I'll make your cock hard and your pussy wet | erotica and erp commissions.
Brazilian based with a GMT-3 time zone, I'm an expert erotica writer with focus on taboo and kink writing. I'll make you cum and come back begging for more with my words and profound knowledge of the inner workings of fucking.
I don't judge 'cause judgement is for saints, I ain't one. Don't be shy and DM me. Tell me all about your dark fantasies and I'll tell you how I can make them real with my words.
Rates:
500 - 2,000 words = €25-100.
2,000 - 5,000 words = €100-250.
5,000 - 10,000 words = €250-500.
Minimum order is 500 words.
If you're looking for more the ERP is your ideal choice. Back to back messages where we give shape to your fantasies in a much intimate away. For hours at one and daily slots, where my attention belongs to you and you only.
Rates:
1 - 3 hours = €30-90.
4 - 6 hours = €120-180.
Disclaimer: Both the erotica and the RP are fictional and text-based only.
Don't lose the chance of having someone devoting themselves solely for you and DM me now to guarantee my limited slots and make me all yours.
I'm ready to give you the time of your life, are you ready to pay me for it?
Samples
Additional Notes: Those rates are for payments via Wise. For PayPal payments there's an additional fee of 4.99% + 0.49¢ for both the erotica and the RP. For SFW RP only ask for price.
Commissions Open! Click to see Tobio's commission menu.
I know most people are looking for commissioning visual arts, but, hey, give this write a chance.
I can write background for your OC, lore dive to your vtube or sonas, regular fanfic or yume/self-ship, and I also have slots open for RP sessions.
I don't judge nor I have any problems with proship or human/anthro, but I draw the line at RPF with real minors, anything else is negotiable.
No media is too obscure, and no pair is too rare.
In the case of it being a fandom and/or character I might not be familiar with, I won't charge for the research. I'll need some extra time and have some questions, through.
Writing
Wise: €20 per 1K.
PayPal or Ko-fi: €23 per 1K.
Role-playing:
SFW: €22/hr [Wise] | €25/hr [PayPal or Ko-fi].
NSFW: €30/hr [Wise] | €35/hr [PayPal or Ko-fi].
I will not, under any circumstances, send any pictures, videos or audios of myself. Both the writing and the RP are fictional and text-based only. I am writer, nothing more.
Commissions Open! Click to see Tobio's commission menu.
I know most people are looking for commissioning visual arts, but, hey, give this write a chance.
I can write background for your OC, lore dive to your vtube or sonas, regular fanfic or yume/self-ship, and I also have slots open for RP sessions.
I don't judge nor I have any problems with proship or human/anthro, but I draw the line at RPF with real minors, anything else is negotiable.
No media is too obscure, and no pair is too rare.
In the case of it being a fandom and/or character I might not be familiar with, I won't charge for the research. I'll need some extra time and have some questions, through.
Writing
Wise: €20 per 1K.
PayPal or Ko-fi: €23 per 1K.
Role-playing:
SFW: €22/hr [Wise] | €25/hr [PayPal or Ko-fi].
NSFW: €30/hr [Wise] | €35/hr [PayPal or Ko-fi].
I will not, under any circumstances, send any pictures, videos or audios of myself. Both the writing and the RP are fictional and text-based only. I am writer, nothing more.
Do you have a very particular idea for a RP? Something that you would really love to bring to life, but never found someone to fulfill it for you? Well, don't look anymore, for I am here!
From fluffy to domestic to a day out in the park or even from whump to hurt/comfort or hurt/no comfort.
Cuckold/hotwife; monsterfuckers or furries; voyeurism; harem etc.
OCs, self-insert, comfort characters, yumeships etc.
No kink is too kink, no weird is too weird. Anything short of minor/adult. You pay, I do.
One on One [1 x 1] sessions.
Multiple characters (within reason).
In case of it being a fandom and/or characters I'm not familiar with, I'll not charge extra for additional research. I'll have some questions, though.
Rate and Payment
SFW: €22/hr [Wise] | €25/hr [PayPal or Ko-fi].
NSFW: €30/hr [Wise] | €35/hr [PayPal or Ko-fi].
Both Ko-fi and PayPal has higher fees then Wise and they eat too much money with each transaction for me to keep the same price.
Contact
× DM.
Disclaimer: The RP is fictional and text-oriented only; thus, there will not be any pictures, videos or audios of myself included in any of it.
Commissions Open! Click to see Tobio's commission menu.
Commission-based stories and RP sessions | SFW and NSFW.
Do you have an idea for a story that you would really love to bring to life, but never found the time for writing or someone to fulfil it for you? Well, don’t worry any more, for I am here!
No media is too obscure, and no pair is too rare.
You pay, I write.
From fluffy to domestic to a day out in the park or even from whump to hurt/comfort or hurt/no comfort.
Cuckold/hotwife; NTR; monsters or furries; voyeurism; harem etc.
OCs, self-indulgent, comfort characters, OTPs, yumeships etc.
In case of it being a fandom and/or characters I'm not familiar with, I'll not charge extra for additional research. I'll have some questions, though.
