#i forgot how much i hated multi-chaps

[yeyinde]

"Don't trust me?" "I don't even know you—" His hand lifts, metal fingers spreading lazily as he holds his palm in front of you. A peace offering. The sight of it makes you scoff.  "Fair. For what it's worth, I don't trust you much, either, but—" another inhale of his cigar. His voice is pinched when he speaks, his breath ghosting white with the smoke congealing in his lungs. "We have to make do with what we have, don't we, love?"

》 WARNINGS: allusions to political corruption, mild horror (maybe??), mentions of death and murder; more banter in a pub; Price has a past

》 WORD COUNT: 8K

》 NOTES: This was originally much longer but the second part delves heavily into the mechanics of the world (we FINALLY see MC—I'm not good at creative nicknames—go into the underground/black market and it is like, a Thing!!!!) and it felt like a bit of an overload with soooo much being revealed at once. So, I split them up. More Reader x Price in a pub. Bantering. Because, ummm, I’m so goddamn creative, lads. 

SERIES MASTERLIST | PREVIOUS : NEXT

Makarov's outburst clots in the fibrils of your still reeling mind, replaying in an incessant loop that keeps you up into the early morning hours, unable to sleep. 

Each time you close your eyes, you see the unavoidable truth in blood looming before you. Inner Circle. Inescapable. 

All this time, you'd been under some false assumption that Makarov was the sole lender to whatever medical intervention was needed to bring you back from the clutch of death. It would make things easier. 

People die every day. 

It was the macabre ideal you clung to, digging into the notion until your nails cracked and bled. The only constant in your life that brought some semblance of hope. 

After all, the dead can't collect any debts. 

But a corporate entity can. 

You're pulled out of your reverie when the sound of a news alert fills the silence of your penthouse. The screen flickers to life at the apex of dawn, just when the indigo sky above splits into a varicoloured smear of pastel pink, ochre, and lavender. The looming horizon—sun a hazy flaxen—swallows the tenebrous that gnaws on the skyscape outside of your window. 

The vacuum fills the familiar jingle of your normal routine. A man sits behind a podium. The chyron below warns of a biblical rainstorm approaching, enough—

"—to wash the whole city away," the newscaster jokes as he jogs the stack of papers in front of him. A bead of sweat catches in the flushed light of the newsroom. The implants on his cheekbones flash; the chromatophore upgrade in his sleek skin shifting in a kaleidoscope of colour. "It comes at a good time, though, as reports of sickness are spreading through the medical bays. It must be flu season—," he titters before shifting his attention over to a man on the other half of the screen. 

He wears a black poncho and a wide grin. 

"A flu?" He echoes, the words swallowed by the passersby in the city square. The jumbotrons in the back bath him in a hazy, neon smear. "In this economy?"

They chatter in the background about a sickness spreading through the city, the storm looming closer, Atlas Corporation putting in a series of patents for some big, technological feat of engineering—Four Horseman has some steep competition this year! Atlas is the up-and-coming tech company that has new, innovative ideas and a focus on the environment!

It's the only mention of Four Horsemen Corp.

It doesn't surprise you. 

Money is a powerful tool. Those who weren't already in their back pocket were quickly added, and those who couldn't be paid off were—

Enticed. 

Whatever Anatoly—his primary enforcer—couldn't do, an encrypted file deep in Makarov's secured vault filled the gap. 

The White Horse is a multifaceted venture. On its surface, a luxury club that caters to a specific clientele. Its exclusivity makes it desirable. People fall over themselves just for the chance to enter. The prestige alone from saying, "I've gotten an invitation," is worth more than money in the circle of the upper echelon. It's elusive. Draped in mystique. 

Coveted. 

They want to get in so bad, just for the sole purpose of throwing their weight around and saying they've been, that they don't stop and think about the potential dangers that lurk. 

After all, a club funded by the Inner Circle and owned by Makarov—the White Horse—could hardly be dangerous. 

It's not the club they have to worry about but the man who owns it. The one who has people in high positions of power froth at the mouth for a chance to attend. 

It is impossible to convince a man with millions to risk his neck for someone else. 

But blackmail does the trick. 

From the utter silence of the media regarding this, barring a few fringe sites that are too small to bother with, you'd wager that your hard work was utilised now more than ever before. 

"—pull out your umbrellas, because—"

You reach out, pressing the power key. It clicks off. The hologram darkens to sleek black. 

Your face stares back at you, shaded in tenebrous. Empty. Vacant. Sometimes, you try to piece together what you might have looked like as a child, but all that surfaces is a void. Nothingness. 

It isn't a mental block, but an absence of everything. Anything. A gaping hole. 

You think of the missing man—Alex Keller—and something rotten gnarls between empty ribs. 

Six days. 

Three years. 

You wonder if anyone is still looking for you now. If your face is plastered on the communication poles on some distant planet. If the uncanny likeness of you is whispered in a neighbourhood in Al Mazrah where your family mourns. Or if there is now an empty spot at a dinner table that will never be filled. 

You doubt it. 

Nothing ever appears in the searches. No one ever stops you when you wander down the streets, and belts out an unfamiliar name. The closest you'd come to some sense of recognition was that man. The closest you'd come to thinking finally, finally, someone knew you. 

But he didn't. Doesn't. 

He isn't combing the shady side of down for you, but for Alex. A missing man who's been gone for six days—long enough for the man to tear through the redlight district and force your hand to aid him in finding out where Alex had gone. 

(You wonder if someone fought that hard for you.)

Ugly. Stupid. 

No one is looking. Makarov assured you of this when you asked him. 

You're a nobody, kitten. A stray. I picked you up off the streets and brought you back. You want your family? Well, all you have is me. Ain't that swell, kitten? What more could something like you ever hope for?

Worthless. 

You're caged up like an exotic bird. A toy to be kept on the highest shelf until it's needed. 

A pet. A plaything.

But Makarov's reach is everpresent. His eyes are everywhere.

You can run, and run, and run—

You should know better by now. No one touches what belongs to me. 

—and he'll always find you.

You have this recurring nightmare that started a year into waking up.

Makarov's idea of avoiding the hassle of you constantly asking questions about the unfamiliar world around you was to just preemptively teach you about it all. In a single session.

Despite the hesitation from the man administering the chip that would flood your mind with knowledge of the world, he pushed for it. And really—who is going to stand up to a man who not only pays their bills, but funds a vast majority of the country?

Against all codes of ethics, you were given the chip.

There is no way of describing the pain of suddenly knowing, but it left a mental scar on your psyche, one that is fundamentally irreparable. A bruise that's always there. A sore spot in your mind as it slowly heals itself from the aftermath of information overload.

But in that knowledge, came the awakening of something else.

Something that the man touched on briefly. Your lack of implants. Cybernetics. The flesh on your body is unblemished by technology, save for a small port where your spine meets your skull. It's always been there. You woke up with it.

It is covered by a layer of tissue meant to keep debris from getting in, and most days you forget about it's existence entirely.

Until, of course, days like these.

When you remember a piece of that overwhelming puzzle that was forced into your head. Artificial intelligence. Androids.

Project Sentience.

It's now considered a cruel, awful experiment conducted by the forefathers who founded the technological epoch that bloomed, by many accounts, out of control and transformed life within a few, short decades.

The project was started with good intentions. They meant to mind the gap between the limits of knowledge and erase the blemish of human error. Where they dreamed up the impossible, the AIs were meant to fill in the missing holes in the theorems and puzzles.

Working, together, for a better future.

But there was an unseen flaw.

The sentience wasn't foolproof. The android working with the engineers thought themselves to be exactly what they were: human.

It was then that project commenced in secrecy. They led the androids to believe they were real, flesh and bone, but when the flawed aspect of the human ego (a byproduct of their tweaked code to mimic the behaviours of humans to seem more passably real) led them to declare themselves the greatest engineers of all time, it was then that human engineers made it known what they were.

It wouldn't be so bad, maybe, if they were just confined to the lab. But they weren't. They were meant to be human, and so—

They led human lives. Love, dislike. Heartbreak. Some had gotten married. Some had lobbied against AI agency.

All had thought they were human.

The ripping of the veil was a nasty one.

Their partners were ostracised. Lives ruined. Their agency was taken away from them in fear of an insurgence from the androids who were now feeling the distinctly human emotion of abject horror.

Everything they knew was culled overnight over something so disgustingly simple as human envy.

It was deemed too cruel to continue. Public outcry made it so that any android made with sentience was told they were artificial, and treated as such.

The lawing of this pulled people in different directions. Subservience. Superiority. Purist.

You think of that experiment, and then of the many markers left behind that give someone an advanced understanding of their anti-humanism. The first, naturally, being a lack of noticeable enhancements. Why would something made to be perfect need an upgrade or an implant when they can just be designed with that specific feature?

The second is a sudden awakening into cognisance.

An emptiness. Nothing. And then—

They're awake.

You think of that as you stare at yourself in the mirror, but it passes just as quickly as it came. Your attention was stolen away by flickering light overhead.

They warned of an oncoming storm, didn't they?

It draws your eye, and you watch the light recede in small bursts as it struggles through the power surge of the grid. It's a common sight. Static in the air. The taste of rain.

You've always been more attuned to the change in the weather, almost as if you could feel the building of kinetic energy buzzing across your flesh.

From the prickling goosebumps ghosting over your skin, you know it'll be a bad one. Biblical, they said.

You turn back, mind blank, sluggish. It's weird. All of this is—

The face in the mirror is not your own.

Well. No. No, it is. It's—

You.

But—

Your flesh drips. Raindrops of flesh slide down your cheeks, dripping into the porcelain basin of the sink where it hits the ceramic with a sickening splat.

(Pat, pat, pat—)

It doesn't hurt. You don't feel anything. Nothing, nothing at all—

And you should, shouldn't you? Agony over the slippage of skin falling off of your face in wet flakes until the smooth curve of metal is shown—

Metal.

Your chin dips. A mass breaks away, the ruination of Pangea, and falls into the basin with the rest until sleek gunmetal remains. Wires crossed, connected. You feel—

Nothing. You feel absolutely nothing.

Where terror should brim, you're empty. A vacuum.

(Made in his image.)

You force yourself to reel back, to fling away from the thing staring at you—the thing that can't be you, can't be, can't be, can't be—until you trip. Until you fall to the ground with a thud that you can only hear but not feel.

You know you're sitting down on the solid ground because you can feel the physical weight of gravity pushing against you, and meeting a barrier in the middle. Something stops it from sending you down, down, down.

The floor. Your fingers dig into the marble. The whine of metal across flat, recrystallised limestone meet your ears, but the breaking of your nails causes you no pain. No blood, either. Nothing. The uncapped tips of your carbon fingers leave scratches on the polished surface.

He'll kill you, you think, mechanical and distant. You ruined his floor.

It doesn't hit you the way it should. It doesn't do much of anything.

It feels like you're floating. Suspended. You can't feel the ground, or the floor, or the wall against your back. All that filters in is the knowledge that you are on a stable foundation, and not caught in a free fall.

You catch sight of yourself in the brass handle of the door.

A metal face stares back at you.

You open your mouth to scream but nothing comes out.

A blink back into wakefulness, and you're in your bed. The mattress is soft beneath your feverish body, the sheets saturated in your sweat. They cling to your skin, trapping you. You feel the weight of gravity. The solid frame of the bed keeps you up.

Your hands fly to your face, nails scratching against your skin.

—Skin. Skin.

It takes hours to calm down, and days to shake the terror of looking into a mirror.

You sit, huddled in your room, and wonder if maybe all the signs were there.

Sometimes you wish that if Makarov had really, truly, made you from scratch, he would have given you solid gold plates for skin, and diamonds for bones, so at least every pound of flesh would be worth something.

(Worthless.

You are—)

Your loyalty to Makarov is a tenuous thread, one frayed and knotted from the inherent sense of ownership he lays on you. An obligation of recompense for saving your life—something you'd never asked of him. 

And so, it doesn't really feel like much of a surprise when you pull the rim of your hood low over your brow, tug your mask high up the bridge of your nose, and sneak past your guard for the evening to meet him instead. 

The place he picked is known as Industrial City—so aptly named for its abundance of postmodern buildings from somewhere in the mid-to-late twenty-first century. The crumbling ruins of an archaic homage to humanity's progress now sit abandoned in a cluster of rotting steel, cracked concrete, and mouldering asbestos. 

It's a haven for small-time gangs, and at one point, was thought to be the hideout of a notorious Purist leader who tried to sever the dependence on technology, and plunge the world back into a natural darkness. 

(He got as far as snipping a single wire from the Grid before he was detained for terrorism.) 

Bathed in an inky black, and void of the artificial neon smear of lights and LEDs, it looks almost haunting in the indigo gloam. A graveyard of the past. 

There's a prevalent feeling of unwelcomeness simmering low in the air around the abandoned buildings, one that grows ever-potent as you wander past it, and down the overgrown path leading to an old warehouse on the opposite side. 

Tension thickens the air. You feel it clot in your lungs. An uncanny sensation of being watched. Hunted. Your eyes skirt the row of crumbling industrial buildings, peering into the black voids of the smashed windows. Jagged cuts of glass, opaque from a thick layer of dust, grime, and the inevitable decay passage of time brings, gleam in the pale light of the moon suspended in the aether. 

It's dark. Uncannily so. 

The only light illuminating your path is the jaundiced glow of the moon and the buoyant flicker of the shuttles docking on the station. An infinitesimal dot against Tycho's vast, grey dip. Barely enough to make a difference in a place that leaks a palpable sense of unwelcomeness from the tenebrous surrounding you. 

Something shifts in your periphery. Your eyes dart to a third-story window of a vacant building. 

The stark, unfathomable blackness gives nothing away but you still feel the unmistakable sense of something, someone, glaring back into your eyes. Eye contact from the void. 

Your gaze drops to the underbrush. 

The static in the air grazes your skin. You're being watched. Stalked. Hunted. 

In the furze, you make out a depression in the dirt. Oval-shaped. Plain. 

It's a footprint. 

It rained all morning—a small appetiser to the biblical flood they promised: a looming thundercloud inched closer to the city each day—but the print in the wet ground was undisturbed. Fresh.

Above it, you find another. And another. Another. Until it disappears between a bottleneck of the two buildings. 

The path leads you back to the broken window—to the vat of black. 

The mini-gyrojet you stole from Yuri a long time ago sits heavy in the waistband of your trousers. Barely the size of your hand, and certainly less potent, but the laser is just as deadly as its parent. Comforting, almost. 

Your fingers twitch. You stifle the urge to grab it, and force yourself to turn around. Back to the enemy. Stupid. You know better. 

But whatever is looming in the shadows isn't a concern of yours. 

(And maybe, maybe, if they did shoot you in the back, you'd know once and for all what your insides were made of.)

Stupid. 

