#more stuff I need to write into the fic I wanna write

[mintyys-blog]

Would you consider writing more for a Dr Strange! Reader and Mark? The first fic was beautiful and I never recovered I fear 😭👌

LOVE POTION | mark grayson x dr. strange! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST

You were trying to keep your cool—really, you were—but it was hard when Invincible kept floating behind you with that ridiculous dreamy smile on his face.

“Y/N,” Mark purred again, dangerously close to your shoulder, “your eyes are like twin galaxies. No—like nebulae. With lightning. And stars. But sexy.”

You glared at the ancient, still-simmering cauldron at the center of the demon warlock’s hideout. “He touched the potion, didn’t he?”

“I punched the guy who made it,” Mark said proudly. “Which, by the way, you looked amazing doing magic back there. You always do. Your cloak’s got this whole ‘regal menace’ thing, and I think I’m in love with it—”

“You’re not in love with my cloak, Mark.”

“I’m in love with you.”

You turned, eyes glowing with arcane sigils, mouth flattening into a line. “No. You’re under the influence of a Class-C Eros Binding Potion. That stuff makes you imprint on the first person you see. It’s not real.”

“Feels real,” he said, moving even closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “And I think the antidote could wait, don’t you? We’ve got twenty-four hours. That’s, like, four dates, minimum.”

You nearly choked on your incantation. “Mark!”

“What?” he asked innocently, floating upside down now, hovering like some overly affectionate puppy. “You don’t wanna go on a date with me? Just one kiss?”

You gave him a look. “I once held the Eye of Agamotto in a collapsing dimension and still felt less pressure than this moment.”

“But I like you.”

“You like everyone right now. The spell made sure of it.”

“I don’t wanna kiss anyone else,” Mark said, surprisingly sincere. His eyes were wide, his voice soft. “Just you.”

Your resolve cracked just slightly as you sighed, gathering the glowing vials needed for the antidote. “Okay. When this wears off, and you’re not in love with me anymore, you’re buying lunch.”

Mark beamed. “Deal. But… can I at least hold your hand until then?”

You grumbled under your breath. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

The safehouse was quiet, lit only by the flicker of your spell circle, the lines glowing across the floor in soft gold and crimson. Mark sat on the couch, watching you intently. Not just watching—devouring you with his eyes like you were the center of every multiverse he’d ever flown through.

“Y/N,” he murmured, voice low and warm like honey over fire, “you’re glowing again. I love when you do that.”

You tried to ignore him, focusing on stabilizing the counterspell. “That’s literally the enchantment circle reacting to demonic residue, Mark.”

“Still hot,” he said, getting up and walking slowly over to you. Too slowly.

You turned, only to find him inches away again, his hands shoved in the pockets of his ruined suit. His goggles were off now, his eyes locked on yours with maddening intensity. You could feel the pull of the potion—like invisible threads tugging him to you. But something else was bleeding through now too. Not just magic.

Want.

“I could be imagining this,” he said, voice dropping, “but I swear you’re leaning into it too.”

“I’m not,” you said immediately.

He smirked. “You totally are.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to your spell. “This is the potion talking, Grayson.”

His fingers brushed your waist. “Maybe. But I’m still thinking about how your hands felt on my chest when you healed me earlier. All warm and glowing… You touched right here.”

You sucked in a breath as he took your hand and placed it over his heart.

“Mark—”

“You’re not stopping me,” he whispered, moving even closer. “You’ve got all that power, all that control… You could’ve kicked me through a portal ten times by now.”

“Don’t tempt me,” you muttered.

He chuckled. “One kiss, Y/N. Just one. You can say it was to distract me. Or study the potion’s effects. Or shut me up. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

His hand gently cupped your jaw, and for a moment, you actually considered it. The way he was looking at you—like you were more than just the smartest sorceress he’d ever met. Like he wanted you, knew you, felt you.

Your lips were a breath apart.

Then you closed the distance.

It was supposed to be quick. Just enough to shut him up, right? But it turned molten the second your mouth met his—his hands tightening on your waist, your fingers fisting in the collar of his suit, your body pressing flush to his as his lips moved with a hunger that made your head spin.

Your wards flared. Books flew off shelves.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, chest rising and falling. Mark was blinking, dazed.

“That…” he whispered. “Wow.”

You pulled away and shoved a glowing vial into his hand. “Drink. Before I do something I’ll regret.”

He blinked down at it, then back at you. “You already kissed me. That wasn’t regret—that was the best part of my life.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you muttered.

“You like it.”

You glared at him—but your lips were twitching.

“I’m not going to forget that kiss,” he said seriously. “Even after the potion’s gone.”

You held his gaze. “Then you better make the real one even better.”

BONUS (24 HOURS LATER, THE SPELL WEARS OFF):

Mark blinked as the world settled back into focus. “Wait. What happened?”

You gave him a flat look. “You fell in love with me for twenty-four hours.”

He turned very red. “Did I… say anything stupid?”

You handed him a piece of paper.

He squinted. “A list of baby names?!”

“You were very invested in our future.”

He paused. “Okay, but like—real talk—if I was into you, would you…?”

You raised a brow. “I’d make you work for it. Starting with that lunch you owe me.”

Mark grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Deal. And uh… maybe one kiss?”

You walked off, cloak billowing. “Buy the food first.”

[featherwingbrushes]

Feeling Better <3

Sooooo I decided to write more of a self-indulgent tickle fic again bc it’s been a long day. A long few weeks, months, eh. Especially with school kicking my ass and some tougher stuff I’m dealing with in lacrosse (reader is a lacrosse player too). So I wanna feel better don’t judge me lol

Anyway, tickle fic, don’t like then don’t read!

Ler!V x Lee!GN!WD!Reader

Finally, the sun went down. Thought that stupid ball of fire would float there forever.

V thought to herself with a digital eye roll, finally able to pop out of the crashed ship. She had spent the night within the old spire, catching up with J for the day to patch some old wounds up and clarify what had really happened in the past, all that good stuff and whatnot.

But now V could leave without fear of the sun burning her up, off to visit her partner in the Colony, who she knew was always home at around this time.

Funny, V considered, that she would end up with a Worker Drone as a lover when hunting them down for so long. Odd little masochistic drone, she often joked. But it had been at least a year since that and the whole AbsoluteSolver fiasco that followed. Times changed.

So V deployed her bladed wings, spreading them and launching off the top of the ship with a powerful beat, zipping off to the nearby bunker. She shot past the WDF drones keeping watch by three doors, not even bothering to use her easy-access pass to open whatever areas she needed to get through, opting for her much-faster vent travels. It also led her directly to your room instead of the winding pathways she’d have to weave through.

A couple minutes later and she arrived at her destination, seeing you sprawled out on your bed as she expected, so she rapped a few times on the grate of the vent.

You jumped from the sudden clanging noise, startled by the harsher sound, glancing over to see what had caused it. Of course, it was just V, which you weren’t too surprised about.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to creepily crawl around in the vents?” You heaved a sigh, lazily sliding off the bed to your feet before dragging yourself over to the wall. You crouched down and tugged the loosened grate off anyway, pulling V out from the cramped space onto the floor.

“Oh, you love this creepy-crawler, don’t even.” She scoffed, dusting herself off once she was back on her feet.

Well, legs. Peg legs? Best not to think about it.

You rolled your eyes in return, but gave her a small begrudging smile nonetheless, wandering back over to your bed before flopping down on it again.

V just gave a slight smirk at that, slow to follow though plopped down beside you a minute later. She narrowed her eyes a little, noticing your smile was rather short-lived, now a small frown.

“Hey. What’s wrong with you?” She prompted bluntly, raising a digital brow.

Your gaze flicked over to hers. “Whaddoya mean, ‘what’s wrong with me’? What’s wrong with you?” You countered childishly out of habit.

“No, don’t just play that off, there’s something off about you. You’re all frowny. Usually I get, like, at least a stupidly obnoxious nervous smile.”

“Wow, so nice. I’m fine, V.”

“Oh nuh uh, don’t you go saying that again. When you say you’re fine like that, that means you’re never fine.” She huffed in response, sitting up to lightly glare down at you.

You just rolled your eyes at her persistence again, but she was right. There was obviously something off. You hadn’t even forced her into a hug yet, and your usual cheerfulness had all but dissipated. “I’m fine. It’s… It’s just been a long game day, okay? I’m tired.”

V arched a brow again, though it clicked in her mind that it was, in face, a game day for you, and she had meant to ask about it. “Oh, right, your semi-finals game. How’d that go? Beat them again like last time? Any oil leftover from the losers for me to drink~?”

“No. We lost.” You muttered, gaze darting away from hers as you laid there, sprawled out flat on your back. Completely ignoring her playful idea of a joke at the end.

“Huh. Really? What happened?”

And there were the magic trigger words. You heaved a sigh, pushing yourself to sit up and physically prepare to launch into a rant that had been simmering inside for hours.

