#fic: hold to the now the here

[a-most-beloved-fool]

spirk using telepathy to keep each other alive. kirk, desperate, psy-null and untrained, reaching clumsily into spock's dying mind and pulling, dragging spock's essence into himself, wrenching him forceably from the very jaws of death and holding him there through sheer strength of will, saying you can't die, i won't let you, you can't leave me, i need you, and binding him to life and to himself until it's impossible to fully separate them. spock, more skilled, carefully managing each one of kirk's vital signs - keeping his heart beating steady, his lungs drawing breath, his temperature within a safe range, all while suppressing kirk's pain, and at the same trying, vainly, to keep their minds from tying themselves inexorably together, but they're pressed too close and he can't, and he hopes that kirk will forgive him, for bonding them like this (he will, of course he will), but the alternative, letting kirk die, was - unthinkable.

[wasabi-gumdrop]

oh

i am. unwell.

[courfee]

“Regulus would be proud of us,” James whispered quietly to no one in particular, still gripping onto the painting like a life raft. 

— Tender Curiosities, Baby!  @otrtbs

[cuppajj]

I made an x reader one shot for a friend and wanted to share it! I’m not confident in my writing to post it haha but I wanted you see anyway! ^^” but I hope you like it despite how ass my grammar is LMAO

You were in the Vanilla kingdom, tucked away in the palace. It was a bright sunny day, the wind calm with a pleasant breeze to break the heat of the morning sun. You awoke to the scent of vanilla, strong as it always was in this growing ‘kingdom’- at least that’s what you call it. Speaking of he, Saint Vanilla wasn’t present in the room. You shifted in the sheets of your bed, the scent of vanilla still lingering so he likely had checked in on you before leaving. Likely for morning sermon. You sighed as you took in the moment of peace you’ve been granted. It’s been rather hard staying in the vanilla kingdom, you missed home.. you missed having alone time. You could tell, that despite being physically alone, you were still being watched. The eyes the of the vanilla orchids always following you, even in your shared living space.

You were seized on a morning such as this one, the Saint taking great interest in you. You had spoken with him as Pure Vanilla, considered him a close friend even… those feelings must have carried over when he became a beast. He didn’t purify you on the spot. Instead, he opted to save you for last. You remembered it clearly.

The benevolent Saint Vanilla had you cornered in your own home, his lambs standing at the front doors, windows blocked with similar forces. His arms outstretched like a best friend member reuniting with you… except he wasn’t your dear friend anymore. He was someone else now- the sweet man you knew for years twisted into some.. beast. He took a step closer. The air tensing as you stared at his hands, his eyes calm despite the ever flowing tears. Until he finally spoke.

“Please forgive me, Bluebird.. for my soul is tainted with greed and selfishness. Your beautiful heart and mind deserve the freedom and safety of purification and as much as I know that, I cannot bring myself to go forward with your salvation.” He cooed softly, like how you would reassure a stray animal into approaching you. In a way, he sort of was. You pressed your back into the corner you sought protection in with no where else to go but to him. “I am afraid I cannot rescue you yet… but do not fret. Instead, you shall have the greatest honor of all, should you stay by my side. You shall witness my ascension, my deliverance as I rescue all of Earthbread!” His smile grew a touch warm as he finally closed the space between you, his arms wrapped around you now. He was warm… his robes of silk dances on your trembling skin. Despite the danger you faced, you were oddly.. calmed by his embrace. Though you couldn’t bring yourself to hug him back you were too terrified out of your mind to move- after all one wrong motion and you were as good as the dust that lingered on your shelving. He spoke up once more, “I hope you can forgive me and my selfish soul. I do promise to rescue you from this world one day.. you’ll be mine in this world and the next… I promise.” You could feel his tears stain your shoulder, but you refused to be fooled by such crocodile tears. He’s ‘purified’ entire civilizations- he was a beast but you were his lamb.

So against better judgment, you stayed in that bed, ever since that faithful day you aimed to change his views one step at a time and mend the broken man he’d become. Perhaps you can save the world from his ever gleaming kindness through peace. Though, as you reminisced and contemplated, the savior himself entered the room after sermon. Ah right… you slept through that. Though he was never upset, even now all he ever wore was a soft, welcoming smile.

