can see more blood between his canines, in the corners of his mouth, EVERYWHERE in his mouth. His thumb is still running rapid circles across your clit.

It’s disgusting…filthy…the most depraved sight you’d ever seen, this creature feasting on your period blood. A deep rattle emits from his chest.

You cum with a scream, every muscle convulsing. Pleasure swaps your body, as your vision goes white. The Duros dips his head down, mouth open as he licks…drinks the fluids gushing from your core. His tongue is relentless, tasting every single drop as his canines graze your swollen flesh.

Cad fucking Bane actually moans.

Panting and twitching you lie there, eyes closed, as the aftershocks of your orgasm roll through your body. Dimly the sounds of clothing being removed reaches your ears.

What the actually fuck, you think to yourself. What is wrong with me, why the hell was that so damn hot.

Strong hands wrap themselves around your thighs, hoisting your torso up and causing you to snap your eyes open with a yelp. Bane aligns your hips with his, running his fingers through the slick mess between your thighs, and strokes himself with the slippery fluids.

Entranced you watch as red is smeared all over his thick cock, mixing with the deep blue coloring. He grips it in one hand and slides into your throbbing entrance, filling you up in one firm stroke. Your moan is low and guttural as you arch your back. This is so wrong but it feels SO damn good.

Bane places his huge hand on your abdomen, holding you still and smearing red, as he begins to thrust. He finally finds his voice.

“Fuck…yer so damn tight, so…warm.”

His pace increases, slamming his full length in and out of your heat. The sounds echoing around the room are downright obscene, wet smacks intermingled with your moans and the rasp of his breathing tubes.

“So…fuck…ah…so SLICK”

If this is wrong you never want to know right. Bane’s cock is stretching you in all the right places, hitting all the right angles. The added lubrication from your blood feels incredible. His filthy language sends your mind reeling, and all you can do is stutter out one word.

“h..Harder!”

Bane growls, a deep rumble low in his chest, and forces your legs towards your ears. His pace increases, pounding you in to the sofa. Sobbing and moaning you lose yourself in the sensations he’s pulling from your body. Leaning more of his weight into you, he rasps into your ear.

“Such a good li’l mammal, takin’ this Duros cock so well. Perfect. Perfect li’l meal.”

Canines graze your shoulder and then he bites down hard. You feel them break skin and his rough tongue lapping up the blood, soothing the bite.

“Fuck..ah….fuck…Ca….CAAAAAD”

Bane feels you come completely undone underneath him, your hoarse scream of his name the best sound he’s heard in years. Snapping his hips hard into yours, he feels your tight little cunt clamp down on his length, clenching and shuddering as your climax wracks your body. His cock makes the most beautifully lewd sound as he pulls himself out of your twitching flesh.

He drops one of your legs and wraps a fist around his blood drenched cock. Pumping furiously, his release overwhelming him as he cums in thick ropes across your stomach and breasts. Red tinges his vision as he watches it mix with the blood smeared across your body, dripping down from his teeth marks in your neck.

He looks at his hand. It’s covered in your juices, blood, and a bit of his cum. Inhaling deeply he can smell the warmth of your blood, the bitter tang of his release, and the sweet musk of you. He looks down at the mess he created on your skin and licks his hand clean.

“Now that’s ah damn fine look fer ya li’l lady.”

You’re completely boneless, just a puddle of a human collapsed on a couch. No thoughts, fucked completely senseless by the predator now cleaning your blood off his hand. Mind completely numb you watch him stumble off to your refresher.

——-

Ten minutes later he strides back in, already clothed and cleaned of any evidence. Your brain function has mostly returned and you stare at the state of your body.

What the hell, what the hell, what the hell you think. That was so disgusting, wrong, filthy, just…just gross. I want to do it again.

A warm wet towel lands across your abdomen, breaking your train of thought. Bane looms over you, reaches into a pocket on his long trench coat, and pulls out a handful of credits. He drops them on the sofa next to you.

