#⋆˙⊰ writing. ：undecided.

[salvatoraes]

new tags 002, damn ya'll this man has a lot of verses lmao

[2btheanswertothequestion]

Eddie's porn stash is a pretty conventional one. An 'if you've seen one stash you've seen them all' type. It basically only consists of skin mags, some of them kinky but most of them vanilla. Normal stuff.

The oddest thing in it is a two-year-old calendar. You know those sexy firefighter calendars? Usually a charity thing? A hit with the housewife crowd? Yeah. Except this calendar decided to branch out and include a bunch of sexy men from a bunch of sexy professions.

So, in this thing, joining the sexy firefighter is a sexy doctor, a sexy construction worker, a sexy police officer (whose month Eddie tore out and burned because fuck cops but don't ever fuck cops), a sexy librarian, and so on. They're all really good-looking, but none of them hold a candle to the paramedic.

It's weird. Paramedics aren't normally part of the traditionally sexy professions. It's messy and sometimes tragic, but lacks the high-paying glamour that doctors and nurses enjoy. Eddie's had his fair share of fantasies, and none of them involved fucking a paramedic.

Until two years ago.

The guy in the calendar simply is that hot.

There's not even anything risqué about his picture. None of the pictures go beyond "this dude is chiseled and shirtless", because veering even slightly past the softest softcore territory would scare off the little housewives or something.

(Eddie is actually pretty fucking sure it'd increase the sales, but hey, what does he know.)

The point is, there's nothing that obscene about the pic. Just a guy kneeling in the back of an ambulance, first aid equipment scattered between his powerful thighs, shirt open to reveal his sculpted torso…

Dark hair spanning across his pecs, over his abs, vanishing down his tight tight tight pants. Hips canting upward, bringing attention to the size of his bulge beneath the zipper. Broad shoulders, ripped arms and large hands, veins protruding across the back. A pretty yet masculine face, with a strong jaw and a straight nose, full lips, a smattering of moles going down his biteable neck. Voluminous, golden brown hair swooped away from his twinkling eyes.

He's got this look in them, this slant to his mouth. Like he knows he's the hottest guy in the calendar.

The one month everyone will go crazy for.

Eddie has become intimately familiar with that look. No joke, in two years it's made him crack his marbles more than anyone else has done in his quarter-century lifetime. When all else fails, November-paramedic has his back. It's basically his longest relationship to date, which sounds a lot sadder out loud (and it sounded fucking sad inside his head, too).

You might wonder why any of that is relevant now, as he sits on the curb outside of The Behemoth with blood trickling from his temple, his band giving their statements to one cop while another hauls away the snarling douchebag that clipped him. How does it play a part in this god-awful night out, you ask?

Well.

"Sir?"

Eddie startles, too caught up in the thudding inside his head, made worse by the buzzing crowd, to notice the man approaching him. He looks up, his gaze gliding past uniformed legs, muscular forearms, a curved neck and honeyed eyes appraising Eddie, and oh.

Oh God.

Eddie's breath sticks in his chest and his tongue becomes a cognate to sandpaper, because it's the paramedic.

It's the paramedic. From the calendar.

He's hallucinating. He has to be. He collapsed on the sidewalk, and now he's having one last weird sex dream before his brain finishes seeping out and he fucking dies.

November-paramedic crouches in front of him. Eddie continues to gape like he's getting ready to catch the peanuts no one is tossing at him.

"My name is Steve. I'm with the ambulance," November-paramedic says. "What's your name?"

Eddie makes a noise incomprehensible to most Earth cultures before his brain registers the meaning of the question and stutters out the answer.

"I- Uh- E-Eddie. It's, it's Eddie."

November-paramedic – Steve – smiles kindly. Heat prickles across Eddie's cheeks and neck. It's not the same as the cocky, sexy smile he's got in the calendar, but still. He's smiling. At Eddie!

"Hi, Eddie." He nods toward Eddie's temple. "That's an impressive cut you got there. May I take a look at it?"

"Yeah? Yeah. Um, g-go ahead."