“Ah. Good morning, little lamb.” He chuckled, walking over to your side of the bed and petting your hair. You on the other hand sat up finally after bed rotting and looked up at him, a smile on your face to match his. “Heh.. Good morning. Sorry I slept through another one of your… meetings.” You always hated calling them sermons despite what the lambs say. It felt too cultish- you were still denial that’s what this was. “Oh, don’t worry your little head about it, orchid.. you need your sleep to stay as strong as always.” If you didn’t know any better, he was the gentlest and kindest soul ever. You wish that he was… “Thanks.. you’re always so understanding.” You sighed in minor relief, it’s not like you expected him to upset about it after all- he never really experienced anger like that as far as you knew. “How can I not be? Every soul is bound to make mistakes. It’s merely the nature of it. If getting extra sleep is what aids you in your strength and safety then so be it..”, He responded. As you two had your conversation, the Saint had found your cheeks and gently played with them. Holding your face his hands, gently massaging, and over all just being as physically affectionate as he usually was. His hands were usually used for killing so you theorized that he enjoyed having someone to hold without the need for them to turn to dust. Even if he believed it was a necessary sacrifice for the greater good of the soul it must be nice to have something- someone tangible. “Now then,” He spoke up, “Why don’t we get up and out of bed? We have a beautiful day ahead of us and I think a walk would do you some good, my little flower.”

✨

[secondbeatsongs]

when you're into the Big Ship™ in a Big Fandom™, you have the luxury of having an OTP - a real One True Pairing, where you can read about just them for ages, and you will never run out of fics, and everything is perfect and beautiful and nothing hurts

but when you go to a smaller fandom, you'd better pray to whatever god you worship that someone else in this room ships the same thing that you do, and that if they do, they're writing more than late-night crackfic, because you're on thin fucking ice!

and how small is your small fandom? is it less than 100 fics? maybe even...less than 20 fics?

welp, then it's time to make peace with that god and either open up a text document or learn how to ship everything, because it's swim or drown babey! and your ship is sinking fast

anyway all of this is to say that after hanging out in small fandoms and shipping less-common pairings for a while, going back into a Big Huge Fandom™ is wild because suddenly it's like...wait, why didn't I ship these people again? I don't remember. why was I only sticking to one ship in this fandom?? boring of me, honestly. these guys should make out.

[suddencolds]

insatiable appetite [1/?]

sooo... this is one of the thirstiest things i have written—and also one of the only times i've written a character with the kink, ever T.T warnings in advance for mess, character getting sneezed on, implied contagion, possible ooc-ness, & me writing this entirely with my d instead of my head

ivan and till are from al//ien sta//ge (a very fun watch which will only take 30 mins out of your life; i really recommend it!!). that said, this fic takes place in a modern au setting, so feel free to read it without any prior context :)

special thanks to @6pmsoup for sending me a very cute alnst doodle of these two which altered my brain chemistry permanently

—

Summary: Till shows up to a dinner outing with a brewing cold. Ivan suffers. (est. relationship, kink!Ivan, ~2k words)

—

For all Till tries to hide it, Ivan can tell immediately.

There’s this: Ivan has been paying attention to Till for most of his life. A full decade before they’d gotten together officially, and some more—this is how long Ivan has had to observe his tells. Always from the sidelines, always with a detached air of indifference that, in reality, was anything but.

All the signs are there the night before. Till, turning up the thermostat a couple degrees higher than he usually keeps it. Spending a little too long in the shower and using up almost all of the hot water. Clearing his throat one too many times in the morning before Ivan leaves for work, his smile distracted, the rasp of his voice nearly indistinguishable—but only nearly.

Now, Till is here for dinner—it’s a dinner they’ve had plans for a couple weeks now, at one of the nicer restaurants downtown, in celebration of Till’s recent promotion. Ivan had booked the reservation a couple weeks in advance.

When Till arrives, stepping out of a taxi cab, he’s wearing a scarf, even though the weather is too warm for it. Ivan steps up to meet him. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Till says. “Traffic here was the worst I’ve ever seen it, swear to god.”

“Was it cold outside today?” Ivan asks, a little pointedly, tilting his head towards his scarf.

Till looks at him, his expression unreadable. Then he nods. “Colder than usual, for this time of year.”

“Strange,” Ivan says, just to be difficult. “But the weather forecast says it’s the same temperature today as yesterday.” 

“It’s probably just windier today,” Till says, readjusting his scarf around his neck. His face is a little flushed.

“Your voice sounds a little off, though.”

Till clears his throat with a scowl. “You must be imagining it,” he says. “It always sounds like this.”

No admission, then. That’s fine. Ivan will get the truth out of him at some point. He lets Till guide him into the restaurant.

