#minific i guess

[raccoonfallsharder]

My comfort recipe is a creamy fajita pasta (pasta is the comfiest of foods prove me wrong). Its basically chicken, bacon if you are so inclined, peppers, onions and garlic, fried off with lots of fajita seasoning. Then once its all done add in your cream/creme freiche and some cheese. Mix in your pasta and i swear its one of my favourite cozy meals!!

this sounds fuckin delicious. i am so delighted to read it && so delighted that you have this in your life. i feel like how does anyone go wrong with chicken & cheese & carbs? plus the seasoning and veggies & garlic??? this is a recipe that can heal broken hearts i can tell. pure kitchen witchery

thank you for sharing with us nonny ♡ i am hungry now & inspired.

(and thank you again for indulging me && responding to my query about comfort foods!!)

sidenote. i would like us to imagine, for a moment, that it’s gray and cold and rainy outside. you’ve just made a batch of creamy fajita pasta and have scooped some into two handmade ceramic bowls you picked up at a thrift store last year. you take both bowls into your living room, where rocket’s sitting on your couch, fur wet ‘cause he got stuck in the rain somewhere after some sort of fiasco, and you’d hauled him into your apartment. his teeth had been chattering. you’ve already offered him towels and now he’s bundled up in the comforter you took off your bed for him - scowling, probably. you hand him a bowl of pasta and sit down beside him, and say, be nice. this is my favorite comfort food. you’re welcome. he rolls his eyes at you & makes a face - but he accepts the bowl. sniffs it. his ears twitch and he takes a mouthful. his eyes widen and he glances up at you.

he doesn’t say anything at first, but you can see him relax into the couch like the warmth of the pasta and the spices have just curled through every limb in his body and brought him home. he takes another forkful. and another. you can see him snuggling further into the comforter with every bite. you start eating your own serving of pasta, pulling your legs up onto the couch and curling up next to him. you both eat and watch the rain, and everything is good.

(later he falls asleep to the sound of the quiet little storm, empty bowl in his hands && comforter still a cocoon around him. you’ll carefully take the dish and fork away and set them on the coffee table, and he’ll stir just enough to mumble thanks and let himself lean into you a little. welp, now you’re stuck on this couch forever. but it isn’t so bad.)

[zarvasace]

Fuck it FS fairytale AU couple you can pick which one

About 300 words! This little snippet is placed in the Vidow Beauty and the Beast AU, after Vio spends like a year with Shadow in the abandoned castle and then goes back to the others in an emergency (the emergency being they're fighting a war again.) They chase Vaati all the way to the abandoned castle, but are just a little too late to intercept him.

Vio stared in horror at the castle. When he'd left, just earlier that week, it had been a veritable winter wonderland—icicles hanging from the roof tiles, dustings of snow in the windowpanes, a pristine white blanket covering the courtyard, marred only by Vio's old footprints and various fallen snowballs. Now, a horde of monsters trampled and bled on the overgrown hedges and gardens, blackening the snow and raising an awful cacophany. The ancient castle's familiar peace, which Vio had grown quite fond of, was gone.

He worried that wasn't all that had shattered. His first, fleeting fear was for the library, and he drew a circle in the air to serve as a sort of magical spyglass. Using the magnification, and with Green and Zelda looking too, Vio searched the castle for signs of entry. To his relief, it looked like the vast majority of monsters were shut out. He didn't see Vaati anywhere, but he was willing to be that Vaati respected the sacredness of ancient books, at least a little bit. And if the castle was continuing to rebuff any attempts at violent entry, well. That was good evidence that Shadow was all right. Vio did his utmost to take heart at the fact. "The sorcerer is likely inside, isn't he?" Green whispered. Vio nodded. "Is there any reason we need to rush this?" "I—" Vio started, then bit his tongue to really think about it. His head would be his greatest asset right now, not his heart. At least now he knew that he had one. "If Vaati gets his hands on the mirror, I don't know what he'll be able to do. Worst case scenario, he gains the powers of several fairies…" "What? What mirror?" Green asked. Vio hesitated, just long enough. Even he hadn't known about it for months… Could he really talk about it, give up the secret, just like that? "Vio. What. Mirror?"

[breakfastteatime]

Today's Survivor request is for @lyraine - Together.

“We should have dinner,” Cere announces. “We have a small kitchen and mess hall here. Curry is on the menu.”

“I could eat,” Merrin says.

Greez laughs. “Some things never change.”

“Given that all organic life must eat to survive, yes, Greez, you are correct. Some things do not change.”

BD pipes up about the Neti, a species known to live off photosynthesis. That doesn’t fall within the parameters of eating to survive.

“Maybe save the biology lesson for after everyone’s eaten,” Cal tells him. He looks to Cere. “You’re not cooking, are you?”

As expected, Cere takes it gracefully. “No, even after all these years, I still haven’t learned how to cook.”

Greez reaches over and gives her hand a squeeze. “Don’t feel bad, Cal hasn’t either.”

“Hey, I never set the galley on fire!”

A distinctly binary chuckle emanates from Cal’s shoulder. He reaches up and taps BD on the head. Under no circumstances is BD to ever share that little drunken anecdote with anyone. Ever. Unless he’s looking to be a skriton snack. It’s not his fault Gabs got him wasted on Hutt-strength moonshine.

