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coffeeandcalligraphy · 4 years

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Wicked Child | Feeding Habits #2

Hey People of Earth!

I’m back with another writing update for Feeding Habits (Moth Work #2) at last!

A few things since the last update: this project is 100% going to be a novel and also has a title (Feeding Habits)!

Chapter two has been sort of strange to write as I actually had written a majority of it before starting over after realizing the events I’d written needed to happen later. This is why it’s taken me a while to update on this book, but I’ve finally completed the chapter and am now here to share it with y’all!

Here’s a scene breakdown of this chapter, which is probably the longest chapter I’ve written in years (6300 words). Buckle up, this update is THICC. TW: lots of religious content in this one.

Scene A:

We go through Lonan’s lonely morning routine (lol) that’s interrupted by Anya, a neighbour he vaguely recognizes. She’s there to take him up to her apartment to paint her kitchen as her husband is away and can’t do it, a plan he was not aware of! (Eliza’s voluntold him to hopefully distract him from wanting to help his friend which is outlined in update #1).

Scene B:

Anya dips before the scene starts to grab some extra supplies to make Lonan some sourdough so Lonan is tasked with watching her young son Joey while he tapes up the baseboards. This is where the “wicked child” aspect of this chapter comes in as he compares the wickedness he feels he and others in his life possess to the full innocence of Joey.

Scene C:

Anya gets back from running errands and at first, seems to be a *chill mom* but as she and Lonan interact more, we get to see that something isn’t fully right with her. From some observation, Lonan finally figures out Anya’s husband is actually dead and she’s struggling with grief.

Scene D:

Lonan is back in his apartment, filling up his bathroom sink. We know from Moth Work that one of Lonan’s hobbies is holding his breath underwater, and he does this in this scene to think. In the middle of this ritual, Eliza gets home and speaks to him as she unwinds, reading rather cryptic notes from fortune cookies she’s brought home with takeout.

Scene E:

Unbeknownst to her, Lonan’s not staying for dinner as Anya invited him to her place as a thank you! However this news doesn't break well and the two bicker until they’re both successfully upset.

Scene F:

Instead of going to Anya’s for dinner, Lonan finds himself at a church confessional. He stumbles through reconciliation in a bit of a haze and eventually heads outside where a concerned mother and her two kids ask if something’s wrong. His thoughts from scene D overwhelm him and he eventually sort of gives himself up to the moment in a bit of a chokehold with the sun.

Though this chapter took a while, I’m happy with the threads I introduced and really got to see Lonan’s mind at this point in time--a sort of lonely state of living. There’s also a lot of religion related stuff in this chapter which is always interesting to write as someone who grew up Catholic, and I was surprised at how pertinent these themes are in this book.

Excerpts:

Here’s the opening bit:

The next morning, Eliza leaves two energy shots on the counter for him, along with a slice of sourdough she bought from the bakery across the street. Both sit on a breakfast tray, room temperature from sitting out too long, icebergs of ginger floating along the glass’s surface, butter on the bread gone pallid and spongy. Next to it, she’s left a note, as she usually does: green casserole in the fridge, running low on OJ.

Lonan retrieves the television remote from the nook between the knife block and flicks the TV to life as he drinks the first shot. Gingerroot—and this morning, a new addition, carrot stems—mush against his incisors, and he swallows just as the TV brightens to an image of some amphibian, a leafy looking treefrog. The crank of their calls bulge like each red eye, the familiar husk of narration outlining the workings of mating. Lonan scoops up the second shot with his pinky and the saucer of sourdough with his index finger and thumb, takes both to the couch where he sits.

Classic Lonan (TM) interaction:

He’s mid chewing the stale crust when he opens the door, expecting a package delivery, an unaddressed sympathy card. Instead, a woman stands in the door, her hair damp and smelling like the coconut salve Eliza rubs onto her kneecaps. He recognizes her face in a fleeting, neighbour-like way, someone he might’ve held the door open for, or let step off the elevator first.

“Breakfast?” She points to the crumb stuck to the corner of his mouth.

Lonan swallows the remainder of the sourdough quickly, combing off the crumb with a shallow smile.

“Sourdough.”

“Did you make it yourself?”

“It’s probably from the back of our medicine cabinet.”

The woman laughs at this, though he’s not fully meant for it to be a joke.

Apparently a new motif in this book is the word stunning that both serves as a descriptor for something magnificent/dazzling and the process of subduing an animal (love being heavy handed about this lmao):

She peers at their half-bloody kitchen wall. “You’re doing red?”

“Eliza’s vegetarian.” At the woman’s blank stare, he turns to look at the wall, examining each plane of his throat as hot embarrassment makes him red like the paint. “Her favourite colour. We’re trying something new. Avant garde.” All things he’s heard Eliza say.

“That’s unique. Very. So unique,” she says, adding, “It’s so kind of you to offer some help while you’re in the middle of painting your own kitchen. When Eliza told me about your offer, I danced in my living room. Is that weird? I danced because I’m going to have a green kitchen—a green one.”

Lonan nods, and steps farther back into the apartment, toward the stack of paint rollers, one of many rolls of tape. “Of course,” he says.

“It makes you feel alive,” the woman says. He forgets what she’s referring to, doesn’t know her name, only vague details like the jeweled bangles she wears on one wrist, the shiny cast of hair gel stirruped around her curls, her teeth, white, like the canines of a wolf. But she doesn’t seem to notice, a starriness in her gaze as she says, “The paint. The green. It’s stunning. Isn’t it?”

Anya’s initial dialogue is some of my favourite I’ve written. Probably because of the moon mention lol. Also Joey’s just chillin and I love him for that!!

The woman’s name is Anya, and she lives three floors up. He finds this out at the same time he finds out Eliza offered to paint her kitchen on his behalf, though what Anya says sounds more like “When Eliza told me you’d paint the wall, I could’ve—what is that saying? I could’ve jumped over the moon. I would’ve. The entire thing. All its phases.”