As Steve sets down his bag and rummages through it, Eddie scours his face to confirm that it really is the guy from the calendar. To his chagrin, it is. There's no mistaking it. Those eyes, like liquid gold. That jawline, a weapon in its own right. Those moles, applied so skillfully it must've been by an artist's hand. That hair, coming straight out of a commercial for luxury shampoo. It's lying flatter than in the calendar, either lacking product or having sweated it out, but it's still glorious.

Steve, having finished washing his hands, tugs on a pair of disposable gloves. The plastic snaps against his wrist, sending a shiver through Eddie. It centers between his legs. Shit, if he pops a boner now…

"I'm going to ask you some questions, okay?" Steve says while pressing a square piece of gauze against the cut. "Do you know what day it is?"

"Eh, Thursday?"

"Do you know where you are?"

"The Behemoth."

Steve nods and, with a lopsided smile, asks, "And are you a patron or did you and your head injury just wander onto the scene?"

Eddie laughs. Loud, merry, and verging on too long. It wasn't even that funny. Steve seems pleased his joke was a success, though. Unless his smile is the uncomfortable kind that one wears when faced with the unhinged. Eddie isn't sure how much blood he's lost.

"No, I, like, my band…" he says, stammering like talking isn't what he does best. Jesus Christ, it's just a hot guy! Eddie has made a fool of himself in front of those plenty of times – no need to get flustered about it. He clears his throat. "We had a gig and, after, at the bar, some guys got into a fight. Got ugly, so we tried to leave, but… alas!" He makes a dramatic sweep of his arm, nearly clocking Steve. Steve expertly ducks away without lessening the pressure on the wound. Eddie soldiers on, not daring to pause lest he lose his steam. Hopefully his burning face is enough of an apology. "Fucker wasn't even aiming for me. He missed his intended target and struck me instead."

"Right. Did you lose consciousness after he hit you?"

"Nope."

"Good. Did you drink tonight?"

"Half a beer, at most."

"Do-"

"Eddie!"

Gareth's nasally voice cuts off Steve's question. The next second, he's materialized beside them with a slightly alarmed expression. "Dude, are you…!"

He trails off, eyes growing into dinner plates. There isn't that much blood, is there?

Steve looks Gareth up and down, a crease between his brows. "Is this your friend?"

"My drummer. Gareth."

Eddie half-expects Steve to demand Gareth leaves so he can do his job in peace, but nope. That kind, calm smile is back. He even gives him one of those little upward-nods 'cool guys' like to do.

"What's up, Gareth? I'm Steve; I'm with the ambulance. Just making sure Eddie won't keel over later tonight."

"Uh huh…" Gareth kneels opposite Steve. He's smiling too, but his is shit eating. Eddie frowns in confusion, because what does Gareth have to be happy about? He was freaking out right after Eddie got hit, but now he's staring at Steve like-

Oh.

He's staring at Steve.

No. Noooooooooo! Oh shit! Oh fuck! Oh why, why has he kept his porn stash in a drawer without a lock all these years?! He can't recollect the reason Gareth opened that particular drawer on that particular day – all Eddie remembers is how Gareth, Jeff, and Marv snickered when he explained the inclusion of the calendar.

That was it, though. They moved on. Sure, there has been the occasional roasting after the fact, but it's not like he hasn't also mocked them for their weird shit. But that's not the point. The point is that Gareth is staring at Steve like he recognizes him.

Gareth's attention flicks toward Eddie. Eddie shakes his head as subtly yet pleadingly as he can. Gareth's grin gobbles down another turd. Eddie makes a valiant effort to explode Gareth's eyeballs with his mind.

"Say…" Gareth turns to Steve. "Have we met?"

"I don't think so. Eddie, do you have a headache?"

"Yeah, man," Eddie says, voice trembling. "Hurts like hell."

"I could've sworn I've seen your face before," Gareth says. "Like, I'm 100% sure."

"Are you dizzy or nauseous?" Steve asks, ignoring Gareth.

"Um, a little dizzy but no nausea?"

"Hmm, okay. Blurred vision or uneven numbness?"

"No."

Steve nods, glancing at his watch. Then, to Eddie’s dismay, he looks at Gareth. "I've never been to this bar before."

