All works belong to @silverlullabies do not copy or translate my work, feed into ai, or claim as your own. I don’t mind if you create works inspired by mine as long as you tag me in it so I can read them too
Fandoms I currently write for: Call of Duty, Batman/DC universe, Marvel, Supernatural, My Hero Academia, HP, Jujutsu Kaisen, Naruto, etc (but I’m open to others)
⤷ ★ Resemblance:(Crackfic)Johnny Storm x Reader x Steve Rogers
⤷ ☁︎ The Burden of Godhood: (Loki x Reader) Or in which, the Loki at the end of time realizes he loves you in every universe and in every universe you hate him. Except for one.
Y’all say this but don’t support fluff nor angsty fics if it doesn’t have smut attached to it. You can’t have both. And then y’all don’t reblog or comment on your favs works so they go back to the smut. In the words of Kendrick Lamar, it’s not enough.
on top of this, the month/year just started, let ppl breath
first and last time I’ll ever pitch in on fandom discourse, because I like to keep my blog centered on whimsy—but these posts are so tiring to read.
if you can’t find the fic you want to read, write it.
I won’t listen to the “but I can’t write” talk, because literally no one can unless they start. my first fics are an absolute mess. the grammar is fucked beyond repair, and I’m sure there are words in there that aren’t even English. it’s why they’re safely hidden in my personal folders and not online. they’re training grounds, full of cheesy dialogue and poorly written lines, but they brought improvement after improvement.
if you’re lazy and you don’t want to write, then interact with the writers who do.
if you’re afraid of being found out by friends and relatives who follow your blog, anonymous messages with compliments in the inbox do wonders. share positive feedback. show interest. it’ll push the writer to follow certain trends in order to keep the community they built happy—while being happy themselves.
fluff-exclusive stories are the ones with the lowest interaction on Tumblr and AO3.
even angst and MCD are more prolific in that regard, because fluff-exclusive multi-chapter stories lack the catharsis that things like sex or confrontation bring. unless the author is writing it as a passion project, the lack of feedback will have a negative impact on their will to continue, and they will inevitably switch to something that creates more discourse and interaction—because the beauty of writing also resides in sharing.
most of the time, fluff writers end up sitting at a table on their own, while the food they made is picked apart by a few who won’t even thank them for preparing it.
also, stop shaming smut writers.
sex isn’t something that needs to be further demonized. the world as it is today is doing a fairly good job of shaming sex by itself; we don’t need to spread more hate toward something that is literally biologically made to be fucking okay.
that’s it. write it yourself, or share how much you loved it. and stop being mean about sex, for christ’s sake.
The Pitt makes me feel the most bisexual I have ever felt
Nah because the nurses already know Robby has a thing for Whitaker. And worse, there’s a betting pool.
The bet starts because Robby says Dennis like that.
It’s 09:07, the board is on fire, there are three ambulance stretchers parked in the hallway because there are no rooms, and Whitaker comes skidding in ten minutes late with damp hair and his badge on sideways.
“Sorry, sorry, traffic was- ”
Robby doesn’t scowl. He doesn’t lecture. He doesn’t even sigh.
He looks up from the chart, sees Whitaker, and his whole face does this ridiculous micro softening thing like someone just handed him morphine in human form.
“Dennis,” he says, all warm relief and fond exasperation. “Good. You’re here. Come with me.”
Dana, Princess, and Jesse all clock it at the same time.
The second Whitaker disappears into Trauma 3, Dana uncaps a dry erase marker and flips the little side board over.
“Okay,” she says. “New pool.”
She writes in big block letters:
HOW LONG TIL ROBBY REALIZES HE’S IN LOVE WITH WHITAKER
Underneath:
A) Already did, he’s just dumb
B) Eventually, after catastrophic epiphany
C) Never, man will die of repression
Princess slaps a ten under A without looking up from her charting. “He made him coffee twice yesterday and labeled the cups, Dana. He’s gone.”
Jesse tosses a five onto B. “He’ll figure it out when Whitaker shows up with a date and Robby has a stroke in the meds room.”
Mateo rolls his chair over, eyes bright. “Twenty on C. That man thinks feelings are a side effect.”
They don’t have time to argue about it. The next ambulance hits the bay; the day goes sideways.
But once you’re looking for it, you can’t unsee it.
Robby, handing off the complicated family conversations to literally anyone except Whitaker.
Robby, assigning him the weird, messy cases with the kind of trust you don’t get from a teaching slide.
Robby, standing at the glass doors of CT with no patient of his own, just watching Whitaker talk a panicking teenager through their scan like he’s got all the time in the world.
“You are thirsty,” Perlah mutters under her breath from the nurses’ station. “Seek hydration, sir.”
By 19:30, the board looks like it’s been personally cursed. They lose a patient in Trauma 2; Whitaker comes out looking like someone took a bone saw to his ribs.
Robby is charting. He sees the expression, and he’s moving before anyone else even blinks.
“Dennis,” he says, catching him just past the doorway.
“I’m fine,” Whitaker lies.
“You’re not,” Robby says, so gentle it barely sounds like him. His hand lands at the back of Whitaker’s neck, thumb pressing into the tendon there, grounding. “You did everything right.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Whitaker says, voice thin. “He’s still- what if I’m not cut out for this? What if I went into the wrong residency- “
“I need you here,” Robby cuts in, soft but fierce. “Do you understand? I don’t like this place without you in it.”
At the station, every nurse goes perfectly, reverently silent as they all catch each other’s eyes.
Whitaker blinks up at him, eyes shiny, mouth parted around a breath that doesn’t quite make it to words.
“That sounds…” he manages, words dying in his mouth.
