#fanfiction keeps me alive

[miss-meichu]

Ok lovely people of Tumblr help me out here.

I love fics where Stiles gets fed up with all the shit and leaves, just takes off without telling anyone and they all have to get back in his good graces in some way.

Preferably Sterek or no ship. Only fics with happy endings, however that may be.

Thank y'all

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Halloween prompts year 2 day 28

Thomas stared down at Bruce-no- Danny as he led him by the hand toward what he had dubbed as his "Secret Lair" which was just an old fall out shelter in the woods that had been well hidden and forgotten about. The door to it was old and still buried under years of dirt and plant growth, requiring Danny to phase them into it which made Thomas wonder how his grandson had found it in the first place.

Inside was surprisingly high tech. "You have a secret lair filled with all this equipment but don't have any weapons or armor?" Thomas asked, making mental preparations to fix that.

Danny sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck and explained his only allies were two other 14 year olds who were also untrained, unarmed, unarmored, and unsuper-powered which would explain why Danny was so excited to be working with an adult vigilante who at least knew what they were doing.

The kid didn't even mind when some of his more evil or harmful rogues "stopped showing up" thankfully no one would really question the reclusive Vlad Masters "going back to Wisconsin" only to never be seen again. No one saw much of him before coming to Amity Park, it made since he would become a hermit again once he had his fill of human interaction.

And if hes later found dead in his cheese castle? Well, the body had decomposed too much to really say what killed him. His will left everything to a Daniel James Fenton/Daniel James Masters which visibly infuriated Danny. Thomas mentally patted himself on the back. It was a good call to get rid of that one. The will was a surprise, though one that can only benefit Thomas in his crusade of protecting his grandson. Its not like he can return to a timeline that no longer exists anyway.

Unfortunately this doesn't stop the bats from hearing about "Batman" operating in a city in Illinois for the past few months...

[deep-friend-love]

fanfic so good i have to pull up tumblr and shitpost about the character

[kitswag]

A little art about a headcanon of mine for Dragon and Sabo, and a little fanfic about it under the cut

"Dragon-san," a familiar voice, Sabo's voice came knocking from the door of the cluttered office. Dragon perked up, putting down the pen he's writing with- just a follow up rough plan for the revolutionary's next strike.

The door was opened and there was Sabo with a bleeding arm. Instinctively, Dragon reached for the cabinet on his desk, pulling it open to grab for a roll of bandages and a bottle of antiseptic.

Sabo sat in front of Dragon, reaching out his roughed-up arm, his face not showing a trace of pain. (Dragon always knew the surges beneath his mask anyways.)

Dragon sighed as he saw the gnarly wound on Sabo's arm. The boy had a knack on being risky, sometimes even too keen on self sacrifice. Even though being a revolutionary always costed a price, Dragon couldn't help but worry about Sabo's knacks.

"I got a little reckless with my plans, " Sabo offered a little charming smile to Dragon (cut out the reprimands just this time?)

"I always told you to be careful. You're too good to lose, " Dragon said (again, Sabo?).

Sabo offered another cheeky smile, "Next time," he said, as if Dragon never feared for his name written on the list of fallen revolutionaries in a mission report.

When Sabo first arrived in Baltigo, still wrapped with bandages all over, not even able to move his wounded limbs freely, he would only turn to Dragon to replace his bandages, any nurses who tried to replace it would only make him flinch violently.

Dragon tapped a cotton smeared with antiseptic liquid on his arm, following it up with the roll of bandages. Soon, after falling into the familiar act of wrapping Sabo's wounds, Dragon couldn't resist the nostalgia that went flying right to his head.

But of course, they understood (despite being concerned) , that Sabo was a child, a child that had no one familiar except for Dragon in an unfamiliar, new building far far away from his home island.

When his burns healed, and when he finally got to trust the nurses, it still became a habit. He would knock on Dragon's door or tug at his coat, show his wounds, and Dragon would pull out his cabinet and fish out a bottle of antiseptic liquid and some bandages. And there it was, a repeating pattern of tapping a cotton smeared with the antiseptic against Sabo's wounds and wrapping it up with soft bandages.

Dragon always thought of it as a comforting habit.

It was not rare that he would receive reports about his fallen men, people that had died for his own cause. And being here, bandaging Sabo, feeling the warmth of his skin, reminded Dragon that his Chief of Staff, his son, was still here, still alive. Still able to go knock on Dragon's office and offer a smile and a wound.