Anya’s got a toddler named Joey. He’s turning two next month, a little boy with a curly halo for hair, two dimples Lonan sees whenever he glances up from his tape-job of the baseboards. Joey eats apple slices dipped in almond butter and watches cartoons with both feet propped onto the couch cushion, too short to dangle down. Ever so often, he laughs, a shimmery sound, like the inside of a snow globe. Lonan half-watches him, as Anya’s asked—He’s good, don’t stress—if he cries, he wants you to turn up the TV—because she’s out of bread flour and insists on making Lonan two loaves of sourdough.

Some Joey:

“Joey’s good, isn’t he?” she asks, her fingers curving around the tape company’s logo. Lonan inhales. Anya smells like Eliza sometimes does, vaguely floral, like jasmine, or cherry blossoms. “Children are little blessings. Powerful little blessings.”

Of course, he should say. There’s no other way to describe a child—he’s a blissful little thing, his only purpose to keep his feet in his two-inch socks, to stare wistfully at a television like it’s telling his fortune in a language of pictures. Of course a child is a blessing—soft cheeks like the belly of bread dough, pinchable, kissable, thumbable, hands dipped into glittery tempera paint and fingers that make chicken scratches that will never be anything but art. Of course, he should say. He knows that, he should say. But Lonan’s vision fuzzes. He sees little of the TV colours projected on the walls like a hypnotic, technicolour exorcism; he doesn’t remember what it’s like to be that small, what it’s like to have his hands expand right in front of him, like seedlings.

Here’s the title drop ft. a rewritten Bible verse (Revelation 21:8):

He wants to believe children are always powerful little blessings that stay good. He doesn’t know why he doubts her. Joey is just this—a blessing on her couch, smiling at a screen because it’s all he needs to do. But he knows better, knows the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable exist, where they all live, and how they all start—as little blessings. He’s met murderers, liars, sorcerers in the shape of his father, sisters, mothers, all the wicked things that emerge from their second deaths unscathed. He doesn’t know what makes a child wicked. If he is one. If he’s been one. How many wicked children he knows.

Eliza hasn’t returned any of Lonan’s phone calls since he tried dialling somewhere between the first and last half of the wall. It’s obvious Anya knows he wasn’t aware of the plan, which is why every few minutes, she states new reasons for her forgetfulness with the time. “Eliza ran into me in the hallway, and I’m so bad at hallways,” she said, while rolling the dough between her knuckles. “So many turns.” Brushing her benchtop with more flour: “Time as a mother is such a commodity. It’s like, what’s the down payment for five minutes alone? But Joey’s worth it. Joey’s always worth it. He’s just magnificent. Can’t stay away from magnificence.”

More interactions I adore:

“You want some OJ?”

Lonan looks up from the paint blankly, focusing on Anya in an embarrassingly slow haze. “What?”

Anya reaches over to the fridge and tugs on its stainless-steel handle. It gives with a haunted sound, a subtle sort of groaning, and emerges with a glass bottle of orange juice.

“OJ,” she says, and shakes the bottle so the liquid froths.

“Oh,” he says. Green casserole in the fridge. Running low on OJ. “We’re low on that.”

Okay sorry but I’m so in love with Anya and Lonan’s interactions lol:

“Where are you from again?” She undoes her apron from the back with one hand. It falls, a lilac clump, onto the tile, and she leaves it there, only nudging it slightly with her toe.

Her eyes are golden too. Everything in her apartment. Even the silver parts are somehow gold. How much she could pawn off for eyes like those, like individual buttons of solid gold. Anya squints, and there the gold goes, focusing on him until she leans forward and plucks a strand of hair from his jaw. It sags with green paint, and before he blinks, she’s clipped it with a pair of kitchen shears.

“You got some paint on you.”

“Oregon,” he says. “Boston. New York.”

“What?”

“You asked where I’m from.”

Anya pockets his hair. He’s sure it’s a subconscious tick—she hasn’t even realized—but still, he wonders what she’ll do with it. If she’ll send it somewhere to get scanned, bagged, tested. How much you can find out about someone with just a nib of hair.

“That’s a lot of places,” she says. “You’re basically transcontinental.”

From her pocket, Anya’s hand twitches. He wonders what she’s doing, if she’s touching the hair, or flaking off its paint, or simply flattening out her pocket.

“Are you going to clone me?” He gestures to her pocket.

Anya doesn’t look.

“I could.”

“Why?”

“You paint walls fast. You’ve got nice hair.”

“Do you collect hair?”

“Just from the people I like.”

We get to see Anya unravel a little here as she and Lonan share a drink:

He’s always been good at watching. This is what he does as Anya pulls a miniature bottle of a deep amber liquid from her fridge along with the orange juice, mixing them together so what he pushes toward him smells like ammonia. She drinks half, an easiness as she swallows, and then slides the glass to him.

He leaves it there for a while. He watches Joey, how he claps when more animals show up on screen and gets quiet during the wrangle of commercials. He’s gold just like his mother, with a gap tooth that matches the man’s who grins in every photo hung neatly on the walls. A face he doesn’t remember, not even in the hazy slots he reserves for what he remembers working the hardware store. No evidence of him anywhere else, the shoes on the front mat only women’s heels or child-sized sneakers. One hook that holds one set of keys. Only the photographs.

“Where is your husband right now?” he asks. One wine glass in the sink. One coffee mug. One saucer.

“Businessman. Very busy.”

“I don’t remember him coming into the store.”

Anya takes another sip of the orange juice even though it’s Lonan’s turn to drink. Anya looks at Joey, a desperate fondness that answers Lonan’s question for him. She looks at him like she’s searching for the face of the man in the pictures, searching because she hasn’t seen it in years.

Anya really unravelling:

Anya’s face is bloated and red, a soreness in her eyes like she needs to blink but can’t. Lonan instinctually reaches for her hand, and it’s then that he notices it—two wedding bands on her ring finger. Her fingertips jolt him, but her palms are warm, the skin there taut, like she’s been clutching it for years.

“I thought the wall would help. Green means new life. Doesn’t it? I read that in a magazine. That it brings new life, I mean. New beginnings. New, new, new.”

