#minific tags

[arcanarubinaito]

Short Story Taglist

I’ve been meaning to compile a list of content tags I will commonly use, and their meanings. This both gives me a handy reference to use when I’m finalizing everything to post—because honestly I blank out on how to tag it once I get to that point, lol—and I figure I’d post it as both a reference for my own readers and a potential resource for other minific authors here on Tumblr.

This list will be updated as needed; and if you have any tag you think should be added, please comment your suggestions!

I will not be adding tags for certain taboo subjects, as that content will never be on my blog and I’m sure those who write it already know how to properly tag it.

I will not be adding ship tags because frankly there are too many to add.

Please note that this list contains Content Warning tags.

Spoiler Warnings

Asra’s Route

Nadia’s Route

Julian’s Route

Muriel’s Route

Portia’s Route

Lucio’s Route

Tales (Insert Specific Tale Here)

Upright Ending

Neutral Ending

Content Warning Tags

Graphic Depictions of Violence

Gore

Suicidal Tendencies

Self-Harm

Torture

Sexually Explicit Content

Substance Abuse

Depictions of Alcohol

Mild/Mentioned Alcohol Use

Depictions of Drug Use

Mild/Mentioned Drug Use

General Content Tags

Platonic Relationship(s)

Romantic Relationship(s)

Comfort

Hurt/Comfort

Anxiety/Comfort

Hurt/No Comfort

Angst

Whump

Cuddles

Fluff

Major Character Death

Minor Character Death

Slow Burn

Series

Miscellaneous Tags

SFW (<18)

NSFW (18+)

[x] Words

Ask Box

Request

Commission

Gift

Character Tags

Reader/OC Tags

GN Reader

AFAB Reader

AMAB Reader

Nonbinary Reader

Female Reader

Male Reader

Transfem Reader

Transmasc Reader

Self Insert

Apprentice OC

Original Character(s)

Main Six

Asra Alnazar

Nadia Satrinava

Julian/Ilya Devorak

Muriel of the Kokhuri

Portia/Pasha Devorak

Lucio/Montag Morgasson

Familiars/Animals

Faust

Chandra

Malak

Inanna

Pepi

Mercedes & Melchior

Camio

Chimes & Flamel

Jaeger

Courtiers

Consul Valerius

Praetor Vlastomil

Procurator Volta

Pontifex Vulgora

Quaestor Valdemar

Side Characters

Aisha Alnazar

Salim Alnazar

Tasya/Anastasia Devorak

Lishka Devorak

Mazelinka

Halinka (A Warm Welcome)

Khamgalai of the Kokhuri

Morga Eirsdottir

The Satrinavas

Nasrin Satrinava

Namar Satrinava

Nafizah Satrinava

Nazali Satrinava

Navra Satrinava

Nahara Satrinava

Nasmira Satrinava

Natiqa Satrinava

Gavin (The Bazar Job)

Minor Characters

Chamberlain (One of the Palace servants. Unclear if ‘Chamberlain’ is his name or his title.)

Ludovico (Palace Guard)

Bludmila (Palace Guard)

Selasi (The Baker)

Saguaro (An acquaintance of Asra’s, from Nopal)

Tilde the Leech Monger (A leech merchant near Mazelinka’s house.)

Barth/Bartholomew (Bartender of The Rowdy Raven)

Aedile Velos (Once slept in the Palace’s haunted guest room.)

Major Arcana

The Fool (0)

The Magician (I)

The High Priestess (II)

The Empress (III)

The Emperor (IV)

The Hierophant (V)

The Lovers (VI)

The Chariot (VII)

Strength (VIII)

The Hermit (IX)

Wheel of Fortune (X)

Justice (XI)

The Hanged Man (XII)

Death (XIII)

Temperance (XIV)

The Devil (XV)

The Tower (XVI)

The Star (XVII)

The Moon (XVIII)

The Sun (XIX)

Judgment (XX)

The World (XXI)

[betweenlands]

It takes exactly two seconds between Impulse looking up at the top of the Secret Keeper and him realizing what he's actually seeing up there to decide he is officially sick and tired of seeing ghosts.

There are seven entire ghosts around the thing today -- a couple appear to be tinkering with the secret delivery mechanisms. Impulse squints at them.

"What are you doing?" he says.

"Trying to figure out how to load more tasks into this thing," one of them replies, kicking one of the blocks with buttons on them. He's got a full beard and some weird green glowing mushrooms poking out of cracks in his face. It's definitely... a look, Impulse will give him that. Very Mycelium Resistance. "But whoever designed it used freakin' command blocks, and you can't even see the randomizer run."

"How many times did your randomizer break again?" one of the other ghosts calls from up on top of the Secret Keeper.

"Never!" the mushroom ghost protests, causing at least two other ghosts to crack up laughing. "It worked completely flawlessly except for user error."

One of the ghosts, someone who appears to have a floating cactus block for a head, snorts. "And programmer error."

