#kind of a fic teaser?

[spideyjimin]

until i found her [little teaser]

soooo as i’m slowly but surely finalising the fic, i’m dropping a little teaser 👀 i’m definitely enjoying writing this & i’m currently working on the first smut scene of the fic, be ready 🫠

p.s.: this might slightly change since i haven’t proofread it

[popotobun]

WIP Wednesday!

Lately I've been working most on my SVSSS fic that's basically a "What if Shen Yuan was a little older and a little more competant". That's it, that's the fic. I have zero idea where it's going to end up, but I've got two chapters worth scribbled down, so that's something! I've also got an outline for a Tangled-inspired Liushen AU that I don't want to start because once I do, I think I'll keep going until it's done and I want to get more done on the longer fic first xD

I've still got plans for the post-MLC fic I'm working on! I really should finish that, since it doesn't have anywhere to go and should just be the one chapter... Who knows. I let words get away from all the time.

I've still got a couple of FF14 WIPs too, though the MSQ follow-along will always be slow going... I do want to finish the Dark Knight fic, but my WoL was in a Not Good headspace when he started that, so it's on a back burner too.

Feel free to Ask me to work on any of these and I'll post a new paragraph~ but either way, enjoy the snippet!

The entire night passed while he read, the morning only making itself known to Shen Yuan when a knock sounded at the entrance to his room and Ming Fan’s voice announced, “Shizun, I left breakfast at the table for you. Please let this disciple know if there is anything further needed.”

“Nothing but privacy, Ming Fan. I am only to be disturbed by meals for the next three days.” While he recovers is not spoken aloud, but carried in the silence that he lets linger a moment longer than it needs to. “Unless another Peak Lord requires my presence.”

Ming Fan bowed and started to leave after confirming the instructions, but was stopped by Shen Qingqiu’s voice adding, “Perhaps I will meditate in the gardens today. If I am not here, let it be known that I am unavailable for company.”

That should cover most possibilities. He was sure Mu Qingfang wouldn’t be back by so soon, but he couldn’t say the same for anyone else. With the worry from Yue Qingyuan that Mu-shidi had mentioned or potential curiosity as to his recent visitors, anyone could come by! And he didn’t want them seeing him practicing basic sword forms like someone who’d never held a sword before.

Since that was exactly what he planned to be doing.

After breakfast of course.

[risetherivermoon]

writing out little kid sparrows train of thought is so fucking hilarious because it is identical to how i think,

(snippet from my long kiddads fic)

[capnmachete]

Augusnippets 2024 Path of Comfort Day 20: Favorite Treat

Titie: Sufganiyot Fandom: Peaky Blinders (post-canon) Characters: Alfie Solomons, Tommy Shelby CW: Brief but lively NSFW, references to antisemitism and fascism Summary: After a couple of false starts, Alfie and Tommy and their messy little family find a suitable home in the New World. One with an actual thriving Jewish community. And sufganiyot. A fluffy snippet and also teaser for an upcoming post-canon fic (possibly one long fic, possibly a series of linked shorts) that I haven't been ambitious enough to fully tackle yet. I've redacted a couple of minor things to avoid any major spoilers. Also here on AO3.

