#i might post snippets

[kirinjaegeste]

Writing a tobiizu time travel fix it fic, I wanna post it and get reviews but I want at least the first rough draft written 😭😭😭 their arguments are my favorite right now.

[munsonkitten]

Eddie doesn’t know how this became a thing between them. He’s wrapped up around Steve’s back, arms and legs snaking around Steve’s body. He has one thigh between Steve’s, hooked over his hip and snug against his crotch. He can feel the soft bulge of Steve’s cock beneath his leg, and tries not to think too hard about it. 

One of Steve’s arms is tucked under Eddie in a way that makes it possible for him to scratch at Eddie’s hair through his hood. His fingers move rhythmically, sliding over the fabric covering Eddie's head. 

It’s cozy like this, tangled in a way where Eddie can't tell where he ends and Steve begins. It's not something friends do, especially not two guys, but neither one of them mention that.

Sometimes they just lay and talk, and sometimes, like today, they have a book in front of them, positioned in the hand Eddie has snaked beneath Steve’s neck. 

Eddie’s reading, soft and quiet into Steve’s ear, when it happens. Steve turns his head back and presses a kiss to Eddie’s chin. A quick little peck beneath his mouth. 

The words die in Eddie’s throat, choked off by a squeaky noise of surprise. He drops the book onto the bed, letting it fall shut because saving the page he’s on is the last thing on his mind right now. Steve just kissed him. A little kiss, not even on his lips, but still a kiss. From Steve. 

They’re both frozen there, so still Eddie doesn’t think either of them are even breathing, and then Steve’s disentangling himself, pulling away. The exact opposite of what Eddie wants to happen. 

He finds the front of Steve’s shirt clutched in his fist, holding him where he is. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Steve says, still attempting to pull away. “We’re friends — I don’t know what got into me, man. I didn’t mean to do that.”

One hand curls around his wrist, the other going to his fingers to try peeling them away from Steve’s shirt. Eddie closes his fist tighter, shaking his head. 

“Yes, you should have,” Eddie whispers, voice caught in his throat. “Done that, I mean.”

Eddie’s been kissed before. At bars and parties, by guys and girls alike, liquor on their lips or laughter on their tongues. The girls at parties in town were always dared — kiss the freak, see if he puts out (Eddie never did) — and the guys in bars were always drunk and too impersonal. It never went further than that, never felt quite right, especially not with the girls, but he’s been kissed before. 

None of that could have prepared him for the way Steve Harrington kisses him now.

[moonydanny]

Another little fic idea, I hope you like it... Should I expand it?

After they get back together, Tommy really tries to be more open.

Evan had told him—and damn if neither of them had actually noticed back then—that he’d realized that he’d been so pleasantly thrown by how attentive Tommy was, how nice it felt to be doted on after always being the one who doted on others, that he had neglected to do the same in return for Tommy.

And Tommy, well... Tommy loved doting on Evan so much that it never seemed like a priority to ask for what he needed (which, to be fair, most of the time what he needed was to take care of Evan). So one of the promises he’d made to Evan during that long and hard conversation that led to them getting back together was to let Evan take care of him too, and to ask for what he needed. 

And Tommy was really trying. 

So one evening, he gets home to Evan making dinner in the kitchen, and his shift was so incredibly gruelling he feels hollow. He drops his duffel, toes off his boots by the door, and beelines to where Evan is in front of the stove to plaster himself to his boyfriends back.

“Hey, baby. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Tommy hums and just tightens his arms around Evan’s middle. Evan must sense something in Tommy because he turns off the burner and turns in Tommy’s arms and looks at him with those beautiful, earnest eyes.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

And Tommy feels the lump he’s had in his throat since getting back to Harbor from that last rescue getting bigger. 

“What do you need, Tommy?” Evan says it so sweetly, with so much love, and Tommy’s eyes fill with tears.

“Can you—Can you just hold me for a second?” 

“Of course. Come here. I’ve got you.”