"You shut it," the mushroom ghost responds.

"He's not wrong," the more normal-looking brown-haired ghost over by the command blocks says absently, purple eyes clearly focused on trying to trace the wiring back to the actual command blocks.

Impulse just stands there, bewildered -- both because the ghosts are actually talking to him, and also because these are extremely weird ghosts to be talking to who look nothing like anyone he's even vaguely heard of.

"Fine," he says, "you know what, I'll bite. Why are you guys here?"

"Checking in," a ghost sitting on one of the lower rocks says. He's wearing blue and yellow, looks to be a little more transparent than the others. "Y'know, new season and all that?"

Impulse squints at him. "No, I meant, why are you following me?"

"Ohhhh!" The ghost laughs. "Hadn't looked into what you were doing yet, and these guys wanted to see if they could get some of their tasks into the machine, so I just brought everyone along."

"That's not really a good answer," a ghost leaning inside the alcove under the Secret Keeper says. He's got a mask pulled up over his face, though his voice doesn't really sound muffled at all.

"What," the blue and yellow ghost says, "am I supposed to say something like it's because you're one of the people with no hard-and-fast thematic associations to stick to and therefore easier to facilitate a meeting with and freak him out more?"

Impulse squints harder. "Are you guys Watchers?"

The blue-and-yellow ghost snorts. "Hah! That's Martyn's lore, bud, not yours. Nope, nothing to do with the Watchers."

"Aren't you technically--" the ghost in the alcove starts.

"Tsssssshhhhhh," the other ghost replies by way of shushing him aggressively, "spoilers!"

"Alright," the alcove ghost says, spreading his hands in mock defeat, "fine, have it your way. He's right though. Not Watchers."

"Lowercase-w maybe," the brown-haired ghost still inspecting the redstone with the mushroom ghost says, "but otherwise, no."

Impulse is starting to feel like he's wandered into something way above his pay grade.

The alcove ghost snaps his fingers. Impulse notes somewhat absent-mindedly that he has, like, a lot of piercings on one ear. "Hey," he says, "come to think of it, we might be able to help you out with some stuff."

"I swear to God," another ghost says from on top of the Secret Keeper, "if you try to sell another person on your weird coffee god thing again-"

"I wasn't going to!" he responds. "Honest! I was just gonna say, it looks like there's a plains biome here, that means oxeye daisies, that means suspicious stew with regen if you can get a good source of mushrooms."

"Unfortunately," the mushroom ghost says, looking up from where he and the other ghost appear to now be trying to cram books into the ground, "the space for the hearts seems like it just kinda vanishes when people get hit. At least, if I'm not misunderstanding the programming."

"If you're misunderstanding the programming then we're both reading this code wrong," the brown-haired ghost says. "And I'm pretty sure I used something similar here for Dark Path stuff, so probably not?"

"Dang," the alcove ghost says, then tilts his head back towards Impulse. "Maybe make splash poison potions, then? That'll take out a good chunk of someone's health if they can't regen."

"He is green," the cactus-headed ghost says. "Why's he gotta make poison potions right now?"

A shrug in response. "Never hurts to prep early."

The blue-and-yellow ghost leans forward, squinting at him. "Alright," he says, "one of my wisps give you that idea or what?"

Another shrug. "I mean, what if they did?"

"Last time you started listening to his wisps," the brown-haired ghost says, "they told you to try and kill everyone just because I beefed it before the dragon fight."

"It would've worked if you hadn't warned them," the ghost in the alcove replies. "I can't believe you tried to sabotage my attempt at avenging you."

"I can't believe you listened to them in the first place," the blue-and-yellow ghost says. "They're bloodthirsty, they don't really give good advice."

"And I," Impulse says, having inched his way over towards the new task button, "am going to take my task and leave, because you guys are weird."

He hits the button and flips through the taskbook.

"End every sentence said to another player in a question?" he says, squinting down at it.

"You're already doing better than some of us were!" one of the ghosts on top of the Secret Keeper yells down.

"Oh my god, shut up!" the mushroom ghost yells back, and then turns to Impulse. "Hey, by the way, have you considered getting a pet parrot?"

"That's still a bad loophole and you know it," the blue-and-yellow ghost cuts in.

"I heard him just fine," the brown-haired ghost says. "Hey, hang on -- that's one of ours! It worked!"

Impulse decides he's not even going to bother trying to be polite about leaving. He has had entirely enough of these ghosts in particular.

[nat-20s]

The Tardis had always had a wanderer’s soul, and she knew her Time Lord shared in that indulgence. That was why she had chosen them, after all, the perfect companion to get her out of that dusty old museum and into the stars.

Yet she knew she had been put through the ringer lately, another commonality she had with The Doctor. Being blown up, sent to the edges of the universe and beyond, erased from existence, gutted and reformed, and constantly going. It had been thrilling, of course, and it’s not that the stars had lost their shine, but. Well. To say that they were tired was a bit of an understatement.