Sabo's small hiss of pain suddenly brought Dragon abruptly out of his daze. He softened his pace and grip, finishing wrapping Sabo's arm with tying the end, cutting the excess bandage with a small pair of scissors.

"Thank you, Dragon-san, " Sabo smiled, softly.

Dragon couldn't resist reaching his hand out and ruffling Sabo's hair, "Be careful next time," he warned.

Sabo's smile turned into a grin, "This time is just a slip up. "

Dragon couldn't help but smile back. Thin, but soft with fondness for his son sitting in front of him. He pulled his hand out of Sabo's locks of blonde and hope that tomorrow, his name wouldn't be written on the list of the fallen.

[starkspondwater]

Not So Bad- Stan Marsh x Reader

Summary-Next up for 7 minutes in heaven is Stan Marsh! You always thought he was just some asshole (or did you) but one little game will change that real quick! (light SMUT)

Others in the series: Butters x

A/n: I do not know how to write for Stan but I tried my best! I also was not sure how to end it. Like at all. I wasn't going to write it tonight either but with everything going on in my country I needed something to keep the anxiety away!

You weren’t sure how Wendy roped you into going to a party, and you sure as hell didn’t know how she pulled you into this dumb ass party game. You didn’t talk much through highschool, running around in different friend groups so you were surprised by the sudden friendship when you both saw each other in your women’s studies course that semester. She was truthfully the only other person in the class that put in effort and through group projects and study sessions you got closer, which she definitely used to her advantage.

You had become a regular at Tolkein’s house as hanging out with his girlfriend gave you that perk, but those were normally kickbacks with a smaller group of people. Tonight, unfortunately, you were faced with a mansion full of people you had only seen in passing. Thank god the man supplied good alcohol.

Sitting in the circle with others, Wendy having cuddled up to her man, you watched as people flitted in and out of the room. From what you had heard from others there appeared to be games being played in random rooms throughout the house, including a game of strip-go-fish (how that was played you weren’t quite sure but the image gave you a laugh). You felt only slightly uncomfortable with your short shorts riding up a little too much and your top a little too clingy as the room grew warm with bodies. You mentally thanked the fireball circulating your system as it kept you from complaining, something Wendy had specifically asked you not to do tonight.

Across the circle, lazily sipping on a half drunk bottle of beer was Stan Marsh, football star, guitar player, and asshole. Well, that was a bit harsh. You hadn’t actually spoken to the boy since elementary school, boys and girls splitting off into their respective groups often, and as you grew to be teenagers you both ended up on entirely different ends of the social ladder. To you he just seemed very full of himself, laughing loudly, palling around too much, and in general just always being there.

Since he and Wendy officially broke things off in 7th grade he had led a string of girlfriends, each popular and pretty. Stereotypical highschool. You didn’t have any beef with the girls, to be clear, your issue was that it all just felt cliche, and living in a small town intensified that feeling. To make matters worse, however, was that you had caught yourself looking at him more and more over the years. In class you would find yourself tracing the lines of his broad shoulders with your eyes, noticing the stubble he had some mornings when he ran in late, and many other things. It was embarrassing, so to stay safe you just kept thinking of him as some jock asshole. 

Someone barked out laughter, breaking your train of thought and bringing you back to the present. Stan had now leaned forward, a boyish grin on his face as he looked around the circle and spun the bottle. For a second his eyes flicked to you, nearly causing you to choke on the badly mixed drink in your hand. Coughing a bit, you watched as the slender neck of the bottle spun and stopped, pointing  at none other than you.

The girls around you giggled, pushing you up to your feet and towards the closet. You could hear Wendy laughing behind you and if you still had your senses you would’ve yelled something at her, but before you could do so Stan was shoved in behind you. At the movement you nearly fell, only saved by his hands coming up to grab your waist.

“Sorry, dude,” he chuckled, only moving his hands away after a moment.

“It’s alright,” your willed your voice to not shake. Crossing your arms you attempted to make yourself a little smaller, giving you an ounce more room away from the boy next to you. You felt weird and you were sure he could hear the thumping in your chest.

“So, uh, are you like, okay with this?” Stan motioned between the two of you a little nervously.

“Being shoved in a closet?” You mentally cringed. Being a smartass was not going to help you in this situation, but it was all you could muster.

