#im back on my writing bullshit

[ravens-dagger]

Writing this arcane fic has had the unexpected side-effect of me unironically falling for Jayce oh my god this man is such a sweetie pie. For a long time in my head he was Just A Guy™️

Also this is me saying I'm writing an arcane fic lmao. I looked at those cosmic soulmates and went "what if there was a third?" And now I'm nearly 10k words deep. This is how I cope with Viktor dying I am pathologically avoiding it no thank you what if the mere presence of a third person actually saved them from being destroyed by the acceleration rune? Hm? Did you ever consider that?

[orvllnki]

ik the espilver tag hates to see me coming

bonus + og post below cut:

sorry for just drawing over textposts . my brain is so fried from uni and whatever illness is starting to plague my mind and body . 😭😭🙏🙏

[greenorangevioletgrass]

the albatross, here to destroy you (a.d.)

Pairing: art donaldson x popstar!reader

Summary: three years, three encounters. First, a chance meeting between two rising stars seeking an escape leaves a handprint on their hearts.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: smoking, language, greek mythology references, hella unresolved sexual tension(!!!), art is highkey a baby and lowkey a brat lol, did i mention unresolved sexual tension?, sooo much pining

Notes: this idea has consumed my waking days for weeks. I contemplated making it a really long fic, but after a long and careful consideration, I have decided to make it a trilogy! Two reasons; a) it’s gonna be really long, and b) I wanted to put Art’s look as a reference in each part lmao. Big up to @ysuftmikey and @tommysparker for being awesome and hearing out my incoherent rambles about this story. But anyway, please comment, reblog, talk to me and tell me what you think about it! Happy reading!

**i do not have a taglist. Follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass andd turn on the notifications to be alerted for new fics and updates!**

Part One: London, July 2011.

It was quite an impressive feat. 23-year-old American rising star Art Donaldson had miraculously beat the defending champion-slash-legend Rafael Nadal at the Wimbledon final.

Or so they said.

You don’t know, nor do you care much, to be quite honest. You were basically ordered to attend by your publicist, outfits picked out, hair and makeup team on full throttle only to have you sit pretty on the side of the Centre Court. And now, after milling around and halfheartedly mingling at the afterparty, you decide to give yourself some respite and slip away to the balcony.

“Oh, shit—” the man quickly turns back and stubs his cigarette on the railing, waving away any trace of smoke.

(You say man in a very broad term. He looks more like a teenage boy with that messy blond mop and skittish way about him.)

You raise your hands, showing no threat. “Sorry. Didn’t realize this balcony was taken.”

“Wait, no. Please.” He stops. He sheepishly scratches the back of his neck. The only thing more embarrassing than getting caught smoking was getting caught smoking by a pretty girl. And pretty is… a fucking gross understatement, based on what he was seeing. “Don’t leave on my account.”

“You sure?”

You flash him that soft, understanding smile and he very nearly asks you not to leave, like ever. But fortunately, he’s got enough game to hold his tongue and smile back at you, “There’s more than enough room for both of us here, right?”

Technically, the balcony is big enough for the two of you to stand on opposite corners without even addressing each other. But his fingers are resting on a pack of Marlboro Green, and you bite the inside of your cheek thoughtfully. “And more than enough cigarettes, I hope?”

He’s not sure what he was hoping for, but he sure is surprised to hear you accept his invitation to stay. Gosh, he must’ve looked like an idiot right now. “Sure, of course.”

He slides a cigarette out of the pack as he offers it to you, readily leaning in with his zippo. For a split second, the two of you share a breath in the space that he encloses with one hand as he lights your cigarette. You would be lying if it didn’t make your heart stutter.

“So…” you inhale, taking the nicotine hit to calm your thoughts, “I thought smoking was bad for athletes.”

“I thought smoking was bad for singers too, but I guess it’s less frowned upon, huh?” He murmurs, trying to balance a fresh cigarette off of the side of his lips, smirking at you over the flicker of flame he started.

“Touché.” You lean your back against the railing. It’s an interesting game of chess you’re playing. Each of your reputations precede you and don’t at the same time. “But that still doesn’t explain why you’re out here smoking on your own, instead of in there…” Celebrating is left unsaid, although the implied word hangs in big and bold letters.

“Ah well, maybe this is my way of celebrating. We’re allowed one vice every now and again, right?”

You look at him like it’s a bullshit excuse—and it is.

“This is gonna sound insane, but…” he takes a drag, looking out at the landscape before him, “I don’t feel like I should be celebrating.”

You look at him like that bullshit excuse grew a new head.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, I worked hard for it and I’m glad it paid off, but…” he flicks the ash on the end of his cigarette three times. “I could’ve been better. Quicker. Won more points earlier. Beat him faster. And until I can do that, I don’t think I deserve a celebration just yet.”

You hum softly. “Sounds like you’re making a Sisyphus out of yourself. That can’t be fun.”

His mouth tugs into a crooked smile, not expecting to be called out like this. “I mean, at least I’m not rolling a boulder up a hill. I’d take tennis over that any day.”

“Yeah, but it seems like tennis is your boulder up a hill.”

“Touché.” He smiles bashfully as he takes a long drag. And then, he offers his hand. “I’m Art Donaldson, by the way.”

It’s a formality at this point. He knows who you are, heard your songs on the radio and saw your face on billboards more times than he can count. Hell, he saw you on the stands in your little Dior sunglasses earlier—and you saw him looking, just for a moment, sweat dripping down his perfect nose and all. But out of courtesy, you tell him your name and accept his handshake.

You pull your hand away, and he almost groans in protest. But again, he holds his horses. “Alright, I’ll bite. If I’m Sisyphus, what does that make you?”

“Oh, definitely Dionysus. Living on wine and theater and good vibes.” You’ve got that shit locked and loaded. It’s obvious that you’ve thought of this before.

“Is that so?” He chuckles. “Well… as long as you don’t sacrifice me to the maenads, right?”

“Can’t promise you that,” you quip back, tapping the gray off of your remaining cigarette. Pleasantly surprised that he doesn’t make the obnoxious remark that Dionysus is also the god of sex, as boys would do. Even more so that he knows enough to know the difference between the sirens and the maenads.

There’s no fighting the raging flush in his cheeks anymore, but he just hopes you would spare him. “Will you at least promise to make it swift?”

It comes out faster than a trainwreck, but without even blinking, the one thing that comes out of your mouth is, “What if I wanna take my time with you?”

Fuck.

The party carries on inside, although Stevie Wonder’s ‘My Cherie Amour’ sounds a mile away. His cigarette smoke comes out in a stuttered huff, as he looks away, not knowing what to do with himself. Eventually, though, he recovers, taking another drag. “It wouldn’t be a terrible way to go, huh?”

“I suppose not.” You sigh into a smile, exuding a flume of smoke through your nose. Shit, he doesn’t know which one is hotter; that, or the lipstick mark on your filter. Or the pensive look as you watch the party through the window.

Oh, he’s down bad.

“So, Dionysus…” he leans out against the railing, flicking ash off his stub one, two, three. “What brings you out here? You a tennis fan?”

“Me? Oh, no. No, I… don’t even really understand how it worked until today,” you admit bashfully. Somehow the truth doesn’t feel so embarrassing, even though you spent the day lying through your teeth. “Not until I saw you play. Which… congrats, by the way.”