“….whaaat” you slur out.

“Should cover ya shift tomorrow. I want ‘cha right here when I get back.”

He tips his hat and turns to leave.

“I’ll be here in time fer…..dinner li’l lady and I’m expectin’ a warm meal”

——-

#cad bane #cad bane x reader #writing

[softguarnere]

Friends That I Barely Know

David Webster x reader

A/N: Two fics within 24 hours? Who am I? I'm procrastinating, actually, all of these assignments that I have to finish over break that are crushing me. School policy says that we're not technically allowed to be assigned work over breaks and holidays, but since I was given assignments to do on what was supposed to be my time off, I'm extremely bitter and feel justified in writing for BOB instead of writing about a book I did not understand :) I started this fic when I was going through a Webster phase, and it was just supposed to be a short reunion piece that took place during The Last Patrol, but then it got waaayyyy out of hand. My bad. (As always, this is written for the fictional depiction from the show -- no disrespect to the real life veterans!) 💕🕊️

Warnings: the usual HBOWar stuff: language, blood, war, death, some angst, more clumsily written romance from yours truly (read: someone very inexperienced with romance)

Webster is nothing if not a writer.

At least, that's how he sees it. He spends more time than the average person narrating things in his mind as they happen, taking note of small details, stringing together sentences that he words and re-words until they're just right so he can put them on paper when he has the chance. And in all that, he's spent a lot of time writing about you.

He's mentioned you in letters to his parents, describing your beauty, your fearlessness in combat. But in his head he knows how he would write your speech cadence, how he would describe the endearing way you stick your tongue out of the corner of your mouth when you concentrate -- all of it. Yes, he could probably write the other people in E Company just as well, but he could devote pages upon pages of spilled ink to you. Because, he realized at some point after the D-Day jump, he's in love with you.

Being separated from the rest of Easy is hard. Webster is fine, really -- or for the most part -- and doesn't need to be taking up space in the hospital when there are people with worse injuries. At least, that's what he keeps trying to explain to the nurses, who probably think that he's going crazy with the way he keeps trying to get out of bed and the way he keeps talking about rejoining his company.

The only thing keeping him in check is writing. Even when there's no paper, just writing in his head, readying the words that wait for the moment they can be preserved on paper. And most of that writing is about you.

He wishes it were to you, but most of the letters he tries to send to anyone in E Company have been returned, or lost. He tries to tell himself that this is normal, that this is just what happens in wars, and that something isn't horribly wrong.

Finding out that he will be returned to Easy feels like a crushing weight has been taken off his chest. Returning to the friends he trained with back in Toccoa feels like returning home after being lost. The thought of seeing you, though -- the thought makes him almost giddy.

A giddiness that soon hardens into something too familiar when he's told to find second platoon. He tries not to feel the eyes and the scoffs that follow him from truck to truck as he tries to find a place with his company -- his company, who are all acting like they've never seen him before in their lives.

Rejection. He can name the sour feeling in his stomach because he felt it enough times during childhood. But much like the way that the rest of Easy is treating him, the feeling had become an afterthought that he had hoped to never come face to face with again.

"You must have liked that hospital," Liebgott is saying. "because we left Holland four months ago."

Why does he feel like he's on trial, having to build a defense for himself? "Well I wasn't there the whole time. There was rehabilitation, then the replacement depot --"

"Well, I'm not sure why you didn't bust out and try to help us in Bastogne, Web." Liebgott sniffs.

"I don't know how I would have done that."

"That's funny. Because Popeye found a way. So did Alley, right? Back in Holland." Beside him, Heffron nods in agreement; he won't even look at Webster. "And (Y/L/N) --"

"(Y/N)?" Cold dread floods Webster's stomach. You had been hurt and he hadn't been there.

Jackson shifts as the truck moves, like he's trying to put distance between himself and Webster, even if it means leaning into the man on his other side. "Sergeant (Y/L/N) is fine now."