“No, like, kissing and stuff,” he said as if he really believed you didn’t know how this worked. He mistook your dumbfounded look for confusion and continued. “It’s kind of part of the game, y’know?”

“I know what 7 minutes in heaven is, Stan.”  You tried to keep the smart assery out of your voice as you answered him. “I just didn’t think you’d want to. You don’t even know me, dude.”

“Of course I do, Y/N, we’ve been in school together for like, ever. Wait- is this because of what Kenny said?” What?

“...What did Kenny say to me?” You tried to think back to all of your interactions over the years. You honestly didn’t have too much to do with the blond, though occasionally when in the same room you did joke with each other. You could not recall anything he said having to do with Stan.

“Oh that son of a bitch! He lied to get to me- goddammit!” Despite his words you heard no actual malice in his tone. All you were wondering is what Kenny would have told you. It had to have been about you if he was that concerned, right? Thankfully, you did not have to wonder for very long, as Stan broke with your prolonged silence.

“I had mentioned to the guys a few times that I thought you were, like, attractive, y’know? And…” he bit his lip as he hesitated. “I thought the skirt you wore the other week was kind of hot. He kind of kept teasing me about not having the balls to say anything to you.”

You remembered exactly what he was talking about. Your sister had decided on an impromptu makeover one morning, and like the she-devil she was, had shoved you into one of her many short skirts. You had spent the whole day worrying about flashing your ass to the poor student body. Wait- what was that first thing he said?

“Oh,” was all you could get out of your mouth, feeling your cheeks heat up at his admission.

“So…” One hand reached back for your waist and you felt him lightly squeeze, making you jump. “Did you want to…?”

“Um, yeah! Sure.” Jeez, you don’t need to sound too eager. You were still a little weirded out by this whole thing. You were not like the girls Stan usually dated, and you knew nothing would come of this anyway. Then, a little voice in your head spoke up. Fuck it. It’s a party.

With a firm but gentle touch, Stan grabbed you and brought his lips down to your own. Lips melded together in a dance as his tongue lashed forward seeking entrance. You had kissed your fair share of people, though it always felt clumsy and inexperienced. This kiss made you feel like you had drunk far more than you actually had. 

Warmth coursed through your veins, partially from your drinking but mostly from him. His large, rough hands roamed, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Tentatively, you let your hands explore, feeling the wide expanse of his chest through his t-shirt and up to those shoulders you could finally admit distracted you. Eventually, your hands moved up to his dark hair, knocking off the blue beanie on his head.

The second you touched a single strand on his head, he moaned into your mouth. Good to know he likes that you thought. Experimentally, you continued combing your hands along his scalp. A surprised yelp escaped you as Stan gripped your ass, a growl ripping from his throat. Briefly separating from your face he looked at you with hooded eyes. 

“Keep doing that and you’ll end up in trouble.” Your thighs snapped together as the words wound their way around your head. Based on the smirk the boy in front you had, he knew exactly what he was doing.

This was much more than you had bargained for. You figured you’d get at least a drunk makeout sesh in from some guy you wouldn’t care to recall the next day- instead you had Stan Marsh looking at you like that and from the clarity of his words you knew he was not drunk.

Some of the liquid courage you had previously poured down your throat sprang forth and you dared to grip his hair, lightly tugging. Immediately you were pressed to the wall as lips hungrily took to your own. Calloused fingers found their way under your shirt with feather light touches against your skin. You felt your shirt ride up as he continued towards your chest.

You were pleasantly surprised that despite how he was kissing you, Stan seemed hesitant. It was as if he was silently asking for permission to keep going, and to you that made him much more attractive. Puffing out your chest a bit into him was permission enough as his hands found their target. You could feel him squeeze a bit, humming at the feeling. He was gentle but commanding, and the combination had your head spinning.

You felt possessed. It wasn’t enough and you wanted closer, you wanted more, and Stan seemed to have the same line of thought as you. Only breaking from you for a split second, he brought your shirt up and over your head before expertly bringing a hand around and unclasping your bra. You fought the urge to cover your chest as he leaned back to gaze at you. Even in the horrible closet lighting you could make out his dilated pupils as he took in the sight in front of him..

With a glance to your face, he brought his head down and clamped his mouth to one of your nipples, his hands gripping your waist to keep you in place. As his tongue swirled around the sensitive bud, you gave yourself over to the experience. Allowing your hands to rest on his head and shoulders, your head lolled back.

