#might fuck around and write a snippit about it

[sawyingthroughthewasteland]

damn... wish you could recruit Paladin Brandis to a settlement :/

#fo4 #paladin brandis #might fuck around and write a snippit about it #honestly thought one of my mods would've given me the option #ah well

[breathinglifeintomyoc]

Locklyle

Snippit from a Locklyle fic that I've been writing on and off for a while. Fanfic of the Lockwood & Co. series which is tragically less popular than it should be. Comfort characters babes. Comfort characters. This is about 1,400 words out of the 5,200 I currently have written so lmk if you'd want more of it! (Also, thanks to the folks who have started interacting with this page <3 )

“Who’s her date?”

“A bloke named James McGladdery. The charming and wildly handsome type. He was a pretty talented listener at Fittes before he got shuffled off to DEPRAC. A perfect match for our Lucy, methinks.” George replied, smugly looking over his biscuit.

“And good with his rapier,” Kipps said, coming through the door, arms laden with bags. Lockwood scoffed in disgust, but a nasty turn in his stomach complimented the unease that had snaked its way through his chest. “I fear you may be out of the game now, Tony,” Kipps said with a pat on his shoulder, “You had a shot for a while there, though.”

“What do you mean, ‘out of the game’? What game? Lucy can do whatever she wants.” Lockwood replied, he cringed internally at how defensive he sounded. He knew exactly what Kipps meant, unfortunately.

“And she wanted to go out with James What’s-His-Face.”

“So?” Lockwood replied, preparing his tea in case he was going to want to avoid his coworkers for the rest of the evening.

“Fuck’s sake, Lockwood. Do you like her or not?” Both the directness of the question and the heat in George’s voice brought his anxiety to a head. Holly held up her hand, calling for peace, “Lockwood, you don’t have to answer that. What the boys are getting at is that we can’t keep letting you go back and forth with your feelings for Lucy,” Lockwood, though physically towering over Holly, felt quite small under her pointed gaze, “She’s our friend and you’re not going to lead her on. If you don’t like her, stop acting like you might. Okay?” Her smile and even her tone were still the Munro Special, but her eyes indicated otherwise.

Lockwood was brooding the rest of the evening. He couldn’t get the image of Lucy out of his head as he took violent swipes at Floating Joe. Did he have a crush on his employee? It wasn’t even really a question anymore, he hadn’t seen Lucy as just an employee since he hired her, and she had begun to cross over from his best friend to something more he didn’t know how long ago. Memories of her broad smiles and dark hair filled his mind — they had been through so much together that he’d seen every expression, rapier trick, and plasma-stained outfit that she had. Except for that dress, I certainly hadn’t seen that one. She had looked beyond phenomenal, and it was for someone else. He lopped a nasty gash into Joe’s side and tore a hand through his hair in frustration. As Lockwood put away his gear and fixed up the dummy he thought back to his friends’ advice. With shame he realized that he was sort of leading Lucy on — he gave her a necklace that represented undying devotion, took her on a spin around the block and that was it. They had hardly been alone with each other in the past months unless publicity events counted, and he doubted they did. And now she was wining and dining with some adonis who would surely steal her heart. Has she ever smiled for me the way she was smiling when he knocked? Like a train full of hot coals ramming through him, Lockwood realized that he couldn’t ever be satisfied with his Lucy just being a dear friend to whom he occasionally gifted the private parts of himself. Kipps told you though, it’s too late.

He stepped upstairs and into the living room, sweat lining his brow, to see Holly dozing in her arm-chair. “Holly, I didn’t expect you to still be here. Everything alright?” She blinked sleepily a few times before she responded, “Oh, yeah, I’m just making sure Luce gets home okay. She might need my help with her dress buttons.” Lockwood frowned at himself, he hadn’t even thought to wait up for her. “I’m going to freshen up then take over for you. You’re dead on your feet and we’ve got a case tomorrow. Unless Kipps is also still here and has taken the spare room, it’s at your full disposal.” Holly nodded as he passed her and went up to his shower.