Rate and Payment
Both Ko-fi and PayPal has higher fees then Wise and they eat too much money with each transaction for me to keep the same price.
Writing:
Wise: €20 per 1K.
PayPal or Ko-fi: €23 per 1K.
Role-playing:
SFW: €22/hr [Wise] | €25/hr [PayPal or Ko-fi].
NSFW: €30/hr [Wise] | €35/hr [PayPal or Ko-fi].
I will not, under any circumstances, send any pictures, videos or audios of myself. Both the writing and the RP are fictional and text-based only. I am writer, nothing more.
Contact
DM.
Ko-fi.
Explore my work here: writing samples | portfolio.
Commissions Open! Click to see Tobio's commission menu.
Commission-based stories and RP sessions | SFW and NSFW.
Do you have an idea for a story that you would really love to bring to life, but never found the time for writing or someone to fulfil it for you? Well, don’t worry any more, for I am here!
No media is too obscure, and no pair is too rare.
You pay, I write.
From fluffy to domestic to a day out in the park or even from whump to hurt/comfort or hurt/no comfort.
Cuckold/hotwife; NTR; monsters or furries; voyeurism; harem etc.
OCs, self-indulgent, comfort characters, OTPs, yumeships etc.
In case of it being a fandom and/or characters I'm not familiar with, I'll not charge extra for additional research. I'll have some questions, though.
Rate and Payment
Both Ko-fi and PayPal has higher fees then Wise and they eat too much money with each transaction for me to keep the same price.
Writing:
Wise: €20 per 1K.
PayPal or Ko-fi: €23 per 1K.
Role-playing:
SFW: €22/hr [Wise] | €25/hr [PayPal or Ko-fi].
NSFW: €30/hr [Wise] | €35/hr [PayPal or Ko-fi].
I will not, under any circumstances, send any pictures, videos or audios of myself. Both the writing and the RP are fictional and text-based only. I am writer, nothing more.
Contact
DM.
Ko-fi.
Explore my work here: writing samples | portfolio.
Commissions Open! Click to see Tobio's commission menu.
Do you have an idea for a story that you would really love to bring to life, but never found the time for writing or someone to fulfil it for you? Well, don’t worry any more, for I am here!
I have been a fanfic writer for almost a decade, and started working on commissioned work four years ago.
No kink is too kinky, no media is too obscure, no pair is too rare, and no weird is too weird.
You pay, I write.
From fluffy to domestic to a day out in the park or even from whump to hurt/comfort or hurt/no comfort.
Cuckold/hotwife; NTR; monsters or furries; voyeurism; harem etc.
OCs, self-indulgent, comfort characters, OTPs, yumeships etc.
In case of it being a fandom and/or characters I'm not familiar with, I'll not charge extra for additional research. I'll have some questions, though.
Rate and Payment:
Wise: €20 per 1K.
Ko-fi or PayPal: €23 per 1K.
Both Ko-fi and PayPal has higher fees then Wise and they eat too much money with each transaction for me to keep the same price.
Contact:
DM.
Ko-fi.
Explore some of my portfolio here: writing samples.
Do you like RP? Check my post about customised RP sessions here: commission-based roleplay.
Commissions Open! Click to see Tobio's commission menu.
Do you have an idea for a story that you would really love to bring to life, but never found the time for writing or someone to fulfil it for you? Well, don’t worry any more, for I am here!
I have been a fanfic writer for almost a decade, and started working on commissioned work four years ago.
No kink is too kinky, no media is too obscure, no pair is too rare, and no weird is too weird.
You pay, I write.
From fluffy to domestic to a day out in the park or even from whump to hurt/comfort or hurt/no comfort.
Cuckold/hotwife; NTR; monsters or furries; voyeurism; harem etc.
OCs, self-indulgent, comfort characters, OTPs, yumeships etc.
In case of it being a fandom and/or characters I'm not familiar with, I'll not charge extra for additional research. I'll have some questions, though.
Rate and Payment:
Wise: €20 per 1K.
Ko-fi or PayPal: €23 per 1K.
Both Ko-fi and PayPal has higher fees then Wise and they eat too much money with each transaction for me to keep the same price.
Contact:
DM.
Ko-fi.
Explore some of my portfolio here: writing samples.
Do you like RP? Check my post about customised RP sessions here: commission-based roleplay.
Do you have a very particular idea for a RP? Something that you would really love to bring to life, but never found someone to fulfill it for you? Well, don't look anymore, for I am here!
From fluffy to domestic to a day out in the park or even from whump to hurt/comfort or hurt/no comfort.
Cuckold/hotwife; monsterfuckers or furries; voyeurism; harem etc.
OCs, self-insert, comfort characters, yumeships etc.
No kink is too kink, no weird is too weird. Anything short of minor/adult. You pay, I do.
One on One [1 x 1] sessions.
Multiple characters (within reason).
In case of it being a fandom and/or characters I'm not familiar with, I'll not charge extra for additional research. I'll have some questions, though.
Rate and Payment
SFW: €22/hr [Wise] | €25/hr [PayPal or Ko-fi].