SUFGANIYOT XXXXX is a “no” –  under English rule, but just as unwelcoming to Jews as the Island.  Winston Churchill – concerned, for reasons no-one really understands, about Jewish refugees acting as spies, reporting back to the Axis powers – orders all the non-British male Jewish refugees older than sixteen to be confined to work camps, far out in the woods, under armed guard. XXXXX isn’t much better.  The French are in charge, but they cave easily enough under pressure from Churchill.  The first internment camp has just opened there.  And the place is just as desolate as XXXXX.. XXXXX, though – XXXXX is thriving. And has a centuries-old Jewish community. And a hostel, a refuge for Jews seeing the writing on the wall and running from the growing Nazi movement.  The hostel is nothing luxurious, of course, barebones and crowded.  But it’s safe, free of concertina wire and armed guards and forced labor. Refugees can come and go as they please, visit the baths and the synagogue. Rivka expresses immediate interest – it’s a place where she can put her skills to work, have something to do, be of use helping the tide of incoming Jews, both Sephardic and Ashkenazi, settle.   And Alfie, although glad to be retired and away from London, has sorely missed his synagogue, and the mikvah, and access to actual kosher food. Even more so, the sense of a larger community – something that even as a gangster and a certifiably bad man, and despite his many and indisputable sins, was never denied to him in Camden Town. It was a difficult business – uprooting the whole household, finding a home on a suitable piece of land, settling everyone in and starting over again – but Tommy knows it was the right move.  He knows it the first time he and Alfie set foot into the Beth El Synagogue, and Alfie’s always-tense shoulders relax, like a man settling into a warm bath.  And when the first notes of the cantor’s song peal out, a rich tenor that echoes off the stone walls. Alfie’s fingers tighten briefly on Tommy’s, and the big, tough Jew discreetly rubs a sleeve across his good eye to disguise the sudden shine of unshed tears. And later, at home, when the first taste in years of real sufganiyot, from the bakery on Clancy Street, drags out a guttural moan more carnal than anything Tommy has ever heard Alfie utter, under any circumstances. Alfie hasn’t even managed to take a second bite before Tommy drags him off to their bedroom, determined to figure out what it takes to reproduce that fucking sound, that exact one. The bag of sufganiyot is still in Alfie’s hand, and by the time he realizes what’s going on Tommy’s already got his trousers off and Alfie’s cock halfway down his throat.  In a very short time the bedroom’s a mess of epic proportions – discarded clothes and powdered sugar and come and raspberry jam everywhere.  In the end, the only way to get the last stubborn bit of jam out of Tommy’s hair is with scissors, resulting – temporarily – in an even more ludicrous haircut than usual. ___ sufganiyot: unspeakably delicious little pillows of fried dough filled with jam and dusted with powdered sugar, traditionally served at Hannukah and other times of celebration

[nemonclature]

Enjoyed writing this chapter. Or, more accurately. Liked writing this chapter, fucking loved writing that one paragraph.

Lucerys froze. She was, for a moment, inside his embrace. His body bent around her. She inhaled that same scent – leather, sandalwood, and something undeniably him. His hair fell like a sheet over her shoulder, his face so close to hers, that if she turned her head, her lips would brush his jaw. His arm pressed against hers. Her heart beat wildly. Electricity shot through her chest and grounded between her legs. A yearning opened through her body. Stopped her lungs. Held her by the throat.

[jacqcrisis]

So Ronan the dragonborn cleric has his journal and a habit of drawing. Alongside his dry recounts of the day, the more spicy prose written in draconic that frustrates his nosey companions, and simplistic stick figure diagrams of action he can't draw properly, are more detailed sketches. These sketches are generally reserved for animals or plants, especially flowers, he happens across and enjoys, jotted down to the best of memory alongside the words written about the days events.

But between those, every now and then, are drawings of people, most notably people he finds important in some way. These sketches aren't hyper realistic or artful as his capabilities are amateur at best, but they are detailed and good enough you would recognize who they were depicting. He's not trying to become a master of the art, but just good enough that he can have a visual reminder of someone if they should leave him or pass away.

Sometime during Act 2, after the conversation with the mirror about Astarion not remembering what he looks like but before he confesses to feeling something more, Ronan notices his journal is missing. Again. It happens often enough that he's not worried, but he would like it back so he does the rounds around camp to see which sticky-fingered companion took it tonight.

After checking with nearly everyone save Wyll, Ronan finds Astarion a little ways away from everyone, sat near a torch and hunched over conspicuously. Upon silently walking up to him, standing just behind him, Ronan waits just a few moments until his presence is felt. Predictably, Astarion jumps to his feet, hand going for a dagger with the journal clutched to his chest as he whips around to face his would be assailant.