They end up lying on the couch, Tommy half on top of Evan, with his head on his chest and Evans arms tight around him. And he let’s himself break apart. He’s never liked crying in front of people, but with Evan, he feels safe.

After a while, when he’s calmed down a bit, he tells Evan about the rescue that had gone wrong. About the kid that had escaped from home after yet another beating from his dad, and how he’d ended up on the side of a cliff and hadn’t made it to the hospital. 

He thanks Evan, for comforting him. 

“Thank you for asking for what you needed, baby. I’m so proud of you.”

And if Tommy sheds a few more tears after hearing his Evan say that to him, well. He’s safe to do so. 

[stellewriites]

ghost and soap that move in together in between missions to save on money and eventually - inevitably - fall into bed together. but somethings missing

they’re both a little too sharp around the edges, need something sweet to ease their cravings and soften their bites, but no one fits right

until you, that is. so don’t be surprised when they make sure you’re sticking around by any means necessary

[cod-thoughts]

“Thought you’d sleep in for once,” Ghost muttered, leaning down to meet Price’s lips in a lazy kiss. It wasn’t rushed—just a slow, easy press of their mouths, like they had all the time in the world.

“Couldn’t,” Price murmured against him, his hands finding Ghost’s hip. He tugged him closer, their noses brushing together as Ghost kissed him again, deeper this time. Price’s grip tightened, but there was nothing hurried about it, just deliberate and steady, as if he was memorising every detail.

Ghost huffed softly when they pulled apart, the sound low and amused. “You’re insatiable, old man.”

“Damn right,” Price shot back, his thumb tracing slow circles against Ghost’s hip. “You’re the one who came in here lookin’ like that. Can’t be helped.”

Ghost shook his head, but there was no real heat behind it, just the faintest curve of his lips, knowing he wasn't wearing anything special. He leaned in again, his fingers slipping under the collar of Price’s shirt, brushing against bare skin. Their mouths met in another kiss, slower this time, like the kindling of a fire, warmth spreading between them with every touch.

Then it happened. Ghost shifted his weight, leaning into Price a little too much as Price tugged him forward. He stumbled, landing hard in Price’s lap, chair creaking underneath them, his thighs bracketing Price’s hips as the two of them froze for a moment, faces inches apart.

“Fuckin' hell,” Ghost muttered, his hands braced on Price’s shoulders as the faintest flush crept up his neck.

Price, for his part, looked completely unbothered—if anything, the grin spreading across his face was downright wolfish. “Now this,” he said, his hands sliding up to Ghost’s waist, “is a sight I could get used to.”

Ghost narrowed his eyes, his voice low and rough. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Can you blame me?” Price replied, his gaze flickering over Ghost—his broad shoulders, the way his muscular thighs framed Price’s hips, the faint pink staining the tops of his cheeks. “Should’ve done this soon as you came in. Hell, I should have you like this all the time.”

“Thought this morning was enough for you,” Ghost shot back, his voice a teasing growl, though the flush on his face deepened.

Price’s eyes darkened, his grin turning into something hungrier. “Not even close.” Wrapping his arms around Ghost’s waist, pulling him down just enough that their bodies pressed together, the solid weight of Ghost against him making Price groan softly. “You’ve no idea how fucking good you look right now.”

Ghost opened his mouth to retort, but Price didn’t give him the chance. He surged up, capturing Ghost’s lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was feral, desperate, all teeth and tongue as if Price couldn’t get enough of him. Ghost let out a low, surprised sound, his hands slipping up Price’s shoulders to his jaw as the kiss deepened.

Price’s hands roamed, one sliding up Ghost’s back to tangle in his hair, the other gripping his thigh, fingers digging into muscle as if to anchor him there. Ghost groaned, the sound muffled against Price’s mouth, his body reacting before his brain could catch up. His hips shifted instinctively, pressing harder against Price, who growled in response.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Price muttered, his voice rough and breathless as he pulled back just enough to drag his teeth along Ghost’s jaw. His lips found the sensitive spot beneath Ghost’s ear, biting down lightly before soothing the mark with his tongue.