"Sergeant?"

"Christ, Web," Liebgott scoffs. "You missed just about everything, and somehow you still seem shocked."

Not shocked, Webster wants to correct him but doesn't. He's just surprised by all the news coming his way all at once. And surprised that he hasn't seen you, especially if you're okay and a sergeant. Shouldn't you be with the platoon?

The order to move out drags him from his contemplation and into the present moment. (Because he can be present when he really tries; he's just very good at day dreaming and it's a habit.) The feeling of being judged sticks to him like paste all the way into the CP, but then at least the arrival of the new lieutenant takes some of the focus off him. Being relieved that the new replacement -- an actual replacement -- is taking the same flak as him shouldn't make him feel better, but he can't help it.

"We'll find a place for you, Webster," Lipton assures him.

And then it happens.

"Find a place for who?" Even after four months, he would know the sound of your voice anywhere. It's different, somehow, like the war has dulled some of it's shine, but it's still you. And then you walk into the room with Lieutenant Speirs and freeze, just like his heart does upon seeing you.

Back in Toccoa you had been a bright and shiny new-recruit, always smiling and laughing when you didn't have to be serious during training. But now the grime of Haguenau has settled onto your face, just like everyone else, and you look so serious.

Webster has pictured your reunion a thousand times. Any time that he needed strength back in the hospital, he would imagine seeing you among the company, how you would look up and catch his eye, break into a smile, and how the two of you would run to each other -- friends, reunited at last. (And then after that, he would finally tell you everything, because he knew back in the hospital exactly what he wanted to say. Maybe that sweet reunion would lead to something more than friendship.)

Instead, you stare at him with a blank face, like you can't believe what you're seeing. His heart fumbles, finally picking up the pace, and it begins to race; he's grateful that his ribcage holds it in place, or else it would have run to you without him.

"Webster?" You finally ask.

"(Y/N)," he breathes.

"Sergeant (Y/L/N)," Lieutenant Jones says, standing up even straighter than before. Webster could smack the guy on the back of the head for making it so formal, but he doesn't.

Your expression shifts. From beneath your helmet, he can see your eyebrows furrow in thought. You don't look happy; it's like a storm is clouding your face, making it hard to recognize you. "What are you doing here?"

"I just got back from the hospital," he answers for the hundredth time that day. "I'm waiting to see what platoon I'll --"

"No. I mean here."

"What does that mean?"

"(Y/N)," Speirs interrupts. "We're needed elsewhere. We need to go.”

“Right. Sorry, Captain.” You fix Webster with one last stern look, then grab some papers from Sergeant Lipton and follow Speirs from the room. Webster feels like he’s stuck until he hears the last of your footsteps echo away.

What are you doing here? Well, that certainly hadn’t been how he hoped you would react. And from the glances and pitying looks being thrown to him by others in the room, they weren’t expecting that kind of response either.

“Captain?” Webster says finally, both for the purpose of breaking the awkward silence and for piecing together more of what he has missed. “What happened to Captain Winters?”

“He runs the whole Battalion now,” Lipton says. There’s no elaboration. If Webster wants an explanation, he’ll have to find it elsewhere, because everyone starts in on a conversation about a patrol across the river – a conversation that’s he’s not included in, and that makes him feel awkward and guilty for hearing it, like he’s once again a child eavesdropping on his parent’s late night dinner parties, wishing that he were old enough to join in instead of observing from the fringes.

At least they tell him which platoon to join before he leaves.  

--

The news that you will be on the patrol just feels like one more trick of the universe to keep the two of you apart. No, not even a trick. From what information Webster has managed to glean from the others and piece together, some higher power must have it out for you, what with everything you have had to go through the past four months, and now this added to it.

