#guffaw (spectator)

[ruckis-vandalizes]

Art fight batch #3, and the final batch! We have:

Night_Sigma Night @buckscoffeeshop Sekaani @faffreux Jolligig @6clawdy6 Clawdy

[6clawdy6]

After much pestering from my dear @ruckis--rookie, I am posting these two images here on tumblr focusing on her characters.

The first one was inspired by a TikTok I saw a while back regarding autistic responses to close friends/loved ones going through a hard time. It makes sense for my persona to be autistic, but fun fact, some of my own OCs are also autistic, the best examples being Sweedy Pea(generally goodhearted and confused) and Professor Szellum Szrama(apathetic most of the time and tends to hyperfixate on his work).

The other is a special comic inspired very loosely by an apparently popular scene from Mr. Pickles. IYKYK, if not, I don't have a good explanation for the scene outside of boobs where they shouldn't be.

[cattlemons]

hey!! it’s 💿 anon :)) i feel bad that i’ve only sent you angst requests so here’s a happy one! (because i adore everything about fall!!! cozy sweaters, warm tea, the pretty colors :)) it’s so great) maybe something about fall picnic dates/hangouts? with whatever characters you feel like writing for :D <333

Seasons of Change: Autumn Activities

Multi character! Diluc, Wanderer x Reader (separate)

TW: Nothing!

Diluc “You know, you could’ve told me you wanted to go out on a stroll,” Diluc huffed before continuing, “I would’ve brought you your coat, sweetheart.”

Trust in your husband to be a worrywart.

“It’s not even that cold out here, Diluc. It’s brisk at best,” you poked his side as you teased him on, “plus I’ve got my own walking fireplace right here. What would I need a coat for?”

Accepting his defeat, Diluc grumbled silently about how much of a tease his wife was. Though he wouldn’t want you any other way, not with how tightly his grip on your hands was. 

You continued your walk in balmy silence as the moon hung brightly in the inky expanse of the autumnal sky, wordlessly spectating the moment you two were currently sharing.

“Hey, husband,” you called, “what’s your favorite season?”

The husband in question rolled his eyes at your unusual nickname but thought of it as endearing regardless. He mulled your question over, knowing that you weren’t going to accept just any ordinary answer. 

It was silent for a few seconds before he answered, “Any season is nice when I get to spend it with you.”

He waited for your reaction expectantly though he wished he hadn’t because he saw your face scrunch in faux disgust before letting out a loud snort that stumbled and rolled into plentiful guffaws. Despite the source of your mirth stemming from his embarrassment, he couldn’t help but think he’d embarrass himself ten times over just to hear your tinkling chimes of happiness. 

You wiped your fake tears as you leaned into him and mused, “I never realized I married myself to a cheesy man. If you trained hard enough, I’m sure in a few month's time you’ll be giving Kaeya a run for his money.”

“You tease me relentlessly for my, ahem, creativity yet I’m sure if I answered you with a measly ���autumn’ you’d tease me just the same for being boring,” he commented with a raised eyebrow. 

You nodded, “fair enough, your assumptions are correct. I do tease you quite a bit, don’t I?”

“I’d say much more than just ‘quite a bit’,” Your husband huffed out though a smile crept slowly onto his lips. Even as he defended himself before you, he can’t help but subconsciously adore you, smiling at just how comfortable you and your sly tongue are with him. He’s glad he makes you feel safe enough to goof off.

As you both continue throwing loving jabs at one another, he pulls you closer to him. You snuggle into him as you inhale the warm woody scent of your husband. All the familiarity that exudes from your favorite person in the entire world softens your heart like no other; the realization that he knows you much more than anyone does brings a pleasant sense of comfort that gathers and pools in the pits of your stomach. 

Out of the billions of souls wandering the planes of Teyvat, you’re glad that yours have found kinship with his blazing soul. You wonder how low you’d have to bow your thanks to Lady Luck for arranging such a beautiful fate. Thinking of him and how well your body fits into his pulls you to stand on the tips of your toes to give him the faintest of kisses.

You’ve kissed him with passion under the security of silk blankets, yes. You’ve kissed him with giggles in between both your lips, yes. But this feels entirely new but somehow familiar at the same time.

As your lips find purchase in his, his scarred fingers tangle themselves within your locks, intertwining himself as much as he can with you. 

The night breeze continues to whistle around you and the woodland critters of the night chitter away at the starry world but neither of you seem to notice. Much like you said earlier, he really does bring warmth along with him. A warmth that encapsulates your heart even on the coldest nights. Your very own walking fireplace. 

Your very own home.

The Wanderer

“Wow, I can’t believe you get this view for free all the time. This is incredible! I’d bet you can sell tickets and get a whole lot of Mora by taking people on joyrides. I mean flying is a luxury, you know... for most people, anyway.”

 The Wanderer huffed in annoyance as he threw you a not-so-icy glare while readjusting your position in his arms. 

“It’s not a smart idea to test my patience while your life is in my hands, idiot. I take my hands off of you and you’re plummeting to your death,” the man said a bit too matter-of-factly. 

You groaned dramatically about how he ruined the mood and poked some more fun at him knowing he wouldn’t dare drop you, you’d bet good Mora he knew that too.

As you fly over the canopy of Apam Woods, you both find yourself slowly forgetting your main objective of tracking down a gang of treasure hoarders that ransacked your campsite a couple of hours ago. It’s not like they stole anything of value, just a bunch of knick-knacks you picked up from a traveling merchant. 

“I know you once told me that autumn is the poor man’s winter but I'd bet half my fortune that this view has changed your mind,” you smile as you lean your head to rest on his shoulder before continuing, “Fall is probably the most boring season anywhere else in Teyvat but in a continent wholly filled with trees, you can’t help but appreciate the change in color palette.”

Despite his silence, The Wanderer understood what you meant. He wasn’t one to be awed by a pretty view but he admits that perhaps, just this once, it is worth the admiration. His eyes were so used to shades of teal and green that the moment they finally melted into the warmth of amber hues, he couldn't help but be struck by the beauty of change. Much like who he was made to mimic, he has a certain affinity towards the serenity of stagnancy but, he supposes, much like your presence in his life, you’ve shown him that there is a damning allure about transience. In all honesty, it’s quite a nice change of pace, certainly in his eyes. 

