i was tagged by @sleepswithvillains, thanks!
got some Art today :eyes: these are part of a bigger project that i just gotta make time for.
i was tagged by @sleepswithvillains, thanks!
got some Art today :eyes: these are part of a bigger project that i just gotta make time for.
Some bug themed adopts soon!
i was tagged by @fru1tb4tz and @veeples ty!!!!
i dont have much bc i was super lazy about drawing this weekend fjsdnfsjdnf. Some nate/nat and a pride wip that looks like nothing so far and some misc warcraft oc stuff
not gonna tag anyone bc its super late and i know a lot of you are working on wayhaven summer stuff!!
tagged by (and tagging back!) the wonderful @tuagonia and @antigonick !
have another mason/olivia snippet that will likely never amount to anything. gotta love hot and sticky summer weather... a little spicy, rated M for mature.
Mason’s hands are up her shirt, his thigh pressed firmly between her legs as his mouth works at her throat, worrying at the mark he'd left there this morning, when they're interrupted.
She doesn't notice immediately. In her defense, she is rather preoccupied, her pulse a muted roar in her ears, throbbing with her heartbeat. She's hot, and under his hands, her skin feels like it's burning, slick and tacky beneath her tank top, the sultry humid air sitting thickly in her lungs.
The air presses hot and close in anticipation of a summer storm, one of many they'd encountered while on the East Coast, the tension sparking in the air, almost electric.
Mason had followed her into the room, a warm palm finding her hip as the other had wrapped around the nape of her neck, tilting her head back into a deep kiss.
It wasn’t long before she’d found herself with her back against the wall of the ensuite, the thick muscle of Mason’s thigh pressing close and tight against her as his mouth and hands worked in tandem, set on taking her apart.
It had taken her a moment to recognise the delicate sound of a throat being cleared.
She tenses, eyes flying open- but she can't see the door from this angle, not with the way Mason mouths at the hinge of her jaw.
He doesn't make to move, clearly unbothered by the intrusion, his hands possessive as they stroke down her sides, settling on her hips.
"Should have knocked." His thumbs trail over her skin, the warm and firm as he presses them against her hip bones. Her shirt is still rucked up above her stomach; his is abandoned somewhere on the floor behind them, quickly lost in the fumble of movement between the door and the rest of the suite.
tagging - you, reading this!
and some wonderful writers from my dash (no pressure!): @tinyuselessmagics @rhetoricalrogue @nagia-pronounced-neijia @carry-the-sky @devilbunnyking @roguelioness @writer-ish @marshalortega @edourado @sothischickshe @queensofthekastle @bearlytolerant @takemyopenheart
And another chapter finished. If I complete one more chapter of anything, then I’ll be officially through August of 2022 for my WIP Wednesday project.
My stars, when I came up with the idea of WIP Wednesdays for posting, I really had no idea that I would have as many things to post as I apparently do. And I can’t even say that it’s all old stuff I had sitting around, because at least 1/4 of it is YOI fic and I only discovered that fandom within the past year.
(Again, sorry for the delay - finals week, y’all saw the last post probably xD You know how it is.)
I was tagged by @sleepswithvillains, thank you so much! No-pressure tags: @tishinada, @vespertine-legacy, and anyone else who wants to!
Not precisely fanfiction, but have a snippet of the next of the Togruta moon gods’ worldbuilding - she should actually have her full writeup ready to post very soon! :3
Sadravan is one of the six moon gods of the Togruta, and is a god of peace, serenity, winter, and motherhood. She is the one god most often called mate to Tsaal, and though she may take other mates and lovers in several myths, she and Tsaal are always loyal to each other – to the point that some texts translating Togruta myths mistranslate him as being her husband (not a completely inaccurate translation, but not a completely faithful one either). She is often called on to calm the sun god in the myths wherein he becomes enraged and burns the land, cooling his temper and the world alike. Because of this association with peace and serenity, she is considered a god of peace, though in a different way from Shaluu – Sadravan is personal, inner peace, where Shaluu is peace between peoples.