Nails bite into the soft skin of your palm leaving a crescent indent against your lifeline. The flash of pain, of discomfort, quells the knot in your stomach, the one that curls tight around your organs, and claws its way up your esophagus. Fear. Anxiety. They pollute inside of you with each step through the industrial mausoleum and toward the dilapidated building in the distance. 

An old parking lot sits to your right. The cracked concrete is barely visible under the thick overgrowth that congeals around the space left behind. Nature reclaiming Her land. Against the hazy ochre smear in the distant horizon, slowly being consumed by the vat of indigo that follows swiftly behind it, the tangled vines of emerald green look ethereal in the gloam. 

It's a vivid glimpse into the past when this place meant something to the people who ventured here. Office buildings. A parking lot where archaic vehicles using gasoline to run once sat, wheels on the concrete. Feet on the ground. They wandered to the buildings—just another cog in the machine. 

You wonder sometimes what they would think if they could see the world today. The broken line between fantasy and reality where slipping a chip into their brain stem could create a gap in time, one that lets them wander through any period of history, any memory inside their head. 

They called it virtual reality. 

Another plane of existence they hadn't the technology to exploit fully. A digital dimension that lingered between the layered worlds. 

Some live inside that realm exclusively, refusing to risk themselves in the physical plane where an errant jet could end their lives. 

It's a strange juxtaposition from that to this. Where the graffiti that stains the crumbling ashlar is now considered with reverence to this world as a handprint in a cave was to that one. 

A noise echoes through the vacant lot. The sound of a cut-off shout. Your eyes dart to the left, taking in the sight of two men standing outside of a Burger Town, jostling each other over the last jetbike parked in the charging dock. 

Inside the restaurant, a man leans against the tinted glass, cigarette in his hand, watching the same tousle as you. Under the flickering neon sign, his lips quirk up in amusement when one of the men loses their balance, tumbling to the pavement. 

It's another odd juxtaposition. A rotting graveyard of the past, some buildings salvaged and converted into a strange array of low-brow pubs, and—

Neon lips open, a pink tongue glides over the plump line of red before disappearing into a closed-mouth smile. It repeats. 

—a pseudo redlight district for those who can't afford the rent on the main boardwalk. 

The graffiti on the wall of the building is faded. The paint peeling, and weathered from the passage of elements. But you can still make out the shape of a yellow dick on the wall. 

Bars. Fast-food. Sex. Testosterone. 

The world might be different, but the people certainly aren't. 

You pull your hood down lower over your brow, and quickly keep moving. 

The converted warehouse doesn't have any markings on the outside to identify it as a pub, and you almost miss it until your tracker chimes, indicating your arrival.

Upon first glance, it's just a long, rectangular two-storey building made of chipped burgundy brick and scattered windows, all crusted with grime until it's tinted in a thick, opaque grey. 

You check the map again—just once to be sure—and send off a delayed alert with a timer set to go off an hour from now to Yuri. 

If you don't turn it off before the time runs out, he'll know where to find you.

(Or whatever is left of you.)

Everything about this, in hindsight, is pretty dangerous. Meeting a man who slings accusations at your saviour, and somehow knows about you, about your debt, in a graveyard that reeks of mildew and wet concrete is something people will hear about in passing, and wish you ill in the afterlife for being so stupid. 

But you're here. 

The choice has been made—whether or not it's a smart one has yet to be determined. 

Military. They have power. Influence. However pantomime it might be in the face of overwhelming wealth, it's still something. You thought they were all corrupted by the Inner Circle's clandestine whispers of affluence—sign here, Colonel, and we can give you armour and weapons beyond anything you'd ever seen before (just look the other way while we sell the antis to your enemies—can't let you get too powerful, after all). It seemed like they were. The parade of men and women who congregated at White Horse, or any of the other subsidiaries around the city, the world, was a testament to that. 

But he seems different. 

(And really, you've always had a thing for gruff men who'll disappoint you in the end. 

The heartbreak always tastes sweeter when they're worth something.) 

You glance down at the screen, staring at the timer as if it was your last lifeline, and hope, desperately, that you have. 

Your finger lifts. The screen fades to black. The white emblem of Four Horsemen Corp., gazes, almost accusatory, back at you. 

(If anything, Makarov will kill you before the man has any chance of breaking your heart.)

Turning back now is forfeiture, weakness. 

And you'd rather not walk through the graveyard again.

The door is made of rusted metal, and whines loud enough to echo through the barren landscape when you push it against the hinges. Muted gold leaks through the crack, spilling out onto the dirty pavement below your feet. Light catches on the motes dancing in the beam, and cuts through the murk of the falling night. 

Inside, you hear the fading tune of an old song playing out its last chorus. The scrape of a mug being pulled across wood. A low murmur. And nothing else. 

The normalcy of everything so far—or as normal as a strange retro pub in the middle of a mouldering neighbourhood could be—goes against the theatrics Makarov likes to pull, and you know from that alone that if this was somehow a trap, it wasn't his design. 

Anatoly would be jeering at you from the very top of Makarov's tower, fingers pushing against your shoulders until you were forced further back with each question you didn't answer. All the way to the ledge, where Makarov would intervene—always wanting to play the part of a saviour—and spare you. 

Just answer me this, kitten, and I'll put an end to it all. 

But the moment you opened your big, stupid mouth and gave him what you wanted, he'd begin monologuing by the sidelines, pacing as he speaks, until—

Well. We can't all be heroes. Sometimes, we need to be knocked down a peg. Anatoly would move closer, oblivious to your pleading demands for leniency, and Makarov would smile, sharp and shark-like, and say, as if it pained him: or a few stories. 

And you'd fall. Three hundred floors to your death. 

By the time you hit the pavement, you'd be a wet puddle of mush. Unidentifiable. They'd ensure it by removing your identity chip, and anything else that would give the mess of your remains a name. 

You've seen it play out enough times to know how it goes. The script might bend to fit the needs of the accused, but the plot was always the same. 

Theatrical. Dramatic. 

Your fingers curl into fists by your side, and find some solace in the fact that a two-floor drop probably won't kill you. 

This is survivable as long as you're useful. 

A new mantra is craved in the recesses of your mind. Useful. Useful. 

You repeat it to yourself as you pull the door open wider, glancing in the room warily. Hesitant. 

Whatever you expected, this wasn't it. 

It's normal. Archaic in design. 

Lanterns are strung across the rafters crisscrossing the ceiling, bathing the small room in a muted gold. It complements the raw topaz colour of the wooden decor inside—herringbone floors, shiplap-covered walls, dark spruce tables and benches—and something about it all feels almost homey. Comfortable. 

The size and cut of it err into intimacy or claustrophobia, and you wonder if that's why he picked it. 

On the opposite side of the entrance is a dark hallway. A flickering exit sign glows softly in the gloom. Two darker doorways branch off on either side of the back door. Washrooms. You can vaguely make out the light spilling from the insignia etched into the wood. 

It's flush against the rightmost wall where a series of old photographs sit, crookedly, on the panels. The images are too faded, jaundiced from time, for you to make out the shapes, but they all look human. Humanity from a bygone era. You catch sight of an old aeroplane, the vessel barely longer than the height of the man standing in front of the large propellers. 

The rest of them are of people standing together near old landmarks that no longer exist. 

Metals line the interior of one, kept guarded behind a new protective seal. They shine in the soft glow, and the label beneath reads: chest candy. 

These are personal photos. Family heirlooms. Staring at them, struggling to make out the full shapes of the children, the men, and the women, standing around and smiling happily make you feel a touch voyeuristic.  Gazing into a tomb not meant for your eyes. 

You pull away from the wall, glancing at the one that sections off the washrooms from the main room. It, too, is decorated in photographs, but these ones are less personal. Images of long-gone celebrities. Artistic renditions of landscapes that evolved over the last centuries into something new, something different. 

The theme of the wall is aerial. You make out old etchings of aircraft in all sizes. Commemorative pieces. Militaristic in its design. 

Three booths sit flush against the wall, all made of dark wood, and each seat empty. 

Against the leftmost wall is the bar itself, separated from the seating area by a long, oak countertop with six bar stools pushed up close. A mug sits, half-empty, in front of one. An empty glass in front of the other beside it. An ashtray in the middle of the two seats, filled with cigarette butts. One still burns away, wheedling down to a snubbed point. 

The wall is lined with bottles. A tap behind it. At the end is another doorway which must lead to the back area. The sign above says employees only. 

Near the only window in the room is where you find a solitary table with three chairs. In the seat facing you, back angled between the cut of the walls, shoulder turned to the bar, is where you find the man. Watching you. 

A glass rests in front of him, half-empty. A burning cigar in an ashtray curls wisps of smoke over his face. 

The implant in his eye glows sapphire blue, expanding as he reads the information in front of him. The other is darkened under the flushed light, almost black. Gazing right at you. 

It's a contrast that makes you shiver. 

"Made the right choice then," he says, words low as he lets them fade under the steady cadence of the song playing somewhere in the back of the bar. 

It isn't much of a perfunctory greeting, but you take the opening all the same, and make your way toward him.

"That's yet to be determined."

"You're still here." 

The wood is warm under your palms when you press them against the grain, shuffling into the bench across from him. Warm, and sticky. 

You peel your fingers off, glancing at them warily. "Not much of a choice, though—" your eyes find him, narrowing into slits when he snorts, shaking his head at the disgust in your gaze. "What's so funny?" 

He huffs and the blue light flickers out, fading into dark blue. "You," he offers as if it was obvious. The condescension bleeds from his lips when he speaks, and leaks into his clear eyes when you fold your hands into your lap. "Not the kinda place Makarov normally takes you, hmm? Ain't you spoiled."

"Makarov doesn't take me anywhere." 

"That so? What? You his dirty little secret?" 

Your brow furrows. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Nothin', love. Nothin' at all." 

He's baiting you. The condescending draw of his voice, thick with derision, sets your teeth on edge, and makes the knots in your stomach tighten. 

"Look," you start, sticky fists cleaned tight in your lap, irritating the indents in your flesh from earlier. It's enough to ground you. "I didn't come here for games. This is my head on the line, and—"

"Mine, too." 

You scoff. "You started this." 

"And it's my men who are out there, yeah?" 

He leans forward slowly, the wrinkles in his brow deepening under the hazy glow until all you see is darkness cascading over a rucked canyon. Anger pinches at the corner of his eyes, the near snarl of his mouth. 

He'd go for the jugular, you think. Sink his teeth into your flesh until a pound is ripped out, reaping his dues. 

You wonder if his fury is as animalistic as the teeth he bares in anger, in warning.

"Gettin' injured, killed. Goin' missin'. Fighting a battle your men are waging." 

"Makarov isn't waging anything. You don't know much about him, do you? The only thing he cares about is his stocks and his public image. Whatever you think he's doing, or he's behind, I can assure you—he isn't." 

"You sound certain. What, hmm? Ain't the kinda pillow talk he likes to indulge in?"

"Pillow talk?" His words make you reel back until you're flushed against the chair, eyes widening. "I think there's a massive misunderstanding here."

He says nothing, merely opting to reach for his forgotten glass of scotch and dwindling cigar. 

Pillow talk. "You think me and Makarov are—? No. No! That's—" you fight a shiver of disgust, knuckles digging into your thighs. "No. Makarov wouldn't—it's not like that. He's—"

"He's what?" He implores, resting his elbow on the countertop, cigar dangling dangerously between his lax fingers. The look in his eye is sharp, keen. 

"He's my—" 

You bite your tongue suddenly, stopping the familiar words from slipping out. It's the response you give when people ask what you are to Makarov—why he keeps you around on such a short leash. 

My saviour.

The words have different connotations inside Makarov's sprawling skyline palace. Where his guards simply nod, in understanding, and accept your words as is, because he, too, is theirs as well. A common ground where nothing else needs to be explained as one word covers everything. 

You won't find that here. Not with him. And maybe, maybe, some part of you is shying away in shame over the word. Saviour. You sound like the zealots running around proclaiming they heard god whispering to them in the grid, and felt Its holy touch when they plugged something in. 

Electric, they say, reverently. Our saviour is stuck inside the machine—!

(You wonder, now, if Makarov chose that particular word on purpose, and know, immediately, that he did.)

"I owe him money. Why wouldn't he keep me around with such a staggering debt?" 

Bringing it up gives you the opportunity you need to shift the conversation away from the game of Messiah and Disciples Makarov likes to play, and you knot your trembling fingers together tightly in your lap. 

"Speaking of—" you huff, gaze fixed on him. Taking everything in. You might not have the same implant that he does, one that allows him access to the net in an instant, and feeds it right to his cerebrum, but you've always been good at reading people. Catching their tells. "Makarov isn't the one my debt is owed to. It's the Inner Circle. Still think you can erase it?" 

He hesitates. Briefly, almost indecipherably, but you catch the dip of his cigar when his body tenses, fingers tightening too quickly on the stem. It twitches only once before he steadies it. His eyes cut to yours, impassive and unreadable, as he takes in the information you just offered. 

The Inner Circle banking division was notorious for having contracts upon contracts to avoid buyouts without some hefty fee attached to make up for the lost interest. 

It's a roadblock. Almost everyone you've met so far, ones with idealistic dreams of stealing you away from the clutch of Makarov, bulked at the number alone. This, this new piece of information, was bound to make him flee. Cut ties. Run. 

Another hero with too much on his shoulders to bear another burden, leaving you behind to rot. 

Tough luck, kid, one of them said after a three-week-long courting period that left you feeling moon swept and dizzy. Wide-eyed and jejune. Naïve little kitten, Makarov taunted the morning after you found yourself alone on the dock, bags packed, waiting for a man who'd never show. But Makarov met you there. Yuri, with sorrowful eyes, took the bags gently from your trembling hands, downcast as he murmured in your ear, you'll be okay, kitten.

Anatoly's biting laughter haunted you for months. Christ, he howled. You really thought there was a man on earth more powerful than Makarov? Damn, he swindled you good, dumbass. Was he at least a good fuck? I'd be so goddamn pissed if this happened to me and the idiot was lousy in bed. 

But it was Makarov's palm against your cheek that broke you the most. The icy eyes never softened despite the coo of sympathy in his voice. 

It hurts, doesn't it, kitten? Who knows if this is your first heartbreak, but I'm sure it feels like it is, doesn't it? Ahhh, You should know better by now. No one touches what belongs to me. 

"Now about this betrayal…" 

He had you locked in your flat for months, and everything iota of your time monitored in some capacity. The leash was shortened. The collar tightened. 

The punishment for your betrayal came weeks after, when a package arrived at your flat. A golden box weighed down with precious gems and metals. 

A holographic card popped up when you opened the package, hands shaking around the heavy box. 

Makarov's voice flooded the room. What's more precious than gold and diamonds? The latch on the box clicked. You lifted the lid. At first, it didn't make sense. Your mind blanked, wiped, as you struggled to figure out what it was you were staring at. 