You can’t help but fill the silence as the breeze caresses both of you gently. 

“I know this is a one-time occasion but I wonder if one day I’d get to see this view again. The trees are like little puddles reflecting the setting sun like a camera capturing little snippets of a pretty, orange image,” you sighed into his shoulders, “maybe one day, I’ll learn to fly too.”

The Wanderer kept to himself as you muttered your sleepy wishes. 

As the sun continues its journey into the underworld, the sky begins to shift into a gradient of purple and blue; the colors of midnight sky dissolving into the glowing hues of past hours. The Wanderer found his own midnight eyes drifting towards your sleeping form in his arms. You looked so beautiful, your transient, ever-changing self. He wonders if your wish to see this view once more will come true next year or perhaps the year after that. 

Though he knows now that there is no permanence and assurance in the future, he hopes against hope that what you are to him will stand the test of time. Inside the hollow chambers of his chest, he feels the telltale warmth he only feels in the quiet moments you share with him. In that warmth lies his wish to fly with you in his arms, through every autumn he has left to share in this lifetime with you. 

a.n. Thanks for visiting, 💿anon. I hope you like this one even though it's rushed and barely checked for grammar mistakes. Sorry it's literally December when I post this :") we can just pretend it's still fall !

[peppermintquartz]

Hen wonders if Buck realizes how loudly he broadcasts his thoughts and feelings. He's better at keeping his mouth shut, for which Hen is grateful - she does not need to hear about Buck's sexcapades ever again - but his face expresses everything that comes into that pretty head of his.

Like right now, for example.

It's the Firefighter Challenge regionals and Tommy's signed up after losing a bet to Eddie, and now Buck is torn between supporting his boyfriend and supporting Eddie representing the 118.

"They'll give a good showing at least," Chimney says, offering some churros to Hen and Buck. Hen takes one and Buck declines. "But they're going up against Wesley from the 114. They gonna be trounced."

"Eddie will beat that guy," Buck says loyally. His brow is furrowed as he tries to pick out his best friend from the assembled challengers. He brightens and waves his hand wildly. "There he is!"

Chimney grins. "Wesley's represented the west side in the nationals for three years running. Eddie's good, but he's not that good."

"And more importantly: will Tommy beat Eddie?" Hen inquires slyly.

Buck's face falls and he wails, "I don't know!" He goes on tiptoes to try to locate Tommy, but everyone is in their SCBA and there's too many people between them and the starting line.

"We should've signed up for the team events," Ravi says as he joins them. "Boost morale, team-building..."

"I prefer my morale boosted through snacks and alcohol," Hen deadpans. When she glances at Buck, she wants to laugh out loud. The poor kid looks like he's an icon of despair.

Buck sees Hen looking at him and sulks. "I can't find Tommy!"

Denny doesn't sulk as good as that. Hen smothers her amusement. "We'll see their names - oh, look, the display is on. We're about to begin."

The tinny sound of the commentators come across the speakers with heavy distortion, but Buck cheers and whoops when they hear something like "Diaz from Station 118!"

"I don't hear Thomas Kinard," Ravi observes unnecessarily after the names were all read out.

Buck is frowning hard enough to crack a walnut with his face. "That doesn't make sense. Tommy definitely signed up, I was with him when he did." He takes out his phone and types rapidly. Then his face clears and he is sunshine again, even as he is rolling his eyes. "Sly asshole. He signed up for the Over 40 category."

He clearly doesn't mean the asshole comment, and it's good that he can be so fondly annoyed by his boyfriend. Not merely infatuation and novelty, then. Maybe soon they'll have their first fight. Maybe she can advise him, or Maddie or Bobby will. Doesn't matter. As long as they're on the same page.

Chimney guffaws. "Well that's one way to avoid Wesley!" Before anyone can say more, they hear the pop of the starting gun and a tumult of cheers erupt from the spectators. Buck roars his support, nearly knocking Chimney and Ravi over when he throws up his arms when Eddie pulls ahead in the climb up the tower.

Laughing to herself as the guys get into the spirit of the competition, Hen thinks it's good that Buck can be so open and in touch with his feelings. Wearing his heart on his sleeve isn't such a bad way to live.

[starlight-archer]

Catwinter Day 23: Catnip Wine 🍷

Fic under the cut

"Edwin, how did you get so pretty? You have nice eyes. Has anyone ever told you, you have nice eyes? We should get married, are you single?" Thomas rambled as he leaned into Edwin's space and ran a hand over his lapelle, though with much less finesse than usual.

"No. I am entirely taken." 'Taken with you', Edwin tried and failed to suppress a smile that was ever so fond.

"What? Why?" Thomas whined with an impressive pout. "You should be with me!"

"Told you the catnip wine wasn't worth it, didn't I?" Charles teased, snickering from the sofa with Crystal and Niko, who were all three enjoying the show.

"Is it him!?" Thomas pointed accusatorily at Charles, who froze for a moment before laughing. "Oh god, WHY? He's at least a 9.5! It's not fair." and oh dear, their three spectators guffawed while Thomas started to get emotional.

"Darling. Sweetheart. My dearest Thomas," Edwin cupped Thomas' face, making him look at him in the eye. He couldn't deny that he quite liked the jealousy and the pretty blush that painted his lover's cheeks. "I am together with you. There is no need to worry about anyone else."

"You're with me? Really?" Thomas looked starry-eyed. "Wow..."

"I love you so much that I fear it is becoming a problem." Edwin said, softly, voice dripping with the love that he proclaimed.

Thomas immediately began purring, the deep, loud rumbling, vibrating through him quite uncontrollably. He leaned against Edwin's chest, as though to get as close as physically possible. He rubbed his cheek against Edwin's shoulder and buried his face in the crook of his neck.

Edwin knew he only had a split second and acted promptly, wrapping his arms securely around Thomas as he changed into his cat form without warning.

Thankfully Edwin was ready and stood steady as Thomas clawed his way up onto Edwin's shoulders and draped himself over them, tucking himself around Edwin's neck.