“Wow. Thanks.” He’s not sure whether it’s the earnestness in your congratulations, or the fact that the game finally makes sense because of him, but his heart grows three sizes.

“But, yeah, no, my publicist dragged me here kicking and screaming.”

“So you were forced into a party, huh? That’s not very Dionysian of you…” He muses playfully, and those lines on each side of his lips aching to break out into a full smile. And they do. And it warms your heart that those smile lines only emphasizes the way his face lights up. “Nah, I get what you mean. My agent had to drag me out of the locker room to make an ‘appearance.’”

“Yeah, she said something about… shifting into a classier, more grownup image?”

“By watching a couple of dudes hit a ball with a racket?”

“By sitting there and looking pretty. It’s the only reason I’m all decked out in this ridiculous fucking thing,” you look down at your outfit with a grumble. Of all the days you could’ve run into someone cute, you’re in a fucking pantsuit like some middle-aged politician.

“But you do look pretty,” he replies without even blinking.

“Thanks, it’s Ralph Lauren.” You smile faux sweetly. “I believe I’m contractually obligated to say that.”

“Still pretty,” and he means it, lackadaisical smile and all. The ivory cape-like blazer is an interesting cut that goes down to your knees, and it makes you look regal. The cut of the pants makes your legs go for miles. It certainly doesn’t hurt that your off-white shirt is unbuttoned halfway, showing a generous amount of cleavage.

(And hey, he’s still a guy. Can you blame him?)

He has this way of looking at you. Like he’s studying you. It would’ve been unsettling, if he weren’t so fucking beautiful to look at and you don’t mind an excuse to stare back and admire the angular lines on his face. Like Apollo in the moonlight. “What?”

Art taps his cigarette much more deliberately and inhales, exhales out of the side of his mouth, much more deliberately this time. “I think you’re more Aphrodite than Dionysus.”

You take another drag. “How so?”

“First of all, for a god of parties, you don’t like to party all that much,” he grins knowingly, smugly, like he’s proud to have figured you out. But his smile softens, and there’s intensity behind his eyes. “And because you’re beautiful. And dangerous.”

Your mouth twists, pausing for a long moment. To calm yourself. To gather yourself. “But it’s so cliched, though…”

“Well, who would you rather be? Medusa, maybe?” He turns his body, leaning on his side against the railing so he’s fully facing you, and you can’t help but mirror his position.

You raise a forefinger pointedly, French manicured nails on display. “Hey. I think Medusa gets a bad rep. Neptune fucked her over, but she was the one cursed.”

“And what, you think you’re as cursed as Medusa, too?”

You shrug, maybe.

Despite the weight of your answer, he can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. “There’s no way you’re cursed. A curse wouldn’t be so beautiful.”

“But a curse could be deceiving, no?”

“Or maybe it’s a matter of perspective. Maybe you think you’re cursed, even when you might not necessarily be.”

“Oh, just like you’re so inclined to keep pushing your boulder up a hill?”

Art blinks, and sucks his teeth bashfully. Just when he thought he’s got you figured out… Check and mate. “You know, if I didn’t know you any better, I would’ve thought you were some kind of an oracle. Like Cassandra.”

Your eyebrows raise in interest.

“You have this strange, unnerving ability to see right through me. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve had a few drinks, or you’re just very observant, but…” he trails off thoughtfully and then nods like he’s made up his mind. “Cassandra.”

“Cassandra,” you echo quietly. “I like that.”

“Mm-hm. I’d say it’s a very fitting title for you.”

That fond little glint in his eyes is becoming a staple in the way he looks at you. And you don’t ever wanna see it dim. So you speak up again, leaning in conspiratorially. “You wanna hear something funny?”

“What?”

“My parents almost named me Cassandra.”

His jaw drops, dumbstruck. “Shut the fuck up.” His grandmother would have smacked him on the back of his head, knowing the profanity he uses (to a girl he likes, no less). But out of all the things he tried to figure out about her, he never expected to get this one right.

“I shit you not.” You watch him double down laughing, grinning to yourself. “Freaky coincidence, right?”

“Or the Fates working overtime. I’m sure they’d be laughing at us right now.” He looks up at the deep blue sky with a shake of the head.

You wave at the stars, taking a mock bow to your invisible audience. “Thank you. Glad you’re enjoying the show, guys.” The laughter lingers on your lips, and you wonder if it tastes the same on his. “We really are just the court jesters, huh?”

He nods. “Although I wouldn’t mind playing the fool for you.” Maybe it’s the drinks or the cigarettes or the unlikeliest conversation with the most stunning creature he has ever laid eyes on, but at one point, his inhibitions are starting to leave him.

It’s now or never.

The dubious smile that comes out of you is involuntary. He can’t be serious, right? “You are so full of shit, aren’t you?”

“You don’t believe me?”

You look at him like, obviously.

“What are you gonna do, punish me for lying?” There’s that glint again, the bite against the inside of your cheek, and Art steps in.

Your heart catches. He doesn’t feel much like a boy now, inches away from you with a disarming look, his intentions crystal clear. And your head drops for a moment with a wry smile. “You can’t say that to me...”

“Why not?”

“Because!”

“Because? His grin widens, because for the first time this whole evening, he’s got the upper hand. And he likes it.

“I…” You blink at him, finding yourself cornered. Thankfully, though, your phone comes to the rescue, buzzing in your pocket and popping the tension between you and Art like a balloon. “I’m sorry, do you mind if I—”

“Yeah, sure.” he backs away a step, flashing an understanding smile. He watches you pick up the phone, looking out at the London sky. He would swear up and down that he didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He just loves to watch you gnaw at your lower lip in thought, study your moonbathed profile.

Listen to the sweet, sweet sound of your voice.

“Hi… no, I’m still at the— yeah. I’m not sure… are you still with…? Oh, good. Good, just checking. Say hi to everyone for me... Yeah, I’ll call you when I get back?” You catch Art’s gaze, and your stomach drops as you hear the dreaded words on the line. But again, you’re backed away into a corner. So you look away and say it back, “I love you, too. Bye.”

There it is.

Art really should’ve known this. He should’ve seen it coming. You were way too good to be true, but that doesn’t stop him from getting disappointed. No, his heart breaks on the spot, and he’s pretty sure you can hear it.

(You can’t. But you can see it in his face.)

The silence is awkward. It’s ugly. The steady sounds of cars passing by on the ground feels like it’s right in front of you. For the longest time, the two of you can only look out onto the horizon. Anxiously tracing the outlines of skyscrapers in sight.

He is reeling, like he’s been shaken awake from a dream. “So, I take it you’re taken, huh?”

The look you give him is apologetic, and it kills you as much as it destroys him. “Yeah.”

Art rubs at his jaw like he’s willing himself to say something, anything. “I see you’ve cursed me, then.”

“What?”

It takes him a moment to gather his words. Put together his thoughts in a way that you would understand. He didn’t mean it to sound so damning, but it’s the first thing that comes out. It feels like taking a boulder out of his throat. “By making me like you.”

Oh.