Tagged by @antigonick, for thinking of me! :D
Tagging @bearlytolerant, @ellstersmash, @gingerbreton, @pchberrytea, @lykegenia @ anyone else who wants to play! (if y’all wanna play, no pressure!)
My mind is currently mired in the FHR gutter and yesterday brain was like DO THE CHARGENTSTEP so... here’s a little bit from that I guess lol. More undressing under the cut, not hitting the real spicy bits yet.
Argent pulls you in for a kiss far too hungry for the amount of food she just packed away, her hands sliding along your face to steal the sunglasses perched on your head. As she sets them aside on the bedside stand, Ortega steals his own kiss, quick nimble fingers undoing and peeling off your jacket.
It’s become a game for them, a tug-of-war with you caught in the middle as they compete for the most articles of clothing. They both know the secrets etched into your skin, but old habits die hard and you can't trust the rest of the world.
Still, the layers keep the game interesting. You don’t bother keeping tally, you’re too busy helping them shed their own as they come in for yours. Somehow you still have more to go by the time they’re out of theirs, Argent’s pastel sundress and Ortega’s expensive sweats tossed haphazardly aside.
Arms freed of your undershirt, your fingers track through Argent’s hair, slide down her back. She shivers despite the skinsuit still clinging to her body. She’s still unsure if she can maintain control with that much direct stimulation all over. It’s not something any of you are particularly keen to test without her confidence in it. Only her hands, feet, and head are exposed. She’s there to love and be loved. To touch, but not necessarily be touched.
It’s fine. You all have your weird hang ups and boundaries. Navigating them to everyone’s satisfaction is half the fun. None of you are particularly concerned with fair play anyway.
Ortega is touchy enough for all three of you. He draws you back to him, hands sneaking under your bra to peel it off. His fingers trace the scars you received from the Re-Gene when you stole the Rat King out from under the Psychopathor’s nose. You see the question he’s so far resisted asking in his eyes, you were never injured there when you were Sidestep. Some secrets still need to remain that way.
so if anyone still remembers Tactical Magic, YES I am still working on it and planning to update and finish it. The outline is done, the next few chapters are mostly done, and I’ll start posting again once I’m at a point where I can commit to a schedule and actually stick to it. Hopefully soon.
But, it’s now going to be more than the 5 chapters I initially planned, and given my inability to keep things short it’s entirely possible that it’ll end up growing even more before I’m done with it. Also, the rating was T but is now definitely going to change to M - for a few reasons, not just the fun one. Hey, he’s a demon, it can’t all be fun and games...
With all that in mind, here’s a sneak peek of chapter 2:
* * *
It was supposed to be one kiss. Just one, to sate her curiosity, to put the tension to rest.
She should have known better.
Killian’s eyes were closed, long dark eyelashes fluttering over high cheekbones, and he looked almost lost, like he’d forgotten where he was and what he was doing.
Emma had kissed people before. None of them had ever looked like that afterwards.
“That was—” he started. His voice was low and husky, barely above a whisper.
“For luck,” she repeated, but she was swaying back into his space and her hands were still curled into his collar and it would be so easy to kiss him again...
He opened his eyes just enough to look at her, blue piercing out between inky black. “Apologies, love, I’m—” He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, blew it back out. He looked he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.
She had put that look on his face. His hand was still in her hair, knuckles caressing the side of her neck. The way he was looking at her, touching her... it felt almost reverent.
She was in so much trouble.
“We should, uh.” She had to clear her throat. “This focus thing?”
Killian took another deep breath, and nodded, straightening away from her and withdrawing his hand. His touch seemed to linger, but she missed it immediately all the same. “Aye.”
He looked down at her hand, and she remembered that she was still holding the pendant. She’d forgotten all about it, preoccupied with the way he felt against her.
Killian flashed a slightly sheepish smile. “You’ll have to give me a moment to get my bearings.”
He wasn’t even trying to deny that she had affected him. That was hot as hell in its own way.
“Sure,” she said, and then, because fair was fair, “Me too.”
He grinned at her, looking... well, fond, even though that was a dangerous sort of word to think. Demons weren’t supposed to be fond. Neither were men, generally, at least in Emma’s experience. Not in a way that meant anything. Not in a way that lasted.