"You're stuck like that now, until he sobers up. He's gone scarf mode." Crystal grinned, finding the whole situation hilarious.

"Edwin doesn't mind, do you, Edwin?" Niko asked, with a knowing smile.

"Not at all."

[carletes]

I miss Carlandads hibii

What if the twins was born when Carlos and Lando still racing and they got 1-2 podium? I think without interferance of their PR, Jon, Rupert and Caco there’ll only be the 3rd winner on the podium

[Technically, when the twins are born Lando is racing and they do get their little stint on the podium but I love this!!! AU of the AU where Reyes and Cisca put their feet down and tell Carlos to take one more season at least. They agree that there will always be someone around who follows them to races and takes care of the kids. It’s a difficult year in its own way, but it’s worth it.]

Even before Carlos had watched Lando cross the checkered flag, he reached for the radio.

“Mis bebés ,” he rasped, his voice warbling. “My babies, where–?”

“Other garage,” came Ricky’s matter-of-fact response, and then, “Carlos! P2, P2, and–”

And Carlos laughed, exhilarated, and yelled back, “What a race! And a Carlando podium, eh?”

“Ah, you almost had him!”

“And then he made his car twice as wide," Carlos muttered in response, his annoyance all affection. "Fucker."

Once he drew abreast with Lando, they waved at each other with grins that were readily apparently through the slim visors of their helmets. Carlos felt a surge of love towards his husband, and then another surge of excitement about what this meant for them, the milestone that it was. And by the time they drew nearer the pit lane, all residual annoyance had faded entirely. And all that was left was-

A screech drew near, and then Carlos found himself scooped off the ground with a maniacal laugh. Carlos guffawed and thumped his husband's helmet. He forced himself out of Lando's arms and pressed their helmets together for a brief moment, holding each other in that adrenaline, that rush, before Carlos shoved Lando towards McLaren, and he himself ran into the waiting arms and cheers of his own team. It was a ritual they knew well by now, but one that would never fade. And it was made more special when one of them won.

Granted, Carlos preferred it when he won. He may be a married man, but he was a racing driver, too.

But once that adrenaline faded, once they had been weighed, once they found their way back to each other and took their helmets off and kissed—Carlos’ hands gentle on Lando’s cheeks, Lando’s arms tight around Carlos’ neck, lips pressed together and bodies swaying as they indulged, even after so many years, in being able to kiss openly, publicly, before cameras and spectators and peers—they locked eyes and knew they both wanted the same thing above all else.

“Your garage��?” asked Carlos, and Lando nodded. He looked around eagerly, fingers still in Carlos’. The smile which then broke across Lando’s face took Carlos’ breath away, and Carlos knew that when he looked too and saw his babies, his Charlie and Leggy, in their Nan’s arms, he too looked beyond reason, joyous beyond joy.

They rushed over, heedless of Naomi waiting patiently to interview them, and their babies beamed in recognition, their little heads dwarfed by gigantic headphones to protect their ears. Leggy, the more extroverted, immediately began pulling out of her grandmother’s hold, and Charlie just giggled and covered his face.

Carlos melted. He reached for his daughter, kissed his mother-in-law on the cheek, and then tossed Allegra up in the air. She squealed, shrieked, then covered her papá’s face with open-mouthed kisses. Beside him, Lando was just silently holding their son, breathing in his shaggy hair, looking for all the world like the most contented person. Carlos was in love. Carlos would never cease to be in love. He shifted Allegra to a hip, brought his husband and son in closer, and kissed them both.

“I love you,” Carlos whispered, and then, because he could never not say it, he kissed Lando again and murmured against his lips, “thank you.”

Lando smiled wide, kissed Allegra’s nose and pretended to bite her cheek, and that was all they could do before they were firmly navigated back to the interview with Naomi.

As was also tradition, they had their interview together. To Naomi’s credit, she didn’t quite acknowledge the twins until the very end, when she said, “and of course this is a special moment for you both. A Carlando 1-2, with your children spectating! What does this mean to you?”

Carlos opened his mouth, but before he could, Lando leaned in and said, “It means they know I’m the better driver.”

Carlos guffawed and pressed his hip against Lando’s side, trying to jostle him out of frame. Charlie giggled, his little legs kicking, and Allegra reached for her twin. Peace thus reasserted, as neither Lando nor Carlos could fight if their twins were having their “twin conferences,” as they called them, Carlos cleared his throat.

“It means,” Carlos corrected, “they get to see who we are, but not all we are. And also to me, it means they know that they can do anything.”

“So is it safe to say we’ll see a Norris-Sainz on the grid in a few years?”

Lando laughed and held Charlie protectively to his chest. “Not so loud! Contract negotiations are already underway.”

“But they can be whatever they want to be,” Carlos added, and he tried hard not to respond to the look Lando gave him: adoration, respect, desire.

In the cooldown room, it was hard to talk about anything that wasn’t the kids. Allegra had definitely had an accident: she wasn’t in the same clothes they’d sent her off in that morning. And Charlie had felt a little sticky when they cuddled him, which meant he had been given far more ice cream than either Lando or Carlos approved. It was not the most insightful cooldown room—but then, it never was even if two out of the three podium drivers weren’t parents together.

After the trophies, the anthem, the champagne, the traditional kiss hidden behind a somewhat well-placed champagne bottle, Carlos and Lando lingered longer. They sat on the top podium, pressed flush against each other, Lando’s head on Carlos’ shoulder. Carlos felt the urge to whisper praise to his husband, to stroke his side; but they were already pushing the limits of what the FIA would allow, and while Carlos was content to do so during his last season, he was not content to jeopardize the rest of Lando’s career.

But this one concession they would always demand: waiting until their babies were cleared to come up, and then they would be reunited with their babbling, perfect children. Then, as a family, they would sit back down again and…bask. In the life they had built, against the odds. In their own courage. In the love they had nurtured into verdance. And in the seeds they had sowed for the future.

“Do you regret anything?” Lando asked, suddenly. He was showing Allegra his trophy from a careful distance, making sure she didn’t try to press her mouth to it. Instead, she just looked at it so intently that it seemed to be reflected in her eyes.