You could feel your panties growing moist by the second, small whimpers released from your lips mixing in with the sounds he was currently making at your chest. As he rose back up, now paying attention to your exposed neck, your hands instinctively fell downward onto the waistband of his jeans.

Almost immediately you pulled back, growing stiff. Stan, sensing a change, pulled back as well and observed your nervous state. After a moment, a grin broke out onto his handsome features. 

“You alright?” His voice was lightly teasing, but didn’t give off the vibe that he was making fun. You weren’t sure what to say, or maybe you did, but this all felt a little too bold for you. I mean you weren’t even his type for christ’s sake, even if he did admit to finding you attractive. 

Stan, despite common misconceptions, was not dumb. He’d known you for a long time and even though the two of you didn’t really talk for whatever reason he could still clearly read your body language and the little facial expressions you had. He came to the conclusion that he’d have to spell it out for you.

“You do know I like you, right?” you sputtered a bit, causing him to chuckle. “That’s why I was worried about Kenny talking to you. He kept saying if I didn’t have the balls to say anything he might as well as ask you out himself, and I didn’t want that.” 

Almost as if to prove it to you, he took one of your hands and placed it on the zipper of his pants. You could clearly feel how into this, and you, he actually was. His breath grew heavy as you rubbed along the length of him. He was girthy, that much you could tell. Your fingers skimmed his zipper when the door to the closet flew open.

The once muffled sound of the party slammed into the room with you. Stan quickly turned the two of you, shielding your exposed form from those that might be looking in and covering you in shadow. Haphazardly you threw on your bra and shirt, feeling the strap twist uncomfortably as your fingers numbly hooked things together. Your breathing was ragged and you attempted to slow it and create some semblance of calm. Stan, thankfully, stood there patiently and quietly, ignoring the jeers from outside.

Once done you very much intended to do your walk of shame directly out of the party. At least at home you could spiral with the remains of your dignity in peace. As you began to speed walk out you felt a large, warm hand slip into your own. Looking up you saw Stan with a small smile on his face, not even stopping to say anything as the two of you moved toward the exit. 

“What are you doing?” you asked after a beat of silence. The fresh mountain air outside was an immediate relief to the embarrassment you had felt inside the home. Fellow classmates that had already been sitting outside peered at you curiously, causing you to turn away.

“Well, I figured after the whole thing with them opening the door you might not want to continue, but maybe we could grab some slushes and talk for a bit?” He tugged his previously discarded beanie down over his ears. “I could also just drive you home. I just didn’t want to end this so quickly.”

Pleasure unfurled in your belly as you took in his words. Stan really did like you, like he said. You could try to tell yourself all you wanted that he was some asshole but you knew that wasn’t true at all. He was considerate and fun, and maybe you could build something on that. You pretended to ponder for a moment before answering him.

“I suppose a slushie couldn’t hurt. Just no funny business!” you teased as you followed him down the road, stepping in time with him.

“No promises!” he grinned, lightly knicking a hand into yours and intertwining it with his own.

Yeah, he wasn’t so bad after all, you decided.

[onceuponaneverafter]

no bc i‘m obsessed with how the jacks from caraval who was literally plotting to take the throne and didn’t care about anyone or anything is the same person who spends almost two books in the ouabh trilogy just trying to keep evangeline safe because he loves her

✨character development✨

[missriyochuchi]

Our love is here to stay

Summary: The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer take a walk along the Seine, skipping stones before entertaining the late-night crowd with an intimate dance number from a classical Hollywood musical.

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: FLUFF. Implied sexual content. Established relationship. References to An American in Paris (1951).

Notes: I didn't intend to write another fic for these two, but this scene from An American in Paris (1951) has been haunting me since the Opening Ceremony. I couldn’t figure out how to write them dancing until I remembered the song that accompanied the scene, and then I couldn't stop writing! The lyrics fit them perfectly! This follows The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer. I strongly recommend reading it first, but if not (it's your time), only a few details carry over: the two exist only during the Olympic Games, so they die and are reborn every two years; interaction between them and humans is strictly limited; and the Flagbearer's horse is named Zeus. As with the aforementioned fic, I use gendered pronouns only to distinguish between the two; physical descriptions are not gendered. For now, I have no plans to write another fic for them, but the Olympics are just beginning, and who knows if the Muses will blow in my direction again lol

Read on AO3

Darkness floats above the Seine like mist, its shroud kept at bay by the namesake luminescence of the City of Lights. Boats bobbing on the river and open restaurants on the bank animate the otherwise dreary waterway. Beneath bulbs of varying hues, businesses bustle with the chorus of tinkling tableware, multilingual conversations, and idle music of Paris past and present. 