Having rich parents gets you a lot of things in life. Webster learned that quickly over the years. Positions, memberships, almost anything. That was why he was so determined to not rely on their money and status once he joined the army. For once, he wanted to know what it was like to be just like everyone else. He sometimes felt like a journalist, stepping into a role and going undercover to get the inside scoop. But he enjoyed being amongst the other men and feeling like one of them. Not like his life before the war, where even when he was among people from similar backgrounds, he felt like he was only being tolerated.

So far he has spent the war decidedly not chasing any promotions or volunteering for things that might get him noticed. He doesn’t want to stick out, but he also doesn’t want to be left behind; there is a grey area that he has learned to operate in in order to survive the military. Now, though . . . Now is different.

“His German is just as good as mine,” Liebgott had spat as they made their way out of the briefing. And before Webster really had time to consider what he was doing, he was marching up to Winters and asking to be the translator on the patrol. And, to his relief –

“Liebgott,” Winters had called as you and the man in question start to walk by. Good, Webster thinks. There’s no need for three translators on the patrol. You’ll be safely on this side of the river . . . But then he catches what Winters is saying, and it’s not to you. “You aren’t needed for the patrol tonight.”

Webster’s heart drops. Liebgott nods, thanks Winters, and shoots Webster a wink before leading you off, throwing an arm around your shoulder as you go. Once again, your expression contorts into one of confusion and hurt as you cast him a horrified look before allowing Liebgott to lead you away.

Liebgott’s arm stays around your shoulder as you walk out of sight. You two had always gotten along, but when had that happened? (Or had it happened?) Just one more thing that he had missed in four months. His heart feels even heavier.

He had just been trying to help you, but he’s left standing in the street, feeling like he’s just done some sort of irreparable damage.

--

“Jackson, listen to me! You’re not gonna die!” Doc Roe is trying to reassure the boy on the table while simultaneously keeping him still and examining his wounds. The room around him has descended into pure chaos as he tries to help the boy in front of him, which is not the ideal condition to work under.

The German prisoners are yelling, Easy men are having to hold back their fellow soldiers from rushing them. People are trying to help Doc Roe and to hold Jackson down while others still stand towards the corners of the room, eyes wide as they try to take it all in and decide what to do.

Your gentle fingers card themselves through Jackson’s hair while you whisper reassurances to him. Under better circumstances, Webster could pen whole verses about your duality – how you can fearlessly take charge in combat, but also be a gentle beacon of hope for soldiers who need it in their final moments.

“Jackson, you’re gonna be alright buddy,” Webster tries to reassure the boy on the table as he convulses. “It’s gonna be okay. Just stay still – “

The lies drip from his tongue until the second that the nineteen-year-old goes still in front of everyone. The already foul mood in the room becomes even heavier. You help Roe and a few others take the body away, and then you disappear.

There is no sleep for anyone. Not on a night like this. The first rays of sunlight streak themselves across the sky soon after anyway, and then everyone is crowding themselves into a room to meet with Winters. Webster barely takes in anything that’s said, he’s so busy trying to read your guarded expression.

Everyone leaves the room in a slightly better mood than when they entered, the promise of a good day of rest ahead of them. There’s a bunk somewhere calling his name, and Webster knows that he should get some sleep, but after everything that has happened, he really just needs a minute alone to register it all. He’ll probably crash at some point later in the day.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts by a hand latching onto his elbow, bringing him to a halt. Other soldiers push their way out of the room as they head towards the beds that they claimed as their own, but you tilt your head down a hallway. Something heavy rests in your eyes. You don’t look disappointed or angry anymore. Defeated and tired, maybe, but no longer like you want to slap him for just existing.

Webster follows you down the hallway, painfully aware of the echoing of his and your footsteps as they trail off from the sounds of the others. You push open a door at the end of the hallway and nod, beckoning Webster to enter before you shut it behind you.