Of course, it's just Ronan and Astarion sighs in a melodramatic relief, commenting that they should perhaps bell the dragonborn when he isn't in his horrendously loud armor. Ronan grunts, holding out a hand expectantly and what follows is a rather typical back and forth as Astarion teasingly mentions all the 'dirty little secrets' he's supposedly gleaned from the journal while Ronan steadfastly asks for the damn thing back as he'd like to make an entry and get to sleep. But something's off, as usually after a minute or two the leather bound book is halfway into Ronan's hand, being pulled away a time or two, yet Astarion is keeping it close to himself, as if reluctant to give it back.

Ronan notices, interrupts Astarion in midst of being complained at over his assessment of the rogue's battle performance to ask if everything is alright. For a moment, Astarion says yes, of course, well as good as he can be starving and exhausted in the middle of this godforsaken place but-

And he stops, chewing on his lip, troubled as he opens the journal again to flip to the page he'd had his thumb wormed into this whole time. He touches his face and Ronan can feel what's coming before Astarion opens his mouth to ask if the person on the page is him. He doesn't even need to see the sketch Astarion shows him; there's a lot of the elf drawn in that journal.

Ronan nods and then immediately mutters something akin to an apology that his artistic talent is lacking, receiving a joke about how Astarion certainly wouldn't hang anything he's drawn by his bedroll that trails off. Then he's silent for a moment, taking the journal back to stare down at the page before he supposes it's the best he'll get. It's a want for a way to help that strikes Ronan as he watches, struggling with what to say and wishing he had some way to alleviate that grief, to show him-

But there is a way to show him, isn't there?

It takes some convincing and a promise to not probe into Astarion's thoughts, but eventually a reluctant vampire is standing illuminated in a holy daylight summoned eagerly for just the occasion. He's instructed to close his eyes as Ronan crouches down to get the best view he can and takes Astarion's hand to press his palm to a scaley temple. The connection is immediate, Astarion's sight filled with a clear picture of himself, of a face he hasn't seen in centuries mirrored perfectly through Ronan's steady and concentrated gaze.

He's given as much time as he needs, Ronan seemingly happy to stare at him as he takes it all in. There's something filtering through the cleric's ironclad concentration, made only more apparent at every observation and joke Astarion makes while refamiliarizing himself with himself. Words and phrases pop into mind, squashed before they complete like the sound of them being thrust underwater to muffle and become incoherent.

Comments about his features, about his voice, about the hand still curled against Ronan's temple, about how close they are. Noachi, that draconic nickname Ronan's given him that he still has no idea the meaning of, thought less like a word and more like a fond prayer floating through as Ronan chuckles at some quip Astarion makes about not remembering his chin being like that. But there's another thing that Ronan can't seem to stop coloring his perception and his thoughts.

It's not a word or a phrase or even a picture. Merely a feeling, a warmth, deep and radiating, growing stronger and stronger the longer Ronan is staring at Astarion. So much so, it colors the picture he's presenting as a glow emanates around Astarion that has nothing to do with the magical daylight or the nearby torch or anything about himself, as if that warmth Ronan is feeling is warping his very sight.

And it's a feeling that Astarion recognizes, has tried not to recognize for a little while now, ignoring and writing it off and burying it at every turn. A feeling that answers back within him and that shakes him. Frightens him enough, he takes his hand away, opens his eyes to break the connection.

Astarion thanks him, kind of, inbetween commenting that he hopes Ronan is happy he's probably satisfied his need to stare at Astarion for the evening before actually saying something that amounts to gratitude. It gets him another chuckle, and Ronan bows his head with a little smile, telling him 'anytime, noachi' before leaving Astarion alone. The daylight fades away to nothing and Astarion is left by the torch, watching Ronan take his journal to the rest of the rest of camp as he touches his face, lost in thought.

[amourcheol]

bonjour amigos !! sorry for being generally MIA but since it’s Christmas break ive been writing a teensy weensy bit !! just crossed a 10k count for the Vernon fic i was on about a couple of months back so 😁😁 pls do await 😁😁

[thursdayinspace]

i wrote the thing for the last fic title prompt but then realized it fits perfectly into a longer thing i'm writing, so it will be a while before that one will see the light of day. but i was actually stuck on that longer thing, and now i'm unstuck, so that worked out really well.