NSFW: €30/hr [Wise] | €35/hr [PayPal or Ko-fi].
Both Ko-fi and PayPal has higher fees then Wise and they eat too much money with each transaction for me to keep the same price.
Contact
× DM.
Disclaimer: The RP is fictional and text-oriented only; thus, there will not be any pictures, videos or audios of myself included in any of it.
Commissions Open! Click to see Tobio's commission menu.
Do you have an idea for a story that you would really love to bring to life, but never found the time for writing or someone to fulfil it for you? Well, don’t worry any more, for I am here!
I have been a fanfic writer for almost a decade, and started working on commissioned work about two to three years ago.
No kink is too kinky, and no weird is too weird. No media is too obscure, and no pair is too rare.
You pay, I write.
From fluffy to domestic to a day out in the park or even from whump to hurt/comfort or hurt/no comfort.
Cuckold/hotwife; NTR; monsters or furries; voyeurism; harem etc.
OCs, self-indulgent, comfort characters, OTPs, yumeships etc.
In case of it being a fandom and/or characters I'm not familiar with, I'll not charge extra for additional research. I'll have some questions, though.
Rate and Payment:
Wise: €20 per 1K.
Ko-fi or PayPal: €23 per 1K.
Both Ko-fi and PayPal has a higher fees then Wise and they eat too much money with each transaction for me to keep the same price. Please, understand I'm not trying ripping anyone off, but they certainly are.
Contact:
DM.
Ko-fi.
Explore some of my [paid] work here: writing samples | portfolio.
Do you like RP? Well, I also offer customised RP sessions. Check it out here: commission-based roleplay.
I have been a fanfic writer for almost a decade, and started working on commissioned work about two to three years ago. Although my professional work is not as extensive as my personal work, the years I’ve spent as a fanfic writer have been instrumental in my development and improvement as a writer.
Writing Services
SFW narrative fiction: from fluffy to domestic to a day out in the park or even from whump to hurt/comfort or hurt/no comfort, I can do it.
NSFW narrative fiction: cuckold/hotwife; incest and pseudocest; cheating/affairs; monsterfuckers or furries; public sex; voyeurism, etc. From a nice and savoury kink to a deep and dark fantasy, everything short of minor/adult, I can do it.
Fanfiction: OCs, self-insert, comfort characters, rare pairs, incredible popular pairs, CLIF (Characters I'd Like To Fuck), etc. The sky is the limit.
In case of it being a fandom and/or characters I'm not familiar with, I'll not charge extra for additional research. I'll have some questions, though.
Rate
My rate is $20 per thousand words.
Preferred Payment Method
Wise.
Payoneer.
PayPal.
Ko-fi.
Contact
DM.
Explore some of my work here: writing samples | portfolio.
Commission.
Title: Forgive me, Father.
Word count: 2326.
Ratings: Explicit.
Relationship: Corto Maltese/Rasputin
Request: Corto gives Father Rasputin a blow job.
Warnings: praise kink, priest kink, catholic imaginary, religion, heresy, semi-public sex, oral sex, plot what plot/porn without plot, porn with feelings.
Links: ao3, tips!
Commissions info here!
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Corto observes the man looking down at him from his mockery of a throne, pursing his thin lips in a lascivious smile, eating him with his eyes and pleasing himself in the image of Corto on his knees by his feet.
“It has been too long since my last confession.” That is a lie, and the smirk on the priest's face tells he knows that much. Never before in his life has Corto ever confessed. He doesn't believe in God enough for that.
“I have never been one for religion.” Still on his knees, the sailor leans forward, pressing his hand against the thief's chest and pushing him further against the chair. Taking advantage of the five centimetres of height difference between them, Corto towers over Rasputin. “I never thought there was much in it for me.” With a mischievous smile on his lips, Corto caresses the priest's torso through his clothes, cherishing the ravishing vision that the man before him is — the black cassock falls nicely on the thief, in a sinful and perfidious way that makes something buried deep inside Corto crawl and ripple and twist, screaming and begging for attention.
“Maybe I was wrong,” Corto continues with a lopsided smile. “Maybe I should have given religion a chance.” Corto slides his hands under the Father's soutane, making his way to his sensitive areas and electing a faint moan from him. It is a nice sound — small and shy and nothing like Rasputin at all. “I mean, if all the priests are like you, maybe there is something for me in it, after all.”
Bending over, Corto kisses the Russian's exposed neck. His skin tastes salty, and he smells of cigarette ash, cheap wine and wood polish. The sailor smiles against the thief's skin, he can see Rasputin clear as day breaking into the cupboard where the wine for Mass is kept, and taking as many bottles as he can before sneaking out to smoke and get drunk away from the prying eyes of the religious portraits scattered around the small church.
Father or not, Rasputin is still Rasputin, and that man is a bastard — Corto's bastard.
“Perhaps,” Rasputin says with a strangled breath. His vocal cords vibrate against Corto's lips. Swallowing dryly and taking a deep breath, the so-called priest digs his nails into the armrest of his pulpit chair, using all his willpower to keep his composure. Once his breathing is under control, he tries again, “Perhaps this would be easier if you told me what you've done.”