The bedroom is small, but at least the bed looks decent, compared to some of the bunks with paper thin mattresses with the springs poking out that he saw some of the others lounging on yesterday. But then again, after what he read about Easy experiencing in Bastogne, anything other than a whole in the ground probably feels like sleeping in a palace. He’s about to wonder aloud whose room this is when it hits him – Sergeant (Y/L/N); getting your own room is now one of the perks of your new rank.

He draws a breath to speak, but you beat him to it. Once you've closed the door, you keep your hand upon it, leaning heavily onto it and not meeting his eyes when you ask, “What are you doing here? Why did you come back?”

There’s that question again. Maybe it would hurt less if you stomped on his foot and ran off laughing. Always too expressive for his own good, he can’t keep the hurt out of his voice when he quietly replies, “The hospital let me go.”

“No, I mean – “ You turn abruptly, and the first thing that he notices are the tears brimming in your eyes. You wipe at them, but to no avail. “Christ. Why did you let them? You would have been better off staying there.”

“Did you not want me to come back?”

“Of course I wanted you to come back! Every day after they took you to the hospital, I wanted you to come back. Then your letters stopped coming and mine started getting sent back unopened because we were moving around so much, and I worried for you. But then with everything that happened in Bastogne, I told myself that at least you were safe. At least you were warm and had food and were away from the line. If it had to be one of us, I was glad to be the one living through that hell because you got to be safe.”

With every word, his heart feels heavier. “You didn’t think I could handle Bastogne?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Your sigh comes out as more of a strangled cry, and now the tears that you’ve been trying to hold back stream down your cheeks in angry rivulets. “Not all of us are writers, and I can’t make the words do what I want them to. I’m trying to say that I’m glad it was me, because if something had happened to you, or if I had to see you miserable, it would have broken me. I wouldn’t have been able to handle it. But knowing that you were okay gave me a reason to keep going. To keep fighting.”

“So that’s what you meant when you asked why I was here?”

“Now you’re in just as much danger as me.”

For as good as Webster might be with words, he can’t find the right ones for this. Instead, he takes a tentative step towards you. He’s only just started to open his arms when you charge towards him, barreling into his arms and wrapping yours around him as you let out a sob into his shoulder.

As close as you had been earlier in the war, as tight as your friendship was and as open as you were with each other, Webster has never actually seen you cry. Something about it is very vulnerable; it’s like you have handed him your exposed heart and he has to show you – wants to show you – that you can trust him to hang onto it.

“It’s okay, (Y/N),” he whispers, rubbing a hand up and down your back. “I’m not in danger.”

“You’re in a war zone,” you sob.

“We’re in a war zone,” he corrects gently. “We’re here together. You don’t need to worry about me, okay? Nothing is going to happen to either of us. We’ll be fine.”

“You can’t promise that.” You’re right. Making promises in a place like this is like that old saying about telling God your plans to make Him laugh. Webster isn’t trying to tempt the cruel, cold hand of fate; he’s just trying to comfort you. Still, his father always taught him that a man is only as good as his word, and Webster always carries a full arsenal of those. He will use as many of his best ones as he can to show you that his intentions are good.

“It’s not a promise – it’s a piece of hope. Do you know why we’ll be fine?”

You shake your head against his shoulder.

“Because now we have each other,” he explains. “I’ll watch your back, and you’ll watch mine. Just like we used to.”

“Some good that did. I let you get shot in the leg.”

Webster freezes. “That wasn’t your fault, (Y/N).” God, have you been blaming yourself for that the whole time? Is that why you wanted him away from the line – to guarantee that he wouldn’t be hurt on your watch? “Nothing that happened was your fault.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. You pull back a bit, still keeping your arms around him, but leaning away enough that you can look into each other’s eyes. “I wish we had reunited differently.”

He does too, but he doesn’t want to make you feel worse, especially when he’s starting to understand your actions. Gently, he wipes away a fresh tear that’s running down your cheek. “It’s alright. All these months, I’ve just wanted to run to you and hug you, and I got to in the end.”

