#ficshit

[prubbs]

Finished posting a very long Super sons fic today and one of our favorite readers sent us a beautiful comment with this at the end. I feel so much from this. To know that you can have any kind of effect on people is jaring, but so be someone's favorite writer? There is no feeling like it. Right @no-more-bubbles ?

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[edensix]

Welcome! What a great prompt list! For DWC (where I am nerdanel01): "Eternity is very close. Can you feel yourself slipping?"

for @dadrunkwriting

gen, no pairing, spoilers for trespasser860 wordsao3 mirror post

It’s always been a whisper. A word at the edge of hearing. A secret. A song.

It’s always felt like a pull. A tug at the center of her palm; stronger, sharper when she opens it. Something deep has dwelled there for years, sated on the finest flesh.  It did not itch and burn when she fed it, flinging her hand toward the green gashes in the air, feeling the fingers of the Fade reach into her veins and draw roads between realities.

It was satisfied then, when the blood flowed and the sacrifices were plenty.

Now it practically roars.

Weaned off war, growing sickly in peace. There is nothing to banish, no more enemies to sunder. The Mark is a weapon. It is not meant to build. It was made to destroy.

And she can only expect it to do what it was made to do.

Its hunger is so great it starts to eat itself, spreading like plague across her unmarred hand. It cracks and tears at her skin, pulling and rending until all that is left of her palm is green light. It snakes up her arm to the elbow, blackens the skin around it until she must wrap her whole arm morning and night.

The glow is near blinding. The pain is unspeakable.

It reminds her in sharp ways — jagged pinches and hot, searing cuts. It was never meant for her to bear it. It knows she is not its true master. So it calls to the dead god slumbering in the Fade, draws her bodily in dreams through the brimstone cliffs and smoking shores until her legs give out and she wakes in sweat-stained sheets.

The Mark was her gift, once. The only thing that kept her from the noose or worse. Once it made her special. Once she was unstoppable.

Now it is just hungry. Always, always hungry.

When she returns to Halamshiral, its whispers turn to screams. Howling funeral dirges, bursts of pain like holding fire so sharp and sudden that she cannot keep from crying out anymore. She cannot understand the language it speaks, but she knows enough that it is furious, desperate to stay alive. It wills her to open rifts in the Winter Palace, to show these petty banns and frightened bureaucrats the power of the Herald of Andraste. It is only her own will that keeps her from tearing the Veil and killing these strangled arguments where they lay in so many throats.

This is the Maker’s gift. This is His will made flesh. I am exalted. You should tear out your eyes in shame.

She is delving into the Deep Roads, shooting arrows upon arrows into bleeding bodies when she realizes she does not wield the Mark anymore. The Mark is wielding her. Its thirst calls at her rage and her weariness and her desperation. It is not satisfied with the tithes she offers it. It wants the utmost sacrifice.

She hears the chorus of a thousand strained cries when she steps through the eluvian for the last time. The voices of the Fade raised in reverent anguish. How many had she sent there to wilt away, driven mad by the impermanence of it all? When the Mark eats her alive, will she have to answer to their anger? Will Corypheus be there waiting, smug in his knowledge that he had been right all along? She was a mistake, incapable of controlling the Anchor.

The only time the pain subsides is after it bursts, yanking her into the air so hard her shoulder jostles in its socket and she comes crashing down to both knees. Her nose bleeds into the dead grass between her fingers. Her ears ring so loudly in absence of the sound that she almost wishes the voices would return.

Every step is a thousand paces forward and a thousand paces back. Like walking in a dream, through something at the edge of memory. People she knows and loves half-carry her between battles, worriedly shouting over her head in muffled voices. Everything feels like she’s on the other side of a looking glass, her fingertips against the surface, mouthing the words but understanding nothing.

Only Solas makes it stop. The Anchor is stilled, rebuked and shamed by its true master. She has never loved him more for taking the pain away, nor hated him more for what he’s done.