Sunrise approaches in an hour, but beneath one of the city’s many bridges, the Torchbearer and the Flagbearer find a sliver of solitude. 

Splash, splash, splash, splash.

“See?” The Torchbearer spins on his heel at the river’s edge, a few flat stones left in hand, to face the Flagbearer leaning against the wall. “There is nothing to it.” He extends an upturned palm in her direction, but she shakes her head.

“I do not possess the skill,” she announces to her echoes.

He cocks his head to the side and closes the distance between them. “Skills can be taught, ma chère.” He takes her hand and pulls her to the riverside, her cape billowing lightly in the breeze. He places a stone in her glove and positions her index finger along its jagged edge. “You must give it a little spin so that it does not sink upon impact on the surface of the water.”

The Torchbearer turns to face his rippling reflection. He flicks his wrist and sends a stone skipping once, twice, three, four times across the river before sinking below the surface with a light plop.

The Flagbearer mimics his motions, swinging her arm and sending her stone on a long arc to a wide splash into the water’s darkness. The Torchbearer stifles a giggle.

She shakes her head and grumbles, “Oh! I do not understand why you find this activity so amusing.”

He releases his chuckles and grabs her wrist before she can walk away with a huff. “Practice makes perfect, non? Give it one more try.”

The Flagbearer runs her hands along her partner’s biceps and strokes his ego. “You are the one gifted with physical prowess,” she says fondly, “a lightness of touch and dexterity.” She steps closer to ghost her breath over his. “If ever I need to raise an army of stone throwers, you shall be my first in command.”

The Torchbearer tilts his head back and sends his laughs to the underside of the bridge. His voice reverberates across the masonry. “Your flattery will not excuse you from this lesson, général.”

“Then I shall receive a failing grade, professeur,” she teases. “Or do you have some other, more favored form of punishment?” She sneaks a knee between his legs and presses up.

He groans and chuckles low at the contact. “Have I not satisfied your appetite for tonight, my love? I am sure the few players who heard us at the Olympic Village would—”

She silences him with a swift squeeze of his buttocks. Her gloved hands slip slowly up to the back of his waist. “Several lifetimes of nights could never quell my hunger for you and your prowess.” She presses her front to his and guides them away from the river’s edge and into the shadows.

The stones in the Torchbearer’s hand land on the pavement, their echoes filling the underpass. His hands smooth over the cool expanse of the Flagbearer’s backplate underneath her cape. “Not here, my sweet,” he whispers into the darkness beneath her hood.

“I know.”

Giggles from an approaching group of tourists break the moment. The lovers’ hands fall to each other’s elbows, their gazes fixed downward. The group grows silent as they pass the hooded figures. A woman bringing up the rear stops to turn around and hold up a smartphone.

“Excuse me, can we— oh!”

A man grabs her elbow and roughly turns her back around towards their group. “Je suis désolé,” he offers quickly. “Elle ne savait pas.” He bows low at the hip in consternation.

The Torchbearer nods in his direction. He watches and waits for the group’s footsteps to fade before turning back to the Flagbearer. Flush with embarrassment beneath her metallic hood, she looks up and crashes her chest to his, tightening her arms around his shoulders for a long embrace. His hands find the opposite sides of her waist, and his chin rests on her tiered spaulder. For a moment, the movement of their chests with every inhalation and exhalation is one and the same.

Displays of affection are not uncommon on the streets of the City of Love, and neither the gods nor any event organizers in the past expressly forbade their affair, but for the Olympic guardians damned to the global spotlight every two years, privacy is a luxury they steal at every opportunity. To be caught alone in each other’s arms felt like an insult to the few precious moments they shared outside their eternal duties.

“Come,” the Flagbearer says softly as she pushes her palms against the Torchbearer’s biceps for enough breathing room to speak. “I do not wish to spend the remainder of the night adding debris to the Seine.” She curls her hand beneath his upper arm and guides him along the riverbank.

The low sounds of whispers and camera shutters accompany the two as they gain distance from their secluded underpass. They keep their gaze forward, accustomed to the attention after years of technological advancements in photography. The few who begin to approach the hooded figures are quickly pulled back by fellow onlookers.

