#otp mini fics

[twisting-echo]

Memories (Shadaria AU)

Set in the Victorian era, Memories follows Baron Shadow, who commissions numerous professional artists to paint portraits of the girl he once loved dearly. For months, Shadow works with these artists, describing the girl’s delicate features, but none capture his vision, leading him to send them away. Falling into a deep depression, Shadow becomes a reclusive insomniac, haunted by the fear of forgetting her face. Nights pass, and he turns to the bottle, his torment growing until he emotionally snaps.

A knock on his door shakes him back to reality, revealing a mysterious painter who offers to paint for him. Initially skeptical, Shadow turns the artist away, but the painter insists they won’t fail him, promising a painting so lifelike it could come to life. Shadow, reluctantly, describes the girl from his past and heads to bed, allowing the artist to stay overnight. The next morning, Shadow is stunned to find the painting completed. The girl in the painting matches his description perfectly, as if the artist had plucked her image from his memory. It feels like looking at a ghost; the painting both haunts and thrills him. He searches for the artist to thank them, but they are nowhere to be found, as if they never existed.

As night falls, Shadow drags his favorite armchair from the fireplace in his study to the special room where he has hung his new prized painting. He pulls back the curtains, letting the moonlight illuminate the painting, and sits for hours, unable to tear himself away. He admires the girl’s soft, pale skin, golden hair glinting like sunlight, demure smile, and especially her ice-blue eyes, which haunt him the most. How could the artist know she had the kindest, most piercing ice blue eyes?

As the hours pass, Shadow pours one glass after another of his favorite whiskey, watching the painting. As dawn begins to break, something strange happens. It seems as though the girl in the painting is coming to life. Thinking he has finally gone mad; he moves closer and sees the girl beginning to move. She reaches out and gently caresses his cheek. Startled at first, he then leans into the touch, clasping his hand over hers and slowly closing his eyes, tears streaming down his face. When he opens them, he looks into her eyes, gently brushes his knuckles against her bangs and down her cheek, and shudders.

The name that falls from his lips is “Maria?”

...

Notes:

This AU is based on a piece of art I saw on DA called "Memories" three years ago.

Link to art -- Memories by Manweri.

Tag: @song-of-silentbird @mahoushoujodreams @sailor--poon @shadowxmaria @hadesknockedupintheunderworld @gottagofast2thextreme @silverstar93

[kinardsevan]

Okay, prompt. Tommy and Buck are having slow shifts and one of them decides to call the other.

consider this as existing in the same timeline as to can’t outdrive pain (someday it’s gonna take the wheel)

we survive

Tommy sighs, pushing a piece of paper across the table.

“Riley, you have to at least try to make your art not be derogatory,” he states in a gentle but firm tone. “Miss Sidney isn’t going to let this fly.”

Riley rolls his eyes, tossing a conte crayon onto the table. Charcoal scatters as it cracks in half, and the teenager crosses his arms. Tommy frowns, reaching out for the crayon and setting it back inside the box he’d brought with him.

He’s no stranger to Riley’s moods six months into this endeavor. What had begun as a way to fill some time after breaking his elbow and having to miss weeks of work has become part of his weekly ritual now, occasionally twice a week when he can swing the extra time. Evan has joined him a number of times when the time off has lined up, but today he’s alone.

Riley Collins was almost sixteen and had a rough background, one Tommy could relate to only too well. His mom had died when he was three, and he was left with an alcoholic father who cared so little that at seven, he’d been found digging in a neighbors trash can for food. That had begun the teen’s childhood in foster care, but it hadn’t been the end of it. He’d cycled through multiple foster homes with while struggling with attachment issues. There was a year-long period when Riley was eleven where his father had gotten sober, regained custody, and things seemed like they might get better. Except, Riley had been the ringer by that point. He’d lived in homes with emotional and verbal abuse. He’d seen parents hit each other, and occasionally hit the children. He’d seen sexual abuse through the tiny window of where his blankets didn’t completely cover his eyes when cries of his foster siblings woke him in the middle of the night. He’d faced some of those situations himself, and by the time he cycled back into his fathers home, he wasn’t the same little kid who had learned to become self-sufficient when his father was lost to the bottle.

Either way, Riley’s father made it six months before his sobriety with Riley back home went to hell. There was a DWI, and then an occurrence where Riley showed up to school with a black eye and bloodied nose. Then he was locked out of the house. CPS was still so involved at that point that he was quickly placed back in foster care, but the writing was on the wall at that point. Even though he’d been placed with a family with good values, he was a mess. There were stolen things, broken possessions, a flirtation with breaking the law. Ultimately though, it was a full-on brawl he got into with an uncle which led to his placement in the group home. And the thing was, he was a great student. He could stay invested in his school work and the routine it required without a problem. But when it came to people…he was a mess.

Tommy couldn’t help but reflect that back to his own childhood.

“This is so fucking lame anyway,” Riley bemoans.

Tommy raises an eyebrow at him. “Really? You seemed to think it was cool three days ago.”

“What the fuck do you know, old man,” Riley replies, scowling at him. He shoves away from the table, and Sidney is up out of her chair quickly, already calling after him, but Tommy raises a hand to her.

“Let me go,” he tells her softly. Their group is usually a bit bigger, but with school being back in session, half of them have signed up for extracurriculars, so there’s only three today, and Sidney has the other two pretty well covered with whatever they’re drawing.

She looks at him with a hint of apprehension, but then nods, settling back into her chair.

Tommy picks up his sketchbook and moves around the table, walks out the back door toward a picnic table where Riley is pushing a stick into the aged wood, trying to peel a piece of loose long grain with it. He dares a glance up at Tommy and then sighs, looking back down at the table.

“Hey kid. You wanna tell me what that was all about,” he asks, crossing the space between them but still staying a few feet away.

Riley huffs but doesn’t answer as he keeps pushing at the picnic table with the stick. Tommy frowns, taking a few more steps forward and sitting down on the opposite side of the table. He reaches into the pocket of his shirt and pulls out a tin of Altoid Sours. He pops one in his mouth and then offers one to Riley. When the kid doesn’t immediately take one, Tommy rests the tin on the table between them.