Robby’s ears actually go pink when he realizes what he said and he clears his throat. “Come on, “he mutters. “Five minutes. Stairwell. That’s an order.”
He steers Whitaker toward the stairs, hand still on his neck like he’s something fragile and precious instead of a half burnt out resident.
The door swings shut behind them.
Dana uncaps the marker in slow motion and draws a massive circle around A) Already did, he’s just dumb.
Princess extends her hand without looking away from the stairwell door. “Pay up.”
Jesse groans and shoves his five across the desk. Mateo sighs like a widower and adds his twenty to the pile.
“New pool,” Dana says, already writing.
Underneath the first one, in slightly messier handwriting:
HOW LONG TIL WHITAKER REALIZES IT’S MUTUAL
Princess throws another ten down immediately. “I give the boy two weeks.”
“Three months,” Perlah says. “Minimum. He’s as bad as Robby.”
Jesse taps his chin thoughtfully. “Put me down for ‘never’. We’ll be wheeling them into retirement and they’ll still be calling it mentorship.”
The stairwell door opens. Robby and Whitaker step back out, both a little more composed, both red eyed in the same way. Robby’s hand grazes Whitaker’s back as they split off toward different rooms, like he can’t quite not touch him.
Ough I am humbled by your trust in me 🥺 here is some soft Farah for thee.
cw: 18+ soft smut. oral, fem receiving. farah x reader. blood mentioned. very self indulgent :) lemme take care of the hot lady covered in blood
You hear her boots, gravel crunching, slow, steady. Soldier’s march seeping out into exhaustion.
She’s silhouetted in the doorway, rifle slung low, the pale light of dawn painting her in streaks of gold and red. Red that isn’t hers… mostly. Blood dries along her temple, crusted against her collarbone, staining the once-olive green of her shirt shades darker. There’s a gash on her lower lip, and her eyes—God, her eyes—are so fucking tired.
But she stands tall and proud. Still in command, even now.
You’re across the room before she can say a word. Her rifle clatters softly against the wall as you ease it off her. She lets you slowly strip the gloves from her fingers, kissing her knuckles as you go. Lets you cradle her face in your hands and press your forehead to hers, breathing her in.
“You’re home,” you whisper.
“I’m home,” she echoes.
You kiss her, deep and grounding and warm, your thumbs brushing blood from her cheekbones.
She leans into it for a moment, into you, before pulling back with a wry little smile. “I’m filthy.”
“You’re perfect.”
She lets out a quiet laugh, barely there. Her shoulders drop slightly, a soft smile settling on her lips.
You guide her, step by step, until the back of her knees hit the bed. She eases down, hand slipping out of your as you kneel between her thighs, unbuttoning her vest. She watches with those sharp eyes as you peel away the layers of cloth and dirt and blood.
Her voice is low when she says, “You don’t have t—”
“I want to.” Your mouth is already on her stomach, planting small kisses as her shirt comes up. “Tonight, you don’t lift a finger.”
You push her back gently, lips trailing down, and she sighs, relieved, at ease.
Fuck. She’s still the most dangerous person in any room. But right now, she’s yours.
It’s quiet, save for the soft shift of fabric and your breath against her skin.
Farah moves to lie back against the bed, propped on her elbows at first. But as you push her pants down her hips and kiss the inside of her knee, her eyes soften slipping closed for just a moment.
You glance up, meet her eyes, and smile. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
She huffs a little scoff. The kind of sound she only makes when she wants to argue but doesn’t have the fight. Not with you.
You kiss your way up her thigh, slow and careful. Her skin is warm beneath your lips. You mouth at the crease of her hip, then let your nose brush her curls, breathing her in like it steadies you.
One hand strokes up her thigh, the other reaches for hers and she gives it. You lace your fingers together, your thumb stroking over her knuckles.
And then you press your mouth to her, warm and open and devoted.
She lets out a quiet, fractured breath. Her head tips back. Her hand tightens around yours.
You take your time. Long, slow licks, your tongue exploring every inch like she deserves to be cherished. You listen to the way she breathes, the way she sighs when you suck gently on her clit, the way her thighs twitch when you hum against her. Her body is a symphony written in scars and steel and you ache for every note.
She whispers your name, a rasped exhale, and you answer with a soft, “I’ve got you.”
You pull her hand up, kiss the inside of her wrist, then go back to her with more pressure. A slow, firm rhythm, matched with your fingers stroking gently into her just enough.
Farah arches, her breath catching as your tongue flicks just right. You feel her tense, clenching on your fingers, feel her legs shift around your head.
“I’ve got you,” you murmur, kissing her thigh. “You’re safe.“
She finishes with a slow, shuddering exhale, a soft moan on her lips.
You stay with her through the aftershocks, kissing her slowly, and further, cleaning her gently with a soft cloth, murmuring soft things you know she hears even if she doesn’t respond. Then you crawl back up the bed, gathering her in your arms.
She tucks herself in close, one hand against your chest, her face in your neck. You stroke her back, skin soft and warm against your palms.
“You did so good,” you whisper. “I’ve got you now.”
you can tell how much a fanfic writer loves their favorite fictional character by how much they torture them in their fanfics
Anonymous:
Bless me Silver for I am fortunate…… PCOS is giving my nonbinary ass elevated testosterone and androsomething levels and basically autotransitioning me into a fat butch which is exactly what I always wanted…… (I had to tell someone and I’m not out to my family <:3 )
Hell yeah friend that’s fucking awesome. I’m so happy for you.
Anonymous:
question!!! have you ever watched avatar? :)
The last air bender or the James Cameron movies?
Yes to the first, no to the second. I just realized there was more than one Avatar film tbh.
anyone work on a story/drabble concept for a long time only to see someone else post the same concept first or am I just unlucky