Bode jogs over. “I’m gonna stay here with Cordova, see what we can dig up on this Dagan guy and Tanalorr. Catch you later?”

“Sure,” Cal says.

“Go enjoy dinner. Save some for us!” Bode returns to Master Cordova, the two of them instantly deep in discussion.

Bode. Full of surprises.

Cere leads the way to the mess hall. The four of them are served curry, pour themselves drinks, and find a table in the corner. Everyone pauses for BD to scan their selections. Conversation picks up like they’ve never been apart, like there aren’t years, distance, and hurt feelings between them. Or maybe it’s just Cal who felt like that, the only one who nurtured the emptiness inside him, tried to fill it with the certainty that they’d abandoned him. He’d clung to it, but what if he was the one who caused the fracture, who broke it all apart because he didn’t know when to stop? He can feel an ease between Cere and Merrin, the Force humming between them differently now, a deeper current.

Cal is���

He might be…

A small foot boots his shin. He looks over, sees Greez staring. “Start eating, or I’ll finish it before you get another look at it.”

Stomach growling, Cal nods and starts eating. Cere and Merrin ask Greez about life on Koboh and Pyloon’s, the Force full of warmth and joy as he shares his wild tales of life on the frontier. It nudges at Cal, smothering the memories of separation. All five of them made their own choices, went their separate ways, and now those paths have converged again. Things have changed between them, and there’s no going back to what it was like before. Maybe that’s a good thing.

“And then Cal turns up because he crashed my ship and – ”

Cal picks at his curry. “I think I landed it pretty well, considering the circumstances.”

“Ha! A good landing would’ve been on the pad outside the saloon, kid.”

“I have never crashed a ship,” Merrin declares.

“Take a trip with Cal, it won’t take long,” Greez says, reaching for his drink.

Cere’s laughter takes Cal by surprise. It’s been a long time since he heard her sound so… so…

So light-hearted.

Like the old days, when they were together, and it was easy. He’s missed this so much.

What Cal wouldn’t do to have Gabs, Bravo, Lizz and Koob be here too.

He puts his fork down, food half finished, and reaches for his drink, sipping the water and hoping he gets a hold on himself before he has a breakdown at the table. He’s surrounded by peace, by joy, and it threatens to drown him. He imagines Lizz and Koob devouring more curry than the kitchen can spare, Gabs offering to improve Cere’s databases, Bravo examining their air defences. BD peers up at him. Cal pats his head, feeling the tremble. Don’t lose it. Get it all under control. Breathe, release…

Another nudge. This one through the Force. A familiar feeling, one absent from his life for so many years. He acknowledges Cere and pulls away before she can pick up on everything in his head.

He doesn’t want to hear her tell him she told him so. They’re all together again. Let him get used to that again, and maybe, just maybe, everything will work out for the best this time.

[domokunrainbowkinz]

Anharion and Sarcean sketches 😌

[mangofresca]

cloudburst

He taps his fingers when he’s bored.

Not that Spain blames him. Not that Spain isn’t also just as bored, dulled, yearning and longing and aching for the willowed shade of broken sunlight through blooming Juniper trees, warmed by humid air and clouds so soft he could pull them from the skies, if only he had the will to lift a hand to them, to try.

His boss will likely scold him for not paying attention, but Spain can’t be bothered today, too unfocused to listen to off-handed bickering made worse through obligation, not when he can still hear the thumping of rain on the roof, pattering against the windows.

Not when he can watch Romano skate his nails against the table, pressing the soft of his fingertips up and down as if he were writing something, composing something, following the tune of a melody only half-constructed and–

Spain sits up a little straighter, squinting.

Romano keeps his eyes half-lidded and hazy, looking for all the world like he is two seconds away from drifting to sleep, but Spain can see the way his fingers move, curled, as if cradling the neck of an invisible guitar, other hand almost imperceptibly pressing down into the table, plucking notes Spain can almost hear being strummed aloud, if only he tried hard enough to listen.

Spain watches, head propped on an arm that fell asleep about half an hour ago, too lost and transfixed on the image of Romano shirking his duties in favor of– of writing, maybe, or composing, creating something Spain is already desperate to hear, to mold into his life in the way he molds everything Romano does, every noise Romano makes.

He’s out of his seat seconds before they’ve officially been dismissed, but Romano doesn’t notice, still in that world of tabletop timbres and notes unwritten, of hands born to cultivate.

“What are you playing?” Spain asks, and he smiles when Romano startles, eyes widening and fingers dropping, forming into fists atop pages with not one word written on them.

Not that Spain blames him. His own are the same, after all.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Romano snaps, cheeks ruddy with caught-out indignation, and Spain knows he was right, that he’d formed himself an audience for a performer who didn’t know he was being watched.

“You were playing something,” he says, beaming when Romano collects his papers with more stumbled force than necessary, always too combative, too cagey with his vulnerabilities.

Romano huffs, says nothing, brushing past Spain with shoulders that are a little too tense for comfort.

Spain follows, whistling, doing his best to find the cadence of whatever rhythm Romano had been tapping against the table.

It takes two months for Romano to bring it up again, and when he does, it’s by dropping down next to Spain in the sand, feet and ankles damp with dusk-sweetened sea foam, hands steady and curled around a guitar he had always insisted he rarely used, that sits too comfortably in his lap to be anything less than adored.