“We lost our shit, is what happened. We could’ve totally crushed that team. We’ve beaten ‘em before, we should’ve been able to do them again. Hell, they even avoided scheduling a game with us up until the point where they absolutely had to, just because of how we beat them on their own turf after the finals, in regionals last year. But we weren’t playing as a team and as always, it was just the two star players with the ball constantly, our plays were falling apart before even being attempted, we kept failing on defense, and blah blah blah rest is history and we lost.”

“Well shit. Sucks for—”

“—AND my coach has been acting really shitty lately! I mean, we have three, and yet they’ve all been let downs at some point. Kirkman, our paid coach, she doesn’t even really coach and kinda just deals with the roster and stats. Lindsey, our oh-so-amazing returning player alumni is a huge downer and was constantly like, “you guys are all taking this as a joke, hope you’re happy, whatever” and we’re like, no, we’re taking this seriously, but you don’t have to harp on all the bad shit constantly. And Jared is the worst of them all lately! I used to like how nice and great of a guy he was, but he’s been tossing these comments here and there that are bugging the hell out of me. Not only is he failing to include a lot of the players, but he’s been doing it consistently now! I was a benchwarmer last year and beginning this season I kicked off with tons of play time, nearly all four quarters, and I was a starter! Now I’ve been tossed to the side, slowly waned out over the last few weeks to the point where last game I was in for two minutes. Two fucking minutes. Like I had just picked up a stick that season. And when I asked him about it last game, he was like “No, sorry, I’m waiting until we’re at least six goals up before I start subbing in players”, and this game when I asked, being very direct —but still nice— about how I “wanted to go in and I used to be a starter and I miss being on the field!”, he said “Yeah, I was standing on the far sidelines so I could avoid subbing people in. I know you miss it.” EXCUSE ME? Then DO something ABOUT IT you fucking prick! It’s not like I’m a terrible attacker. I’m fairly decent. I’m just not passed the ball often and teammates still have issues with trusting people not in their stupid tight-knight circle. And the players he’s been replacing me with I’m either equal to or sometimes better than— depending on the day. It’s like I don’t even deserve to be there! Why bother!??”

V just sat there quietly, rather stunned by the barrage of angry ranting she had been unexpectedly hit by. But despite her usual careless attitude, her expression softened a little and she realized what the root of the problem was. All of Jared’s behaviors and statements and the treatment you were receiving on the team had completely crushed what progress you had made on believing you deserved to be there.

She sighed, hesitantly reaching out to rest a hand on top of your fidgeting ones as you laid on your back. “Hey, hey. I get it, you’re mad. And you have every right to be upset. But you do deserve to be there, you know that, right? You do. You’re just going to train harder to be seen, but even though Jared is being an ass even in charge, that doesn’t mean he’s right. You are good enough.”

You grew quiet for a moment, head turned away in the silence. But you reached to gently squeeze her hand back, speaking up again.* “…yeah, I guess. I… I don’t know, I think I’m just tired of this bullshit. If it’s not the team not trusting me, it’s the coaches not believing I’m good enough, or one of them being a huge downer, or whatever else. It’s always something. And to top it all off, we didn’t even make it to the finals this time. Champions of five years dethroned.”

“Hey, that’s okay. Work for it next year.” V replied, trying to offer a reassuring smile. Although that wasn’t her forte, so a moment later she donned a smirk and retracted her other hand for her silvery-blades claw. “And if these coaches and players are really bothering you that much, I’ll just pop their little heads off.”

You couldn’t help but snicker a little at that, mood lightening a tad after all that weight was off your chest. “Aw, just for me, hun?”

“Just for you, darling~”

“Oh shut up, no more mass massacres for you.”

“Why not? I’ve been pretty great about not popping heads off recently. No treat of organic oil straight from the source~?”

“V, you’re not hunting down my coaches and teammates, no matter how much they piss me off sometimes.”

“Aw. And I bet they would’ve tasted so good.” V sighed wistfully, grinning with one of her blades tapped against one of her sharp metal fangs.

“Eugh, gross.” You huffed, barely suppressing a smile at that. At least your girlfriend was protective and loving, in her own twisted way sometimes. You heaved another small sigh, the smile fading for a moment as you laid back with your eyes closed, arms above your head, just trying to shake off the lingering pain of it all.

V soon noticed the lingering frown, a small pout of her own crossing her expression. She was trying her best to make you feel better here! Where was your smile and energy, damn it!?

“Hey. Hey, stop being all downy over there.” She grumbled, retracing her blade claw, reaching out to jab your exposed side with a smoother-metal finger instead. “Smile stupidly or whatever.”

But rather than just a swat and returned grumble like she expected, you jolted away with a small squeak, like you had just been shocked by a live wire. Eyes wide, you slowly looked up to meet V’s gaze, watching as the gears shifted in her mind… and it clicked. She found an instantaneous way to drag that smile and happier attitude out of you whether you wanted her to or not!

At the same time, you were already sitting up and trying to scoot away, but V was quick to pounce as the predator she was, looming over your smaller form with a devious grin and widened eyes not even a split-second later. “Oh, Y/n~”

“I said smile~”

You felt a shiver prickle up your spine from that, staring up into the crazed, mischievous yellow eyes of your far-stronger girlfriend. “Uh… n-no thanks…”

“Oh, but I wasn’t asking.” She flashed you another smirk before suddenly snatching up your sides, fingers digging into them through your thin jersey without warning.

“N-No, wahait— VEE—!” The reaction was immediate, and you erupted into giggles before dropping back into the bed below, curling up as best as you could. Trapped on your back with V hovering over you, now easily straddling your hips to keep you pinned while she skittered her fingers all along your sides. And just as she wanted, you had a huge grin plastered back on your face, even if it was against your will.

“Tch, there’s that stupid smile I love. Didn’t even take me five seconds.” She muttered under her breath, smiling in satisfaction as you writhed around underneath her, snickering up a storm.

“VEEHEHEHE!!! Yohohohou bihihitch!”

“Well that’s not very nice. And after all I’m doing, being a great girlfriend, bringing a smile back to her stupidly insecure yet amazing partner’s face.”

“NOHOHOT as sweheheheet as yohohou mahahake ihit SEHEHEEM, yohou fuhuhucker!”

V rolled her eyes at that, deciding that was quite enough giggly swearing spilling from your lips for now. “Okay, that’s enough from you.” And she swiftly shifted spots, fingers zipping from your lower sides up to your ribs, drilling into the spaces between the “bones” and spidering over the actual surfaces.

That earned a sharper squeak, bordering on a squeal, and you instantly curled up as best as you could, arms clamped to your sides as she burrowed into those worse spots. Her fingers were relentless, merciless instruments, digging out every squeak, squirm, and snicker she could find.

“T’aw, and now all you can do is just giggle your little head off. No more profanity protests for you. You’re too pint-sized for that anyway~”

“SHUHUHUHUT UHUHAHAP!”

“Oh I’m sorry, what was that? Couldn’t hear you over your cackling.”

“IHIHIHIHI’LL GAHAHAHAHEHEY YOHOHHOU BAHAHAHACK FOHOHOAHAR THIHIHIHIS!!”

“I doubt it.”

And with that she continued on, occasionally darting up to dig into your underarms for an extra giggly squirming mess, before diving back down to jab at your hips, then back up to your ribs.

“God, you’re like a wiggly worm over here! Ridiculously sensitive. Like, you’re the most ticklish drone I’ve met, yet one of the hardest to actually tickle because of all your wriggling.”

You just hissed back at best as you could, but by then most of your snap backs and insults and name-callings were completely dissolved into uncontrollable laughter. Absolutely helpless and grinning like a fool underneath the bigger Disassembly Drone, just squirming and kicking and screeching without her so much as budging one inch. That thin jersey offered zero protection.

Eventually V slowed down to just light skitters along your sides, giving you a much-needed reprieve to catch your artificial breath, though still with lingering wheezes and chitters.

“Wow. Well I brought a smile and more. Aren’t I just the best?”

“Ehehehe… h-he… sh-shuhuddup…” You mumbled breathlessly, going slack atop the bed, the occasional twitch from her roaming fingers. “…thahat wahas… w-was mehean…”

”Mm, maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. But I’m not done yet.” V donned a sly grin again, leaning in closer, half lying on top of your limp form.

Your eyes were instantly wide as saucers, quickly coming to the realization that this ticklish torment wasn’t over yet, and you were still strung along for the ride. You glanced up at her in alarm, freezing up although not moving to escape. Too tired to bother… and maybe you didn’t hate it all that much. Maybe an itty-bitty part of it was enjoyable, the light-heartedness needed after that huge dip in self-worth from the lacrosse season.

”W-Wait whahat— wh-what do you m-mean, you’re not done??” You echoed, flutters of panic and anticipation rising again.

“I mean, I’m not done with torturing you. Obviously. C’mon, loser, thought you would’ve at least understood that.”

“No, I did, I— oh for f-fuck’s sake, never mind. Just what do you mean—”

“This.” V shrugged, cutting you off before suddenly thrusting her hands under your shirt and latching onto your sides again, in more direct contact with the softer flexible metal. However instead of just anywhere on your ribs or sides themselves, she specifically drilled into those spots just under your ribcage, one of the absolute weakest areas she knew of on you.