A heart, kitten. His heart.

Then—

Horror. Stomach-churn terror.

Your hands snapped back, and the box dropped to the floor as mocking laughter met your ears, static and faded over the recording. 

The still-beating heart tumbled out, connected to an array of small wires that kept it alive without a host. Without—

Your hand pressed against your lips as you fought the bile rising from your throat. 

Betray me again, he said, and I'll make you cut it out next time. 

You stare at the man across from you and know that the wishfulness inside of you will soften his flaws, blur his lies until anything he says just sounds right. A dangerous precipice. The yearning knotting around your mouldering ribcage is hungry. Wanting. 

He'll ruin you. And you'll be forced to ruin him. To carve his heart out as Makarov keeps him alive the whole time. The last thing he'll ever see would be you holding his still-beating heart before Makarov makes you crush it between your trembling, bloodied fingers. 

The image surfaces—horrific, garish, gut-wrenching—and you wish you were a little more jaded, a little less idealistic, to have that alone snuff the last vestiges of hope from your rotting heart. 

"Doesn't change anything," he grouses, and then brings the glass to his lips. He downs the scotch in two swallows, and you can't pull your wide eyes away from the way his throat bobs, and stretches, as he tilts his head back. 

When he's finished, he huffs. The glass hits the countertop with a clang that seems to shake something inside of you. 

"They're all rotten," he snarls, words a rough rasp that makes you shiver. "All of 'em. Rotten to the fuckin' core."

The corruption never surprised you. Maybe the exposure to it all, feeding Makarov the names of the politicians and diplomats that wanderers through the club's door numbed you to it all, but seeing his visceral disgust over it makes something swell inside of you. 

He's not too different from the heroes you've met, the ones you read about, but where they cut their anger into pieces of understanding and compassion, he wields his like a claymore. A battle-ready man brimming with a fury that leaks from his marrow and into the icy blue of his steel gaze. 

He doesn't give you kind smiles or false promises. No, he gives you third-degree burns on your flesh from the molten heat of his rage. 

"Who are you?" You demand, the words slipping out before you can chomp them down. "And why do you think I can help you?"

It doesn't make sense, not really. 

The look he levels at you knocks the air from your lungs. 

Fear curls in your gut. Wariness. The urge to flee wells, and you just barely manage to push it down. 

"I told you already, didn't I?" He leans closer, drawing the cigar to his lips. "Heard about you, 'bout your debt." 

"Yeah, and you thought I was Makarov's—lover—;" the word nearly makes you recoil. "But I'm not. He tells me nothing. Still so certain I can help?" 

He takes a drag of the cigar, the tip burning through the dim interior of the empty pub. His eyes never waver from yours, but you know that this piece of information must, in some way, change things. He sought you out specifically because of your assumed relationship with Makarov. The precariousness of your debt has doubled into not just an inconvenience, but a legal issue with extra fees added. 

You're more trouble than whatever you might be able to weasel out of Makarov. 

More trouble than your worth. 

The smoke curls in front of him like a hazy shroud of white. The light catches the indent in his cheekbone, and down the side of his face where his implant sits, humming with kinetic energy even while unlit. 

Without the beanie on his head, you can make out more of the circular insignia on his temple, but the crest is unfamiliar to you. Unknown. You've never seen it before, and that unnerves you. 

You know all the clubs, the crests, the gangs that roam the streets. From the upper echelon of the Shepherd family to the 54 Immortals seizing the power gap left behind by the fall of Brakov in a neighbouring country. It comes with knowing the underground. With making friends in the shadows. 

But this one escapes you. 

He shifts, moving the cigar from his lips. A waterfall of smoke rumbles from his mouth when he breathes out. 

"Yes," he says, pinched from lingering smoke in his lungs. "I do."

"How?"

"Told you, love. Heard 'bout you—from many sources."

The back of your neck prickles under his reproachful stare. Something in those cerulean depths makes you tense. 

"From who?" 

His metal knuckles clink against the glass when he nudges it out of the way, resting his forearm down on the wood, bringing himself closer to you. With your spine flush against the back of the chair, there is nowhere to run. It hits you, then, when he draws himself into the scant space separating the two of you, angling himself until he takes up the entirety of your periphery, that this was intentional. 

Of course, it was. Of course. 

"Oh, from lot's a'people a lil' thing like you shouldn't be hangin' around." Despite the derision in his voice, his brows lift, arching high until his forehead wrinkles, and you catch something that seems almost impressed when he dips his chin, staring at you from down his nose. "You get places most can't. That's useful."

"Useful enough to wipe a debt? How do I know you're good for it, and this isn't some scam?" 

"You don't," he answers simply, and something snaps inside you. 

"Are you joking—? Do you have any idea what Makarov will do to me, and you can't even give me some—"

"Like I told you, I know people in high places." He shrugs like it's nothing. Like it isn't your life in balance. "They want to remain anonymous, but can settle your debt." 

"How?" 

"Don't trust me?"

"I don't even know you—"

His hand lifts, metal fingers spreading lazily as he holds his palm in front of you. A peace offering. The sight of it makes you scoff. 

"Fair. For what it's worth, I don't trust you much, either, but—" another inhale of his cigar. His voice is pinched when he speaks, his breath ghosting white with the smoke congealing in his lungs. "We have to make do with what we have, don't we?"

It isn't fair. It isn't right. A part of you wants to rebel, to grab the cigar and crush it under the heel of your palm. The anger wells inside of you, white-hot and aching, and brings with it the strong urge to scream yourself hoarse. 

You believed him—if only for a moment, for a single second, but it was long enough for the vestiges of hope to claw their way up the prison you kept it in, and leak back into your marrow. A pollutant that wrecks you viciously. 

But—

Maybe you expected this. It doesn't sting as much as you thought it would. He's never really committed, and said—

"But," he continues, and you wish he would shut up, shut up, shut up, shut—

"I promise it'll go away once we're done, yeah?" 

Fuck. 

Your voice wobbles when you speak, soundly dangerously thick, and wet. You peer up at him and wish with everything inside of you, there wasn't a thin veil of tears gathering across your lash line. Weak. You haven't cried in two years—

(You look so cute when you cry, kitten—)

"You promise, huh?"

He lifts his hand to his temple and taps his index and middle finger against the strange insignia implanted there. The hard metal of the crest meeting the soft polymer cover of his fingertips makes a muted thud not at all dissimilar to your beating heart. 

"On my family name, I swear it." 

Why—

To go so far for someone he barely knows, and doesn't trust—

And then it clicks. It isn't about you at all, but some personal vendetta, a promise to himself, that he'll accomplish what he sets out to do, and so, making this little oath with an outsider, the pet of the enemy, is nothing to him. It's performative as much as it is sincere, and the warring contrast makes your chest ache, and heat bloom under your skin. 

"You—;" you start, but stop yourself. 

He's not at all unlike the heroes you've read about in fantastical stories or the ones you'd met. The one whose heart you held in your trembling fingers as it slowly stopped pulsing in the palm of your hand. Whose blood you scoured from your skin until it was raw. 

But where they offered a smile at the end of the promise they swore they'd keep, he frowns. 

He doesn't strike you as the type of man to go out of his way to make others feel better. He believes in himself, and his prowess, and speaks about that in clipped, gruff declarations that are not meant to sway, but reinforce what he knows. 

He will win. This isn't a question or a belief, but a statement. A truism. 

Hope surges. The levee cracks. 

"Who are you?" You ask, dazed. 

The man who cupped your cheek, and whispered to you about escaping the clutches of this festering city, of going so far away, that grasping hands could never reach you, and greedy fingers would never again touch your flesh, didn't fill you with this same sense of awe, of pure belief in the words he said. But this man, this man, makes you feel like anything is possible. Hope blooms, brims bright inside of your chest like an inflating balloon drifting up to the heavens—

His mental hand splays flat over the table. "Names John Price."

The man sitting across from you is someone you know. 

It makes sense, then. The insignia on his temple is the Price family emblem—a conglomerate in its own right, mostly composed of military men with staunch, unflinching moral codes. The incorruptible. The untouchables. 

They were the ones who led the counterattack on the coup that changed the political landscape from the Feudalistic tyranny of the past, to—

Well. It was meant to be free reign, or maybe democratic, but the technological boom a few years after the liberation from the iron fist made little things slip by as the world was suddenly painted a lovely shade of roseate. Why worry about mega corporations becoming richer than most of the governmental bodies, and countries, when they made this new piece of cybernetics that let you see like a hawk, that introduced a new colour spectrum to the general public, when sickness, injury, and even death itself came something that could be bartered over for the right price. 

The things that they let slip stacked up. It piled higher and higher until the free future the Price family, among others—Laswell, Shepherd, Walker, MacTavish—foresaw was smothered out in favour of the blatant mega capitalism that rules. 

It might not be with an iron fist, but it is with a monetary chokehold that always seems to get tighter. 

Their legacy is one founded on a strong moral core that is unbendable. 

It makes sense why you didn't recognise the emblem at first. 

The last of their pristine lineage—tarnished.

The man responsible for the power gap left behind by Brakov. The one who threatens his superiors, and uses brute force to get his way. John Price—the one who gave into temptation and was ousted from his family, and from the military, for taking bribes from people in low places. A man who'd side with anyone—for the right price. 

Political turmoil and espionage must run in the family, then, as you somehow find yourself sitting across from the man implicated in a failed coup. One that resulted in the collapse of Urzikstan.

John Price. 

Disgraced former captain. Rotten to his core. There's a graveyard filled with people who died because of his choices; a massacre that made headlines just a few months before you woke up. A man you know by sordid, rotten reputation alone, who somehow escaped condemnation for the people he indirectly (and, by many accounts, directly) killed. 

John Price. Swindler. Scoundrel. Swine. 

"John Price?" You echo, numbed. "The John Price?"

He leans back in the chair, posture relaxed, at ease, as if this wasn't a massive reveal. As if he wasn't a war criminal who was exonerated because of those friends in high places he so casually mentioned before. 

"So," he rasps, pulling his cigar back to his lips. Despite the ease in his mien, his eyes tighten. A cobra ready to strike. "You've heard of me." 

(—it blooms, and then all at once, it bursts.)

Nothing says cyberpunk like a morally ambiguous character.

#captain price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price #captain john price x reader #neon medusa #the smell of plot in the air #UMMM #i forgot how much i hated multi-chaps #cod price #call of duty modern warfare #cod: mw price #price x reader #price x you #captain price x you #john price #john price x you #captain john price x you #captain price #i'll come back and edit this in the AM

[jamesunderwater]

20 Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ꜰɪᴄ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀꜱ

Thanks for tagging me!! @gracelesslady23 @annabtg @kay-elle-cee this was very sweet to get to do.

Ao3 Username: itsjamespotter

1. How many works do you have on A03?

31, wow! How wild, that feels like a lot.

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count?

162k!

3. What fandoms do you write for?

HP

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Show and Tell (3k, wolfstar smut)

Dead To Me (91k, wip lily evans angst)

Tall Dark and Glasses (3k, jily fluff)

"you have no idea how long i've been wanting to do that" (1k, prongsfoot smut)

Bring Your Kid to Work Day(s never end when your godfather is Sirius Black) (2k, good godfather sirius black fluff)

5. Do you respond to comments?

I try to, or at least have the goal to, but admittedly I'm very bad at it. (not to use it as an excuse but my adhd is fully to blame.) I plan to go back and catch up on all of them soon & have a dream of being much better about it, though. I do intentionally make sure I eventually respond to the ones for my WIPs, at least.

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

well, since dead to me hasn't ended yet (kidding kidding kidding kidding!!!) lmao I really thought I was gonna have a hard time finding a fic with an unhappy ending but I evidently forgot who I am. I dunno how to choose between: 1. i don't even know where you end and i begin (500 words, canon prongsfoot....you get it) 2. Promises to Keep (1k words, dorlene with canon ending....you get it)

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

Okay listen, do I technically have a fic that mentions living happily ever after in the last line? Yes. Am I choosing that fic? No. I'm choosing Happy Holidays, You Filthy Potters, because 1. smut, 2. sassy young Harry, and best of all, 3. sassy good godfather sirius black 😉

8. Do you get hate on fics?

I've gotten a couple of comments about Lily in Dead To Me but I've decided it's not my problem if people don't have critical analysis skills 💀

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

I do! I write smut for a number of different ships and plan on doing others! Uhhh, what kind? the fact that I don't really know what that means probably means it's pretty vanilla 😆 there's a lot of going down on people 🤐

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

Haha, no, but if I did I'd probably do PJO/HP

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge. that would be so heartbreaking.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but that's SO cool that people offer to do that for some fics!!!

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

I have!! @charmsandtealeaves and I co-wrote a fic for a jilychallenge last year, before we were even friends! It was my first time co-writing a fic, which was very cool and different, but also didn't feel that foreign to me -- I think because I've spent a lot more years doing para RP than I have writing fics. It was fun to kind of riff off another writer in a different way. I would definitely do it again!

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Okay, this is kind of tough because I only recently got into Prongsfoot, and they are the definition of soulmates... But because I ultimately see Sirius as more of an ace/aro character, Jily wins the place of favorite ship in my heart. <3

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

Well, I really only have two WIPs posted on AO3: Dead To Me and Just This Once, and I have all of DTM outlined and plan to finish it by fall. Just This Once might be a while, but I also have a plan for it and would like to finish it at some point... But I guess there's a chance I won't finish it -- I do have a lot of other multi-chaps I am going to be starting soon.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Hm. I like to think I'm good at getting into the minds of my characters, really thinking through their motivations and emotions and then expressing those to the reader. I also think I'm fairly good at dialogue. I really like writing banter so I hope others think I'm good at it, haha. And based on what I've been told, my smut isn't half bad 😆

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Oh, definitely writing descriptions of any kind. I never remember to describe the scene and when I do, I think it feels clunky. I'm not great at writing in a more direct way, either; I struggle to express a character's emotions without getting a bit flowery with it. Just generally, I think my writing could be tighter, you know? I'm sure I'll realize other things I need to work on as I write more long fics, too.

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

Ah, haven't done it yet, so don't have any thoughts to share.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

HP -- Jily on the Neopets forums... never 4get <3

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

If we're talking finished works, I'd have to say Tall Dark and Glasses, which I wrote for the masquerade event for Jilytober last year. To me, that fic has a certain je ne sais quois that is hard to replicate. But unfinished? Dead To Me, hands down, and once it's finished it will be very hard to ever top it. It's imperfect and there are a lot of edits I'd make if I were to go back through and polish it up, but it's the first multi chap fic I've ever written, and beyond just feeling immensely proud of that, the story itself and how I'm writing it is one of the most heartfelt and meaningful things I'll ever write in my life.

these were such a pleasure to respond to, thanks again for the tags! <3 I'm tagging: @goldenbi @abihastastybeans & @nodirectionhome-ao3

#hp #me #my writing #jily #wolfstar #prongsfoot

[melodious-tear]

fic writer interview

Thank you @bitterflames for tagging me! this was fun <3

How many works do you have on AO3? currently 24

What’s your total AO3 word count? 189 321 words (more than I expected 👀)

What are your top 5 fics by kudos? 1. Amour phew: 112 2. Mail from Ye Baiyi and other inconveniences: 107 3. Bed hair: 88 4. Lava Cake: 77 5. Rhythm of the night: 59 Lava cake is actually a surprise lol. I do not like this one very much.