“Don’t say anything,” is all Romano says, and Spain can only bring himself to smile, arms pressed atop his knees as he feels the kiss of broken waves and clumped seaweed against his toes. He’s more than content to wait, would always be content to wait if it meant Romano pressing himself into the space at Spain’s side, frown on his lips like he’s shy, wary.

Romano shoots him a look—I mean it, bastard!—but Spain only rests his chin on his arms, watching with slowly blinking eyes and a smile he is sure is horrifically besotted.

Romano doesn’t look at him when he plays, head tilted down so his hair falls across his forehead, curling around his eyebrows and the rounds of his ears. Spain bites back the urge to brush it away, and when Romano begins to hum, the softest accompaniment to a tune Spain has never heard, Spain can feel his heartbeat in the palms of his hands, in the urge to mold himself against Romano’s back, to be close and close and close.

Still, he does not move, waiting until Romano’s fingers pluck the final string, mumbling hums and soft breaths petering out until the only noise left is the swell of the ocean and the rustle of air through grains of sand and surf.

Spain blinks—once, twice—and Romano clears his throat, forefinger and thumb drawing absentminded patterns across the guitar’s body.

“I wrote it,” he says, voice low, deep, barely above a whisper. “I’ve been working on it for…fuck, I don’t know how long. A while, I guess. Mostly when I mi–”

He flushes pink, voice cutting off in a choke, and Spain sits up immediately, thinks he knows, and his delight is immeasurable, second only to grand, enamored infatuation.

“When you what?” he asks, because how can he not when Romano is looking like that, like he’s already cursing himself for speaking, as if Spain wouldn’t lay himself and his heart and his soul bare just to find the words humanity hasn’t created yet.

“Forget it.” Romano is scowling, bristling in that way he gets when he speaks before thinking, when Spain is close enough to hear him—when he’s paying attention—and Spain couldn’t forget this if he was given a millennium, if he was given an eternity and longer.

“When you what?” he asks again, because he has to, has to, would be a fool not to, would die, maybe, if he doesn’t. “When you…miss me?”

Romano shoots him a look so blistering and venomous that Spain knows he’s right, knows immediately and without question he’s right, and his hand is around Romano’s wrist before Romano even has the chance to stand, to run, because of course he’d run, and Spain can’t bear the weight of solitude right now, anyway.

“You wrote a song for me.”

Romano splutters, snarls. “It is not– I didn’t fucking write it for you!”

Spain could kiss him, wants to, wants to. “I can’t believe you wrote a song for me!”

“Are you even listening to me? I just said I didn’t–”

He’s red, so red, every shade the most beautiful color Spain has ever seen, and he can’t find it within himself to temper the need to touch, to be close and closer still, to kiss, fingers following the curve of ocean-misted waves caught on dark eyelashes, tangling in knots around his knuckles.

“My song,” he insists, lips light as they brush the warm of Romano’s mouth.

“Not what I sai–”

Spain swallows the words he knows are only half-hearted, can feel the truth in the press of the guitar into his sternum, in the hand fisted in his shirt, in the lips humming against his.

[im-a-goat-in-disguise]

funky space. uh. Thing. Under cut

Hundreds of trillions of screens across the galaxy crackled as the special broadcast began. Several centuries of interstellar conflict, which had left entire planets shattered and created untold casualties, were coming to an end. The Sol Federation and The Zastrian Imperium had both agreed to send one unarmed representative to meet in the halls of The Stellar Committee, making a final attempt at restoring peace between the formidable nations.

Some estimations reasoned that the meeting could potentially save hundreds of billions of lives - bringing a newfound hope to the galaxy, and pulling thousands of intelligent species back from the brink of total extinction.

Both representatives were to fly, arrive, and converse completely alone. They were to diplomatically discuss every single disagreement and difference between the two nations. Should an agreement be reached, the ceasefire would be extended indefinitely and further avenues of negotation were to be explored.

If discussions soured or hit a brick wall, The Zastrian Imperium and The Sol Federation had both independently declared identical deadlines. After 48 Galactic Standard Time-Units without any final agreement, both states would partake in complete, total, mutual annihilation.

Silent against the brackdrop of stars and distant galaxies, a sleek stealth ship darted towards the space station chosen for the meeting. A Sub-Gamma Slyzer, outfitted with cutting edge and objectively unnecessary upgrades and optional extras. It has left berth at the Jupiter Specialized Shipyards. Within,a single human paced back and forth. Tracy Anne. An experienced diplomat, she could worm an agreement out of anybody for anything.

For safety reasons, the ship would fly itself [a mind-bogglingly simple task for the Ultra-NanoCore SeptoBit Computer crammed inside the hull] to the destination, veering off course only to avoid the gaze of the Omni-Observant O-Class Surveillance Dreadnaughts employed by Intragalactic News to attempt interviews and exclusive reporting prior to the meetings. Ships large and small swept back and forth across multiple approach vectors in the vain hope of picking up anything resembling the Slyzer.

Tracy held her breath as the faint noise of the newest Chamelion Projector Plates kicked into high gear just before a highly-specialized scouting ship whizzed past. This upgrade would usually set you back the annual income of a small planet, but she had barely had to push for the Dock Foreman to waive the bill.

