Hello World! My name is River. I'm a 34, pansexual, female (she/her) witch. I am a fangirl by nature. Love Marvel, Star Trek, Danny Phantom, Gravity Falls, Twilight Zone, and many others. I enjoy talking about mutual fandoms and about life in general. I'm a fanfiction writer. I can use this platform to be able to write many things both fandom related and not. Hopefully, we can strike up some conversations and be good friends :)k
most tragic thing about wanting to see more stuff of your oc is that the c is o and YOU have to make the stuff. devastating. why canât art of my beautiful baby just appear in my hands. just materialize under my pillow, like from the tooth fairy
I may have said this before but I hope you all know I'm proship.
Pro-shipping. Anti censorship, of all kinds, especially in fiction. Like. I do not know how badly I wish to emphasise this. I don't care if you think a fic is 'gross' or 'morally bad' or whatever. It's fiction. Censorship is a slippery slope.
If you have 'proship dni' in your bio and you follow me, I would like to kindly ask you to consider why you have it there. Is it because you actually dislike what proship meant originally (pro/for-shipping), or because you dislike the stereotype that's been curated by anti-shippers?
This isn't an 'attack' on anyone, just to be clear. I'm not saying this with malice. I'm mainly saying it so people aren't surprised when I start to get comfortable voicing my freakier/more nsfw thoughts and they're... Well, not censored.
Anyway yeah I'm off to draft and stare at hot men âïž
Thinking about single parent!reader and ghost accidentally bonding with your two kids...
He knows of you vaguely as the apartment two doors down from his that's always toeing the line of some sort of noise complaint. two small kids, four and five respectively. Cute things he sometimes passes in the stairwell since the elevator broke.
"Ewwww!!! What is that!!"
Like now, for example. Arms full of grocery bags, ghost turns the corner to the next flight and finds the wee ones crouched in a corner pointing at something. You sit a few steps up, bags next to you and seemingly taking a breather from the multiple flights.
"Morning, Mr riley." You smile, exhausted. Ghost nods back, then curiously glances over the kid's shoulders when they beging loudly pondering.
"It's an alien!!" Your little girl says, poking at it. "Alienâ"
"That's a proper millipede, innit." Ghost grunts above them. He knees down between the two, and lets the long insect crawl onto his hand, holding it up for your kids. "S' the flat face? An' the multiple legs on each segment? Millipede."
You daughter gasps in amazement at the same time your son asks "does it bite?"
"Only kids who don't do their chores." Ghost snorts, then holds it out and gently strokes a single finger along its back "you can pet it."
Which is how your tiny ones end up asking ghost what seems lile a hundred questions about millipedes, then centipedes, and bugs in general.
He answers each one, and after some time sets the bug back down and says "I'll show you more bugs if you help carry groceries in, yeah?"
While your kids grab one bag each, ghost insists on carrying the rest in addition to his own, has the audacity to glare at you when you reach for some.
That night, your kids beg to go to the library to pick out books about bugs, wanting to impress their new friend mr simon.
Of all the people they could like...they chose the weird silent scary guy....at least they're learning stuff, you suppose.
i love fics that feel so... grown. fics about adults that were written by adults who have years of life experience under their belts who pour that into their writing. fics where you can tell this is a person who has lived through a marriage or a divorce or a child or children or parent death or any number of Huge Life Events because the way they write with an emphasis on the highs and lows of the human experience rather than an emphasis on tropes (not throwing shade) is just so. oh man, it's just so fucking good. if my blorbos are grown men, grown women, grown people, i love it when they feel like grown people, not just extensions of the (young) author's imagination. (still not throwing shade). you know?
The way you get more fics like this, by the way, is by encouraging younger and beginning writers. Everyone starts somewhere, and if you want the beautiful, lived-in, wealth of experience that comes with age authors, they generally need to first be the eager, silly, excited just to be here, more enthusiastic than skilled authors, and then they need to not get driven away from fandom by people being jerks to them or by the weariness of putting out effort and not getting anything back. So yes, appreciate the older authors who bring their experience to the table of the fic buffet, but don't neglect the budding authors who are just starting to grow. That's like wanting the fruit from the tree without watering the sapling.
Part (3) of Divergent Paths, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!
HUUUGGEEE thanks to my discord loves! Both for their support and proofreading!
Also - apologies to those who requested to be added to the taglist a while ago and are only just getting added! Welcome!!
Warnings: Uh. Profanity. And. Kissing. Guys. There's proper fucking kissing in this one! Some talk of amputation
WC: 4,682
Mandoâa
Haarâchak â damn it!
Narâsheb â shove it up your ass
âYouâre such an ass.â I cursed against his lips, nearly sobbing from the sudden lightness of reality, the euphoria of finally being free from that crippling, constant guilt, and whatever retort he tried to hum in response was lost as I dragged myself even closer, desperate for another kiss, another taste of him, another promise that this was real; that he was still mine.
Crosshair's breath caught with a subtle laugh, but there was a tension in it; a hesitation ruining the sarcastic façade that normally came so easily to him. Still, he kissed me back all the same, hand slowly dragging through my hair to cradle the back of my head, his every movement so painfully careful; delicate. Despite his care, my cheek throbbed, my nose ached, and my head was pounding. But, Maker, I couldnât bring myself to care.