Her father had been—was, she corrected herself fiercely—an exception. Maybe Killian was, too.
Another dangerous thought.
When he placed his palm over hers again, she could feel the warmth of it even though they weren’t touching, and it took some effort not to get distracted again. “So how does this work?”
“Just relax,” he said. “Try and open your aura a little. Don’t shut me out.”
Her first instinct was to refuse and insist that they try again later. If she relaxed her aura now, he’d catch at least a little of how she was feeling.
But to her own surprise, the instinct faded immediately. It didn’t matter. He already knew anyway, and he wouldn’t take advantage of it.
She watched as he concentrated, brow furrowing slightly, eyes fluttering closed. The pendant in her hand grew warm and began to glow red. She could feel his magic coiling into it, brushing against hers at the edges. Touching, but not pushing.
His power felt... hungry. Darker and wilder than what she was used to. She wasn’t sure that she liked it. Or that she’d be able to control it.
But she needed it, she reminded herself. She couldn’t beat Zelena on her own, and she had to. She was the only one who knew what the other witch was doing, the only one who could stop her.
“There,” Killian muttered after another moment. “That ought to do it.”
He withdrew his hand. Emma’s felt colder at once, the pendant heavy where it rested in her palm. “Okay, now what?”
“Now...” He took the necklace and looped it over her head. “You should be able to call upon my power by focusing on this.”
Emma shook her hair out from under the chain and took hold of the pendant. She could feel the magic in it at once, like waves lapping at the shore. Deceptively gentle waves that, if she let them, would surge and wash away everything in their path. “Yeah,” she said, a little in awe and a little afraid. “I think I got it.”
@bigcheezey tagged me for wip wednesday so have a zoomed in zevran i've been working on!!
tagging anyone who wants to join!! all my artist and writer mutuals consider urself tagged <3
I was tagged by the lovely @rosenkow for WIP Wednesday. I know it's Thursday now, but that's okay. I haven't really written anything in a while other than trying to complete the exchange for Sunday. But I do have something that came to mind after having a discussion with some other people about the Project Ovelord and wrote a really rough draft.
He storms into his office, like a man on a mission, and settles into his chair before accepting the call and activating the terminal. He watches Shepard on the other side for a moment. The man seems on edge, pacing around his quarters. Definitely on edge. Rarely has Anderson ever seen John paced the way he was now. Something was crawling under the man's skin.
"Shepard? What can I do for you, son?"
Shepard doesn't look at the terminal, he still paces up and down. Anderson catches a reflection of some sort in the younger man's hand. A glass. Whiskey. Damn how deep in the drinks he is?
"Sorry sir, I didn't know who to call. I just came back from seeing some vile." John almost spits the word out, clearly disgusted about something.
"John, take a seat you're making me seasick and I'm not even on the ship."
John pauses mid stride before he finally turns to face the terminal. Anderson noticed a coldness in his eyes. A coldness he's never seen before. The younger man finally pulls his chair from under his desk and takes a seat, downing the contents of his glass and pouring himself another drink before spilling what's on his mind.
Tagging: @bardofheartdive, @illusivesoul, @shifty-looking-sheep, @staff-lieutenant-alenko, and anyone else who wants to participate, no obligations of course.
I was tagged by @marypsue for this, so here's about 500 of the most recent words in the project I'm working on and also recently getting bogged down in! I am very much in the stage of struggling to just make it EXIST so I can do something with it. Not tagging anyone because it is indeed no longer WIP Wednesday...
Sandy imagined someone making the decision to order such shelves. They would have to have been someone fairly high up in the Retirement Department to make requisitions for furniture. And they had decided that the no doubt sturdy and well-made shelves allowed for such an archive would not do. That they would order shelves like these, shelves that looked like they should be holding the volumes of a wealthy donor’s favorite subject at a private university library. That they would be willing to explain themselves if they were questioned by those who finally approved such orders. Moon and Bloom approved of luxury. But this didn’t seem like luxury. It seemed like honor.
“It’s very well maintained,” Sandy said. They kept their voice low. The room seemed to demand it.