Carlos swallowed hard and turned away from the overwhelming visual. He pressed Charlie to himself, keeping his head from his own, sticky body with a carefully placed towel. Charlie was dozing, not fully asleep but apparently content enough to nod off. He kissed his baby’s forehead and said, “Just not having more babies with you before I am too old.”

Lando laughed and leaned towards Carlos to catch his lips again. They lingered, the kiss long and tender, unhurried.

“You’re not that old yet,” Lando whispered, and then, his voice laced with something wonderful, “and I’m not done having babies with you, Sainz.”

And not for the first time, Carlos felt impatient for the end of his career. He had his life to begin.

[apas-95]

I feel like I'm slowly burning to death, like a motorsports driver writhing on the tarmac. Invisible methanol flame killing an idiot in front of guffawing spectators.

[mayhemakinguser]

Task Force 141 x F! Reader part 3

Wow, the third part to this story! Yippee! Chaotic gets off her arse to actually produce somewhat good content!

Call sign: Casanova

Reader is confirmed to be American because fudge life ok?

It's your turn to spar with Ghost! That cant be going too well... right?

<story starts now woohoo>

"Ghost, get in the ring."

You perk up. Ayo? Sparring with Ghost? You get to wrestle with that huge sexy man? Hallelujah amen, God is blessing your arse today.

Soap trudges off the mats and stands to the side with the others, now a humble spectator. Ghost removes his boots and places them neatly against the bench and ominously heads your way. Not gonna lie, you were a bit nervous. He was standing threateningly. Like that standing emoji. (Author cannot insert said emoji because her android does not support it, tf man)

You eye him and he eyes you back. He carried himself as if he were Death itself. Just look at those hands. Man could crush skulls with those things.

"Ready? Fight!"

You blink and immediately go on the defensive because the moment your captain said "fight!" Ghost was already launching himself towards you. He swings a fist and you block it with your forearm, the contact making your entire arm almost go numb.

You curse, somewhat expecting him to be as rough with you as possible (mmm, rough), but not quite. You dance away from him, your mind telling you to gather some distance from the six foot something male.

But he wouldn't let you retreat so easily. He sweeps a leg under your flitting feet and you trip and fall on your butt. Instantly, you roll away before he could pin you down. You get on your knees and bounce up, delivering a swift kick which he blocks almost easily. You don't hesitate again and swing your other leg, but the man was so tall you could only hit his shoulder.

First mistake. Ghost seizes your ankle and throws you to the side, and you release a yelp in surprise. You crash to the floor and scramble to get up. Ghost grabs your shoulder and pins you down. With animalistic instincts, you decide to bite his arm. Hard.

"Fucking hell!" He curses, releasing you and you clap the side of his head with a closed fist. It causes him to lean towards the side and you take the opportunity to slide out from underneath him.

As fast as a viper, again this damn man pins your ankle to the floor and yanks, making you fall flat on your stomach. Ghost is on you in seconds, elbow digging in between your shoulder blades and one hand digging into your scalp, yanking your head up.

"Ghost wins."

You can't help but smirk. "Why don't you pull my hair a little harder, Lieutan-"

Ghost jerks his balled hand full of hair up and you yelp again. He whispers lowly in your ear, "Watch yourself, Casanova. I could easily break your neck."

You swoon. This man is so fine.

He lets go of his hold and you lie on the floor for a moment before rolling onto your back, sitting up, and massaging your head. You didn't mind the pain. In fact you quite liked it.

"Your hand-to-hand combat is good, but could be better," Price declares, looking down at you. He gives a grin. "But you are clearly suitable for this task force. Welcome to the team, Casanova."

He offers a hand to you and you take it gratefully as he lifts you up. The other men clap you on your shoulder, congrating you for your admission in. You notice someone is missing and you look around.

The boots on the bench are gone.

----

"Jesus in heaven, I am starving!" You complain loudly, plopping on the bench with your food in hand.

"Didn't you eat before you got here?" Rudy asks, shoveling some food into his mouth.

"Nah. Was too excited to. Now I pay the price," you respond, shaking your head.

"Could tell. You're like a rambunctious child," Gaz jokes, elbowing you.

"Like you're any better!" Alejandro calls with a grin. Gaz flips him off and you can't help but guffaw.

"Anyway, where's Ghost?" You ask, biting your food. You question was aimed towards anybody.

Soap answered. "He usually doesn't eat with us, but occasionally he does."

You hum, scanning the soldiers around you. When was the last time you had lunch with your old squad? Before they...

"So..." your attention went back to your table. "Why is your call sign Casanova?" Polite talk. This you could do.

"Because of my amazing personality," you chirp with a smirk. "I'm super awesome, good in battle-"

"Narcissistic, more like," Rudy interjects. You stick your tongue out at him.

"One of my comrades were like, "S***, L/N, you are such a casanova!' and it just stuck." You smile at the memory.

"...What happened to your comrades?" Soap asks hesitantly.

You should've saw this coming. You smile wavers a moment before it fixes itself.

"It was just one hell of an accident. But I'm sure the "accident" is pretty infamous. You probably already know what happened," you say carefully, trying to not reveal anything. Just keep the smile. Keep smiling. Especially when you don't feel like it.

Soap mumbles a "sorry" and the atmosphere became tense and quiet. Suddenly, you aren't very hungry anymore.

You rise to your feet and throw your food in the trash. "I'll be right back."

"Chica, didn't you say you were hungry? You barely ate any of your food," Alejandro observes, watching your face. Strangely enough, Alejandro liked you, but not for your pretty face. He liked your personality, although it seemed like a mask.

You wave a hand. "I was exaggerating. Imma just take a stroll. See yall later."

You walk off, thoughts swirling and your body went into autopilot.

What went wrong? What could've went differently? Why are you still alive? These questions kept you up at night, but you have never found the answers since the tragedy. Since they all...

You bump into someone. You curse. "Yo, my bad-"

You gaze up and realize it's your captain. He looks down at you worriedly. "Casanova, are you alright? Why aren't you eating with the others?"

"Not hungry. Still have my energy," you respond breezily. "Just decided to explore the base."