âYou⊠You let me thinkâŠâ I couldnât say it, couldnât stand to think about how certain Iâd been that Iâd lost him; lost all of them, my voice breaking with a grief I was still trying to let go of.
âI thought it was too late.â He admitted, head dropping slightly, though he didnât pull away, still resting on a knee before me as he gently touched his brow to mine. âFigured youâd⊠That Iâd pushed too farâŠâ It was such a rare, devastating thing to hear that doubt in his voice, âThat Iâd pushed you away.â My heart stuttered at that quiet admission, and my every fiber screamed to fix it, to chase all whisper of that doubt from him, but this was too important to yield beneath that want for peace.
âI thought you were trying to push me away.â The horror that shot through him as he finally met my eyes nearly wrenched the air from my lungs, but I held myself still, needing him to understand how his silence had hurt me, how their secrets had led to this, âI thought you didnât trust me, and you wanted to... end things on your terms.â I didnât allow him enough time to recover, to form a reply before adding in something too close to a mumble, âWhich, apparently, wasnât as farfetched of an accusation as I thought it wasâŠâ
His hands drew back to just whisper against my jaw, expression turning somber in a way that made me pause, holding my breath to better hear what he might say.
âItâs⊠complicated.â He grumbled, earning a weary huff from me, but he merely shifted to nuzzle his lips against my neck before continuing. âSharing you with the others⊠Itâs different than if it was with anyone else⊠with a reg.â My stomach leapt at hearing him say it so bluntly, that fluttering of wings within my chest nearly making me gasp, but the way he snarled that last word brought me back. I knew he meant Jester, but that wasnât who came to my mind amidst the face of his rage.
âAnd EchoâŠ?â I pressed, words direct though my tone softened in a plea to really talk about this; to keep from falling into defensive posturing and inevitable frustration, and, at the way his shoulders tensed, jaw grinding as he fell silent for a long moment, I feared it would come to exactly that, but then he drew a deep, slow breath and held it for a beat. Two. Three, and then released it.
âI overreacted with Echo.â He admitted, voice low, reluctant, and I was too stunned to react, eyes wide, but then a laughter escaped me that was so sudden, so impossibly light, that he could only stare before letting out a scoffed chuckle of his own.
âI thought you were trying to kill him!â I retorted.
âI was.â His answer only made me laugh harder. It was senseless. And what heâd done warranted a far longer conversation, but I needed to laugh at it, needed to regard all of this with anything other than the hurt and blame that could so easily have sent us all spiraling even further.
âThatâs more than an overreaction, Crosshair!â His lips bunched at my scolding. Still, he didnât try to shrug my arms from where they yet lay about his shoulders, nor did his own touch weaken as he rolled his eyes, but then he leaned even closer, chest tightening slightly as his words fell into a mournful whisper.
âI thought Iâd lost you.â He secreted the words against my neck, slitted gaze staring blindly at the slowly darkening bruise but careful to avoid my eyes. âAnd then Echo⊠Felt like that proved it.â There was no embarrassment in it, no blame. There was only a deep, resigned sorrow that threatened to ruin me anew. Movements languid, as though he might feel how my hands delighted in that closeness despite the heavy plastoid between us, I leaned back, fingers tracing the elegant lines of his chestplate as I robbed him of the safety in that proximity, of that obscurity in hiding too near to truly see.
âAsk me.â It was an invitation rather than an order, but it held the same weight. Still, his brows hitched, the barest glimmers of a cocky smirk toying with his lips.
âI think youâve already answered that pretty clearly.â He hummed, body curling closer to mine with a spark of that breathtaking glee nearly hidden beneath a far safer hunger, but my hands held firm, forbidding him from crossing that precious little distance, from avoiding this, and an unspoken understanding chased that mirth from his face, leaving something far quieter in its wake. His jaw shifted behind closed lips, as though tasting each word before letting himself speak.
There was a pause, just a fleeting, terrifying handful of seconds. His eyes fled mine, dropping to where my scarcely packed bag lay forgotten at our feet, contents half scattered where it fell, and I could feel the tension in his muscles, how near he was to pushing himself up and simply walking away. I wondered what mocking comment might drip from his tongue as he denied me, dismissed the entirety of this mess in favor of the simplicity Iâd robbed from him.
But then those eyes flicked back up to me, sharp and merciless and so desperate to hide the fear in them.
âDo you,â He finally asked, âstill want me?â It wasnât a whisper, but he couldnât seem to keep his voice from dropping, nearly squirming beneath how that question tore far too deeply through him to manage anything more, and I found myself reaching up for his hand, fingers threading through his as my breath threatened to falter, loathing that heâd ever felt the need to doubt such things even as my heart soared at this moment of vulnerability he was giving me.