And the reaction here was even better.

“No— VEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEE!!!”

You immediately burst into a squeal and collapsed into hysterics, thrashing around underneath her worse than you had ever fought before.

That point was such a huge weakness, and V was absolutely thrilled to take advantage of that. And she drilled hard into those spots, far more relentless than before, and trained on that area for at least a solid minute before pulling her hands away, slipping them out from under the fabric.

You went slack again, panting and getting out residual laughter for another minute, slowly coming down from the high of hysterics. V stared down at her messily sprawled-out, flustered mess of a partner with a slightly softened look now, easily noting the way your visor had fully heated up and flushed a nice neon shade of (color). She rested her hands atop your sides, gently rubbing away the phantom tingles still crawling all over the ravaged areas, a twitchy grin left on your face as you laid there.

Eventually, you managed to refocus enough to catch your breath and speak up again, still rather exhausted.* “Ehehe…. I-Is it over yet…?”

“Yes, it’s over, Y/n.” V chuckled quietly, keeping up the comforting rubs as you recovered, enjoying the view and definitely not at all feeling a smidge of guilt over her attack.

“Y-Yay…”

“Oh don’t be so dramatic, babe. It’s not like you need oxygen.”

“M-Meh meh meh… d-drone instinct anyway…”

“Whatever, you. Come here.” V scoffed with an eye roll, cautiously scooping you up in her arms as she now laid beside you, one hand still rubbing your farthest side. She studied you for a brief moment, a warmer smile on her face than she would’ve ever admitted. “…You okay there?”

It took you a minute, but you had eventually recovered enough past giggles, though a smile was still painted across your flushed face. “Mm… y-yeah, I am. I guess. Sure.”

“Mhm, but really?”

“Yes, hun, really.”

“Good.”

“…Besides the literal physical torture you just put me through.”

“Oh shut up, you enjoyed it anyway. You’re still smiling right now, aren’t you?”

“…shut up.”

“Exactly.” V nodded, decisively ending it as she pulled you closer, figuring now it was time to fully calm down after bringing your smile back in such an aggressive manner. But she was right anyway, you had enjoyed it. Something you hadn’t realized you needed. And V seemed to know, thinking to herself on it as she clutched her little Worker love to her chest, who nuzzled further into her with arms snugly wrapped around her torso.

…Worth it.

“I’m happy you’re feeling better.”

———

Okay, end of the fic! How we feeling, these who made it through?? Sorry it was a little more rant-heavy at first, though I did warn yall it was self-indulgent lol

Anyway, lemme know if you enjoyed! Or if you want to see more fics! Or both!

Requests are open!

[hitorimaron]

Inspired by Imagine being loved by me by NobodysPoet

[stresskidz]

Moodboard for my fic ideas #1

Reader and Minho are both exchange students who struggle to fit in. Minho has a hard time with English, and reader is an introvert. They build a friendship and help each other out. Despite Minho’s parents wish to study abroad improving his English in hopes of getting into a top university one day, he secretly keeps practicing his one true passion - dancing. His biggest supporter? Reader. 

"Do you ever dream of becoming like them?" I ask Minho, whose face was illuminated by the purple light of the BTS poster announcing their upcoming concert. He didn't even have to respond, i could see it in his eyes. This was his dream.

[waywardstation]

hi! i havent been on tumblr in a Hot minute but i wanted to come here JUST to tell you that hfbe might be my fave pla fic ive read ao far! the worldbuilding and the characterization of everyone just feels so so right i fall in love

i reread it on ao3 and even tho its not completed its still a joy to reread everytime

Hello hello!! Anon you have no idea how much it meant to me to get to read this. Knowing I put something out there that you wanted to back to and reread means A LOT.

I’m glad you like it so much but man I have been editing the first two chapters (fixing errors, making characters say and do things that are more in line with how I write them now, and just adding scenes in between to help things seem more clear or hit harder), and I’m like man this really isn’t that good haha.

It’s fun to see how much I think I’ve improved since I’ve started trying to write fanfics (I wasn’t aware of how obsessed I had been with commas and run-on sentences at the start lol)

So reading this nice message really gives me such a boost of motivation. I’m so glad you like the worldbuilding, and it makes me excited to get more out because later chapters are when I really introduce specifics on a lot of things. Namely the Pearl Clan’s hunting parties, that has been my favorite.

Now I just gotta get more out! Hoping to put more out for you to read soon kind anon, I really appreciate that you find it’s something you like to reread!

For now, here is a snippet below the cut; I am unsure if I have shared this before, but it’s a scene where Ingo is preparing to advocate for the Clan to use pokeballs to store their pokemon in, so that there is less food consumption (as in HFBE, it’s emphasized that pokeballs put pokemon into a stasis where they don’t need to eat, drink, sleep, etc. for as long as they’re in them. Ingo does it with his pokemon, and he wants the clan to do it too, for their own sakes).

Wording is subject to change (VERY MUCH SO), but enjoy!

—————

“Excuse me Miss Irida, but may we talk for a moment?”

The Pearl Clan leader turned back to see Ingo – he was trailing behind the group, purposefully so. He had been waiting for the right moment to approach her.

“Right now?” Irida’s eyes flickered back over the tops of people’s heads, up towards the communal hall at the top of the hill. “I’m sorry, but can it wait until after the meeting?”

“It is actually about the meeting.” Ingo’s grey eyes were unwavering, waiting — he wanted to ask her something. And Ingo was not one to usually ask for things.

“Ok,” She relented, pausing in the snow both so he could catch up, and they could have their conversation with some privacy. “You have until we reach the hall.”

“Thank you, I assure you it will be quick.” Ingo fell into step beside her, shuffling through the snow as they now both trailed behind the group heading towards the warm hall. He kept his head tilted down just like her, using the brim of his hat to protect against the wind and snowfall. “I, well… I am planning to re-propose a proposition at this meeting tonight. I’d like to make another attempt at advocating for the use of pokeballs.”

“Tonight? Are you serious?” Irida lowered her voice for his sake, looking back between him and the group. How could he possibly think about proposing that when this meeting was for them to discuss how to prepare for this famine? “I’m saying this not as your leader but as your friend, Ingo; now is absolutely not a good time for that. Everyone is already going into this meeting angry. And if you try and start this again, they’re going to-”

Irida took a deep breath; she was already getting stressed over it.

“You know how people are going to react to that. You know who it’s going to upset, Ingo. Especially after last time. And you said you’d let it go.”

“I am well aware of what I said and I intended to stick to it, but these circumstances have changed our tracks, and I believe this may save us from derailing!” Ingo whispered back. He kept throwing quick glances at the nearing hall, gauging how much time he had left to persuade her. “Pokeballs can help us much more than the clan realizes – I’m confident that this can bring us closer to a solution, if not at least be a part of one!”

Irritation and confusion were replaced with genuine curiosity, but a fleck of doubt hesitantly followed after. Irida shook her head, not understanding. “How could they possibly help with all of this?”

“I will explain that in the meeting.” Having conquered the snowy hill, the two reached the warm light that spilled through the hall’s windows to project onto the snow. “But to do that, I need to actually present my proposal, and I’m afraid that will be difficult with the elders tonight. I am trying this for the fourth time now, and I’m aware of how this will most likely be received. I expect they’ll call to send me back to my seat before I even start.”

Ingo paused just outside the doors, waiting for Irida to go in first — she could do so and end the conversation right now if she wanted to, but she didn’t. Instead she stood there, staring at their fading shoeprints in the snow.

Irida could see why he approached her about this now, and a part of her felt sorry for him. “So you want me to vouch for you.”

“Not the proposal itself. Just the time to talk.”

[headfullof-ideas]

i’ve been fighting for my life trying to draw lately, and I need it to Stop

[piningpercussionist]

transfem scott getting lots of support from ramona and kim in the early 2000's when shit's very taboo but they all 3 have a fire forged bond and lord if they aren't going to make sure they're all as happy as they can be because they've come this far and I dunno it just makes me happy all three of them

YES YES YES

It makes me very happy as well,,

Like I've said before. General Trans Scott enthusiast here- I love the idea of their little support network *violent coughing* I (we?) mean polycule *violent coughing* so fucking much.

Ramona I think has a bit of a more gentle hand with reassuring Scott with gender issues, but sometimes she just can't help herself from some pointed banter or teasing- how could you with someone so dense? (Said w affection)

And then Kim I think is more blunt. But like, in a good way mostly, you know? The kinda blunt that makes you snap to attention and go "Oh. Yeah that was silly of me." And if Ramona's started some sort of banter? Kim is SO piling on. Maybe sometimes she's a bit TOO blunt with it- but it's only because she's so firm in her support. She wants Scott to Get It Together- and be happier for it. So if some ribbing now and again is in order, then goddamnit she will do so! Anything to crack that shell.