“You know, I used to make a lot of really violent art,” Tommy states. “Still have some of it. Drawings of people getting stabbed, gunshot wounds.”

“Bet Miss Sidney would love to hear that right now,” Riley states sarcastically.

Tommy shrugs. “Probably not. But it was how I dealt. Especially with the people who hurt me when I was your age.” He flips his sketchbook back to the front before setting in front of Riley on the table. The first few pages have older, yellowed paper taped in. It’s been crumpled and some of it is shredded, but Riley looks up at it, skims over the images. He sets the stick down and flips a page over as something that looks suspiciously like comic paneling tells the story of a child and his abusive father. He watches the way Riley runs his fingers over the paper, touches the images.

“What do you know about abuse anyway, old man,” Riley murmurs softly, anger still present in his voice.

“More than you’d think, kid,” Tommy replies. When the teen looks up at him, Tommy raises an eyebrow at him. “First of all, I wasn’t always this built or lean. And me at thirteen, on the huskier side and gay? That didn’t go over all that well in my home.”

Riley doesn’t let on his emotional response to Tommy’s explanation, but he keeps flipping through the pages in the sketchbook. A drawing of a war zone. Drawings of mass military graves. Dog tags. Bloodied fists with colored pastels.

“Least you got out,” Riley comments after a few minutes of silence. “Had someone to help.”

Tommy gives a haughty laugh. “I went to the military to get out. I didn’t have anyone waiting at home if I made it back from Iraq. Everything I’ve done, I’ve had to do on my own.”

There’s still a scowl on Riley’s face, but the ire seems to sink out of it as he listens to Tommy.

“I was not cool when I came back, either,” he adds. “I was really shitty to people I now consider friends. Spent a lot of years alone because I couldn’t figure out how to just connect with people.”

“Least you found people who wanted you around,” Riley grumbles, his voice still soft, like he doesn’t actually want Tommy to hear him. “I got two years.”

Tommy sighs. He’s not sure whether saying something is a good idea. There are still too many what ifs and probabilities for him to be sure.

“You know, Evan and I have been talking to Miss Sidney,” he states in a quiet tone. Riley finally reaches out and takes one of the altoids, pops it into his mouth. His eyes slowly raise, though he doesn’t look directly at Tommy. “But we can’t do anything if you keep showing this kind of attitude in program. They won’t consider it a good placement.”

Riley’s brown eyes meet his then, his sandy blonde hair half hanging in them. He stares at Tommy with a bewildered expression.

“Hailey is-..”

Tommy shakes his head, cutting Riley off. Of course the kid would think they’d want a young child. “Hailey doesn’t fit in our home. She’s six. She needs a mom.”

“Dakota-“

“Doesn’t like fire trucks,” Tommy comments, in reference to another one of the younger kids.

Riley looks up at him, brow furrowed. “Shouldn’t you two want a baby?”

Tommy lets out a small laugh. “Do you know how long the adoption process is for an infant? Never mind surrogacy.” He can’t help the warmth in his chest at the fact that for all of Riley’s questions, the idea of living in a house with two men in a committed (carnal) relationship isn’t one of them.

Riley is quiet again for a few moments as he closes Tommy’s sketchbook and places it back on the table.

“I age out in 798 days,” he mutters.

Tommy takes a breath and shrugs again. “Well. I guess that leaves us roughly twenty-two thousand more to have you around with us, five of take a few thousand,” he states. “You know, if you want to.”

Riley looks up at him through his eyelashes with an expression that’s trying suspiciously not to reflect any kind of hope. Tommy recognizes it from the one he had when he’d been told he was going back to live with his father at thirteen. He narrows his gaze slightly as he reaches out for his sketchbook.

“You know, Evan makes a mean shepherd’s pie,” he comments, sliding the book back over. “I could probably get him to whip one up tonight. He’s supposed to be off shift soon.”

“T-tonight,” Riley stammers.

“Only if you want to,” Tommy replies. “And if you apologize in front of Miss Sidney. I kinda promised her you’d be a good fit and you’re making me look bad right now.”

The slightest bit of an upturn happens at the corners of Riley’s mouth. Tommy nods, reaching out for the altoids tin. He closes it and pops it back in his pocket.

. . .

Hours later, in the silence of their home, Evan rests his chin on Tommy’s shoulder as they stand in the doorway of what they expect to become Riley’s bedroom. The teen is sprawled across the Queen-sized bed and a pillow that Tommy finds to be suspiciously similar to one from his and Evan’s bed is wrapped tightly in the teen’s arms.

“Dare I say, he’s a little attached to us,” Evan whispers to Tommy.

Tommy chuckles, pointing up to the T-shirts tacked up to a cork board on the wall. “That was his idea.”

Both shirts are worn and faded, one from the 118 and the other from Harbor. The vinyl is half-peeled from the shirts, and only the outline of Tommy’s last name remains on the shirt that belonged to him from how much use it’s seen.

“Who would’ve thought he’d like us that much,” Evan jokes. He tilts his head, resting his cheek on Tommy’s shoulder.

“I think he feels seen. Understood,” Tommy murmurs back. He takes a breath, looking down at Evan. “He asked if he could take both last names.”

Evan smiles wearily at Tommy. “He can have whatever he wants.”

Tommy lets out a soft chuckle, although he stiffens when Riley moves on the bed, only to settle a few seconds later with a contented sigh.

“And this is why you’re not in charge of the budget right now,” he comments. “He’ll have you talked into a car and three gaming systems in under twenty-four hours.”

Evan scowls at Tommy, turns his head and bites his shoulder. Tommy grunts softly, turning toward him. He pushes Evan gently out of the room, across the hall into their bedroom, easing the door shut quietly.

“Let’s not traumatize the kid on his first night home,” he states, framing Evan’s face with his hands before he dives in for a heated kiss. Evan moans softly into his mouth, fisting Tommy’s shirt.