Your face falls. Of course. How cruel of you to play his game, knowing you’re setting him up to lose. “I’m sorry. I never meant to…”

“No, no. I’m not blaming you, I swear,” he quickly interjects. “It’s… not your fault one of us is a fool.” He smiles ruefully at nothing.

“It’s a shame,” you quietly admit.

And even then he can’t be mad at you. Not from the way he looks at you oh so tenderly. “It’s a real shame, love.”

There are no words, no more witty remarks. They’ve all been exhausted out of you. There’s nothing left to exchange but that soft look of resignation. Of defeat.

Of wishful thinking.

The cigarettes have long died out and forgotten, only the filters left between your fingers. Your ashes fall in a big chunk on the railing, while Art’s… have free-dived and dispersed in the muggy night air.

“I should go.” Your voice comes out in a whisper. “Let you go back to your party.”

Art can only nod. He keeps his mouth shut, not trusting himself enough to not beg you to stay.

You reach out, almost pulling back, but you can’t help it. Even if it’s just a nothing hand on his shoulder. “I’ll see you around, Art.”

He covers your hand in his, just for a second. His thumb caressing the back of your hand. His heart is in pieces, but at least he will have this. If nothing else, he will still know how your hand feels in his.

And just as quickly as it happens, it ends. Art doesn’t dare watch you leave. He misses your touch instantly, and the sound of your footsteps, and the door opening and closing follows. As Al Green’s ‘What Am I Gonna Do With Myself’ plays on in the party, Art looks out towards the London sky and lights another cigarette.

[sforzesco]

miscellaneous roman nonsense lmao I very briefly thought about un curling octavian's hair, but cleopatra 1963's influence remains as strong as ever

[zedif-y]

just. something about how the clock is impulse's way of looking out for bdubs. the clock as a way to make sure bdubs isn't caught off guard by nighttime. the clock as a symbol that says i'll look out for you. i'll warn you of danger. be careful.

and the thing is it isn't perfect. the thing is it only tells bdubs if there is danger to come, to stay alert, stay vigilant. it doesnt tell him what he's facing or where or when— just be on guard. it is night time. danger lurks and i care about you and i want you to survive.

it isn't a compass, a guide back home. no surety of a map, no comfort nor light of a torch. it's a clock. practical, useful.

i feel like it's perfect because it's just like impulse. impulse knows when danger is at its peak: when your back is turned, when it is dark out and the shadows are long. a clock is about anticipation, he knows when he needs to raise his hackles and he knows when he could be unsafe— but it's not an exact science. he could always, always be wrong . he can never truly predict when things go south, but he can prevent it as best as he can.

don't come outside, the clock says, ticking in warning. it's dark. it's dangerous. i love you.

be careful.

[onward--upward]

go back there when you're done

buck/eddie, 835 words, 8b spec || read on ao3

Do you know the worst possible moment to fully self-actualize the fact that you’re in love with your best friend?  There’s probably a lot of options. But here’s the thing: Evan Buckley has experienced all of them.  There’s clawing through a ton of cold, wet earth, and thinking: God, I’m never going to see his eyes again. There’s lying flat against the cold pavement, your face covered in his blood, watching helplessly as he gasps for breath. There’s crashing into a hospital room, heart in your chest, only to realize that you’re second in line to see him smile. There’s in the midst of a coma-induced bad trip, desperate to see him, but you can't find him no matter what corners you turn. There’s the moment that he pulls you in and tells you, “this doesn’t change a thing between us,” and you feel disappointment trickling through your chest for just a heartbeat.  And Evan Buckley has experienced all of these, but he’s also lived a life perfectly balanced for burying his head in the sand. So yeah, he experienced all of these moments, but somehow he still managed not to face up to the truth of it all. He didn’t see what was right in front of him; he didn't get it.  He gets it now.

So this is it. The worst possible moment to truly understand the deepest, richest, most life-changing love he’s ever felt is now, this moment. Because he's experienced all of that history, and now he's watching it as it slips between his fingertips like smoke. The worst possible moment to realize you’re in love with your best friend is while you’re standing in the rain, out front of his empty house, watching as everything you’ve ever wanted drives away in a U-Haul full of the detritus of a life that you helped build. Now that it's all ending, Buck is left with a lightning bolt of clarity through his heart: he wants to spend the rest of his life with Eddie Diaz. It's a realization as clear and as perfect as if it's always been there, a puzzle piece clicking perfectly into place. Of course it's Eddie—God, of course it is. But he's too late. This isn't a romcom, there's no dramatic airport confession: Eddie is moving to Texas, and there’s not a damn thing Buck can do about it.  So instead, Buck lifts his hand in a wave, heart cracking in his chest, watching until Eddie's vehicle disappears around the corner. And then he turns back to the house. Eddie's house, the one that has always felt like his home, and now it is, only hollowed out. Everything he loved best about this place is gone, now—Eddie’s smile, and his exasperated sigh, and the sound of his voice when he’s speaking Spanish on the phone. Christopher’s laugh, his crutches next to the couch, the sound of video games down the hall. Laughter. Love. Breakfasts cooked by Buck's hands and eaten by his two favourite people in the world. It’s just Buck, now, in among Eddie’s furniture and his appliances. Left behind. Just Buck, walking through the halls of 4995 South Bedford Street like a ghost haunting the life that he’s always wanted.  And there's no fixing it, is the thing. Eddie needs to be with Christopher, and Christopher is in Texas. Buck can’t argue with that, wouldn’t want to pull Eddie away from his son even if he could. Besides, Evan Buckley was made to be left, so he’s used to it. He’ll be okay, even though half of his heart is currently driving steadily towards state lines. He's survived it before. Before he drove away, Eddie had pulled him close, had looked at him with those beautiful, warm eyes of his, his palm steady against the spot on Buck’s skin that’s become his, and he said, “Buck,” in that voice of his that seems to be reserved for Buck and Buck alone: “This isn’t the end.”  And Buck had nodded, had settled into his arms like he belonged there. Said, “I love you, man,” because it’s the closest he can get to what he really wants to say. "Drive safe." And he wants to believe Eddie, he really, really does. But by now Buck is several years past his own youthful optimism. And he can’t help it: as he uses the key that has been on his key ring for years to unlock the home that he’s only just now moving into, he has this empty, sinking feeling in his chest. Maybe it’s a little bit of deja vu. Maybe Buck is still playing out versions of the same damn mistakes, over and over again.  Still. Eddie is different. He’s not Abby. And even if he is making all the same mistakes, it doesn't make a difference. This isn't some passing flight of fancy—he's in this for the long haul.  Buck has waited before. He’ll wait again.  This isn’t the end. It can’t be.

[You can also find this fic on ao3!]

[momotonescreaming]

Josh was sitting in the dispatch kitchen sipping a coffee when his phone vibrated — almost too perfect timing to be anything but planned. Gently placing his mug back down, careful not spill, he glances at his now lit up phone screen.

Sal 🔥

When's your lunch break?

He finds himself smiling at even the sight of his boyfriend's name, at the reminder that he absolutely memorised when his coffee break was. So that he'd see his message immediately, give him a little pick me up when he got a moment alone. It does make him wonder, however, if Sal really wants to know when his lunch break is. Or is this just a segue into another conversation?

Unlocking his phone, and quickly flicking to his messaging app, Josh quickly taps out a reply.