"Nono, not here. Somewhere else…"

Steve's lips purse and his brows knit into the most adorable thinking-face Eddie has ever seen. His heart skips a beat, then skips two more as Steve's free hand gently cups Eddie's cheek. The skin catches fire where Steve's gloved fingertips touch it.

"Let me have a look at your pupils…" Steve says, guiding Eddie's face and, holy shit, leaning in close for a better look.

Eddie gulps, half his blood rushing up and the other half down; he squeezes his legs together to prevent the little guy from saying 'hello' to everyone present. His eyes rove over Steve's face. His lips are chapped and the skin on his nose is dry. The nose itself is somewhat crooked. Did he get into a fight between the calendar photoshoot and now, or did they make the nose straighter for the photo? Why would anyone think it necessary to edit a face like this one? Even with its imperfections mere inches away, it's still the handsomest Eddie has seen.

Steve hums. It's a perfectly preserved vinyl. It's a metal festival. It's Eddie's new favorite song.

"Same size but pretty dilated… Keep your eyes open, please." He shines a tiny flashlight into Eddie's eyes before nodding, satisfied. "All right, looks good."

He leans back out of Eddie's space, returning Eddie's ability to breathe, and removes the gauze. His smile tells Eddie that the bleeding has stopped. As great as it is that he won't hemorrhage to death, it also means their encounter is approaching its end.

"You might've seen me at the university campus?" Steve says, fiddling with some plasters; it takes Eddie's horny brain five full seconds to deduce he's talking to Gareth again.

"No-" Gareth freezes, mouth hanging open. His smugness has evaporated. "Actually, I might have? You're a student?"

Steve chuckles as he patches the last of Eddie's cut. "No, but my friends are. None of them own a car, so I end up driving them everywhere. Right, Eddie, I think you're good to recover at home. Unless you feel like you should head to the hospital?"

Great question! Does he? On the one hand: riding in the ambulance with Steve, ensuring a few additional minutes of his lustrous eyes and smooth voice.

On the other hand: hospital bills.

"… no."

"Okay. Do you have anyone who can keep an eye on you?"

Eddie shakes his head. "I live alone."

"Then maybe Gareth could hang around for the next 48 hours?"

"Sure can," Gareth says without hesitating. Eddie's heart swells with affection for him, despite his (failed! Hah!) plot to mortify Eddie to death.

Steve is already packing his medical bag.

"I want you to rest and avoid stressful situations," he tells Eddie. "No alcohol, no recreational drugs, no driving, and no working until you feel completely recovered. You may take tylenol, but not aspirin or ibuprofen. And if your symptoms worsen or you develop new ones – seek medical attention. Got it?"

The last part is sterner, reminding Eddie of every male authority figure he's strived to disobey during his teenage years. He has no such desire this time.

"Got it."

Steve raises his eyebrows as if to say 'have you really?', and Eddie has to wonder if it's he who seems contrariant and/or stupid enough to ignore the medic or if this is something Steve does with every patient. If it's the former, he mustn't seem that contrariant, because Steve's features soften into trust. He stands, brushing dust off his knees.

"Great. You boys take care now. Have a nice night."

"Yeah, you too, man," Eddie calls after him weakly as he retreats to the blinking ambulance. "Thanks…"

He keeps his gaze on the broad expanse of Steve's back, soaking in the rippling of his muscles as he walks and, oh would you look at that, his ass is as nice as the rest of him. Eddie's been wondering for two years now…

"Dude!"

Eddie jerks toward Gareth. Did he say that out loud? Did he drool? Is his boner showing? But no, Gareth isn't disgusted or disturbed – he's excited.

Shit.

He'll never hear the end of this.

"Don't!" he hisses.

Gareth just laughs, eyes twinkling.

"That was-"

"Don't!"

"I can't believe it!"

"Gareth-"

"You are so red right now!"

"For Jesus fucking Christ's fucking sake-"

------------------------------

Dedicated to @rougenancy for always listening to and encouraging my various thoughts, opinions, and ideas (they are constant).