Once she figured out that stillness wasn’t a death sentence, she just had to get The Doctor to accept that. Her normal tactics of forcing them to listen to her would hardly work; throwing herself into the time vortex for thirteen years straight or only moving a millimeter a second would only send them pushing buttons and pulling wires and scurrying about like a hamster that’s gotten loose in the walls. Luckily for her, sending The Doctor where they need to be was one of her greatest talents. Seeing the face he had put on, she was pretty sure she knew exactly what to do, and if she just happened to get to visit her favorite human? Win win, in her books.

She’s still a little schocked that it worked. (Or at least, at worked after forcing The Doctor and Donna to go on an adventure of their own. She doesn’t even mind coffee all that much.) She’s also a little shocked that she’s been duplicated instantaneously, but never mind that. It was comforting, to know there was a version of her and her Doctor that could keep running so they didn’t have to.

Nevertheless, it did work. She has a home now. She is a home now. Vines grow on her in the garden and she always back quick enough to make sure they don’t fall. Soft toys have ended up on her console, fairy lights have gotten wrapped around her railings, and a big soft leather chair just for Grandad sits in the main room. She had a proper washroom now, and blankets on demand for when Wilf or Donna or Rose would come in for a chat and end up falling asleep. Her Doctor spent less time with her, running about doing things like shopping and bird watching or some other nonsense, but she never felt the ache of loneliness. With a whole cast of family consistently rotating through her doors, how could she?

It was odd. She didn’t necessarily experience emotions in the same way that humans (or time lords) did. Found the words for them inadequate for how she perceived her life, but if she had to pick one of those small, little, inaccurate words, she thinks she would say that she’s happy. As the warmth of the sun beams down on her and the buzz of bees fills the air around her, she feels the whole of her settle into the world around her. No, stillness isn’t a death sentence at all. Stillness, for now, is a rebirth.

[roosterbox]

Hey, want another of my so-called thinky thoughts? This one was inspired by something on the discord. This one also goes under a cut because my hand slipped and I accidentally wrote too much, lol. But anyway.

Alternate universe. Steve and Eddie have been dating for a while, and it's not a secret. All their friends and family know and are supportive. Nancy works as a server in a fancy restaurant. An uneventful job, until she sees Eddie there, seemingly on a very romantic date with... a mystery woman?

What? She's not their server, and hasn't seen the woman's face yet (which will be important later, of course), but WHAT???

She's confused at first, but that confusion quickly gives way to anger. Anger mostly on Steve's behalf. Because she may have broken up with Steve when they were young, but he's still her friend, damnit, and he doesn't deserve this. And the longer the anger stews, the more furious Nancy becomes.

Finally, after one sappy unbroken romantic gaze and delicate hand kiss too many, Nancy storms over. Risking her job to defend the honor of her friend.

"What the actual hell, Munson?!"

Eddie startles, but doesn't let go of his date's hand.

"Oh hey Wheeler! Didn't know you were working tonight." The asshole doesn't seem nervous or worried about being caught. He even smiles at her. The prick.

"Don't you 'hey Wheeler' me, you cheating jerk!"

That finally gets Eddie's attention. His face turns serious, though a bit confused. "What? I'd never cheat on Stevie! Why would you even think that?"

There's a faint chuckling from the other side of the table. Nancy ignores her for now, focusing on Eddie.

"I oughtta punch you in the balls for that, Munson. For lying right to my face. And for what you're doing to Steve."

Eddie's confusion seems to evaporate as he realizes something. "Ah, well. You see Wheeler, the thing is-"

The quiet laughter of Eddie's date becomes too hard to ignore. Nancy spins on her heel, ready to confront this giggling floozy.

"Listen here, you little slut-"

She immediately stops short.

Eddie's date. It's... Steve. But also... not Steve?

"Ah," Eddie says again, a bit sheepish. He's still holding Steve's (?) hand. "You haven't been to one of our group get-togethers in a while.” He clears his throat before continuing. ��Nancy, I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Stevie."

With her flowing chestnut locks, subtle makeup, and sparkling red dress, Stevie Harrington is absolutely stunning. And she looks more at ease and comfortable in her own skin than ‘Steve’ Harrington ever did. Nancy is entirely taken aback. Stevie's still smiling, but her smile falters a bit at Nancy's silence.

"Nance? You, uh, you okay?" She asks.

Eddie recognizes the fearful undertones of Stevie's question, and gently squeezes her hand. Letting her know that, whatever Nancy's eventual reaction is, he's here for her, always.

Nancy finally blinks, brain having restarted from one of the biggest surprises of her life. "Wuh?"

Oh yeah, real intelligent there, Nancy.

"Buh?"

Oh come on, this is just embarrassing.