Leaning back minimally, Corto allows himself to observe the scene as a whole. Rasputin is tense and rigid with his hands clenched at his sides; his face is red, his chest rises and falls in long, deep breaths, and sweat drips down his throat, falling onto the collar of his messy, crumpled cassock.
Corto drags his fingers down Rasputin's jawline, enjoying the way the thief tenses even further under his touch. The man laughs to himself, no matter what, his dear friend will always be headstrong. Not that it matters, Corto has proven more than once that he can be as stubborn as Rasputin, if not worse.
If Rasputin wants to play hard, all Corto needs to do is play harder.
Corto meets Rasputin's gaze, a crooked smile on his face. In a deep silky voice, with lust and arousal dripping from his every word like poison, he declares, “I'm not seeking penance for what I've done, Father.”
Rasputin gulps dryly, his Adam's apple bobbing. The Russian's dark eyes shine fiercely in the pale candlelight, broadcasting his raw emotions to anyone who knows the man well enough to read them — malice, lust, desire, hunger, passion, and possession.
“I'm asking forgiveness for what I'm about to do.”
As the Angel of Death had descended to Earth once before on an Egyptian night, Corte descends on Rasputin taking what has long been rightfully marked as his. The Russian's lips are thin and parched, and his mouth has the same cigarette ash and cheap wine as his skin. Rasputin moans into Corto's mouth, losing the one-sided battle against his urges. Parting his lips, he allows Corto to fully savour his mouth. Corto lets his tongue become reacquainted with Rasputin's mouth, relearning everything that may have been forgotten during all the time the Russian was playing dead.
Once the inconvenience of needing to breathe becomes sufficiently inconvenient that neither of them can ignore it any longer, Corto pulls away, much to the annoyance of Rasputin, who whimpers at the loss of the sailor's lips.
Corto grins openly at Rasputin's indignation, savouring the way the thief's defences are falling one by one.
With a swift movement that could be considered offensive, Corto rips the priest's cassock, exposing his hairy, sweaty chest and causing a few buttons to fly away — not that any of them care.
Rasputin's chest is marred by scars, small and large, conspicuous or faded, every corner of his skin is marked by a memento of an encounter gone wrong, a lie that has been caught, or a friend turned foe. Every scar is a reminder that not even the thief of thieves can go through life without bearing the consequences of his actions. They are also a testament to the fact that Rasputin survived, and will continue to do so.
On Rasputin's right side, just below his ribs, there is a mark larger than the others, with deformed, red skin. Corto swallows dryly at the sight of the burn that could easily be bigger than his hand. Logically, Corto knows that the possibility of Rasputin coming out unscathed from the explosion that caused his near-death was almost nil, but Corto had also spent a long time believing that Rasputin had died only to find him again in a godforsaken village in Mexico of all places, so perhaps the logical part of his brain hasn't put two and two together yet.
Rasputin stirs slightly in his chair, and Corto realizes that his staring contest with Rasputin's exposed torso is making the man uncomfortable.
With a thoroughness that doesn't quite belong to him, Corto trails his fingers along the burn scar; studying its edges, feeling the bruised skin against the calluses on his fingers. Rasputin breathed sharply, waiting for his companion's next move.
Corto kisses the scarred skin. It's a sweet, almost innocent gesture, but above all, it's a declaration of acceptance.
Rasputin is Rasputin no matter what, and Corto accepts every bit of him — stellar personality and charred skin included.
“Perhaps,” Corto starts, his voice uncharacteristically soft. Leaning back, Corto rests on his knees. From his place at the Father's feet, Rasputin looks way too big. Bigger than life and death itself. The candles’ light shines upon him, surrounding the priest with a regal aura. The thief looks almost ethereal. “I should pray to God, after all.”
“Yeah, what for?”
“To thank him, of course,” Corto continued in the same soft tone.
Thank him for this absurdity of a man, this thief that stole Corto's heart and has yet to give it back — not that Corto will ever take it back. He should say his graces for Rasputin, for this man who is half of his life, half of his soul. God, real or not, is responsible for creating this outrageous man down to his atrocious personality, kleptomaniac tendencies, pathological lies, and all the other little things that make Corto's heart beat harder. For all that, for all the little pieces that make Rasputin nothing else but Rasputin himself, God should get some prayers and even some praise, too. Because once one creates the epitome of man, a being so perfectly imperfect that he breathtakingly captures the essence of humanity, one definitely deserves some congratulations.
Rasputin is God's most grotesque creation, and Corto is very thankful for His work. And maybe someday he will say that to Rasputin's face. Not that he needs to, since the look on Rasputin's face when the gazes meet tells Corto his dear had caught the words he doesn't dare to say out loud yet.
“Well,” Rasputin begins, using the tone he adopts when speaking to parishioners — cocky and condensed. “If you really want to strengthen your ties with God, you can always start with a good relationship with His most faithful servants.”
“And that would be you, I assume?”
“Of course,” the bastard says with a smirk. “Who else but me?”
Corto laughs.
Indeed, who else but him?
“Tell me, Father, what do you have in mind?”