Josh 💙

2pm. Why?

He's barely had time to have another sip of his coffee before he gets a reply. He'd think Sal had his reply ready and waiting if he hadn't seen the typing bubble pop up.

Sal 🔥

I'm bringing you lunch from that bougie cafe you like.

Sal 🔥

I'll meet you up there.

Josh finds himself smiling at his boyfriend coordinating a surprise lunch. He'd been bitching before about not having time to pack a proper lunch today, about how he was supposed to being doing the whole eating healthy thing, but he guessed he'd just go the takeout place near the office instead. Turns out Sal wasn't just listening to him bitch, he was paying attention.

Josh 💙

And you're not even going to ask? What if I said no?

He's not going to say no. He finally has a boyfriend, a good man, who wants to suprise him with lunch and respect his work schedule at the same time. But Sal gets it. a fellow first responder. He gets the crazy hours, the irregular break times, the way they don't always end up being the reality. Pulled away into another call.

Even if it doesn't end up happening, he appreciates it either way. Sal wanting to steal away a moment of time with him, caring and brusque in equal manner.

Sal 🔥

Because you're not gonna say no?

Sal 🔥

I'll see you at 2 😘

Rolling his eyes, Josh shakes his head as he takes another sip of his coffee. He hates how cocky Sal is except he really doesn't. This confidence with the skill and the knowledge behind it really does it for him. A hunky firefighter who gets the job, supports him, wants to spend time with him — and is so confident that Josh feels the same. It's reciprocated in a way a lot of his other relationships haven't been.

Instead of why are your shifts so inconvenient, this is why we can never have lunch together it's now surprising him with lunch at the dispatch centre. And he's a fire captain too — Sal is — so Josh doesn't even have to worry about security, about getting him into the building. They're a lot stricter about that now.

It's nice, letting Sal into this part of his world so seamlessly, where they can have lunch and he can watch as his boyfriend tries and succeeds at charming his friends and coworkers.

Quickly firing off a heart emoji back to Sal, Josh finishes up his coffee and heads back to his desk. Break over entirely far too quickly. And he doesn't even have to worry about cutting their conversation off abruptly, Sal gets it. In fact, Josh's been on the other side of it now — in the middle of a call with Sal on a day their shifts don't align, the alarm bells ringing and cutting the call short.

2pm can't come soon enough.

Eventually, finally, he's halfway through a call when he spots Sal out of the corner of his eye, Standing near the glass at the entrance to the main floor, in a well fitted army green jacket, work boots, and tough blue jeans with his hip cocked. Coffee tray in one hand and paper bag in the other — no doubt containing that lunch he promised.

Josh smiles, grin creeping across his face as he continues to talk to the caller on the other end of the line. A teenage boy, not in moral danger, but still very scared about it. He tells him it's going to be okay, that the firefighters are on their way, and he sees Sal's eyes twinkle at his words.

Sal locks eyes with him and kisses the air, directed straight at Josh. He rolls his eyes in return, waving him off towards the lunchroom as the teenager on the phone line starts to calm down as he hears the sirens approaching in the distance. His boyfriend laughs, and heads towards the lunchroom.

He tries to shake it off, ignore his blushing cheeks and fluttering heart. Focus on his call, be professional, make sure his caller is safe until help arrives. Thankfully — for both him and his caller — they quickly arrive and get the kid to safety. He can wrap up the call, put himself on break, and finally, finally, head to the lunchroom where his thoughtful, hunky bastard of a boyfriend is waiting.

"What took you so long?" Sal jokes, brows furrowed as he watches Josh enter the room. Following his boyfriend with his eyes, hand gestured out to the side as if to say what gives? But Josh can see that he's laid their food out on the table in from of them. A coffee each, a burger and fries for Sal, and a fancy pasta salad for Josh.

Josh just rolls his eyes, and leans in to kiss his boyfriend, Sal meeting him halfway.

for @hellion-child 😘

[8-rae-rae-8]

"Ker was always dealing with some personal shit. That's why, in spite of everything else, we got along."

....

"Johnny?"

Bottom middle image by @/valeriesilverhand on here!!

[wintergrofyuri]

i have. an awful stomach ache. so. im going to talk about. film noir au paraskep when one of them is sick bc i love when characters get sick and another character has to take care of them and also bc its my blog and i do what i want fuck you.

paranoid is def one of those ppl who hate being sick bc of like. how vulnerable it makes him feel. like they both try to work thru it but while skeptic is just workaholic, para does it bc he feels like he has to or else he really Is sick ykno. if skeptic tries to make him rest they get into a huge fight and it makes para feel Worse. like physically.

the only way to get him to rest is if skeptic like. physically makes him. and he doesnt like doing it bc he doesnt actually want his romantic partner to hate him. sometimes he'll be able to like. trick him into it with cuddling. but it doesnt always work.

also real quick, you may have noticed i never use "boyfriend" or anything else when i talk about their relationship and that Is on purpose. to me, theyve never rlly defined it. like ya they live together and sleep in the same bed and kiss but like. they dont rlly feel the need to Talk about it ykno. especially not to other ppl. not that they're hiding it. just. they keep to themselves.

anyways. skeptic is less terrible when he's sick. he also tries to work thru it but not out of a need to prove himself like para. hes just like that. luckily, paranoid is a hypocrite and always tells him he should be resting. he's Always on his ass about his workaholic tendencies but even more so when gets sick.

he's also WAY more insistent that he eats. skeptic is always getting lectures about it, but like. para starts Cooking for him when he's sick. so he can guilt him into eating. he'll fucking spoon feed him if he has to (he doesnt actually. its an empty threat).

paranoid winning either way tho. he's sick? skep spends more time with him to make sure hes doing ok. skeptic's sick? he gets to see his walls down a lil. and in both scenarios, he gets more snuggle time. win/win.

[newoctopus]

Another little dcmk snippet- this one kind of just snuck up on me at 1am and I had to write it down before it disappeared forever. Another character study really, I just think Ran should get a little dunking on her best friend. As a treat.

——

Ran figured it out way before he did, which was a little bit embarrassing considering his entire career. But in defense there had been no signs.

Or what few signs there were could also have been attributed to heartburn. Or Heiji having an overactive love for everyone in his life. Or just looking for any excuse to visit Tokyo even at two in the morning. Or-

Oh good god there really had been signs hadn’t there. He was never going to live this down.

Ran had been standing there presumably watching this full revelation play out on his face and now was looking unbearably smug.

He was done. Finished. This was the end of his reputation and his ability to ever lord anything over Ran ever for the rest of his life. People thought HE had a good memory, they had never seen Ran with the opportunity to tell him she told him so.

And if she told Sonoko? He was cooked. Sonoko had once created an entire group chat that she invited everyone they knew to titled “Kudou Shinichi doesn’t know how to change a tire”. The chat showcased about fifteen pictures and a twenty minute video of him trying to figure out how a fucking car jack worked in reality rather than just theory. He had grease smeared across his face. There was an inexplicable cut on his leg from the jack whacking his ankle. He said the sentence “this made so much more sense when I read about it” about six times in the video alone- a phrase multiple people in his life still quoted at him any time he didn’t know how to do mundane things due to the devastating combination of having only read about them and not considering them as important as the rate of decomposition of a body submerged entirely in seawater.