“Well then, I guess you’re just gonna have to drown me out with the shower,” Evan replies, tugging Tommy back towards the en-suite.

And he does.

[gothamite-rambler]

We all need a boyfriend like this (and a pain tolerance like Selina's)

Catwoman clutched her hip, feeling the warm blood trickle from the stab wound as she limped down the street. Anger won the fight over fear within her as the pain settled in, but she was far enough away from her attacker who had ran off an hour ago. The former villain never thought about the fact walking with an injury that wasn't mended hurt way more then she expected.

Catwoman (pulling out her phone, grimacing): Please pick up.

She dialed a number, and after two rings, a familiar voice answered.

Catwoman (voice tense): A motherfucker stabbed me!

Batman (surprised): I—stabbing?

Catwoman (quickly): Yes, stabbed! And it wasn't even the Joker this time, surprising, right? It was — Stab wounds hurt way more than I remember — Anyways some guy in a clown mask attacked me. One of those Joker wannabes. I tried to avoid talking to him, but he got one prick on my side. How the hell do you avoid being stabbed, babe?

Batman fell silent for a few seconds, only emitting an angry grunt. Catwoman paused, catching her breath and wondering why her boyfriend wasn’t responding.

Catwoman (concerned): Batsy, you there? If you're worried, I can reassure you that the knife wound wasn’t too deep, I just need a few stitches. You know how it goes.

Batman (forcing out a laugh): Yeah, relatable. Hey, the guy who stabbed you—he was wearing a clown mask, just a face covering, and he had a blood-covered dagger?

Catwoman (nodding, despite the pain): Correct, pookie. And get this— when he stabbed me, he said I deserved it for being a worthless subhuman. Rude, right? Anyway, are any of the Robins nearby? I need an escort.

Batman (clenching his teeth): I’ve got you covered. I need to deal with this criminal, but I'll meet you both at the car.

Batman abruptly ended the call after sending an alert to Red Robin, instructing him to meet Catwoman since he was the closest. With focused determination, Batman turned to face the terrified crook in the clown mask, gripping the bloody knife. A curt smile crept onto the Dark Knight's face as he cracked his knuckles.

Batman (voice low and threatening): Subhuman, huh? You’re going to wish you were dead once I’m done with you.

The clown mask whimpered in fear, too late to reconsider as Batman unleashed his fury, utilizing his Arkham Knight training on the hapless criminal. Moments later, Red Robin arrived just in time to help Catwoman walk to the Batmobile, where she settled into the backseat, not too worse for wear.

[earnmysong]

tylerkate + 7-Eleven slurpees

I did, in fact, Google 7-Elevens in the states with the highest tornado activity, because I'm a giant nerd!

THE JOKER AIN'T THE ONLY FOOL WHO'LL DO ANYTHING FOR YOU

Kate finally tears open the bag of peach rings she’s been fighting with for the last couple of minutes, upending all of them neatly into the cup of swirled, hazard-bright slush she’s got clamped between her knees just as Gale’s front right tire dips into a divot in the patchy dirt road.

[Tyler’s sand-colored successor to Clifford, retrofitted to the max as she happens to be, still succumbs to rural infrastructure on rare occasions.]

Kate yelps, shoving her plastic dome back into place before she loses even an ounce of her winnings. She sips, her mouth playing with the straw while her eyes scan the horizon for encroaching wall clouds. When her gaze slides to the left, she finds Tyler struggling to contain his laughter.

“There a problem?” She’s using her straw to fish out sugar circles now, tapping to zoom the radar in further with her free hand.

“Not a one,” Tyler assures. “Doctor Dandelion’s got a few surprise layers to her is all. That mind of yours on a massive sugar high? Can’t wait to witness the genius overflowin’.”

“I yielded Hayes for Fayetteville. No signs of significant build-up, we go to 7-11, because that’s obviously the only reason we’re on the wrong side of state lines.” She shakes her head, loosening her seatbelt so she can pivot and have a decent view of the more elusive parts of the sky along Gale’s path. “You agreed to the deal, cowboy, I’m just enjoyin’ my victory.”

Cross posted to AO3 HERE

[mrprettywhenhecries]

gift wrap [g.t]

Part Three of 𝑨 𝑻𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒎𝒂𝒏–𝑳𝒆𝒘𝒊𝒔 𝑪𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑖 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠

Gator Tillman ✗ Win Lewis

➼ w.c. 1.7k ➼ warnings/tags. fluff, oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, breeding kink (if you squint?), just some sweet sultry lovemaking ➼ a/n. Woo, this is a little later than I had planned, but hopefully you're still in the holiday mood. This series takes place about a year after the events of Don’t Waste Your Time (on Me), and while technically the main series is still being written, I wanted to take a small break to write some fluff for Win and Gator for Christmas. ➼ divider credits. @/strangergraphics

Appalled by his lack of wrapping skills, Win helps Gator wrap his gifts to the Lyons before deciding to let him unwrap an early Christmas gift. 

“Oh who am I kidding?  These are gunna look like shit anyway,” Gator muttered under his breath as he fumbled with the wrapping paper, his missing finger making the task more difficult than it already was.  He’d never been very good at it in the first place, but now it was practically an exercise in futility, the package he was attempting to wrap looking more like a crumpled bundle of wrapping paper.

“Waited long enough to do your wrapping,” Win commented, drawn to the room by Gator’s frustrated grumbles.  “It’s almost midnight,” she pointed out before offering to help and Gator’s head snapped up in surprise as she rounded the couch.  

“I don’t need any help!” he huffed brusquely, trying to hide the half wrapped gift.  “I mean, I got it—“ insisted, his voice dropping.

Win gave him a knowing look before sitting down next to him, crossing her legs as she settled on the floor.  “That looks like shit,” she said and Gator let out a snort as he looked down at his work.

“Yeah, it kinda does,” he admitted, his lips twitching slightly.  “Fine, maybe I might need some help,” he relented reluctantly.