Ghost shivered, his fingers slightly tightening around Price’s jaw. “Thought you could handle it, Captain.”

“Handle you?” Price’s laugh was dark, his lips brushing against Ghost’s throat. “Barely.”

The room felt hotter, the air between them thick with want as their movements grew more frantic. Price’s hands were everywhere—tracing the curve of Ghost’s spine, squeezing his thighs, pulling him impossibly closer. Ghost leaned into it, his breath hitching as Price’s teeth scraped against his collarbone.

“John,” Ghost rasped, his voice strained, his usual composure cracking under the heat of Price’s attention.

“Tell me,” Price said, his voice a low growl as he kissed him again, biting at his lower lip before dragging him impossibly closer. “Tell me what you want, love.”

Ghost didn’t answer with words. Instead, he kissed Price with a desperation that said everything, his body pressing against him as if trying to fuse them together. Price groaned into his mouth, his hands sliding to Ghost’s ass, urging him to roll his hips into a sinful grind.

Whatever playful teasing had been between them was long gone, replaced by something raw and consuming. Snaking a hand into Ghost's hair, Price pulled him back with a gasp and looked up at Ghost, his chest heaving, his brown eyes burning with want as he took in the sight of his lover—flushed, ruffled, and completely his.

[yumemi-emi]

So this is the art I mentioned in an earlier post, and the girl is my OC, Adelina

I will never not shamelessly ocxcanonpost so sorry if you followed me expecting something else :3c

(Artist is @royalavera !)

[chock-and-bates]

Listen…. Imagine that era of max during which the boxing video was made, but now in the medieval au… showing off at a joust for charles… hoping to get a handkerchief

you guys just, like, get me 😅

in honor of another semi-prophetic ask, here’s a snippet under the cut

The same feeling that had filled him the last time he had met Max, back when they were only 16, just a few months shy of Jos Verstappen’s untimely death.

It had been at the Mercedes Coronation Festival, and they not been on good terms.

Max had goaded him throughout the entire festival week, fixated on how Charles would be unable to participate in the tournament. King Binotto had deemed it ‘improper’, forbidding Charles from casting his name in despite him finally being of age to participate in the squires’ mêlée.

Charles had never hated Max more in his life.

He’s been so furious that, for the first time ever, he purposely avoided the other young man instead of confronting him, knowing he was too upset to face Max’s taunts without reacting violently.

As much as he would have enjoyed punching the other boy in the face, such a spectacle would surely only draw more of Binotto’s ire.

Charles couldn’t risk it.

It meant he watched the mêlée with a forced serenity as his friends fought for victory, cheering and clapping as though he was enjoying the festivities, all while howling on the inside as he watched a competition where he should be fighting for the victory.

He’d managed to cover the pain with an empty smile, all too aware of Binotto’s watchful gaze.

But he refused to applaud when it was Max, cursed, wretched Max, who won the whole thing.

As he watched his rival shove off his helmet, raising his victorious fists in the air, Charles’ mask slipped, face twisting into a scowl.

It’s not like it was surprising, Charles bitterly tried to tell himself. Max was the best among them. This result was to be expected, Charles could handle this.

There was no reason to be upset.

But then, as if he could hear Charles’ thoughts, Max decided to give him a reason.

It came when Max was handed an elaborate flower wreathe and told to crown the Squire’s Queen of Love and Beauty.

Max had immediately turned straight to one section of the audience, as if he already had someone in mind, already knew exactly where they were sitting.

His eyes went directly to Charles.

And Charles… Charles felt like a stone was dropped in his stomach as he watched his rival walk towards him.

He told himself Max wouldn’t…

The other boy came to a stop in front of him, and with a small smirk and burning glint in his eyes, slowly raised the flower wreathe to present it to Charles.

[forthosetunedin]

body - megan thee stallion x you know what they do to guys like us in prison - mcr

my other megan x mcr mashup

[chalkeater]

Are You Bored Yet came out of my shuffle and I remembered that I drew this a LONG time ago (2022) for it but never finished it. Tbh its kinda almost done but i just. Never got back to it. It HAUNTS me that ive never finished this yet but i thought youd all be interested in some Secret Art I never posted before. Would you like to see me finish this??