âYes.â I promised; begged; gaze unwavering with a plea for him to believe me, and I shifted, dragging his palm up to press my lips against it. âThereâs⊠a lot we need to work on⊠both of us⊠but, I want you, Crosshair.â I lived for the way his gaze softened ever so slightly as I pressed the words into his skin between barely-there kisses, between tiny hitches in my breath as my other hand reached for him as well, cradling his with a touch far too desperate to be gentle. âIâll always want you.â
 His thumb traced precious nothings atop my skin, and I shuddered at the way the nerves trilled with glee, static following in his wake in some vain plea to remember that feeling even if only for a heartbeat longer. Still, that tender caress couldnât keep my own doubts at bay forever, couldnât silence the reason my mind rebelled relentlessly against this despite how I craved to feign ignorance to the dangers looming so obviously before us.
âBut⊠Cross,â this time, it was my turn to hide, almost shielding myself behind our interwoven hands. âare you really okay with this?â I hadnât begun to work through my own feelings about⊠âusâ becoming far more complicated, but none of that mattered if any of them held even a glimmer of reservation.
âIt wouldnât be the first time a squad has shared.â That teasing drawl slid back into his seductive rasp, and I couldnât fight the little thrill it sent dancing about my chest, but I managed to meet his smirk with an unimpressed glare. He let out a slow, almost impatient breath. âIâm sure thereâll be some⊠adjusting.â He added in a low grumble, and my own doubt resurfaced.
âHow do I do this?â I barely breathed it, shoulders hitching about my neck as my heartbeat quickened. âI donât want you to feel like you arenât enoughâŠâ His own breath caught, and I could see how that fear resonated with him, and the odd calm that followed in merely hearing me say it. He offered no feigned smile, no cocky retort as he leaned forward to rest his brow to mine once more, words a hushed promise against my lips.
âWeâll figure it out.â There was a confidence in that soft murmur that I wanted to doubt; I wanted to scream the simple fact that such a vague reassurance was nowhere near enough to soothe the endless insecurities bubbling up inside me. But I did believe it. I believed him, and the comfort that belief gave me left the air fluttering passed my lips in a shaky breath, terrified of the hope it brought. So, I kissed him. I kissed him because I was afraid, but I trusted him; because I wanted to be ashamed but wasnât, Because, more than that fear and doubt and shame, I wanted this. I wanted him. And Echo⊠Hunter⊠Kriff, how far would this go?
âYou might want to start with the arc.â He added, lips just hinting at his usual scowl as he pulled away almost too soon, eyes nearly rolling as he added, âTechâs going to be pissed if he breaks those new legs from all the pacing he was doingâŠâ
It had been a slow thing; growing some sliver of acceptance between the 99 and what few legions we frequented, an acceptance initially enforced more by their leaders than any sense of brotherhood, though some had finally begun to see passed idiotic excuses to alienate and mock. As Crosshair and I made our way back through the Resolute, however, the berth regs gave us as we passed, the way they avoided nearly the entire quadrant of the hanger housing the Marauder screamed that any such familiarity was forfeit, and my stomach ached at the knowledge that Iâd shared more than a small portion of the blame for that.
Some semblance of a desk had been thrown together near the ramp where Tech seemed to be tooling about with cables of something I was almost certain hadnât come from our ship. Wrecker sat with his back resting against one of crates holding his brotherâs make-shift workshop, expression sullen as he spoke in a voice far too quiet to be heard across the half-dozen meters separating us, and I felt a flutter of doubt that nearly left me nauseous. I was walking into this with no idea what to say; what to assume about the near useless hints Hunter had given me; where I might be overthinking things, overstepping, versus what might be seen as playing dumb and avoiding emotions now believed to be obvious.
Crosshair must have noted the tiny hesitation in my stride, gaze shifting toward me, but before he could speak, Hunter stepped out from the cabin doorway, eyes instantly locking on mine with a look of such stunned surprise that it should have left me laughing, and yet I found myself frozen, some voice screaming in the back of my mind that Iâd already mistaken everything, and now it was too late to take it back. But then I watched his shoulders fall with a sigh of relief deep enough to catch his brothersâ attention, watched the tentative but earnest beginnings of a smile wash over him, and the way that smile sent my heart jumping nearly blinded me to the equally surprised looks from Wrecker and Tech.
âTold yuh heâd-â Whatever Wrecker was about to say ended in a huffed chuckle as Tech slammed his hip roughly against the larger manâs shoulder. My cheeks burned as I quickly made my way toward the ramp, leaving Crosshair back with the others. Another rush of heat and static danced through my chest as I met Hunterâs gaze, fighting back the flurry of questions, of possibilities and thoughts Iâd pushed down for so long now dangling painfully within reach.
âIs EchoâŠ?â I asked quietly, calmly; as though there was some chance he hadnât noticed the frantic thudding of my pulse.
âInside.â He nodded toward the cockpit, shifting to take a half-step back so I could pass by him more easily. I started to move, but paused, unsure if there was something more I should say; unsure where to start, but he merely nodded again with a smile far too gentle for the frenzy warring within me. Still, I didnât waste the excuse to continue forward, unsure if I was rushing toward Echo or running from Hunter, but both granted an almost crippling cocktail of anxiety and confusion and want.
The Marauder was quiet beyond the muffled voices from outside as Hunter joined his brothers. I almost paused, desperate to hear them, to steal what knowledge I could between low chuckles rich with a lightness I hadnât heard from them in far too long, but I didnât. It didnât feel right. And whatever secrets they shared, they owed to me to say to my face. Soon. But Crosshair was right. I couldnât let Echo continue torturing himself over what happened⊠nor would I let him find some way to hide from me again.