[sabraeal]

Just a Second Away from Being In Love (Or Alone)

[Read on AO3]

Written for @another-miracle, who asked for any Obi POV in Wide Florida Bay-- but hopefully an obiyuki one 🤣. It actually took me a while to circle in on which one to pick; there's a few that I had my eye on earlier in the timeline, but when it came to obiyuki bits...I knew it had to be this one, which starts off a small mini-arc in the established relationship part of this fic!

It takes him two hours and two pounds of eggplant, but after five minutes of this newest crisis of morale, Obi finally gives in: he going have to use his Phone A Friend for this one. Or at least someone friendly. Ish.

“Tell me this is gonna be worth it,” he huffs, contorted into nature’s worst pretzel shape; his newest attempt to locate anything that could pass for another pie plate in this place. No way Doc’s lived here for three years without putting at least five of the most grandma-worthy vessels for piping-hot fruit somewhere in the cabinets. “Tell me this is gonna be the best thing I’ve put in my mouth my whole life. A fucking paradigm shift when it comes to food.”

“It’s eggplant parmesan. You’re gonna wish it was chicken.” Kelly Ann clucks her tongue, and god, she can be a thousand miles away, but he knows she’s got a knee balanced up on her desk, head tipped back because her eyes can’t roll far enough. “But you just spend half an afternoon drying the most finicky vegetable known to man, so you can’t turn back now. You’re committed.”

That’s the sort of talk that would have given him a life-threatening case of the hives years ago, limping around Atlanta’s unforgiving streets looking for an Urgent Care more quickly than taking a jab to the gut. But now he just asks, “But she’ll like it though, right?”

Kelly Ann sighs, already sick of him. “Yes. The poor innocent you’ve tricked into thinking you’re boyfriend material will think it’s the best thing she’s ever eaten. Even Cal’s officer buddies eat it, and they’re more picky than the four-year-old.”

“I dunno,” he hums, hand-pulverized breadcrumb scattering over sea foam ceramic. “She cooks really good. Have I told you about the Cornish hens? They—”

“I have heard all about the Cornish hens. I am sick of hearing about the Cornish hens.” Obi’s mouth twitches. Gotta be hard for her, having to share the pedestal for Gayle’s Favorite Child. At least with someone who isn’t her own kid. “What kind of guarantees are you look for here? That it’s going to get you laid? It will definitely get you laid.”

“Kelly Ann.” If his hands weren’t covered in egg, he’d be pressing one to his chest, scandalized. “I wasn’t— I’m not doing this for sex.”

She snorts. Which, frankly, he’s earned. But he’s turned over a new leaf. Become a new, better man. One who knows that the most important part of a relationship isn’t what happens between the sheets.

But it certainly helps hedge your bets, especially when you’re as much of a fuck up as he is. Hell, if sex was an option, he wouldn’t be here, debating which hand he’d used for the wet ingredients and which was for the dry. Oh no, he would have been far too busy making her see shrimp colors to worry about whether eggplants stayed crispier fried or baked. But since he’d had fallen for her absolutely genius— though, as Yuzuri warned, biologically inadvisable— beach-dinner-sex seduction strategy, Doc’s on the bench for the next quarter, sexy-time wise, and he’s—

Well, he’s got to show her he’s got talents out of the bedroom too. Or, er, off the couch. And shower. Sometimes even—

Ah, well, non-flat surface based talents. Cooking’s supposed to be one of them.

At least, it would be, if his eggplant slices weren’t eating floor. “How are you supposed to even get these slippery bastards over to the tray? They just keep— fuck.”

“Just go slow,” Kelly Ann informs him with an aggravating amount of patience. “It’s not a race.”