And ohhh can you imagine how they would react to some transphobic bullshit?? Unholy terror would be driven into the offender before they walk off with an absurd amount of coins between them. I can feel it in my bones. Scott doesn't even have to lift a finger (if the transphobe is even noticed/processed at all, bc I honestly can see Scott just. Not realizing someone's being transphobic.) Kim giving someone a lashing with her tongue as distraction and then Ramona coming in with the hammer- BAM! Free Money! Paying literally with your life for your transphobia. A Better And Just World.

And of course (transfem Scott more specifically, here,) the way Scott would start to flourish under their support... cagey and maybe a little (perhaps a lot-) resistant to start- but Kim's blunt affirmations and no nonsense attitude for bullshit (which is what Scott insisting on "being cis" would be, c'mon now,) and Ramona's also low bullshit tolerance but less Stabby (bc I won't lie, that's probably how Kim's comments would feel,) assurances? Ough... My Heart... Be Still-

I would Kill for them, Your Honor-

(Ran out of tags so putting this in the body of the post- I am SO tired someone pls sound off if this isn't as coherent as I am hoping this is. I WAS trying to nap and get the extra sleep I desperately needed but the writing bug... it Bit Me.... only a little but enough to stop that process-)

[wikiangela]

WIP tag game

tagged by @hippolotamus @diazsdimples @tizniz @shortsighted-owl @bucks-daddy-issues @aroeddiediaz

RULES: Make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

god i have so many wips (most of which are on hold rn) and i keep adding more lmao - gonna list just the ones I wanna prioritize (I also have sooo many ideas but I'm tryin not to start them before i finish one of the bucktommy wips lol)

the alive shannon ifc

cheating fic

buddie death cast

bachelorette party

bucktommy smut (aka smutty sequel to 'i wanna breathe you in')

bucktommy barbecue

post 7-10 (bucktommy)

bucktommy leg pain

buck slowly moving in with tommy

there's a few more wips tbh, but they're on hold, and sooo many ideas I'd love to talk about but I'm trying not to start new wips lol

no pressure tags: @bidisasterevankinard @hoodie-buck @daffi-990 @loveyouanyway @theotherbuckley

@watchyourbuck @monsterrae1 @loserdiaz @exhuastedpigeon @your-catfish-friend

@jesuisici33 @kinard-buckley @evansboyfriend @bucked-it-up @eddiebabygirldiaz

[sleep-escapes-me]

getting the urge to write beauty and the beast imodna where laudna is more of a cosmic-type horror and is unable to speak so the two of them communicate through letters and little notes sent throughout the castle. Maybe Imogen has her mind powers or she learns of them because of this situation idk yet.

I just really want Fearne to be a piece of furniture and she fucking hates it so much she increasingly tries to meddle with their relationship to get them together. and on the flipside my boy pâté is just absolutely living for the strangeness of this whole thing and not really understanding what’s going on. FCG is also furniture and is having an existential crisis

and instead of having a Gaston-type, it’s liliana coming back to "save" her daughter after hearing about the moster that's taken imogen prisoner even though she abandoned their family a few years before. and then there’s a whole angsty thing with her and relvin of course

maybe the castle is Delilah's and she's the one who cast the curse or she herself is the “rose countdown” ie if Laudna doesn’t expel her somehow then she takes over forever idk

[betweenlands]

i am so deeply emotional about sbk right now. how the hell does a server this good exist

[evanescentdawn]

didn’t expect for my return to ao3 be releasing an old 2018/19 bleach wip, but well! life can certainly surprise you!

relationships: established byakuya/ichigo

tags: AU, humour, shenanigans, captain!ichigo, mystery

chapter: 1/?

summary:

“Here we are,” Kisuke announced as they reached a big black door. He pulled out a key and slowly opened the door to reveal a massive room buzzing with soul reapers. Taking out his trusty fan, Kisuke flapped it open, adding to his dramatics while gesturing with his free hand to a massive machine, “Behold, my greatest invention yet!”

“…What. The. Hell.”

“What? Is something the matter, Ichigo?” Kisuke lowered down his fan, a wide smirk painted on his face. “Speechless?”

-

It’s been years since their last war and Urahara Kisuke got busy, inventing his new latest machine yet. One that allows easy access from and to Heuco Mundo. Shiba Ichigo and others set out to test it but they run into something unexpected…..

[mlmneuvifuri]

queer platonic layla x alhaitham ( they are both trans )

[accidentally-in-fictional-love]

Breaking The Code - Joshua Whitmore/Reader

Warnings: Gender-neutral reader, no use of Y/N, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, angst, hurt/comfort, brief canon-related mentions of self-harm and suicide, happy ending.

Wordcount: 9152

Summary: You see him as he's being admitted to the hospital a few streets away from your home, and it would be so easy to just keep walking, but something about his sad eyes and mysterious identity draws you in until you need to see him again.

Notes: So the other night I was talking with Salem about Joshua as they watched Cass for the first time, and we decided that our truth was that he needs a happy ending ;w; so I wrote this instead of sleeping~ Turns out you can hit a pretty bad burnout after writing nearly every day for a month straight, so I wrote this one for myself and Salem to try and get some of my inspo back 😌 It was pretty cathartic, writing him was a lot of fun and helped me get some of my own personal feelings out, so even though the love for him might be smaller than his other roles, I hope those who read this like it 💗

When you first see him, you’re walking home for the day. Your familiar path always takes you past the hospital, it’s the fastest way and you’re in no mood to dawdle after the stress of work making you call it early. Just as you’re about to pass, an ambulance pulls up, siren blaring and making you jump out of your headphones the closer it gets. You turn to watch in morbid curiosity, a little dose of schadenfreude to lift your spirits before the guilt takes you, but everything changes when you see him.

He’s awake on his stretcher as they take him out, his eyes on the sky and looking empty as the EMTs call in for emergency surgery on his ear and a decent amount of blood loss, as well as malnutrition. Your glimpse is brief, they want him inside as fast as possible, but you still notice the way he holds onto an old hardcover book resting against his stomach before he’s out of sight. You follow before you can stop yourself, listening for a name and catching only ‘Whitmore,’ and to keep out cameras if the news comes for him.

A high profile person you’d never heard of, perhaps? You can’t recall any Whitmores in your small celebrity roster, especially not a local one who looked like that. You can’t think about it too long as you get noticed and shooed away, and you do as they say as he’s rolled towards the nearest elevator so he can be prepped for his surgery.

You don’t hear about him until a few days later as you eat your lunch in the breakroom, catching just a glimpse of his face and last name before the channel is changed to something more interesting moments after you notice him. It wasn’t long enough to get any new information, but it is enough to spark your interest again with the confirmation that he was indeed some secret celebrity you hadn’t heard about. You don’t ask for the channel to be changed back, but you do make a mental note to take your shortcut again after work is over.

You figure he mustn’t be too high priority as you reach the hospital, looking as inconspicuous as possible as you sneak past the couple news outlets trying to get inside to interview him, no one major for now, but maybe that was just because no one knew where to actually find him yet. It was only a matter of time, people were nosy like that, yourself included as you strolled inside and pretended like you were there to visit someone you actually knew.

You take a walk, glancing at the names as you pretend to change your song, your head down and pointing at your iPod as you don’t ask for any help or directions, constantly pretending like you were there for a legitimate reason. As you reach the top floor, you start to wonder if maybe he was there under a different name or if he was still there at all when you catch a glimpse of a familiar face as a nurse walks through a door coming up on your left. You see his bandages first, the white so stark against his dark hair, and then you see his eyes, still so empty as he just looks at the food that was presented to him, completely uninterested in eating.

You quickly duck into the bathroom nearby as the nurse heads your way, turning on the light and the sink to make some noise as you listen for her footsteps to fade, and when they do you surround yourself in silence again as you figure out what your plan is here. You found him, room 415, and the name under the number is indeed a fake to throw anyone off, your eyes just barely able to pick out ‘James Robins’ from your distance away, so what now?

Do you really wanna talk to him, or are you there to join in on the spectacle? Did something about him interest you that day, or do you want to be able to say you met a celebrity for the first time in your life, aside from that one time you swore you saw Brad Pitt stopping for gas at the station by your duplex? Are you really going to go over there and hound him for an autograph or something before the bigger news outlets find him and he has to be moved somewhere else?

You peek around your corner and see the closed door, something drawing you to it but not the desire to see fame in its most vulnerable state, not that at all. You let go of the wall and slowly approach, constantly looking back and forth to make sure no one was about to catch you before you’re there, your hand raised to knock. It takes you a minute but you do, your knuckles lightly rapping on the wood as you wait for an answer. Nothing, so you try again, a sigh your reply before you get the okay to enter.

He’s facing the window when you come in, food cooling and that old book waiting over his legs as he just stares at the sky due to you being so high up. He waits for you to do whatever you need to before the silence stretches on for too long, and when he turns his head back to face you he looks surprised, it showing in his eyes as he looks you over. ‘You here for an interview or something?’ he asks in a raspy voice, like he isn’t used to talking, and when you don’t reply right away he gestures to your hand.