It’s a nice restaurant—worth the hassle of the reservation, Ivan thinks. Each table is set with flowers arranged tastefully in long glass vases, empty wine glasses turned on their heads. The server—who leads them to their table in a small, private booth—is wearing a suit.

It’s a shame, really. Ivan has a feeling that he won’t be able to pay attention to any of that tonight.

They sit. Ivan looks down at the menu, picks out something at random in a matter of seconds. Truthfully, he can hardly think of anything less worth his attention right now. He turns his attention to Till instead—Till, who’s seated directly across from him, the scarf still around his neck, obscuring the lower half of his face. 

Till sniffles, reaching down to turn the page, and oh. The sniffle is terribly liquid—has he been sniffling like that all afternoon? Perhaps it’s a good thing that they work at different offices—Till at a law firm, Ivan as a senior manager at a consulting company—because Ivan certainly doesn’t think he’d be able to get any work done with Till sniffling like that. 

It’s not two minutes later that Till is reaching up to wipe his nose against the back of one knuckle. All in all, it’s discreet. Just a quick brush of the fingers against his nose, which is still hidden under the scarf. Though, the look of sheer ticklishness that passes over his features for a brief moment there is...

“What are you thinking of ordering?” Ivan asks.

“I can’t decide,” Till answers. He turns the page again. “It’s between the ribeye steak and the… snf! The pork belly. Is this the kind of place that skimps on the portion sizes?”

“Not from their Yelp reviews,” Ivan says. “You know, if you really can’t decide, I can flip a coin.”

“I’ll pick,” Till says. “Why? Hungry already?”

He looks up, now. His eyes are a little watery. There’s a faint flush over the bridge of his nose. Ivan thinks that if he reached out and touched him, he’d probably be running warm. The thought is almost unbearable.

“Your taxi did take forever to arrive,” Ivan says, by way of explanation. 

“Did you really wait that long?”

He looks uncertain, for a moment. Ivan says, “Not at all. But you know, I’m always impatient when it comes to you.”

Till rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “There was a meeting that ran late. I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“Is that also a part of your new position?” “I guess so, yeah.”

“I can see why they were eager to promote you, then,” Ivan says. “How productive can late afternoon meetings be, anyways?”

Till snorts. “Not that important. It definitely could have been an email instead. I was about ready to doze off.”

He sniffles again. “Okay. I think I know what I want.” The way he says know betrays the slightest hint of congestion. 

“At long last,” Ivan says, just to be a little bit of an ass. “I’ll call over the waiter.”

He flags their waiter down, waits for Till to order first.

“A spiced apple cider,” Till adds on, at the end, with the slightest of coughs. “Hot, if you can.”

That’s new, too. Till seldom orders hot drinks at restaurants, though he’ll drink tea without complaint if it’s offered. Perhaps his throat hurts, then, from the cold that has clearly started to settle in his system. Subtle, still, but Ivan is familiar with colds like this. He knows it will probably only be a few hours before this deceptively “small” cold turns into…

Ivan orders, too, and thanks the waiter, who leaves with a curt nod. When he looks back over to Till, there’s a… strange something to Till’s expression, a slight distractedness. Irritation.

Ivan swallows hard. He should look away. 

He should, but then, Till’s breath hitches. He pulls the scarf higher over his face preemptively, as if he anticipates having something to have to cover for. The sharp intake of breath that follows is breathy, though Ivan can hear Till’s voice in it. He should really look away.

Instead, he takes the scene in, painstakingly, little by little, as Till’s shoulders jerk forwards. As Till presses a hand to the scarf, presses the fabric closer to his face, to muffle a sneeze into his fingertips:

“hhH-Ih!! hiHH-’IESCHH-eew-!”

God. It sounds utterly miserable, the harsh release of it scraping against his throat, the spray tearing into his scarf. It’s the kind of cold sneeze that is undeniably telling: this is going to be one hell of a cold. It’s not very quiet, either, even muffled into the fabric.

For more reasons than one, Ivan is glad they’re in a private corner of the restaurant, not somewhere more public.

“Bless you,” he offers, once he can trust himself to speak. It’s a good thing that Till is too distracted to look up at him right now. Ivan isn’t sure he can keep what he’s feeling off of his face.

Truthfully, he isn’t sure he’s going to be able to endure a whole night of this.

The problem here is that Till—Till, of all people; Till, who Ivan has been pathetically in love with for almost as long as he can remember—has no idea about Ivan’s… relatively niche interests. That is to say, he has no idea what effect it has on Ivan when he does that.

“Thanks,” Till says, a little stuffily. He sniffles again, lowering his hand. 