“I am going slow,” he snaps, gingerly transferring his next slice to the rack. “There is no possible way I could be going slower. I’m going to be here for days just doing this. Years from now, archaeologists will find my body and wonder why I’m only halfway through—”

“If there was an Olympic event for complaining, you’d take gold five years running.” She can tease him as much as she like, but there’s no bite to it anymore, no sharp teeth waiting to take a nibble. No, he’s pretty sure that the stretch on her vowels means she’s smirking; the closest thing to a smile when she’s aimed in his direction. “Maybe you should be doing this for sex, it sounds like you might need—”

“You keep this up and I’ll ask Gayle when you’re thinking you’ll have round two.” His mouth is all teeth as he adds, “After all, Laila would make such a cute big sister.”

He can’t see her, but he can hear her seething on the other end of the line. “I know where you live.”

“It’s a fourteen hour drive at best and I’ve got Mom on speed dial.”

Her scowl radiates from the speaker. “Fine,” she grits out. “Guess I’ll just have to tell her we’re waiting until number two could have a playmate.”

Obi blinks down at her picture. “Huh, Toddy’s found some girl? That’s fast. He was single at—”

“I’m not talking about Toddy.”

There’s enough silence in the kitchen to make his ears ring. “…What?”

“Oh, come on, Obi,” Kelly Ann sighs, as if he’s the one being obtuse. “The only people you two were fooling at Christmas were yourselves. And now you’re spending a whole day pampering eggplant to impress her?”

“I had a day off,” he murmurs, knees suddenly as solid as his egg dredge. “And I don’t think battering and frying count as a spa day.”

Kelly Ann grunt, unconvinced. “Sure, sure, we can sit here and have you deflect all day. But when it comes down to it…you’re serious about her aren’t you?”

As a heart attack. Which would be fine, if they weren’t barely two months in to the longest relationship of his life. “I think it’s a little soon to say that, uh…”

“That you love her?” His heart beats so loud in his ears he can hardly hear her ask, “You do, don’t you? Love her?”

“Yeah.” It’s a miracle he can even speak with his mouth this dry. “Of course I do.”

“Have you said that? With your Big Boy words?”

He has to press his hands against the counter to keep them from shaking. A strategy that would go better if both of them weren’t covered in egg gunk.

“Ah, gotta go,” he gasps, already reaching for a towel. “Making a real mess of all this.”

“Obi—”

The first finger clean shoots out, cutting off the call.

“There,” he sighs. “That’s enough of that existential crisis.”

*

The eggplant’s fresh out of the oven and sauce just off the heat when the door opens with a shush, his own personal problem stumbling out into the living room, trying to toe her sandals into the tray. If he weren’t elbow deep with this casserole dish, he’d saunter out to appreciate her attempts; there’s a lot on TV nowadays, but none of it can compete with Doc nearly giving herself a concussion trying to unlatch one of those little buckles. TLC used to say you learned something new every day, and listening to her grumble approach swears without ever intersecting, Obi agrees.

“Oh, really.” Most people might be happy just to hurl abuse at inanimate objects, but not Doc. Oh no, she’s got to reason with them.  “This sort of…of…tomfoolery is very…rude. I think you should just…stop…if you would…”

He waits until the first tell-tale clatter and clunk, to call out, “Welcome home.”

“Obi!” she yelps, and oh, he might not be able to see it, but he knows that shocked look: mouth as round as her eyes, skin flushed down to where it meets the swoop of her collar. Extremely kissable, is what he’s saying. “You’re here?”

A tap of the sauce spool sends a chunk of it skittering across the stove, but he grins anyway. “Am I not supposed to be? Did you have plans? Maybe even naughty—?”

“No!” It’s more of a croak than a gasp. “No, I mean…you’re supposed to be here. I’m happy your here. You” —her voice drops, soft, like her pillows— “belong here.”

He thought he’d known all the ways a heart could ache these past few years, but when she talks like that, ah, he’d never thought it could feel this good. Or this terrifying. “You’re not denying the naughty plans thing.”