Lonan getting existential ft. the first Harrison mention so far tho I’ll probably cut it because I want it to be a little more impactful and also half of this makes no sense oops:

His father is a dead man. Just like Anya’s husband is a dead man. Lonan knows so many dead men. Some that matter more than others, some names he revisits sometimes at the graveyard when Eliza thinks he’s out to run an errand as innocent as replacing a bad container of cottage cheese. He knows of men who are dead but still living, like Harrison’s father who no longer exists as a person in his dimension, but a corpse, hanging around in unnecessary things like a last name, an eye colour. Beyond men, he knows of many other dead things: dead pets, dead street names, dead countries, dead houseplants, dead first ladies.

He knows what a dead father does, what a dead heart does, that these things are meant to die—an inevitable thing; a sort of giving up of flesh, burying, toiling into new soil.

This is basically a monologue:

Lonan is in love with Eliza. He always has been. He always will be. There is nothing better than being in love with Eliza. There is nothing wrong with being in love with Eliza. There is no reason to not be in love with Eliza. Eliza is intelligent. Eliza is driven. Eliza is sensitive. Eliza tries to listen. Eliza knows how to take care of him. Eliza knows how to spell words like zolpidem, wears lipstick in the shade Very Vermillion and is delighted when it rubs onto her teeth. Eliza is lucky. Eliza is hypnotic. Eliza is a holy woman, a sacred woman, a careful woman, a wicked woman.

Lonan gulps water. Too much to keep himself controlled; he sputters, splatters the mirror. He hooks his fingers over his waterline, tugging until water falls out. He paces, chews his palms like Anya did, and steadies himself slowly from the counter to the tile. He is a wicked child. Eliza is a wicked child. Everyone he knows—all wicked children.

“Accept what comes to you each day,” Eliza says, which means she’s opened three of four of the cookies. “That’s truthful. That’s raw. That’s all you need to do.”

Some Eliza dialogue I like in reply to Lonan’s statement that he can’t do things since she bars him from driving:

“You don’t need a car to do things, Lonan.” She stirs her bowl of congee, the plastic spoon scraping against the Styrofoam. “You need hobbies. Like cross stitch. Pickling. Painting neighbours’ walls.”

Lonan and Eliza being Lonan and Eliza:

Lonan secures his fingers around the tin of madeleines and shifts once more, only for her to mimic his movement. They dance like this for a moment—his shuffle left matched by her shuffle left, his step up matched by her own. More of her mascara has smudged from where she unclumped her lashes, a lazy slash of colour like a samurai belt. Even their stares match each other—as he bores through her with a nimble focus like it’ll move her somehow, she does the same.

Here’s a line I like:

As she reddens, he adds this to his list of synonyms for baptism: to tame.

Here’s an excerpt featuring self indulgence and proof I miss Harrison:

The confessional smells rank, like rotting paper and expired cologne, all of its corners seedy with overuse. Scratches mar the fabric he rests his elbows on, like someone clawed into it while reliving their sins, track marks on the floor from a rainy day. He can’t imagine anyone else but him in this small box, caged in by the lattice, mumbling incoherent sins to the priest he hasn’t even committed. Stealing a set of glass eyeballs from a garage sale. Forgetting his wedding anniversary. Missing Easter Sunday mass to go whale watching. He doesn’t sign himself at the right times or speak at the right times or thank the priest at the right times. He lies when he’s asked if he’s lied since his last confession. He mentions nothing of drinking with Anya, of not saving the sheep or the bunnies even though he knew the outcome of their lives without finishing the program. Of being a wicked child, of knowing wicked children, of not knowing the difference between wickedness and innocence, and which one he learned first. He says his name is Luka. He works at a law firm. He’s married to a Harriet, a seamstress or a stock broker or an antiques trader—he doesn’t know. He likes golfing, parcheesi, drinking martinis on yachts. He’s never overindulged, he’s loyal to his woman, he wants three kids and a house with finished floors and no neighbours. He’s a good father, a gentle father, a careful father, no wickedness, just an empty shell of goodness, like a father should be. His father is retired, and visits him on weekends—they play checkers, paint birdhouses, keep a distance but toast with spirits he can’t pronounce. Everything is good—it’s all good, all good. That’s not a sin, the priest should say but they laugh—it’s good to be good. Children are good, marriage is good, fathers are good, everything an iteration of good. By the time his confession is over and he’s well on his way out of the church mumbling I am heartily sorry, he believes his lies are true—he’s absolved into someone new, Luka married to Harriet, three kids, an empty shell, dreamily stumbling through a house with finished floors that’s actually just the sidewalk until a woman passing by with a two small children has to help him sit on the curb.

This image gives me Forever & Ever More by Nothing But Thieves vibes (music video was def inspo):

She asks if he needs something to drink, if he needs someone to call, and emerges with a half-empty bottle of sparkling water and a cell phone. She asks what’s wrong with his eye, and he doesn’t know what’s wrong with anything—with eyes, with children, with sins, with confessions, with baptisms, with orange juice, with madeleines, with wickedness, with practicing how long he can breathe underwater because he knows it’s possible just like walking on it.

One of the children, hair pulled into two plaits secured with pearlescent butterfly bobbles, pokes at her mother and asks if he’s crazy. Her mother shushes her at the same time her older sister shows him a cool trick she learned with a toy convertible. Its wheels whir. Lonan gasps. The girl says, “Even crazy people think I’m gifted,” and wheels the car again. People stop to watch. Church bells gong an elegy he’s sure he’s heard before. The woman’s sparkling water dribbles from his mouth and dampens his dress shirt. Sun eclipses his face and eats at his throat like a parasite, like it knows all the unclean things about him, a watcher, an eyeball, a scorching little thing that bullets through his neck like the tooth of a wolf. The woman shushes her children and asks if he’s got a health problem, a drug problem, any problem, and he could say yes to all three but instead keeps repeating I am heartily sorry, I am heartily sorry. And when she does call someone, no one he knows, he leans against the cool pavement, cranes his neck to the sky, and parts his lips so the sunlight fills his mouth.

So that’s it for this update! I haven’t really been drafting lately, but I hope I can get more of this written because I love sharing!

--Rachel

#writing #amwriting #writeblr #writerblr #writingupdates #mothwork #feedinghabits #fostered

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iphoenixrising · 6 years

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Master List Update

I...didn’t even realize how much crap I’ve written since the last one >.< Also didn’t realize what a pain in the ass it was to click on when you’re on mobile. Here’s one that’s a little easier, I hope.