“I believe it was the Bible that says that to please a man of God is to please God Himself.”
“The Bible says that?”
“Of course,” Rasputin says nonchalantly. “Maybe. Probably. I never read the damn thing.”
Corto chuckles.
“Oh, Father, what would your parishioners say if they heard you talk like that?”
“I think they'd be too scandalized by what we're doing to pay attention to what I'm saying.”
“And what are we're doing, Father?”
“Sinning, of course.”
“Do you think this is a sin?”
“Tell me, pretty boy, when have we done anything other than sinning?” Rasputin caresses Corto's face. “Besides, I'm pretty sure it says somewhere that a man shouldn't lie down with another man.”
“Good thing we're not lying down, then.”
Corto grins maniacally, and Rasputin laughs loudly
“You, my dearest, are nothing but an incorrigible bastard walking down the dark path.” Rasputin pulls Corto by the collar, forcing the sailor to meet him on his level. “But fear not, Father Rasputin will make sure to wash away all your sins.”
The following kiss is initiated by Rasputin, and for once in a long time, Corto lets him have all the control. Rasputin's kisses are fierce and hungry, filled with pent-up tension mixed with passion and possession. Rasputin is taking what is rightfully his, and for a brief moment, Corto allows him to. But that is not the game they're playing, and so Corto pulls away.
“Now, Father, I believe I was the one supposed to please you.” Corto wipes the corner of Rasputin's mouth with his thumb. “This is my confession, after all.”
Pushing Rasputin against the chair once more, Corto busies himself with untying the sash that rests lazily on the Russian's waist. Swallowing hard, Corto takes a moment to bathe in the image before him.
Rasputin is hard, so fucking hard.
Corto is not a merciful man. With long, deliberate movements, he teases and arouses Rasputin, trailing a path of kisses down his inner thigh and slowly making his way to his erection.
Rasputin moans beneath him, shaking under his touch — so helpless, so defenceless, so desperate.
“God!” Rasputin screams.
“Now, Father,” Corto says against his burning skin, “you cannot say God’s name in vain.”
God's name is not the only thing Rasputin says in vain once Corto finally touches his hard erection with his mouth. Kissing the base of the so-called priest's penis, the sailor makes his way up from the base to the tip with long, deliberate licks. Rasputin's hands find their way to Corto's hair, and the thief's fingers pull it violently; his legs wrap themselves around Corto unconsciously, locking him in place and making it almost impossible to pull back — not that Corto wants to. Sliding up and down slowly, Corto uses his tongue to rub the length of Rasputin's cock, sucking hard and playing with the head of his penis. Rasputin's breath is harsh and weak, and Corto is not sure whether he can understand the things his lover is saying anymore — he is pretty sure Rasputin isn't talking in English any longer.
Never being the one to voluntarily get down on his knees, Corto can't remember the last time he's had Rasputin in his mouth, but the pleasure of having his man in his mouth, with his legs spread around him and his long, calluses fingers deep in his hair makes Corto question if he's as clever as he believes himself to be since anyone with half a brain would do anything to be in that prestigious position at any given moment.
Rasputin howls, screaming Corto's name as if it was God's. Corto takes it as the incentive to intensify the rhythm, adding his hands to mix and causing Rasputin to scream even louder. The thief's body shakes, his legs twitch, he arches his back and his breath shortens.
The Father is loud, obscene and vulgar, he says Corto's name repeatedly, along with a mix of expletives and profanities. He screams for God while begging Corto to go deeper; he asks for mercy but doesn't allow Corto to pull back. He is the one sitting on the throne, but he's actually the slave.
Corto plays with Rasputin like a tiger plays with its prey. He toys with him, bringing the thief to the edge only to stop. He tests Rasputin's limits, his patience, his wits, and, above all, his pride. Corto enjoys being a bastard and enjoys making Rasputin whimper and beg. He loves to see this insufferable man so irrefutably under his control.
Torture would be kinder.
Rasputin's cum drips down the side of Corto's mouth. Wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb, Corto licks the cum off his finger and leans back, giving Rasputin space to recover.
His hair, his beard and even his chest hair are frizzy and matted, and sweat drips down his forehead, neck and chest, making his skin glisten in an angelic way. The thief's muscles tremble with exhaustion, and his breathing is laboured and shallow. The beautiful cassock was reduced to nothing but rags.
Faced with such a magnanimous display, Corto can't help but smile proudly.
This is beautiful, Rasputin is beautiful.
Corto may not believe in Heaven, but he's sure he's never been closer to the Gates of Paradise before.
I have been a fanfic writer for almost a decade, and started working on commissioned work about two to three years ago. Although my professional work is not as extensive as my personal work, the years I’ve spent as a fanfic writer have been instrumental in my development and improvement as a writer.
Writing Services
SFW narrative fiction: from fluffy to domestic to a day out in the park or even from whump to hurt/comfort or hurt/no comfort, I can do it.
NSFW narrative fiction: cuckold/hotwife; incest and pseudocest; cheating/affairs; monsterfuckers or furries; public sex; voyeurism, etc. From a nice and savoury kink to a deep and dark fantasy, everything short of minor/adult, I can do it.