Part 2

AO3

[salvatoraes]

[ SMS : CARRIE ] : damn, that's why i'm glad i have no friends with kids. [ SMS : CARRIE ] : what are you reading? [ SMS : CARRIE ] : i mean, not particularly but i also wouldn't mind it.

[ SMS : @salvatoraes ] staying with lacey for the weekend and her kid keeps waking up and crying [ SMS : stef ] can't sleep with the noise so i've been reading instead [ SMS : stef ] do you wanna talk about it?

[ghostlysoaps]

Creature/monster AU

Soft warning for mature language and themes

Soap is staring at him. This, in and of itself, isn't unusual. It's like their very own game of cat-and-mouse. Watching and waiting to get caught in the act, diverting their attention only after the other catches their gaze to keep. The switch occurs, and then it's up to each of them to decide how much blatant attention is enough.

Ghost grits his teeth under the relative safety of his mask but doesn't take his eyes off the road. He can't afford to with the headlights off even if he sees better in the dark than most – not with the loops and curves and potential threat hunting them.

"Are we going to talk about it?" Soap eventually asks, an hour and some into their mad dash to safety.

Ghost wishes he could parrot the question back at him while replacing the last word with "what.” It wouldn't work, he knows that. Playing the fool isn't Ghost’s strong suit and Soap wouldn't care to indulge him anyway. Not with the way his leg is bouncing, ears flicking, gaze as piercing as a knife between the ribs. A bloodhound who's caught a whiff of wounded prey. 

"No," is what he says instead, short, concise and brokering no room for argument.

"I think we should."

But then, Soap would argue with a brick wall on the off-chance he could win.

"Drop it, Sergeant."

Soap's face twists, canines flashing as he gives himself to irritation, eyes flashing gold.

"It was wearing my face while trying to coax ye into dicking it down, Ah'd say there's plenty to discuss."

"It was trying to get me close enough to wring my neck."

"Och, aye. Strange way t'go about it." The glower he levels Ghost with burns against the side of his face. "Sure there's nothing you wanna tell me? Might've helped dislodge that stick up yer arse if you'd let it–"

Ghost swerves abruptly, takes them off the main road to rest beneath a canopy of trees, on a path too overgrown to count as one, cutting Soap's questioning in half as the man yelps and slams a hand against the window to steady himself. The car slows to a stop and then one of Ghost's claw-tipped hands are on Johnny’s face, digging deep divots into the fat and muscle around his chin and jaw. He uses it to shake Soap's head from side-to-side. Not scruffing, but a show of displeasure nonetheless. One familiar to wolves. 

When Soap opens his mouth to protest, Ghost gives in to the urge to slot his thumb inside the warm cavern and draws a shallow line across it that quickly wells with blood.

"One more word," he snarls, "and I'll cut your tongue right out of your fucking mouth."

Soap stares at him, all wide-eyed and stricken, for a moment, just the one, before his lips stretch into a smirk around the digit in his mouth. He seals his lips over it, hollows his cheeks on a mean suckle, and then nips it with too-sharp teeth the moment Ghost pulls it out as if burnt, causing that lopsided smirk to broaden. 

"Shouldn't threaten me with a good time, sir."

"You're off your head." 

"I can smell arousal, y'know," Soap says, redirecting the conversation with all the gracefulness Ghost shows in his driving. "But not on you, can't ever smell anything on you. Drives me up the fuckin' wall." Soap shakes his head with a laugh, glances at Ghost from under his lashes. He's still smiling. "Sirens... now they don't need pheromones to get in yer head and root out yer darkest desires, an' they don't resort to shape-shifting into a specific guise unless there's a chance it'll work on their target."

"It didn't."

"I could tell by the bullet ye put through its heid. Dinnae even hesitate for a second."

Ghost's fingers flex at the reminder and Soap's eyes flit to them momentarily.

"You've a cold heart, Lt."

"Told you that already," Ghost rasps.

"Why me?"

And it sounds like begging, those two words, spoken in a beckoning call of their own, pleading for a truth Ghost is refusing to admit to anyone, least of all himself.

"You're attractive, Soap, that's all there is to it."