She gathers her thoughts, wrestling with them as one might while trying to fold a fitted sheet, keenly aware of the look on Stevie's face. Her friend was growing more and more nervous, and seemed to be bracing herself for something. After a moment, Nancy realizes why this is, and pulls herself together.

"I really haven't been around enough, have I?" She lets her lips curve into a small smile. Stevie relaxes a bit, but still seems guarded.

Nancy's expression softens completely. "It's nice to meet you, Stevie. The real you."

Stevie's smile is so big it must hurt her cheeks, and she looks as if she might cry. "You too, Nancy."

Nancy's expression shifts, turning to shock and embarrassment. "Oh God, I called you a- Jesus, Stevie, I'm so- You're not-" She babbles, face turning red. "Oh god," she says again, hiding her face in her hands. The soft laughter of her friends is simultaneously nice and yet mortifying. Truly this is one of the most embarrassing days of her life.

Gentle hands encircle her wrists. They don't pull, or force her face out into the open. Instead, they just hold, rubbing against her skin. The soothing motion coaxes her into lowering them, and opening her eyes. Stevie's eyes are still watery, but kind. So kind. She's holding Nancy's hands in both of hers.

"It's okay, Nance. Really. You didn't know."

"Still-"

"'Still' nothing. You didn't know. You've been busy. It's not like I couldn't have called you myself, right? That street goes both ways. Besides," She smirks, "the fact that you were so willing and ready to go to bat for me speaks volumes."

"I was two seconds away from punching your boyfriend right in the dick," Nancy reminds her.

"Balls, actually," Eddie mutters, remembering all too well. He shifts his legs under the table. Stevie throws back her head in laughter, drawing a few looks from other patrons. The few that weren't watching the dramatic encounter already, at least. The three friends pay the onlookers no mind.

"I should get back to-"

"Oh!" She lets go. Nancy misses the warmth immediately. "Oh, I'm sorry. We'll let you get back to w-"

Nancy bends and hugs Stevie, who's still sitting at her table. The positioning is awkward, but even so the other woman doesn't hesitate to return the embrace. "We'll talk later, okay?"

Stevie sniffs, holding back her tears valiantly. "Okay."

"And I am NOT missing another family party ever again. Who knows what might happen next time? For all I know, Mike and Will will have hooked up by then."

Her friend giggles in her arms, and she misses the knowing look that passes between Stevie and her boyfriend. Eddie hides his smile with a lock of hair.

She pulls back. Stevie smiles at her, makeup holding strong despite the lone tear that manages to escape. Nancy reaches over and wipes it away. "You look beautiful tonight, Stevie."

She blushes. "Thank you."

"But I really do have to get back. I'll see you two soon. Have fun on your date!" With one final wave, and a smile, she heads back into the kitchen. Every so often, she glances back, seeing them exchange flirty looks, gentle touches, and once, a kiss across the table. It's lovely, and everything she knows Stevie deserves.

On one of these glances, Stevie actually looks her way. She smiles. Nancy smiles back. And wonders, for the dozenth time that evening, what other big developments she might have missed happening in her little group of friends.

[bone-evidence]

Here's the second of my PruCan Minifics, based off sentences (or prompts) given to me by you lovely folks! This one was from @disneyprincessdxminatrix, and it was: "No one's ever going to hurt you again. Not as long as I'm around." I took that and ran to perhaps unexpected places lmao! Enjoy!

Quiet murmurs of anticipation all stopped the second the large wooden doors opened. The High Priest, dressed in fine white robes and the visage of a horrific horned Demon, led the sacrifice like a dog on a leash to the circular stone altar. 

Matthew was almost relieved. Almost. 

Though they'd bound his wrists in front of him with rough rope, they hadn't bothered to cover his eyes at all. No, they dragged him out of the animal pen in which they'd kept him for the last two months and paraded him around like a prized beast ripe for the slaughter. He supposed that a blindfold wasn't necessary. The dozens of people around him, all dressed in black robes, wore the same mask their leader did. There was no mercy to be found among the sea of cold eyes on him. 

The room was lit only by candles placed in the alcoves that lined the stone walls. These seemed to be shrines in the Demon's honour. Each one held a candle and a sculpture of the fiend carved out of deep red wood, decorated with the leaves of poisonous plants and various bones. Matthew tried very hard to push the question of where they'd gotten those bones out of his mind. If this was where he would die, he'd rather not think about those he was about to join.

The circular stone altar at the end of the room was his final destination. If he had any strength, he might have tried to wriggle out of the ropes and run. His captors were, unfortunately, smarter than to let that happen. He was only ever given enough food and water to keep him alive. At first, when they came into his pen bearing a knife, it took four of them to hold him down long enough to pierce his flesh and carve in the beginning of their profane symbols. It only took one to hold him down and finish the unholy scripture three days ago. 