He wasnât pacing when I reached the entry into the cockpit. If Hunter hadnât said otherwise, I might have believed the ship to be empty, but then I started down the ladder, and there was no doubting the source of the impatient, growled sigh that greeted me.
âHaarâchak, Hunter!â I froze at the venom in his voice, one foot still on the ladder for a half-beat before taking that final step, âfor the last time, take your damn advice and narâsh-!â
âOh?â I refused to acknowledge the reason my heart was pounding, why my eyes were locked so pointedly on the back of the chair where the arc sat almost fully hidden from view, nor the way my body tensed at how quickly he leapt to his feet, those new legs nearly tangling beneath him as he spun around to face me in a flurry of panic I knew too well. âWhat advice has Hunter been giving you?â
Another day, his reaction may have left me laughing, but not now. Not for this. Not when the dread in his eyes only grew the longer he stared at me, like each beat of silence screamed anew of the terrible distance between us. I hated it; hated that my presence left him so disjointed; that this man whoâd been trained to survive the impossible, whoâd lived through unspeakable horrors and not only found the strength to keep fighting but did so without losing the warmth in his smile now stared at me like I was something to be feared. I hated that heâd been reduced to this speechless visage of taut muscles and held breath at the mere sight of me when Iâd spent months yearning for just a glimpse of the fondness heâd once regarded me with.
My chest hitched slightly, jaw snapping shut as I let my gaze fall lest he see some trace of unshed tears.
âI thoughtâŠâ I started, but had to pause to swallow back the stiffness in my throat before trying again. âI thought we could try this whole⊠talking thing again.â Still, I could hear the grief cloying my voice, and it only made it harder to risk looking at him. So I didnât. Nor did I bother pretending my averted gaze was some subtle mercy to grant him an illusion of privacy. I just couldnât stand to see him looking at me with that fear, that regret.
He let out a ragged breath, knuckles cracking from how tightly his fingers clenched.
âLook, I didnât⊠I â kriffâŠâ He stammered, hand reaching up to drag through his hair, absently working over his temples before letting the limb drop heavily back to his side. âI â Iâm sorry, I-â
âDonât.â I shouldnât have said it; shouldnât have risked manipulating his thoughts toward any of this with such a pitiful plea, but I couldnât take the hurt of hearing him say he hadnât meant it; that the possibilities Iâd only just begun to entertain, to let myself hope for, were gleaned from simple misunderstanding.
âAfter... after all that⊠which part are you apologizing for?â There was such a faint hint of accusation in those words, and I couldnât tell if I wanted to lean harder into a rage that would only leave me cold, or if there was some point in pretending that exasperation was born of anything more than my own self-doubt. I found myself falling somewhere in-between; drowning in anger and sorrow and guilt as months of denial and hiding, of empty pretense and suppressed desires trapped behind good intentions finally lay exposed, raw and real and veiled only in the silence stretching out between halted breaths.
And he said nothing, chest tight though his shoulders seemed to hang listless amidst the weight of an answer he knew he didnât need to voice, and that was what finally sparked an earnest flare of fury absent any trace of that earlier hesitation. I deserved an answer, dammitâŠ
âYou lied to me; stole from me; you lied to your brothers; you put every one of us in danger, and I still almost l-â The word shattered as a sob finally broke through. He wasnât looking at me anymore, head bowed as he merely listened, as he let himself bear the brunt of my rage even as it tore at my heart with the same merciless hurt as it did his.
âI almost had to take more of your legs, Echo.â I barely whispered it, knowing the horror those words brought me, however crippling it might be, was nothing compared to how theyâd haunt him, how his body nearly flinched from muscles locking taut, brows pinching above eyes that still refused to meet mine. âI should have⊠It was⊠it was a stupid risk not to, and I should never have been put in that position.â I tried to cling to that anger⊠tried to blame him, but I could see the heaviness of it all threatening to crush him; the guilt, the fear⊠the realization of just how close heâd come to losing even more of himself⊠and I felt how near I was to that same flurry of emotion, because logic would never be enough to free me of the blame curling around my heart, reminding me that heâd only isolated himself like that because of me, because of the choices that Iâd made and the distance they created between us, a distance Iâd done nothing to heal.
But now, through accident and impulse, we stood atop a cliff-face, toeing the edge, begging the other to be the first to jump, and I couldnât deny the way my heart ached beneath the fear that, after everything that had finally brought us to this moment, he might yet refuse me.
âWhy did you kiss me, Echo?â It sounded broken, torn between denial and mourning as my gaze fell, awaited the fall of the executionerâs axe. I didnât see the stillness settle over him, the hesitation before he drew a carefully slowed, silent breath.
âYou know why.â It wanted to be a growl, but he kept his voice almost painfully flat, even; and I wanted to scream.
âClearly, I donât!â The words were harsh, shattered beneath a grief too raw to keep locked away any longer, tears finally trailing down my face as my eyes snapped up to find him standing so impossibly still before me, the co-pilotâs seat unapologetic as it loomed between us. But I saw the tension yet held in his stance, the subtle downward tug of lips and brow as though bracing for some punishment I was suddenly afraid might retch from me amidst too many emotions and sleepless nights and unanswered questions.