Price watches you, the same way Alejandro was. "I see."

Silence. Awkward as hell. You shuffle on your feet.

"If you need anything..." he begins, studying your expression. "You can speak with me in my office. Or anyone of your team. You're a part of the family now."

You force a smile. "Thanks, Cap'n. I'll be sure to take you up at the offer someday." You continue your stride before a voice stops you.

You turn again and see Gaz jogging towards you. Price continues walking in the other direction, not wanting to intrude in the conversation that was about to occur.

"Hey," he says breathlessly. You nod at him in acknowledgment. "Just wanted to say Soap didn't mean-"

"-Anything by it. I know. I wasn't offended or anything, so don't worry about it," you interrupt.

He shifts some of his weight on his other foot. "Look, we all have lost people. We're not going to judge you because you're a survivor. I'm sure a lot of people blame you for... y'know." Gaz scratches his neck. "It wasn't your fault. Things happen."

You purse your lips and exhale deeply. "Thanks for the sentiment. But it has to be someone's fault, right? I could've prevented it. I should've died with them."

"Don't say that!" You blink at his outburst. "No one deserves to die, least of all you. You can't stop the world from spinning. I don't know what happened at that time, but there couldn't have been a way."

You stare at him, surprised. These were some weird people, this lot. "...Thanks. Uh. Yeah." You weren't a person that could express emotions easy.

It got awkward real quick.

"Imma just..." you point to the way out. He nods.

"Yeah. Come back whenever you're ready." Gaz turns on his heel and jogs back to his squad mates.

You smile at his back. Maybe joining Task Force 141 won't be so bad after all.

<end of story wow>

This hadn't been proofread, so I apologize for any mistakes! hope u enjoyed this part yipeee-

YOu could tell I rushed pretty hard lmao-

PART FFOUR IS IS FINALLY HERE WOW

[hedwig221b]

sterek. hs party. outsider's angsty pov

Paige hated parties.

Suddenly she heard a loud and familiar voice.

“Oh, look, here’s the champion of the night!”

Fucking Stilinski. Still in Derek’s jacket.

Apparently, Derek had reached them and now with Erica on one hand and Stilinski on another, he was kissed by both of them on his cheeks rather enthusiastically. The crowd greeted the team captain with whoops and roars and squealing.

Derek was smiling bright and wide. It was truly a breathtaking sight.

Reyes had finally let him go and was now busy hanging off of Boyd. Stilinski had decided that it gave him the free reign over Derek, so he promptly jumped on his back, tucked his face close to Derek’s, so they were cheek to cheek and demanded to be piggy-backed to the drink’s table.

It was pathetically obvious, that Derek was used to this behavior. He rolled his eyes and brought his hands under Stilinski’s thighs to keep him from falling. They were talking about something, but the music was too loud for Paige to hear what it was about.

She convinced herself she didn’t care.

Paige spent the entire evening being a stalker. She was aware of her creepy behavior, but it’s not like anybody noticed her standing in a quiet corner. The desire to eat was never there since the beginning of the game, so she was holding her room-temperature Coke and tried to blend with the wall.

Derek and Stilinski were inseparable the entire evening. Who would’ve guessed.

They sneaked a little bit of alcohol in their drinks, which Paige disapproved of, so they were even more disgusting with each other, than usual. Well, Stilinski was disgusting, Derek was just tolerating his presence, for sure. Stilinski was a clingy mouthy brat, who had apparently glued his hands to Derek’s waist. Derek didn’t have any choice, really, but to put his arm around Stiles.

It was all Stilinski’s fault.

Paige didn’t like how Stiles looked at her boyfriend, with big eyes full of proud fondness. His laugh was loud, boisterous and contagious to all people around him. When Stiles stumbled, Derek was always there to catch him, which made Stiles giggle and cling to him even more.

Paige wanted to cry, but she knew she couldn’t. That would be beyond humiliating.

Then someone suggested a game of Spin the Bottle. And in typical jock fashion the captain was wrestled into participating immediately.

So, of course, Stilinski was brought along with him.

No. No, no, no.

Enough.

Paige unstuck herself from the wall and started to squeeze through the crowd to get to the center of the living room, where the players were sitting. But there were so many people, burly and strong and she was a rather small girl, so the whole ordeal took her awhile.

When she had finally burst through the first row of eager spectators, the game was already on.

Erica was peppering kisses all over Lahey’s cherubic face, which was puckered and wrinkled from disgust, and also bright pink from Erica’s lipstick.

“Ew-w, Erica, you’re like my fucking sister, sto—“ he didn’t get to finish the sentence, because Erica smacked a wet kiss right on his lips.

Isaac’s horrified wail was buried under the guffaws and roaring laughter.

Next rounds were spent in a similar way; Jackson absolutely refused to kiss Danny, which made Lydia Martin clip him round the ear; the girl then proceeded to kiss Danny herself, which left Jackson pink-faced and thoroughly confused.

Heather got to kiss Stilinski, but was so flustered and shy, she mastered only a dry peck in the corner of his mouth, before going red like a beetroot.

Everybody refused to kiss Greenburg, who was then quickly kicked out of the game.

Then Stilinski took the bottle and spun it with a cheeky grin.

Paige closed her eyes and prayed.

Suddenly there was a roar from the crowd along with hoots and catcalling.

“I want your luck, Stilinski!”

“Get your fucking man!”

“Don’t chicken out now, Hale!”

Horrified and close to bursting into tears, Paige opened her eyes. The bottle was pointing at Derek. She lifted her gaze at her boyfriend.

He was sitting there, looking at Stiles with such intensity and a smug smile, like the cat who got the cream.

“Come here, Hale,” Stilinski lifted an eyebrow and beckoned him with one finger, biting his lip.

“No, you come here,” Derek smiled predatorily. Stiles rolled his eyes, despite the impish grin on his lips.

“As you wish, my champion.”

“Oh, this is gonna be so hot,” Danny announced dreamily and a lot of people nodded in agreement.

Paige didn’t want to witness this, but couldn’t turn away from the trainwreck.

Stiles crawled seductively in Derek’s lap, took his face in his hands and kissed him right on the lips.