AO3: Fracture (fanart!); Distractions, Forward Momentum (Avengers)

Tumblr

Poison-Basil’s Art:

*iPhoenixrising (my wonderfully talented artist/writer babe literally made my spirit animal)

*Fracture Chapter 1: It’s Tim asleep on the bathroom floor where Dick and Jay find him (God, it’s amazing >.<)

Fracture Chapter 29: The intense almost between Dick and Red

BABE MADE ME A WHIRLYBIRD

*No Home for Dead Birds: (Eventual Conner/Bart/Tim maybe)

This is the amalgamation of comments from Fracture. A whole what if Tim didn’t forgive them and go back? Au. It’s right after the epic planning of Red Robin to keep Ra’s al Ghul from killing everyone Batman loves from the Red Robin series. Just a little bit of a twist on how the story would go if Tim didn’t stay.

Chapter I

Chapter II

Drabble

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X p1

Chapter X p2

Kon’s Drabble

Warning for mentions of suicide

NHDB What-If

The Red Hood

Dick Grayson

The Last Titan Standing

Redux (NSFW)

Tumblr Ask: Tim/Kon/Bart; warning for abuse of TTK, super-powers, and literally making Tim scream. All kinds of NSFW.

Chapter XI

What’s In a Name?

*Night Call (Tim/Jay Stripper Verse AU):

Based on an Ask. Just your standard Bouncer!Jay working at a strip club where Super CEO Tim Drake secretly moonlights when the stress of his life gets a little hard to handle and stripping gives him freedom. Of course, there’s probably identity porn and a little bit of smut.

Part 1

Part 2 (NSFW)

Final Part: 3

*DC AOB Attempt (Omega Tim/ Alpha Dick/ Alpha Jay by request):

This was seriously a try at the whole Omegaverse thing. I write it on it occasionally when I get asks and whatnot. Premise: Tim is making his way back to the Bats after a little hiatus after he lost the Robin mantle and brought back B from time. He’s in Gotham being part of the crew when his suppressants might have…worn off and the scent of a male Omega in heat makes the Bats a little more than concerned. To make matters worse, he gets a little more than he bargained for when Dick follows him back to Titan’s Tower to take care of his pack’s Omega.

Smut ensues.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6: The Demon’s Head: (Warnings: Tim/Ra’s non-con but the journey and subsequent revenge are oh so sweet.)

Part 7: Probably Finale with @satire-please

Ask from Tumblr: The Heat Fallout: (I wrote a follow-up to this…but it’s terrible and sweet, and I just never posted it >.<)

Ask from Tumblr: Two Alphas in Rut and one cute Omega (Very NSFW)

(Ask from Tumblr: Pregnancy Scare)

(Ask from Tumblr: Bonding and Shit)

*Marvel AOB Attempt (Omega Tony/ Alpha Bucky/ Alpha Steve):

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

*Night Sky (Possible future to the Fracture Verse, Tim/Dami)

Ask

Drabble

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Finale ( Warnings for things like Robinpiles and NSFW; that said, I’m absurdly proud of this smut)

Destroyed (a multiverse conglomeration of Bad Ass!Tim in a world where the Insurgents took over the planet):

Part 1

Part 2 (NSFW)

Part 3

Justice is Blind AU (Blind!Tim):

Part I

Part II

Drabble

Ask fic

Part V

Drabble (beware of Superbats)

Angsty stuff that kind of goes together? (Before NHDB, this is the ‘Tim isn’t forgiving your ass’ realm from my brain pan):

Clean

Drabble

Realize

Meeting

Mistake

Forward Momentum Things

(MCU Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes; eventual Steve/Bucky/Tony)

Forward Momentum Drabble

Coffee

Observation

Dr!Tim:

Dr!Tim au: How it all Began

Follow-Up Drabble

Dr!Tim Drabbles: The Mentor (with Tony Stark); The Suit (shameless Jay/Dick loving him in a suit); Med School (how he Met Steph, etc)

Dick Grayson’s acrobatic talent (surprise, it’s smut)

Dr!Tim Drabbles: Stephanie Brown and Batgirl

Dr!Tim Drabble: The Joker (I really enjoy playing around with the baddies sometimes and the Joker was an interesting character)

Playing around with Submissive Dr!Tim

Dr!Tim Safewords out Ask; Follow-up: Drabble: Sub-Drop

Dr!Tim: London Bridge is Falling Down (Bad ass Tim and a little hurt/comfort at the end)

Missing Scene from “London Bridge” (cute and a little angsty with Hurt Dr.!Tim and the L-word)

Post London Bridge Ask (guest starring Tony Stark)

Meet and Greet

Cute Dr. Tim taking care of overwrought Dick Ask: (The muse for Jason died a hard death >.< comments that make me sad do that tho)

Scary things:

Subdue (Tim/Ra’s non-con; be careful if you read this, tagged for triggers)

Fooled You Tim/Ra’s Valentine’s Day thing

Follower Posts!

100 Followers! Night Sky Drabble with Tim and Older! Dami; Sleeping Tim Drabble; MCU Steve/Bucky/Tony drabble Hurt/Comfort; Cross-over au! Where Dick and Jay admit their feelings to Tim; NHDB depressing drabble (Dick/Tim);

200 Followers! Tumblr Ask about Tim having scars from his childhood rather than as a vigilante; Justice is Blind Drabble: Tim and Lady Shiva; NHDB Prompt, sad Dick/Tim; Sick!Tony ask; Sad Ask: Red Robin Posthumous Award

300 Followers!: AOB Drabbles: The Pack (Cass and Fear Toxin) and Mating Bite; Body Swap: The Follow-Up (which I wasn’t really happy with but oh well); Fracture What-If Continuation for Anon; Dr!Tim Drabbles: Jay/Tim Fluff and Smut

400 Followers! : Dr. Tim: The Birthday Present, Robin’s Redemption (such a play on them both), Cross-Over AU! (Marvel Universe and Tim gets a second chance at being Robin), The Suit (shameless Dick/Tim)

Future au!

Part I: Pre-Fracture Tim and a little bit of time travel. How is going to take the “Night Sky” verse? (An attempt at making Fracture go full circle)

Part II: Continuation of lost Future Bats, mentions of Superbats, and attempts at coddling.