Nobody of course asked the question he considered far more important which was “Sonoko why didn’t you help your supposed good friend Shinichi out while he was slowly experiencing a mental breakdown on the hottest day of the year trying to replace the tire to your car?”

But that was neither here nor there. Add this to her repertoire? He wouldn’t survive the ridicule.

Ran was still standing there. She was used to the sometimes sixty second long silences from him as he went through seventeen different layers of mental math, so instead of looking impatient she just looked like she was waiting for the shoe to finish dropping.

“Heiji’s in love with me?”

Ran raised both eyebrows meaningfully.

“I should…probably act on that?” He hazarded and her lips twitched just a bit at the corners.

“You’re…not going to tell Sonoko about this?”

Ran actually had the gall to laugh at that, then toss him the most unsympathetic sympathetic look he’d ever seen. “Shinichi you don’t actually think she doesn’t know.”

He grimaced. Ok well that was a problem to deal with later. Hopefully much later, though in reality more likely this evening, but-

“Ok, um, well” he said, kind of faltering through it as he worked out the next steps live “I should, I should go find him. And talk to him. Probably.”

Ran smiled a real smile this time, it lifted the corner of her right eye slightly more than the corner of her left eye, an asymmetry he always found oddly comforting. “I think that would be wise.”

[justforclowns]

Cost of Recompense

Price of Forgiveness (The clown epic by @birchbow ) Ageswap Au.

~4,350 words.

Warnings: clowns, light knife play, mentions of torture, overall kinda horny and self hatey vibes.

This and all following chapters will be posted on Ao3 in time but I am on a waiting list and very impatient. Woe, clowns be upon ye.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Relax, little brother." He coos at you gentle.

Relax. Motherfucking relax, he says. 

Your name is Kurloz Makara and how are you supposed to relax with your lordship laid bare beneath you?  

He isn't fully bare. He has just shed the dark shall he usually wears amongst the faithful and removed the tight purple shirt beneath. You can see the dark, scar littered expanse of his chest rise and fall with his breaths. You can pick out the scars made by others and those most likely self inflicted. You linger on the damage self done. It serves as a reminder as to why you are here; in the Big Top, on the throne, straddling the king of colors lap with a short blade in hand held just above his stomach. 

You were not built correctly. Ever since you were small there has been something about hurting other trolls that got to you a little too strongly to just be a macabre interest. The way a troll in pain would writhe and how those beautiful short breaths would leave them all sharp through clenched fangs. It got to you something fierce. You learned the lesson young that you ain't right in the head. You were only a little less young when you learned to hide that fact. 

You hid it well all things considered. At 7 sweeps you made your way through conscription and onto the holy fleet no issue. Horns held high but not too high till you earned your place. And earn it you rightly fucking did. 

It wasn't easy by any means. You managed, though. Carved yourself a badass reputation and a good standing amongst the kin you do so cherish. You hold a passion for the family and a need to prove yourself unmatched by any troll you've met before. One comes close but you will not spare that heathen a single thought. 

Some said you had help. That your sign already held weight in the church which granted you special treatment. It wasn't exactly the biggest mystery that you and His High Holy Hilarity were cut from the same cloth. Put the two of you next to each other in front of someone with eyes and even they could get the idea in their head. As for the idea that he gave you any motherfucking boons, that you didn't earn, just by virtue of being built the same never had any frond to stand on as far as you were concerned. But people still thought it. 

You proved them wrong time and time again. Mission after mission and sweep after sweep you proved it was all 100% you that got you where you were today. Some of the rumor spreaders got brave with their claims and brought them right to you, displeased with your success and too stubborn to accept that they were wrong.

You got a skill in you to turn the brave away running. 

Through voodoo or club or just sharp wit you took every challenge worth taking as another chance to show you weren't fucking around. So if those that think you're riding your ancestors coattails are still out there they at least have the brains to keep their filthy mouths shut about it. 

You would never use your ancestors' status to your advantage. Even if it had nothing to do with pride you would just feel wrong using him that way. You admire him a good deal and not just because he is the head of your church. 

You admire him maybe too much. You have now, for a while. Which is why you can't fathom the situation you are currently in. 

Your eyes snap up to The Grand Highblood's face when he shifts closer to you. His hand, bigger than yours but not much colder, wraps carefully around your forearm. You are trembling. When did you start trembling? 

"Are you having second thoughts?" He asks. His voice is smooth and low, the slightest breathy hitch at the end that makes something possessive and stupid stir inside of you. Your eyes stay on his face, his pretty face, like the one you see in the mirror but aged and softer around the eyes. Kinder, the rumors say, when it gets to reprimanding kin who done what some could consider a shallow wrong. Soft fucking pusher for the family. So soft. 

You open your mouth to respond yet the words fail you. Of all times. Of all the times in your 12 sweeps of life, why now? Why? 

He is looking at you. The excitement his eyes held begins to fade to something more resigned. He smiles so sweetly at you. "I understand," he tells you, removing his hand from your arm. "Ain't no shame in backing out brother. Was a strange request to begin with. I understand if you can't get your chill on with- nngh!" He shudders as you drag the knife from his collarbone to just above the hem of his pants. "Oh fuck-"

You bite back a groan as you skillfully flip the knife in your fingers and drag it back up. You aren't pressing enough to cut him deep but you do begin to see thin purple lines appearing along his flesh. These cuts burn with the touch of air, sharp and precise, opening up just enough to let the nerve endings fire off in panic. You drove a man mad with a couple hundred of these one time. 

The muscles in his stomach flex and he shudders again. "A-aah~ ah c'mon motherfucker you can go harder than that c'mon I've seen you work." He encourages.

He has seen you work. Seen you pry answers from prisoners maws way too quickly for your liking. Much to the suspicious awe of your fellow churchmates. Your skill in inquisition got so well known that he came to see for himself one night. You didn't know he was watching when you raked deep gashes down a heretic’s arms and pinned them closed with those wicked stinging needles you've come to love. You didn't know that when you stepped out of that room and he was there, smiling and giving you praise, that he may have been feeling just as electrified as you were at the moment. 

He must have felt it. He must be feeling it if the way he lifts himself up against your blade is anything to go by. The high pitched noise in his throat you don't dare call a whine makes your insides twist and shiver. Shakes the words you've been searching for loose from your thinkpan.

 "You like this?" Your voice comes out a breathless whisper. You feel stupid for asking, he must like it if he is letting you, there's no way he would let you this close if he didn't. 

Unless that soft pusher of his is telling him you need it. Unless you slipped up somehow and he saw the aching need to cause hurt that you have inside you. Unless he is forcing himself to take it as he thinks no one else will- Unless- 

The shaky whimper that comes from him along with "Oh brother please-" snaps you from your thoughts. Back to reality you smell the slightest twinge of blood in the air. You look down and see that while you were having a miniature double damned crisis he had shifted close enough to you to have pierced himself ever so slightly with your knife. Just a few inches above the arch of his hip a pool of royal purple fills and finally drips down his side and disappears. Your throat feels too dry and your mouth too wet. 

You have drawn the blood of your holy king. You have cornered him on his throne and cut into him. He is shirtless beneath you, those kind round eyes watching you with fondness undeserved.