The crowd went absolutely wild.

But those two didn’t stop.

Derek put his hands on Stiles’ trim waist, not to push him away, but to pull him in even more. Their kiss, which was never innocent in the first place, turned into an open-mouthed one and even dirtier, as if encouraged by the supporting crowd.

“Somebody, spray them with a water bottle!” Jackson complained.

Stiles took one hand from Derek’s face and gave him a middle finger.

“Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying the show, Jacks,” Danny teased him. “This is a prime spank bank material, right there.”

Finally, the kiss has ended.

The boys were breathing heavily, apparently in no rush to separate from one another. They didn’t seem to notice the claps or the cheers or anyone from the roaring crowd. They stared at each other with something deep reflecting in both their gazes. Stiles’ smile soon turned into breathless giggles the longer he stared at Derek. He closed his eyes and, still giggling uncontrollably, put his hands around Derek’s shoulders to tuck his blushing face against his neck. Derek caressed his back almost reverently up and down and sighed in Stiles’ hair with a self-satisfied smile.

Nobody noticed their little touches and gazes. Or, maybe, they were used to it. Or is that how it is with jocks? All the pent-up energy spilled into homoerotic displays of affection?

Maybe they were just drunk.

Drunk, stupid boys.

Paige couldn’t watch them anymore, or she’ll be sick.

She turned around and headed for the exit through the crowd with doubled vigor.

“Hale’s turn!”

“Spin it!”

Paige started pushing people aside in a hurry.

“NO WAY!”

“Again! That’s not fair!”

“Stilinski, you’re one lucky motherfucker.”

This was a nightmare.

“HALE! HALE! HALE!”

Paige stumbled out of the house, feeling something wet slide down her cheek.

The triumphant roar of the crowd made her flinch and walk away faster.

Read full version on ao3

[ruckis-vandalizes]

"They don't believe in me."

"Aren't you glad that you were right?" "I'm so sorry you were right."

[sciencestyled]

Cosmic Capers: When the Universe Gets a Makeover from the Madcap Maestros of Art

Hold onto your space helmets, dear interstellar internet wanderers, as we begin a ride that's part starship journey, part mad hatter's tea party. Imagine, if you will, a universe where the constellations don't just twinkle; they snicker, guffaw, and occasionally belt out Broadway show tunes. Welcome to the world of Space Art, where artists, inspired not by the quiet majesty of the night sky but by the rollicking, meme-filled expanse of the internet, create works that capture not just the beauty but the sheer, unadulterated silliness of the cosmos.

First off, let's talk about those visionaries who look at a black canvas and think, "You know what this needs? A cat. In a spacesuit. Riding a unicorn." These are the pioneers who understand that the universe is not just a cold, vast void but a potential backdrop for the ultimate cosmic comedy. Their paintings and sculptures don't just aim to inspire awe; they aspire to elicit a spit-take. Imagine walking into a gallery and seeing a depiction of the Big Bang as a literal bang – a giant cosmic drum set being played by an octopus with Neil deGrasse Tyson's face. It's not just art; it's a revelation, a meme in marble and oil paint.

But why stop at traditional mediums? The true avant-garde of space art are those who create digital installations that simulate extraterrestrial experiences. Picture this: a VR experience that doesn't just simulate walking on the moon but turns it into a disco dance-off against alien life forms, all set to the tune of "Staying Alive." It's not just a step for mankind; it's a moonwalk Michael Jackson would envy.

Then there are the performances. Ah, to be a spectator at an event where artists, decked out in LED-lit spacesuits, perform interpretive dances that tell the story of the universe's creation – if the universe were created in a blender with episodes of "Rick and Morty," snippets of TikTok dances, and a dash of quantum mechanics for flavor. It's like watching the birth of the cosmos, but with more glitter and less existential dread.

Let's not forget the sculptors, the unsung heroes who take "playing with mud" to interstellar levels. Imagine stumbling upon a sculpture that looks like a black hole but is actually a portal to a dimension where every atom in your body is replaced with a tiny rubber duck. It's not just a sculpture; it's a physical manifestation of a physics joke that got way out of hand.

As we navigate through this galaxy of giggles, it's essential to remember the cosmic collision at the heart of it all: art and science, two fields that, when combined, have the power to not just explain the universe but to turn it into an endless source of amusement and wonder. It's in this space where artists and scientists, armed with paintbrushes, telescopes, and an unhealthy obsession with internet culture, collaborate to create a universe where curiosity and creativity are the stars that guide us.

In conclusion, space art is not just about capturing the beauty of the cosmos. It's about reimagining the universe as a playground for our wildest, most hilarious fantasies. It's where the mysteries of the universe meet the unpredictability of human creativity, resulting in a genre of art that's as boundless as space itself. So next time you look up at the night sky, remember: somewhere out there, there's probably an artist dreaming up a way to make that galaxy look like a giant, cosmic pizza. And honestly? We wouldn't have it any other way.

[gobboguy]

Chapter 30: Ten Years a Slave

Under the relentless gaze of the blazing sun, the sands of the Grand Arena of Gob glowed like embers, absorbing the heat that radiated from the dwarvish gladiators locked in a dance of death. The metallic clangor of weapons echoed through the colossal amphitheater as the combatants engaged in a bloody spectacle that mirrored the fiery intensity of the sun above.

King Korbor, ensconced in his opulent box, reclined with an air of regal indifference. Dwarf maidens, adorned in vibrant colors, offered him succulent grapes and stroked his luxurious beard while he lounged on his royal seat, a stark contrast to Queen Asta's disapproving gaze as she feigned interest in the brutal contest below. She sniffed indignantly and tried her best to ignore her husband's blatant infidelities, her hands knotting themselves and nearly tearing at her dress. The indignity of it all! The air in the royal box carried the tension of strained courtly dynamics.

Amidst the tumultuous roars of the crowd, one gladiator emerged as a towering figure of skill and finesse. Grjun, a master of combat, moved with a deceptive grace that defied his colossal size. In the bloodbath of the arena, he wove through the chaos with a fluidity that spoke of experience and unparalleled mastery. The crowd, swept away by the artistry of his brutal ballet, erupted in chants of "Grjun, Grjun, Grjun!"