And she still doesn’t, going so quiet a guy might get suspicious, if he didn’t know— keenly— that she was still in the shop. Taking her nice places and making delicious, boyfriend-worthy dinners has been great; a bigger rush than sex in a bathroom stall. But still, when most of their nights involve staying in, settling into the couch the way they always did, just with the new, heady knowledge that they both are wanting the same things…

Well, there’s been a few inadvisable make out sessions. Exciting ones, the kind that involve hands going under shirts and down pants and wearing hoodies in eighty degree weather the next day. But every time they wandered beneath her shorts— or, more than a few personally exhilarating times, skirts— the mood swerved off the rails, ending things before they— or well, she could get anywhere. After a three-year dry spell, Obi thought a few weeks would be a breeze, a quick breather between rounds, but after a month of having her moan his name at just the simplest touch—

It’s a special kind of torture, he thinks as the other shoe drops. Especially when Doc’s never been one to behave.

“You are home early.” Doc doesn’t often get the jump on him— in shitty childhood vs playful girlfriend, there’s a clear winner every time— but this time, when her sweet voice pipes up from his elbow rather than the galley window, he does. “And cooking dinner?”

“Yeah, I, ah…” She’s always been a curious little squirrel, skittering hither and yon, but when she leans around him to catch a peek of his hard work, her breasts brush against his arm, and, well— like he said. It’s been a long time. “Haah…just needed to let some data compile for a diagram. Thought it might do better on my laptop on our internet.”

He should be playing Tetris with these eggplant pieces right now, but Doc doesn’t make it easy, not with the way she tucks herself against him, her front pressed to his side, a burning line from shoulder to hip. “Are those eggplant?”

One small hand traces a path across his belly, just below his navel, and— and Obi can read a room. Really he can. It’s just not possible that she’s putting down what he’s picking up. “Y-yeah.” He clears his throat, willing it back into an actual, grown adult’s register. “I, uh, got the recipe from Kelly Ann. She…”

Her wrist twists, just enough to dip the tip of her finger beneath his waistband, and oh god, okay, he can’t take it. “Can we talk?” he asks, desperate, one hand gripped around her wrist. “Just for a second here. Because I…I need some clarification, I think.”

Doc flusters, every visible inch of her skin red as she tries to slip from his grasp. Which is absolutely not happening, not if she’s barking up the tree he thinks she is. “S-sorry! I just…I thought…”

One tug sends her careening back into him, every inch of her pressed against every inch of him. Or well, most of them. He's got ten or so that don't quite match up “I’m not complaining about the thinking here. I’m confused about the doing, because I thought we weren’t supposed to, er…”

Do the doing isn’t really where he wants to take this sentence. “I thought,” he starts again, a shade more collected, “that you were in the shop.”

“No.” Her cheeks flush so pink he’s half tempted to bite them, just to see what she’d taste like against his tongue. “I-I mean, I was. But I went to my doctor today, and um…?”

Every muscle in his body stiffens, tense like a cat ready to pounce. “And…?”

Doc might be bold enough to throw herself out windows and into swamps full of at least three of his most deadly fears, but at the twitch of his dick against her hip, her eyes skitter back toward the counter. “A-are you at a good place to stop?”

The eggplant’s going to get floppy in the sauce, and none of it will be as good as it would be if he finished getting this in the oven now, but he can hardly care, not when she lets out a delicious little gasp as she bumps into the counter.

“What exactly did the doc clear you for?” he rumbles, leaning in to give her parted lips the barest brush. “This?”

Her fingers clench at his shoulders, as frustrated as the moan that slips from her throat. “Obi…”

There’s a warning in that, a promise for what will wait for him if he keeps up his teasing, and it only makes his next taste all the sweeter.

“This?” It’s a whisper against her lips, one lost when she swallows it whole. Those fingers yank him down, trapping him in this endless drag of lips and tongue, each one teasing out another moan, another shiver, until he’s nearly drunk from it.

One of his palms scrapes up her side; the silky material of her dress catches on his calluses before he dips beneath it, her nipple already pebbled against his palm. “This?”

His mouth drops to catch it, and oh, if he thought she’d been close before, there’s nothing but cloth between them now, her body arched to fill the curve of his. “Obi!”