He’s given her everything. Her power. Her glory. Her life.

And now he is taking it all away.

She feels the Mark’s claws scrape and tear at the skin on her shoulder, holding onto its host until she feels nothing at all.

All she sees is Solas. Fen’Harel. False god. Liar. Deceiver. Savior. Betrayer.

Shartan.

Maferath.

Her tears mingle with the blood and dirt on her cheeks.

It is done.

Someone holds her to their chest as she closes her eyes. She feels as if she’s just come up for air after two years underwater. There is a hand on her cheek, so cool and soft and so entirely there that her heart may burst.

It is done.

[hellfire-collective]

ITS ALMOST DONE!!

[stocious]

please stop making me snort laugh at work (x)

[stocious]

some of you are fuckin hilarious

[prubbs]

I was tagged by @remytr0n to fill out this thingy. I tried.

What is your total word count on AO3? (Go to your works, then click Statistics.)

429,313. But I write with a partner and we have a folder of dead fanfictions in our google drive that no person should ever been force to look at.

How often do you write?

I would really like to say that I write every day, but the truth is that a lot of the time I just open my word doc and stare at it. Writer's block is real. And a lot of the time, like gets in the way. I just got married a few months ago and my best friends just had a baby. You have to make time for the people who are important to you--

But when I do write, it is a never ending flood.

Do you have a routine in writing?

Nope. All of my writing is emotion vomit that I have no control over and must allow out of my body before it kills me. Then I make Dana read it and fix all of the bad things so that it make sense. I should probably have a routine by now, but I’m not sure that’s in the cards for me. But I guess barfing and sending it to Dana is kind of a routine.

What’s your favorite kink/trope/paring?

Kink- Power bottoms. Gosh darnit do I lover a good fucking power top. I want a little dude whispering dirty commands in my ear and bossing me around. But I’m also a big fan of bondage and public Tomfoolery.

Trope- Fake boyfriends. Oh am I a sucker for a good fake boyfriend story. I can read them everyday and never get tired of two losers trying to convince themselves that they don’t like each other until they explode.

Paring- Probably JayTim. I say probably because they are the paring that Dana and myself write for the most often but honestly I just like all the Bat fam stuff- and Superbat. I can read just about anything though, I’m pretty open minded about ships.

Do you have a favorite fic of yours?

Well, When You Go. is easily my favorite of our fics. It’s JayTim, full of hurt. Full of pining, and full of Bruce father feels, I also have always loved the idea of Jason as Batman because I think it is a perfect way for him to redeem himself. It’s what Bruce would have wanted. It was really hard to let this fic go when we finished.

Your Fic with the most kudos?

Stars At Night. It’s a hockey fic about the Dallas Stars… I’m not super proud of it but I’m also not ashamed of it?

Anything you don’t like about your writing

This is a loaded question to which I have an equally loaded answer.

There are a lot of things that I am insecure about when it comes to writing. It’s a very vulnerable thing to put out into the world, like having a baby and putting it into the arms of a thousand strangers who now have the ability to destroy it- thus destroying you. As writers we spend all of this time trying to please our audience and listen to the comenters and make something that generally appealing. And a lot of times we lose track of the real focus of the story. This is something that I have been guilty of and something I am working on. But I would be lying if I said that I didn’t get comments that sometimes immediately make me want to add something to my next chapter or take the whole thing down and start over. So I guess the thing that bothers me most about my own writing is how often I lose myself to other people.

Now something you do like?

I’m not really sure that I can take credit for what I like most about my writing because what I like best is my writing partner. I started writing with Dana 2012 and for some reason she hasn’t gotten tired of me yet. She is everything that I am not as a writer. She fills in all my gaps and has slowly become my best friend over the last almost seven years. She makes me like what I write. And I have fun-- so I guess the fact that I have fun writing is what I like!

If you wanna look take a look at our stuff then check us out https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prubbs.

@no-more-bubbles, your next fucker.