Win grinned and pulled the box closer.  “Hand me a piece of tape,” she said, smoothing the wrapping paper beneath it before folding the sides up and over the box, pulling it snug against the sides.

“How the fuck are you so good at this?” Gator asked, handing her the tape as he watched in awe.

“I like wrapping stuff,” she said, shrugging.  “I used to wrap everyone’s gifts for everyone else, so eventually I got good at it,” she explained, finishing up the other sides and taping them in place.

“Who was this one for?” she asked, putting a little tag on it and grabbing the pen Gator had on the floor next to him.

“That one’s for Scotty,” he answered and Win wrote his niece’s name on the tag.

“Want me to do the others?  Or do you wanna try?” she asked, turning to Gator expectantly.

He seemed to think for a moment before pushing the next box toward her.  “You do Wayne’s and I’ll try doing Dot’s,” he decided and the two of them got to work.

It didn’t take long for Win to finish wrapping Wayne’s gift and she glanced over to see Gator trying to emulate what she’d done.  The paper was a little crooked, but the paper was much less wrinkled this time.

“Looks good,” she said, giving him an encouraging smile, which he returned, pride shining through.

“Wasn’t that hard,” he quipped, as if he hadn’t needed help in the first place and Win rolled her eyes.

“Now that we’re finished, I was thinking I’d let you open one of your gifts early,” she said, a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“I won’t say no to that,” Gator exclaimed, glancing toward the gifts already sitting beneath their tree.  “Does it matter which one?” he asked, clueless to her meaning.

“I was thinkin’… this one,” Win purred, crawling closer to straddle his hips and Gator’s brows rose, his hands going to her waist, fingers dipping just under the hem of her oversized sweater.

“Good choice,” he drawled, a grin playing at his lips.  “Can’t wait to tear this one open,” he breathed, pushing her sweater higher, his palms skimming her warm skin.  Win lifted her arms so he could pull her shirt over her head, shaking her hair out once she was free and Gator’s dark eyes fell to her chest, taking in the sight of her lacy bralette.

“This new?” he asked, his hands ghosting over the delicate lace to cover her tits, coaxing her nipples to stiffen with his thumbs.

“Mhmm,” Win hummed, peering at him through her lashes.  “You like?” 

Gator let out a soft chuckle.  “Course I do.  But now I’m curious if your panties match,” he mused, his palms trailing back down her body to circle her hips, giving them a brief squeeze as he lifted her, helping her to her feet so he could work her leggings down, dragging the elastic fabric down her legs, and she held onto his shoulders to steady herself as she stepped out of the garment.

“Well shit, guess they do,” he murmured, his eyes flicking up to hers after admiring the matching bit of lace that hugged her hips and stretched between her legs.  

“Don’t you look good enough to eat,” Gator drawled, pulling her closer to press a feather light kiss to her navel, his lips trailing downward till they skimmed over the lace and he nosed at her clit, his tongue swiping over her clothed folds, drawing a hitched moan to Win’s lips, and her body gave a jerk, her hips involuntarily shuddering, rolling against his face.

“Y’like that, huh?” he breathed, holding her close, not done teasing her yet.  “You smell so fuckin’ good,” he groaned, burying his face deeper into her cunt, kissing her through the lace, the scent of her arousal making his cock stir beneath his jeans.

Pulling back just long enough to tug her panties down, Gator smirked at the whine that caught in her throat at the loss of his mouth on her sex, the sound hitching to a sharp gasp as he lapped at her bare clit, drawing it between his lips to suck at as he worked the damp lace down her legs.  Her head fell back as her hips canted forward, and she buried her fingers in Gator’s hair, glad he wore it loose more often now, and he moaned as her nails grazed his scalp.

“Oh fuck,” he groaned, his cock throbbing almost painfully against the thick denim of his jeans and he paused to palm himself, shuddering at the friction.  

Win bit her lip as she watched him, relishing how needy she could make him so quickly—he was still like such a horny teenager sometimes, barely needing much to leave him desperate and wanting.  Stepping out of her discarded panties, Win took Gator’s hands, helping him to his feet and hastily pushing his shirt over his head.  

“You’re far too dressed for what comes next,” she teased, her husky voice turning syrupy as her hands trailed back down his chest, her fingers running through his soft thatch of dark chest hair, and she leaned in to press a kiss to one of the moles that stood out against his light skin before her lips moved to his nipple, circling it with her tongue as her hand deftly moved to undo his jeans, giving him a soft squeeze through his tented briefs.

“Oh fuck yeah,” Gator breathed in relief, his eyelids fluttering shut as she peeled his underwear down with his jeans to free him, his cock flopping out heavily, already leaking precum.  When she wrapped her hand around him, giving his length a slow stroke, her thumb brushing over his sensitive tip, Gator drew a shuddering breath.

“C’mere,” he grunted, hefting her easily into his arms, and she obediently wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her the short distance to the couch, the heavy weight of his cock pressed between them.

Laying her back onto the couch, he nearly tumbled atop her, catching himself against the sofa arm with a soft chuckle, hovering over her, his cock teasing her folds.

“I fuckin’ love you,” he breathed, the words tumbling out in a rush and Win smiled, holding his face between her hands.

“I fuckin’ love you,” she repeated, a soft moan leaving her lips as he pressed into her, the sweet stretch of him nearly leaving her breathless, only for Gator to steal the rest of her breath with a searing kiss as his next thrust filled her deeper, his cock dragging deliciously against her g-spot, causing her to tighten around him, feeling each ridge and vein of his length as it moved inside her.

“You’re the best thing in my fuckin’ life,” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear and Win’s arms wound round his shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer as her chest tightened with emotion.

“Oh Gate—“ 

Win’s words melted into a whine as he snapped into her and she began rolling her hips to meet his thrusts, urging him deeper, her breath hot against the crook of his neck where she buried her face.

“Fuck babe, you’re so tight, so fuckin’ good—“ Gator groaned, babbling praises as the hot coil of  pleasure in his gut constricted with each thrust.

“Wanna make you feel good,” he mumbled, grabbing her thigh to push her leg higher, adjusting his angle, and her body reacted almost instantly, her walls fluttering and tightening around him.