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not? Always! Even if it's just a comment with some hearts. I appreciate every interaction and I also know how it feels to create something for the void, that goes for commints too.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending? I'd say that's "Evening with an old friend". Or "keep me cold?" oh I forgot about "Puppet play". hmmm 🤔 XD you see, I wrote lots of angsty stuff ("point of no return" is surely the worst (tm), but it's a collage so I won't count it in)

What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending? That's "A ghost in the neon light", I think, at least out of the dark fics.

Do you write crossovers? no, not a fan of it at all

Have you ever received hate on a fic? not really, I got one passive-agressive comment from the XiYao troll back then, but apart from that I only get nice comments. one benefit of writing niche things, I guess :P

Do you write smut? If so, what kind? me, an ace, writes smut surprisingly often XDDDD, but only non-explicit

Have you ever had a fic stolen? not to my knowledge

Have you ever had a fic translated? yes, that silly little fic "Bed hair" got translated to Spanish

Have you ever co-written a fic before? no, and I'm not sure if I could do that

What’s your all-time favorite ship? oh, I can't really answer that, I love them all <333 And I'm sure there will be new ones. But XueYao was always the easiest to write for me!

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will? hhhhhhhh ... I'll consider only the published WIPs, otherwise I'd have to cry XDDD "synchronize me with the night" is one of my faves and I really like to finish it someday :(((((

What are your writing strengths? that's a bit hard to say as an insider XDD I think I'm good at dialogues and I really like writing them, and my muse is a crack addict, so I thrive at funny things. otherwise ... I think I'm also good at being true to the original character traits even in a modern setting, but that's something others can judge better, I'd say

What are your writing weaknesses? to actually write of course, and also finishing things :)))) I mourn the times when I only wrote one-shots, but now I almost always get myself into multi chaps (multi as in no end in sight) - so I fall out of fandom until I can finish, or the lack of interaction gets to me, or something doesn't work out as I thought it would ... I deleted some unfinished fics that kept haunting me. it's sad, but I felt bad whenever I opened AO3

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic? untranslatable things like suffixes are okay imo, and sometimes when two characters speak in a language that's foreign to the one from whose POV it's written for example, then it makes sense - otherwise I think it's not good for the reader's flow.

What was the first fandom you wrote for? SS-GB! that was before I fell into the cdrama trash bin

What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to? there are quite a few, I want to write something about the snow boys (as I call them XD) from My journey to you, Luo Mingxi/Linlang (Legend of Anle), mmmmmaybe Ning Yuanzhou/Yu Shisan (A journey to love), and I still haven't written Yuan Lang/Lize Palace Leader (Love and Redemption) even though they are very dear to me!!! they are so complicated and one of them doesn't have a name ffs :(

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written? please don't make me choose between my children :))))))

tagging @moonstone-vibe @bitterfrosts @qinghe-s no pressure ofc and everyone else feel free to do it!

#ask game #writing stuff #@bitterflames

[weirdfishy]

20 Qs for Fic Writers

thanks to @mashumaru for tagging me!! <3 i love these, and i've finally got a minute to do it!

1. How many works do you have on Ao3?

45! i started writing in the end of 2020, it's kina mind boggling to think that it'll have been three years in a couple months

2. What's your total Ao3 word count?

76,628 :)

3. What fandoms do you write for?

I've currently written for Batman, Danny Phantom, BBC's Merlin & Sherlock, Spider-Man/Verse, The Sandman, Criminal Minds, Harry Potter, Heartstopper, Sk8 the Infinity, The Witcher, and BNHA.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Unknown Caller ID - danny phantom x batman, crack treated seriously, something i will eventually continue

Tim Drake's intoduction to ✨Ghosts✨ - dpxdc, silly goofy stuff

by a sleep to say we end the heart-ache - the sandman, dreamling get-together, my first multi-chap that i finished

just slip me on, i'll be your blanket - the sandman, dreamling angst, something that i've so far put a completed, but in my heart of hearts ik it needs more

crack, hob flirts back, heart attack - the sandman, crack, past hobrinthian, pre-dreamling, pov corinthian

5. Do you respond to comments?

i very much try to, yes, but i also tend to leave comments un responded to for fics i have yet to continue/finish

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

what's interesting abt the two fics i think have the angstiest endings, is they kina have the same tone? like, i wrote two fics abt two different characters having a 'life is absolutely terrible rn, i'm grieving the loss of better times, but no matter what i will keep fucking living god damn it'

anyway it's both to be forgotten but not forget (mcu peter parker) and never to sleep, never to die (hob gadling)

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

[love how i totally forgot to answer this at first; sorry if tumblr tags u again for my editing]

imma go with something recent, a geraskier blurb based on art, :3 (that's the title, i couldn't come up with anything clever, so it's just that lol)

8. Do you get hate on fics?

not directly

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

currently? no. have i? yeah. respect your local smut writers

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

i never wrote crossovers prior to getting pulled into danny phantom x dc, and both of my posted ones are among my most popular

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i know of (if someone does steal a fic- that's shitty.)

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

not in the sense that someone has asked me to translate and repost, so as far as i know, no

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

no, but snake n i have talked about co-writing before (we're busy as shit tho so it's yet to happen)

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

merwaine in any form

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

it's not a WIP, but the second fic i ever posted i said i would rewrite and it's yet to come- i don't doubt that i will rewrite it, but that eventually is pretty far

16. What are your writing strengths?

prose-y scene setting maybe? i don't think about this, really, i just write

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

dialogue, in the sense that it doesn't much feature in my fics

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

personally i'll only do it if i'm 200% confident in its meaning (ie i've studied the language or i've got a second reliable opinion)

19. First fandom you wrote for?

i've since lost it, but the first thing i wrote was for BTS (2018 almost-disbandment rlly had me emotional, ok?)

20. Favourite fic you've written?

i don't have a favorite, and i'm proud of every new thing bc it's a show of my progress

~

no pressure tags: @oliveofvanders @bootleg-exe & anyone else who would like to :)

#tagg@me #fanfiction #fishy's fics

[thisdivorce]

tagged by @energievie @squidyyy23 & @sunoficarus to do the fic interview. thanks all!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

12

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

305, 330 😮

3. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

conflict of interest

reckoner

change like shifting shadows

want you around

strangers on a train

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

always! someone took the time to comment, i love that! don’t always reply right away though.

5. What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

not really a fic but the clover drabble

6. What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

maybe truth or dare. it’s still angsty but ends in a good place

7. Do you write crossovers? If so, what is the craziest one you’ve written?

no, but i definitely find inspiration from other media (shows, movies, music)

8. Have you ever received hate on a fic?

fuckin’ TERFs. why are they on ao3 of all places? also just general criticism, someone said “your lot are crazy with this priest ian business” LOL. anyways i turned off anon and my experience has been much more positive on ao3. delete and move on.

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

always! i love writing it! not a specific kind but i will only ever write queer smut. i’ve written m/m (cis and trans), f/f (debbie/sandy) and i love writing soft d/s

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i know of

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

nope

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

yes! it’s so fun! strangers on a train and blackout with @breedxblemickey and we plan to finish the series 🤞

13. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

gallavich of course. they’re my one and only

14. What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

i plan on finishing all of them except one or two not published WIPs

15. What are your writing strengths?

depends on the fic, i think. i guess dialogue and having characters say little but mean a lot (at least in my mind lol). also emotional smut.

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

repetition (that autocorrected to religion which is also true lol). it’s hard to think of new ways to describe like, body sensations in smut and falling in love. also i really want to utilize metaphors more.

17. What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

no opinion on this, i don’t speak another language but if others do, i can learn something new!

18. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

on the podcast i said queer as folk but i forgot i wrote an nsync satire fic when i was 12 haha. i posted it on my nsync geocities website 😬

19. What’s a fandom/ship you haven’t written for yet but want to?

none but maybe one day i will develop another obsession. whose to say?

20. What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

oh gosh, i don’t know. i love them all for different reasons. conflict of interest is really special to me but i’m sure once i complete another multi chap the same will apply.

tagging @xninetiestrendx @mishervellous @whaticameherefor @ms-moonlight-inn @notherenewjersey @grumble-fish @beebabycastiel @flamingbluepanda @crossmydna

#this felt nice. i have no drive to write anything lately because life is hard #tag games #my fic

[browneyedgenius]

fic writer review

thanks for the tag @innertimetraveldetective and @herosofmarvelanddc !!! <3

1. How many works do you have on Ao3?

30!!!

2. Whats your total Ao3 word count?

49811 :)

3. How many fandoms have you written for?

including unposted wips, five I think?

4. Top 5 fics by kudos?

Everything you hoped for - Agents of SHIELD, 99 kudos. I am very good at forgetting the plots of my works but I'm pretty sure this is an angsty post-s2 fic between May and Daisy, and their mother-daughter relationship.

When the world gets too heavy (put it on my back) - Agents of SHIELD, 93 kudos. This one is one of my only multi chaps and it's about mama may taking care of the bus kids, and the bus kids taking care of her.

Hey, Google - Agents of SHIELD, 85 kudos. Bus kids mess around with a Google Home and try to get Philinda together. One of my first ever fics.

your heart’s a thousand colours (and they’re all shades of blue) - Agents of SHIELD, 80 kudos. I didn't realize this one had grown so popular! This one's more recent and it's a mothers' day fic between may and daisy. super duper cute.

You did everything just right - Agents of SHIELD, 62 kudos. Pretty sure this is an AU in which Daisy dies, with Hamilton lyrics sprinkled in. Fun for the whole family!

I think the reason all of these fics are from the AOS fandom is because it was the one I wrote the most for, and the first one I wrote for, so they've had a bit of time to accumulate kudos and reads. :)

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

I love reading comments and I always always try to reply to them as much as I can! But I'm currently really really behind, whoops. So sorry if you've commented and still haven't gotten a reply.

I try to reply to them because I really appreciate comments. Sometimes when I'm in a bad mood I reread through them and they always make me smile.

6. A fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Every Story Has An End (I Wish Ours Wasn't So Soon) is a goodbye letter for May from Coulson I wrote with the lovely @sad-tunes. It's probably one of the angstiest things I've got. other than that though there's also my fic from MakeKatCry2020 in which I kill all of the members of the team! Yay! It's called We made all the wrong choices and it's probably one of my best works.

7. Do you write crossovers?

I enjoy writing crossovers, but I don't usually because it takes a lot of work to make all of the characters fit and make sure they get an equal amount of speaking time. I like reading them though!

8. Ever received hate on a fic?

I don't think so!

9. Do you write smut?

Nope

10. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

No to this one too

11. Ever had a fic translated?

No again

12. Have you ever co-written a fic?

Yes! the one I mentioned above ( Every Story Has An End (I Wish Ours Wasn't So Soon) ) is one I cowrote with @sad-tunes.

13. All time fav ship?

Ohhh I can't choose! There are too many. I love philinda and culmets and ineffable husbands and supercorp and a;lsdjf;sladkjl;hljk

14. WIP you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

My epic self-indulgent crossover (Daughters of the Gods). I forgot like all of the plot already lol.

15. Writing strengths?

I literally have no idea lol. maybe describing things?

16. Writing weaknesses?

possibly plotting things out. definitely plotting things out.

17. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in a fic?

I don't really do it, because I don't think I've ever had to. mostly though I think it depends on whether or not you're able to make the dialogue flow. if you can then that's great and I'm totally in favour of it! if not though there are other options that I personally would prefer.

18. First fandom you wrote for?

Agents of SHIELD!

19. What’s your fav fic you’ve written so far?

time ticks forward (don't look back) is a series with two short works I wrote for Star Trek discovery. very angsty, but I really love the style and everything about them, really. it delves into a certain scene between two characters in which one of them dies at the end of season 2.

no pressure tags: @captainsophiestarkwriting @eowima @would-die-for-fitzsimmons @a-biochemist-not-a-bird and anyone else who'd like to do this!

#tag things #writer things #fic recs #:P

[heymacy]

a note about chapter 9 + the rest of TD:

this chapter took twice as long as usual to get out because i did (3) total rewrites, one at 2k words, one at 6k words, and then 10k words worth of rewrites in the past 24 hours. because of these rewrites, some things i said would be explained/resolved/answered/said in this chapter did not wind up happening, not because i forgot about them but because i wound up completely rearranging chapters 9 and 10 over the past couple of days.

i had too much that i wanted to pack into chapter 9, and i’d come to realize that a lot of things i’d previously moved from chapter 10 to chapter 9 in my original outline was leaving me with only one major event for chapter 10: chicagofest. and i promise you, as fun as it’s going to be, i cannot make a 1 hour performance and dress rehearsal 15k+ words. i want the final chapter to feel like a conclusion and a beginning, to set up for the epilogue, so i moved a few things back to chapter 10. namely: ian’s secret picture of mickey + the identity of the photographer, the results of the photo contest, and what mickey did with his money from prison/how it’s spent. the next one shot (coming in 2-3 days) will be the story of what mickey traded for ian’s camera and why (which i had originally intended to reveal in chapter 10 but deserves its own little story, it will still be referenced briefly in chapter 10 though, for posterity’s sake).

if you think i’ve forgotten a storyline i promise you i have not.

i am a very impulsive and indecisive writer. i often change things last minute, and i’m constantly moving things around based on those changes. however, the bones of the story will never change. every plot and sub-plot will be given an appropriate conclusion, and anything that’s intentionally left open ended will be largely answered in the epilogue or the one-shots.

TD is the first major multi-chapter story that i’ve ever published, despite having written fic (albeit poorly, most of the time) since i was a teenager. putting your work out into the world is very different than just writing for yourself, and i’ve learned a LOT about writing for myself and other people since starting this story.

my next major multi-chapter project will be coming in a few weeks, and i’m going to be doing things a bit differently this time around when it comes to the information i share before a chapter is published, in order to not back myself into a corner and make promises i’m unable to keep. i never want you guys to feel disappointed after an update because something changed. the dialogue may change, and things may happen at different times, but the “things” will always happen, i promise.

i know y’all don’t have any other completed multi-chaps written by me available on ao3 (those bella/alice fanfics are looooong gone) but trust me: you will get all your answers. i, as a reader, HATE plot holes and loose ends. so believe me, as a writer?? not gonna happen.

i love y’all, and i’m so thankful for all of your support always. i ✨P R O M I S E✨, no plot line will be left behind. 💛

#there’s no spoilers in here i just put it under the cut bc i’m weird about text posts 🥴 #no spoilers for chapter 9 i should say #i got [1] message and idk if anyone else was feeling the same way so i wanted to offer some points of clarification for anyone that had #any kind of similar thoughts or questions after reading the chapter #please have faith in me!! 🙏🏼 #teenage dirtbag #TD update #chapter 9

[ultrahamilham]

Tag - You’re It!