In all honesty, this was one of the rare nights when Lockwood could have retired early himself, but anxiety and frustration were keeping his eyes open. The gossip magazine, open in his hands, was going sorely unread as he pictured a strange man with his hands on Lucy’s hips, buying her drinks and making her laugh. Then it was Lockwood in the stranger’s position. His hands on her. Him making her laugh. Him kissing her at the doorstep before they stumble into the kitchen and— fucking hell, get a hold of yourself. But, the thought had been thought and though shame burned in the back of his mind, it wasn’t enough to smoke out the new images of him and Lucy.

His attention returned to the present at the sound of voices at the front step. A male said something and then there was Lucy’s laugh, “Bye, Jamie, thank you!” She took a few clumsy steps through the doorway and her beaming smile was enough to both elate and crush him. “Oh, hi, Lockwood! Didn’t expect to see you up,” she said with a small giggle.

“Holly wanted to make sure you got home alright,” after a few moments watching her struggle with her shoes he realized she wasn’t close to sober, “Have a good date?” There was perhaps too much ice on the last word.

Her smile still hadn’t faded, “Yes! Although it wasn’t a date, which I thought except Holly told me it was,” she rambled slightly, “Jamie said his boyfriend would have a fright if he found out he was cheating on him, with a girl no less! It was so great and he’s so much fun to talk—”

“Wait, James is gay?”

“Yeah, apparently!” Oh. Lucy continued to animatedly recount her night, but Lockwood felt like the carpet had been snatched out from under him and could hardly pay attention. Perhaps he hadn’t lost his chance with her.

“Lockwood,” his attention snapped to the girl in front of him — was she this close before? — “Is Holly still here?”

He was struck dumb by her all of a sudden, “She turned in about an hour ago.” In the moments she didn’t reply, he drank in the sight of her — she normally guarded her emotions a bit more, he wasn’t used to seeing her so exuberant. “Would— would you be able to help me with my dress?”

Perhaps it was the unwholesome thoughts he was having before she came in or maybe it was her earnestness, but Lockwood felt heat flush the back of his neck, “What?”

“Well, Holly did up the buttons in the back for me and I don’t want to wake her, but I don’t think I can get them myself.”

“Oh— oh, okay, sure,” he stuttered and raised himself from his chair. She cast him a toothy smile that was so quintessentially Lucy and his anxieties were smoothed — this was his best friend, not a creature he had to worry about slipping up in front of. The back of the dress, which he hadn’t seen before, was tantalizingly open, crossed with straps that were held together at her spine by a few buttons. He was immensely thankful that no one was witness to his shaking hands as his knuckles and finger tips brushed her bare skin. Undoing a beautiful girl’s dress, best friend or not, was far more intimidating than any raw-bones or poltergeist he had fought. Oh God, I’m taking Lucy’s dress off. Oh shit. His thoughts were reduced from sensical to a droning wail as she shivered and tilted her profile towards him, gifting another broad smile, “I don’t know if I already thanked you for this, but you really don’t know how hard those would have been for me to get myself!”

For a brief moment as she turned back around, he was ensnared by the vision of her, dim light reflecting off of a glitter on her eyelids and the gloss on her lips, her hands holding the top of her dress up. His face felt far warmer than usual. Has she always had such small hands? “Anyways, I should head up if I’m going to be worth anything against that banshee tomorrow.” She left him standing dumbly on the worn down carpet. I need to go to bed.

#lockwood and co #locklyle #fanfic #digital notebook #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle

[avengerscompound]

1. Clint cam girl. Yes please. (I don't even know exactly what this is about but all the variations I can think of are still desirable.)

2. I saw you post the masterlist for the Tony small gods and got so excited for it!

3. Steve journalist. Is this like Clark Kent? Because if so, I am expecting Steve with glasses. 🤣

4. Ironhawk?!?!?!??!!? Whoa!!!!!

5. Recruit. Ok I am intrigued, what's the premise/synopsis of this?

Also I can't believe you only have 5 WIPs and knowing you, 2 is probably more done than in progress. Lol

Clint camgirl is Clint dating a camgirl. I will now say something that only means anything to you and maybe 3 other people, but I fucking love Jade and she made me want to write a fic with a camgirl as the protagonist.