You don't feel the knife slip from your hand but you do feel his arm come up around your back. You do hear his soft, sing song praise at the edge of your conscious mind. 

"Good." He tells you. "You did good. We don't gotta do no more than that. Felt good brother, don't go getting harsh on yourself now. Ah shit you poor thing…" 

"Good?" you shoot back at him. Looking up to his face, bristling with the feelings this whole situation has brought up. What is this to him? Why is he doing this? He always looks at the family soft but does he let the family sit in his lap and take knife to his flesh? Does he rest his hand on their back and praise them for doing so? "I stabbed you and you tell me I did good?" 

He chuckles. "Well, yeah. Hardly call that a stab, little brother. It'll be gone in a night at worst." His hand moves along your back in a slow motion. Your claws twitch. "What'd you think of that? Tell me." 

You can't disobey him. 

"It felt like sin, but not. Felt too good to be right. I thought- I thought you were going to laugh at me." You say. His eyes widen a little and his hand gives a soft squeeze around your waist. "I thought this was some fucked up joke. Some, motherfucking- some prank or cruelty done on me to amuse you." 

"Aint nothing like that-" 

"I thought I was dreaming, for a second. It don't feel real. Having you here, having you so open to hurting. My Lord you asked me to-" the words trail off in a pathetic wheeze as they leave you again. 

He just stares at you for a bit. You know your face can be cold and unreadable like ice when you want it to be and fuck if you don't want that real hard right now. He sees through you clear as still water anyway. His hand on your back moves up to tangle into the roots of your hair, you try to resist but fail and end up pressing back against his hand. 

"I asked you to hurt me, didn't I?" He asks even though there's no need to clarify. You don't think you could forget what he said if you tried your damnedest. The way he came to you in the halls as you wandered without reason, asked you to walk with him, talked with you like normal then got real quiet. Got a favor to ask you, little one he had said. Don't have to be doing it if you find yourself unwilling but I got a curiosity in me I think you could help sate.

He took you to the Big Top and made brief yet rattling inquiry on your desire to cause pain. Rumor spreads even as you try to forget the words whispered that made every drone season harder than the last. You winced despite yourself when he simply asked You like causing pain, brother? He did not look at you with distaste. Or with plain curiosity as he claimed to hold. He was fascinated. 

Things moved fast after that. Patience was never a virtue your lordship took much pride in. After you had affirmed his claims he had gestured for you to come up to his throne. He invited you up onto said throne, into his lap, and set the knife cool against your palm. He had asked you to…

"-take the knife to me as you like, that's what I said, yeah?" Your Lord's tone is calm, even, as if he is just double checking the facts on an arbitrary mission report form. You nod at the words because that really is what he said and here you are all rattled right to the marrow at it. 

"Cool, and that's what you did. Did it real gentle like too." 

"I stabbed you-" 

"Hey, knock shit right the fuck off." He frowns at you for the first time today. Disapproving on your statement of fact. Your hands twitch and while you don't know where the knife went you still got claws and the urge to tear into him again. Make him get his understanding on good and true about what threat you pose. You would never. 

"I'm fine, little one." His hand rubs gently at the back of your skull. "Better than fine. That was… that was real motherfucking sweet what you did for me." 

For him. He asked, you delivered. He commanded, you obeyed. You did good.

Your face must do something ugly with how his hand briefly stills. The fins on his ears twitch as he looks you over. You're ready for the disgust to settle into his features but it never comes. 

His mouth opens a second just to close the next, tongue flicking over his lips as if he was nervous. You almost laugh. Nervous, The Grand Highblood? Impossible. 

He breathes in slow, you catch the movement of his chest with your peripherals. Messiahs you want to sink your teeth in and taste him. What he says next is like a slap in the face. "Did you like it..? Would you want to do it again?" 

You look at him, really look at him. Surely there would be something, anything, letting you know this was all in jest. You hate to think so low on your Lord's humor but if this ain't some bad joke you don't know how you'll deal. 

You find nothing but sincerity in his eyes. Round and dark and royal as they come while still walking on land. Maybe a little hope but you quickly disregard it as your own. 

"I…" the sound cracks out of your throat. He grants you time to get your shit together. Moves his hand from your head down to your back, heavy but gentle. You shiver at the feeling. The sheer size of him and everything else about him.

It wouldn't be wrong to say you thought he was fine as fuck. Everybody with a working set of ganderbulbs must. Tower of lean muscle that he is, got legs for nights that had you near running to keep up with him in the halls during your first few perigees on ship. You're only a little ashamed at the fact you snuck glances whenever that dark shall left his shoulders. 

You imagine what you may feel getting to cut such a pretty motherfucker again some night. Then imagine if that pretty motherfucker was your king. Getting to hear him say 'brother please' again in that whispy way. Wondering what sounds he would make if you pressed harder, how much he could take if a stab in the hip would heal in a night. 

It all makes your bulge do something down right shameful with how it twists and tries to slip out. Your legs attempt to close and are stopped both in part by you realizing how obvious that would make your predicament and by the body you're still straddling.

You glance down, glaring slightly at the obstacle between your knees, only to be met with the still bare lower abdomen of your Lord. You look back up, not too quickly, and look at his face instead. He is watching you, lips slightly parted and eyes curious again. 

"I… that sounds… are you fucking with me?" 

He seems a little taken aback by your words and you fear you fucked up before he starts to laugh. You let out a little wheeze of a chuckle as well, compelled by whatever joy he has found in this scenario. He smiles at you, clear and bright. 

It takes on a sly edge as he says "Shit, if you're offering. I ain't gonna take what you don't wanna give, little one. Fuck. Fucking does sound good though. Especially when you got those miraculous hurting hands." His eyes drop down to where your hands rest against your thighs. If you were a fool you'd say he looks enticed. 

You feel your face heat up under your paint. A cocktail of emotions are swirling around in your head. Arousal, shame, confusion, to name a few. 

You take a sharp breath- watch his hands twitch- and exhale it slowly. "My Lord, I- … A brother could get a real twisted idea of what all you're asking of him. Give me the grace of speaking plainly on it. If you please.” You say, keeping your voice even, not even letting a hint of begging come through. 

The Grand Highblood sighs softly at that. He shifts underneath you, sitting up straighter. You go to move but his hand clamps down on your thigh, keeping it in place. Fuck but he's real big- and he let you get a knife in him what a day- 

"Grace you ask for is grace I will give, little one." He looks at you, a little more serious. More familiar too how you see him on the night to night. He spares a glance over your being before he continues. “I want you to hurt me. Only in ways that you want. If how you want it is to just swing around every other scattering of nights when you get the itch I'll gladly take it.” 

-Before you can even start to reel at the idea of being your Lord's torture booty call he continues-

“If you want something more steady, like the beating of a pusher, fit with all its running blood and fluttery fits, then that I can also happily do.” He tells you, looking at you fond again. Not seeing through you straight out the back but like he can see inside you. He doesn't look disgusted by what he thinks he's finding. 

You blink at him. Your mouth is an unreadable line because you will it so. He blinks back at you like a delayed mirror. You think you gather what he is saying but it's so outlandish and wild you cannot ignore the doubt it stirs in you.