Bat Prompts and Drabbles:

Hard Fracture What-If (featuring BatDad and intense feelings; what if B had picked up Red after the Insurgents Battle and brought him back to the Cave right then and there? Watch your feels)

Space Salvagers AU (Jay/Tim)

Soulmate thing: Robins

Bodyswap (Dick & Tim); Body Swap: The Fallout

Concussion Confessions

The night the Flying Graysons Died

Of Owfucks and Accents

De-Aged Jay (based on fanart)

Fam Stuff (Bats)

Dick/Tim/Dami:

Drabble 1

Drabble 2

Drabble 3

Drabble 4

Time Travel Ask I, Drabble Continuation (Fracture Verse)

Dick/Jay/Tim Fluff: Tim being Tim Ask

Graduation (maybe Fracture Verse)

Stalker Photos

Holidays: Cute Holiday Cheer, Sad What-Could-Have-Happened Prompt based off this

Angst: A NHDB kind of Verse, 'What if Dick didn't catch Tim when he fell through the window' Prompt (aftermath of Character Death), Dark!Jay and Tim: Silence (Character Death)

Jason v. the Pit and then I saw this

Hilarity ensues

Jay/Tim Praise Kink

Tim is going to keep kicking ass

Worth the Wait (for Travelallover’s birthday): Based on Robin #10

“I’ve already forgiven you, but I won’t make the same mistake twice” Ask (Dick Grayson & Tim Drake)

Kid!Tim fics:

Window Seat

Kid!Tim is discovered

Old Fracture Drabbles: Superbats What-If

Convergence: Bringing together all the Tims. (Just an idea I played around with: Dr!Tim, Fracture Tim, Destroyed Tim, Justice is Blind Tim, and Detective Comics Tim)

Firefly Cross-Over for Tim Drake Week (Jason is Mal; Dick is Inara; Tim is Simon; Cass is Tam; Steph is Wash; Roy is Zoe, etc)

Injury/Healing for Tim Drake week (hilarity ensues; Tim is thwarted by Dick’s Sixth Sense)

Heavy in Your Arms Part I; Heavy in Your Arms Part II Jason Todd angst; Based off the song with the same title by Florence and the Machine

Crossover: Avengers/Bats

Tim stays in the MCU

And goes out as Robin

Tony Stark being a bro

Early NSFW (Please be advised):

Need (first in the DCU)

Prompt: “ Here’s a nice image for you. Jason has Tim bent over the counter...” (I was so new to Tumblr, I just threw it up as quote LOL)

Voltron: (They all stink, please see @satire-please for better stuff)

Team Dynamics

Left Behind

Waking

You Not the Lion

Miraculous Ladybug

Play : Shameless Adrien/Ladybug, MariChat, and Adrinette (if only I covered LadyNoir. Damn) with fake identity porn and hetero smut.

Non-Fiction stuff (I guess?)

Writing

Writing Choices

A little bit about Jason Todd’s mouth (just some ramblings about how his accent kind of evolved

#it's ass o'clock #but it's finally done #i wrote a ton since the last one #masterlist #updated #my fics #my writing #the last one was hard to click on #please hmu if I forgot something XD

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fictionalrat · 7 years

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let it happen | chapter 4

read on ao3

9:40 A.M.

Lance saves the document, closes it, stares at his laptop desktop image until his eyes start to sting, groans in frustration, and slams his laptop shut. Puts it aside. He crosses his arms like a petulant child, he chews on his bottom lip, his eyes roam around his room.

He watches as the wind plays lazily with his curtains, making their shadows dance, swaying back and forth.

Something moves in his peripheral vision. He rolls his head to the side, fingers hovering over the keypad. The sight that meets him makes him pause, his fingers freeze, Keith looks so peaceful, he looks almost… ethereal. It’s kind of disturbing, yet mesmerizing at the same time.

Keith’s pale face glows a tender hue under the morning light, the sun tinges his chapped lips a deep pink, the scar under his left eye looks almost translucent.

Keith’s so… unfairly beautiful.

He catches himself tracing down the slopes of Keith’s face, the lines of his jaw, the curve of his upper lip with his eyes like a piece of chalk on canvas. He’s never seen something quite this stunning before in his life (granted, he’s only 22, but that’s beside the point), if only he knew how to draw like Keith does.

Lance can’t take this, his heart’s too weak.

He wants to bury his face in Keith’s ruffled hair, wants to breathe him in, wants to have him in his arms, wants to touch, but he seems so out of reach like this. Lance curls his fingers into fists, aching to touch. He restrains himself from charting pale, fading freckles down with his fingertips.

It… it’s very distracting, is what it is.

Keith scrunches up his nose, grumbles and throws an arm over his eyes. Lance’s breath catches in his throat.

Lance… Lance is fucked, he knows he’s fucked, he already knew that then (when Keith suggested this… arrangement), he knows that now, he’s known that for some time now, but it never fails to catch him by surprise. This… feeling never fails to overwhelm him. He fucking hates this… whatever this is, he has no fucking word for this… feeling. It claws at his throat, it kicks him the gut, it scorches his heart, it clenches his heart in a death-grip, it steps on it, it rips his heart apart.

Lance covers his face in his hands and rubs, groaning in frustration. This is ridiculous. He forces himself to look away, and focuses on drilling a hole into the wall with the force of his glare instead, running his tongue over one of his canines.

Do not distract yourself with cheesy rom-com bullshit, bitch, he scolds himself, Write. Yes, writing is good. Stressful, but good. Go back to writing. Avoid contact. Don’t look. Avert your eyes. Work. You’ve got work to do, so do it.

After about five or so minutes of glaring despondently into fucking space and hating himself for being pathetic, he does. He’s always been good at taking all his frustrations on his writing.

He pulls his laptop into his lap, opens it, double taps, and the document appears on the screen. The cursor blinks curiously at him, he blinks back, and sighs. He starts scanning it for typos, and corrects them, all the while grumbling about how fucking stupid he is, and how fucking stupid all those mistakes were.