The sun's harsh rays cast long shadows over the shifting sands, mirroring the ebb and flow of the gladiatorial spectacle. Grjun's dominance became a beacon of awe, a testament to the mastery of combat, as he harnessed the principles of redirection and weight control to dismantle adversaries with calculated precision. The arena, a cauldron of fervent cheers and the metallic symphony of clashing weapons, bore witness to Grjun's unrivaled prowess, etching his name into the collective consciousness of the dwarf spectators.

As the clamor of the Grand Arena of Gob echoed through the vast stone structure, Senator Sada, a figure of political influence, leaned forward from behind King Korbor. "My lord." Sada spoke. "I cannot stress the need for a worthy champion to emerge from this melee. The winner we see today will have him and his house represent our interest in the upcoming tournament between Bhia and our neighbors to the south, Zigan."

"Yes, yes..." Korbor sighed and waved the maidens around him away. He sat and looked at Sada. "Long have we been seperated from our cousins to the south. The Dwarvish Compact, our non-aggression treaty, has long kept us from all-out war. I intend to make use of the first international tournament of gladiatorial combat to propose a bold new plan."

The King's Box grew silent at this mention. Even Asta leaned forward to listen closer. King Korbor swirled his wine in his cup and tasted it, savoring the attention paid to him. "If we can win the tournament, then the winner is given a concession during any future negotiations. But I intend to make a negotiation forthwith. I intend to propose reunification."

"Yes, yes!" Sada crowed, his eyes alight with internal political machinations. "But..." His eyes cast aside to Asta. "But how will you cement this alliance? The King of Zigan has a daughter of age, Maevis, who is comely and unmarried. She would make the ideal match. But, my lord, you are already married...Normally marriage would be the lynchpin to secure an alliance but the Queen..."

"Nonsense!" King Korbor guffawed and ignored the glare from his wife. "The Dwarvish King's of Old held more than one wife at a time. Why shouldn't I? This will be a new Kingdom, a new alliance. I think some of the old mixed with the new is called for, would you wife?" He turned to Asta and gave her a look that brokered no arguement.

Asta sneered and turned from her husband, desperate to hide her tears. "Yes, dear husband." She said quietly, suppressing a sob. Her family's future and their debt to the King meant that she could never go against him. She was a slave queen, tied to her husband for fear of her family's downfall.

The scene inside the King's box was interrupted as a great cry went up as a final spray of blood filled the air. The crowd cheered and went wild, screaming "Grjun!" as their champion fought and won. The grand melee unfolded below, a spectacle of ferocious combat with over a dozen gladiator houses vying for supremacy. The air buzzed with excitement as each house sought to prove the prowess of their champions, laying the foundation for a colossal tournament that would echo far beyond the boundaries of the Grand Arena of Gob.

The colossal warrior, known as "Grjun," lifted the severed head of his fallen opponent high, eliciting a thunderous cheer from the jubilant crowd. The deafening roar echoed through the Grand Arena of Gob as Gelbeg, concealed beneath the gruesome persona, acknowledged the adoration from the bloodthirsty spectators.

King Korbor, rising from his regal seat, dismissed Senator Sada with a wave. With an imperious air, he commanded silence, addressing Gelbeg. "Grjun, mighty warrior of House Dwordrum, your strength has made Bhia proud. For ten years you've proven yourself a mighty warrior, one worthy of our nation. Soon, you shall journey to Zigan, representing our great realm in the face of our dwarven kin."

With a deliberate and theatrical motion, Grjun reached up to his helmet, its grotesque design concealing the identity of the formidable gladiator. As the heavy metal mask was lifted, revealing a face accustomed to the harsh brutality of the arena, the cheers and adulations spread like wildfire through the crowd. The cheers surged momentarily, straining to reach their champion. There, beneath the battered armor and scars earned in a decade of gruesome combat, stood Gelbeg, the once proud leader of the Orcish people. His eyes, once fierce and untamed, met the gaze of the spectators with a mix of sufferenace and quiet desperation, resigned to his fate of slave to the dwarves. The revelation was seen through the arena, leaving an indelible mark on the minds of those who had witnessed the Orcish leader's transformation into the fearsome gladiator, Grjun.

Gelbeg, now unmasked, met the king's words with a gruff acknowledgment. "Aye, King Korbor. I shall showcase my might and defend Bhia's honor in Zigan." The words were appropriate, well honed and practiced but lacked any conviction. Ten years of being a slave had left Gelbeg numb, a being created only for violence. Where there was a lack of violence, then he was left with nothing and nothing was all he felt. As the cheers continued, Gelbeg discarded the severed head, a macabre trophy from his years in the brutal arena.

Asta, the queen, observed the spectacle with a disdainful snort. "Such barbarity," she muttered to herself, her eyes betraying a mix of disgust and repulsion.

King Korbor, undeterred by his wife's disapproval, continued, "Grjun, a decade of service in the arena has molded you into a fearsome gladiator. May your strength serve our cause well in Zigan."

With the formalities concluded, Gelbeg, still in the guise of Grjun, flexed his muscles, responding to the crowd's adulation. The arena, soaked in the scent of blood and the fervor of the dwarven spectators, awaited the next chapter in the gladiatorial drama.

[dreamsandroots]

Monkey Flips

It seems, at certain times of the day, an impossibility, simply to exist. You spend all day thinking about it, putting it together, pulling it apart but your eyes, your eyes are glued to the screen, hungry for their congested diet of sludge. Hypnagogia is a tough gaze to shake. The pen escapes us. The tongue is empty, the mouth dry. Too hot, too cold in the winter sun. The electricity is flowing and we don’t ever want it to stop. Your body and its habits only clutter the page. The pen runs out of ink.

There are times when, it seems, we think there is something missing in us. We wait, ready to pounce. We crunch the numbers, contemplating what we’ll do when we finally catch that elusive ‘thing’ which, categorically, escapes our clutches. Within a moment we’re on our feet. We’re shaking out the Joneses. We move our arms around a bit. Poke out our tongues. Wobble our head back and forth for a moment. But it doesn’t work: it’s too rehearsed. We never fully break out of ourselves. The body sinks back to its lowest possible gravitational mass and before long our eyes are on the screen again. The effort becomes one of passive resistance. We forget the fight-or-flight impulse, always operating therein.