“Retirement does a lot of the work ourselves,” Timoth said.
But I bet there’s no time code for it, Sandy thought. “Please take me to the Pitch section—if they’re organized that way.”
Timoth nodded. “Type of construct, then order number for the construct. When the retirement process goes as planned, the statements will also be in sequence of the date of the construct’s decanting. There are occasional irregularities, however, so we also include the dates of decanting and retirement on each archival box. Follow me,” they said again.
Sandy did, and Timoth led them deeper into the shelves. Sandy had started to look at the archival boxes themselves, not just the beautiful shelves, and felt chills climbing their spine as they realized that the boxes weren’t uniform. They were all dark gray, and the edges facing the aisles were plain, holding only cards with the identification information Timoth had mentioned. But Sandy could see that some of them were decorated on the sides of the boxes that wouldn’t be seen until someone took them off the shelf. All they could see now were slight bleed-overs of colors and lines from the hidden sides, but the fact that there was anything to see was astounding enough. It obviously wasn’t standard archival practice. It raised questions. Yet it had been done anyway. And by whom? The only options were Retirement employees or constructs, and both options had the kind of implications for Moon and Bloom’s company line that it seemed overwhelmingly risky that any stray line was allowed to show.
Becoming ever more tangled in their thoughts, Sandy almost bumped into Timoth when they stopped in the middle of one of the aisles. Timoth turned to face them, and fixed them with a look far more direct than any of their previous ones. “I know this archive looks very well-funded, but it does have its problems. Some of our security cameras are broken, and it always takes a very long time to get them fixed. For example, right now, we’re standing in a spot that isn’t monitored at all, unless you have some kind of recorder with you.”
So it would just be word against word if they said things that weren’t in alignment with Moon and Bloom and then decided to report the other for it. Timoth had taken them to this spot to give them a chance to be honest, and Sandy suspected that the quality of Timoth’s help as the rest of this archive visit continued would depend heavily on their conversation now.
“All right,” they said. “I have no recorder. I like being able to leave it behind when my contract allows me to.”
I was tagged by @rosenkow - thank you for thinking of me, my friend!
I'm putting out an open invitation to anyone who would like to participate! Just please tag me back so I can see what fabulously creative things are going on!
So, let me see... I've got a new snippet of Becca's drabbles that I can share for this. (Becca Shepard is the biotic older sister of Spectre Anna Shepard who attended BAaT with Kaidan Alenko and is reunited with him during the events of ME1)
Setting: 2183, post-Virmire
Becca exits the combat simulator with irritation marking every step. Yanking her helmet from her head, she glares over at Lieutenant Winslow. Without raising her voice, she makes her displeasure obvious. “You expect me to believe that is the best the Alliance is turning out these days? A drunken hanar could take them down with its breath alone!” The lieutenant straightens to attention as do the three others that make up his squad. Glancing around the lobby, she waves Bryant over. “I want you to take the lieutenant and his squad back in there and show them how it’s done, Bryant. Understand?”
Bryant grins and nods. This isn't the first time he's taken on this role. “Got it, commander!”
As he leads them away, movement to Becca’s left catches her attention. To her surprise, it's Ahern, but that is a double edged sword and she can't hide a wince, especially since she's known for hlding her temper in check far better than this. “Sir.”
He makes no comment, good or bad, and a ripple of unease flutters beneath her skin. She also notices an unusual tightness at the corner of his eyes and lips as their eyes meet. Handing over a datapad, he tells her in a voice meant only for her ears, “You need to see this.”
Frowning, Becca drops her gaze to the pad and starts to read. The flutter takes on tsunami proportions no more than five words in.
“Sergeant Dahga is making a run to the Citadel for supplies,” Ahern explains. “I suggest you pack a bag and be on that ship in the next fifteen minutes.”
She doesn't wait for him to dismiss her, heading in the direction of her quarters. She takes five minutes to strip and shower, washing away sweat that has nothing to do with the combat simulator activities. By ten minutes, she's dressed and shoving clothing into her backpack. She's out the door at thirteen and makes it to the docking area by fourteen to find Dahga waiting on her. They board immediately. Becca spends the journey assisting as she can, thankful for the distraction it provides. Once they arrive at the Citadel, she leaves Dahga with a wave and catches the first skycab she can find.