“Oh fuck— Yes, right there—!” Win gasped breathlessly, her hips rolling desperately as heat filled her, slowly spreading outward.

“Gator, please—don’t stop!” she begged, her lips dragging across his flushed skin as she rocked beneath him.

“I ain’t stoppin’, baby, trust me,” Gator grunted.  “Gunna fill this sweet ‘tang, leave you drippin’, honey,” he growled, dropping his chin as if to kiss her, seeking her lips only to find them parted wide, leaving him sharing her breath, panting heavily into her mouth as they hovered together on the precipice.

“Fuckin’ cum for me, Win,” he breathed, almost a plea, and her breath hitched as the earth gave way, her stomach dropping in the familiar rush before the plummet.

“Oh God—Gator!” she cried, tensing as she was swept away and Gator let go, cumming with a shudder, his thrusts slowing as he filled her, and he dropped his face to the crook of her neck as he fought to catch his breath, breathing in her scent.

“Oh fuck,” he gasped, lifting his head to meet Win’s blissed out gaze, grey eyes lidded and face flushed.

“You can say that again,” she huffed lightly, pushing Gator’s hair from his forehead, stuck to the sheen of sweat that glistened on his skin.

“Don’t think I gotta tell you how much I loved my present,” he chuckled breathlessly, settling atop her, careful not to crush her and she smiled as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding him close. “Good,” she laughed, letting her eyes slip shut.  “If you’re good, maybe I’ll give you another one before Santa comes.”

➼ taglist. @super-unpredictable98 @heartbreak-sandwich @sailorskunk @hickeysgodcomplex @thecreelhouse

@girlwiththerubyslippers @mayhem24-7forever @professionalpromqueen

[mangofresca]

zephyr | 18+

ii.

“We could leave, y’know.”

Romano startles, head turning over his shoulder as if he were searching for a spy, a conspirator. Sometimes, that’s not unlike how Portugal feels here, always a little too relegated to the outside for comfort, too close to the inside for tranquility or freedom.

He shakes the thought away, eyebrow raised in question at the only other person here who hasn’t exhausted him yet.

Romano’s eyes flick from his face to the windows, to the rain pelting the windowpanes, and he scoffs. “And do what? Get soaked?” His fingers tap the glass in his hand, and Portugal watches with muted disinterest as the wine rocks back and forth, back and forth, an ocean all its own, confined and confined and confined.

“Better than staying here.” Staying here and playing pretend with a government who can only just tell him and Spain apart, and Portugal doesn’t have the stomach anymore for the accent or the language or the face of it all.

Romano tsks, and, for some reason, this infuriates him, as if Romano is content to sit here and be lessened, nothing more than a jewel on a crown on a head who so blatantly picks favorites. Like they’re above it all, the two of them.

He turns, and he leaves, and he doesn’t care enough to see if anyone watches him go.

vi.

“That was–”

Portugal is already pushing up off the bed, flicking hair from his eyes. “Want a drink?”

“Obviously,” Romano snorts, but he sounds like he’s amused, and when Portugal turns around to look at him, all he can see is the way Romano’s lips curl around his teeth, how his cheeks look when he smiles.

ix.

Romano snores when he sleeps, raspy and rough, and when his hair falls in front of his eyes, his nose crinkles with the tickle of it, too deep in dreams to bother moving it away.

We shouldn’t be doing this, Portugal thinks, because things are messy, only getting worse, and he doesn’t understand how Romano doesn’t grow restless beneath a thumb that demands obedience, that is all too comfortable pressing down on the pulse of their throats, hard enough to feel it beating, not hard enough to choke.

“I wish this was easy,” he says instead, and his skin goes cold when he realizes he means it, green eyes already looking down at tanned legs tangled with his, errant curl brushing his collarbone.

He’s gotten used to that, too.

iv.

Portugal can see him on the docks again, hair just as windswept as that first time, waves falling over each other to brush against dark eyelashes, to curl into knots at his hairline.

Spain’s hand is heavy on his shoulder, smile tipping into something that more resembles a bridler than a brother. “You look like you’re thinking hard,” he says, and Portugal hears the warning in it like a bell tolling within his head. “Everything all right?”

“Fine,” Portugal replies. The weight on his shoulder feels suffocating.

vii.

“We should have sex here,” Portugal says, out of the blue and apropos of nothing, voice hushed into a conspiratorial whisper when he leans himself into Romano’s ear.

Romano coughs, splutters, eyes narrowing when Portugal only grins at him.

“Not now, obviously,” he continues, because his brother is here, and his—their, because God forbid any of it is really his—government, too, and he isn’t stupid enough to try anything here, now.

Romano wipes the coughed wine from his lips, arm crossed over his chest as he settles back into the wall behind him. “Please,” he says, and he already sounds scandalized and petulant, “as if I’d settle for anything less than a bed. You think I’d let you fuck me on a settee? Not a chance.”

“I think,” Portugal replies, smiling, “you’d let me fuck you anywhere I want you to.”

Romano scoffs again, furious and blustering, but his shoulder brushes Portugal’s arm, and he doesn’t move it away.

v.

Lively doesn’t adequately describe it when it finally happens.

Romano has him pinned up against the library wall, holding Portugal’s wrists against hand-bound books and shelves which haven’t been dusted in God only knows how long, but all Portugal can think is how difficult it is, when kissing Romano, to push him away, to have him be the one pressed between linen and literature.

He manages, only just, and the heady, groaned gasp of surprise he receives pleasantly makes it worth his while.

x.

Portugal can see him on the docks again, hair wind-knotted and wild, exactly like it was that first time, exactly like the second, like every other time, every other time.

He can’t discern the expression on Romano’s face, too far away for detail, sunlight blinding on wave-crested waters, but he can see him turn around, see him walk away, back to that house and that voice and that hand and that crown.

He almost regrets leaving without a goodbye, but he knows, is certain in the knowledge, that expectation for their kind is the heartbeat of disillusionment, and he doesn’t have it in himself to be disappointed by someone so supine as to find comfort here.