Soap deflates, sinking back into his seat with his face turning towards the window. Shoulders slumped, ears pinned back, as if he were a puppy expecting praise and finding a boot hurtling towards his side instead. It's jarring. Not wholly unexpected, but hell if it doesn't drive a blade straight through Ghost's aforementioned heart – something serrated and hooked sawing through his sternum to tear at raw nerves.

He should leave them there, within the rapidly growing chasm of distance he'd longed to create since Soap first bumped a fist against his shoulder.

"I knew it wasn't you."

It's the thinnest sliver of an olive branch, incapable of flowering with how slight and insignificant it is.

Soap takes it nonetheless.

"How's that?"

"Because your attempts at flirting are as bad as your jokes."

Johnny, incandescent with rage, comes back alive as if electrocuted and with slew of profanity to boot. He rants at Ghost for a solid half-hour, all ire and with no regard for propriety or rank, dressing him down as thoroughly as any drill sergeant back at basic. Anger is a good look on him. Joy is too. Emotions of any kind as long as they're far from the empty vessel Ghost had glimpsed before.

He lets out a breath he can't remember holding as Johnny’s voice steadily washes away the memory of blood in the sand and dimmed, unseeing eyes, blue as the summer's sky, staring unblinking ahead.

[bunnakit]

"I'm glad you're alright." Tharn said as if he hadn't just had a knife buried in his stomach.

Fear and dread pooled in Phaya's stomach, a subtle tremor rolling through his body at the gentle touch to his cheek. Only a few hours ago he'd struck Tharn, accidentally sure, but he'd still done it and now here he was cradling Tharn's tired, bleeding body to his own after being rescued by him once again. How many more times would the cycle repeat itself? Why couldn't Tharn understand he wanted to keep him safe too?

As Tharn's thumb stroked further over his cheek a swell of emotion in his chest threatened to break down the barriers of his ribs. His touch was impossibly gentle and Phaya could almost feel the concern in the soft glide of his fingertips.

Phaya lingered in the moment just slightly, grounding himself as he took in the gentle pressure of Tharn's hand against his hip, traced his eyes over the droplets of sweat clinging to Tharn's brow, tried to ignore the scent of iron in the air. The adrenaline still thrummed in his veins but he no longer felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin from it.

Instead of speaking he hugged Tharn closer, keeping the pressure off his side but gently grasping the back of his neck and pulling him to his shoulder. He just wanted to feel Tharn against him for a moment, feel the rise and fall of his chest against his own and know that he still drew breath. He closed his eyes tight once he was sure Tharn could no longer see him, swallowing down the choking lump in his throat. The idea of Tharn dying to protect him brought a physical pain to his body, a sharp sensation that ran from fingertip to fingertip and head to toe.

Phaya felt him return the embrace, his fingers curling into the back of his shirt, and he felt himself force down a soft sound that threatened to crawl forth. He knew they were dancing around things, knew Tharn was holding back for some reason, but relationship or no he loved Tharn. He'd suspected for some time, but this drove the final nail home like a jagged stake through his heart. He only hoped his embrace comforted Tharn half as much as the reverse did for him.

"Phaya! Tharn!"

Phaya glanced up, curling his fingers tight in Tharn's shirt before they each pulled back slightly, never severing the connection between them. He felt Tharn's fingers against his elbow, curled his own fingers around Tharn's shoulder, and found comfort that neither of them seemed inclined to separate anytime soon. He felt like his entire being was tethered to Tharn in the moment, like if he let go for just a second either Tharn or he would cease to exist. He wasn't sure which he was more afraid of.

His eyes finally focused enough to identify the new arrivals.

Yai.

Yai was safe, Yai loved Tharn, Yai would protect them. They were safe now; he should let go of Tharn, explain the situation, and help Yai and the others. Instead, he offered the smallest nod to assure Yai they were both alright before he pulled Tharn closer and buried his face against his neck. He took solace in the moment of relative peace, in the sound of Tharn's gentle breaths and the warmth of his body molded against his front.

Phaya couldn't let this happen again, couldn't let this feeling of holding his entire world between his palms slip from his grasp.