Huerta Memorial Hospital is as large and imposing as most hospitals. Becca has never been here before, but hurrying inside, she gets directions and within minutes she reaches the room... and hesitates at the doorway, eyes locked to the motionless form lying in the bed and hooked up to numerous machines.
She is oblivious to guarded looks of concern tossed her way by the staff or the security guard who approaches. She simply flashes her Alliance ID and they leave her alone. Either they recognize her name, or they think she is her sister, or something, because it silences any doubt about her presence.
Yet, she cannot force herself to move inside the critical care room.
“Commander Rebecca Shepard?”
Becca's voice is a croak when she replies. “Yes.”
“I am Dr. Salryis Daor.” Becca pulls her gaze to glance over at the asari in a doctor’s uniform approaching her. “Commander, Lieutenant Alenko’s injuries are severe, but barring any unforeseen issues, he should make a full recovery.”...
From In Bloom:
Then the moaning started.
Too soft for a howl, too urgent to be weeping. It was more like a song. An aria composed of a lungful of air and three or four notes. Ezra would choke and sob between stanzas, then draw a breath and start moaning again. It was beautiful and dark, full of primitive need.
Ahhh aaauuuhhh-aaa haaah
Unhhh haaa-ahhh auuuh
It echoed off the metal walls of the ship and sank into the marrow of Kanan’s bones. He lay in his bunk and trembled. He ground his erection into the mattress without relief. Every cell in his body vibrated. All he could think about was getting to the source of that sound and silencing it. Soothing it. Pouring himself into it and changing its tune to one of pleasure. It was the strongest instinct in the universe, the instinct to copulate, perpetuate, survive. And Kanan was losing the battle.
got tagged by @bitchesofostwick for a wip wednesday thursday so!! have a sneak peek from my Penny/Qadir fic that’s in the works~
Going through the process of getting her rental is a hassle and a half, much the same as she remembered it from the few times she’d seen Ilya or her mother rent a car (she’d never gotten to be old enough to do it herself). The clerk behind the desk doesn’t want to be there, and they seem to be barely paying attention to her—which is fair given that it’s nearly three in the morning—but the whole exchange is annoying at best. A good twenty minutes have passed by the time she’s finally making her way through the half empty car lot, and it’s put her in a bit of a sour mood.
Moonlight’s burning, she thinks, fumbling with her bag as she shoves her credentials back into it. The only sound that she can hear in the empty lot are the sounds of the city—car horns, sirens, distant music—and the click click click of her heels on the asphalt.
The lot is big enough and quiet enough to make her feel small in a way she hasn’t in a while. Her own shadow stretches to one side, growing as she walks further away from the bright streetlights. The clerk sure had given her the farthest possible car, and the lights in the back of the lot flicker ominously. As she gets closer, the incessant buzzing of the lamp overhead makes her ears start to ring, and she’s quickly losing patience with this whole night.
She reaches the car finally, and finds that it’s directly under one of the streetlights that’s gone out completely.
Of course. Why wouldn’t it be out completely?
Something in her stomach twists uncomfortably as she eyes the shadows around her rental car, waiting to catch movement in one of them.
Realistically, she knows that she’s functionally immortal, and if someone wanted to attack her now she would just have herself a midnight snack and be on her merry way—but the paranoia that had been ingrained into her from birth is a hard habit to break. It sits in her gut like a stone, muscles in her chest tightening, every part of her body ready to pounce at the slightest provocation. She unlocks the door and pops the trunk for her baggage, but she can’t shake the strange feeling of being watched as she throws her bags in. The Beast is alert just beneath her ribs, metaphorical ears pricked to catch even the slightest movement of an attacker.
God, she hopes she doesn’t have to have a Masquerade violation on the very first night she’s in the city.