[bluespring864]

Andy telling us what he'd want the big four polycule to look like ;-)

[W]hat all gay tennis fans want to know, of course, is which one of his “Big Three” opponents does he most fancy.

So I ask him to rank Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic in order of Snog, Marry and Avoid.

Murray throws his head back and emits a real belly laugh.

“Oh God! I’m not going to give you an avoid!” (He is nothing if not diplomatic.)

“Can I have an alternative to avoid?” he pleads, “or I’ll get crucified by whoever I pick!”

Eventually he comes up with his answer.

“I would marry Roger… and then I would have to snog the other two. I know it’s a cop-out but I’m not avoiding anyone!”

from this 2020 interview with Pride Life

[new-hyperfixation-every-month]

(SPOILERS FOR TLOU + CHARACTER DEATH)

tlou x tsv doodles wahoo

going back to my roots and drawing my most self indulgent au yet

[brokenheartwithheartbreak]

Okay I don’t even go here and I’ve never done this before but I’m 10k deep into a post-finale probably AU platonic Thiam fic based on Theo trying to figure out his shit and function as a human being and DOUBTING my writing very hard rn so. What’s the consensus from anyone whose been in this fandom for longer than two months (see: anyone but me)

Excerpt:

Melissa bustles away before he can unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, Liam watching her go with an oddly forlorn look, still draped over the desk, before those wide puppy-innocent eyes snap to Theo, still hopelessly open and unguarded even as he sighs, a heavy laborious thing, and shakes his head.

“She’s still mad at you.” He says by way of greeting. Theo frowns, has lost Melissa in the throng of people toing and froing in the hallways already, eyes cutting to Liam instead and attempting to dissect why he seems to think this matters.

“I killed her son.” He says flatly, when it becomes apparent Liam expects an answer, “He’s still pissed. Why wouldn’t she be?"

Liam’s gaze turns thoughtful, studying Theo as he stands there in his threadbare t-shirt and the same jeans he’d been wearing when Gabe’s blood was splattering on the tiles, four floors up, three weeks ago. They've been cleaned since - he managed to scrape together enough change for a trip to the laundromat last week - but being back here he can distinctly remember the specific scent of blood and fear and death, a little different for every dead body left in Monroe's wake, tinged with a slightly different mix of the same three things her teenage soldiers feel in their last moments.

Liam's still looking at him with those deceptively sharp eyes, blue like the sky, like a bottomless ocean. He has a skill for looking at people - at Theo - and giving off the impression that he's looking deeper, peeling back the guarded layers and taking a look at the exposed damage underneath, poking at that damage and seeing how much it takes to make him jump, not in a malicious way, though, in a 'testing boundaries' sort of way, in a 'how far can I push you before you snap back' kind of way that Theo respects more than he resents, because he's the same, in a way. He gets the feeling Liam is still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Theo to slip and the carefully crafted master plan to crack and splinter and shatter down around him all over again, gets the feeling this pushing and prodding is a reflexive, knee jerk reaction to how easily he'd slipped into their ranks and earned their trust last time around. While the rest of the pack seem to have decided the best policy is just to keep him at arm's length until they need to pull him in for a human shield, Liam seems to have gone for the opposite; tugging Theo closer so he can peer into the cracks and crevices Tara clawed into his armour and decide whether the things he does and the words he says are genuine or just another misdirection.

Theo really doesn't have the energy for misdirection anymore - what's the point? All these people have already seen the worst of him, have seen him rip them apart to take what he wanted, seen him rip apart his own pack to take their power, there is nothing he could say or do now to wipe that slate clean and make them forget, that much has been made quite obviously clear. And, somewhere along the line of those four months that felt like four years, four decades, too much time and not enough and how do you reconcile losing that much of your life when it felt like repeating the same five minutes over and over and over again, somewhere along the line the parts of him that were so well trained, so carefully schooled he could control his heartbeat and his chemosignals and his every minuscule emotion like his own body was his puppet, those parts died, ripped out of him a thousand times over alongside Tara's heart and left to rot on that cold hospital floor.