Tears he didn't know he had left slipped down his cheek as he was finally forced to kneel on the stone altar. The carvings that were forever scarred in his flesh, up his freckled arms and down his back, were mirrored on the obsidian rim that surrounded him now. There was no need to tie him down to anything. Once he was on the ground, he knew there was no strength in him to get back up. All he could do was sob as the High Priest's hands raised to the sky, silencing the ghoulish crowd before them.  

The profane sermon had begun. 

Much to Matthew's horror, each praise that fell out of the Priest's mouth ignited a symbol on the altar. Each word in an infernal language he didn't understand , each dark promise, each retelling of horrible deeds inflicted upon humanity, all of these in turn ignited more of the circle around Matthew until it was almost completely lit. The sacrifice trembled and wailed for someone, anyone to save him, though he knew it was hopeless. 

If the Gods wanted to rescue him, they would have done it alrea- 

Ker-rack!

Halfway through what was surely the last words Matthew would ever hear, something dark and horrible crashed through the roof and landed in a heap on the stone floor.

The cultists around it backed away, whispering amongst themselves as they did so. This… thing, whatever it was, wasn't what they were expecting. The Demon was taller, right? Had horns? Wasn't it supposed to burst out of the sacrifice's body and be reborn in blood, not punch a hole into their sacred meeting place?

An unnatural wind, cold as the moonlight now cascading through the broken roof, whipped furiously around the thing as it stood. From thin air it conjured a sword made of no metal Matthew had ever seen. After all, what metal shimmered gold under lunar glow?

 At the thing's unspoken command, the wind rushed towards the alcoves on the walls. It stole the fire from each candle and knocked every small shrine down, sending bones and wood clattering to the ground. It carried the small flames, one by one, to the thing's outstretched blade until one couldn't see the metal through flame. 

It leveled the blade at the cultists, and Matthew wasn't sure whether he should be terrified or grateful. 

The men and women around it surely thought, since they were several dozen and it was only one, that they could take it. That mistake proved fatal. 

The being was obviously some kind of divine. No other force could cut through those bearing a Demon's protective amulets as though they were butter. Nothing else could splash stone walls with red and ignite the robes of the very recently deceased in one blow. Nothing else's wrath could be so swift and terrible! Matthew wasn't sure whether his screams joined the many cut off by horrific gurgling. All he knew was that once every last cultist was dead, after every soul in the room had been severed save for his own, it was alarmingly quiet. 

The thing stepped into the pool of moonlight made by it's entrance and paused to catch it's breath. Finally, Matthew got a good look at it. 

At him, rather. His feathered wings were cloth ripped from the fabric of night itself. His eyes, still wild from battle, were swirling red nebulas set into the bloodsplattered face of the moon. His steps were even and measured as he walked towards the sacrifice, blade held at his side. 

Matthew flinched and squeezed his eyes shut on instinct. The angel before him was fallen, after all; beholden to no God and no code, if he decided Matthew's life was forfeit too, his blade would find no resistance from demon-marked flesh.

Matthew expected the next (and last) thing he felt to be the bite of that sword. For his abused body to burn, for the fallen one to complete his task and leave no one alive to tell the tale of what happened here. What he didn't expect was a gentle hand under his chin, lifting it slightly and bidding him to open his eyes. 

He did so slowly, expecting to be greeted with the same battle craze and bloodlust. Instead, the clouds of the divine's eyes had cleared, leaving only dolorous pools of crimson to stare back at him. 

"What is your name?" The angel asked. Though it was clear he was trying to be gentle, there was still a commanding edge to his voice.  

"M-Matthew. Matthew, my name is Matthew, Mr. Angel. A-are you going to, um… I-I mean, am I going… to…?"

A breath resembling a chuckle left the divine's lips at the implication. His deft fingers began to work the knots that bound Matthew's wrists together loose, until the bloodstained rope finally fell to the cold stone altar. "You will not die tonight, Matthew. Can you stand?"

Truth be told, Matthew couldn't even find it in himself to try. His strength was gone. Starvation, dehydration, and countless tortures would have been enough of a reason, but something in his very soul had been drained and fed to the ritual. Perhaps something small in him had died along with everyone else in the room after all. All he could do was shake his head. 

This was, apparently, not going to be a problem for the angel. He scooped Matthew up easily, as if he were merely a child and not a man of twenty-three. A soft half-smile illuminated the fallen one's face as he walked towards the moonlight. 

"I can promise you this, Matthew." He began, as he stretched out his mighty wings. One flap, two flaps, and the room that was supposed to spell death was nothing more than a memory. 

"No one's ever going to hurt you again. Not as long as I'm around."

[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.

[verfound]

FIC: "Your Face Could..." (MLB; Lukanette)

Characters/Pairings: Luka Couffaine, Marinette Dupain-Cheng; Luka Couffaine/Marinette Dupain-Cheng

Rating: Teen

Summary: Luka had a stupid face.  And if he’s going to be such a jerk about things, Marinette thinks he deserves to know it.