You hesitate, and he feels his face heat up as he wonders if he chose the wrong words. Instead, you bring your hand up to his cheek. He sees you swallow back your tears and sees your breath hitch.

“Well I’ve wanted to do this.” You lean in slightly, then pause, like you’re asking for permission. Webster’s own heart stumbles as he realizes what’s happening, and he nods, and then closes his eyes as he leans in for your lips to settle over his.

The kiss is salty from your tears, but it’s more tender and welcoming than anything he’s experienced before. When you pull away, your eyes are cast down.

“Sorry, I – “

“Don’t apologize,” he assures you, unable to help the smile that’s pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve wanted it too.”

Your smile is watery, and the sound you make is somewhere between a giddy laugh and another sob, but you lean into his shoulder again, hugging him tight. “God, David. I’m happy you’re back, truly.”

David. For so long he’s been nothing but Webster. It’s as if you’ve restored some piece of who he was in a past life. But he’s not that man anymore. When you call him David, it’s as if he’s been re-christened into something new – something better, something more than he once was.

“I’m glad I’m back, too. And that we’re together.” When you look up at him again, he caresses your cheek, and his heart feels full when you lean into his touch; he’s imagined things like this before, yes, but it’s sweeter to actually experience it. “And don’t worry about me, okay? We have each other now.”

“We have each other again,” you agree.

After all, what more can someone in a war zone ask for than to have somebody who cares about them by their side, watching their back?

#me 🤝 webster #🤝= outsider who's distractedly writing in their head at all times #band of brothers x reader #david webster x reader #david webster #david kenyon webster #band of brothers #my writing #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers imagine #joseph liebgott #babe heffron #eugene jackson #dick winters #carwood lipton #ron speirs #eugene roe #it's finally done #after all this time

[oldfashionedmorphine]

1, 4, 6, 11, 12

hope it helps 💕, I'm in a similar situation with my wip and it's frustrating

Hi!!! Thank you, lovely <3

And I’m so sorry you’re in a similar situation. It’s super frustrating indeed 💔

Anyway, here you go! It’s a lot ;)

1. What is a piece of symbolism in your fic?

Hmm. I think with chapter 15 I would say the garden being full of decayed/dead flowers kinda did represent inner feelings, even though it’s just a reflection of the change in weather lol.

And I guess, but not sure it counts, choosing to reference the Norman Rockwell painting Freedom from Want in the very beginning. Mike emphasizes all the care and effort his mom and sister went through to make the day perfect just like that painting—there was an overabundance of food and the fancy dinnerware and all decorations and then eventually Will even carves the turkey at the table while everyone exchanges various conversations, so the painting isn’t visually different from what he can see, because he is surrounded by the same classic timeless feeling of a thanksgiving dinner, however, the family in the painting is depicted as emotionally nourished—happy and free of outside burdens, yet Mike spends the entire dinner grappling with the fact he can’t stop feelings of wanting someone and suffering from the consequences of harboring those feelings—instead of sharing in a happy dinner and reunion with his family (who he has kept at a distance for years), he snaps at Nancy’s question (which she asked in a lighthearted way, but his POV taints the question with ulterior motive, of course she makes a slight joke of it which further upsets him and doesn’t help her question to seem innocent), and he feels sour about hiding his sexuality from his family, and battles with his continuing feelings for Will that refuse to go away even after all these years of not being friends (and then the extreme jealousy that results from seeing Will in love with someone else), and then he picks at his food and further poisons himself with excessive amounts of alcohol. In the end, things were ruined and he was the main reason for it… because his repression and alcoholism acted like a poison that tainted his interactions with the people around him (mainly his interactions with Sam, Karen, and Nancy the most). And I feel like the painting represents “what could have been” if events had gone differently.