‘IPod,’ you tell him as you show him what he thought was a tape recorder, and he gets even more confused.

‘What do you want, then? Are you also a photographer? Here to take a picture of me to sell to those vultures waiting for me outside?’ He says it all so bluntly, despondently, and you can only shake your head again as you slide your headphones down to your neck, the tech such a contrast to your passable business casual outfit. ‘So it’s art you want, then; sorry to break it to you, it was stolen yesterday, you’ll have to get in line if you want something new while I’m stuck in this cage like sharkbait.’

‘I don’t want anything from you,’ you finally manage to say, shocked by his negativity; how did someone like him ever manage to become a celebrity? 

‘You don’t? Find that hard to believe, everyone wants something, don’t they? People, all they want to do is take take take, no one wants to give, let alone create, do they? So when they find someone who gives or creates they just want to take it, make it their own, just paint over it so no one can ever know who it belonged to and what it meant to them and everyone else who just wanted to enjoy it, isn’t that right?’

You don’t know what to say, you’re genuinely stumped for words as he goes on his tangent, and when he sees your face he knows he’s talking to a wall. He turns away from you again, looking at the sky as a bird returns home on the ledge just outside the window, her nest tucked into the corner where her eggs are waiting for her return. She settles back down over them, her body all fluffed out to keep them warm, and you can see him also staring as his fingers curl out towards his book. It’s then you understand, he mentioned art, he’s an artist so this must be his sketchbook, no wonder you hadn’t heard of him. He doesn’t open it however, he wants to draw but he has no pencil, just the book.

‘I… I just-’ you start to say, but he doesn’t respond, probably because his bad ear is the one closest to you at the moment, ‘I just wanted to see if you were okay.’ You say it a little louder so he’ll hear, and again you confuse him as he glances your way. ‘Do you- would you like a pen or something? I might have one in my bag somewhere…’ You start digging around in the messenger bag you carry around with you, it holding whatever you bring home for the day, your old laptop, and an assortment of random things you’ve tossed in there since the last time you cleaned it. You hunt through unorganized papers and folders and a mountain of loose change before you manage to find both a mechanical pencil with its eraser almost completely worn and a company pen you’d stolen, one of many since you never seem to find the last one when you need it.

You hold out both to him and he looks at them as well as you, trying to find any selfish reason why you’d offer these tools to him but there were none, and he seems to get that as he takes both. Instantly his food is handed to you so it’s out of the way as he grabs his sketchbook and opens it to a new page, the bird staring at you as he starts drawing freely. He forgets you’re there in a matter of moments, so focused on capturing the simple beauty outside and distracting himself from his current situation, but you don’t mind. You set the food down on the small cabinet to his left, careful to make sure he could reach it while still avoiding the machines hooked up to him, one of them an IV that dripped endlessly to the clear tube leading to his bandaged hand. 

You end up sitting when he continues to ignore you and his dinner, just watching him as he draws shapes until they start to take form, his movements wide and hard to track. He doesn’t work on just one part of what he sees, he does a bit of everything at once until it slowly comes together as one image, the bird watching in interest until sleep takes her and she gets comfy for an early night’s rest. He doesn’t stop even with her pose changed, still seeing her in his mind as he starts to detail her face a little, stopping to add in errant feathers and abstract shapes behind her for the city.

When he finally stops you can’t help but stare, and you stand to get a closer look, your presence making him jump when you get too close, clearly he thought you’d left. It’s beautiful even in its incomplete state, or maybe this is what he wanted, you don’t know, you can’t find the words to ask as you look at the bird in the dimming light outside; when had it become so dark? ‘Is this it? Did you give me these so you could get an original Joshua Whitmore?’ he asks bitterly, your eyes on the page again.

‘Who?’ you say before you can stop yourself, and you blink in embarrassment as you stutter out an apology before the look on his face silences you.

‘You really have no idea who I am, do you?’ he asks softly, and again you shake your head. ‘You just wanted to see if I was okay?’ You nod, your cheeks flushing slightly in a little more than embarrassment. ‘And wha- what do you see when you look at this?’

He holds up his sketchbook for you to look at again, and you reach for it but he pulls away, you can look but not touch, got it. Your eyes scan the paper just like you’d been doing for who knows how long, and you smile as you turn back to him and his almost nervous expression. ‘I see a bird in her nest, I'm sorry, should I be looking for something else? I’m not one for art, I don’t really know what to tell you,’ you admit, but this answer actually pleases him, calms him as his shoulders relax just a little.

‘You just see a bird, yeah, that’s what I drew,’ he repeats to himself as he smiles weakly, and he looks almost relieved in this before the door opens and you’re interrupted. It’s the nurse from before, and she stops in her tracks when she notices that he’s no longer alone.

‘Oh no, do you want me to call security, Mr. Whitmore?’ she asks nervously, and he looks at you before telling her no, he knew you. ‘Oh, okay, but visiting hours are over so you do have to go, I’m afraid,’ she tells you next, and you glance at your watch to see that you’d somehow been there for almost two hours, so lost in him drawing that you didn’t even notice the passing of time. As if on cue, your stomach gives a rumble for its delayed dinner, it spreading to him as the nurse then notices that he hasn’t eaten anything, and you walk out as she places his tray back on the moveable table attached to his bed. ‘We’ll have to put you on another IV if you don’t eat, how many times do I have to tell you?’ she chides him, and he opens his bottle of water to take an experimental sip before the door is shut and you’re left alone in the hallway.

You head home now that your curiosity has been sated, but you can’t help but repeat his words in your head all the way there, him saying that he knew you making your chest feel warm even as you heat up some leftovers and watch a movie by yourself.

You don’t go back right away, unsure if he’d appreciate you coming back now that he could draw again, but you still feel that pull follow you over the next few days. You have Sunday off, the one holiday in your busy week, and when you step out to grab a few things for dinner you find your feet carrying you in the opposite direction as you head back to the hospital. The news vans are still outside, cops now stopping them from getting in and disrupting everyone else inside, not just him, and you have to show your work ID in order to prove you’re not with them. It’s almost enough to make you turn around, but you’re moving on autopilot all the way back to the fourth floor, his name still under the number, he hasn’t been moved yet. 

You knock on the door and he allows you in, and you could swear his face brightens just a bit when he sees that it’s you. He doesn’t look as terrible as he did the last time you saw him, like being able to draw helped brighten his situation just enough to bring back his appetite based on the empty tray waiting to get taken away. He’s drawing again as you walk in, and the TV is on to a random station, probably the History Channel based on what was currently on screen, sketches of the animals filling the page to create a lively scene.

‘You came back,’ he states more than questions, and you just shrug and hold up your bag of groceries.

‘I needed to grab a few things, it’s my day off so I wanted to actually cook something tonight,’ you tell him like he’d care, and he surprises you this time by nodding towards the bag.

‘Anything good?’ he pries, and you hold the bag open for him to see, showing off the random contents inside that you hoped would turn themselves into something delicious so you could enjoy the spoils. ‘What d’you plan to make with just that?’

‘I had some stuff already at home, this is just what I’m missing,’ you say, and he eyes the bag again before opening his mouth to speak.

‘You think… nevermind,’ he quickly backs out, and you urge him to continue. ‘Y’think I could steal one of those apples? Or do you need them all?’ You don’t, you can still make a damn good apple crumble with the bag minus one, and you tear open the plastic so he can choose his favourite. ‘Thanks, kinda hard to keep fruit fresh when you’re on the road,’ he says as he shines it on his blanket, and when he bites into it he looks like he hasn’t been able to taste anything like it in much too long.

‘You travel a lot?’ you ask as the juice runs down his chin, already grabbing a tissue from the box nearby so he doesn’t make a mess on his sketchbook.

‘You could say that,’ he mutters between bites, and when there’s nothing left but the core you hold the bag open for him to grab a second. ‘No, I couldn’t,’ he refuses, but you just shrug and grab one for yourself, you can always buy more on the way home. He watches you take your bite before indulging, grabbing two and placing one on his moveable table for later, and the feeling that fills you at the sight is sweeter than the fruit. ‘What were you gunna make with these?’

‘Apple crumble, I used to make it all the time with my mom when I was growing up, she’d always put in a ton of cinnamon so it always tasted better than something store bought,’ you say as you can already taste it, and he looks down at his half-eaten apple as something takes over his expression.

‘Haven’t had a chance to cook something in a long time,’ he says, mostly to himself, like this is something he’s been thinking but hasn’t actually said aloud yet. ‘Hard to keep fruit, hard to pack a portable stove, hard to carry around a kitchen on your back when there’s so many better things to bring; need a bed, need paper, so many needs in the face of those wants. It’s easier to pack light in the pockets, find a place with water and refill, harder to keep the smell of cooking food from escaping an empty house.’