He adds some of the worst expletives in big, bold and italic capital letters next to shitty, weird ass sounding paragraphs that don’t ever seem to get any better, even after rewriting them seven thousand three hundred and eighty-four fucking times. Doesn’t matter how many times he tries, how many times he bangs his fists on the keyboard, how hard he hits the keys, the words don’t ever seem to come out quite right.

Rinse, lather, repeat.

“¡BESA MI CULO, PUTO!” He snaps at one particularly dumb typo, and deletes its whole sentence out of spite.

Keith stirs, and groans next to him, turning his body towards Lance. Lance tenses, holding his breath and sitting very still until he’s super sure, 100% Keith won’t wake up. Keith sighs obliviously in his sleep, and turns on his stomach. Lance lets out a relieved breath, closing his eyes.

He snaps them open and shakes his head in frustration, “No seas tonto, Lance.”

He hits ctrl-z and skips the paragraph entirely, jumping to two paragraphs bellow, he reads it and gasps, “¿Qué carajo? Who wrote this? A fiveslgfjdjdfds.” A hand lands on the side of his face with a smack, smooching his cheek. Lance screams, - of course he does, how could he not. - and almost falls off the bed.

“SHUT YOUR ROTTEN MOUTH, I’M TRYING TO SLEEP,” Keith growls at him, voice raspy, and low, and terrifying. Even muffled by the pillow and drowsy, his voice doesn’t lose its aggressive edge. What the fuck.

Lance, after recovering his soul, turns his head so he can stare at Keith with raised brows, and huffs, “Hella lot of words coming from a sleeping person, I’d say.”

Keith groans and lifts his face off the pillow, glaring at him through squinty eyes, “Shut that fucking trap, you moldy piece of bread, or get out.”

“This is my fucking room, Keith,” Lance sputters, snapping his laptop shut for added effect, “you get out.”

“I’M SLEEPING, PISS OFF,” Keith kicks at Lance’s leg with enough force to bruise.

“OW! CAREFUL WITH MY COMPUTER, YOU BRUTE!”

Keith grumbles, turning his back to Lance and covering his head with Lance’s comforter. He curls into a ball, shutting Lance out.

Lance relocates his grumpy ass to the couch after flipping an oblivious, snoring Keith off.

He loves the guy, but damn, can he be an asshole so-

…Wait, did he just-

Oh, hell no.

10:34 A.M.

stud muffin so………….. do i even wanna know? probably not, but you’re gonna tell me anyway pidge, cover ur eyes

pidgeotto shut up hunk im not 5 GIVE ME DA DEETS LANCE

space boi lance AWWW MAN MY DUDES MY BROS MY PALS MIS HERMANOS

pidgeotto oh boy here we go…….. im regretting this already

space boi lance SHUT IT BIRD TURD anyway where was i before i was so rudely interrupted??? ah yeah OH MY GOD MY DUDES hes a screamer KEITH KOGANE OUR KEITH IS A SCREAMER ITS LIKE AAAAAA GUYS boi so thicc too goddem cant wait to have him up my ass honest such a nice dick 11/10 reallygreat work of art grade a AND DAT ASS!!!!!!!! GUH SO FUCKING SMOOTH he looks really nice when hes sleeping too so soft i want to chomp on his cheeks ughhhhhh how can he be so perfect its so unfair im swooning i swear to GOD he looks hot even when hes kicking me out of my own room which UNFAIR

A facebook notification pops up at the top of his phone screen in the middle of his rant.

Hunk Garrett tagged you in a post, it says.

Lance arches an eyebrow, “Huh.”

He taps it open.

Hunk Garrett is listening to the less i know the better, by tame impala i’d like to dedicate this song to my good pal Lance Martínez you know /why/ Pidge Holt and 5 others

Pidge Holt HOOOOOO BOY THE BURN THATS Y UR MY MAIN HO HUNK I LOVE U

Matthew Holt lol babe look at The Shade Takashi

Takashi Shirogane Ah yes, that is indeed The Shade Of It All *scratches chin* Lance Martínez shiro i love u but dude ure embarrassing get off the internet Matthew Holt dont trash talk the baby lance Matthew Holt he’s sensitive Matthew Holt (ure adorable babe) Takashi Shirogane I take offence to that Lance Takashi Shirogane No more dog memes for you Lance Martínez NOOOOOO DAD NOT THE DOGGO MEMES Takashi Shirogane ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Pidge Holt ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Hunk Garrett ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Matthew Holt ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Lance Martínez u guys are absolute TRASH

Lance Martínez the WORST I TELL U WORST

Lance Martínez I NEED NEW FRIENDS ASAP

Pidge Holt awwwwwwww lance i love u too Pidge Holt u can tell me everything later i’ll allow it Pidge Holt bring food Pidge Holt and redbull Pidge Holt tons of redbull Lance Martínez ure… ugh Lance Martínez i hate u Lance Martínez u tiny bird turd Pidge Holt URE tiny Lance Martínez GASP U TAKE THAT BACK Pidge Holt ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Hunk Garrett ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Matthew Holt ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Takashi Shirogane ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Allura Ourania ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Lance Martínez LULU NOT U TOO Allura Ourania ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

11:35 A.M.

He’s avoiding the huge ass, one-sided, and glittery elephant in the room, he’s avoiding the fuck out of it. He’ll avoid the fuck out of it until it goes away, until it disappears for good, until it goes to fucking hell, until it’s burning in the fifth circle of hell.

He has no time for this.

This project is worth 40% of his grade.

His prof’s a mad man, yeah, but that’s how it is. He won’t flunk this class just because he can’t control his feelings.

He can’t, won’t, jeopardize his project just because of fucking feelings.

¡No, de ninguna puta manera!

He needs a shower.

And a joint.

And coffee.

Tons of coffee.

But a shower first, then facials, then weed, then coffee.

Tons of coffee.

He’ll also down a shot of tequila, because he’s feeling adventurous.

(Reckless, he means reckless.)

1:45 P.M.

Lance’s minding his own business, stirring his way into his fifth?? possibly, probably, he’s not sure, cup of coffee, and stuffing his face with ham and pineapple pizza rolls in the kitchen after smoking a whole joint by himself in the bathroom, when he hears it. It is terrifying. A dull thud reverberates through the apartment, echoed by it; the most earth-shattering, ear-splitting shriek he’s ever heard.