The one thing she couldn't convince him to change, however, was the "Doomsday" clock that has been installed in place of the main pilot interface. It was counting down to the deadline provided by The Sol Federation. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Beyond changing the units the timer counted in and the language provided, there was no way to turn it off or make it quieter. After fiddling hopelessly with every button and switch on the interface, Tracy had resigned to simply distracting herself until arrival.

In an almost entirely deserted patch of space, the Zastrian Supercarrier "Arkangel", escorted by several top-of-the-line X-Grade Kazren-Hyber Battleships, lugged itself into the correct position to launch a single shuttle. Within the shuttle, Victor Xane was becoming increasingly smug. Known across most of the inhabited galaxy, Victor was well known for his behaviours against a multitude of civilizations.

Simply appearing before a battle was enough to cause species to radically shift doctrine simply to avoid utter destruction at best, and eternal torment at worst. From the enslavement of the Reevus Confederation, the decimated stars of the United Freedom Front, and the horrible suffering endured on Nextria Beta, Victor was known for being non-negotiable.

His ship, the reliable and lethal XY Impervious Stryker-Kyller, had been given an extra plethora of malicious devices and ethically questionable capabilities, just in case The Federation had underestimated their enemy. Victor had even been squeezed into a custom-made Nanite-Adamantium Composite Exosuit, capable of withstanding most high-calibre handheld weaponry, up to and including Enriched Neutron Shells.

The station, called Absolution, sparkled into view on Tracy's state-of-the-art Holographic Manipulation Display. Locking into a pre-determined path, the engines kicked into a higher thrust power to glide into the landing bays. Her ship (technically the Federation's, but she had convinced them to put her name on the paperwork) decelerated and arrived at the pad, hovering ever so slightly above the clean white surface.

In one swift movement, Tracy picked up several papers and swung herself out of the ship's hatch and into the station, adjusting quickly to the awkward artificial gravity. She pressed on towards the hall of the Stellar Committee, located deep within the station.

On the opposite side, XY Impervious crept towards a docking port before smashing in the wall besides it with a specially designed landing leg which punctured the outer armour of the structure like a hot knife through butter. Just a few moments later, Victor crouched into the station's interior, obviously not designed well for 10 feet tall warriors wearing full battle gear.

His Virtual Interactive Systems booted up, displaying a schematic of the station with two red dots, one steadily walking his direction.

Victor would, for the first time ever, have to answer for the countless ruthless murders, coups, vanishings and genocides he had created.

This meeting could be very long, or very short. It could bring total galactic peace, or eternal suffering for all known sentient life.

For the first, and potentially last, time in his life, Victor felt excited.

Considering taking a story I wrote on paper a while back and just dumping it into a Tumblr post so I can get rid of the paper (I have nowhere to put it but I like some of the phrases I used and don't want to lose them forever)

[wheelsupin-azarathmetrionzinthos]

all these colours fade for you, carry me slowly, my sunlight

a glass falcon micro-fic going into the New Year

The sunrise always made him think of her.

Gentle purples and soft pinks, the feelings of arms around him and lips on his cheeks. Being safe, loved, and chosen by someone, just as marvelous and spectacular as the sunrise itself.

Maybe it was memories of their first date and her dress, and talking until they’d watched the sun rise together. Maybe it was everything all at once. Maybe it was just like the sun, Josh couldn’t imagine his life without her. 

It didn’t matter, every sunrise, made him think of her. When they were together he would watch her scrunch up her nose and bury her face deeper into the blankets to stave off waking up for five more minutes. When they were apart he could see her favourite colours reflected in the sky itself, and he thought of Rachel. 

Maybe it wasn’t the sunrise, maybe it was just that he loved her. He loved Rachel Glass, he loved that she hated mornings, and loved Hello Kitty. He loved the way she was extra competitive and would stay out all night dancing just for the hell of it.

He loved her, he loved her, he loved her.

Rachel was soft purple, gentle pink, and vibrant orange, she was shining light and a new dawn. 

She was the sunrise, and Josh had always been a morning person.

—-

The sunset always made her think of him.

Deep reds, and warm oranges. The feeling of being held and kept warm. Nurturing hands that didn’t judge or critique. Simply the all-encompassing compassion of someone who loved you with all their heart. 

Maybe it was the dying light of the night they’d met, or the sun streaming through the windows when he'd first kissed her. He was the sun, warm and life-giving and without him, she was cold and grey. Rachel couldn’t imagine her life without him. 

It didn’t matter, every sunset made her think of him. When they were together, he’d fall asleep on her shoulder, watching some show together that had gone too late. When they were far apart she could see the dying day and know he had long fallen asleep, surrounded by the cats. She would shiver and think of Josh. 

And maybe it wasn’t the sunset at all. Maybe it was just that she loved him. She loved Josh King, she loved that he hated mess, and loved replica weapons. She loved the way he was protective and would spend all day on a harebrained scheme just to cause a little chaos.

She loved him, she loved him, she loved him. 

Josh was vibrant red, warm orange, and deep blue, he was vibrant light and safe comfort. 

He was the sunset, and Rachel had always been a night owl. 

—

Josh looked at the sunrise and thought of the ring hidden at the top of the closet.

Rachel saw the sunset and thought of a promise she’d made to herself long ago. 