He thinks, privately, in some dark corner of his mind, that Liam might be the only one of them that's actually maybe worthy of being an Alpha. He's explosive and angry, yes, but when the anger drains out he's quiet and clever, stubborn and selfless and so quick to forgive. He's rushing headfirst into danger to give his friends a fighting chance, he's pounding fists against stone until his knuckles break to stop himself hurting a kid who honestly deserved it, he's a heart skipping traitorously over 'I'm not dying for you either.' He's the only one Theo might delude himself into believing has possibly come close to forgiving him, despite it all, despite Theo manipulating him into attacking his own Alpha, despite Theo taunting him and goading him at every opportunity because once, Before Skinwalker Prison Theo thought it was kind of funny to see how many buttons he could press before Scott's favourite blew a fuse.

All that, and he's still the top contact in Theo's pitifully empty phone, he's still the one who came looking that night after the hospital, after Gabe, limping on his own bullet wound, to find Theo sprawled in the back of his truck, rolling the crumpled slug he pulled from his sluggishly bleeding shoulder across the scratched plastic of the tray and trying to erase the feeling of death creeping through his veins as Gabe's heart gave out, pain free. He doesn't know where he stands with a lot of the pack these days, other than understanding the general air of discontent and distrust whenever he happens to be in the same room, but with Liam, at least, their relationship is relatively clear, cut and dried. They're not friends, probably never will be, but they went through something together, survived something together, and that simple act has tied some sort of invisible string between them that has Theo gravitating towards Liam like he's a sharp metal blade and Liam a magnet.

Maybe he's lonely, left behind by everything he's known, cracked open by Tara's hand in his chest, left exposed in the aftermath in such a way he doesn't know how to put the mask back on and pretend anymore. Maybe Liam doesn't look at him like a monster, just a puzzle, not ugly-messy-killer boy but beaten-tired-trying boy. It's not much but it's enough for him to think maybe one person in this fucked up town doesn't completely hate his guts, and that breadcrumb of hope is enough to stir the dead thing in his chest into some sort of continued existence every morning.

None of that stops him from feeling a little like a bug under a microscope, now, trapped in this moment that seems to last hours and seconds at the same time, caught in the arcing swing of the pendulum on a grandfather clock, caught under Liam's gaze that sees too much and not enough at the same time. He fights the urge to let his hands curl into fists, tries instead to remember what it felt like to break Liam’s nose - four weeks ago, five, it doesn’t matter - last time so he doesn’t give in to the urge to do it again, bloody and broken, right here in front of all these hospital staff, these Normal people who might not be so Normal after all. Half of them were here, were working when Monroe’s hunters took over the hospital, when they threw guns into the hands of children and told them to go to war against their classmates, told them that murdering a teenager for being Something Else would net them a win in some sort of moral war as well as the actual, bloody, violent one.

He wonders if any of them recognise him and Liam, two teenagers lingering in a hospital hallway, two Others making themselves easy targets.

“What?” He snaps, surprises himself a little with the sharp tone, but Liam hasn’t moved, hasn’t stopped pinning him with that piercing look, and that’s supposed to be Theo’s job, reading him like an open book, putting together all the little invisible tells and figuring out exactly which buttons to press to get the reaction he wants, the fallout he wants, writing the script and having Liam-Scott-Stiles, all, follow along without ever even realising it. He’s not so good at that anymore, lost that skill somewhere around the three hundredth time Tara ripped her heart out of his chest.

Liam has the grace to look bashful, peeling himself off the desk in a way that looks vaguely like tearing apart Velcro, wobbling to his feet in a way that speaks of long days and longer nights, exhaustion drifting off him like cologne. “Sorry, you just…seem different.”

The apology rolls of his tongue so easily, so simply, like Theo can’t count on just his fingers how many times someone has offered him any sort of apology, and it’s about nothing, about accidentally staring in a fatigued sort of way, but it’s about so much more than that in his head and Liam’s simple-easy camaraderie makes something in his chest ache even fiercer.