“Why not?”

“They’ll just ignore you and won’t say a word.”

“They were fine during the Opening Ceremony.”

“It’s forbidden.”

The crowd grows in size and sound. They congregate parallel to the riverbank, giving the mysterious duo a wide berth. Over the rising cacophony, the Torchbearer catches a familiar tune floating from somewhere above the embankment. He slows their walk and listens for the words. 

It’s very clear, our love is here to stay

Not for a year, but ever and a day

“They are playing our song, chérie.”

“Darling, not now. Daylight approaches. We must be on our way.”

The Torchbearer stops their progress and presses his palm to the Flagbearer’s fingers nestled lightly in the crook of his arm. “When was the last time we danced?” He takes her hands in both of his and swings her in a circle before positioning her left hand on his right shoulder and her right hand in his left. Their hips and foreheads meet as they start a slow circle on the open pathway.

In time, the Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble

They’re only made of clay

But our love is here to stay

“Do you remember the film?” The Torchbearer keeps his voice low enough for only the Flagbearer to hear.

She follows suit, though her breath is clipped. “I know exactly which you speak.”

“Shall we give them a show?” He squeezes her hand and quickens their turns.

“Only if you remember the steps as well as I.”

He huffs, mildly offended. “Do you doubt your partner?”

She smiles and giggles. “Never.”

They drop their arms and sway to the music, mirroring each other’s movements as they widen the space between them. The crowd on the riverbank backs away towards the wall and opens a space large enough for the two to continue. The closest onlookers move to accommodate the Flagbearer’s cape as it soars and intermittently kisses the border between performer and audience.

The dance is both timid and intimate. Their touches are perfunctory, punctuating passing sweeps across the pavement. Yet they lean their hands and heads on the other without hesitation, as if years of muscle memory and not conscious decisions dictate their proximity. Their movements tell the story of two lovers beginning to blossom in a romance they know will last for “ever and a day.” Slow and distanced steps give way to increasingly closer encounters.

“Despite this cumbersome armor, my dove,” the Torchbearer whispers during a moment when they resume the closed position and their faces are centimeters apart, “you dance beautifully. You have not lost your touch.”

“Nor you, my sweetest.”

They continue with their hands folded behind their lower backs, stepping like disparate planets inextricably circling the same center of gravity, and finish with an approximation of a kiss. They lean forward over an arm’s length of distance and bring the shadows beneath their hoods to meet for a breath of eternity. Their shoulders turn to bring an arm each around the other’s waist. They walk intertwined in their original direction as the orchestral music from above the embankment gives way to silence.

Applause and cheers chase after the duo. After a few steps, they turn around and bow to the crowd silhouetted by the embankments’ lights. They resume their promenade hand in hand.

When the murmur of surprise and adoration disappears and the Flagbearer spies no nosy onlookers within earshot, she brings the Torchbearer’s hand to her lips and kisses his knuckles. “Thank you, my love,” she breathes softly into his rough skin. She brushes the corners of her mouth across the backs of his exposed fingertips.

He turns his hand to rub her chin and catches her smile. “For what am I owed your gratitude, mon ange?”

“This world has weighed heavy on my mind since we were summoned,” she folds his hand in both of hers, “and I have forgotten what it means to remain light in such dark times. Thank you for reminding me of the power of simple pleasures.”

The Torchbearer hums to convey his contentment and, for a moment, ponders the gods’ plans in pairing them together. They had discovered, very early in their tenure, the opposing duality of their natures. He carried the torch, and she carried the flag, symbols of an event meant to unite humanity in friendly competition. While the object of his guardianship is most visible during the night, hers is most visible during the day. Together, they provide and protect constant reminders of the Olympic Spirit. Now, he realizes that such duties benefit not just the players and the spectators, but each other. He is her light, and she is his standard. He keeps them afloat, and she keeps them rooted to the Earth.

From the shadows of the bridge fast approaching their path, Zeus appears, both his coat and hoofbeat as light as snow. He advances towards his rider and nudges her cuirass with his muzzle.

The Flagbearer sighs and glides a gloved hand along the horse’s nose. “These nights pass far too quickly.”