This was forever, just like the sun. 

[citadelofswords]

interstitial infinity casino car: proximity is canon to infinity me, bolt upright a month and a half later: proximity is canon to infinity

shadow’s honestly a little surprised when it’s tails who finds him at the bar, three months after he gets off the train. usually when he disappears on these sorts of benders it’s sonic who comes after him and drags him back to civilization. “drew the short straw, did you?” shadow asks, because he’s still an asshole and no amount of time displaced therapy train is going to get that out of him.

“he’s out of town this week,” tails says flatly, and sits down next to him. “i don’t want to deal with the panic if he comes back and finds you gone again, even if it’s not permanent. this doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

shadow picks up his glass and toasts him sarcastically with it. “feeling’s mutual.”

“really? you had to come to this side of town?” the rest of the bar is empty, but brightly lit, like the inside of the casino. if shadow closes his eyes he can almost imagine he’s doing shots with audrey again. “not your usual dark and broody scene, is it?”

“maybe i’ve changed since last you saw me,” shadow says, and tails huffs.

“hardly likely,” he says. “unless you got therapy during those weeks you were gone—,” shadow’s hand closes over the glass so hard it cracks, and mercifully tails shuts up.

“you don’t know,” he says through gritted teeth, “what i got up to while i was gone.”

“well, no,” tails says, “because if you told anyone you told sonic, and sonic didn’t tell us. because he’s nice.”

“nice.” shigeo would have been nice like that. al, too, probably. he was certainly keeping secrets for audrey by the end there. shadow hadn’t told sonic anything about the train, but finds himself speaking anyway. “well let me tell you, tails. have you ever felt small. have you ever felt like the world around you was so. fucking. small. have you ever learned there is so much more to this goddamn existence. and then walked away from it?” shadow shakes his head. the tequila is leaking out from the cracked glass around his hand.

very quietly, tails says, “what happened?”

“i made some friends,” shadow says. he drinks the last of his tequila and sets the glass down. “and then i walked away from them to come back here. and i will never see them again. i can never see them again. and i don’t have.” he has nothing of them. just the memories, already beginning to fade from his mind. he tries to cling to them, but they’re already being overwritten by the dull monotony of being back here, in a world that once seemed so large and brilliant and now feels tiny and stifling.

he doesn’t want to get back onto the train. he really doesn’t. he likes being home. but it’s. some days it’s hard.

“i understand,” tails says.

“how the fuck could you possibly un—,” shadow begins to snap, turning to face tails, and stops abruptly when he sees the look on his face. the most serious he’s maybe ever seen tails look.

“i understand,” tails repeats. “maybe more than anyone else we know. and i’m sorry, shadow. i really am.” he takes a deep breath. “for what it’s worth, i’m sure they’re feeling the same way about you.”

they probably are, the sentimental fools. shadow still asks, “how can you be sure?”

tails just looks at him, and says, “because mine did.”

and then he turns, and signals to the bartender to get them a second round of drinks.

[jonathan-samuel-smith]

Guys guys guys guys what if I write a JonDami star trek au fanfic where Damian is a Vulcan and I explain what that means for all you non-trekkies in the story.

Soul bond, t'hy'la, touch telepathy, mind melding, emotional repression down to an exact science, bowl cut Damian, hand kisses. Damian responds to his fascination with Jon by studying him like an observational science project. Jon's like "he's stalking me, he totally wants to be my friend! I'm going to go up to him!" And Damian tries to run away because it will interfere with his data if he interacts with the subject but sorry Damian, kryptonians are faster than Vulcans and can see you through bulkheads.

Omg what if Jon's like "he doesn't like hugs so I'll start smaller with hand holding"

and Damian is like "why are you making out with me?!"

Jon is like "wdym my lips aren't touching you."

"You kiss with your lips, yet you eat and talk with them as well. How curious!"

"So if we're kissing right now why aren't you pulling away? Do you li~ke me?"

"Tt," He pulls his hand away blushing green "in your dreams."

"Sounds like my dreams must be pretty mundane in that case~" Jon says, leaning in.

"It is only fair I return the opportunity to experience new stimulus." Damian pecks him on the lips. "That is so weird..." He says, standing and walking away.

Jon puts his fingers to his lips, blushing. "W-wait up!" Jon says, running after him.

Some lore: Talia chose Bruce to challenge her betrothed and he won and they weren't even dating yet but now they're married.

Jon is the son of a human and a kryptonian but his parents met when his mom was doing a story on Kal-el's crew instead of Clark being the last son of krypton.

They're both kids on a constitution class ship that their fathers are captain and first officer on. Lois is often with them but does leave from time to time to cover interplanetary news.

This is so niche!

[andorerso]

🏜️ 🍄 🛼 for the writer asks <3

🏜️ ⇢ what's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work?