Fanfiction: OCs, self-insert, comfort characters, rare pairs, incredible popular pairs, CLIF (Characters I'd Like To Fuck), etc. The sky is the limit.
In case of it being a fandom and/or characters I'm not familiar with, I'll not charge extra for additional research. I'll have some questions, though.
Rate
My rate is $20 per thousand words.
Preferred Payment Method
Wise.
Payoneer.
PayPal.
Ko-fi.
Contact
DM.
Explore some of my work here: writing samples | portfolio.
Fanfiction
Title: Running Up The Hill.
Words: 965.
Ratings: General Audiences.
Relationship: Kaminari & Kirishima, Kaminari & Midoriya.
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply.
Summary: Denki questions his luck and even his sanity. Why are all the schools in Japan on hilltops? And those that rarely aren't on top of a stupidly high hill are inside a geography depression, which is the same thing in the blond's opinion. One way or another, students have to walk up or down a hill to get to and from school. And that doesn't even count as an extra point in PE lessons, which Denki thinks is criminal.
Links: ao3, tips!
Commissions info here!
He faces the hill. It's a long and big and high hill, so, so high. Sighing defeatedly, he walks with heavy steps to the pavement. Sliding down to the ground and making himself comfortable there. Watching the thousands of people climbing the hill as if it wasn't just too absurdly tall.
Denki questions his luck and even his sanity. Why are all the schools in Japan on hilltops? And those that rarely aren't on top of a stupidly high hill are inside a geography depression, which is the same thing in the blond's opinion. One way or another, students have to walk up or down a hill to get to and from school. And that doesn't even count as an extra point in PE lessons, which Denki thinks is criminal.
Of the three schools Denki attended during his time in Japan, all were on hilltops. Every day, he had to climb them with the ponderous, tired steps of someone who wasn't getting enough sleep to get to a place he didn't even like, full of people who made nasty, dubious comments every time they thought he wasn't listening.
As much as everyone thinks otherwise, Denki isn't the most sociable person in the world. Although his hair and clothes are eye-catching, his voice is loud, and he speaks to anyone who speaks to him in an informal, light-hearted way, Denki is not a person of many friends. To be quite honest, he'd say he only has one friend, and it's not even someone from his school, but a boy he met online who's a fan of a certain slightly older hero, Crimson Red.
Red Riot is a good friend. He's fun and kind and likes to spend hours chatting to Denki about old heroes and listens when he complains about school and the people in his class without saying he's a crybaby about it. And, most importantly of all, he doesn't think Denki is an idiot for having a learning disability. He encourages Denki to keep going, to be better and to push forward whenever he encounters a challenge that leaves him feeling lost, anxious or unmotivated. And it's because of him that Denki is facing yet another hill. Because this is the school that Red Riot said he was going to. This is his friend's dream school, and if Denki is honest with himself for a moment, he might even admit that this is his dream school, too.
Ansty and frightened, he tries to calm his heart, which is beating violently in his chest. Denki hates hills, and passing the entrance exam means three more years of hills ahead of him. It also means the chance to be in the same school as his only friend, and even though they end up in different classes, they can still see each other during lunchtime and study together for exams since the curriculum is the same for all classes. Climbing that hill means meeting people like him, meeting people with the same dream who might not laugh at him. It means the possibility of joining a school that understands the difficulties Denki has and can help him with them because Denki knows that this school is good for people like him. Because he researched the subject tirelessly, afraid that everything would be the same as the last three schools. But, as it turns out, this school is different and Denki wants to be a student here so badly. He wants so badly to be treated the same as everyone else for the first time in his life. Denki needs a place where no one will laugh at him because he's not the fastest intellectually, where no one will laugh if he short-circuits. Where no one will call him an idiot just because he can't read or write or express himself properly
Denki needs a place where the teachers will pay attention and do something, and if this school of all schools isn't everything he expects, then no school will be. For if the number one school in Japan isn't good at keeping its students in line, no other school is.
"Katsudon," a voice to Denki's right says. The blond follows the voice to find a green-haired boy standing a few metres away from him. The boy holds the straps of his obnoxious yellow backpack with such a firm grip that his knuckles turn white. His gaze drifts down to his red, worn-out trainers. Denki recognized the trainers, there was a boy at his second school with trainers like that, and he was transferred before the second half of the year. The green-haired boy stares at his Primordial shoes as if he wishes he were wearing something else. And he probably is, Denki reckons.
"I really want to get into this school," the boy mutters quietly. "Very much. This is my dream school, it always has been, and I've worked hard to get here," he continues quietly. Denki can see that the boy's statement is true. His muscles are big enough that he can see them through his uniform. Taking a deep breath, the boy turns his gaze to the top of the hill. Determination coursing through his body and shining in his eyes. "I'm going to pass this exam. I'm going to get into this school. And then I'm going to eat katsudon to celebrate," he says, as if writing the future in steel.
With long, firm strides, the green-haired boy walks up the hill without looking back.
Denki feels something in his chest, something burning hot that turns his anxiety to ashes.