I was tagged by @hj-creates thank you so much! I had a lot of fun doing this, despite not having written anything in months lmao

How many works do you have on AO3?

I currently have 40 on A03

What’s your total AO3 word count?

My current total is 184,210

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Okay so for this account specifically, I have only published Hamilton works, but I’m about to dip my toe into the buddie fandom. I have two other accounts where I have written for One Piece, specifically the zosan fandom, and I had a few works for D.Gray-man way back in the day. I don’t even know if that account exists anymore

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24207253 (Loopy Lams)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22177405 (You Keep Me Warm)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23037679 (Storms aren’t so bad when you’re around)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22711789 (Fuck you, Valentine)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24955948 (Gucci, not Fendi)

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I do! I don’t get that many comments on my fics, so it’s easier to reply back. Though I think there have been a few that I completely forgot to reply back to so… Oops lmao I mostly respond on tumblr though

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

I was about to say I don’t think I have one that has a sad ending, then I remembered “I promise you�� and now I feel bad lmao

I also realize that “Tie” was super angsty too. Why do you guys trust me?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27285835 (I promise you)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25217221 (Tie)

This is the angstiest ending of a fic I have, I think

Do you write crossovers? if so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

Nah

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

I don’t remember if I have recieved hate on a specific fic, honestly. I know I’ve gotten hate in general, but not for a specific fic. Though I did have a few people say “Fuck you” about “I promise you” lmao

Do you write smut? if so what kind?

Yeah, I write a lot of smut lmao mostly gay smut, though I have written straight smut as well. Sometimes it’s vanilla, but mostly it falls under the BDSM category. I have a few fics that are porn with a hint of plot mixed in X’D

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I know of

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Nope!

What’s your all time favorite ship?

So, I hyperfixate. I don’t stop shipping a ship, but I do fall out of writing for them. Right now, my current hyper fixations are buddie from 911, and then Nivanfield from Resident Evil 6

What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Probably the one that I was writing when I was suddenly hit with a huge writer’s block. That large OT3 one that was a request. I released the WIP to the person who requested it, and that’s about it. I don’t think I will ever get back to it

What are your writing strengths?

Fluff, angst, and smut mostly

What are your writing weaknesses?

Deff fight scenes. Also writing multi-chap fics? I fail so hard at that. I want to get better at that though

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

If I don’t know the language, I’m not comfortable with it. Unless they are words that I have seen used canonically, I won’t feel comfortable with it, and I tend to just write it in English, but state that it was spoken in another language

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Fuck, I think Fullmetal Alchemist, way back when. Those never saw the light of day, but I did write a few. The first fandom I posted work for would be D.Gray-man. No one who I speak to, not even my wife has seen these and I wholeheartedly plan to keep it that way. I don’t remember the account name, nor do I recognize my writing for it, so it might still be out there and I will never know XD

What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Gosh, I love a lot of my fics, but “Don’t fuck with the mac and cheese” was probably one of my favourite ones to write. It’s entirely self-indulgent crack, and I adore it

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30812057

I don't know who to tag, so just have at it!

#hamilham writes

[ninastarkov]

creator tag

@katierosefun thank you so much for tagging me half an eternity ago and i forgot to post!!! i only got into writing a few months ago, and i very recently used to HATE it. to be fair, i only did it for school. but look at where we are now!

the first one i list has to also be the first one i ever wrote, more than the dead. it’s short, introspective—ahsoka thinking about the war and her place in it as a clone dies in her arms.

next is ghosts, which is tied for my favorite oneshot and sort of came out of nowhere. i wrote the whole thing in one sitting and at the end was just like. huh. that happened? it’s empire-era numa reflecting back on the clones that saved her life on ryloth. some of my favorite lines i’ve written to date are in this fic, and i realize it’s kind of niche since numa is very much a side character, but i’m really proud of it. i think my writing has gotten better since this but i still love it.

and of course all things die. my first (and definitely will not be the last) writing from obi-wan’s perspective. this was a oneshot that was months in the making because at first i had such a hard time getting my writing to sound like him. by the end though, i love how it turned out! i learned a lot from this oneshot, and it gave me the confidence to branch out more. definitely my best one.

next is my first chapter fic effort, as i have always been. it’s about cody and ahsoka going on a mission together, and of course everything goes wrong and they’ll have to improvise. it’s unfinished but i’m hoping to get myself to add a new chapter soon! i’m really proud of this one because it was a consistent effort since it’s multi-chap, and i learned a ton about writing (first fight scene, first interactions between multiple characters, first time i made up some random ship repair stuff, lol). i’ve gotten so many kind comments on this one that really boosted my confidence. i usually write angsty one shots so i was worried about this one not having as much depth because it’s not very introspective, but people liked it! that made me happy.

ok and last one goes to a fic i’m working on that’s tentatively titled if i bleed now (part of a quote, will be using the second half). ahsoka rescues fives after his tcw s6 chip arc, so he doesnt die and they go and save all the clones/the entire galaxy while they’re at it (it’s a fix-it but we work for it first, lol). i think the thing about this fic that makes it so different for me is that it has to tie up all the loose ends of the entire clone wars, which is a lot more than i’d first thought about. i’ve worked it out now though and i really like the direction i’m going in! and what’s most important to me is that there’s some point for every person that reads it where they feel like the words are speaking to them and their experiences. that’s what makes emotional parts of actual books so hard-hitting—when the character goes through something/talks about something that just stabs you in the heart but also helps heal it, too. sorry, that was a terrible explanation but essentially i want this fic to give people hope you know? give people an understanding of what hurts, and give them hope that whatever hurts them is worth it and/or will come to an end. and i might post chap 1 tomorrow because i have no impulse control so! exciting!

#tag game #wip tag #my writing #i’ve really enjoyed writing all of these and will definitely keep writing into next year :)

[meganshinsou-tm]

Crimson|Ink. (m)

↳ chapter fourteen: pool

❧ genre:  tattoo-shop/hitmen au | tattoo artist/hitman kirishima

❧ fic warning: major character(s) death; happy ending

❧ chapter warnings: none

❧ chapter song: Pool by Paramore

♬crimson|ink playlist | ♧ character profiles

[multi-chap masterlist] [previous chapter - next chapter]

“And now you know.”

You spoke while shoving a forkful of waffles into your mouth. Bakugou chuckled and crossed his arms as he leaned forward onto the table. He sighed and looked around the dinner the two of you were in before looking back and watching you eat to your heart's content. 

Despite the story you had just told him about your past and how you came to find them, how dark it was that it even gave him chills, you still were bright and seemed like nothing was wrong. Bakugou was learning though that that’s just how you were. No matter the bullshit that happened, how badly you were hurt and beaten down, you rose above it and just - smiled.

You finally looked back up to Bakugou with those doe eyes of yours. They still looked tired from the night before but they weren’t red and puffy anymore from tears. You swallowed the waffles and smirked at him before taking a swig of chocolate milk. He snorted at the millionth milk mustache on your lip and shook his head.

“So - since you love me, I get to know this fuckers name right?”

You shook your head and smiled.

“I do love you Katsu, I love all of you, and that’s exactly why I can’t tell any of you his name or where to find him. I’m putting you in enough danger just telling you what happened.”

Bakugou’s red eyes rolled and he sat back in the seat, pouting like a child.

“Hmm, it’s the other way around princess. It’s that fucker you should be worried about.”

“And what exactly do you mean by that?” You questioned, mocking his sitting position.

The man sighed again before taking his coffee cup and drinking it, sitting it back down and smiling at you.

“All I can say is that me and the other idiots at that shop can more than hold our own and have had our fair share of blood and violence. I can’t elaborate any more than that princess, at least not yet.”

You hummed and shrugged. 

“Well I guess I can believe that and that it makes sense considering how busted up you and the others look on some days,” your eyebrow quirked and you traced the rim of your milk cup with a finger and looked at Bakugou, “You know, I get the feeling the whole ‘art trade business’ is a bunch of bullshit but - I guess when you’re all ready to let me know what the truth is then you’ll do just that.”

Bakugou grunted and leaned back forward, tilting his head at you.

“Is that so? You’re not scared?”

You leaned forward as well, crossing one arm and reaching out with the other across the dinner table and running your fingers through his blonde spiky hair and smiled.

“Not in the least. In fact I’ve never felt safer.”

Bakugou smiled genuinely and took your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips and gently kissing them.

“Good, that makes me happy,” he replied before looking at his watch and sighing, “Well if you’re done then how about we get going. I’m sure they’re all freaking out already at you being late, little miss punctual.”

Waiting, once again.

Kirishima groaned and pushed off from the counter in the tattoo shops lobby to sulk into the kitchen. More times than ever, he always found himself waiting on you to walk through the shop doors and for the same fucking reasons - to apologize. 

The first time, was the first time he fucked up, told you that you meant nothing to him. That following day when you came in late he nearly lost it. The next time was after he had come back from a contract kill with Bakugou, again he waited on you to arrive so he could apologize. That was the first day of the two of you starting over, when you gave him a clean slate and he allowed himself to get close to you. It had been going so great since then and of course, leave it to him to fuck it all up - again!

Third time's a charm right?

Maybe Kirishima could believe that a little more if you hadn’t gone home with Bakugou the night before. The red-head couldn’t help but drive himself insane as he tried to figure out what was happening inside of his friends home where you were left all alone with him. Either way, he knew he couldn’t be mad at you, he practically drove you into Bakugou’s arms and Sero was right - not just once, but always, Bakugou was there for you. 

He may have had a few motives for why but for the most part, the hot-head was there for you because he genuinely cared about you and your feelings. That was another thing Kirishima couldn’t be mad about, he couldn’t hate the guy for being nice and being there! In fact, he was grateful for not only Bakugou, but all the others for being your rock when he had broken you so many times.

Just the thought of all his mistakes and the way he had treated you since you walked into his studio had Kirishima kicking himself and shaking his head. Now he was realizing what everyone else was trying to tell him, that he was legitimately stupid, ignorant and just mental for doing all the shit he had done.

Why didn’t he just tell himself to not think about it and just go for it, regardless of danger, he could protect you, they all could! All this time, he could’ve been loving you, making you smile and laugh, kissing and touching you. You would probably be his by now had he not fucked around for so long! But it was all going to end now, he was going to try one more time to get in your good graces and prove just how crazy he is for you and just how badly he needs you.

As Kirishima took a deep breath and cleared his head, he made a cup of coffee. His red eyes watching closely at the dark colored liquid that filled the mug to the top before looking at the time on his watch. Before he could go to add sugar, the bell rang from the front door opening and Kirishima snapped his head around to look in the direction of the lobby. The red-head quickly forgot about his coffee and left the kitchen to see if it was finally you.

“Katsu stop I’m gonna puke!” Your voice whined loudly with a giggle.

“That’s not my problem, you shouldn’t have ate so fucking much you little endless black hole!”

Stopping at the corner where the kitchen and lobby connected, Kirishima groaned when he saw Bakugou walking in, carrying you on his back and shifting his weight from left to right, slugging you side to side. You were smiling though and seemed bright as ever and that made Kiri smile.

“I was just making sure your money didn’t go to waste Katsu!”

Bakugou chuckled before releasing and dropping you off of his back. You giggled and walked around him, his arms wrapped around your shoulders and he hung from you as you both trotted towards the lobby counter, still unaware of Kiri’s presence, just talking away.

“Yeah whatever princess. As long as you’re feeling better then that’s all that matters I guess.”

You smiled and looked up at Bakugou, reaching a hand up to pinch his cheek and making him growl.

“I am feeling better, thanks to you! Thank you for everything Katsu, I mean it. The talk, the listening, the food, just all the love in general.”

“Stop with that mushy shit already, I’m just doing my job.” He snapped at your fingers.

Giggling, your head fell back to Bakugou’s chest and he took it upon himself to hug you. You hummed and held onto his arms, looking at him again.

“Aww, is Katsu getting shy now. You’re so cute!”

Finally, Kirishima had had enough with watching from his corner. He cleared his throat before emerging, you and Katsuki both looked his way. The smile on your face didn’t vanish but it wasn’t as ... happy. The red-head could feel a sort of awkward tension between you and him so he rubbed the side of his neck and put on a friendly smile with a wave.

“You two are finally here, what took you so long?”

Bakugou smirked, still wrapped around you from behind and playfully tugging your beanie over your eyes as he answered his friend.

“Not that it’s any of your business but we stopped and had breakfast and had a little chat. I needed to get our girls strength back up after last night.” He chuckled and gave a cocky smile.

Kirishima’s red eyes glared at Bakugou and he bared his sharp teeth. You un-covered your eyes, his expression quickly going back to cool and he looked at you, searching for confirmation on if the blonde was full of shit or not. You only cleared your throat and lightly tapped at Bakugou’s forearm, causing him to release you

“I’m gonna go say hi to the others, if either of you need me for anything then just come get me, I’ll probably just hang in Sero’s room all day.” You turned to Bakugou and cupped his cheek before kissing it and smiling. “Thank you again Katsu, for everything, I love you.”

Kirishima felt like his heart was shattering into a million pieces as those last words slipped through your mouth. He didn’t hide how he bared his teeth now and that his fists were clenching. Bakugou softly smiled and kissed the top of your head before you turned away.

“Back at ya princess. Now go see those other idiots, I’m sure they’re worried.”

Without another word or even a look in Kirishima’s direction, you brushed past him and behind the counter, skipping down the hall and towards the studio rooms, singing Sero’s name. 

Once Kirishima heard the sound of a door opening, along with happy greetings from Sero and Denki before it closed, he turned to look at Bakugou who was casually picking at his nails. So many questions were running through Kirishima’s head as he stared down the other male before finally speaking up.

“So - what happened? Are you two like a thing now or?”

Bakugou looked up at Kirishima before throwing his head back with a hearty laugh and leaning back on the counter. He shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Wouldn’t you like to fucking know huh? Well I’m sorry Red but I don’t kiss and tell, so I guess you’ll never know!”

Kirishima growled and his jaw clenched. 

“That’s bullshit! Any other broad or dick you fuck, you come in and don’t shut the fuck up about it!”

Bakugou only nodded and grinned. 