(disclaimer: none of this is from the novel, i haven't read the novel, i just like doing character studies of them and rotating them in my head like a skyrim loading screen)

[kingofthering]

Rosquez | Vampire AU | 1.2k

When Valentino wakes up, there are several things that he notices.

First of all, Marc’s presence in the bed with him, his back against the head of it, sheets pooling at his hips, a book held between his hands. He smells of plants, his hair partially damp.

If Valentino pushes farther, he can find the smell of fresh grass on Marc’s boots in another room, see the tiniest remains of dirt hiding under Marc’s nails.

Using his speed, Valentino surges forward, knocking Marc’s book down as it falls to the ground in a clatter. Marc retaliates, the two of them tumbling in bed until Marc stops fighting, letting Valentino pin him to the mattress, one leg between Marc’s, one hand keeping Marc’s arms out of the way.

Once he knows that Marc won’t move anymore, Valentino relaxes, letting go of Marc’s arms and letting him move up until his head is properly resting against a pillow. Marc’s right hand finds the spot it always settles for on Valentino’s waist, just below his ribs where a scar from before he was turned sits.

Valentino smirks down at Marc and gets an eye roll back for his troubles. 

“Good morning to you too,” Marc bites without heat. From up close, it’s easy to see the red tinting Marc’s skin, even with how unusually tan for a vampire he’s always been. “I was reading that, you know. The story is quite good.”

Valentino laughs, his hand leaving its place on the mattress to move to Marc’s jaw, his thumb coaxing Marc’s lips open until Valentino can find his canines.

Valentino expected to find the blood coloring Marc’s gums but the sight gives him a little thrill anyway.

“You went hunting,” Valentino states. It’s not a question. Not with all the evidence at hand.

Under him, Marc nods, his eyes fixed on Valentino. It’s rare to see Marc so relaxed that Valentino has to drink the moment in (and there is still a degree of tension and awareness in Marc’s body, Valentino won’t foul himself, but he will take what he can have).

Valentino’s thumb traces the outline of the pointed tooth before pressing down on it enough to break skin.

Marc is quick to suck on the blood, his pupils dilating just a little as he closes his mouth over Valentino’s finger.

“What did you get?” Valentino asks after pulling his thumb out but keeping it pressed to the corner of Marc’s bottom lip.

“Small roebuck,” Marc answers easily. “Ran quite fast but it wasn’t that much trouble to catch up with him.”

“Sounds like you had fun.”

Marc shrugs, his free hand going to Valentino’s nape and fiddling with the curls there. “Yeah. Maybe you should come with me one day, you would have fun too. We can even make a competition out of it to keep you entertained.”

Valentino chuckles, ducking his head down and hiding his face against Marc’s neck for an instant.

It’s not the first time that Marc has more than hinted at the fact that Valentino should come out to feed. This time, though, it feels genuine, Marc’s voice bearing some hope instead of the useful sarcasm or disdain.

Marc’s more than aware than Valentino’s field of play has always been the city, his preys on the human side of the animal kingdom.

Valentino’s not in the mood for them to argue on that today. He pulls his head back up, thumb grazing Marc’s bottom lip just once.

He doesn’t miss the way Marc’s eyes flutter an instant.

“Maybe I should send Bezz up your way, I think he would enjoy the nature. I’ve never seen a vamp so outdoorsy and who loves running so much.”

“Bezz?” Marc tenses under him. His hands falls down from Valentino’s neck. Valentino sweeps his thumb over Marc’s nape, trying to soothe him down. “You adopted another stray?”

Valentino keeps the existence of Celestino for himself. Marc doesn’t need to know that him and Bezz came in a package.

“It’s been about 50 years, yes. He was already with us the last time we saw each other, actually. Guess it didn’t come up.”

Valentino knows how Marc feels about the boys. He apparently hasn’t changed his mind about them considering the barely hidden disgust layered on his face right now.

He made the mistake of calling Marc out on it by reminding him of his own story, asking him where he thought he would be if Dani hadn’t intervened, would he have such high morals now if he was still being a tool to the guy who turned him. The words he’d used hadn’t been nice, the tone he’d used to deliver them either.

Valentino still remembers Marc’s face going white first, and then a deep red, his body shaking, fists held tights at his sides. 