âI came here⊠I⊠dammit, I donât know what I was expecting!â I sobbed, âBut it sure as hell wasnât to see you look at me likeâŠâ I couldnât say it, couldnât admit how his earlier fear had wounded me, how it seemed like heâd already accepted that heâd never see me again, my arms locking around my chest as though it might ease the agony tearing through me. âWhy⊠Why did you kiss me?â But then he answered me. And I froze.
âBecause I wanted to.â He replied, and there was a shift in his stance; so subtle, I nearly missed it. But his shoulders seemed broader; his eyes darker, and I felt my heart jump at the sight of it. âBecause Iâve wanted to since that skanah mercenary laid his damn hands on you and you still trusted me enough to let me help.â Now, he was growling. âSince I first heard you laugh at those stories about Fives.â Walking forward with such perfectly even strides; slow, not to give me time to run, but to savor the sight of my breath quickening, deepening with every step. âSince that day I woke up with you in my arms like youâd always belonged there.â Until mere inches separated us as he towered over me. âIâve wanted to for so long⊠and I thought Iâd never get another chance. That's why I kissed you.â
I should have been afraid. I should have remembered how easily heâd overpowered me in the midst of his illness; how heâd hurt me. But I looked up at those pale-gold eyes, at pupils blown wide with hunger, at skin now boasting a warm hue rather than the unnatural paleness of when Iâd met him, at hair delightfully messy, the sides overgrown just enough to curl and ruin the normally neat fohawk; at lips parted ever so slightly, teasing the memory of his taste.
âWhy didn't you kiss me sooner?â I could feel the heat of his breath as he stood before me, body curling subtly around mine.
âA lot of reasons. None of them good.â He murmured, eyes flicking to my lips though he held himself so carefully still.
âWhy aren't you kissing me now?â I asked, voice a barely-there whisper and invitation and plea, but he didn't rush forward like I thought he would, like I hoped he would, instead weighing my question carefully before answering.
âBecause, if I kiss you again, I'm not going to stop.â It was a threat as much as it was a promise, footsteps silent as he inched closer still, just enough to make the rear wall of the cockpit press against my back.
âGood.â I was moving before the absently mumbled word fully escaped me, hands locking around his jaw, fingers tangling into the satin curls just escaping the lower edge of his cybernetic, practicality and boundaries and logic forgotten as he met me with the same fire. No. Not forgotten. Ignored. Intentional and willful and eagerly ignored as his arm locked around my lower back, gripping my hip with a possessiveness that left me gasping as he shamelessly pressed himself against me, breastplate nearly bruising my chest, scomp sliding around my waist, caging me.
To call it a kiss was far too tame. He devoured me, lips and jaw and body all moving in a hypnotic rhythm, as his hand abandoned my hip to drag up my spine, touch firm, unrepentant of how my shirt caught on fingertips digging in to my back, my shoulders, practically wrenching me away from the wall solely so he could pull me closer.
Iâd tried not to wonder, not to imagine and dream⊠but when idle thoughts turned to fantasies Iâd pretended not to have, Iâd presumed Echo to be⊠gentle⊠soft. Iâd envisioned hesitant touches and frequent glances seeking reassurance. But reality burned far hotter. He didnât hesitate because the moan that caught in my throat screamed my consent louder than any murmured permissions, because there was no misunderstanding why my body arched so willingly into his, and whatever timidness might have subdued his hunger was forfeit after so many months of stifled want.
My breath caught as his hand darted down to my thigh, his body bucking just enough to hoist me up so my legs might lock about his hips, and whatever objection I had was briefly lost in the rush of heat burning through those eyes as he looked at me with something far deeper than the lust Iâd expected in that moment. Devotion. Adoration. An awe that left my cheeks burning and heart racing even more frantically. My arms looped around his shoulders with reverence of my own, the weight of shared breath hot and intoxicating between us as I held myself back a moment to savor this, smile just toying with my lips as he stretched forward to taste me again, though this time with some hint of a softness that sent a shiver dancing across my skin.
âStay.â He whispered the word against me, like he was begging for his life rather than what few weeks I might have been gone.
âEverythingâs going to get complicatedâŠâ I warned, though even I could hear how little resolve lingered in the words.
âI donât care.â He panted, reaching up to kiss me once more, and, without bothering to pull back, repeated that little plea. âStay.â I had to fight myself to pull back, lips still parted in an invitation I had only belatedly managed to stifle between ground teeth.
âNo more hiding.â It wasnât an order, but it was far from a request as I held his gaze, arms shifting to wrap almost covetously around his head that my fingers might toy with those soft, ebony curls. He didnât respond immediately, and I loved him for it; for the show that he was really hearing me, thinking over my demand before answering with a slow nod, and I thanked him with another kiss, forehead resting lightly against his as I tried to gather my thoughts enough to voice them.