Ivan can’t help it. He knows he shouldn’t pursue this line of questioning, but he can feel his self-control dwindling by the second. “Don’t you think it would be better to take off your scarf, now that we’re inside?”

Till freezes. “Y-You know what,” he says evasively. “It’s pretty cold in here.”

Ivan tilts his head in question. “And just how do you plan on eating like that?”

“I’ll take it off when our food comes.”

“I can ask the waiter to turn the temperature up, if it’s a problem,” Ivan says. 

“It’s not a problem.”

Ivan rises from his seat. Till watches him, perplexed, as he heads to the opposite side of the table, where Till is seated.

When he gets there, he stops. Stands, unmoving, so he can study Till from above. 

“What are you—”

Ivan reaches out, settles his palm across Till’s forehead. As expected, it’s warm. Not quite feverish, which is a good sign, but warm enough to be notable. 

“Just how long were you intending to hide this?”

Till stares back at him, wide-eyed. “Hide what?”

Shouldn’t it be obvious? “The fact that you have a cold.”

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” Till says, slowly.

“Hmm.” Ivan drops his hand to his side. He is a little concerned, now. “We could’ve called a rain check.”

This time Till really does roll his eyes. “For the reservation we planned weeks ahead?” he sniffles again. “That just sounds completely and utterly unnecessary. Are you the type of person to call things off just over a little cold?” 

Ivan leans over, tugs down the edge of Till’s scarf. Till bats his hand away just a moment too late, cups his other hand over his face to shield his face from view. For a moment, he looks faintly mortified.

Then his expression settles into something more disgruntled. “What are you doing?” he hisses.

So uncooperative. “Let me see,” Ivan says. Slowly, gently, he pries Till’s hands away from his face, and then—because the restaurant is dimly lit—tilts Till’s face up slightly so that it catches more of the overhead light. 

Till’s nose is redder than usual. He’s probably been rubbing it all afternoon, if the redness that percolates into his cheeks is any indication. There’s  a damp, liquid sheen on the underside of his nose.

“What’s there to see?” Till says, a little crossly.

“Your face, since you’ve been so intent on hiding it under that scarf,” Ivan says, leaning in to get a better look.

Till scowls at him, but there’s no heat to it. “You see my face every day.”

“On the contrary, I don’t see it nearly enough,” Ivan says. “And you hardly ever get sick. Is it so wrong for me to be concerned?”

Without looking, he reaches behind him with one hand to grab a couple cocktail napkins. The other hand he keeps held up to Till’s cheek. 

But then, Till’s breath hitches. “Wait,” he says. Panic flashes through his face. “Ivan, move, I—”

Oh. Well, seeing as there’s no way he’ll be able to get the napkins over in time, it looks like he’ll have to improvise. If Till wants to cover, Ivan can help with that. He moves his hand to cup it loosely over Till’s mouth. Not a second too late, it seems. Till jerks forward unceremoniously, his nose twitching, his eyes squeezing shut.

“hHheh-! HHh’EIITShHh’yYiew!” he gasps sharply. Two? “Hh-! hHiiH’DSSCSSHh-IIew!”  

The jolt of the sneezes is practically electrifying—all of that force, brought to an abrupt halt behind Ivan’s waiting palm. He feels the expulsion of air against his skin, the warmth of Till’s breath, feels the slight dampness behind his hand as the spray mists over his fingertips.

Ivan swallows, hard. Thank god it’s so dark here, otherwise Till might notice what this is doing to him. 

“Bless you,” he says, withdrawing his hand at last to wipe it on one of the cloth napkins. It comes out slightly raspier than he intends it to, though perhaps it’s a miracle that he’s still able to talk at all. “Some cold, hmm?” Belatedly, he hands Till the stack of napkins.

Till practically snatches them from him, turns aside to blow his nose wetly into the top few. The way he sniffles afterwards suggests that his nose is still very much running. 

“Do you have no self preservation? It’s as if you want to catch this,” Till says, drawing back with another sniffle.

Oh, Ivan thinks, fighting back a shiver. That would be far from the worst thing.

[gingermintpepper]

I would really like to read one piece of writing, amateur or not, that features Apollo and Zeus having a positive relationship. One. Any one. It could be 30 words long for all I care. I just need confirmation that one other writer actively producing content in the Greek Mythology sector doesn't think of Apollo as Zeus' toy, sexual or otherwise, or of Zeus purposefully surpressing Apollo because he doesn't want him to surpass his power, or of Apollo only being obedient to his father over all else because of fear and physical abuse, or of any other reason possibly invented except some sort of mutual understanding and respect.