Nothing ever gets resolved with avoidance and shame, but their arrangement never really did have room for much else, anyway.

iii.

He has a dream, then, that lingers worse than a bad hangover or a bloody wound. Maybe it’s years after their last conversation, or maybe it’s days, or maybe it’s hours; he can’t be bothered to keep track, not that their kind usually does when it comes to time.

(Hard. He wakes up hard, and that’s not how his dreams usually go—or, not the ones with Romano, at least.)

Romano was over him, or under him, maybe—not that it matters, because it doesn’t matter, not really. What matters is that Romano was close, breathing against his neck, sighing his name, and it’s—

It was slow, the way they moved. Tender, close.

Odd.

viii.

He’s gotten used to it—the way Romano’s voice hitches, goes taut, tight as his white-knuckled grip on pearl-hued sheets. He’s gotten used to it.

He’s gotten used to it.

i.

They meet officially, formally—and notably without supervision—on the docks of Almería, both windswept and water-worn, and it makes Portugal wonder how long Romano had been standing there for him to look like that, like he himself had blown in with the breeze of the ocean, side-swept bangs tangling into soft knots at his temples.

He is sure he himself is no better, likely worse—a ribbon can only do so much with the whipping winds that dance themselves through his sails—but he doesn’t bother brushing his hair from his face before approaching, grin ticking at the corners of his lips.

Romano blinks at him, hazel eyes owlish before settling into something calmer, almost bored. “Oh,” he says, “it’s you.”

Portugal smiles and tips his head. “Hello,” he replies. Always best to start with hello.

[mylittleredgirl]

after spending 29 hours thinking about a canon-ship scale for that poll, i decided i might as well spend another few hours looking through my old livejournal icons folder to rank the collection of ships i have written/am writing (for better or worse)...

we lost so much when we stopped making those 100x100 pixel icons. where are the pretty tiny photos of artfully cropped couples with even tinier text on them. all we know now is the wasteland of youtube thumbnails on google image search. we used to be a society

decryption key:

same canon, never met on-screen: clone!sam/jack (sg-1) (i'm rounding up from 0.5 here since she's an open-source fanon OC, but you get me)

they interact on-screen: jack o'neill/elizabeth weir (sg-1/sga), b'elanna/kes (st: voy)

some charged interactions: daniel/fraiser (sg-1), troi/ro (st: tng), margaret/trapper (mash), hawkeye/trapper/margaret (mash)

important intimate relationship (not labeled romantic): sheppard/weir (sga), hawkeye/trapper (mash)

one-sided feelings in the text: janeway/chakotay (st: voy) (i will hang for this take i know), miles/keiko/kira (st: ds9), talia/garibaldi (b5) (not necessarily proud of this one but i filled sooooo many five-subject notebooks about them when i was a teenager)

they kiss but it doesn't count: hoshi/travis (st: ent), julian/jadzia (st: ds9), riker/ro (st: tng)

mutual feelings in the text (unresolved): doggett/reyes (x-files), picard/crusher (st: tng - 24th century edition only)

unresolved on-screen, word of god confirmed: sam/jack (sg-1), jake/diane (jake 2.0)

they get together on-screen: trip/t'pol (st: ent), julian/ezri (st: ds9), frank/margaret (mash)

they stay together (endgame): mulder/scully (x-files), riker/troi (st: tng), miles/keiko (st: ds9), berena (holby city - somehow??? i hear we won in the end?), chidi/eleanor (the good place), jason/janet (the good place)

[supermanddntdieforthis]

a/n: what is this? 🤷🏻‍♀️ I opened up the app to write a text post and then this came out. It sat in my drafts unfinished for a week until today when I had to sit in my office for a while.

“I love you,” Ed says breathless as he sinks further and further into sleep. A long day followed by a longer night surrounded by food and drink and friends, Stede had found that Ed was in no condition to get himself home. So instead he’d offered up his couch to his dearest friend who had drunkenly slurred a response before leaning his whole body against him.

Assuming that meant ‘Yes! Thank you my good man!’ He’d helped him into the cab and then into his house. Ed had put up little fuss or fight as Stede maneuvered him around, helping him to unlace and then take off his boots, removing his signature leather jacket and helping to tie his hair up, before plopping him down onto the plush cushions and draping the largest fluffiest blanket he owned over his shoulders.

“I’m leaving water and painkillers on the coffee table alright?” Stede said as Ed clumsily turned himself into a blanket burrito.

Ed mumbled something Stede didn’t catch and then, clear as day, “I love you.”

“I love you.”

He’d said it like it was the most natural thing in the world before he drifted off to sleep. Stede was struck dumb and found that all he could do was to slump back into the nearby armchair.

‘I love you.’

What was Stede supposed to say to that? Well, he knew what he wanted to say. He wanted to say it back.

‘I love you.’

‘I love you, too.’

Because it was true. Stede loved Ed, loved him in a way that he’d never really loved anyone or anything. But he’d always been so afraid to say it. So afraid to burst the bubble on their friendship that had been the most meaningful relationship Stede had ever experienced. Why would he ever risk losing that over a pesky little emotion that would never, could never, be reciprocated? No, it was best to leave it unsaid. Because if he ever said anything, as sure as the sun did rise, Ed would reject him (gently, because Ed did most everything that way), and then he would be gone and Stede couldn’t bear the thought of that. So he stayed quiet, and kept his feelings to himself. Suffer in silence. Keep it to himself. That was the way he’d always handled all the difficult feelings in his life, suffering in silence. He could deal with that because it meant he could still indulge in Ed’s friendship, even if it meant he would never have more than that.

But that was before. All before now, when Ed had sleepily uttered those three little words. He couldn’t have meant it, right? He was drunk and he was tired, he would probably say anything. Even if he had meant it, there was no way he’d meant it in the way Stede hoped he meant it. He meant ‘I love you as a friend, as my best friend.’ Stede was reading into it because he wanted to read into it because Stede loved Ed in that way but Ed did not, could not, love Stede in any other way than platonic. He just had to let it go.