“Yeah well in case you haven’t noticed, she isn’t some broad. As dumb as it sounds coming from me, she’s fucking special. I know you’re already jealous that she slept in my bed last night before ever making it to yours, so I’m not gonna rub salt on your wounds by telling you the details of what went down between us, because it's just that - between us!”

All rational and calm thinking that Kiri had had that morning was now quickly flying out the window the more Bakugou’s jaw flapped. Before he could get a word in, the bell of the shop door rang and they both looked to see a man walking in. He greeted them and Kirishima rudely asked what he wanted. 

Bakugou glared at Kirishima and roughly punched his shoulder before apologizing on his behalf. The man easily brushed it off and stated that he actually had a tattoo appointment scheduled with Kirishima that day. Caught up in everything going on, Kirishima had completely forgotten that he did in fact have a client coming in. Just as he was going to ask the guy to wait while he tried to finish with Bakugou, he had already beat him to the punch and squeezed Kiri’s shoulder with a smile.

“Well this is your artist right here, so I’ll leave you two to it. Good luck Red, if you need me, I’ll be in my studio!” Bakugou spoke with a grin then walked off.

Begrudgingly, Kirishima sighed and greeted the client again but nicely this time. He went behind the counter and started to print out the necessary paperwork needed before he could start and had them filled out before leading the man back and to his studio. 

Kiri paused briefly before Sero’s door and heard laughter coming from you. With a sigh he accepted that he’d just have to wait a little longer before he could try getting you alone. Until then he would have to suffer with his client throughout what he could feel was going to be a very long session.

Nearly six hours later, Kirishima was waving his client out the shop door before leaning on his palms on the lobby counter and watching as it snowed outside. He shuddered lightly when cold air blew in from the door closing and decided he wanted some coffee to warm and wake himself up more. 

When he rounded the corner and walked into the kitchen he stopped upon seeing you sitting on the kitchen counter with a mug full of tea and Bakugou standing between your legs, his hands braced on the counter surface while you both talked. Kirishima quietly groaned and he made his way to the coffee pot that was next to you.

“Excuse me,” he spoke while opening the cupboard next to your head and getting out a mug.

“Oh I’m sorry Kiri.” You replied sweetly and leaned over.

Bakugou smirked before he playfully smacked the top of your thigh, making your attention turn back to him. He pinched your cheek and stood straighter with a sigh, stretching his long arms up above his head.

“Alright princess, I think I’m gonna head out for the day, get Sero to give you a ride home alright?”

Your eyes rolled, arms crossing over your chest. 

“What are you Katsu, my daddy?”

As Bakugou chuckled, Kirishima nearly choked on air trying to stir sugar into his coffee. Bakugou tickled your thighs, making you giggle and he leaned in to press kisses on your cheeks and nose.

“No princess, I’m not your daddy. That’s a weak title. I’d be more like your master if you wanna get technical but -” he brushed back your hair before kissing your forehead, “We’ll save that for our next sleepover alright? I’ll talk to you later, you fucking let me know when you get home and that you got there safe, got it?”

You nodded and kissed his cheek in return before lightly pushing him back. 

“Sir, yes sir!”

“That’s my girl. See you later, you too Red.” Bakugou teased and ruffled his friends hair as he passed by him and left the kitchen.

Kirishima growled lowly and shook his head, mumbling under his breath. 

“Fucking dick.”

You quirked a brow and looked over to Kirishima finally with a hum, he glared at you from the corner of his eyes and rolled them while he lifted the mug and took a drink from it. Your own eyes narrowed at him and your head tilted.

“I’m sorry, what was that look for?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He questioned back with a shrug, looking at you with a cocky smile.

That smile pissed you off.

“Uh - that eye roll you gave me just a second ago, I just think it was uncalled for towards me since I didn’t do or say anything to you.”

“Aww I’m sorry, do you want me to be stuck up your ass and babying you like that asshole was? I know you crave attention like its a means to live but I didn’t know there was a certain type of attention I was supposed to give you ‘princess’.”

Your teeth ground together from Kirishima giving you another smart-ass expression, chuckling as he looked back down to his coffee and taking another sip. It was taking everything in you to not hit the mug and have the hot drink pouring all over him. Instead, you took a deep breath.

“Is there possibly something you’d like to get off your chest, Red, or are you going back to being a dick to me for no fucking reason - oh wait, for reasons that I can’t know about.”

Kirishima downed what was left of his coffee before roughly placing it back down on the counter. He placed his palms on it and smirked before looking at you sideways and nodding.

“Yeah, as a matter of fact I do. You know he’s just fucking using you to get to me? To piss me off and get under my skin.”

At this you scoffed and shook your head, swinging your feet to help push yourself off the counter-top and onto the floor. You waved off Kirishima and you went to walk away from him, you weren’t getting into this, not now. He was obviously in a terrible mood and there was no way anything good would come out of any conversation with him at the moment.

“Get over yourself Kirishima, whatever.”

The red-head groaned, his hand hardening at the sound of his given name rolling off your tongue the way it did and breaking the counter surface from how hard he gripped it. He hated when you called him by that, you only ever did when you were mad at him or annoyed. 

Kiri was just about to try and clap back at you but he stopped himself and thought rationally for a moment. This wasn’t going to solve anything, this wasn’t civil. He needed to hurry and fix things, he finally had you alone, alone to talk and he needed to try and turn the tone of this conversation around and fast. 

He didn’t know what else to do so he just acted. 

Taking only two long and wide strides towards you, grabbing hold of your elbow roughly and turning you back around to look at him, you growled at him and squirmed to escape his grip, only making him pull you closer as you both huffed and puffed at the other.

“Will you just fucking stop for one second and let me talk, you little brat! You’ve been avoiding me all day!”

You scoffed at him before shoving his chest with your free hand.

“No shit Sherlock! Why would I want to talk to you? I keep giving you opportunities and all you do is steamroll over me! And what you just said to me not even a minute ago! Are you fucking mental? Why the fuck would I want to sit here and listen to you when all that happens is you getting my hopes up just to contradict them?”

Kirishima groaned, running a hand down his face before inhaling deeply. 

“Jesus just shut up for a fucking minute and listen! Look - I know it's none of my business whether you two fucked or not but he’s only using you to make me jealous and it’s really starting to piss me off!”

“Oh, so since your feelings are the ones being fucked with, now you care? Don’t tell me to shut the fuck up you fucking asshole! I am finished giving you opportunities to hurt me, Kirishima, so no! You shut the fuck up!”

Kirishima sighed and let go of your arm to rub his head, “(Y/N), just let me - oof!”

Before Kirishima could keep talking, you took the opportunity to push him back with all you had, repeatedly until he was against the wall. He looked down to see you staring daggers into him, one of your eyes actually twitched and you looked livid!

“I gave you a chance to talk, last night, and you didn’t, so let me! First off - you’re abso-fucking-lutely right about the fact that it is none of your business! I’m so fucking tired of this shit Kirishima, you acting like you care one second and then you not giving two flying fucks the next. I'm not a fucking toy! I'm not going to sit here and let you use me before just tossing me away like you’re bored! I’m sick of you getting my hopes up, I'm sick of you making me feel so fucking loved only to have you reject me again. Do you know how much that hurts? Do you know how it feels to just be treated like I only matter when you're bored enough to pay attention? Especially when I know your true feelings but you won’t fucking let yourself accept them?” 

You hit his chest with less force than you wanted, and it only stokes the fire in your chest. Tears slipped down your cheeks and Kirishima's eyes widened before a guilty look began to peek through. 

“You really make me feel like utter shit Ei and it sucks because I keep hoping you’ll stop being such a fucking coward and just finally give in to your heart! I know you want me Kiri, everyone knows! Do you think I keep letting you drag me around because I like how badly I get hurt by you every single time? No! Jesus - I’m just as crazy about you as you are about me! I shouldn’t be, especially with how you treat me but I can’t help it just as much as you can’t help it! You don’t know how badly I wanted to just forget you last night but you know what, Katsuki fucking Bakugou wouldn’t let me! So fuck you! Fuck you for hurting me, again and again!”

Kirishima looked down at you, shaking his head and running an anxious hand through his hair. 

“What are you talking about? He took you home, he -”

“He took care of me - for you! Katsuki didn’t do a damn thing to me last night that you didn’t want him to do! Instead, he was there for me and for you. He explained your side to me the best way that he could since you won’t do it yourself. How you’re acting so fucking dumb but that I still shouldn’t write you off just yet! Katsuki held me, the way you should be holding me, he talked to me and comforted me, the way you should be. He was you, for me!” 

You backed up by giving him one last push, glaring back up at him before angrily wiping your cheeks.

“So instead of making some petty ass comment under your breath as he walks away, you should be fucking thanking him! He told me to try for you! He's not the asshole here, you are! Get your head out of your ass, Kirishima. It’s because of him that I’m even giving you another chance! I'm not going to fucking wait forever, you know. When you’re ready to stop being such a coward and tell me how you really feel, you come and find me.”

You quickly turned on your heels, sniffling and trying to catch your breath, feeling like you had just run a marathon. Your heart was pounding, body shaking and you just wanted to get away. The last thing you wanted was to cry in front of Kirishima but you never got what you wanted so today wasn’t any different. 

As you stumbled away, Kirishima hung his head low, clutching at his chest where you had pushed and poked him countlessly and so hard that he was actually sore. No one had ever chewed him out like that before, not even Bakugou. Kiri knew he had been hurting you but he didn’t know just how badly and he didn’t know just how bad you had it for him as well. He finally looked up to see you leaving the kitchen and heading down the hall. His heart dropped and he decided then and there that enough was enough.

Kirishima took off after you, calling out desperately for you to stop. Your head shook and you kept walking, only making him even more desperate. It didn’t take much for him to catch up with you, grabbing your arm again and turning you around to face him. He looked closely at your face, how your lips trembled and tears were staining your cheeks. The (e/c) color of your watery eyes and how they looked back at him and pleaded for something, for a reason to stop for him. 

He went to cup your face in his hands, you weakly swatted them away and he frowned, he tried again as you backed up and whimpered when he finally touched you. The pads of his thumbs wiped at the tears on your flustered cheeks and he pulled your face closer to his. 

What he did next could go one of two ways but he didn’t care, he needed to try! Quickly, Kiri sighed and kissed you. Your eyes widened and you weakly shoved and hit at his chest. Kirishima pulled away and his eyes were soft as they looked at your bewildered face. The man lightly chuckled and his head tilted.

“You know, I really hate you sometimes little one.”

You scoffed and let your head fall back against the wall, “Well you know what ... I hate …”

You slowed as a memory suddenly made its way to the forefront of your mind, those words echoed quietly but you remembered. 

The pet store, how he spoke those same word in the same tone. It was the opposite of hate, it was love, but your own kind of fucked up love. 

You looked forward again, Kirishima still before you and a smile growing on his face, you slowly started to smile back at him. He chuckled and cupped your cheek, letting his other hand brush a few stray hairs out of your face and running fingers through the length of it with a relieved sigh.

“I had every intention of coming here today and telling you everything but you sort of beat me to the punch, while also landing a few of your own. I deserved it though, all of it. Everything you said, it’s true. I have been denying these feelings for you, I have been a dick and hurt you so much. I am a coward. But I fucking promise, if you give me this one last chance, that I’ll make it up to you, I’ll grovel and beg and plead as much as it takes for you to forgive me. I’ll do whatever I have to do to make it better, to fix this! I can’t keep acting like this, denying all of this shit and most of all denying you! You know you drive me fucking nuts? With that stupid smile and that sweet voice, how you look at me and how you challenge me at every chance you get! I can never concentrate when you’re around but at the same time I can’t ever fucking concentrate when you aren’t around. I - I need you (Y/N). I don’t know what it is or why but I just need you, I need to hear you, see you, to have you and protect you! God I want nothing more than to keep you safe and I’ve been wasting so much time fucking around when I could’ve been doing just that! I’m sorry little one, I’m so sorry, please believe me.”

You softly smiled at Kirishima and reached your hand up to lightly brush at the scar above his ruby red eye before cupping his cheek. The man hummed and melted into your palm and you pouted at him, nuzzling your own cheek to his opposite one and soon feeling his arms wrap around you tightly. 

Some people may think it stupid and dumb but you had already forgiven Kirishima the night before after what happened with Bakugou. You just wanted to have Kirishima tell you himself how he truly felt and you finally had that. For once you felt like you could breathe, like life wouldn’t be so fucking complicated anymore now that you had your answers - well some of them. 

Kirishima pet the back of your head and kissed the side of your face as you held each other. You turned to look at him closer and smiled.

“That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

The red-head rolled his eyes and caught your chin between his fingers, trailing soft kisses across your cheek and to the corner of your mouth, feeling how your smile grew bigger against his lips.

“Little one,” he started and you gave him a look.

“You hate me, I know. I hate you too Ei.”

Smiling, Kirishima leaned in and kissed you again. This time you gave in and kissed him back, completely melting beneath him and wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He smiled, sharp teeth grazing against your lips and making you giggle. The air around the both of you felt clear and thinned out, easy to breathe. 

Pulling away from your lips, Kirishima couldn’t help put scatter more kisses all over your face, he was acting like an excited puppy and you were living for this side of him. 

Suddenly, the sound of someone sneezing made you both look down the hall. Out of nowhere Denki was pushed into view from around the corner.

“Great, you fucking did it now Pikachu!” Bakugou barked out.

Denki shrugged and looked at you and Kirishima, a massive smile on his face. 

“We uh - didn’t want to interrupt anything.”

“We? Who the fuck else is back there, how long have you leeches been here?”

Soon enough, Sero, Bakugou, Deku and Shouto all came piling out from behind the corner. Shit eating grins on their faces, Bakugou’s being the biggest of all. Sero cracked his neck and helped Denki back up to his feet.

“Let’s see, I came in on Bakugou saying he doesn’t like being called daddy but what was it, ‘master’?” Sero snorted and the blonde grabbed him in a choke-hold.

Denki tousled his hair and made his way towards you and Kirishima. 

“I came in when Lil’Mama here started dropping truth bombs. Everyone else just seemed to fall in. That was all very heart-warming though once you got your ass chewed out Kiri.”

Kirishima growled and kicked at his friend but Denki was fast and dodged it.

“You’re all assholes, every single one of you!” Kirishima replied as he pulled you closer to him, you happily being held by him and smiling.

All the guys looked at you and Kirishima together before collectively replying.

“We hate you too Ei.”

#crimson ink #Kirishima Eijirou #kirishima eijirou x reader #hitmen au #tattoo shop au #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha writing #mha writing #angst #slow burn #enemies to lovers #eventual smut #bakusquad #dark theme

[artificialqueens]

Different Names For the Same Thing (Trixya) - Chapter Two - Pilandok

 Katya has recurring dreams about a Trixie he never knew.

