Imejdjjddjddj omggg I am literally so close to finishing htkag
I started the final scene today
No idea when I’m gonna finish it since I want to slow down a bit. Really take the time to make this scene as emotional and heartfelt as it deserves to be.
But I literally cannot wait to finish writing it so I can share it with some of you at last!!! I’ve been dying to see some reactions to it lmao
I also cannot wait to start talking about my next wip!! But the thing with that is: my characters need some more work, I don’t have a setting, and I don’t have enough story events to make an outline. I have names and vibes of my characters, a plot of the story, the genres, only a mere handful of scene ideas, and that’s pretty much it. Sooo yeah lol
Overall though I think I’m just one giant ball of excitement and anticipation rn
So, I haven’t gone back and rewatched Matt Smith’s era in years.I haven’t seen the entirety of the show since the first time I watched it back in 2013 and seeing as how we’re well into 13′s era now, there are things I’m noticing about 9-12 that I didn’t notice before.
Here’s where this piece comes in. Eleven is angry. All the time. Angrier then I ever remember, and he was my first doctor! I haven’t written Doctor Who in a while, so here’s a piece. Let me know what you think!
REQUESTS ARE OPEN!
***
The anger of a good man is not absolute. Good men don’t need rules.
There’s a man out there who roams the Universe in a blue box with a human by his side that calls himself The Doctor. He’s many things.. cruel but kind, brave but cowardly, and prides himself in never carrying a gun because his weapon is his mind and his tool of choice is the sonic screwdriver that never leaves his person.
He’s ancient. Bright green eyes that seem to soften whenever they stare into yours, eyes that mirror the way the stars burn and the way civilizations have fallen at his hands; Eyes that shine as brightly as the sun and are so often able to hide the one thing he never allows you to see.
I made cosplay clothes of TARDIS. Women’s version. For my friend. She is going to go to the Tokyo Comic Con in this dress. I am excited very much !!!!!
Jaskier relaxes back into the pillow, looking at his companion next to him. He admires Marek’s hair against the sheets and the rise and fall of his chest, still fast from their exertions earlier.
Marek’s hair looks almost white in the moonlight, and Jaskier pushes thoughts of Geralt from his head. He really needs to stop thinking about Geralt in conjunction with sex. Never mind the fact that Marek’s calloused hands felt exactly the same way Jaskier’s imagined Geralt’s would feel on his body.
Marek rolls over to face him, catching Jaskier’s eye and jerking him from his thoughts. “Thank you,” he says earnestly.
A small blush starts to heat Jaskier’s face. “What for?”
“I’ve never done that before. It was…nice.”
“Just nice, hmm?”
Marek laughs, and Jaskier likes the way it sounds. Not as good as coaxing out a hard earned chuckle from Geralt, but close. He wonders what Geralt’s occupying himself with this evening, anyway. Geralt had told him as he left their shared room not to get into trouble, and Jaskier would say he’s doing a pretty excellent job of that, if he says so himself. Keeping himself busy, indeed.
Geralt had accepted a rotfiend contract that would keep him occupied for the night. What else was Jaskier supposed to do? It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault that the contract issuer’s son was so handsome, so after Geralt left, Jaskier set himself to wooing Marek.
Jaskier’s attention is jerked back to Marek as he stretches and amends, “Great. Amazing, maybe.”
“That’s more like it.” A smug grin flashes over Jaskier’s face. Another satisfied partner, even if this one didn’t have much to compare it to.
Jaskier eyes Marek contemplatively, considering suggesting another round. If this was his first time, it would only be the gentlemanly thing to do to let him continue to draw from Jaskier’s vast experiences.
The post sex haze flies from Jaskier’s head as he hears a loud voice on the other side of the door. The door knob rattles, and Marek jumps out of bed, searching frantically for his clothes. Jaskier tries not to sigh in dismay, but Marek has a look of terror painted across his face, so apparently he’s not as used to the being angrily chased from bed part as Jaskier is.
Why does this always happen to him?
The feeble lock gives out as a man bursts into the room. “Hey! What are you doing with my son?”
Jaskier internally curses as his mind races, trying to think how to get himself out of the scrape this time. Geralt’s going to give him the even-more-silent treatment for at least two weeks if he loses out on his contract pay because of this.
“It’s not what it looks like?” he tries feebly.
-
another train fic! tune back in tomorrow for the next installment, which will be linked here!
part two | a witcher fic collaboration
part three | a witcher fic collaboration
In times like these, Jaskier cannot help what words will spill out of him. Well, truthfully, it’s almost always difficult to predict what, exactly, he’s going to say. But this time, he truly has no power in what comes out of his mouth.
He hopes it’s creative enough to be memorable, as well as simple enough so the fucking bigoted toadwill understand just how much trouble he’s in. Oh, the ballad that will be written. Jaskier will ensure that it will be even more catchy than the Fishmonger’s Daughter.
“Henceforth! No witchers will deem their time worthy to slay anymonsters around these parts, for they will be well informed about the absolutely ludicrous nature of the feckless half-wit who– Geralt?!”
Pushing Marek’s tomato faced father out of the way is Geralt, looking nonplussed about everything that’s happening. He just marches his little witcher boots all the way up to Jaskier, bends at the knee, and throws Jaskier over his shoulder.
“Whathappenedback there?” Geralt growls. He sets Jaskier on his feet, stabilizing him with a hand to his shoulder when he wobbles on his single-booted foot.