“LANCE!”

He freezes, his heart plummets.

His spoon drops and clatters on the floor.

“LANCE, YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD,” the deity roars.

Lance squeaks like a fucking mice, and squats, hiding behind the counter.

Run. Pack your things and go, get out of town. Flee to Europe, change your name-

He presses his overheated cheek to the counter and sighs, so good. He grins wide.

Keith’s feet smack on the floor as he stomps, over-aggressively, I dare add, out of Lance’s room, “What the fuck did you do to my ass, you rotten egg?” His voice is louder now, much louder. Lance jumps mid giggle-fit, which sets him off into another one.

“ME!” Lance peers over the countertop and raises his hand, waving sluggishly and cackling, bloodshot eyes wide. Well, as wide as they can go, which, honestly, isn’t much, considering, “I DID THE FUCK! I PUT MY DICK IN - HAH - YOUR ASS! YOU LET ME - HAHAH - IT WAS WILD!”

Keith takes a long look at him and, like a flip has switched, his scowl melts and he bursts out laughing, his nose crinkling up. It’s so fucking adorable, Lance’s heart hurts. It burns. It screams in pain. Lance laughs the pain away like the idiot he is, or maybe just because he’s high as fuck. One can never be too sure, ya feel.

“I know that, you fucking stoner, I mean THE BRUISES.” He points at his bare hips, trying to catch his breath.

Lance’s eyes travel south.

Helloooo there, legs.

Wait, he went too far.

Go back two frames.

There, hips.

Lance blinks, and tries to open his eyes further. He can’t.

He blinks again.

Oh.

Ho boy, he did a number on the guy alright.

Also, this part is super wild, bare with him, it looks weirdly… beautiful? It’s gorgeous, actually. It’s a masterpiece, Lance is an artist.

The red and purple splotches scattered across Keith’s skin are… kind of blurring together in one big ass bruise, that reminds him oddly of the Milky Way. Lance fights hard against the white urge to draw an alien-head above Keith’s hipbone. Keith probably wouldn’t mind it, though. The nerd. Lance chuckles.

Keith clears his throat.

Lance flicks his eyes up at Keith, blinks languidly at him several times. Keith’s waiting for something, isn’t he? What is it again? He rakes his brain for an answer. It beeps.

Ah, yeah.

An answer, right. He needs to answer Keith, duh.

Lance cackles at his stupidity.

“Oh, that.” Lance wipes his eyes on his sleeve in between chuckles as he finally answers, sniffing. He braces his arms on the counter and pushes himself up on his feet, winking, “I’m not sorry about that.” He lies his torso on the counter, smooching his cheek against the cool surface, and shoots Keith a lopsided smile.

Keith shakes his head, “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, but you looooooove me,” Lance sing-songs, finger gunning lazily with a grin.

Keith rolls his eyes fondly, and gets closer, dragging one of the stools from under the counter, and sitting down gingerly, wincing a little. His eyes flicker swiftly to something as he settles, before they land on Lance again. Keith frowns, “Should you be drinking coffee?”

Lance frowns back, puzzled, turning his head so he can look at his mug. “Shouldn’t I?” He wonders.

Keith leans over the counter, elbows propped up, and starts picking idly at one of the pizza rolls sitting pretty on the plate in front of him, “It doesn’t affect your high?”

Lance gasps. His pizza rolls. “No touching, you fugly mullet, it’s mineeeeee,” Lance whines, reaching forward and swatting Keith’s fugly hand away. He snatches the plate from Keith and brings it closer to himself, tucking it in between his arms, away from pizza roll-thieving mullets. Lance sticks out his tongue at him, before fitting two of the biggest rolls in his mouth. At the same time. For emphasis. His cheeks puff out.

Keith ducks his head to hide his grin. “You look like a chipmunk,” he comments nonchalantly, tapping his knuckles idly on the surface.

“Nhobowdshy ashkd yuh, Puhtrish,” Lance shoots back.

Keith rolls his eyes and flips him off with both hands, leaning back on his stool.

Lance flashes him the half-chewed food.

“Fuck, that’s gross.”

“Ah.” Lance struggles to swallow all of it dry, but manages, “I forgot to - clears throat - answer, coffee doesn’t affect my high much.” He shrugs, taking a bite off one of the rolls. Keith hums.

Lance swallows, “Pass me the straw, please. The long, bendy one.” He gestures a thumb back.

Keith slides from the stool in one smooth movement, makes his way around the counter and goes for the drawers. Lance hears as it slides open, “Which color?”

“Purple,” Lance answers over his shoulder.

He stretches his arm when Keith pulls the straw out and makes a grabby hand at him.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Keith holds the straw over his head.

“Gimme, or I’ll punch your di-I-i-aaAAAAAah,” he tries to steal the straw from Keith, but loses his footing and almost dives face-first into the cold, hard floor. “¡Coño!” He fumbles to keep upright, hooking a hand on the edge of the other side of the counter. Thank fuck for long fingers.

Lance manages to get his balance back by planting his feet firmly on the ground. Keith makes his way back to his stool, and once he’s settled, he hands Lance the straw already stretched. Keith’s lips quiver in a poorly concealed attempt not to laugh, eyes twinkling mirthfully.

Lance rolls his eyes as he throws the straw into his cup, propping himself on his elbow and resting his chin on his palm.

Keith makes gagging sounds, bangs falling on his eyes.

Lance ignores him in order to bring the straw to his lips with his free hand, and suck the coffee, swallowing in an obnoxiously loud gulp.

Keith’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “You’re gross,” Keith comments, tucking his hair behind his ears.

“Thanks, I try,” Lance grins around his straw, then frowns at Keith’s bare chest. “Shouldn’t you put on some clothes, though?” Lance asks, eyes half-lidded, “It’s freezing, Keith.”

Keith raises an eyebrow, looking down. “Off-topic, but no, Lance, it’s not,” he shoots Lance a look, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “And how would you know, anyway? You’re high.”

“What’s this jealousy I’m feeling? There’s more, you know.” He pats the breast pocket of his sweatshirt with a dopey smile, and meets Keith’s eyes as he takes a sip, waggling his brows. He swallows and winks, “Don’t need to get all broody on me, grumpy pants.”