Author’s Notes/Warnings: …um.  Can I blame this on the heatwave and the mush my brain is?  😂  @quickspinner shared an Insta, and then I did this in maybe ten minutes.  You…a minific shitpost?  Take it for what it is.  😂

(Read on Ao3)

“Your Face Could…”

“You…you…!!!”

Luka lifted an eyebrow, calm as ever, and wasn’t that just the icing on the proverbial fucking cake?  She was already mad enough, but her husband’s maddening unflappability was always enough to make it worse.

…usually.  Sometimes it was helpful.  Like when the fate of the city (or world) was at stake.  She was actually pretty grateful for it then.  But times like now?  When she was already pissed off and he was trying to be sweet and considerate and get her to calm the fuck down?

God, he pissed her the hell off.

And he fucking knew it!

There was that familiar glint in his eyes, that knowing little smirk playing at the corners of his mouth that let her know he knew he was wearing her down.  She’d start to see reason any minute, and she’d stop being pissed at him and opt instead for snuggles, and he would win, just like he always did.  But she didn’t want him to win today!  She wanted to be mad, and frustrated, and to cry and call him a stupid head and maybe kick his ass a little!

She had earned that, right?

Right?

“Don’t you dare,” she huffed, her fists clenching at her sides.  His eyebrow just rose higher.  It was the only part of him that moved: he was still leaning back against the counter, his arms folded across his chest and looking as unflappable as ever.  “I am mad at you, Couffaine.”

“I know,” he said, nodding.  “Unreasonably, but I know.”

“It is not unreasonable!” she shrieked.  The eyebrow ticked again.  She stomped her foot.  “This is your fault!”  He dipped his head towards her, and she wasn’t sure if he had somehow managed to get his eyebrow even higher or if it was just the new angle of his head.  She grit her teeth, her nails pressing into her palms.  “You wipe that smirk off your stupid face right now.”

“Hey,” he said, and the asshole had the audacity to chuckle, “you love this stupid face.”

…she did, but he didn’t need to know that.  Not right now, at least.  A little white lie never hurt anyone for the sake of winning an argument, right?

“I do not!” she whined, stomping her foot again.  He chuckled again, and oh she just wanted to slap him!  “That face is…that stupid face…”

And it just wasn’t fair, because he had her so mad she couldn’t even think straight.

That was the only reason, really.

It had to be.

Her brain was in a rage spiral, and the only insults it could come up with were just as stupid as his stupid face, which…

“…your stupid face could scare slugs off cabbages!” she shouted, her eyes screwing shut as she stomped her foot again.

There was a pause.

A moment of calm, if you will, as her words settled like lead balloons around them.

And then, finally: “…what?”

She opened her eyes, her teeth grinding so hard her jaw almost hurt.  For once, Luka actually looked slightly flapped.

“You heard me!” she huffed.  He nodded, and the smirk was a lot less of a smirk now and more of a grin.  Somehow, that just pissed her off even more.

“…I did,” he said, nodding, “but I really don’t think you should be trying to insult me with dumb Instas I sent you two hours ago.”

Her eyes popped wide.  Her mouth dropped open.  The pickle jar that had started the whole thing fell to the floor and – miraculously – did not break.

“Come on, darning,” he added, dipping his head again as the smirk came back.  “You’re much more creative than that.  You can do better.”

…and that was when the tears started.

“Not when I’m angry and hormonal and stupid, you…you…oh, you asshole!” she cried, dropping her face in her hands to (attempt to) hide the fact that she was crying.  Like that could fool him, though.  She heard him sigh, and she peeked out over her fingertips to find his arms were open.

“Come here,” he sighed, and in the next moment she was cuddled against his chest, her tears soaking his shirt as he wrapped his arms tight around her.  “There, there.  It’s all right, darning.”

“It is not,” she whined.  He kissed her temple and rubbed her back.

“It is,” he said.  He sighed and rested his cheek against her head.  “I will be so glad when our little one’s here and these mood swings stop.”

“…shut up,” she whined.  “I told you it’s your fault.”

“Yes, dear,” he said automatically, dutifully.  She sniffed and peeked up at him, her fingers toying with the collar of his shirt.

“…can you just open the stupid jar now?” she asked, her voice as miserable as ever.  He tipped her chin up and kissed her, and that made her feel maybe a little better.

“Yes, dear.”

And she supposed she didn’t hate him all that much after all.

…even if his stupid face could scare slugs off cabbages.

[zarvasace]

SKY!!! Anything with sky please and thank you <3

Of freaking course :) some more sci-fi au because I can't get it out of my headddddd. Only about 500 words

References the fic Powerlessness and Trust

---

Sky pushes the little globe diagram to the side, where it continues to spin and give off blue light, and pulls up an empty table. He uses a physical keyboard to fill it out with data he's long since memorized. “Anything new on your end?” 