You just listen as you eat, he’s on another tangent and you don’t dare interrupt, but this one is sadder than the last, and you notice how tired he looks as he sinks into the bed. It’s then you notice that he has nothing around him in this room, no get well soon cards, no balloons, no sign of anyone visiting him even with the circus outside waiting for a glimpse of him. It’s just him, his sketchbook, and now his single apple waiting for him to eat it tomorrow. You toss your own core into the trash and grab a tissue to wipe up the juices, you made sure to grab your most favourite brand to make your dessert as delicious as it could be, and the bag feels heavy in your hand as the store branded plastic shifts when you do.

‘I just remembered I forgot something, so I need to head back to the store before it closes,’ you suddenly say, and he looks at you with those tired eyes when you speak. ‘So, if you want, you could maybe ask for something for me to get? Since I have to pass by this way again anyways.’ It’s a lie, it’s so out of the way it’ll take you over a half hour to get back home on travel alone, but he doesn’t need to know that.

He thinks about it a while before declining, the apples were enough, but that’s not a good enough answer for you; you reach into the bag and pull out a few more apples, loading up his table with them, and he looks ready to object but they’re already out and it would certainly be a pain to put them all back, wouldn’t it? He looks at the bunch, and there’s way more than he probably wants, but he looks thankful all the same. 

‘You won’t have to worry about storing them when you’re here,’ you just say, and he brushes his bangs away from his eye as he tucks his pencil behind his good ear.

‘Not unless I leave here tomorrow,’ he figures, and something pulls at you again.

‘Will you still be here tomorrow?’ Your voice comes out small, hopeful yet worried, and he touches his bandage and flinches.

‘Don’t think they’ll let me outta here until I can pay for all this,’ he wonders, his hands going for his book as his eyes lose a little light, ‘everything has a price, even the reason I’m in here.’

You want to ask but you can’t, it’s too soon even though it feels like he wants you to, but he doesn’t bring it up again even as you turn to go. ‘I’d better run or else I’ll be eating this dinner for breakfast, if you’re still here tomorrow I can bring you some, if you’d like?’ That also feels too soon, but the light he lost returns at the offer.

‘You don’t have to,’ is what he actually says, but his small smile gives him away. You nod and turn on your heel towards the door, his voice making you stop before you enter the hallway. ‘And if you have to come back this way, could you… would you mind if I asked for something else? Some charcoals, paints, anything small I can hide from them while I’m here, all my stuff was seized back at the house.’

He doesn’t explain why, you don’t ask what happened.

‘That might require a different trip, but I’ll see what I can do if that’s okay,’ you say instead, and he returns the smile you give him.

Work keeps you away for the next few days, and you’re sure to take the car to work on Wednesday so you can do some proper shopping. It’s cheaper to walk, but the gas expense is worth it as you find the only art shop in town before you hit the grocery store. It’s small, and doesn’t have much, so you have to settle for the cheap stuff for kids as you peruse the aisles in search of what he wants. You end up grabbing a few extra things as well, like different coloured pens, a couple erasers and more graphite to go with the pencil, and another sketchbook with thicker paper for his new supplies; you really don’t know a lot about art, and you don’t correct the employee when he asks if you’re buying for your kid, although you do at least say it’s for a friend’s kid as you hold the supplies a little closer to your chest.

You cash out and make for the grocery store, buying mostly for yourself and wishing you knew what he liked other than apples so you could give him some treats to have between mandated hospital food. You wonder if it’d be too forward to ask again as you check everything off your list, your thoughts only on him as everything is packed tightly into several more plastic bags that you then pile into the cart so you can load them into your car. His art supplies occupy the front seat as everything else is stuffed into the trunk, and when you’re done unloading it at home you add a tupperware case filled with leftover apple crumble to the bag as well, it sealed extra tight to make sure everything stayed safe.

You carry the bag the few blocks to the hospital, noting that the number of vans has increased as more important looking people try to get in. You don’t need to flash your ID this time, the cops from before recognize you and let you by as you’re bribed into finding their media target, but you just ignore them as you cross the threshold. You head straight for his room, knocking again as a courtesy and finding that he already has company; there’s a doctor and a couple nurses already inside and checking him out, his ear exposed as his stitches were examined to see how he was healing.

The bandages cover his table, his sketchbook placed on the cabinet along with his remaining apple, medical supplies decorating a nearby cart as the wound is cleaned. They’re so busy they don’t notice you until after the door’s been opened, and you finally get to see what’s under the bandage as cleaning swabs and lights are shined over the area; the topmost part of his ear is gone, a space the width of your thumb where the curve should be, the doctor asking him if he can hear anything as his other ear is covered.

‘The ringing stopped yesterday,’ he answers, a nurse snapping her fingers directly beside him, and he flinches away from the sound, the test positive.

‘You’re lucky the gun didn’t rupture your eardrum with how close it was,’ she says as she goes back to cleaning, the other nurse already getting out a new bandage, ‘if you hadn’t been found, you might’ve bled out.’

‘Wasn’t aiming for my ear,’ he says like it was the most normal and unconcerning statement in the world, and you nearly drop your bag at that. The sound gets everyone’s attention, including his, as they all turn to see you, his eyes meeting yours before the door is shut in your face. You almost leave but you decide to wait it out, finding a spot against the wall and getting comfortable. The next time the door opens you get an apology for the slam, but it’s fine, you were intruding, after all. You’re about to go in when the doctor sees your bag and stops you, his hand on your arm and holding you there with just enough force that you know to listen very carefully to what he’s about to say.

‘He’s reassured us that he knows you, but please try to refrain from mentioning he’s here to anyone else,’ he says, already looking tired even though it was far from sunset. ‘It’s just a rumour for now, but people have been bribed recently to find out if he really is here; the people outside aren’t what he needs right now, not after what he’s been through, and I fear what going back out there will do to him before he’s ready.’

What happened to him?

You want to ask it so badly but you can’t, it’s not for this doctor to say, and you both know it. He releases your arm after a quick look in your bag, so much for hiding his supplies, but it seems to be approved as he heads down the hall to meet his next patient. You straighten yourself up and knock, and it takes him a while but eventually he answers, already knowing it’s you. He looks tired again, not even seeing you approach him as he plays with the edge of the new bandage.

‘How much did you hear?’ he just asks, not even looking your way.

‘More than you,’ you reply bluntly, and it catches him so off guard that he can’t help but look at you. You both stare at each other as you flounder out an apology, but the lights return as he chokes back a laugh, the first you’ve heard since you’ve met.

‘I guess you did, yeah,’ he says, and then the air is lighter as you approach and show him what you’ve brought; you worry it might not be good enough but he seems pleased with your finds, especially with the second book. ‘Did you go to the place down by the lights? I stopped by when I first got here, there isn’t much, thank you for this,’ he says as he spreads everything out, looking ready to tear it all open and get started.

‘I also brought you this,’ you tell him as you then pull out the tupperware and a fork, and he looks at it before taking off the lid and breathing in the scent of apples and cinnamon. ‘Sorry I couldn’t bring it sooner, it’s been a nightmare at work, I haven’t been able to have a minute to myself lately.’

‘And yet you choose to come here when you do have a minute, your life must be very unexciting if this is the preferable option,’ he figures as he takes a bite, not even bothered by his words to the point where you couldn’t take any offense to it. Something like euphoria flashes across his face as he eats, and your cheeks heat up as he tries to control himself from eating too fast but fails, all of it gone before you know it. ‘Wow, uh… I see you kept up the tradition of loading on the cinnamon,’ he thinks aloud with a lick of his lips, the floor suddenly very interesting as you feel a need to look away.

‘Yeah, it really brings out the apples,’ is all you can say to that, and then you’re taking the dishes back and placing them in the bag. ‘I can make more, if you want? Or I can find something else to make, if you have any requests?’

‘Are you some kinda pâtissière?’

‘What? Oh, no, I just think… people are at their happiest when they’re sharing the fruits of their labour, and in my family, that labour was always food, so I find comfort in that now, as an adult. Does that make sense?’ You’ve made things for others before, family dinners, potlucks, celebrations at work, but never have you felt more scrutinized until now as he licks his lips again, already ready for seconds even though you have nothing left to give.

‘It makes perfect sense, what good is there to make something without having someone to share it with? What use is a feast without it spread over a table set for family and friends, or music without an audience to get lost in the sound, or-’

‘Or a painting without anyone to appreciate the vision and share their own, right?’ He looks up at you, something in his eyes that screams yes, that you got it, but also something sad, like he didn’t believe it was true at the same time. ‘Did you share your art, before you came here?’

You know you shouldn’t ask, but you can’t stop yourself.

He slowly stacks everything up and places it out of the way, his old book back on his lap and his fingers playing with the rough edges of the cover as he goes over your question in his head. ‘I did, for a few years,’ he starts carefully, eyes on you as he watches for your reactions. ‘Outta college, I got spotted by a few potential dealers, got a contract with one, started selling my work while I got a job to pay the bills. One painting sold, then another, then five, then I didn’t need to work anymore. Suddenly what I loved to do was my job, and it wasn’t what I loved to do anymore.’ He slides his fingers under the cover strap, holds on tight as the lights leave him again, he doesn’t like to talk about it but he doesn’t stop. ‘All those eyes on my work, on myself, everything torn apart by people who didn’t get it and distributed via cameras for free to those who didn’t appreciate it. 