She’s trembling in his grip, only the arm at her back keeping her upright, and oh, it’s nothing to trace his fingers up her thigh, to trace the edge of her panties. “This?”

His only answer is a whimper and the bite of nails at his shoulder. It’s enough; he shoves them to the side, the small hairs there tickling his palms. And when the tip of his finger slips between her folds—

“Jesus. Fuck.” His forehead rests against her shoulder. “You’re…?”

Wet. Soaked. His mouth is too dry to get out the words. He doesn’t need to, not when she nods, wiggling against his hand. “Uh-huh.”

“Hah.” He licks his lips, hoping she can’t feel how he trembles now, every part of him drawn as tight as a bowstring. “How about this?”

His fingers dip inside, two sinking straight to the last knuckle. God, he nearly cums right there, from the noise she makes. “Is this what the doc cleared you for, Shirayuki?”

She whines, a pathetic, frustrated sound. One he’d be happy to tease out of her again, if she didn’t reach down and pump his fingers into her again, like he might need the help.

“Haah,” he breathes, hard. “Yeah, I think I can help with that.”

By the way she’s moving, it won’t be enough. Not nearly enough for either of them, not with his cock straining his jeans, soaking them where it’s trapped up against the band. He grinds against her hip, trying to get some relief, pulling her even tighter against him as his fingers work, and—

“Obi,” she gasps, pushing his shoulders away. “We eat on these counters.”

He’d argue that, if they weren’t already sharing space with dinner. Instead he leans in, giving her one, long kiss as he drags his fingers out of her. “Your room or mine?”

“Whichever,” she sighs, hopping up into his arms, “is closer.”

[melodious-tear]

wild card | heroes fic aesthetic

[darkpoisonouslove]

Burning.

That was the first sensation seared into Valtor's being. Not like a fire was burning–a natural form of existence–but how a person burned when they were suffocating, dying.

From inextinguishable Flame he’d become a creature, a living being. Breathing hadn’t been instinct yet. Amidst the flood of knowledge, of awareness he was gaining of himself as an entity cut from the fabric of the universe but separate from it, he’d not yet realized how he was supposed to exist, to survive in this new form.

He’d been omnipotent before, endless, almighty. Then he’d been confined to a body that needed oxygen to live – like ordinary, unremarkable fire.

His creation had been agony. He’d resolved to never turn back, to live with his new form–with his forced servitude to the Witches–and all the possibilities it afforded him.

[sharkingpeach]

“I know what you’re asking, Steve. And I know you don’t seriously expect me to believe you are worried that sharing a cabin is any different than being here, around the kids, at all.” Steve chewed his lip. Scott folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward, “If you were that worried, I don’t think you would still be here. Have a little faith, huh?" Steve sighed and sank in his chair.  "Steve, do you know who Socrates is?" 

[sakuraluck]

ivan is so💕💕

the teaser is out and my suspicions are growing bigger😭😭😭 i am so excited to see how round 3 will change my headcanons of ivan

[thesparklingwriter]

FDXFGHJ CELESETEEE YOUR BLOGGGG ( oml it's so fine i wanna marry it /j )-

i come here to thee to present to you some zhongli rot of the brain -

a soulmate au where people can see their soulmates in their dreams after a certain age and wake with hazy memories of them ( so they know them by instinct should they ever meet ). zhongli has never had these dreams for a long, long time and he has accepted the fact that he either has no soulmate like a few in the world, or he hasn't lived till their age yet.

at least until recent years, he starts meeting the reader in his dreamscape. of course, this being zhongli, he remembers everything and he is smitten.

angst counterpart?

the reader' suddenly stops coming.'s visits grow less frequent.