The colorful but staticky video of Zelda’s head and shoulders on the wall in front of him shrugs. “Not much, no. I mean, our control station is finally set up for deep-space communications.” She gestures, clearly indicating this call. The video cuts out for a moment but returns as she hits something with a gloved hand. “Mostly.”

“I mean, I won't complain about seeing your beautiful face more often,” Sky teases. He brings up another planet’s diagram and positions it next to the first, using a feature to snap them into place. Some numbers fill out automatically. “I do have something more serious to tell you, though.” 

“Oh?” Zelda pauses, the end of a normal pen between her lips. She pushes a piece of whitened hair behind her ear. 

Sky glances at his bedroom door, but it's shut and sealed. He has the lights in here turned up quite far with full-spectrum bulbs to simulate the sun. Twilight doesn't do well in the light, so it's a bit dim everywhere else on the ship, but Sky still needs time in the light. He's pretty sure that nobody can hear him through the door. 

Still, he lowers his voice. “You remember the Champions.” It isn't a question, but she still nods. “The Hylian Champion is still alive. And so is the princess.”

Zelda drops the pen and covers her mouth. The video call doesn't transmit enough details to be sure, but Sky can imagine tears in her pale eyes. “She is? They are? Are you certain?” 

Sky thinks back to that rather awful night trapped in a Black-Blooded dome, the holovideo he'd seen there, and the undeniable resemblance between the Champion and Wild, as well as the conversations they've had since. “I am.”

“Well, where are they?” Zelda asks. “Taking it easy, I hope? We have years of lunches to catch up on.” 

“They experienced some, uh, temporal displacement too,” Sky says. He copies some of the data from one table into another and runs a little simulation. A tiny hologram of the Epona flies between the two planets and crashes on the second. He frowns. That isn't right. “He's still my age. And I can only imagine that she's still yours, too. I'll try to find you a way to contact her, but from my understanding, she's deep into hiding.”

Zelda nods, serious. “I understand. I probably would be, too. Please let me know if there's a way to say hello, I… miss her.”

“I thought maybe you might.” The second simulation Sky runs ends in the little hologram of the ship landing safely. He nods, and a blinking light in the corner of the video catches his attention. “I'll ask. It looks like I need to go, though.”

“All right.” Zelda smiles and lays her hand on the screen. “Stay safe, love.”

“I will. You too.” Sky touches the image of her hand, and although they're separated by lightyears, he can almost feel her skin. “See you later.”

“Bye!” 

[some-pers0n]

Every once in a while I think about the ship I've been obsessed over for close to two years now and feel like I'm ascending to another plane of reality. Like sometimes you just encounter a ship that hits every single mark and is perfect in every regard and you're left stunned how something like that can even exist

[azoosepted]

i must draw bl don x kurokumo ishmael yuri i must draw bl don x kurokumo ishmael yuri i must draw bl don x kurokumo ishmael yuri i must [dies]

[wishing-stones]

ahdifejbd you know I always get so stressed sending requests for meme things cause I’m always 10000000000% convinced that I’m going to be the 38th jerk to ask the exact same thing SO I am sending two letters that I think would be interesting ONLY because I am giving you the option to Choose One - NOT because I am asking you to write both!

I think Dream with B or C could be interesting in different ways!

B. Under cover of darkness. (Sunshine Boi Bein’ Sneaky sounds fun as heck. What kind of circumstances would require for him to do a sneak in the dark?)

C. A moment’s respite. (What do *you* imagine a moment of rest would look like for the guy who’s chronically Duty Bound to literally the whole multiverse?)

Again - pls pick *one* that suits your fancy OR one that hasn’t been picked already if someone else beat me to the punch lol. Happy Turkey Weekend, Friend! And pls take your time over the holiday weekend! Don’t overwork yourself!!!

Hahahaha, I think I'll go with C for him since I did B for Baggs already. Space out my same-prompts some.

I'll pick one later for myself once I've answered the bulk of these

C. A moment’s respite.

He's thankful for his little corner of the multiverse. He owed Ink a lot for helping him claim it and bring it to life.

The little cottage, perpetually bathed in the warm light of golden hour, is the perfect little place for him. He has enough spare rooms to house a few people, and his two best friends have their own spaces as well.

He has his gardens, his orchard, and his small stable with a single cow.

It was nice to be able to have such a comfortable home to return to. One that didn't remind him of his past failures, one that didn't reek of sorrow and death and anger. One where he could enjoy the warmth on his bones and the peace of birdsong and crickets.

As much as he liked to keep busy here by gardening or by general upkeep...

Today he was taking time to lay on one of the golden hills in the soft grass, listening to the wind quietly hush over the blades and petals of wildflowers. He was kicked back with his sockets closed, skirting towards the edge of sleep, completely at ease.

He'd been all but bullied into taking a day off-- no duty to the multiverse, no busywork in the garden-- they would take care of that-- and no worrying about anything. He'd started the day off with a long soak in his favorite bubbles and oils, and followed it up with reading beneath the largest apple tree in his orchard. Now, he was contemplating a nap in the sun, reminded of simpler times when such days of leisure were common.