From Jaskier’s state of undress, Geralt can guess what he had been doing before the shouting started, and from the other half-dressed man running around in the alderman’s house, chasing a sobbing woman, Geralt also has an idea as to who Jaskier had been doing it with.
A resigned sort of jealousy settles in Geralt’s stomach.
It would be easy to continue the argument, but with a soft sigh, Jaskier lets it go… for now. He hates being left behind, especially like this. It’s not as if Geralt is about to embark on a dangerous hunt that could end with Jaskier losing his life. No, this is just the witcher cleaning up his mess and it isn’t fair on either of them. Jaskier prides himself on being eloquent, a wordsmith, a charmer to the very highest degree, and yet it is so often Geralt picking up the pieces after he loses his temper.
Not this time, Jaskier vows silently as Geralt leads Roach further off the path to a more suitable camping spot.
He wakes an hour or so after he falls asleep, unsure exactly what roused him. He goes for his sword, sheathed at his side as always, because when a witcher wakes in the night it’s almost always for a good reason. The edge of the forest is silent, the little clearing they’d created hushed and heavy with darkness. The brush rustles faintly with the nocturnal movements of small creatures, going about their nightly routines. A cricket hums off to his left, but falls quiet as Geralt sits up.
HEY heres a kinda spicy zadr oneshot i wrote a bit ago but wanna post here. im moving in the morning so this might be it for a hot minute but thanks to anyone who donated to my kofi to help me out of this place as fast as possible, it means more than you could possibly know.
Tw for: choking and asphixiation(in a hot way but also kinda in a murder way), blood, fighting, and generally vaguely 18+ content you’ve been warned
word count: 1184
It felt like flying. The pain was almost inconsequential against the feeling of soaring through the air, of tumbling, of falling fallingfallinguntil his back hit the ground with a crack. His whole body lit up with aches and burning pains, not too far from what he imagined it’d be like to be hit by a truck. It was a wonder nothing broke from the height Zim threw him- it was a wonder he wasn’t dead. It was thrilling though, wasn’t it? To be so so close to death, for the air to be forcefully taken from his lungs, for his heart to be the only sound to break through the ringing in his ears. Zim was soon after him, on top of him, PAK legs around him like a cage, like a spider ready to attack at any moment, like a jail made of blades that could slice him open at the slightest of touches. The cold morning dew was soaking into the back of Dib’s shirt, and his fingers felt numb from the cold. For once, between the two of them, Zim was the one burning the air around him.
yet another joke about the ice floe scene from my notes. i have so many of them but i can’t help it…the comedic potential is just overflowing with the amount of content i can use hahaha
in case anyone is looking through the notes trying to find the original artist it’s will mcphail !! feel free to check out his site but also here are some other things he made too !!
OOOHHH CLICK ON THAT LINK THIS GUY IS FUCKING GREAT
Special thank you to the amazing @fairefolked aka Brie bird for helping execute this idea and showing us so much patience! Also, thank you to wonderful @thesimperiuscurse for the tag line! We love you guys!
whumper hurts others to distract themself from the stress of beingwhumped
This is such a great prompt!!! I’m new to tumblr to apologies if I didn’t reblog this properly!! ;c
Cw: explicit language, mentions of physical abuse, mentions of s*xual abuse/noncon, violence, mentions of torture, imprisonment.
.
Nixslams Artemis into the wall with a maddened snarl. There’s audible crack as a rib breaks from the sudden impact. Art chokes at blooms of pain violently unfurling in his side and he slides down the wall as his legs fail him. Before he hits the ground, however, the irasciblewarden grabs his collar and yanks him upright.
“Obstinate bastard,” Nix sneers, face contorted into something ugly. “When are you going to realise that your people are not coming? They have abandoned you.”
Art chuckles weakly, sagging in the younger man’s hold. “I have faith in them,” he says, sagely. “They will come for me as I would do the same for them. Such is the way of the light.”
Nix snatches the prisoner’s jaw, fingers trembling from the sheer force of his grip. Art winces as his mandible creaks.
“You fool,” Nix hisses. “All you must do is acquiesce. Kneel before my master and you will be unharmed. If however, you continue your defiance, you will suffer the consequence.” He bares his teeth, eyes widened twofold in anticipatory madness. “And I can assure you. It will be immeasurably slowandimmeasurably painful.”
The prisoner calmly gazes at the erratic warden, rising above the various wounds littered about his body. Pain, he doesn’t fear. Pain, he is trained to withstand. Trained to understand, dispense, and heal.
But this man. This warden of his, Nix (meaning no-name, no-one, nothing), he seems to be one who fears pain. Immensely so.
Artemis is a keen eye and an even keener mind. He notices the way the younger man holds himself, taut and slightly hunched, as if the full extent of his movement were limited. He catches the absent pulsing of the warden’s sharp jaw. The occasional bead of sweat that rolls into those turbulent, maddened eyes.
He feels the quivering in the emaciated hand that keeps him pinned to the grimy wall of his cell.
But most telling of all, is Nix’s intense propensity for violence. He claims sadism, the depraved lengths of his cruelty, and yet his strikes are flashy and ineffective, and his torture techniques unique but clumsy. It’s as if he has memorised the choreography, but he lacks the finesse and experience in his performance that true sadism requires.
From all his years of being a warrior of the light, Artemis can sense a fraud when he sees one. And he can most definitely smell this fraud’s fear.