( it could either be because the reader has a terrible sleep schedule and he's worried, they don't feel safe enough to invoke pleasant dreams and meet him - and he's' worried OR they just straight up die lmao and he's - you guessed it - worried )

AHHH AINE HELLO IM SO HAPPY YOU LIKE THE NEW LOOK HEHE HOW'VE YOU BEEN BESTIE?

all decisions i make related to my blog must be validated by my moots or what was even the point /hj

this is actually so funny cause i was literally just thinking about a soulmate reincarnation au AND i also just queued the songbird brain rot you left me the last time you came around, it's like i summoned you hehe

but omg this (seriously Aine i'm going to need to know where your ideas come from)

i have so many ideas but i'm going to keep them to myself because otherwise i'll put them all here and not on a google doc, you're going to have to wait until july to see hehehe.

i'm going to break everyone's hearts with unbearable angst and then put them back together in the most unhinged way possible. like Zhongli's walking around Liyue thinking "i'll never meet them. who was i to believe i would ever be anything but alone?" and then whoops there they are sleeping on the ground in liyue harbor surrounded by a bunch of millelith cause they were up all night reading a book from Yae publishing house entitled 'seducing morax'

honestly what would i do without you? at this point you're the driving brainrot force of this blog <3

[taegularities]

for miss oc

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZS8scofPb/

i am so late to this, i apologise, babe 😭 but the way i can see oc come up with such designs bc she's a sucker for the 20th century aesthetic.

jk would have... quite a few thoughts on these :')

[kachow-god]

Preview:

No Title Yet!

Rated Mature: *If you're under 16 it's a no from us* multiple warnings apply, if you start to read a part you don't like, don't keep reading and flag it for me so I know the trigger

It's centuries into the future, nuclear war has already come and gone, only those who remained tried to reimposed the original design, demarcating the borders as their ancestors had. Tensions rise and war comes again as history repeats itself. Russia is once again aligned with Eastern Asia in an attempt to take control of this poorly managed and bewildered new world. This story follows it's unlikely heroes as they figure out love, family, happiness, and loss in this deeply flawed dystopian war.

Teaser:

I ushered them out of the tent, trying to move quickly. I had to press a gun to Alec’s back to get him to move.

I saw a soldier approach us and ask,“what are you doing, soldier?” I felt my insides flutter, but I had planned for this, I knew what I was doing.

​​​​​“The Major General ordered for them to be transported to Gusto-Rabinov in the south of Russia.” I breathed, hoping the man would buy it. He gave me a head bow.

“Ok.” The soldier walked a bit aways before turning back around, oh god. I saw him shoot before I could move. I tried to shove the girl out of the way but the bullet found it’s mark. It had lodged itself inside her stomach, bright red blood pooling out.

​​​​​​I gasped, but I knew this have could happen. I saw Alec shake with what seemed to be fear. I rushed and picked up the girl, quickly putting a gun cloth over the wound.

“Move.” I growled at the others. They all snapped to attention and walked the way we had been going. I soon caught up to Remmington in the front and kept leading with the girl in my arms.

​​​​​​The gunshot had attracted some attention, but not enough to be significant. We made it to the big gates and the soldiers looked at me suspiciously.

“What business are you leaving on?” One soldier asked me.

“I’m taking them to Gusto-Rabinov. The Major General ordered it. Some soldier decided to shoot her.” I gestured to Carmen by slightly holding her up in my arms.

​​​​​​“Do you have identification?” Asked a guard. I showed my badge and they nodded, opening the gates. I looked back at my party and said, "keep moving.” They walked behind me until we came to a truck.

“Dan! You there?” I whisper yelled. I heard a rustle and then the red haired-blue eyed maniac peered out the window of the truck. His eyes seemed wild and not all the way on earth.

​​​​​​“Right here.” His hands were shaking as they gripped the window frame. I ushered everyone inside the truck and hopped in after them. “Drive, Danny!” I whispered and the car lurched into motion.

“Hold on Carmen. We’ll be in a safe house soon.” I told the girl who was lying on the floor in an affliction. I can see a small nod. We ride out of the camp and onto the road. I just hope Carmen can hold off long enough. Then my mind wanders to Marguerite. Dammit. She’s not here.

​​“We forgot her.” I whispered.

“Who?” I heard Remmington’s voice, and then realization set in and I felt the anger radiating off him. We would be going back, soon.