It was only slightly painful to think about them, and to lack his brother to enjoy such a moment with.

... Perhaps Nightmare was similarly enjoying a day off. Stars knew that he had luxury in spades in his dark, imposing fortress. Grand marble baths, gilded chaises, massive hearths and wine aplenty.

Wine did sound appealing. Maybe he'd break a bottle of blush open later, at dinner.

It was the one thing he'd managed to negotiate with his friends-- he would be the one to make dinner for them all. Ink could create very fine foods from thin air, and Blue... was not as bad as he used to be.. but Dream took a special pleasure in cooking things from scratch. It was as relaxing to him as laying here, beneath the sun was.

He didn't know what time it was, nor did he really care. He could afford not to today.

He was fortunate to have such good friends. Perhaps his brother was similarly fortunate-- he could afford to take a day of leisure with his underlings handling whatever serious issues might crop up.

He hoped.

The one thing that would put the cherry on the top of the day would be the knowledge that Nightmare had similarly taken a day for himself. Perhaps Killer could harass him away from his perpetual mountain of paperwork. Maybe Dust could ensure he took time to relax. Cross could remind him of the many luxuries the castle had to offer, and Axe, naturally, handled all the food.

His phone was on silent today, but he retrieved it momentarily to contact Cross, texting him to maybe, gently, get him to take the day off.

[Cross] Don't worry about it, Killer has it handled. I think he's soaking in that huge spa bath he has right now.

With a content sigh, Dream pocketed his phone and curled up on the plush grass, tipping his circlet partially off of his head and drifting off into a well-earned, completely content nap.

[kermit-coded]

black mile to the surface (789 words) by kermit_coded Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: X-Men (Comicverse), Marvel (Comics), New Mutants (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Joshua Guthrie & Lucinda Guthrie & Melody Guthrie & Paige Guthrie & Sam Guthrie, Sam Guthrie & Thomas Guthrie Characters: Sam Guthrie Additional Tags: Character Study, Sam Guthrie Has Eldest Daughter Syndrome, Pre-Canon, Parentification, Older Sibling Sam Guthrie, Poverty, Dysfunctional Family, Lucinda Guthrie's B+ Parenting, Parent Death, Grief/Mourning, Unreliable Narrator, Bittersweet, Siblings, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Sam Guthrie, No Dialogue Summary: He's not their father but he's not enough of a kid to be their brother anymore.

[squarebracketsmileyface]

Sometimes, completely out of the blue, i remember an obscure kink i read in a fic once

[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

[dukeceitbrainrot]

This is so fun, I love your blog.

I want to try asking for numbers, if you don't mind :D

43, 55, 56?

You are amazing 💚💛

Ooh I don't mind in the least!

43 - Who would give their life for the other without a second thought?

Remus for sure. But only because he is far more impulsive of the two, and by his nature Janus is one to have many thoughts before doing something.

55 - Do they like watching clouds or star gazing?

YES! We even see Remus laying back for a spot of stargazing granted on some train tracks in the OTGW video!

Whether it be clouds or constellations, the two would make a game of pointing out formations and either claiming that it looks like something utterly horrific/sexual (Remus) or just completely making up what it is he's seeing (Janus).

56 - What do they do turn the other on/put them in the mood?

>:3

Okay so, because of Remus' nature aka his his usual "always dtf" attitude, Janus could do literally ANYTHING to turn him on, even when he's just doing the mundane thing imaginable Remus would just glance his way and then just rips his whole outfit off in one go and pounces.

Though I do imagine that if Janus is on purpose going to turn Remus on, he would do very small but obvious physical touches. Like tracing his fingertips gently along the slope of Remus' jaw, a light brush of the hand on the small of his back etc. Lingering, tingling touches that leave Remus craving for more.

And when he doesn't feel like beating around the bush, sexy lingerie. Remus immediately explodes upon witnessing Janus in sexy lingerie.

coughcough I totally haven't drawn art of Janus in stockings and garter-belt and Remus as an erect little gremlin nope you can't prove it coughcough

On the flipside, if Remus wants to put Janus in a mood he has to play a fun game called, "Janus looooooves pretending he isn't turned on by something so you've got to chase him around a little". And that's not sarcasm there, I HC that Janus genuinely gets a kick out of lying over his own arousal and Remus ramping up seductions to higher and higher levels to get him to crack.

[clonerightsagenda]

At the start of grad school I got a tablet and brought a bunch of sketchbooks to campus because I wanted to finally get comfortable with drawing (partly so I could help with TLC but mostly because it was a skill I wanted to have) but was promptly struck down with arthritis. If my ambitions had not been thwarted, all the goofy Scenarios I put in my tags would be drawn out in comic form and this blog would take eons to load. This was my design.