He would let it go, but not before he indulged himself in the thought that even for a little while, Ed might have meant it in the way he wanted. So, he sat there, slumped in his armchair and watched Ed sleep and dreamt of a life where he could have that. He sat there so long he found himself drifting off to sleep, dreaming of a life where Ed would sleepily say, ‘I love you,’ and Stede could reach down and place a kiss on his brow and say, ‘I love you, too.’

Some time later, he awoke to a room colored the soft gray of early morning. He was vaguely aware of someone wearing Ed’s clothes and smelling of Ed’s cologne covering him with a soft, warm blanket. He slumped even further into the chair where he’d been sleeping and muttered, “I love you.”

Then came a huff of a laugh before a soft kiss was placed on his brow and the words whispered back, “I love you, too.”

[astromechs]

If you’re still accepting prompts from that list: Jyn/Cassian - 16 ~~

just barely under 500 words so this is still a mini-fic, because i said so from this list (still accepting)!

There comes a point, late into a night when neither of them are sleeping, that there's nothing to talk about. Anything practical, then, has long since been exhausted, and putting anything to words that's actually keeping them awake is definitely off the table, so for hours at a time, the only option that's left is listening to the hums of the life support systems or to each other's breathing. The latter, often, is a reassurance for Jyn; she's still convinced that Cassian will disappear the second she closes her eyes, and having present, tangible reminders that he's actually still here, his warmth next to her, the reliable rise and fall of his chest.

But when a night is particularly bad, like this one, even that doesn't do much to keep things from feeling so heavy.

No one has spoken for hours. There's nothing to debrief when a mission is over, no plan to finalize when there isn't a next one, and no desire to touch any wounds — fresh or old. And she's restless; she'd kicked the sheets off of her a while ago, and her fingers have spent so much time idly tugging on what's still in her reach that she's nearly taken a thread out of them.

Eventually, she gives that up, too. Casts out, into the silence, just to change something, "I can do an impression of you."

She doesn't have to see his face to know that he's lifting at least one skeptical brow in her direction. "Is that so?"

It's rude, honestly.

Pressing her lips together in a hum, she doesn't directly answer his question, instead offering, after a beat: "I'd have to be standing for you to get the full effect, but —" She shifts in his arms, turning to face him fully (which is actually a feat, considering they're two people crammed into a bunk made for one). "It looks something like this."

An elbow knocks against the metal of the wall — which makes her wince, just for a second — but she won't allow that to stop her, not now that she's committed to this. Both hands go to her hips (her other elbow knocking against him as they do), and she makes an exaggerated show of creasing her brows and setting her jaw into her best imitation of how he might frown at some document she can barely get two sentences into before her mind wanders.

In the low light, Jyn can see enough to know that her effort has been rewarded; Cassian's eyes have crinkled in that way she always finds herself fascinated by, and there's unmistakeable fondness in his voice when he tells her, "You look ridiculous."

A smile, slow and soft, tugs on her own mouth. "Imagine how you look."

What he exhales isn't quite a laugh, and neither is what leaves her in return, but in this moment, it's enough to make things seem just a little bit easier.

[adelaidedrubman]

to jestiny for the oc love interest insults :)

after fishing near each other for an hour in complete silence, apropos of nothing, sybille* asks, "so is it like a judith and holofernes kind of thing you're goin' for, or what?" *wasn't present for the samson and delilah metaphor

(blows you a kiss verbs warnings for graphic and loving descriptions of beheading)

jestiny furrows her brow, considering, then says slowly, “nah — i’d been thinking of myself as more of a salome type, but…” she shrugs and clicks her tongue against her teeth, tipping her beer towards sybille with a grin. “can’t be too fucking picky about head, am i right?”

she laughs at her own joke, taking a slow sip of her drink and allowing a brief resumption of silence before adding, “of course, i have always thought salome was kinda fucked up for sending off guards to take care of the ol’ whack-kcch for her instead of doing it with her own two hands. where’s the fuckin’ satisfaction in that?” jestiny shoves the handle of her rod into the dirt, propping the pole against the inside of her leg and leaning back with an agitated drum of her fingers against her thigh. she’s settling in.  “that being said, i think doing the deed while he’s passed out drunk is also a bit of a fucking waste,” she lectures, chewing the inside of her lip. “like — what’s the fucking point if he isn’t even conscious for it? if you don’t get to see the fear flash in his eyes as you bring the blade down?” she shakes her head. “i mean, it’s already such a quick way to die — all those nerves severed just like that.” she snaps. “you gotta find a way to add the build up before, right?”  jessie rubs her chin, thoughtfully.  “i’ve always thought i’d, y’know — maybe do one soft whack to the side of his neck to start, half-ass it — maybe pretend to miss on purpose, so we can tussle a bit after, give him a chance to think he can weasel away before really putting my back into it and lobbing it off clean…”  her bulky denim jacket is now pushed to the side to expose the hand axe holstered at her hip, her fingers absentmindedly stroking its handle.  “or bring a knife too, start with slitting his throat a little first — superficial, not enough to bleed out from. but enough for me to wedge my axe into while i hold ’im down.” her cheeks flush; her chest rises with a sharp intake of breath. “let him actually feel the blade under the skin of his neck before i wind it back and swing to finish things off for good!” she bursts into laughter, shaking it off before continuing, “now, ideally, i think the visual of actually having a silver platter with you he knows it’s gonna go on adds a lot… then again, you could —” this was a mistake to ask about. she isn’t losing steam anytime soon.  

[kinardsevan]

HC? Or something crossed my mind idk, Tommy volunteer as a big brother/or just to help in a group home, and have a special bond with one of the kids there since he sees himself in him..

because I messed up the responses, this is @thatmexisaurusrex's request for Buck & Tommy calling eachother on a slow afternoon at work.

This is m-rated, nearing explicit, towards the end. Nothing too graphic, but definitely suggestive. also, since we're just existing in previous universes of mine today, this one fits in the same world as the prompt for "bobby overhears Tommy call him his father-in-law".