‘Deadlines were forced on me, I was pushed to sell whatever I made, it was no longer about me or how I felt anymore, it was all about the money, who could bid the highest on a piece of me that I’d so painstakingly torn off and decorated for the world to see, all sealed up in a shiny new frame. So-called experts who defined their own meaning over mine, collectors who just wanted to fill a space in their third home, people who didn’t even look at what was inside the frame only because my name was on it and they’d heard I was the talk of the town.

‘And then it happened, someone claimed to see a miracle hidden amongst the brushstrokes but I hadn’t painted any miracle, something so beautiful and abstract can’t be confined to canvas and paint, not by me. Suddenly, everyone was seeing them, everyone wanted to bring the angels home with them and were desperate to do so, and I lost my name under the title of Prophet or Saint or, god forbid, an Angel myself. I am none of those things, and they stole- they stole myself from me, my passion, everything I was so they could keep seeing what they wanted to see, all everyone does is take take take.’

You don’t know when you’d sat down but you blink and find yourself in the chair nearby him, his eyes no longer on you as he lets it all out, his hands waving and lip quivering; he’s crying, this is his barest self, and you wonder if any of what he’s saying has to do with the bandage that washes out all the other colour in the room as you hear him say in your head that he wasn’t aiming for his ear.

‘Did you stop, after all that?’ you ask, and at first he doesn’t hear you, the bandage really muffles your small voice from this side, so you get up and move to the right side of his bed instead. You sit down and he tries to hide his tears from you, but there’s no pity here, you didn’t come for an interview to market and sell to the masses, you came to talk to your friend. You repeat yourself and this time he hears you, his eyes glancing up to meet yours before he’s looking at his book again.

‘I tried, but the demand was too much, they wouldn’t let me get myself back.’

‘What did you do then?’

He smiles bitterly, his right hand moving from his book to rub at his left wrist, and from this angle you can see the scars peeking out from behind his thumb. ‘I made a miracle,’ he murmurs softly, ‘I made Joshua Whitmore disappear.’ You reach out and take his hand, holding it tightly over his book and surprising him yet again, although he doesn’t pull away from you. ‘I didn’t do it to kill myself, I had a friend help me get out of there safely after I trashed my studio, but it was still enough to make everyone think I was dead, and in that I was reborn, free to take myself back again. I couldn’t touch the money I’d made from my work anymore, couldn’t go back home, so I packed up whatever I needed and hit the road after my scars had healed.’

‘And you’ve been traveling ever since,’ you finish for him, now understanding what he’d meant before about wants versus needs. ‘So everyone thought you were dead, and that’s why they’re trying so hard to get in downstairs, they wanna see the miracle,’ you put together, and he nods, his hand limp in your own. ‘If you can escape them, will you run again?’

He chuckles but there’s no joy in it, he looks more tired than you’ve ever seen him. ‘Does it matter? They’ll know I’m out there, they’ll know it’s me the moment this happens again, I couldn’t break the code and now they’ll take me away again.’

‘And if you found somewhere to hide?’ You hold him a little tighter, his eyes shutting at the thought of already trying that and failing, it evident as another tear creeps down his cheek. ‘Somewhere permanent, where they’d never find you, I mean.’

‘Where could I find someplace like that? I was careful, I was sososo careful this time, and I still-’ His hand grips yours for just a moment as he tenses, angry at himself and how it all turned out. 

‘You could-’ You stop yourself from telling him he could stay with you, it’s too much, you’re still strangers even though you knew this much about him now, how could he ever find solace with you after three days spread out over less than two weeks? He couldn’t, and you know it. ‘There has to be somewhere, I could help you.’

‘Help me?’ He looks at you again, doubt and unparalleled cynicism on his face, but you don’t back down.

‘I won’t take from you, Joshua,’ you tell him firmly, and he holds your hand for real this time, weakly, but still on purpose. ‘I’ll find you somewhere you can sketch and paint and take yourself back from them again, and you can hide there for so long you won’t have to run again, do you trust me to do that for you?’

Something different flashes across his face then, something in between his cynicism for his life and hope for what you’re promising. ‘If you can find it, then I’ll go,’ he agrees, his body deflating as he sinks into the pillows, ‘I’m so tired of running, it’s almost as bad as the lying.’

‘About what?’

‘Everything, I couldn’t do it anymore.’

You feel too far from him as he closes his eyes, your body moving on its own as you climb up further onto the bed and get in close, his eyes opening as he tries to see what you’re doing. You wait for his okay, your hand still holding his as he shifts to his left, freeing up enough space for you to lay yourself next to him, your shoulder pressed tight against his. He’s stiff beside you, clearly it’s been a long time since he’s been this close to another person, but you need him to know you’ll come through on your promise, that you truly aren’t there to take from him as you share your warmth and your company.

You don’t know when it happens, but you end up falling asleep like that, only waking up when the nurse comes in to check on him and sees you in bed with him. She comes over to your side and gently shakes you awake, whispering that visiting hours were over as quietly as she can with you still being able to hear her. You blink yourself awake, your arm completely numb as you roll onto your back and attempt to sit, and you see why she was being so quiet; he’s asleep beside you, his book open to a new sketch you couldn’t decipher quite yet, his pencil still in his left hand and telling you he must be ambidextrous considering his right one was still clasped in your own.

You let go, the nurse helping you get up without disturbing him, and he looks so peaceful as he stretches out and tries to find your warmth in his sleep. You wish you could stay, and you wish he could go with you, but those are things you can’t say to him, not yet. You gather up your bag with the dishes inside as quietly as you can before sneaking out, the nurse checking him over as you leave, and when you get home you make another big batch of apple crumble for him to enjoy the next time you visit.

Now that he’s shared so much with you, you make up your mind to share as much as you can with him until he’s ready to leave, making him treats and dinner foods since it was the only time you could visit, each one bringing the light back to his eyes even as the vultures gathered outside to peck him apart again until there was nothing left. You start bringing work to the hospital so you don’t fall behind, the two of you peacefully existing around each other as he draws and you do your job in a chair nearby. When he stops to eat you pull out a bagged dinner, and the two of you sit there and talk while the History Channel silently shows off beautiful scenery and animals in the background. You share your life the way he did his own, the two of you getting closer as his ear heals, his hearing returns, and he gets his strength back.

You bringing him so much food helps his malnutrition, and sometimes you climb onto the bed with him and pull up classic art on your laptop so you can hear what he has to say about it, and he has so much to say. He’s fascinating to listen to, he really knows his stuff, and when you joke about taking lessons from him he just brushes it aside and says that he could never be a teacher even as he tells you all about the random painting you think looks cool as you scroll together. You enjoy your time with him as the world continues on outside those four walls and the windows, the only reminder of the passage of time being the sun as it sets once again.

‘Tomorrow’s Sunday, want me to make you breakfast this time?’ you ask as you stretch, his bed much comfier than the chair but you can’t keep stealing the space, not without an excuse.

‘Sunday breakfast, been a long time,’ he muses as he also stretches, sick of being in bed after so many years of doing nothing but moving. ‘Maybe if we sneak out the back tonight you can take me to your place, that way you don’t have to keep bringing me food here like some kinda delivery person,’ he jokes, and you pray that he can’t see how red your cheeks are becoming at the thought. ‘And… have you found a place for me to hide yet?’

You freeze, wanting to say yes more than anything, and when you look into his eyes you swear that he wants to hear it just as much. ‘Actually, I-’

The door swings open as the doctor walks in with a policeman, the two of you staring in apprehension as the door is closed again behind them; it’s late now, much too late for this to be a simple chat, and you start to move towards him protectively even as the cop stares you down. ‘Mr. Whitmore, after these past two weeks going back between statements from Ms. Skinner and Mr. Morris, as well as the children present, mainly Mr. Walker, we’ve come to the conclusion that it wasn’t a suicide attempt, although the breaking and entering needs to be addressed,’ the cop says calmly, and Joshua shuts his eyes tight in what doesn’t look like relief. ‘We’ve already contacted your bank back in New York where your funds have been frozen, and we’ve worked out a way for your remaining money to pay for your stay here, but the matter of the fine still needs to be taken care of.’

‘How much is it?’ you ask without hesitation, your hand already going for your messenger bag, and the cop looks you over before turning back to him.

‘And who’s this?’ he asks, Joshua looking at you before calling you his friend. ‘Well, since he technically did stay under supervision here while he healed, and the money is being transferred to the hospital for his stay, his fine still comes to $1000; abandoned or not, it’s still private property.’

‘I’ll pay it,’ you announce, Joshua already trying to talk you out of it but it’s useless, your checkbook held out as you write down the amount using one of his pens since you once again couldn’t find your own. The cop allows you to, the matter now settled as you hand over the thin strip of paper, Joshua not meeting your eye as he stares at his book with an unreadable expression. The cop tucks the paper into his pocket and tips his hat to the two of you, wishing you both a good night now that he was free to go again, the doctor staying behind to finish the conversation.