Here's a little snippit:

Clint moved quickly around the table and wrapped his arms around you.  “Hey - hey.  It’s okay.  Did I say something?  I’m sorry.” You hid your face in his chest as you started crying properly.  “No. No. You’re fine.  Perfect.” “Then why are you crying?” he asked. “Misogyny,” you answered. Clint started laughing.  “You’re crying because of misogyny?”

2. Yeah you're right. The Small God's Tony one is done. I just figured I'd put it as a WIP because I am just posting it now (though I didn't include the pain in serendipity because it only has one chapter left to post).

3. Lol once again the document title is misleading. It's Steve dating a journalist and probably the fic I'm most excited about writing (or maybe tied with the Recruit) right now. I think it might end up being a big long thing. I wanted to write a fic where you got to see a lot of fine detail in the dating life part the way I did with my first fic. I usually skip over shit a lot because of repetition. Anyway, I've only just started it so I'll see how I go. They're still just in the interviewer and subject mode of their relationship.

You shook your head in disbelief.  “You ever wonder what the things we all accept as true now will be looked at as being completely crazy in the future?” Steve thought for a moment and when he spoke it was almost like he was talking to himself.  “Circumcision.” You nearly choked on your soup, which made Steve laugh, and he leaned over patting you on the back.  “I’m sorry.  It was the first thing that popped into my head.  I mean - that wasn’t even something people did much out of religious reasons back in my day.” “You’re totally right.  They brought it in in the fifties to stop men masturbating, but I wasn’t expecting Captain America to bring up circumcision,” you said, still laughing. “I’m so sorry,’ Steve said again.  “God - I can’t believe I did that.” 

4. CYOA IronHawk is the IronHawk x reader part of the choose your own adventure. I'm getting toward the home stretch on it, but I'm getting stuck on some paths a little.

When Tony’s laughter subsides he takes a long drink from his mimosa, almost draining it in one go.  “You’re talking like I never have groups sex, Clint,” he says.  “I have it all the time.  Three, four, groups of ten or more.  Why would I need to do this again?” “Can I interject for a moment?”  You ask.  “Exactly how strong should the antibiotics I buy be?” Tony dropped his jaw in mock shock.  “You slut-shame Tony?”  He says playfully.  “Jail for you for a hundred years!”

5. The Recruit is something I am loving writing. It's also the one I asked your opinion about a while back (quite a while back tbh you might have forgotten) when I wanted to know what you thought was a big enough polyam group for even a very open-minded person to go 'okay damn that's a lot of people.' Reader x Steve x Sam x Bucky x Clint x Nat x Sharon. Reader goes on a blind date with sam who's just there because he can't tell Joaquin that he's dating all those people and he can't keep saying no. They end up hitting it off. He proposes that the rest of the group date you too. On the way out of the building you save Tony from a gunman and he recruits you to be an agent.

You began to cut up the onion, garlic, peppers, and corn as Sam buzzed around the kitchen getting different things out and starting to prep the seafood.  “You okay with spice?” he asked. “Oh yeah, go crazy,” you agreed.  “Make me regret being born.” Sam burst into laughter and nudged you.  “That’s what I like to hear.  Steve is a complete pussy when it comes to spice.  The guy can lift a car full of people over his head but put pepper in his mashed potatoes and you’d think he was dying.”

And yeah, honestly, my writing has slowed a lot lately. Used to do between 2-3k words a day now 2k is a lot and it's more like 500-1000.

#answered #lillianfromaccounting #writing #blogstuff #chainmail

[sassysnowperson]

Poe and Gup (and Luke too I guess)! I am so obsessed with that whole universe

The problem with writing a very long fic is that sometimes you (I) have nice parts you (I) want to get to, but you (I) have All. This. Plot. in the way. So sometimes you (I) go ahead and write a little snippit of the fun parts in the future, to get excited about what’s to come.

(As you probably guessed by the title, this slots somewhere into the Arrivals, Departures, Connections fic/Airline Pilots AU)

At this point in their relationship Poe and Luke have started sleeping together, but Poe hasn’t been to Luke’s house yet.