“Plainly, My Lord.” You remind him brazenly. 

He laughs his soft sing song laugh at you before saying “Wanna be matesprites?”

You die. You think. That's the only explanation for the rush of everything that fills you up and threatens to blind you over three simple Alternian words. Or you're already dead and this is some hall of illusions you must endure as punishment for your transgressions. 

When you come back to yourself he's looking at you softly, with slight concern, the same look he had when he told you it was okay to back out.

Before he can tell you the same again you manage to say “Yes.” without a waiver to your voice. “If it pleases you.” You add, because you’ve been more mannerless tonight than is truly smart. 

He smiles, but it's quirked at one end, following the tilt of his head. “Would please me just fine. Would it please you though, little brother? Talk plainly at me.” He chuckles, tossing your request back at you like it's all a hate-friendly game. 

“Abso-motherfucking-lutely it would, My Lord.” You say in a near whisper, watching his face. The more genuine turn of his smile and the crinkles at the edges of his eyes show he is well and truly pleased with you. 

“Bitchtits,” He says, and wraps the other of his long arms around you to pull you up against him. You manage not to make any embarrassing sounds of delight or startlement but it does take you a shameful few seconds to realize that he is hugging you. That's it, just a hug, a simple act of affection you've seen even hate-friends give to each other on the off nights. You return it half a moment too late but you do return it. 

He's broader than you by virtue of being your own body type scaled up several notches. Being pressed flat to the expanse of his chest lets you almost feel the beat of his pusher. You can smell so much of him, his hair, his skin, the faint lingering of his blood and you certainly smell how it took him to have you put knife to his flesh. Maybe there is a rumbling sound he is making that is too low for you to hear yet, or maybe there isn't.

It's nice. It tells you what you're too stupid to realize with just your eyes. He is alive and he is happy. You squeeze him slightly and he returns the favor. Delayed mirror. 

You're taking a risk, both of you. Him so high and important and you so closed in and quiet. To let another in could spell disaster. Specifically each other. You could be planning to take his place for all he knows. He could rule you unfunny and excommunicate you. 

When you pull back, maybe hoping to voice some of these concerns, he just smiles at you. His eyes are lazy and fond, his breathing is going steady again as he comes down from the excitement of the morning. You can't bring yourself to ruin this moment for him, so you take heed of one of the first lessons all laughsassins must learn: keep your motherfucking mouth shut, motherfucker. 

He keeps smiling even as you both get your shit together, settling down after the impromptu knife play and quadrant dealings. He finally lets you off the throne. You get your feet under you and feel less dizzy than you probably should. A quick mental check tells you that you did not die, your body is fine, and nothing is missing. With that out of the way, you spare a glance over to The Grand Highblood. 

He rises as well, towering over you once again. He quickly finds the knife and literally tosses it back into his sylladex; the blade flying over his shoulder and into the flashing colors before both promptly disappear. Fuck but his modus really is wild to see up close and he's so cool for knowing how to just go with it. Another way he's blessed you imagine. 

You get to see it flash again and barely make out the various things that come out get quickly tossed back in get flung out get juggled till he finds what he wants and it all goes away. All in a matter of seconds. The Grand Highblood stands there with a new shirt in his hand like it ain’t no thing. He catches you looking and looks all the more pleased for it. 

He re-dresses and you're mad about it. Which is wrigglerish and stupid, you remind yourself. You can't rightly ask he stay half naked for you. At least not yet. 

If he means this all to be for true maybe one night you will have the right to ask he stay naked. Fully naked. Just to let you look at him in all his hurting glory. Regal and holy and yours and fuck your bulge is in a Messiahs damned knot and your head ain't much better. 

“Off to ‘coon now, brother.” You hear him say. You only blink at him but he still finds the question in it quick enough. “Was late already when I pulled you out the halls, even later now. Both of us got shit to do come moonrise. Don’t we, little one?” He tilts his head at you, leading your thoughts with the question till you find the answer buried in the back of your pan. 

You do have shit to do. You were asked, at some time that is eluding your memory, to assist one of the laughsassination feeders with a ship wide lesson. Did she ask you herself? Given you can’t fully recall the interaction you would say she did. You can’t miss that.

You don’t curse or even sigh. You just lower your shoulders a bit in defeat. He chuckles all the same. You manage to give him a small smile that he returns to you bigger and brighter. 

“Suppose we do. Thank you for your time, My Lord.” You say, all formal. It gets a small snicker out of him and you feel like you’ve won something. 

He leads you to the giant double doors of the Big Top and wishes you luck on all your endeavours of the coming night. Before the doors open he bends down to press a quick kiss to your lips. It lingers only enough for you to return it and then a single beat longer. After that he pulls back and he is once again so much taller and older than you and you have to leave. You make sure to give at least a slight bow of respect before walking out into the halls. 

It is a walk, not a run, even as you get further from the throne room. Your strides are steady and quiet. For all the few passerbys know you were simply taking a stroll to clear your head in the late hours. Your mind is clear, actually. For a few seconds. 

With his sweet smiling face gone and only your lingering shame as company your thoughts get real nasty real quick. 

What is wrong with you? What is wrong with you? 

Did you really just do all that? Did he let you- ask you, you remind yourself- to do all that? Are you two something now? Something more than leader and follower? Perish the thought. Burn it. Destroy it. Leave nothing but ashes in place of a stupid wriggler’s dream. 

You hurt him and it was wonderful. You walk. You want to do it again. You walk. He wants you to do it again. 

You walk and walk and walk all the way back to your room and manage to get inside with no one knowing anything except you. No one knows what you’ve done except you. What horrible things you’ve done and will do again. Awful awful beautiful things. 

You are going to pay for this. You just don’t know how yet.

[neolxzr]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia (Anime & Manga) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Bakugou Katsuki/Midoriya Izuku, Bakugou Katsuki & Midoriya Izuku & Yagi Toshinori | All Might Characters: Bakugou Katsuki, Midoriya Izuku, Yagi Toshinori | All Might Additional Tags: Fluff, Love Confessions, First Kiss, Kissing, Getting Together, Post-Canon, but not post 430, Post-Final War Arc (My Hero Academia), Hospitals, POV Bakugou Katsuki, dadmight, hes proud of his son and his son's boyfriend, kacchan's parents and jeanist and also shigaraki are mentioned for a sec, this is just silly fluff if im honest, rated t for kacchan swearing you know how it goes Summary:

He marched over to the side of Izuku’s hospital cot, IV drip in one hand.

“Izuku,” Katsuki started, firmly, sitting himself on the edge of the bed. Izuku sat himself up so he could properly face him.

“Kacchan?”

“I’m in love with you.”

-

Katsuki realizes, in the middle of a war, that he's in love with Izuku. He resolves one thing to himself: if they both make it out alive, he won't waste any time in telling him.

[chibigikochin]

Just realised Hiccup and Jack Frost as a ship fall into the trope of double identity preternatural dude W white/pale hair obsessed with a normal dude that gets pulled into his bs because of it that's so common in Japanese media cuz of Ryokira from Devilman by Go Nagai.

You could basically make a hijack au of any piece of Japanese media that adopts the Ryokira relationship dynamic and they would fit.

I'm about to fall down a plotbunny hole I haven't gone down since I was 13.