âAnd this⊠me and⊠and the othersâŠâ I still tripped over the words, still struggled with the very concept of it, though he didnât so much as flinch, âPromise me youâll tell me if⊠if somethingâs wrong⊠Talk to me instead of...â
âInstead of fighting it out with Crosshair?â He offered, and I could hear that little smirk, could feel the tiny huff of laughter, but his smile only grew as I shot him a glare.
âI promise.â He agreed in such a soft murmur, I couldnât help but melt against him, body curling around his before kissing him once more, and I relished the way he relaxed beneath my touch, that hunger quieted that we might simply enjoy this moment for what it was: permission to feel without shame, to want without guilt, and to hold without doubt, because there wasnât room for such things amidst the relief and joy in how his lips danced against mine, the warmth of his arms around me and mine around him, the comfort Iâd feared forever lost to us settling gently about the silence that no longer felt heavy or strained.
âAnd Echo?â I whispered his name against his lips almost reluctantly, allowing myself just one more second of that kiss as he hummed back. âIf you tore open those ulcers again, Iâm going to break my vow to do no harm.â His laughter was almost worth all the stress that had brought us here.
Click here or message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist! (please note, if you've never interacted, I'm not going to add you)
First, cut through with the certain and specific actions of Crosshair: admitting wrong doing and confessing his deepest, most personal insecurities. In the sexiest way possible, of course.
The second, and more final of the twin deaths was courtesy of Echo causing full and irreversible cardiac arrest: transforming under duress from a sullen, timid, nervous shell of a man who knows he done fucked up, into a a confident, hungry, dangerous fucking ARC who knows exactly what he wants and respectfully says he wonât stop if he starts kissing her again.
Holy. FUCK.
Internal combustion has commenced. I am melting like the fucking Wicked Witch. I AM UNWELL. Actually, not just unwell @staycalmandhugaclone - I am literally deceased. 5-10 business days required for recovery.
In all seriousness, huge shoutout for your incredible prose on this chapter. This line, in particular got me all in my feels:
The emotional depth, the giddiness, the intense relief, the willingness to cast off the guilt⊠just⊠đ« .
And Echo in this chapterâŠ. đ„”đ„”đ„”. I literally cannot stress this enough - HOLY SHIT. Screaming into a pillow over here.
Iâm going to need sedation when if Doc has one of these heart-to-hearts with Hunter. Fuuuuuuuuck.
You are truly making dreams come true over here - with maximum angst and suspense. Brilliant, as always. â€ïžâ€ïžâ€ïž Canât wait for the next chapter!
I'm ashamed to say I definitely allowed more than the requested 5-10 business days for recovery đ
I honestly rewrote this a few times because it felt too aggressive, and then it felt too passive... which just wouldn't do. I may be a bit obsessed with letting Echo showcase that he is, in fact, a badass.
My heart keeps doing a little flutter at your compliment for the prose. I never really thought of the more flowery bits as prose, but, fuck, you right đ« đ„°
And... I have something planned for Hunter. All Imma say is that it's not likely to be, uh, flowery
I can post this now I think! Iâve been recovering from a dumb stress injury in my neck and my Patrons have been so kind and patient while I rested up. ;v; Iâve also been encouraged to try animating! Iâm inexperienced in that skill, so I made a little gif.
getting mad at ao3 for being against censorship and allowing all kinds of dark and fucked up fics to be on their platform is like getting mad at a library for not banning books
Image: Words to Describe Hair: Afro | Curly | Straight | Look | Texture | Style | ColorÂ
Photo credits: Alex Nemo Hanse
This began as a guide to describing Afro / curly hair but of course, I got carried away. From look and texture of hair, colors and various styles, this guide serves as a thesaurus of sorts for hair, as well as pointers for use in your writing.
Please check under the read more for an accessible version of these lists
Culturally Significant Hair Coverings:
Know the meaning behind head wear and why itâs worn, when and by whom, such as a Native Nationâs headdress, before bestowing a character with it.
Head Coverings Resources:
More on various head coverings.
See here for more Islamic Veils.Â
See here for more on the Nigerian gele.
See here on African American Headwraps.Â
View our hijab and headscarves tags for discussion on these topics.
Afro - Curly - Straightened
There are many varieties of braids, twists & Afro hair styles; have some more!
African/Black Hair: Natural, Braids and Locks
African Hair: Braiding Styles 10 African Types
Describing Black (Afro) hair:
Appropriative Hairstyles: Keep in mind that Afro styles should be kept to those in the African Diaspora, such as dreadlocks, cornrows + certain and many braided styles.Â
Also, âlocsâ is a more favored term over âdreadlocksâ for many people.
Tread carefully describing Afro hair as âwildâ âunkemptâ âuntamedâ or any words implying itâs unclean or requires controlling.
âNappyâ and âwoolyâ are generally words to stay away from, the first having heavy negative connotations for many and the latter, though used in the Holy Bible, is generally not acceptable anymore and comes off as dehumanizing due to Animal connotations.
There are mixed feelings on calling Black hair âkinky.â Iâm personally not opposed to the word in itself and usage depends on the personâs race (Iâm more comfortable with a Black person using it vs. a Non-Black person) as well as their tone and context (if itâs used in a neutral or positive tone vs. negatively/with disdain). Get feedback on your usage, or simply forgo it.