I love any and all types of comments but some of my favorites are keysmashes, gif reactions, screaming and yelling and cursing at me, or those comments that include particular lines they really enjoyed <3

🍄 ⇢ share a head canon for one of your favourite ships or pairings

I like to imagine that Jyn's the one to quote on quote propose (read: point out that getting married may be beneficial for them for a number of reasons and act like it's all rational, nothing more) if only because Cassian would never dare assume or even think he's allowed, and then he's like yeah sure... for the benefits of course and tries to follow her example of acting like it's not a big deal because they're both idiots, and they don't even tell the rest of the Rogues until Leia or someone congratulates them a week later, and she only knows because they submitted the paperwork, and Bodhi's like hold on what. and they're like oh yeah, it's not a big deal don't worry about it <3 Bodhi's so offended for a number of reasons (mainly that they didn't tell and also that they're acting like it's not a big deal) and idk, their friends end up throwing them a small surprise party with just a few friends (the Rogues, the OT trio, the Damerons...) and then they finally admit that okay yeah, maybe it is a big deal. yeah, fuck the benefits, the most important reason is that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. and then they come up with the idea of hyphenating their names. the end!

🛼 ⇢ describe your latest wip with five emojis

hmmm let me think, I'm not the best at emojis... ⚖️🙄💘🔞💥 (for my lawyers au)

Writers Truth & Dare Ask Game

[sandwrites]

Tricia

The Perfumer watched over the trembling body of the Misbegotten warrior. 

Their chest shook with each breath. Death’s rattle, leading them back to the roots of the Erdtree.

At least. That was how it should have been. 

Stuck. That was how they all were. Stuck in a limbo they didn’t ask for, a limbo they never chose. 

Forced to die unwelcomed by the Erdtree’s grace. Cursed to seep back into the ground, souls left rotted and hapless in the wake of decay. 

The warrior croaked once, dark eyes staring glancing frantically up at the Perfumer. Holding tightly onto the the proffered hand that the Perfumer had held out as consolation. Pitiful, useless consolation. 

Its grip tightened. Painful, desperate, a last effort to cling to reality. 

And then, nothing.

Tricia slowly pulled her hand, as limp and as broken as it now felt, from the vise grip of the fallen Misbegotten, solemnly closing its eyes with her free hand. 

She had come to feel the pain of the Misbegotten. The understanding that they were doomed from birth. There was no light of grace guiding them, but it did shine in the shackles that grated against their ankles. It glistened in the eyes of those who herded them towards the mines, cracking their whips against their backs. 

It even glistened in her eyes. And the eyes of the Perfumers that failed to cure them.

Tricia had realised, you see. She had realised that the Misbegotten plight could not be cured. It was no curse, no malaise that could be waved away with the administration of a tincture in a vial. 

Something she had refused to accept, something that had lead to her expulsion from Leyndell to the volcanic wastes of Mt. Gelmir. 

Her role wasn’t to heal. It was to see them off. To smile and promise a cure 

People like the Omenkiller Rollo were nothing but mud to her, those who abandoned the path of healer in order to cleanse the impurities of anything untouched by Grace. 

She looked down at her hands. These were healing hands, these hands were meant to be curing the sick and stitching together wounds! Not being an unwilling witness to a death she had no power to stop.

By the time she had rose and wrapped her hand in some bandages, she’d made up her mind.

Not a single one. Not a single one of the Misbegotten under her watch would be allowed to suffer death. Not by battle or by the wicked idea of ‘mercy’ that her compatriots held. 

Some of the Misbegotten lay about, some cooking what meagre food they had in fire pits they had managed to pull together via wooden shields and formic rock.

Subconsciously, she felt the spark aromatics at her belt, unused since her journey west towards Mt. Gelmir. The road was harsh, but her pouches were full, most of the resources within being used for medicines. 

Violence.

The rare chance she had to kill had been shattering. She wasn’t built for war, none of the perfumers were. Many lost their minds to the atrocities they committed during the shattering, becoming Depraved. 

Others began to imbibe too heavily of their medicines, becoming just as broken as those who were affected by their weapons. 

If it was violence that it took to protect the Misbegotten, preserve the little sanctuary they had, deep under the ground, in a Catacomb that was avoided like Rot?

Then she would gladly choose it. 

Her personal Elysium, over the war-torn chaos beyond.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

hi there!! so i LOVE Come Now, Little Prince, they’re all precious and you write soft janus so WELL, im so happy Remus is finally getting the love he deserves too! Buuuut i’m a little confused on a few things, and maybe this has already been clarified in the story and i just missed it, but is remus older than roman? Cause Janus treats roman like a young kid basically, and calls the others all “little heroes”, but treats remus like an adult, what with bringing him whisky and referring to him as a man rather than a boy or kid. Or are they the same age and janus has just never cared for remus because he’s a hardened crime boss, but now that he’s softened up thanks to the heroes, he’ll realize remus is really just as young and traumatized as they are? also, and i’m very sorry to bombard you with questions but this is the last one, what are the age ranges for the heroes/remus/janus? I keep picturing roman and the heroes as 17-18, and janus somewhere in his 40s, but is that wrong?

again, sorry for all the questions, i just really enjoy the story and having the answers to these questions would help me enjoy it better! don’t feel the need to answer any you don’t want to or that might be spoilers tho, ofc 💕💕 ty!!

Remus and Roman are about the same age--I think Remus is a few months older. Roman's definitely the oldest of the heroes--they're all early twenties, Virgil's the youngest at 20 even, Roman and Remus the oldest at 23. Janus is in his 40s, I picture him around 44.