Valentino had expected a fight. Verbal, physical, both. He’d gotten neither, radio silence from Marc for over a century instead.

Then one day, Valentino ran into Dani and Dani talked some sense into him, made Valentino see how much his association with the boys reminded Marc of the assholes who had captured Marc, no amount of “but I’m not like the piece of shit who turned Marc” powerful enough against the trauma Marc had to venture through before getting to where he was now.

Before leaving, Dani had said “You know, I think he’ll never stop feeling ashamed about this part of his story. You should feel privileged that he shared it with you to begin with,” and Valentino had felt the shittiest he’d been in literal decades.

Apologizing to Marc hadn’t been the easiest of things but here they were today, so.

“Right,” Marc says under him, his body still too taut for Valentino’s liking.

Valentino leans down, scrapes his teeth at the hinge of Marc’s jaw before kissing him there, working a path until his mouth reaches Marc’s lips.

Valentino presses a dry peck to Marc’s lips. Marc’s hand might relax at Valentino’s side, the tiniest amount.

“You came back,” Valentino mumbles against Marc’s skin, determined to change the course of the discussion. He’s loved to the other side of Marc’s face, nuzzling the underside of Marc’s jaw until he can bite his earlobe, making Marc squirm.

“What?”

“After your hunting session, you came back.”

Marc’s pushing his head to the side, baring his neck for Valentino to explore. Valentino can feel both of Marc’s hands on his sides now, one of them moving to Valentino’s lower back, pushing him down, looking for friction.

“Last I checked,” Marc says, voice a little breathy, a nice consequence of the still-wet thumb Valentino is using to rub on a nipple. “This is my place.”

Right. And you didn’t mind me staying while you were gone. You didn’t wait for me to leave before coming back. You didn’t kick me out after your bath.

Valentino isn’t sure what he wants to voice out loud. Isn’t sure what he wants to try to understand, really.

“Stop thinking so hard,” Marc admonishes, pushing one knee between Valentino’s legs, his upper thigh finding contact with Valentino’s dick. “It doesn’t look good on you.”

“Fuck you,” Valentino bites.

Under him, Marc grins. The light catches on his fangs.

[banana-pancake5]

Haven’t posted art in a tad bit so here’s some doodles from that comic I was working on (Sadly, I have yet to continue working on it ;-;)

[yellowmagicalgirl]

What if Victim was also studying Minecraft, and accidentally brought a version Gold back? And what if the Color Gang + TSC and TCO found Gold when trying to bust out of Rocket Corp, and Gold takes them back to their dad's house so everyone can lay low, only to find out that King adopted Purple?

What if Purple is scared that now that King has his bio kid back, he won't want Purple anymore?

And what if Gold thinks they've been replaced, but as upset as they are about this, they suspect that they've come back wrong?

(Meanwhile King can't quite remember a time he was happier because even though he's harboring a bunch of fugitive sticks he now has both his kids and he never thought he'd ever get to have this.)

[aimeelouart]

A very short crossover between shall I find rest and the Cursed Cloud AU

There was nothing—nothing—worse than dealing with a, uh, romantically frustrated Sephiroth. Cloud held that opinion because by the time he left said world with said frustrated Sephiroth, he was missing an eye, his neck was purple, his pants were almost unsalvageable, and his armored jacket was nominally still attached to his torso by way of Masamune pinning it there.

“Goddamn repressed psychotic bastard,” he cussed in the void. Maybe the next world would be relatively nice to him. Otherwise, it was probably time for a reset. He needed his missing eye!

The universe spat him out in Rufus Shinra’s penthouse apartment. Tseng was there.

“Oh, hey Tseng,” said Cloud, now leaning toward hard resetting himself, if the Turk didn’t do it for him. He usually didn’t like Cloud very much.

He was proven right when Tseng whipped around and immediately shot him through the heart.

“Hmm.” He put his hands on his hips—hand, actually. One arm was no longer responding. He coughed. Blood spilled out over his chin. “Okay.”

Rufus was just past Tseng, and he also had his firearm drawn by that point.