AN: Hello! This is an expansion of a drabble in my collection and I might be shooting myself on the foot by turning this into a multi-chap fic but *shrugs*. Thank you for reading! (The first chapter of this fic was posted in AQ with the title And Not One Speck Will Remain.)

Read fic in AO3.

            It takes a few weeks for Katya to realize what the hell he’s been dreaming about. He’s never been one to fixate on them and he usually just lets the fragments scramble away when the morning arrives. He has no interest in chasing them, what’s the point? They’re just afterimages. He loathes vague, half-hearted sensations. As soon as he wakes up, he becomes preoccupied with the scratchiness of his sheet-less mattress and the dryness of his throat— and more importantly, the craving for a cigarette.

            “I’ve been seeing the exact same thing in my sleep for like two weeks straight,” Katya tells Trixie over a laugh— a reaction to something funny Trixie said about wet dreams. They’re sitting on their stools in the basement, in front of a green screen and Katya knows that the camera is rolling but Pete hasn’t told them to start yet.

            “Like recurring dreams?” Trixie asks.

            “Recurring dreams,” Katya answers, “right, that’s what you call it.”

            “What have you been dreaming about?”

            “Uh. I don’t know, actually.”

            “Then how would you—“  Trixie sighs in faux-exasperation, “how would you know if you’re seeing the same thing?”

            “A feeling,” Katya shrugs. “But it’s all a blur. A recurring blur.”

            “Your entire life is a recurring blur,” Trixie replies without missing a beat.

            Katya howls and thinks, you better keep that in, Ron.

            Later, Katya realizes that he’s been dreaming about Trixie.

            Katya watches Trixie on the grass beside him, eyes closed, left arm tucked underneathe his head. He thinks he must be mirroring Trixie, lying down on their side in the grass. Trixie looks young, incredibly young. Too young to have even thought of make-up or drag or Trixie— anything that would suggest that he was headed down the path that would entwine him and Katya irreversibly. It doesn’t strike him as odd but dreams have always lent themselves to a suspension of disbelief. What does unnerve him is the silence. Trixie is quiet and the forest is, too, for Katya has the ears of a frequenter that has learned to tune out the white noise. It’s not exactly an out-of-body experience because he can feel the physicality of owning a body. It just doesn’t feel like it’s his.

            Trixie opens her eyes and looks back at him with an indecipherable look. He wants so badly to make joke, a dirty one that would make Trixie scream in laughter. Instead, he feels his hand reach out to touch Trixie’s face. His fingers trace the jawline. Katya recognizes the cheesiness of youth but he’s unable to shrink away from it, he can only feel his heart beating with an impossible vigor.

            “Brian, what’s wrong?” Katya hears his voice speak but it isn’t quite his voice. Trixie shakes his head, one hand clutching tightly on grass. Katya grits his teeth.

            “Tell me about the testaments again,” Trixie tells him with a horribly genuine smile, voice just broken into.

            “I can tell you about Luke” Katya says, and he has the urge to talk about how bizarre that book is. Did Brian know that it’s the only book that mentioned the idea of Mary’s immaculate conception? Instead, he asks, “If I take you out of here, where do you want to go?”

            Trixie looks surprised, but his smile gets wider. Katya imagines that Trixie’s feeling the same giddy whir in the chest that he is. He watches Trixie wrinkle his brows, taking his time to think. But when he does answer, it seems like the most obvious thing in the world.

            “Malibu.”

            Katya lurches forward catching Trixie’s lips with his. In the middle of the forest, with the after school setting on them both, kissing Brian on the mouth,  this is when Katya feels the most like himself.

Katya doesn’t think that it means anything, he’s had his fair share of odd visions of alternate realities. He’s just not one to pass on an opportunity to make-out with someone. If anything, he’s puzzled that he doesn’t wake up with a raging boner everytime.

            It’s not that he means to, but he brushes them off easily. Even after that night with Trixie when he cried unknown tears, even if he can feel the loaded stares from the boy in question, he thinks that it can’t mean anything. So when he kisses Trixie in the real world, whose mouth was open mid-smart-ass remark, in front of the grand total of four people in the waiting room of some random online publication, he has no idea what the fuck that was about.

            “Smoke break,” Katya says as soon as he pulls away, and walks out of the room, fleeing before the tension builds.

            Trixie finds him outside a few minutes later, sans cigarette (he’s an idiot, he forgot it), and all is unquestioned and forgiven, this isn’t the worst way you’ve walked out on me.

Katya notices that Trixie has already removed the red smudges and reapplied his own matte pink lipstick. Katya hates it, suddenly, Trixie is so fucking nice. No, not nice, because he’s not really nice. Just dumb. Who would care so much for an asshole like him? And he knows for sure that he’s an asshole because he probably kissed Trixie because of an inexplicable horny impulse and a skip in logic. And he’s an asshole cause he wants to do it again. Just so Trixie would stop looking at him like that. Like he knows what to do even though he doesn’t understand. Like he would keep forgiving him for whatever fuck up.

            Katya’s arms motions toward Trixie but Trixie catches him by the shoulder. He feels his stomach sink at Trixie’s purposeful gaze.

            “If you want to do it, don’t grab my face,” Trixie tells him, a hard edge in his voice. Still, he doesn’t move away and he drops his gaze to Katya’s lips.

            Katya can always tell how bad his ideas are before he does them, and this one feels particularly foreboding, like he’s betraying an old memory. But really, he isn’t one to pass on an opportunity to make-out.

#rpdr fanfiction #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #trixya #soulmate au #reincarnation au #pilandok #different names for the same thing #submission #canon compliant

[schweeeppess]

so a projects list, why not? (the order means nothing, im just remembering as i go (green means it's finished, blue means it's a multi-chap that's in progress))

these bruise colored skies: set after dick and tim fight (one of the Red Robin comics (i think it's issue 1 or 2)), tim's taking a road trip and thinking back on his arguments with dick about damian and his being robin. angst

sing when you're in the mud: dick and jason after dick's (second, more well known) rape by catalina flores. they go to a bar, have some drinks, and shit hits the fan. hopefully hurt/comfort

the man i am: jason and dick (seperately) and how they feel about the men theyve grown up to become. angst(?)

catch (me): [redacted]

all the time: jason and dick (again (look i love them okay)) with some great ol' hurt/comfort. (a gift for onipilot but shh)

listen to my aching heart: for ANOTHER au ive created, dick is back in town and he gets some burgers with jason.

can't you see the ashes?: a fic on bruce being forced to realize just how bad he's made his relationships with his sons. he's forced to realize the consequences of his actions. and he hates them. but... maybe it's too late to fix it. angst.

a dad thing to do: for the batfam lantern au! Baby Jay brings home baby Timmy and Bruce is there too! Much fluff, and i am Excite for this fic.

Helical Thunder: pacific rim au! (i bet y'all thought i forgot about this >:)) jason gets his co-pilot :D found family (ish?)

seeing with color: jaykyle! who doesn't love a good soulmate au? (Fluff)

we are human after all: lantern au, babey. we got babies jason and tim, and big bro Dickie. little brothers go to visit big bro at his waitress job, and Dick's co-workers, and his manager, and everyone loves them.

no im not including any prompts i have, because theyre prompts and not projects im actually working on just yet (im gonna get to them i swear!), and nor am i including any wips (because they've already been started).

Please feel free to ask about any of my projects! I'm so thrilled to discuss these anytime.

#sep speaks #project list #i mean my friends were doing it #so hey lets jump on a bandwagon

[vernonfielding]

Some writing questions meme

I think there was an actual title to this meme but I can’t remember what it was. Thank you to @exploding-snapple for tagging me! I have had zero time for anything other than work lately and I hate that I’ve had to stop writing fic. I was feeling so inspired! 

1. What’s your favorite genre to write?

Hurt/comfort for sure. Obviously missing scene fics. And I love doing big plotty fics. But I will write just about any genre, really.

2. Do you pull inspiration from real life, or do you pull things from other books/fanfiction you’ve read?

All of the above. I get the most inspiration from just plain canon -- imagining how the characters would behave in various situations, that kind of thing. But I definitely grab stuff from real life and fiction too.

3. Do you tend to write one-shots, short stories, or longer things?

All of the above again. I like to mix it up! In B99 I’ve only got the one long multi-chap (so far), but assuming work ever stops being crazy, I definitely have a few longer stories I’d love to tackle.

4. Do you prefer to write description or dialogue?

Definitely dialogue over descriptions. Or I guess I find dialogue easier, anyway. When the plot is moving along I find that writing pretty fun too, but I don’t love, like, scene-setting descriptions, or describing characters. It just comes least naturally to me. 

5. Favorite fic/book of all time?

That is way too hard to answer! Books: The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, The Secret Garden, Harry Potter, The Great Believers, The Thief, lots of others. Fanfic, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. There are a few amazing  fics, mostly hurt/comfort, in non-B99 fandoms that are sort of my go-to happy reads. (I’m happy to share links if anyone’s ever interested, but my fandom tastes are kind of all over the place.)

6. Favorite Trope?

For hurt/comfort, I love characters who are injured and MUST GO ON. I also love stories where characters are underestimated and prove everyone wrong in the end. The problem with both those tropes, for me, is that they often aren’t written exactly the way I want them. I can be very picky! For romance I definitely like a slow burn, and I like Missed Opportunities That Turn Out In The End, but they have to feel real, not contrived. (I LOVED the Teddy and Sophia plotlines in canon, for example.)

7. Are you the kind of person to work on more than one WIP?

Nope! I am very one-track. Every now and then I might spin out a one-off while I’m working on a longer story, but I never have multiple WIPs going.

8. How long have you been writing?

Oh god, a very very long time. I think I posted my first fic in 2002? (I was very young!) And I was writing fanfic even before then, just short things in notebooks that I would read over and over.

9. Do you tend to write more in the morning, afternoon, or evening?

Definitely at night. If I’m super into a story I will go to a coffee shop on weekends and write all afternoon. (Remember when we could go to coffee shops? Sigh.) But otherwise I’m very much a night-writer.

10. Do you prefer to post and update your WIP chapter by chapter or wait until it’s 100% complete before sharing it?

I always wait until it’s 100% done. It’s not even about making sure I finish the story (I pretty much always finish everything I start), I just don’t understand how people can post works in progress. I am constantly tinkering with my stories as I go, and I’ll often realize while I’m writing like, Chapter 10 that I forgot to drop some hint in Chapter 2 that’s key to the plot. Or I’ll think of some cool character development that happens at the end and realize I need to build up to it in the middle. Plus I’m big on edits and doing at least one major revise of an entire fic after I have a first draft. Posting as I write would stress me out so much.

I think my dear @fezzle was already tagged to do this, but I’m tagging her again!

#writing meme #my writing

[sweetbyte]

Title: One by One 

Pairing: Momo Centric; Todomomo

Rating: T

Summary: Villain/Dark!Momo Au. “In the end they will all fall, one by one”

Prologue 

There’s much that she finds she does not like, as she walks through the crowd of people and flashing cameras.

She doesn’t like leaving the grounds of her estate.

She doesn’t like the sound of shutters capturing her every move.

She doesn’t like the flashes of light blinding her.

She doesn’t like the general public whispering things they don’t know about.

She doesn’t like questions.

~

“Ms. Yaoyorozu, your thoughts on the tragic anniversary of your parents passing?”

“Ms. Yaoyorozu, how have you taken the transition to being one of the youngest CEO’s?”

“Will you be as involved in the family business as your successful father?”

“Will you really be enrolling in UA?”

“How will you balance hero schooling and a business?”

“Are you considering selling stocks? Or passing down the reigns to someone more experienced?

“Are you attending UA to in memory of your deceased parents? To avenge them?’

“What is the nature of your quirk?”

~

She hates the questions. But she doesn’t let it show.

After all, if they capture any discomfort, it’ll be perceived as a weakness; weaknesses can be exploited. Not that she necessarily had any at the moment…not anymore, she thinks darkly.

Her guards split the sea of bodies and she keeps her head bowed in humility and she walks with a practiced grace of mourning.

The trek to the entrance of the building seems longer than it should, but as she finally climbs the steps of the institute, she leaves her crowd with nod. She thanks them for understanding and respecting her privacy. She thanks them for the unwavering support she has received over the year and how utterly grateful she is. She leaves them with a wish to not mourn but celebrate the existence of her lost parents, after all its not would they have wanted. They eat it up like the vultures they are. Pathetic.

When she finally makes it into the school, she gives herself a moment to scan her surroundings with a well concealed distaste.

How quaint, how welcoming  

She allows herself to sneer and she notices a good amount of faculty gathered around to escort her. She lists them in her head.

Present Mic, Midnight, Recovery Girl, Cementoss,...

She pauses at the last one left who is already staring at her with disinterest.

Eraser Head. Real name; Aizawa, Shouta. Quirk; Erasure.

She has to be careful with him, she thinks as she gives a small smile as the Principal, Nezu, rounds to the front to greet her.

Nezu talks about the school with such pride and enthusiasm as he leads her through the countless halls and she’s only half listening.

“You’ve enrolled in the most perfect time, I must say, all the students are in for a real treat!” He gushes.

“Oh?” She responds committedly, glancing at some of the names already assigned to lockers.

“You see, joining our gifted staff this year is the one and only All Might!”

Her eyes widen in surprise and her head all but whips over. “All Might? You don’t say?”

“Yes! We are extremely blessed, I must say!”

Extremely.

She tries not to think about how the presence of the number one hero will bring complications.

It doesn’t matter, she thinks, as she finalizes her enrollment papers.

Sooner or later they will all go down, one by one.

A/N: Uploaded onto AO3, forgot to post here. Yes, another multi-chap to keep up with. I’m terribly sorry.I got attached. 

#my jots #my writes #todomomo #momo centric #villain!momo AU #One by One

[lefaystrent]

Dog Days

Fandom: Thomas Sanders, Sanders Sides

Pairings: platonic LAMP/Thomas, borrower!sides

Summary: “Hey, I need you to look at me so I know you can hear me. Can you do that for me kiddo?” 

The voice was kind, and patient, and all the things Thomas thought he could ignore. But without much thought, he turned his head a bit to seek out the voice’s owner. A small figure stood there on the carpet, small enough to be mistaken for a doll but moving too much to not be sentient.

(Alternatively, in the midst of grieving for his beloved pet, comfort comes to Thomas in a curiously small form.)

Notes: Because I really needed another multi-chap fic . . . I plan to add a few more parts to it. Fingers crossed!

WARNINGS: pet death, in-depth descriptions of grief

AO3 Link

Everyone who knew Thomas knew how much he adored his dog. He’d had the border collie for a couple of years now, treated her like she was his own child, always spoiling her with treats, toys, and belly rubs. It made living alone in his small apartment a lot more bearable, to come home to her happy jumping and demands to be pet.