Determined and inspired, Denki runs up the hill. Ready to grab his place at this school and, with luck, maybe end up in the same class as his best friend and the green-haired boy.
Fanfiction.
Title: Match-Point.
Word count: 457.
Ratings: General Audiences.
Relationship: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor.
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply.
Summary: Kara wants to punch someone. Hard. Maybe even pull their hair and knock out some teeth. Kick them in the shin. She really, really wants to punch someone right now and that someone is none other than Lena Luthor.
Links: ao3, tips!
Commissions info here!
Kara wants to punch someone. Hard. Maybe even pull their hair and knock out some teeth. Kick them in the shin. She really, really wants to punch someone right now and that someone is none other than Lena Luthor.
Taking a deep breath, she concentrates on the task before her. It's the women's intercollegiate volleyball final. Kara has the serve. Her team has the second match point of the time break. The opposing team is two points behind. Kara has to make a clean shot, she has to get that ball into the opponent's court. If it were any other team, any other school, she wouldn't doubt her ability to make an ace point. But she's playing Cadmus Academy, against the only team with Lena Luthor as their libero. And Lena Luthor is annoyingly good at her job.
The buzzer sounds, and Kara prepares for her serve. It's a fast, strong ball that goes exactly where she aimed. Lena is there in seconds, she dives, and her small hand with its long, slender fingers prevents the ball from hitting the floor. Her teammates prepare for the counter-attack, running from all directions in a synchronised attack. Kara watches as her team tenses up, spreads out and joins in, trying to cover as much of the court as possible. The blocker waits and jumps at the right moment, but the ball rebounds and goes up.
Nia dives and saves the ball, Alex lifts it and Kara smashes it. Lena handles it again. Kelly sets it up, and Andrea cuts it back. Kate saves. And on they go, for forty long, painful seconds, the ball doesn't hit the ground. For forty torturous seconds, the ball flies across the court defying the laws of gravity at an almost imperceptible speed. Until, finally, it falls. The last serve of the day is made by Kara who hits the ball centimetres from Lena's foot, cementing her team's victory in the intercollegiate. Marking Kara's first victory against Lena since they met for the first time two and a half years ago.
A primal scream from deep within Kara forces itself down her throat and echoes through the gym. Nia, Alex, Iris and Kate and all the others join her in screaming.
While one side of the court erupts in joy and victory and pride, the other mourns the defeat they accept with resignation.
"Luthor!" Kara shouts from the other side of the court.
"Danvers," Lena replies in a not-so-loud tone.
"I won." She speaks proudly, her smile as bright as the sun.
"I lost."
"Will you go out with me now?
Lena holds Kara's gaze for a long moment, then amid the tears of defeat, she allows herself a small smile.
Fanfiction.
Title: To: You, From: Me.
Word count: 1466.
Ratings: Teen And Up Audiences.
Relationship: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan.
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Implied Sexual Content.
Summary: If this night never happens again, the Doctor wants to make sure that just this once she didn't run.
Links: ao3, tips!
Commissions info here!
Older doesn't mean wiser. The Doctor is proof of that. Over two thousand years and she's still an idiot. But Yaz is different. She always has been. The Doctor doesn't know exactly the difference between this Yaz and her Yaz. She's just as bad as her previous face when it comes to perceiving things based purely on physical appearance. Such a concept makes no sense where she comes from. But she knows that this Yaz is not the same Yaz she left in Sheffield three hours ago. This Yasmin Khan has something different about her. Her shoulders are curvier, her dark hair has grey strands. Her skin is stained and faded. She speaks slowly and walks slowly. Her voice is hoarse as if it has been overused. But she is still Yaz. Her smile is still the same, her eyes are still the same. And she seems so happy. So absurdly happy. The Doctor thinks she has never seen Yaz so happy.
Yaz smiles and chatters, and the Doctor listens. Because she loves to hear Yaz talk, she loves to hear all her humans talk. It's her favourite part of having them around. Yaz tells us about her life. A long, happy life full of encounters and people. She tells the Doctor about Ryan and Graham and about Liverpool. The Doctor didn't realise that Yaz liked Liverpool so much, maybe she should take her Yaz there one day. She talks about her children, her grandchildren, and her wife. Yaz has got married! The Doctor is so happy, so absurdly happy. She married and had children and grandchildren who visit her every summer. Her wife, Yaz tells her, died just over ten years ago. Doctor feels her pain. She understands better than most the sorrow of outliving those you love. Yaz's smile doesn't falter as she talks about her wife, telling how they met, what their first date was like, and how wonderful the years they spent together were. Her gaze is sad and wistful, and she lets a few tears fall, but Yaz is happy to have found someone to love and who has loved her back.
The Doctor and Yaz sit side by side on the settee. They are covered by a heavy blanket. The fire in the fireplace crackles quietly, warming the room. They drink tea and chat for hours on end. Yaz's smile is so beautiful and her voice is so sweet. The Doctor lets her gaze wander around the living room of the small cottage, noticing the dozens of photographs. She thinks about her Yaz, about how she has a beautiful life ahead of her. About how she has travelled through space and time and countless planets and seen countless things and still finds more excitement and fun in a story about her youngest grandson getting the whole family together one spring afternoon to give a PowerPoint presentation on why they should let him learn archery at the tender age of eight.