The monkey always takes its toll. To sit down carefully, and with patience, to set it to your lessons, is a sure recipe for madness. The monkey itself is by no means a malevolent force. It bears no ill-will towards the more refined and controlled appetites with whom it shares this physio-psychical existence. The monkey is only out for the fun of it. But to constrain the monkey, to attempt to impart on it a state of restraint, concentration and/or (heavens-forbid) deep meditation, is likely to result in wild bursts of anger, resentment, even some limited acts of frustration-fuelled violence. Even so, one would find it an impossibility to harbour any resentment for this simian oaf: the monkey simply wants to dance and sing. It wants to swing from the light-fixtures. It wants to bounce around the walls, to bungle up your carefully sorted piles and to illicit guffaws and snorts from those gathered around as its (at times unwitting) spectators until, they too, begin to feel the spirit of the monkey itching and shaking inside of them, jiggling about.

And we might wish it to be so—that in a perfect world we would all discard our false skins, our ties and our high-heeled shoes, and propel the stacks of paperwork, our monitors our laptops, our office-supplies out onto the clamorous streets below, until those who emerge from their automobiles begin screeching and hollering on this haggard earth, bearing their inner-monkey for all to see. Alas, the world is not such a place that it would survive this unfathomable leap into unmediated, libidinal chaos. No, it seems the best we can do is to ignore the monkey’s antics with the hopes that its clownish energy will wear down without causing too much damage, and without too much drawing on and pulling at the  mimetic impulses to its boorish sphere of mischief and miscreance. If only it were the case that the monkey could content itself to its own adventures such that it could leave the rest of us well enough alone. You might think it done and dusted to see the monkey scamper off beneath the desks in search of the next big thing, but soon enough you’ll bear witness to the fruits of its ebullient manoeuvres: legs wriggling in the stalls, a few slouches towards the clock’s face, as if in deference to the passing of time, occasionally a sporadic cackle as if someone had been tickled somewhere private, unexpected and/or altogether inappropriate.

The people’s gaze will shift toward the unyielding pull of the windows with their natural afternoon light creeping towards evening, and their ample view unto the unfolding worlds outside, which, in contrast, seems sterile in its lack of spontaneity, and in which one might imagine all kinds of monkeying about in the haphazard green tangle of the city’s parks, or by the wharfs that border onto the gargantuan, midnight-blue sea. Some storm-clouds on the horizon, from just a certain angle, at a certain rate of velocity, threaten to bombard any weekend plans your monkey might have been concocting, the thought of being trapped in your apartment with it bouncing around inside forcing you out the door to where you would meet your peers in monkey bars of one type or another, to unfasten and let loose the tensions of the week through shared rituals of drink, gaming, and other forms of monkeying about.

So in lieu of one final nosedive into the inbox, you twiddle and itch. You melt on the spot into a puddle of chemical jouissance until you’re ready to combust. Your hands fiddle and your legs bounce. Your eyes may twitch. The tongue waggles about, slopping at the roof of the dry mouth rehearsed or not, thirsty for the hour’s passing flow. As to the very few still struggling with the week’s endeavours, you can hope only that your obstinate vibrations, your own inner-monkeyings, are not enough to cause them to break concentration, to send them into the same whimsical loop of muscular spasmosis. And out to the jungle, in the end, all must go.

[wingsabovethebridge]

A trail of black feathers--a small personal story of connection

For as long as I can remember, crows in particular have been making themselves known in some capacity in my life. I have vivid childhood memories of the one that got too close-- and I couldn't help but stare with wide eyed mystique. I cannot count the many years later in life where I disregarded such feelings and curiosity about the bird, seemingly forgetting those memories.

Life continued as it were, and life back then had a suffocating heaviness. I had spent my time with an amazing friend. It was during a walk around campus grounds that he looked at me, observed the sky and surrounding area, then stated, "These birds are always around when I hang out with you." I too looked up and around, and there were handful of crows walking around in the near empty lot. A gew flew overhead. They were just crows and not as interesting as the large turkey vulture feather I had just obtained on the path. Or so I believed.

A few weeks later, the same friend and I had met up for lunch. The paneled glass windows of the building showcased a dreary and rainy day. We got our lunch and talked over recent going ons before I casually pointed out the three crows in the tree close to the windows. The words tossed around included everything from "strange" to "coincidental." As the crows sat, my friend guffawed and said,"They're like your spectators."

It was a harmless comment that stuck with me for years after. It was partly the catalyst to what became a deeper understanding and involvement with my inner self. The more I kept an awareness, the more crows I'd find. On the bus, at the stables; around the stores I'd frequent. I would be attentive towards a 'caw', or flying crows above. In times of stress, I would let such sights and sounds of the black bird remind me to take a breath and center myself. 

Life eased its burden for a little while, and I found myself closer to the corvids, quite literally. In one instance, I had to let go of pain as a sick crow had died in my arms before any vet could be seen-- the closest I've gotten--but the moment broke my heart. 

《《°》》

A few years after that event, I briefly befriended a crow pair that made the yard a frequent stop. I got to witness the building of a nest in the pines and seeing fledglings out and about. There were times when the flock would be perched on the broad branches altogether. Each year, crow visitors have been ongoing, and now I finally can appreciate them.

As this chapter opened, my eyes to the sky and ears carefully listening,  I've taken it all as a reminder that no matter where I am, crows will be around-- and around me in some way. They are my audience, my "spectators"; an avian that has become more than a symbol to me. They became a bird that whispers into my very spirit.

[ask-the-order-of-the-stars]

*Hugs Gera*

How are you doing you sweet little pumpkin?

[6clawdy6]

Why stop there? Wash him with his clothes on Clawdy.

Ahem. Allow me to remind you of a physical feature of Gera's that shows why this is a horrible idea:

Those forearms are easily hard objects capable of mass destruction. Perhaps we shouldn't throw them in a washer that isn't industrial grade, lest we recall what happened last time...