Answered #4 here 🩷

6. What's a subtle quirk your protag has? How do you convey it in your writing?

Idk why this one is hard to answer… or not sure what is considered a subtle quirk. I think he’s an overthinker, so I convey that with his inner dialogue—like my Mike will have internal debates with himself to rationalize/justify his behavior, usually about alcohol. He doesn’t like to be wrong, so he will get defensive. He cracks his knuckles or rambles when he’s nervous and unfortunately he also slaps himself at times when he becomes too emotional, and it’s usually as a form of self punishment :(

11. Is there anything important in your fic you think readers have missed/overlooked?

Possibly. I was so sure people missed the subtle coming out joke in chapter 9 because no one has mentioned it in any comments, but at least one person suspected that’s what it was… and it was. So I prefer to have faith my readers picked up on important things if they can catch something as silly and insignificant as that. And if they didn’t, well then maybe they will catch it upon a reread ;)

12. What character has the most lines in your fic? Which character has the least lines?

Not sure how accurate my answer for this will be since it’s a lot of words to go back through to determine for real, so I’m just going to go with top 4 characters in general that have the most/least lines;

Most: Mike, Will, Holly, Nancy (I do believe they get the most focus overall)

Least: Steve, Argyle, Hopper, Joyce (if someone had less than them, then they weren’t significant enough to even remember their minimal lines/oops 😭)

(I think)

#writer asks #iawwyh

[liladiurne]

20 questions for fic writers!

Thanks for tagging me @givereadersahug

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

I've only just reached 14!!! But one of those is a translation of an already published work, so technically it's 13.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

571 k

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Just HP for now.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Brighter Than Bright

On the Deficiencies of Translation Spells

Miraculous

Certain Dark Things

with great outbursts and lightnings

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes! Sometimes it takes a while, because I need lots of energy to respond, but I try to respond to each and every comment, even if I don't have anything particular to say. Leaving comments is harder than it seems, and I'm grateful for anyone who takes the time to tell me how they feel about about my fics.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Mmm. Probably Sudden Light. It's not so much an unhappy ending, more of an open ending, but I guess that because there is no obvious closure, it can be seen as a pretty angsty ending.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Oh that's hard... It's probably a tie between On the Deficiencies of Translation Spells and Certain Dark Things. Both have similar "and they lived happily ever after" endings.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not hate, no. Just questionable and sometimes rude-ish comments. Which I just ignore and delete now. I used to spend so much energy on trying to reason with those people and justify why I wrote the things they questioned or didn't like. I understand now that I can't please everyone, and I don't bother interacting with those readers anymore. And I'm not above blocking people to protect myself and avoid drama.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yessss! The filthy kind!! 🤣 Okay, no, I really really enjoy reading porn with feelings. So that's what I try to write.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I haven't written one yet, but I'd really love to someday. They are a ton of work though. If I did, I think I'd love a LOTR crossover... I'm just absolutely in love with that universe and would love to explore it more and maybe have all my favourite characters mingle!

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, by myself. I have some trust issues when it comes to my works and those have caused me to refuse any translation requests. I hope, in time, I can get over this fear. But I've had fun translating one of my own fics into French, and I'm hoping to translate more in the future.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

No, but I would love to!!! I think I would find it hard to do though, because I get very possessive of my ideas and things usually take shape so vividly in my head that I would find it hard to compromise on certain aspects of a fic. But with the right person, I would love to try a collab!

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

Snarry, no question. But I do enjoy reading Harry with anyone. He's my baby and I'll always support him! He just deserves all the love! And all the sexy times!

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Probably Brighter Than Bright. I'm not doubting I will finish it, I know I will, in time, but I just don't know when. Because it's such a big endeavour and I've been having inspiration problems with that fic for a long time.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I think I'm really good at writing introspection. It comes easy to me anyway... if that's how we define strength?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Dialogues, probably. It's the aspect of writing I struggle with the most.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I did it and it's fun! But it's important to double check with a native speaker and make sure it's all good.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

HP all the way.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

I would normally say with great outbursts and lightnings, because it's my very first snarry and the most precious to me, for many reasons. But I think my favourite may actually be Certain Dark Things. Because it was so fun to write, because I love the imagery and the atmosphere of this fic to death. And it's based (loosely) on my favourite book, so it would make sense why I love it so much.