[angel-maybe-alive]

Saw this post on tiktok

in order

1-Grumpy teacher Adam Driver

2-Old School Vampire Adam Driver

3-Anti-social Witch Adam Driver

4-Sentimental Demon Adam Driver

5-depressed anxious alien Adam Driver

6-Adam driver Chef

7-flower shop au Adam Driver

8- Shadow Daddy Adam Driver

9- heir Adam Driver

I have absolutely nothing against Adam Driver he seems to be an alright dude but the effects of Reylo fanfics on booktok romantic literature it's not a thing I can just ignore

This is everything I fucking hate because 1- back on my day those things would be free to read on wattpad not publicized books 2- you can really see how reylo it's not a ship of understanding and liking the lore of SW but just paper puppets white women project their fantasies into and 3- mindless fluff this is fast food of literature

[vind3miat0r]

"Recollection"

(Rating: Teen and Up)

(Relationships: Porter Solaire/Treasure)

(Content/Trigger Warnings: None)

Read Here on AO3

[lathez]

WIP Wednesday/Whenever

Tagged by: @sanzas-reverie @moriche and @its-a-mia-not-mario

Tagging: @lobo-inu @nyarevar @rambles-about-some-scrolls @hadvarandralof @skyrim-forever @pinessydr and @moogaiashe

I'm not going to lie. I've been all over the place this week writing wise. I've written like 10k but it's all on different wips like help me I can't lock in what da hell im deaaaad ⚰️⚰️⚰️⚰️⚰️⚰️ Anywayyyyyyy here's some shorter excerpts.

Okay so a little moment with Saali and Nara:

The first few years were scary and strange, but ripe with new death and the luxurious promises of immortality. They spent too many starry evenings chasing each other through Dawnstar’s pine woods and collapsing by daylight with their eyes heavy and amber. Sometimes, when Saali giggled her way through piles of leaves in the Hearthfire, or whispered little secrets in her ear, Nara swore she felt her heartbeat again, briefly enchanted with vampirism, enamored with the fantasy of forever growing old with this precious girl who had become, magically and inadvertently, her daughter.  And then Saali never grew.  She cuts a few thin slices of elk blood pudding, having made it just the night before, and plates it for her girl, who is sitting on the porch steps and watching the dawn crest the Pale mountains. There's an empty space beside her where her little shadow ought to be. Watching through the window, she reminds herself of a better time, early mornings when they’d dance to the sound of the floorboards creaking and bask in the little sunlight they could, and Saali’s caramel skin would glow, and her dark ringlets would gleam and bounce with every step. When the mourning doves began to croon, Saali would curl up in her arms, and Nara would rock her to sleep.

And some Nara nearly having a mental breakdown over her travel buddy's sewing skills:

“I don’t mean to be offensive,” Nara murmurs. “But the stitching on your hood is just awful!” He bites back a laugh - typical Nord decorum. “I did it myself. You don’t like it?” “Not at all, Oh Gods!” She exclaims, beckoning with her left hand and shifting through her bag with the right. “You poor thing. Hand it over, I’ll fix it for you.”  Amused, he removes the hood and hands it over for examination. It really is terrible, no more than a rag, really, and the criticized stitching had taken him nearly two hours and plenty of poked fingers. Nara makes a strangled noise, and fidgets with a spool of golden thread. “Who taught you to stitch?” She asks in a strained whisper, holding the pathetic fabric to the light.  “My mother. Though she’d be the first to tell you I didn’t inherit her talent.”  “Well, that much is obvious.” Nara sighs. “Don’t worry. I’ll sort this out.”

Loukas and Mika snow kisses:

Nestled in the thread a heartbeat over, strung taught about the loom, tonight these two lay somewhere far away from here and heavy-wet with snow, and perhaps they have just now finished kissing in the drift, and perhaps they have just now started laughing like boys in love while watching the skies come down in flurries.  “Mika, do you believe in fate?” Loukas asks; he’s caught the tiniest crystalline portrait upon his fingertip, a prism capped artistically at either end. Mika’s dark hair is decorated with the little snowy gems.  “I do.” His lover props himself upon an elbow and steals another smooch. “And I believe you are fated to kiss me again.” Loukas smiles - knowing this is true - but cannot pull his eyes from the snow. “But it’s sad, isn’t it?” “Kissing me is sad? You devastate me,” He teases. He falls back in the drift bank with a whump and clasps a wounded hand over heart. “Ouch.” “You poseur.” Loukas elbows him gently. “No. Fate, yes? Consider the snowflake.” Another one lands squarely in his hand, and he holds it out for observation. “No matter how intricate, how delicate, how immaculately designed, it’s only water in the end. And nothing it can do about that, not really.” To illustrate his point, he closes his fist and reveals the resulting puddle-once-snowflake. It rivers through the lines in his palm and down the veins in his wrists, tribuating and coming together as if seeking itself again. Mika turns his hand over, clasps and kisses it. His lips are warm against his freezing skin - they have both allowed the night to get away from them.  “It was briefly beautiful,” He responds, and kisses another off the bridge of his nose. “Let that be enough.” Loukas lays Mika’s head against his chest and traces the curve of his soft jaw; feels the syncing of his breath as it sits against his gentile heart. “Do not leave me.” “Loukas.” Hand-in-hand, bodies entwined, he kisses the top of his head. Even in the chill of winter, they cannot help but to keep one another warm. His breathing has evened, slowed. Have you fallen asleep, my love? “Loukas.” “Do you want me to carry you in?” He soothes. He brushes a loose strand of hair behind his ear. It’s the strangest thing; when his hand comes away, his fingertips are wet and sticky with blood. When he wipes them in the fresh snow, they leave behind a rusty stain. In this moment of confusion, he notices the quiet. The silence. And Mika’s sudden lack of breathing.

And Sujamma goes to Apocrypha

Sujamma orps off to the Earth Stone. One time Mean Friend tried to use the Earth Stone to leave Squid Friend's home, which wasn't very nice. Squid Friend can be a little weird, but Sujamma would never leave him, not ever ever! He thinks Squid Friend must get really lonely in his big green house - the color of Sujamma! So he hopes Mean Friend and Rotation stay with Squid Friend.  He sinks into the gloop beneath the Earth Stone and finds himself in the strange and mysterious library belonging to Squid Friend. Most of the books here are not very good, but Sujamma also can't read, so he isn't really sure. His favorite book ever is a book that Best Friend sometimes reads him which is called Ner-e-var Moon-and-Star which is a good book about a guy named Nerevar and moons and also stars and Star Friend!  Oh good! Justin is here! “Hi hi.” Sujamma orps to Justin. “HAAAAGHHHHGHHAARRRRGHHHAGHHHGHHRRAHH,” Justin greets. “WAAAAHHHHARRHEHEHAHHHAAAAH.” So true! Justin is his fourth very best friend here after Squid Friend, Mean Friend, and Rotation. Usually Justin asks politely for Rotation to come and pick him up and bring him to mean friend.  “HAAAAAAAAAREEEEEEREEEEEEGGGGGGUUURRRRRWAAAAAAA,” Justin whispers softly. Sujamma hears the familiar sound of Rotation's wings flapping through the skies. Soon enough he lands in front of Sujamma. Yay!