She took up a lot of attention in his life; that’s why he noticed that lately she seemed less energetic. She slept more, ate less, and her long fur couldn’t hide the weight loss. The day she didn’t get up to greet Thomas at the door when he returned home, he knew there was something deeply wrong.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he told her as he loaded her into the car. She could sense his stress and whimpered.

He almost regretted taking her to the vet. Almost, because even if he could have lived in ignorance longer, it didn’t make the truth go away.

Thomas remembered standing by his beloved pet, stroking a hand down her back absently as the vet spoke to him, voice matter-of-fact. The words passed through him, only a few batting back and forth in his brain like some sick version of ping pong.

“Liver isn’t processing . . . birth defect . . . there’s nothing you could have done.”

He took her home that day and settled her on her pet bed in the living room. He laid down beside her for the longest time, fingers brushing lightly at her ears.

“You’re okay,” he whispered to her. “You’re okay, sweetie.”

They still had a few days. A few days before he needed to . . .

They still had a few days.

When Thomas came home today, it wasn’t to the sound of paws scampering down the hallway. The apartment was dark, the light from the microwave clock shining like a beacon. Thomas barely had the presence of mind to toss his keys on the breakfast bar. He didn’t turn on any lights or open the blinds. He navigated through the blackened rooms and found himself lying in the floor by the pet bed again, using the cushion as a pillow and letting thoughts rush through his head. 

He thought about rust-colored fur and eyes of calming honey.

He thought about if she had known in the end, if she had hated him for it.

He thought about begging for forgiveness.

But he had no words left.

So he closed his eyes and pretended he wasn’t alone.

Days went by. 

Thomas didn’t try to work. He didn’t try to pretend he was okay.

His friends called. Some stopped by. But when finding him unresponsive, they figured he needed time and left him be.

He spent most of his time laying by the pet bed. It was too much effort to climb the stairs, so he didn’t. He didn’t mind sleeping in the floor.

A blur. Time narrowed down to a blur, and Thomas happily lost himself in it. He forgot to shower. He forgot to eat. He forgot what the point of it all was.

“Hey there,” a voice broke through the blur. 

Once again, Thomas was curled up on the floor. His eyes were open, but they weren’t comprehending much of anything. He blinked sluggishly, tired no matter how much he’d been sleeping recently.

“Kiddo?”

Or maybe he was half-asleep and couldn’t tell reality from dream anymore. He lived alone. No one should be there. No one . . .

“Hey, I need you to look at me so I know you can hear me. Can you do that for me kiddo?”

The voice was kind, and patient, and all the things Thomas thought he could ignore. But without much thought, he turned his head a bit to seek out the voice’s owner. A small figure stood there on the carpet, small enough to be mistaken for a doll but moving too much to not be sentient. Thomas blinked at him, estimating him to be four inches tall. He’d never met a person so tiny—never thought they existed outside of fairy tales—and for some reason it didn’t bother him at all.

The small man smiled a smile that was friendly, if not a bit strained. His hands were clasped together tightly. “There you go,” he said to Thomas. “I was a bit worried there. You haven’t gotten up in a long time. When’s the last time you’ve had some water?”

Thomas didn’t answer. He thought about answering, but he didn’t know himself. If he really took a moment, he’d probably realize how parched his mouth felt. But it was hard to feel much of anything these days.

The man twiddled his fingers. He glanced around for a minute before daring to take a few steps closer. If Thomas wanted to, he could reach out and pick him up.

"Better yet, when’s the last time you ate anything?” he asked.

It was weird, because more than wondering where the small man came from, Thomas was confused as to why he cared. Why did it matter if he hadn’t eaten anything? Was it really that big a deal?

“Kiddo, you need to eat something,” he said gently.

“Why?” Thomas croaked out, voice cracking roughly on the word. The man jumped a little, not expecting Thomas to answer. Even Thomas didn’t expect himself to answer. It just sort of happened.

His eyes warmed in sympathy. “Thomas . . . you’ll die if you don’t.”

Thomas wondered if this guy had any idea. He wondered if he knew what it was like, to care for something with all your heart, to be responsible for their life and happiness.

To fail them utterly.

“I don’t care,” Thomas said, eyes watering briefly. The ache in his chest spread out to encompass him entirely, and for a second he felt like he couldn’t breathe. And for another second, he didn’t feel like he deserved to.

“Oh honey,” the man fretted, inching closer but unable to do anything. “I know you loved her. I know you tried. But she—”

“She’s gone,” Thomas cut him off, looking him in the eyes. “She’s gone.”

And nothing would change that.

No amount of words. No amount of hours spent lying on the floor. No amount of tears he shed.

Nothing.

Thomas curled in on himself, burying his face in the safety of arms. He yearned for the blurriness to come back, to live his days in a haze until the ache didn’t make him hate himself anymore.

He thought the small man had given up. He didn’t hear anything for a long while. But after some time, he felt a tentative touch on his wrist.

“You’re still here,” the voice said. “You’re still here, Thomas. That might not matter to you, but I promise it would matter to her.”

Several minutes passed before Thomas found the strength to look up. The man was gone by then, but beside the pet bed he found a single saltine cracker waiting to be eaten.

Thomas didn’t cry when the vet put down his dog. He didn’t cry when he came home or when he buried her or during the lonely days he spent drifting through the apartment. He didn’t cry in all that time, believing he had forgotten how to.

But somehow, this small act of kindness cracked the walls of grief.

And when they broke, he wailed.

Tag list: @spectralheartt @a-pastel-pan @notalwaysthevillian @rose-gold-roman @ijustrealizedhowdumbmynamewas @katie-the-noble-fangirl @yourroyalydramaticanxiousness @aroundofapplesauce @merlybird500 @beach-fan @jemthebookworm  @whats-going-on-kiddos @randomsandersides @gamerfreddie @unring-this-bell @that-royal-ravenclaw (let me know if you want to be added or removed from this story’s tag list)

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #patton #patton sanders #g/t #giant/tiny #tiny sides #platonic lamp/thomas #angst #grief #death #writing #fanfiction #dog days

[fanaticwritings]

His Secret - CHAPTER 4

Sam Winchester x Reader [AU SERIES]

summary: Sam Winchester is the CEO of a branch of the billion dollar company Winchester Corp. The reader is a detective and also the love of his life. They think they live a happy life but there’s trouble in paradise. Y/N finds that her beloved wanders off somewhere at nights, when she sleeps. She obviously grows suspicious. What does he have to hide?

warnings: angst, questions are answered, also- more questions, fluff if you squint

word count: 1.8k

catch up here: chap. 1 | chap. 2 | chap. 3

A/N: This story gets me so excited! The build up is slow but I promise you’re going to love it. Do give this a read!

Y O U

“Where'd you get that from?” you asked Sam, as you lay under him, a tangle of limbs. You looked pointedly at a small scratch that ran up his forehead and disappeared into his hairline.

Sam studied you for a while, eyes searching your face, trailing down your nose and finally to your lips.

“I fell in the bathroom,” he said, smiling although he didn't look at you when he said that; eyes fixed on your lips instead. Strange, you thought but brushed the thought away as you let out a chuckle. If there was any lingering ghost of the thought, it was gone when Sam pressed his mouth to yours.

You weren't sure if you'd heard him correctly. Sam was still facing away from you, shoulders slumped.

“You what?” you murmured, voice a mere rasp.

He turned to look at you then, his multi-colored eyes looking grey in the dimly lit room.

“You heard me,” he said, clearing his throat and pursed his lips.

The words settled heavily in the air around you.

Out of all the possible explanations you had conjured up for his disappearance, this hadn't even remotely crossed your head.

A million questions pounded in your mind as you tried to wrap your mind around what he had just said. A killer? How? How did he have contacts? How far was he involved? How far had he gone? Was Sam in danger? What had he found out? This was supposed to be the answer that made you surer of the man you had fallen for and yet, you felt him slip away further. Did you know Sam at all? All those times he looked tired, battered and injured, he had been on his ‘hunt’. It wasn’t stress or a bathroom accident. Sam Winchester voluntarily risked his life, every night. This all seemed like a bizarre dream and you expected to wake up any moment now.

“How?” you whispered, flumping on the bed absentmindedly.

Sam looked at you quizzically. “Huh?”

“How could it be a murderer?” you said. You wanted to ask so much more, you didn't know how to digest this. But your detective mind was already grinding out theories, curiosity eating away at you.

Sam sat down in front of you.

“I shouldn't be telling this to you, Y/N,” he said, sighing deeply.

“No. You should tell me everything, Sam,” you countered.

“What are you scared of?”

“I'm scared for you, baby. I don’t- don’t want to lose you,” Sam said, looking at his hands. You noticed the sharp clench of his jaw. He was trying not to cry. You sighed softly. For a moment you forgot what he had just revealed. You knew Sam had abandonment issues because of his past and you hated how insecure it made him.

“You won’t lose me, Sam. But I need to know what’s going on with you. Don’t you think I deserve to know?” you asked, cupping his chin and making him look at you.

Sam was shaking a little, his forehead scrunched up and jaw clenching. Fear clouded his eyes.

“Sam,” you said a little boldly, this time. His name was a soft plea and you hoped it was assurance enough.

Sam shut his eyes and shook his head.

“I know I should have told you before. I am sorry I didn’t. But- but I thought I was doing it to protect you. But now that you know…,” he trailed off, looking up at you.

You moved to sit right next to him, hips touching. You took one of his hands into your own and gave it an assuring squeeze. “It’s okay. Tell me now. I’m right here.” It seemed to give him some confidence but it dissipated the next second.

He sighed again. Suddenly, he looked very jaded. Worn down. Broken.

“Everyone thinks that the fire was an accident. Even the police confirmed it, after looking into it for almost four months, that there was no evidence of arson or anything else. Dad..Dad couldn’t save Mom and... So the case was closed and we were sent off to Uncle Bobby.”

Your chest tightened. You had heard the story a million times but never from Sam, who was the heart of that very story. It hurt to see the sorrow dull his vibrant eyes; his shoulders sagged from the memory.

“I grew up thinking so too, until-” he inhaled sharply,”- until one day, Dean told me something that would haunt me forever.” His eyes clouded and looked distant as he was whisked into a memory in his head. 

“We were drunk. Well, Dean was, I had like one round. We were talking about the company and stuff when Dean suddenly became serious. He took my hand and clutched it tightly to his chest. ‘There was no accident, Sammy. Mom and Dad- they were murdered.’ He looked strange. Alien. It was eerie and I felt scared of him for a second. He looked dead serious too and he- he was trying not to cry. Y/N, I’ve never seen Dean look that afraid. He has been the stronger one and yet...I asked him how he knew, hoping it was just his trauma and alcohol speaking but- ‘When we ran out, Sammy… Do you remember dad pushing us out of the house? When we ran out, just outside the window, I saw a man. I almost yelled but I swear I saw him and he seemed to have caught me looking too because the son of a bitch ran, Sammy.’” Sam looked like there was more to say but he couldn’t. He was trembling a little. His grip on your hand was tight, knuckles almost pale and his face was devoid of color.

“Sam,” you whispered. You could almost picture a two-year old Sam running away from a blazing fire, being pulled by a six-year old Dean and their terror struck faces. You shuddered. You pulled Sam into you, hoping you could provide him some comfort because words seemed to be failing you at the moment. 

He stayed silent for a full minute before continuing.

“I didn’t want to believe Dean, Y/N. I really didn’t. My rationality told me that it was something his six- year old brain had made up to deal with the grief but he told me that it was something that stayed with him forever. He also told me that he went looking for the guy later, on his own. But nothing. The thought never left me, Y/N. I tried to bury it somewhere, hoping I could move on. We- we had healed. Dean and I. But this was a jarring reality, too probable. Anyone could’ve done it. Anyone.. who had a motive,” Sam said, straightening a little. The sadness never left him but his eyes danced with a new emotion. Anger.

He continued, not wanting to stop now. You wanted to say so much but the words caught in your throat. You didn’t want to interrupt him, either. He had to let it all out. Sam wasn’t exactly the one to open up easily.

“I didn’t think about it until recently,” Sam confided, finally glancing back at you. “Before we started dating. I trust Dean with my life, if he asked me to kill myself I’d do it without question. And I couldn’t shake the image of Dean from that night. The thought occupied my brain at all times until I finally asked Dean to describe the guy. So I thought, what the hell. Maybe with the latest tech, I’d have a chance to find him. He did warn me that it was fruitless now and it was better that I forget it. I said I’d try so he described him anyway. I asked around for help- small detectives, the underground network, anyone but the local cops. I didn’t trust them- and... I finally hit a match.”

Your heart thudded against your chest. He had found him? But then why was he still-

“He died on November 3rd, Y/N,” Sam said, darkly answering your unspoken question. Your stomach did a flip. Wait what?

“God. So that was a hit man?” you asked, realisation dawning on you.

Sam nodded gravely.

“The person who hired him probably got him finished off. To clear their tracks. Everything about him, was erased. No other information except his name and the date of death, whatsoever. All records- simply vanished,” Sam said, eyes blazing. “But that meant that it was true, everything Dean had said. Why else would there be no information about him? Why did he die the very next day? It was too big of a coincidence.”

You were shaking too, you realised but Sam was too lost in his thoughts to notice.

“The real murderer is possibly still at large, Y/N. The real truth is still hidden,” Sam snarled, his features rigid and mouth contorting into an agitated sneer. Each word held more weight than the last and Sam was being crushed underneath. You couldn’t in the slightest imagine what Sam was going through. He had grown up thinking that everything he loved was taken from him was because of an unfortunate accident. To have discovered that it was not the case, would’ve shaken him- destroyed him. Your throat burned, and felt scratchy. Sam hid so much behind that dazzling smile of his and you felt a surge of pride, love and respect for him. Tears welled up at the corner of your eyes, chest heaving.

You gazed at him. His tall, lean frame looked small, far too small. He looked frail, shaking and trembling as he wallowed in his past. You could almost see the burning house reflected in his subdued eyes and felt a sudden need to protect him. To bring him justice. 

Not because he was your lover, but because he was someone who had so much taken away from him for nothing.

“Sam,” you said again. It seemed that was all you could ever utter. You fumbled for words, yearning to comfort him. You gave his shoulder a tight squeeze instead and he leaned into you.

“I need to find them, Y/N,” Sam said, hoarsely. You nodded heavily, you could read him now. You didn’t- couldn’t know what he was feeling but you sympathised. You understood. He had gone through so much, all alone. His whole life had been flipped upside down. You searched his eyes- they were swirling with a thousand emotions but his hand never left yours. You decided then, that you were going to be there for him. You were going to be there when he needed his girlfriend, and also when he needed a detective. Every step of the way.

“You will find them, Sam. And I will help you.”

Please, please let me know what you thought of the chapter/ series! I love to know what goes through your mind when you’re reading, it’s what keeps me going! Leave a comment/ ask <33 Could really use it!

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