Tagging: anyone who wants to play! I don't want to bother anyone, so please if you feel like doing this, pretend I tagged you. 🥰

#lila posts #ask games #ask lila

[mister-eames]

2/? comes from but more to separate arthur BD (Before Dreamshare) from Arthur AD (After Dreamshare).2. Similarly, is Eames from a wealthy background?3. Secret talents or hobbies? (I have a tendency to imagine Arthur as being extremely acrobatic & musically/rhythmically gifted. Thanks, JGL! Also I once read a fic where arthur could do parkour & the brain went BRRR! Good, yes, thank you.)4. Pet names given to arthur by eames that arthur (secretly) likes? Eames' favourite pet names for Arthur?

2. Ahhh Eames, Eames, Eames. Eamsie. I love all headcanons on his background, from wealth, to nobility, to very humble beginnings.

Eames is interesting, that way. When I'm trying to write Eames, in my head I try and justify how he got to where he is and which parts of him are a) parts of his personality that developed as an adult, and b) which are just quintessential, born-this-way 'Eames'. You know, like, he's a self-deprecating, underachieving over-achiever who gladly goes under the radar. Middle child. Has always been a shit-stirrer.

I think he walks and talks like old money and that is not a front or an act he's put on. I also don't necessarily mean that makes his family ostentatiously wealthy, or that he grew up in a mansion or whatever - but I think he grew up, at least for a time, financially comfortable. Middle-class, maybe, or what used to be middle class - could afford hobbies and take-out and movies on the weekend, could take annual vacations without straining the family budget. He learned the value of money the hard way later in life.

3. Secret talents/hobbies: Arthur I can definitely see as being talented vocally, something he doesn't have to work very hard at. He's insanely good at Jeopardy and trivia. Sucks at actual human languages but is a whiz at computer coding and taming machines, like car motors and PASIV's. Hobbies? He loves getting his hands greasy in a motor and making a car purr. Baseball. Loves going to a game at Citi Field and hearing Eames lovingly complain about how cricket is better. Avid collector of knick-knacks and could spend an entire day at yard sales and markets.

Eames - I mean, art is the obvious one, fanon wise and in my heart. I don't think he's an art snob by any means, I think he'd pay a street artist what someone else would pay for a famous painting (that Eames would steal). As the chronic underachieving over-achiever Eames has hundreds, if not thousands of his own paintings that he considers 'incomplete' but can't bring himself to finish. I'm taking this from Tom but has a genuine passion for animals, dogs in particular, not that he lets anyone know, but he's never met a fluffy animal he didn't want to pet. Will watch any animal documentary ever.

4. Look, I am such a sucker for pet names, no matter the fandom/OTP. It doesn't have to be 'babe' or 'pumpkin' it can just be a play/shortening on their actual name---still valid!! Love is STORED in the pet names/nicknames!! And Inception fandom is a bountiful trove for this and it makes me so happy!! Anyway!!! Back to your question!! 😂

Pet names given to arthur by eames that arthur (secretly) likes? - 'Darling', of course. 'Sweetheart' because most people, including Arthur, don't think there is anything sweet about Arthur - but there is at his core, under a lot of hair gel and a surly attitude and strong work ethic, etc. I think Eames favourites are the ones he says when he is least serious, most insincere sounding while trying to annoy Arthur: "my dove, my dear, my beloved" things he says in a bored drawl just to get an eye roll out of Arthur (and to hide the earnest feeling behind them). They always be pulling pigtails these two.

#inception #arthur x eames #amazing questions nonnie #again way more than you bargained for #but i cannot shut up about these two #otp of all time #headcanons