See our tags âBlack Hairâ and âNatural Hairâ for more discussion on describing Black hair.
Texture - Look - Styles
Hair Colors and Style
Writing Tips & Things to Keep in Mind:
Combination Words: Try combining words to illustrate look of hair. A character with springy coils that dance across her shoulders with every movement, the man with thick silvery hair slicked back into a ponytailâŠ
Mind Perspective: Depending on POV, a character might not know exactly what cornrows or a coiffure style is, at least in name, and it might make more sense if they described the hairdo instead. More defining terms might come from a more knowing source or the wearer themselves. One book I read described a girlâs afro puff as âthick hair pulled up into a cute, curly, poufy thing on top of her head and tied with a yellow ribbon.â
POC & Hair Colors: People of Colorâs hair comes in all shades and textures. There are Black people with naturally blond and loosely-textured to straight hair, East Asian people with red hair, and so on. Keep that in mind when coding characters if you tend to rely on hair color alone to denote a character is white vs. a Person of Color.
Related Tropes: There are tropes and discussion related to People of Color, colored hair, and light-colored hair and features.Â
Check out these posts on the topic: The East Asian Women + Colored Hair Trope - Black Characters & âWildâ Hair Colors - POC w/ Supernatural Colorful Features. - âUncommonâ Features & POC Characters
fandom etiquette as a whole died when people who didnât grow up on fandoms became stans during lockdown, yes, but why am i seeing people openly mocking fics on twitter. why am i seeing screenshots of fics with captions like âbro what is this đ.â why am i seeing people mock fic writers for not knowing how sports or theater or college or any other organization operates in the real world.
âcollege is absolutely nothing like thisâ âwhy are we writing four people on the team scoring a hat trick in one gameâ âso tech work is nothing like this, hope that helps!â
if you donât like a fic, and if you canât suspend your belief enough to enjoy a fic that exaggerates or ignores real-world orgs, you donât have to read it. you donât have to screenshot it and put it on blast for twitter. you donât have to post a link to it in the replies. the back button is literally there on your phone. itâs not giving babyâs first fandom anymore, itâs giving entitled asshole and it isnât as cute as you think it is.
Summary: Mycroftâs first foray in to gift giving for a significant other requires a little assistance.
Word Count: 1399 words
A/N: I know, I know, it's February... but have some Mycroft Christmas fluff.
Mycroft Holmes had faced international crises with less trepidation than he felt standing in front of the glass display case at Fortnum & Mason.
He stared at a watch. Then another watch. Then a third watch, which differed in ways he could classify with ease, and yet, all distinctions felt irrelevant
You were not a problem to be solved, he reminded himself. You were a person.
Someone who had, against all probability, slipped past his defenses: through late-night takeout shared at opposite ends of his sofa, through dry remarks over tea, through the easy silence of simply coexisting. And now it was Christmas. His first Christmas with you.
Mycroft adjusted his scarf, turning away from the watches, already aware that he was undeniably out of his depth.
He required assistance.
Anthea did not look up from her tablet when he entered his office, though she was perfectly aware of his presence. She rarely missed anything.
The room was quiet, cloaked in soft winter light filtering through the skylight. Every object in the space, leather-bound volumes, antique maps, gleaming brass instruments, sat in deliberate order, an environment curated for control. And yet, on his desk, a single unopened Christmas card disrupted the symmetry.
âYouâre pacing,â she said mildly. âWhich suggests either geopolitical collapse or a personal matter.â
âChristmas,â Mycroft said.
That earned him her full attention. It wasnât often he gave weight to something so ordinary.
âI see,â Anthea replied. âAnd?â
âAnd I require advice.â
Antheaâs lips twitched. âFor whom?â
âFor⊠someone special,â he admitted reluctantly, the words tasting foreign and oddly weighty.
She smiled then, genuinely. âThat narrows it down.â
Mycroft folded his hands behind his back. âI am uncertain what would be appropriate. Excess is⊠unwise. But underwhelming would be unacceptable.â
Anthea leaned back in her chair, considering him with the expression of someone deciding how much truth another person could handle.
âWell,â she said, âif youâre feeling festive, thereâs always jewelry.â
Mycroft grimaced. âThat is precisely the sort of thing I fear.â
âNot diamonds, necessarily,â Anthea continued smoothly. âSomething tasteful. A piece with history. Something that says you paid attention.â
She tapped her tablet and turned it toward him. Vintage rings. A delicate necklace. Earrings that looked like they belonged to another era.
âNothing ostentatious,â she said. âBut meaningful. A symbol. Something they can wear and think of you.â
Mycroft studied the screen. He could see the appeal. Permanence. Tradition. A quiet statement of value.
âJewelry implies ownership,â he said slowly.
Anthea shrugged. âIt can also imply commitment.â
He thanked her and dismissed the suggestions without quite dismissing the idea. Anthea, he suspected, understood that better than most.
Still, the unease remained.
The corridor outside St. Bartâs morgue smelled faintly of disinfectant and cold air, the institutional quiet broken only by the distant hum of fluorescent lights. Mycroft Holmes had no particular reason to be there, at least none he would admit, when he rounded the corner and nearly collided with a familiar figure.