~

Luke grunted, and grabbed at his phone. He paged through the gallery until he found a decent picture, then held it back out to Poe. "Meet Gup." 

"Holy fuck," Poe breathed. "Luke, you have a mountain lion!" 

Luke blinked. He had honestly forgotten how big Gup was. She was normal-cat-sized to him. Everyone else just had freakishly small cats. "It's short for Superguppy," he offered. 

"She's beautiful. I want to pet her so much. Can I meet her?" Poe paused, pulling back a bit. "Sorry. Is that weird? I don't mean to make things weird. I can admire her from afar. Um…" 

Luke laughed. "Doing great on the 'not making things weird' front there, Dameron," he said dryly. 

"Shut up, you know what I mean," Poe said, grinning up at him. 

Poe's grin, as ever, as always, lit something bright and exciting in Luke's chest. Luke smiled back, feeling helplessly fond.

(And then a little later)

"This is the happiest day of my life," Poe muttered, his words blocked by the mass of fur trying to shove its nose into his mouth. Poe's hands pet down the fuzzy lump of cat sitting on his chest. "She's so cuddly! Luke, you have the best cat." 

Luke watched Poe and Gup and felt a strange fluttering around his ribs. He suspected it might be joy. 

#Someday #someday I will get to write Luke and Poe's adorable fumbling relationship #Poe I'm sorry it's taken so long to get around to you #Bodhi and Wedge just have a lot of drama they needed to sort through first #arrivals departures connections #ask games #WIP asks #Poe/Luke #anarialm

[elephantinthebedroom]

I spent a good chunk of the intro into my nightly speed binge wrapping my brain around the English language to find the uttermost perfection in expressing these thoughts and anxieties burning a hole right into the muscle of my tongue. I couldn’t even finish a paragraph, writing impulsive emotions into poetic structure requires serious dedication and to be completely honest.. a unholier then now pretentiously drawn mindset, where you are either taking yourself WAY to seriously or you are waiting around for your audience to pull out their encyclopedia’s and college level dictionary’s. Fact is, I’m horribly insecure about never graduating high school like the normal population, yeah you can surpass the regulations and take a 9th grade level test to say “Hey this is all the effort I can put in please graduate me” and be done with the entire pressurized systematic bullshit, but I fucking love learning, I love school and classes of any kind, I love knowledge and expanding my brain with the outline of a syllabus. Hell I even loved teachers, I always was the kid to make friends with the teachers, to have a extended relationship into after class discussions and occasionally even skipping lunch to hangout with them. But what always drove me to the point of a catastrophic meltdown was my moronic self entitled good for absolutely nothing peers. I hated them all alike, and all with general disgust accompanied by individual reasoning for each type of box they happened to fall in. They fucking ran the school, the student body, making me retract into my nightmarish daydream every single day, fading like a wallflower into the scenery, quietest girl in the entire class. Nobody cared to ask what I had to say, I curled the words up into the balls of air I grasped with tight fights. They all collectively chose to ignore me and put mental yellow caution tape around as I slumped to each door, every one of my classmates were intimidated by the piercing stares I caste with my hooded eyes alone, and this answers the question to “Was I ever bullied?” absolutely not, unless you count hushed mutters that barely left the majorities lips. But here I am rambling into the past again, molding a clay doll of who I used to be once upon a time, I speak of myself in those phases like a clay figure because it might sound fucking loony to hear, but even as I remember these memories, they don’t feel like mine, I feel as though I’m telling a story of some girl I observed years ago through a window as she hid under a flannel shirt scribbling in notebooks things never read, but I can not feel it as myself personally. Present day however I feel inadequate in education, social and emotional maturity blocks. When I was a young freshmen using my eyes as a 8 mm camera to record for film my coming to age story, my imaginative and over hyped documentary on this present day teenage iconoclast, I could just splurge out obscure references, snippits of personal experience, the juice of fictional wishing and aesthetically adding self created detailing, and the basic functions of a keyboard and a young girl with the dreams of writing into a collage of decent masquerading journalism. It wasn’t the Buckingham Palace of think pieces, but it was far superior and leagues deeper then most 14 year old’s could dive into. I knew I wasn’t grammatically at par… with say a English major, but I hadn’t even left middle school, people would be impressed with the way I could absorb into the role of a young professional wordsmith. Here it is 2016, and I’m 19 years old, which is unreal to even type out or remind myself of, I’ve used every minute of every passing day since 15 looking for, obtaining, and eventually overusing in extreme indulgence, any mind alternating mood shifting chemical substances. Writing which was the singularly universal release of built up emotional complexities became second hand to the dependency latching itself around the release and pleasure center in the back of my mind. Drugs came with much more ease, and the thrill of adrenaline and social camouflaging became the norm, and it seemed to be that I no longer had a story to tell, that I no longer had a genuine experience, I lost amidst several smoked filled rooms and vacant eyed teenagers, the spark of individuality I cradled with a love hate relationship. See you can say I’m mentally disturbed, that I’m socially retarded, that I’m a black sheep in the general herd, but however you want to spin the situation the fact remains the same, my eccentricity is what cashes my lottery ticket. I’ve never met another beating heart that has the ability to feel the way my heart feels, or another set of eyes that experience this life in the same pace and perspective as I do. This spark is what I feel was handed down to me like the Olympic torch from my father, this spark is what makes me a writer with the expression of ideas being my seducing quality, entrancing even despite the need for colorful words. I had a idea today and I couldn’t say it in overscripted verses so I’m writing it out now as it passes through cortex after cortex and if all this does for me is burn up the energy and emotional frustration of being burnt from my flame and ending up with just 