‘Was it worth it?’ The Doctor asks. Her voice is a whisper. ‘Travelling with me, getting to know me, was it worth it?’
The smile Yaz gives the Doctor is a sad one, apologetic even. She holds the Doctor's face in her hands and uses her thumbs to caress her features, catching a solitary tear on the way.
‘I love my family, and I loved my wife very much,’ Yaz is sincere. ‘But there's someone else I've also loved very much. Someone who showed me that living was more than just existing. Who showed me the stars and put time and space in the palm of my hand, literally.’ Yaz reaches for the chain around her neck with one hand. She pulls on the chain, revealing the pendant. It's a key. A key that the Doctor remembers giving her just a few weeks ago.
‘Do you still have that old thing?’ The Doctor comments incredulously. In the corner of the room, a certain blue box makes an unhappy noise.
‘That old thing, as you call it, was proof that you recognised me as your companion all those years ago,’ Yaz puts it simply. ‘It's proof that everything we lived through was real. And that it was all worth it.’
The Doctor doesn't usually cry. They swallow their emotions and do everything they can to remain empty and void. The Doctor also doesn't like crying in front of people, not because of some idiotic idea that it's a sign of weakness. No, the reason is much worse. The reason the Doctor avoids crying in company is because their crying is never pretty. It's something angry and visceral, something that comes after losing someone, after failing. Something that destroys everything around them, whether it's an object or a person. And it's always sad. Absurdly sad. That's why, when they cry, they typically do it alone. Lost in some corner of the TARDIS, or in their bedroom that exists just for the sake of existing.
However, at this moment, the Doctor allows herself to cry in the presence of Yaz. It's a sad cry, like all the others. But also happy, like no other.
The Doctor holds Yaz's hands as if they were an anchor, keeping her stuck in reality. She sinks her face into Yaz's hands and cries.
‘I loved you too,’ Doctor confesses.
‘I know.’
‘I don't think you know,’ the Doctor takes a deep breath. ‘I loved you, I loved all of you, and it always hurts when it's time to leave because my life is so long and yours passes in the blink of an eye. But you're giants, you know? Giants! And I love you, each and every one of you. In different ways, I admit. But never one more than the other, just differently. And you, Yaz, you're different. You're like them. Like her. And I love you, Yaz.’
‘I've waited so long to hear you say that,’ Yaz smiles. It's almost happy but immensely sad.
‘I'm sorry it took me so long.’
‘It wouldn't be you if you did things on time, would it?’
‘Oi!’
The two laugh, happy with the familiarity they still have. Outside Yaz's little cottage, the stars turn into snowflakes. It's the first snow of the year. It's the first snow in a long time. Winters aren't like they used to be, nor are summers or autumns or springs. Some things have changed for the better, others Yaz tries not to think about. She lets her head rest against the Doctor's shoulder and the two of them use each other's warmth to stay warm under the blanket.
‘You knew, didn't you?’ Yaz asks after a long period of silence.
‘Maybe,’ Doctor rubs her neck. ‘Timelines are complicated, they're not straight lines, they're more like--’
‘A big ball of wibbly wobbly, timey wimey stuff,’ Yaz interrupts.
‘Jeremy Bearimy,’ the Doctor finishes her sentence.
‘Doctor, you've got to stop making up words,’ Yaz teases.
‘All words have been invented at some point,’ she laughs. ‘But anyway. Perhaps I knew, or maybe I didn't. It really depends on whether this is the first time we've been here together in this room, or whether it's a constant occurrence. At the end of the day, time can always be rewritten.’
‘I hope not,’ Yaz says. ‘I hope that even if you didn't know, and this becomes something fixed. Something of ours. Time can be rewritten, sure, but that doesn't mean that some things should be.’
‘I once met someone who said almost the same thing,’ says the Doctor sadly.
‘That person sounds very wise.’
‘She was amazing.’
The silence between the two is comfortable. The warmth of their bodies is pleasant. The Doctor holds Yaz's hands between hers, tracing the marks of time that her Yaz still doesn't have. Their long-abandoned mugs sit empty side by side on the coffee table.
‘If this were a one-off event,’ Yaz's voice is loud in the silence. ‘If this night were never to be repeated, what would you do?’
The Doctor kisses Yaz. It's a sweet, soft kiss that tastes like tea and biscuits. The sofa is wide and big and comfortable enough for the Doctor to lean over Yaz on it. She runs her hands over Yaz's body, touching every corner of her. Their clothes are lost in the turmoil. The Doctor kisses every part of Yaz. Her wrinkles and marks and blemishes and folds. She caresses and massages and stimulates, and draws out such delicious and luscious sounds from Yaz. They dance into the night, turning a cold winter's evening into something hot and sweaty. The Doctor savours every bit of Yaz, drinking from her and tasting her flavour.
If this night never happens again, the Doctor wants to make sure that just this once she didn't run.