‘You can continue seeing us if anything changes, but you can be discharged as soon as tonight,’ he explains, Joshua still not looking up. ‘If you have somewhere to go, I suggest you do so, save yourself another day of billing; just be sure to keep from sleeping on your left, let it finish healing.’

‘All my things were seized, might as well sleep in a warm bed one last time before I pick them up and find a new bridge to sleep under tomorrow,’ he mutters to himself, the doctor shooting you a concerned glance as you try to force the words to come out. The doctor sees you struggling and gives you a moment to speak even though visiting hours were once again over, the sun set outside and the lights inside making the windows turn to mirrors. ‘You can go now, I won’t have you trying to buy more of me,’ he suddenly says like he believes it, and it shocks you so much that you can no longer stay silent.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I see it now, the supplies, the food, now the fine, all handouts for the poor, struggling artist, can’t even keep an apple fresh on the road, that’s right, isn’t it?’ He’s gathering up his stuff, no longer interested in spending the night and looking ready to run again.

‘Wha- none of that was a handout, I was sharing with you, I thought you got that?’ you try to tell him but he’s inconsolable, his legs swinging over the side of the bed as he gathers everything up in his arms.

‘Yeah, everyone takes, what were you going to take from me when all this was over, huh? Did you want to be the one to nurse me back to health and carry me out the doors for everyone to gawk at? The hero who saved Joshua Whitmore, brought him back from the dead? I bet that would lead to a few good interviews, maybe some TV time, can’t forget about the flash of the cameras even now; I wonder if they’re waiting for us, can’t keep them waiting, can we?’

He was on another one of his tangents, saying everything that came to mind without pause as he overloaded with too much all at once, and you race around to his side as he stands and heads for the door, ready to step in front of the vultures to be willingly devoured. You hold out your arms to stop him before looking up, he’s much taller than you thought after seeing him only sit or lay for two weeks, briefly distracted by it before he’s trying to push past you to get to the hallway. ‘No! I’m not letting them have you,’ you insist, not wanting to grab him and force him to stay, but when he shoves you a little too hard and you stumble you can’t help but cling to his arm in an attempt to steady yourself. He stumbles with you, everything falling to the floor and scattering, and you both forget your fight as his sketchbook opens to the page you’d seen before, the one you couldn’t decipher.

You stoop down to pick it up as he runs his hand through his hair and tries to take it away, your eyes on the page as you see yourself, presumably from his perspective as you slept on his shoulder. You flip through the pages after that, seeing yourself again and again before he grabs his book and holds it to his chest, his eyes on his remaining things on the floor, all gifts from you. ‘I thought you were different,’ he mumbles, and you feel your lip quiver before you’re closing the gap and hugging him, trapping him in place.

He tries to shift free but you won’t let him, mindful of his ear as you tuck yourself into his right side, your hands clasping behind his back instead of holding him, something in you telling you that you wouldn’t be able to let go if you grabbed onto him instead. ‘They weren’t handouts,’ you tell him again, his hands and book pressed tightly between you, ‘I wanted to help you…’

‘What person drops $1000 on someone they barely know?’ he says into your hair, and you pray he doesn’t feel you shaking.

‘A friend does, I thought we were friends…’

‘You don’t wanna be my friend, no matter how many times you visit, you still barely know me.’

‘I do, I wanna know so much more, I want…’ You swallow, your hands letting go of yourself so you can grab onto his shirt instead. ‘I want so much more…’

You’ve surprised him again and you know it as his breath hitches, and he tries one last time to be cynical, to run. ‘What’ll you take from me if I let you?’

‘I won’t take anything, I told you already; I just wanna be able to share more with you, I don’t need a miracle, I don’t want you to disappear again.’

‘...Don’t lie to me.’ He tries to sound confident in his despair, but there’s hope in there as well.

‘I don’t think I can lie to you, not after this,’ you admit, and he laughs in a way that isn’t entirely bitter.

‘Good, I don’t think I can handle you lying to me.’ He backs away but not to run, and you allow him to look down at you; he’s crying, but so are you, and you hope that he can tell that you’re telling the truth when he looks from your pink cheeks to your eyes until finally settling on your lips. You think for a moment he might kiss you but he doesn’t, just sniffs and kneels down to pick up everything he dropped. You help him, and he’s about to climb back into bed for that final night’s sleep when you grab onto the back of his shirt and stop him.

‘What happened to sneaking out the back?’ you ask softly, and the lights return to his eyes as he follows you out into the hall. 

The front desk is in perfect view of the doors where you still see people waiting on the other side, so you flag down a nurse to get him checked out from afar as you casually walk by them and hurry home. You return less than 15 minutes later with your car, parking it just out of sight in the back where he can’t be seen no matter how hard any paparazzi try, and when he comes out dressed in scrubs you eagerly unlock the door and bolt before anyone can look too hard.

You park your car in the garage and lead him into your home, and at first you feel self-conscious about it because he used to be the high profile celebrity you originally thought he was, but as he looks around he doesn’t look bothered, and when he sees the painting on your wall he stops and stares. ‘Who did this?’ he asks as he examines it, and you smile faintly as you remember the day you got it.

‘My grandfather, back before he passed,’ you tell him, and he looks at you instead. ‘I was too young to understand what he felt when he painted it, but I think being around you might’ve helped me understand a little bit better now.’

‘What did he feel, then?’

‘Love.’ You look up at him, your shoulders touching as he turns back to it and nods.

‘I think so, too.’

You sleep in the next morning, your arm numb again as you navigate the tangle of blankets you’ve trapped yourself in in the night. It took some convincing but you managed to get him to take your bed, needing to insist it wasn’t a handout after so many years of sleeping on cold floors, and when you peek in on him you can see how much he needed it as he covers as much of the queen mattress as he can. You grin and start on breakfast, wanting to let him get some proper rest for as long as he can until the smell of food awakens him and pulls him to you. You’re still no chef, but you can also make some damn good scrambled eggs, and he looks way too hungry to criticize you.

‘Need any help?’ he offers, but you’re pretty much done so you direct him to the cupboards to set the table instead. You both move in a comfortable silence until you’re sat together, and you smile into your coffee when you see how he finally looks like himself again.

‘Sleep well?’ you ask as you hand him the jam without him needing to ask just based on how he watched you cover your toast, and your fingers brush as he takes the jar from you. He stares a moment before spreading it liberally over his own toast, and his eyes don’t leave you as he takes a big bite.

‘I think I finally broke the code,’ he suddenly says as you wait for his answer, your head cocking to the side in confusion at the second mention of this code. ‘I think I know why so many people saw miracles in my paintings, no matter what I drew.’

‘Why’s that?’ you ask around a mouthful of eggs and potatoes, and he draws something in the air that you can’t see, although you know that he can.

‘People see what they wanna see, they’d rather put meaning into their own truths than face the reality staring right at them,’ he muses, still drawing.

‘And what does your reality say?’

His hand lowers back to his fork but he doesn’t look away from you, and you eventually have to look away under his warm but steady gaze. ‘It says I don’t have to lie anymore, that this might be…’ He just looks at your painting without finishing his sentence, but you already know what he wanted to say, your own confession of this being where you wanted him to stay going unsaid but accepted all the same the moment he crawled into your bed. Outside the window behind him, a bird similar to the one outside his hospital room lands on your sil, and she stares at you before chirping out a quick song and flying away; the light coming in from the window covers him in a faint halo but it holds nothing miraculous in it as he looks at you, the man before you just that, a man.

‘I think so, too,’ you reply, his smile matching your own as you share your life with him, Joshua ready now to do the same with you.

[neoncherryblossom]

New Fic Idea I've had rattling in my brain for actual months:

Post Collector, Alador begins reconciling with all his old friends. And it goes mostly okay except for Darius, because he refuses to talk to him. Unlike everyone else, him and Darius' fallout was a lot more personal than 'we stopped talking one day' and he's kinda horrified of even trying to repair that bridge.

So he does the next best thing that comes to mind.

"So here's the plan. I want you to tell me how he's changed since high school, what he likes and how I can make him... open up to me."

"You want me to what?"

(He decides to go to Eberwolf, the only person Darius consistently talks to that didn't go with them to school.

All the shenanigans you think can happen, will happen. And Darius will be very confused on the sidelines as Eber tries to explain to this chronic over thinker that just talking to Darius will probably be enough of a starting point to kickstart a friendship, not whatever this '35 step plan to get Darius to not think I'm a spineless coward!' plan Alador has got going on.)

[rorywritesjunk]

When all you want to do is work on your fic but something is stopping you.

This is definitely a type of writer's block.

[wistfulwatcher]

i feel like your roman candle; misty/nat, 8k, explicit

written in response to a series of tumblr erotic prompts (since i ended up getting many more than i was expecting, i have combined the ones that fit!).

prompts used: caught masturbating, torn lace, against the wall, fingers (@igotreallyreallytiredofmyoldurl), “do that again”, hair, panting, love bites, taste, restrained, desperate, tease, on the edge, and in public (if you squint)

read here on ao3