That thought sits on her mind like mud, sinking into the crevices as she peeks into the rental through the windows, checking the floorboards for any signs of an intruder. When she can find nothing, she lets out a quiet sigh, shaking her head in an attempt to shake off the strange jitters prickling along her skin. It’s like static in the air, the feeling of something lurking just out of sight, and she’s eager to get on her way before she finds out what it is.
The only thing that keeps Penny from screaming is the knowledge that she, as a Kindred, is probably more powerful than whoever said that.
She doesn’t look at whoever it is, quite pointedly refusing to acknowledge the stranger in order to keep them from getting any wrong ideas as she chirps a simple, “Just leaving!” as she opens her car door. She slides into the driver’s seat as fast as she can and goes to slam the door shut—
—but she isn’t fast enough.
A large, strong hand catches her door before she can pull it closed. Even with her supernatural strength, she can’t seem to yank it free.
With nothing else left to do but look at who has accosted her tonight, she looks upward and finds…
…a very tall, very handsome man staring down at her.
He’s got his hand braced firmly on her door, with the other propped up on the roof of the car. His body blocks her from escaping without having to put herself between his arms. As he leans down just slightly to get a better look at her, some of his long, dark hair falls over one shoulder, framing his face in the dim lighting. His eyes catch some of the distant fluorescence coming from the nearest street light, glinting golden in the dark, and she realizes quite suddenly—judging from the sickly pallor of his brown skin, the gauntness of his cheeks—that this must be another Kindred.
And a high-up one at that, if his perfectly tailored Armani suit means anything.
Her eyes drop to his mouth, tracing the shadow of his beard to keep her nerves from buckling under the pressure of his aura that seems to be growing by the moment.
“…I didn’t feed here,” she says softly. The words feel like cotton in her mouth. “My flight just got in about an hour ago. I was just on my way home.”
The stranger just snorts, shocking her a little as she watches the stoic mask on his face twist, and a predatory smirk takes its place. She catches a flash of sharp, white canines as he grins at her.
“I know that,” he says simply.
…okay? What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?
She blinks at him.
“What do you want?”
“I’m here to pick you up,” he says, still grinning. It’s not flirtatious, nor does he look like he’s going to eat her on the spot—it’s just… matter of fact. Direct. To the point. He almost sounds bored.
“I… just rented this car,” she says, unsure of herself. “Like, thanks, but I don’t need a ride?”
He sighs, chuckling and dropping his head. The movement sends more of his hair tumbling over his shoulders, and it frames his face beautifully when he raises his head to look at her again.
“That wasn’t an offer, Miss Fisher.” Her dead heart stutters once at the sound of her name, and she feels like someone has dumped a bucket of ice water over her head. How does he know her by name? “You’re going to take a ride with me, unless you want to do this the hard way. Which,” his smirk deepens as he looks over the car towards the rest of the lot, “is up to you. I can do either.”
thanks for tagging me @impossible-rat-babies and @mournholdmushroom !! i’m still (slowly) getting through prompts in my inbox from the last round, so i have a teeny bit of fenhawke for this week. tagging @captastra @galpalaven @kirkwallgremlin @vakarians-girl @isavhen @bluhawke
“Oh Maker,” Aurelia mutters under her breath, again and again and again as she paces the ground before him, “oh Maker, oh Maker.”
“Don’t roll your eyes like that! This is serious!”
He shrugs--or at least, makes as much of a shrugging motion as he can with his hands clutched just below his knee, cutting off his blood circulation until his shin and foot are numb. “It is serious, Hawke,” he agrees, “though your incessant empty prayers are not doing much to—ah—” He winces. “--to help at the moment.”
“What should I do? What do you want me to do? I can--oh Maker, I should’ve listened when Anders showed me how to patch up an injury that day on the Wounded Coast when I accidentally stabbed Bela while learning to throw knives, but I wasn’t listening, I was too busy getting Shadow to chase his tail to cheer her up and—
“--and if I’d only paid attention I could just—”
“--would be even better if he was just here himself but of course—”
Thank you for the tag @impossible-rat-babies 💗
Tagging my beloveds @bitchesofostwick @kirkwallgremlin @vakarians-girl
I literally just updated my fic so i have no writing but i DO have a wip of my ESO dunmer that im doing for pride month 🙈