[sassysnowperson]

@writinredhead asked: 

DVD Commentaries! :D Can I ask for one from "Beg Your Pardon", starting at Wedge's "I made a mistake" to his "No. I made a mistake. And I can't fix it. But I had to tell you."?

Ah, yesssss, Beg your Pardon! It’ll be fun to look at this one a little closer. :D I do like this section. 

Once again, under the readmore, if you haven’t read it, alcohol use and mentions of alcohol being used as an unhealthy coping device. 

I’m still providing DVD commentary on fic snippits! Ask me about my fic! (Also, feel free to reblog the picture with the snippit, if that’s easier than wrangling the ask box) I’ve actually got some free time today, so please, give me more! :D 

“I made a mistake.” I think that this was actually the line that started the fic. Just the idea of drunk Wedge wandering into Bodhi’s room and being like, “I fucked up” 

“Yes, you covered that.” Bodhi took another deep swig from the bottle, beginning to feel the warmth trace down his chest. He found himself feeling less murderous by the moment.

“Good.” Wedge lapsed into silence. It is difficult to overstate how much fun I had making Wedge a completely uncooperative but still sympathetic drunk. 

Though Bodhi wasn’t ready to rule out murder entirely. Poor Bodhi. He is too tired to deal with this right now. “And the mistake was…?”

“You’re the pilot. The Rogue One pilot.”

Bodhi tried to cover his wince. “No mistakes so far.” Bodhi’s complicated relationship to heroism raises it’s head again.  It’s a bit of a recurring theme in my work. 

Blaster fire and the smell of charred skin. Screams of the dying all around him and there was nothing more he could do, no way to stop, nothing— As is traumatic flashbacks, apparently. Guy hadn’t really been in a warzone before. It had to be hard. 

Bodhi quickly took another drink of the Emergency Rum. Emergency Rum was one of those things where I went ‘is this too silly for the fic?’ There were several, and I think I decided that all of them were acceptable. And I’m glad I did. They really made the fic what it was. When he set down the bottle and looked up again, Wedge sat there, hunched over, looking up at Bodhi through long dark eyelashes, black fringe falling across his forehead. Bodhi took a minute of wry self-reflection to realize that normally he would be kriffin’ delighted to have someone who looked like Wedge sitting on his bed. Right. Wanted to show that Bodhi was attracted to Wedge, even as he was infuriated by him. I’m pleased with how this sentence accomplishes that. 

“I named a squadron after you,” Wedge finally said.

Bodhi coughed, rum burning up his throat. “You named a squadron Bodhi?” - Still makes me laugh. 