‘You seem different’ Liam says, and Theo thinks about his belt being two holes tighter, shirts hanging a little looser, hard ridges of bone hidden beneath. He thinks about long, uncomfortable nights, broken up into sections of haunted sleep and a constant, thick exhaustion he wears like a second skin. He thinks about the sandwich he wolfed down at the last pack meeting to discuss the Hunters, two days ago, that barely made a dent in the gnawing, empty feeling of his insides. It’s fine, he’s managing, he’s still alive; call it another test, perhaps. How long can The Subject sustain itself with no resources?

He wonders how much of that Liam can see, wonders if ‘different’ means ‘thin’ or ‘tired’ or ‘a facsimile of who you were before’.

Theo chooses to ignore the comment entirely, stuffs his hands a little deeper in his pockets, shakes around the boxes of himself in his mind to find some semblance of his usual cold, calculating snark. His lips curl into an expression that is all fangs without ever baring his teeth, one eyebrow lifted in challenge. “You call me here just to stare, Dunbar?”

[nevermoorsource]

Check out this Silverborn: The Mystery of Morrigan Crow snippet that was posted a few weeks ago on Hachette Australia's Instagram!

[sodamnbored]

Did they ever actually specify who named Jason in any of the books? I can’t remember, but I thought it was just a sort of vague mention of why he was named Jason, as opposed to a concrete “Dad named you because / Mom named you because” kind of explanation?

So now I’m thinking, wouldn’t it be super cute and bolster the only ever implied sibling bonding if it was Thalia that had chosen his name?

Like, loads of older siblings get the opportunity to weigh in on picking baby names for younger siblings anyway. And if we can presume that Thalia had a similar situation to Annabeth in that her mortal parent was fully aware of their godly hookup and was very open about that with their kid and Beryl told Thalia lots of stories about the mythology, or like Piper she got interested in the stories and dug around on her own.

Then Thalia is like, what, seven or so years older than Jason? Totally old enough to have ideas and comprehend at least simple story ideas, but still young enough to work off the easy little kid logic to solve problems.

So she’d have been old enough to notice Beryl beginning to get anxious, beginning to get a little paranoid. She’d hear her mom talking about them being in danger, especially her baby brother to be, and all because Juno was mad at her brother before he’d even arrived.

And she could be reading stories and suddenly the answer presents itself and it’s so simple. And she asks to call the baby Jason because Juno liked and protected the original Jason from the Argonauts story. Therefore little kid logic demands that Juno likes Jason, so if they make her brother Jason, Juno won’t be mad at him anymore when he arrives and will like him too. Problem solved.

It would’ve been the very first time she ever protected her baby brother and she probably didn’t even know how much it had protected him from an angry god. And he hadn’t even been born yet.

[gcat01]

Harry and Jean are at their desks discussing a case. Both are reading files while they talk. Jean looks up to see Harry absently reaching for his coffee mug but missing because he is too interested in the file to bother looking.

Jean, almost reflexively, reaches across their desks and scoots the mug four centimeters to the right so Harry's hand finds the handle.

[emry-stars-art]

👑 ROYAL AU WRITING MASTERPOST 👑

New? Here’s the first and second overview/random plot posts about this au, and the lore masterpost :)

A first meeting

(A little of Day’s pov from that same afternoon)

Fencing

Andrew’s casual behavior (tumblr snippet)

His name isn’t Nathaniel

Lady Reynolds hand-delivers a gift

That same day’s ball

The prince makes his distance clear (mentions of canon abuse)

Abram discovers Andrew’s scars

After Abram’s background comes out

Andrew takes care of Abram’s hair

Abram’s return from Evermore

A collection of healing/comfort

Pieces of his recovery

Andrew taking over Abram’s care

First kiss

The first ball after Andrew’s official declaration of courtship

Abram discovers Andrew’s letters

Run in with Spear

Abram gifts Maserati to Andrew (& picnic)