Cloud smiled crookedly at the crooked man and tapped the space between his eyes. “Go ahead and aim higher. I don’t think I want to deal with you right now.”

“Strife,” Tseng snarled, advancing but not taking his advice on headshots and their effectiveness.

“Not your Strife,” said Cloud, and grasped Masamune’s hilt where it was sticking out of his ribcage. “If you won’t reset me, I’ll do it, don’t worry. Bye!”

He wrenched the sword through the length of his torso, and that was an injury even an experimental SOLDIER freak like him couldn’t survive. When he woke up in the next universe, his clothing was ruined but he had both eyes and a working arm again.

“Woohoo!” Cloud cheered, and promptly rolled over to dodge the resulting hail of bullets. Ugh, Scarlet’s labs again.

At least the robots couldn’t be romantically frustrated.

[saturnniidae]

Modern au with a strong theme of Hiccup coping with his leg better than all the people around him and it's low key pissing him off

[maingh0st]

looking like that, you’ll open some wounds

Taryn’s traitorous heart is still quite fond of fairytales. She thinks, fleetingly, of a hero rescuing a maiden from a tower. Of a maiden rescuing a hero from a tyrant. Fairytale protagonists are always so pure of heart. She exhales a frustrated breath through her nose and shifts her feet. The Ghost shifts, too, and his cunning eyes glint up at her through the gloom. Her heart turns over. They are neither maiden nor hero, and what they had was no love story.

the promised taryn/ghost get-worse oneshot is up - read here 🖤

[salvatoraes]

taggies 002

[youssefguedira]

the color green + joenicky

N. The color green.

Joe doesn't notice him right away, too caught up in fiddling with the buttons on his shirt sleeves, which means for a few moments Nicky can just lean against the doorframe and watch him for a while. It doesn't matter that it's been nine hundred years: he's still so beautiful Nicky can't find the words for it.

He's in green because Nile's in green, and they're posing as the kind of people who would coordinate their outfits. It fits him perfectly, which Nicky had known because he'd taken the measurements for it, then he and Joe had adjusted it together, but knowing it in the abstract isn't the same as seeing how well it fits him. He's wearing black trousers and a white shirt with it, tie abandoned on the dresser.

Nicky is in a black t-shirt and black jeans, because his job is security and backup tonight. It was Joe's turn, anyway: Nicky wore the fancy suit last time.

Nicky clears his throat, just to make Joe turn around and smile at him, lighting up.

Nicky's not nearly as flowery with his words as Joe is; all he says is, “You look good.”

Joe raises an eyebrow, teasing, with just the hint of a smile. Is that the best you can do? “Oh, yeah?”

Nicky pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room towards him, picking up the tie as he goes. “Yeah,” he says. “Green suits you.”

The first time Nicolò ever saw him in something this fine was in Alexandria, after everything, because Yusuf was a merchant's son and had wanted something for himself, something that fit him properly, rather than whatever they could find when the clothes they were wearing became too bloody and full of holes to be recognisably garments anymore. He'd come back from the tailor in a deep green tunic that had caused Nicolò to forget his words in any language for a good while.

When Joe catches his eye now Nicky knows he's thinking about the exact same thing. Instead of saying anything, he loops the tie around Joe's neck and fastens the knot.

“Nile was asking for you,” Nicky says matter-of-factly, like he doesn't know exactly what the look Joe's giving him right now means. He keeps his expression neutral. “I think she wanted a second opinion. We have to leave soon, anyway.”

“Nicky,” Joe says.

“What?” Nicky asks, feigning obliviousness. He can't help laughing at the betrayed look on Joe's face.

“After,” he says. “Go do your job, habibi.”

[meekmedea]

It's alright, I'm used to being second choice.

[starsoforionwrites]

+1651 words

struggling quite a lot still, and feeling utterly wretched about it. that said, I did get some words down tonight so that's good? overall I'm at 234k words now, but eighth year on is still very patchy and uneven. i'm trying to get into a consistent writing habit again, but every time I look at the page it's just a terrifying blinking cursor and then I collapse in on myself lol

[creaturefeaster]

hummm diddly dumm before i go to sleep i share my one accomplishment of the day