It should not be this difficult to find content where they do not hate each other.

[lesbianwyllravengard]

Wyll breaking up with the player character if Ulder dies so Wyll must become the Duke makes me wanna throw up sobbing because he actually thinks that just because his father's first duty being to Baldur's Gate made him a Bad Father that Wyll himself will inevitably be a Bad Lover because surely no one could match love with duty if his father couldn't, unknowing he has more love in one hand than his father had in his entire body. fuck

[clowningaroundmars]

i know this has probably been said a million times already before but it really strikes me how asexual hannibal is as a show overall now that i'm on my 4th rewatch

hannibal himself doesn't ever seem to lust after anyone in any way aside from will (and their love for each other is far from the typical amatonormative conventions society likes to impose on ppl)

we only see hannibal have sex with one person and it's only as a means to an end

hannibal clearly favors platonic connections over sexual and romantic ones, or at least shows his attraction in... very different ways than what's considered "normal", but his insistence that will is his friend despite stating multiple times that he loves him is very telling

and in the first few eps, jack asks will why the minnesota shrike would target young brunette girls. he throws out theories and suggests sexual motives, maybe? but there were no traces of semen on the body anywhere and then that's when will EXPLODES and firmly shuts the theory down by stating "no, he wouldn't disrespect her like that!"

will actually got to live the "normal" married life with a wife and a kid for 3 years but that was simply not enough. at the 1st chance he got, he freed hannibal from prison and then hopped on a boat to see him in italy

mads himself (in an interview that i forgot the origins of LOL sorry) said will and hannibal most likely would never let their relationship "become physical"

their love and connection and yearning are SO DEEP that it defies typical parameters of relationships not just bc they're gay, but bc their love transcends any need for the dog and pony show that romance and sex often demands. they literally don't even need to have sex to deepen their relationship

in hannibal's words: "the very sight of you nourishes me"

[xxplastic-cubexx]

I really, really like reading and writing about Charles being an angry top. 🥰 It's extra delicious because he knows Erik could overpower him at any moment, but the fact that he lets Charles sexually vent to him says a lot about their trust and loving dynamic.

ok but liiike……. Do you have a sample 👁

[lostlegendaerie]

hate when I have really vivid dreams of characters I don't know very well (absorbed them secondhand or w/e) and go on AO3 to try to snack on something with similar vibes only to realize in horror that Their Dynamic Is Totally Different Than I Expected and I gotta just sit here and be extremely wrong about the nuances of two characters from a show I've never watched

[sisterdivinium]

Rich and arrogant and combative and blasphemous, Jillian Salvius would surely live in a den of iniquity where her girls would be tempted enough to abandon their mission — so Mother Superion thought.

But Jillian Salvius' table, however generous, was not one set for waste: gracious as a host, meals at her house were varied but not excessive, alcohol present but not overindulged in; if more kindly, her conduct was as correct as that of any strict Christian such as Superion herself.

And, through daily contact, sharing in that their deadly conflict, Mother Superion found that she could admire her — charmed.

[autumnapricot]

| will o‘ the wisps

Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen

[finished work, 17 chapters, 165k]

>>„Don‘t do this.“ Charles hisses and pleads all the same. „You can‘t do this. Please. Max trusted me.“

Seb cocks his head.

„Yes,“ he slowly says, quiet but haunting. „And that was the plan, Charles.“<<

[OR: Max Verstappen is an Omega in a world where his designation is seen as nothing but an item to be possessed, an object to be bought and used as pleased.

Charles Leclerc is an officer gone off duty, taking on the task of housing an Omega whose trust in good things is shattered, and whose secrets go deeper than anticipated.

Charles never expects things to go as far down south as they do.]

ao3 link

playlist: songs that have inspired or followed along the creation of this fic

[rainachaeri]

i realized i can just canonically kill athena, like really. i can literally just do that. because im the one who wrote this fic. what

[vhvrs]

can't remember if i ever posted this here so apologies if i have - wrote this back in september b4 i got properly back into p5 and it was meant to lead into a longer fic but it was a 4 am drabble i never picked back up... its fine like this perhaps

[vivitalks]

“Parker,” Eliot hisses at the ceiling vent, “what the fuck?" Aw, shit. “Aw, shit.” Hardison grimaces, rubbing his head. In the…excitement of the night, he completely forgot about Parker. “Parker, why are you in the ceiling?” There's a long pause. “I don't understand the question,” Parker says.

eliot/hardison/parker rights