Wedge looked alarmed. “No!”

“Rook?”

“No! But...that’s not a bad name... (It really isn’t. Rook Squadron sounds badass) no, it’s much worse.”

“I...really can’t think of anything worse than there being a Bodhi squadron. Wedge. Please. It’s nearly midnight. I am exhausted. I was in bed before you got here. Please, for the love of mercy, put me out of my misery. Why are you here?.”

“Rogue,” Wedge said quietly, looking miserable. “There’s going to be a Rogue squadron.” - I like how this back and forth flows. Dialogue is one of my strengths, I think, and it’s a joy when I can push two characters off of each other. 

The unique stink of the atmosphere ionizing, The sick green glow that whites out skin. The feeling of being translucent, of being burned away. The way the sky kicked and rolled in response to the concentrated power being poured into it. The…

Bodhi looked down at his bottle, more than willing to finish the whole thing rather than be left with his memories. His hand shook as he reached for the lid, carefully screwing the cap back on and setting it down on the desk. Quiet moment, right here, that I’m not certain how many people caught it. But this character beat is important to me, Bodhi aware that if he takes too much relief in a bottle of booze, it’s going to go poorly for him in the long run. Still. He’s tempted.  After a long moment of staring at the bottle, he got up, grabbed the bottle, and tucked it back in his shirt drawer. So tempted he removes the bottle from view. 

As he pushed the drawer closed, he heard from his bed a quiet, “Yeah. Knew I fucked that one up.” - And here’s Wedge, in tune enough with what’s going on that Bodhi doesn’t need to say a thing. This is the start of why they work together. They get each other’s baggage.

Bodhi took a shaky breath. “Rogue is just a word,” he said, not turning around. “I don't own it.”

“Bullshit.” Bodhi's mattress creaked as the pilot shifted. “It's a legacy. Your legacy. And it’s going to be staring you in the face now because I couldn't keep my fool mouth shut when the new squad got tipsy together and started brainstorming.”

Bodhi shook his head, put a small, false smile on his face before he turned around. “It’s fine. Flattering, even.”

The expression on Wedge's face indicated that Bodhi's false smile had been noticed. “No, it's not okay. It's one thing if you're dead. Appropriate. Honoring. Not if you're alive, and stuck hearing about it.” - So, initially, the fic was going to be “Ah, I named it Rogue Squadron and you’re not even in Rogue Squadron. That was rude of me.” But I got to thinking about it and...well, the fic says it next, but basically, I realized that with what Wedge had seen and what Bodhi had been through, the name carried a lot more weight than just the fact that Wedge stole it out from Bodhi.

“Well, I hope you're not planning on offing me to even out the score.” Bodhi said, edges of a real grin sneaking out the corners of his false smile. Wedge looked genuinely alarmed at the prospect. Bodhi couldn’t help but laugh a little at his face. “Seriously, Wedge, your drunk brain is just blowing this out of proportion.”

“No. I made a mistake. And I can't fix it. But I had to tell you.” There was an odd tone to his voice. Pleading. For what, Bodhi wasn't certain. Absolution, maybe. - Drunk logic masking real emotions. If I’m not careful that’s going to be another recurring theme of mine. 

Bodhi was tired from a hard day and shaky from hard memories, but he found he still had some kindness left in him. - I cheated and added this one in there, because it’s one of my favorite characterization beats in the whole fic. Tired, burned out, but still compassionate enough to make a connection. 

 I can see why you chose this bit! It’s a nice mix of the humor and angst. It’s really the first section where you see why Wedge and Bodhi might work well together. 

Do you ever sit there and get emotions that Wedge went up to fly in the Death Star and he’s the only person who came back. Okay, sure, there was Evaan in the Y-Wing, and the farmboy who rolled up two days ago, and the smuggler who came in out of nowhere...And he came back because he bailed out early. EMOTIONS. And I just...constantly exist in a state of Emotions about Bodhi Rook, so really it was inevitable that I write this. 

#text #tw alcohol #Beg Your Pardon #Fic Talk #ask prompt #wedge antilles #bodhi rook