The Torchbearer finds his opening to remain true to his duty and nature. “Tempus fugit when you are having fun — is that not what the humans say?” He takes her free hand and bows deeply, bringing his head to the level of her hips and swinging his other arm out to the side. “A testament to the quality of your company. I thank you for the compliment.” He straightens back up and presses her palm to the center of his chest, her gentle warmth meeting his steady heartbeat — his version of a kiss.

She shakes her head and laughs low in her chest, careful not to attract more attention as she hears hushed voices lingering on the embankment above them. He releases her hand and shares a knowing nod. He helps her mount Zeus, his hand trailing after the lower edge of her cape.

“Until tonight,” the Flagbearer whispers as she reaches for one more squeeze of her eternal flame’s hand.

The Torchbearer cradles her hand in both of his and tightens his grasp on her being. “Until tonight.”

Footnotes:

Translations: ma chère/chérie - my dear général - general professer - professor Je suis désolé. Elle ne savait pas. - I am sorry. She did not know. mon ange - my angel Tempus fugit (Latin) - Time flies

Is it corny af to have them reenact a scene from a movie? Sure. But are they not performers? Would they not perform to a love song in the City of Love? We've seen the Torchbearer sort of dance on that drag show catwalk - would they not be an amazing dancer!? And do the distances in the choreography not reflect the distances the two need to keep in the performance of their duties? Are you not entertained!? lolol

[annakwashere]

I really wish brawl stars would make an animated series, longer comics or some kind of spin-off game with a story, there’s so much stuff they could do!

They could explore Starr park lore like in the cctv animations or perhaps the focus could just go on the brawlers’s everyday life.

Like they made such good characters it’s not fair they’re confined in a p2w, 3v3 mobile fighting game

[mossycereustea]

do y’all ever just read a super amazing heart wrenching wonderful show-stopping breathtaking fantastic unbelievable soul shattering fanfic that is so horribly under-appreciated? (I’m sure the answer will probably be yes for many people)

because I found this fanfic that made me physically hurt- (honestly that might be because I’m a sucker for slow-burn and love watching the characters ache for one another as the anticipation tears apart my soul) and I’ve tried giving kudos at least ten times per chapter.

PLEASE AO3 TELEPATHICALLY SEND MY KUDOS

THIS FIC IS NOW MY LIFE TAKE MY KUDOS

TAKE MY SOUL

CAN THAT LITTLE SMILEY FACE FEEL MY PAIN

if there was a function that let the author see how many times i tried to give kudos to this fic after the first time they would be flooded with re-kudos

i need this fic injected into my veins

i’ll pay you

anyways we should have a re-kudos function

(i understand that spamming is likely a reason why this function does not exist along with the fact that usually that is now how “likes” and such on these type of platforms work, but this is just me expressing my love for this fic and devotion to the author- don’t take my proposal too seriously)

thank you fanfic authors you are doing the work of god.

[daboyau]

not me thinking about writing a silly crack-treated-seriously squid games fic 😭😭😭

[miss-meichu]

I need to read tags, I need to read tags, I need to read tags. 😭😭😭

[whywoulditho]

has anyone ever written a no capes DC AU where Jason's pit rages are switched into OCD/intrusive thoughts?? because that's a concept i literally can't get out of my mind. i tried to write a pit rage once and i noticed the way i'm describing it is a literal projection of my intrusive thoughts back when my ocd was that awful. so i thought i might try to write something like an OCD!Jason fic but if anyone's read something like that before please let me know!!

[temsiik]

I haven't actually written any sort of story before, but I'm strongly considering starting to dip my toes into creating fanfiction. My current idea is, for some reason, a character introspection on Pinako Rockbell.

Don't know why I was inspired to write about a relatively minor character, and not the characters or pairing I'm actually obsessed with, but it is what it is.

(Ed x Winry will be mentioned though, as this story is after they marry, but it's about Pinako not them. But if this goes well I do want to try writing EdWin eventually, and really hoping to make something for 503 week next year too).

[ellijg]

I lovee getting into a new fictional character and having pages of new fanfiction to read about them. THE BEST feeling <3

[acry-4-help]

tiktok removing “view between villages” by noah kahan from my favorite edits is foul.

WHAT ABOUT REMUS LUPIN!!!

[newtmasficlist]

oh hi i'm back

i'm pondering the idea of possibly recruiting help with this blog as i believe it is only me (@ssangster) back again attempting to keep this up n running! if you think this is something you'd be interesting in send me a message (@ssangster) for details :) happy reading!