Keith hides his face on his arms and groans. Lance can see the blush rising on Keith’s neck, and allows himself a mental pat on the back as he pushes himself upright.

“Okay, let’s go,” Lance trots towards his bedroom.

3:32 P.M.

When they sober up enough to get stuff done, they throw themselves on the couch, legs tangled because why not, right? It’s not like Lance’s life makes any sense, anyway.

Lance with the camera in his hands and laptop on his stomach, Keith with his headphones around his ears, and one of his weird, edgy sci-fi books resting on his thighs.

Lance rests his head on the armrest and hits play.

Keith’s feet tap a comforting rhythm against Lance’s.

4:02 P.M.

Keith falls asleep against the couch, mouth slightly open.

Lance does a poor job at reducing the volume of his laughter at his dramatics on video. Even though Keith’s got his headphones on, Lance still manages to wake him up, and ends up getting kicked in the shin by a very rumpled, grumpy, and over-sized baby with a fugly mullet for that.

He tries not to laugh again.

…He fails miserably, and both his shins suffer.

Terribly.

4:30 P.M.

Because Lance has shit luck, and the universe is out to get him, they didn’t manage to catch Keith’s o-face on video. Life is unfair, God hates him, Jesus hates him, even Buddha must hate him, because this, right here, has got to be some sort of twisted divine punishment. Maybe it’s Karma, maybe he was a murderer in his past life, he doesn’t know. What he does know, though, is that this must be fixed.

“Dude,” he kneels on the couch and shakes Keith’s knee to wake him up, “Dude. DUDE!”

Keith’s eyes flutter open and he squints at Lance, blinking blearily, utterly confused.

Lance sits back on his heels and he offers Keith the camera, “Look.”

Keith, while frowning up at him, sits up and takes it. He yawns, unplugging his headphones from his phone and into the camera. He hits play.

Keith snaps the camera shut after about ten minutes, a furious blush burning his high cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. He still looks mildly confused, though, and astoundingly flustered, bringing his knees to his chest.

Lance bites on his bottom lip and heaves a huge breath. “We’ll have to tape chapter 1 again,” he clarifies.

Keith lifts an eyebrow, face still bright red, “Because…”

“I can’t see your face when you’re coming, dude.” Lance explains, waving his hands at the camera in exasperation, “That’s unacceptable, you know. really preposterous. I can’t have this, I can’t WRITE like this. This is a disaster. We gotta redo this, Keith. It’s a matter of life and death.” He grabs both Keith’s knees and shakes.

“But- I’m awake now, dipshit, quit shaking me,” He snaps, batting Lance’s hands away from his knees, “But… don’t you remember my face when I was actually coming yesterday?”

So, you see… remember when Lance mentioned he has shit luck, and the universe is out to get him, and some sort of divine punishment is being inflicted upon him? There’s another reason to back up that assessment.

They not only hadn’t caught Keith’s o-face on video, but he also didn’t get to see Keith’s o-face in living color yesterday because he had his fucking eyes closed. Which rude, Lance. That is just plain rude. There’s no excuses. That’s probably why God, Jesus, and Buddha hate you this much.

Lance hangs his head. “I- I had my eyes closed,” he confesses, accepting defeat.

“You’re hopeless.”

Lance’s head shoots up and he gasps, “Excuse!”

“No,” Keith stands up abruptly, almost kneeing Lance’s nose in the process.

Lance squawks and reels back, out of reach, eyes wide, “Wha-”

“Shut the fuck up, you dry raisin,” Keith glares accusingly at him and Lance flinches, “I’ll fix this.”

“Kei-”

Keith’s arm shoots up, and he points his index finger at Lance, thick eyebrows pinched. “Stay put,” he warns, waving his finger, “don’t fucking move, don’t breathe.”

Lance is too confused to react, or even say anything, so he just gapes.

“Just… stay there, I’ll be quick.”

Keith returns buck naked, with a dildo and the lube in hands.

Lance’s at a loss, he’s a loss for words, his sass is gone, along with his ability to form coherent thoughts. Keith has that effect on him, apparently. Keith always finds a way to give Lance whiplash.

Keith dumps the stuff on the coffee table and turns his attention to Lance, he chuckles at what he sees there, “Shut your mouth, Lance, you’ll catch a fly.”

Lance finds his voice. “Wha-” he clears his throat, and shakes his head before continuing, “What the fuck?” (Eloquent.)

Keith rolls his eyes as he picks up the camera, “You’re gonna tape me as I touch myself.”

Keith hands Lance the camera.

“I don’t…” Lance takes it, still completely dumbfounded.

Keith cuts him off, “I told you I’d fix this, didn’t I? So this is me, fixing it.”

Something in Lance’s brain seems to click.

“Oh,” he replies dumbly.

Oh no, is what he means, no fucking way. He’s gonna die today.

Yup, today is the day.

“Okay, so…” Keith claps his hands, “scooch over, I need the space.”

Lance’s eyes widen, “You really gonna do this here? On the couch?”

“Is there a problem?”

Yes. There’s a ton of problems, actually. Not with Keith doing it on the couch, but still, there’s a problem. Tons of problems. These problems have problems. For one, Lance will probably die. For two, he can’t do this anymore. He can’t but he has to, and he will because his project is worth 40% of his final grade, he will because he has to. He has the moral duty to prove to Keith, and to himself, that he, as a matter of fact, can do this, even if he’ll end up hurt. Fuck his feelings.

“No, no, nope, no problem at all. I’m all up for jerking off on the couch, sign me the fuck up. It’s just…” Lance blows a raspberry, scratching the back of his head, looking around the room, uncertain. He can’t meet Keith’s eyes, “it looks too cramped, I think? I was just, uhm, thinking that maybe, I don’t know, you’d prefer doing this on a bed?”

Keith snorts, “Nah, it’s okay.”

Lance finally looks at him, searching his face, “You sure? Like, 100%?”

Keith rolls his eyes, “Yes Lance, don’t worry, just… keep the camera on me.”

Lance sits upright, crisscrossing his legs, and points the camera at Keith.

#klance #keith x lance #voltron #vld #klance fic #fanfic #my stuff #sup #weed tw #drugs tw

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