âOh! Mycroft,â she said. âSorry, I wasnât looking where I was going.â Molly looked up at him with the air of a startled rabbit, eyes wide and uncertain.
âNo harm done,â he replied, then hesitated. Opportunity, however uncomfortable, rarely announced itself twice.
âMolly,â he said, âmay I ask you something?â
She blinked, adjusting her grip on the file folder in her arms. âOf course.â
âIt concerns⊠gift-giving.â
Her expression lit up with immediate understanding. âOh! Christmas?â
âYes.â
âFor your..?â
âYes.â Mycroft interrupted hastily, not enjoying the vulnerability which came with people being aware of his⊠affections.
Molly smiled, soft and knowing. âThatâs sweet.â
âI assure you this is a logistical concern,â Mycroft said stiffly.
âOf course it is,â she said, entirely unconvinced. âWell, I donât know them very well, but I sort of know you.â
He raised an eyebrow.
âYouâre not flashy,â Molly continued. âBut you notice things. Little things. So maybe something indulgent, but fun. Something they wouldnât buy for themselves.â
âSuch as?â
She thought for a moment. âA trip, maybe. Somewhere warm. Or something classic. Cashmere. Perfume. Something luxurious but personal.â
She paused, then added, âThe kind of gift that says you want them comfortable. Happy.â
Comfort. Happiness. Those were concepts he understood, even if expressing them remained a challenge.
âThank you,â he said, more sincerely than heâd expected.
She hesitated. âFor what itâs worth⊠I donât think they seem like the kind of person who cares about price tags.â
That lodged itself firmly in his mind.
He hadnât planned to stop by Baker Street. He simply found himself there, cold and thoughtful, and somehow sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of him before he could object.
âYou look troubled, dear,â Mrs. Hudson said, setting down a plate of biscuits. âIs it your brother?â
âNo,â Mycroft said. âItâs Christmas.â
Mrs. Hudson gave a knowing laugh. âOh, that explains it. Men always look like that around Christmas. Like theyâre about to be audited by Santa.â
He sighed. âWhat does one give someone whose presence in your life is already the greatest gift?â
âA car,â she said immediately. âOne of those convertible ones in their favourite colour. Or a yacht. Oh! Or one of those diamond mines, like in that song! You know the one that Michael Buble changed the words to, as if he couldnât flirt with Santa. I quite like the Ertha Kitt version myself. I wouldnât recommend a sable though, fur and allâŠâ
Mycroft gave her a confused look.
âWell, they deserve something stunning, donât they?â she said, entirely unrepentant. âTo make up for all the other men they havenât entertained because they chose you.â
He sipped his tea, already regretting bringing this up. This was possibly even more painful that asking his mother for advice on the matter.
She chuckled. âAlright, alright. Let me be serious. Letâs start simple.â She stirred her tea and leaned forward, gentler now. âDo they need anything?â
âNot that I am aware of.â
âDo they want anything?â
âI donât believe so. There have been no significant requests or hints.â
âWell then,â she said, with the confidence of someone who had once guided two consulting detectives through emotional disaster, âwhat do they enjoy?â
He didnât answer right away, a soft frown on his brow as he considered the answer carefully. The silence lingered.
âYou,â she supplied, kindly.
The word landed between them, soft and unavoidable.
Mrs. Hudson smiled. âSometimes the best gift is time. Attention. Being there. You clever men forget that.â
He stared into his tea.
âIt is lovely to be spoiled,â she continued. âbut it means much more to be chosen.â
Christmas morning was quiet.
No snow. No dramatic soundtrack. Just the low winter light filtering through the windows of his Pall Mall apartment.
You padded into the living room in socks, hair still sleep-tangled, wearing one of his jumpers like it belonged to you.
Which, he supposed, it did.
âMerry Christmas,â you said, smiling.
âMerry Christmas,â he replied.
He handed you a small box. Modest. Wrapped neatly.
You opened it slowly.
Inside was a simple pendant. Antique. Subtle. The kind of thing Anthea had suggested. Something that felt like a story rather than a statement, a keepsake with a past, delicate but enduring..
âOh,â you breathed. âItâs beautiful.â
Relief loosened something in his chest.
âAnd,â he said, clearing his throat, âthere is also this.â
He held out a second envelope. Inside was not a ticket, nor a receipt, but a handwritten note. An itinerary of sorts. Days blocked off. Dinners planned. Walks. Evenings in.
Time.
You looked up at him, eyes shining.
âMycroft,â you said softly, âyou didnât have to do all this.â
âI wanted to,â he replied.
You set everything aside and crossed the room, wrapping your arms around him. He stiffened for a fraction of a second before relaxing into it, still not entirely used to receiving affection and yet craving it from you. His chin rested against your hair, and for a moment, everything was still, the hush of the morning, the warmth of you in his arms.
âYou know,â you murmured, âI donât need diamonds or trips or anything like that.â
âI suspected as much.â
âI just want you,â you said simply. âThatâs always been enough.â
He closed his eyes.
For once, Mycroft Holmes felt he had gotten it exactly right.
And that, he thought, was the best Christmas gift of all.
vaporwave
yousharknotpass
jacobvanloon