Janus definitely treated Remus as just a henchman for a long time and kind of took him for granted until Roman's whole...ordeal. I think Remus was just grateful to have that clear divide between boss/employee. In a weird way he's glad Janus didn't care that much about him because that meant he didn't have to worry about someone putting effort into keeping him the way he was, there was a freedom in knowing he could die and just be replaced and it wouldn't matter.

But then of course here comes Roman, who's made Janus all soft and tender and all the things Remus still doesn't know because all he ever had was stolen moments between swivels of a security camera and the tenderness of having someone you know patch up the wounds they gave you. And now he's wondering if he missed his chance for that because Janus isn't like that with him. He's not special to Janus and he went out of his way to make sure of that. Janus is his boss, not his protector.

There is a moment for Janus, though, where he's trying so hard to keep Roman and the other heroes separate from his work as the Serpent--he can't have people knowing he's going soft after all--and realizes he's using Remus to do that. And it isn't that Remus is protesting or making a fuss about it, it's that he isn't. He's letting Janus push him around and treat him the way he always does--like he's nothing but a tool and always about two wrong steps from being taken on a very long drive off a very short pier--and vanishing when he isn't called upon.

In my head there's one time where Janus finds Roman and Remus asleep on Roman's bed (that he doesn't use very often because snek gotta cuddle) and is struck by three things.

One: his first instinct is to yell at Remus for falling asleep while watching Roman.

Two: he's horrified that he wants to do that.

Three: Remus, asleep, curled up in Roman's hold, looks so young.

'Cause Janus still needs to be gentle with the heroes, they're so fresh from the trauma and everything that he has to be careful, has to treat them like they're fragile, can't be too possessive just yet.

But with Remus?

Remus is his.

And I think that there's a part of him that sighs in relief when he realizes he can be as feral and possessive and fierce as he wants with Remus because Remus wants him to be. The heroes need time to figure out who they are without the Cyrus Corporation, Remus wants to feel like he belongs somewhere where he's wanted. And so in true Remus fashion he wants it to be messier, less polished, less practiced and safe and calculated.

Janus definitely chases Remus down a little bit once he realizes how fucked up Remus still is from all this shit and is like give me your struggles and your messes and your fury, i will cradle you within it until it forges into armor

100% meltdowns all over Janus and the scared little boy who used to forego sleep until his brother came back finally learns what protection feels like

[zarvasace]

For a prompt, maybe something cozy with Vidow

Vio paces while he flips through the pages of the book, pausing every few seconds to rub his fingers against the odd texture of the pages.

"If I'm reading this correctly," he says in the direction of the merman in the tank, "your name means something about the shadows beneath cove walls?"

The merman in question shrugs, water dripping down his shoulders as he thinks, then nods. "That sounds about right. Too bad the translation magic doesn't work both ways."

"I can pronounce the word shadow. I'll call you that."

[breakfastteatime]

(The promised missing scene from Post Traumatic Love. Hope you like it @frunbuns!)

Greez isn’t surprised when BD eventually takes off. Cal’s been gone for hours, and even though he told the kid not to hurry, he’s getting a little antsy himself. Not that he follows BD – mostly because he’s terrified of getting lost and stumbling upon an Imperial patrol. Nah, he’ll stick with Sister Taske. The two of them are making dinner and sharing tea, and she’s a good listener.

And a surprisingly wicked storyteller.

To Greez’s surprise, BD returns quickly. He bounces and beeps and twirls for attention.

“My, my little one,” Sister Taske says. “Whatever is the matter?”

Greez puts down his tea and hurries over. “Is it Cal? Is something wrong? Does he need me?”

BD doesn’t waste time with explanations. He takes off with a whistle and a thruster blast, leaving Greez to hurry after him. They approach Cere’s room. Greez can’t hear anything – no smashing like he expected, or loud crying, which he also expected. No, there’s complete silence, aside from the distant howl of the wind.

“BD, maybe we shouldn’t – ”

BD opens the door and waits for Greez. Nervous now, Greez slides inside. The room is in one piece and so full of Cere he nearly loses it right there.

And then he sees Cal.

BD hurries to him, sitting protectively at Cal’s side. Cal is flat out on his stomach on Cere’s meditation cushions, fast, fast asleep. Head turned to one side, his face is splotchy, damp eyelashes clumped together. He’s not moving or talking. The sound of his breathing is slow and steady. He’s in the kind of sleep Greez knows is a sign he is completely exhausted. Like, within an inch of his life exhausted.

It’s the most beautiful thing Greez has seen in too long, and he lets out a breath he forgot he was holding.

“Thank the stars,” he murmurs.

BD rushes over to him, nudges his leg and pushes him toward Cere’s bed… or, more precisely, a blanket on her bed. Now he gets what BD’s telling him, and why he brought him here. Jedha is cold, and Cal will be chilly if he’s not under a blanket. He doesn’t need anything disturbing his rest.

“Okay, BD, I got him,” Greez says, keeping his voice low even though he knows nothing can wake Cal right now. He’s in that ‘dead to the galaxy’ sleep of his that always catches him in the end. Greez grabs the blanket and places it over Cal, tucking him in. Cal doesn’t so much as twitch.

BD lets out a very quiet victory song. Greez gives him a gentle pet with one hand, while running another through Cal’s hair. “There you go, kid,” he says. “This is what you needed.”

Cal takes a deep, shuddering breath, but doesn’t awaken. In fact, Greez is pretty sure he relaxes further into his pillow-and-blanket cocoon.

Greez pulls back and holds out an arm for BD. “You can check on him later. I’m sure Sister Taske’s got something you can scan.”

BD presses his head to Cal’s before jumping onto Greez’s back. Together, they leave Cal to get all the sleep he needs.

[cyclone-rachel]

@padawanton

~

“Your sister is strong.” They said. “She’ll be okay. She’ll wake up soon.”

Alexa wanted to believe them. She always had- Mom and Dad, Aunt Alex and Aunt Kelly, Grandpa J’onn, Uncle Winn, everyone else… all her family members who tried to tell her everything would be okay.

But everything they said did nothing to make her forget the sight of her sister diving in front of her as Brainiac 4 drove the Kryptonite dagger into Astra’s body. No words could erase the sight of her dad carrying Astra, gently placing her into one of the healing tanks on Uncle Winn’s Legion ship.

“You did well.” She remembered her dad telling her, once she’d told him that she’d cauterized her sister’s wound before solar-flaring in an attempt to take down Brainiac 4.

(She couldn’t think of her as her grandmother. Or at least, she didn’t want to)

She thanked her dad, of course. But what she wanted more than a compliment in that moment was to see her sister open her eyes, hear her laugh, hear anything other than her heart beating as she stood before her, watching her rest and heal.

~

“It’s been two days.” She said, as her mother stood beside her. “Is Astra really going to be okay?”

Her mother squeezed her hand, and her eyes seemed to get a wistful expression as she looked at the tank, and her daughter inside of it, before she smiled at her.

“You can ask her, you know.” She said.

“What?”

Then, Alexa remembered- and once she did, it was completely obvious to her.

“Does Dad still have those devices?” she asked. “The ones that helped him talk to you in your head. I mean, we might not need them anyway, because we are half-Coluan, but…”

“Let me go ask him.”

~

When she opened the door, Astra was wearing her image inducer.

“Let me guess- I’m in a coma.” She said, letting her sister in- her mind looked like the room they shared, so Alexa felt right at home as she sat down on her bed.

“How could you tell?”

“We’ve heard Mom and Dad tell this story like a million times- Mom got hurt fighting Reign, they thought she wasn’t gonna make it, Mom’s ex decided to bring her to the Legion ship and heal her with future tech, they woke Dad up to talk with her, he loved her from the moment they met, Mom woke up because Aunt Alex said Kara Danvers was her favorite person just in time to help Dad’s friends fight Reign.” Astra answered, rattling it all off as she sat down opposite Alexa. “But… I don’t have the same problem Mom did. Neither of us really have secret identities or any issues with them, so… why can’t I leave?”

“I couldn’t tell you that.” Alexa said. “I guess we just have to talk about what happened, and the solution will present itself.”

“You sound like Aunt Kelly.” Astra answered. “But… okay.”

[mangofresca]

limerence

Filthy, sweaty, smeared with grease and motor oil, skin tinted dark beneath work-worn clothes, all calloused, skilled hands and soft, damp curls—he’s a gorgeous piece of shit with tight jeans and fitted Ts and arms Lovino would sink his teeth into. He wipes the sweat from his face with his wrist, stains his cheeks and forehead black. Lovino’s fingers twitch with the urge to touch.

Stop it.

Sharp grin, crooked, bright. Eyes that shine under mid-afternoon light and the sick yellow of dirtied fluorescence.

“You’re here.” Happy, he sounds so fucking happy, smile too wide and a nose that crinkles when he laughs, covered ridiculously in black freckles of oil; stupid, he’s so stupid.

Pull yourself together.

“Yeah. That okay?”

“Of course. I’m always happy to see you.”

Stupid, stupid, so fucking stupid.

A scoff, cheeks flushing pink and humiliatingly hot. Lovino blames it on the heat of sweltering midday sunlight, knows it’s a lie before the words even take form in his throat.

“Is there something you wanted?”

For you to take your shirt off.

His lips turn sweet, slow and nectar-thick, smile melting to something curious and imploring, like seeing Lovino is a fucking blessing, which is so idiotic Lovino refuses to entertain the thought.

You’re pathetic.

“No. Didn’t know I needed a reason to visit.”

He chuckles, rich and low and liquid fire in Lovino’s veins. “Don’t be like that. You know you’re always welcome.” Peridot darkens to jade beneath half-lidded eyes that flick across Lovino’s face, that trace the line of his legs and the cross of his arms. “Would you like to watch me work?”

You can work on me, instead.

“Watch you work or watch you work?”

Laughter, airy and charming, amusement that turns gem-green to grassy summer fields. Knife-sharp and cutting, his grin is lazy and heady, fabric of his sleeves tight and taut around sweat-coated biceps. Black-tipped fingers push thick curls from dark eyelashes, and Lovino knows he is so fucked.

“Whatever you want, sol.”

You’re the sun, not me.

“Hm.”

Arched back and lean muscle, smooth enough that Lovino can imagine the warmth of it beneath his hands, hotter than the burn of his cheeks, skin turned ruddy with infatuation and limerence. But they sit in the song of whistling bird calls, companionable, comfortable, carried by the melody of clinking metal and the shifting of gears.

Antonio hums when he works. Lovino listens.