-

Evan sighs, sinking down onto the ground on top of the firehouse. It’s beautiful outside, but the team is still on shift for roughly eight hours, and the shift has been…slow. They’ve only seen three calls so far, which feels a little ridiculous considering it’s a nice day outside, which usually means cookouts, bonfires, and generally reckless behavior when it comes to fire. 

Three. Fucking. Calls. 

He spins his phone on his knee briefly. He tries not to call Tommy too much on shift. They already live together and work in the same field. Granted, Tommy has never once complained about it in the past three years, and he always seems rather cheerful when Evan does call him on shift. But still. 

Any decision Evan thinks he has to make is quickly silenced when the phone starts buzzing in his hand, with the bolded text of “Husband” framed by two blue hearts pops up on his screen. A smile crawls its way across his face as he flips the phone into an upright position and clicks the little green phone icon, accepting the call. 

“Oh thank Jesus,” Tommy mutters with a groan. “I’m so bored.” 

Evan laughs. “Yeah. Me too.” 

“Are you guys doing any better over there?” Tommy whines. “I’ve been on two flights today, and they were both done within an hour.” 

Evan chuckles again. “Three calls so far. Last one was about four hours ago. Cap says everything coming in right now has been east of Pasedena or down in Panorama City. Too far out for us unless it goes three-alarm or higher.” 

Tommy huffs, leaning back wherever he is. Evan assumes he must be in 1701 because it looks like he’s on the floor of a chopper. 

“I have deep cleaned everything in sight, inventoried the helicopters and both planes, even helped with some of the inventory on the trucks,” Tommy says. “Checked up on current registrations and certifications. There’s not a damn thing to do.” 

Evan can only smile at his husband as the older man complains. For all the times they’ve complained to one another over Facetime while on shift, Tommy has never been one to actually complain about being at work with nothing to do. 

Tommy huffs, but after a moment, his eyes are on the screen of his phone again, and he furrows his brow. “Why do you look so entertained at my misery?” 

Evan smirks at him. “I like seeing you flustered. It’s kinda hot, honestly.” 

Tommy gives him that look; the one that silently tells him to tread carefully, unless he wants to find himself pressed into a mattress or countertop sobbing for release. 

“Hey, so what was that story Charlie was telling at the wedding,” Evan asks, referencing back to their discussion over cigars a few weeks back. 

“No, Evan,” Tommy replies, and the tone is there now too. Evan’s lips twitch with unfettered cunning, knowing he’s pushing Tommy’s buttons. 

“Oh come on,” Evan states, clearly egging him on. “Didn’t I hear something about a screwdriver down?” 

Tommy’s jaw clenches and he just shakes his head, although there’s no hiding the way the corners of his mouth are twitching, desperately trying to give in to the smile that he’s trying not to give his husband. 

“You know we’re going into a four day after this,” Tommy reminds him, narrowing his eyes at the screen. “You might want to tread carefully.” 

Evan raises an eyebrow at him, grinning lasciviously back at Tommy. “I think you assume that I didn’t consider that already.” 

Tommy stares at him from the tiny screen, and even though nothing about his expression changes, there’s a multitude of unspoken words shared between them. The smoldering in his eyes that tells Evan about nights pressed back-to-chest, nails drug across his chest and Tommy grinding with fervor, drawing sinful noises out of Evan like it’s his job. The slight twitch of his eyebrows suggests afternoons lost to ‘don’t move an inch or we’ll start all over’ . The way his tongue slips between his lips to wet them calling up memories of being chest-to-chest, teeth biting necks and shoulders, nails dug into spines, tongues lapping into mouths that swallow sobs like water in a desert. 

“If you’re not careful, you’re going to turn yourself up to eleven for the next four days,” Tommy warns, and the smirk on Evan’s face entirely suggests that he does not care. Turned up to eleven is the implication of total control turned over to his husband in the bedroom, whereas one is them meeting on an even field, usually when they want to take it slow and eject romance into things. 

But Evan just did that for a week and a half in Havana. He’s more than happy to turn things up to eleven. Let Tommy work him over. 

“Please, Daddy,” he replies softly, pulling the phone close to his face so that Tommy hears him but no one else does. His tone is just this side of breathy, barely moaning. Still, Tommy’s neck flushes, and Evan knows he has him. 

“When do you get off again,” Tommy asks, switching the subject. Evan pulls the screen down on his phone and then back up. 

“Like seven and a half hours,” he replies. 

Tommy nods. He’s up and moving again, and after a moment, Evan hears a door close, and the smirk reappears on his face. Tommy’s finding privacy. 

Evan pushes himself up from the ground, walking further from the door for rooftop access. It’s unlikely that anyone is coming up to bug him, given that Eddie was taking a nap last he checked and Hen and Chimney were locked into an intense game of Mario Kart. Athena was around for a visit, keeping Bobby entertained. 

Tommy’s phone rests on some kind of countertop and Evan grins as he sinks down into a chair. 

“So when you get home,” Tommy states, pulling at the zipper on his flight suit. He’s doing it slowly, and Evan can tell it’s on purpose. He gulps down the wave of saliva flooding his mouth. 

“Yeah,” he rasps.

Tommy reaches a hand in, pulling up the t-shirt he has on under the flight suit, although his hand stops halfway up his chest, only giving Evan the slightest sight of his abs where the zipper ends. Tommy leans forward then, pinning both hands on either side of the phone, out of frame. 

“You’re going to be a good boy,” Tommy states. It’s an order. Evan gulps, feeling himself starting to get uncomfortable in his pants. The slightest shift of his shoulder has Tommy lifting a hand, wagging a finger at him. 

“Ah ah ah,” he chastises. “No touching. Clock starts now and ends on Sunday.” 

Evan’s eyes go wide. They’ve never started something this early, let alone gone that long. Three days is about as long as he’s handed over control to Tommy, and even then, it usually begins and ends in their bedroom. This is a new layer, and he’s hot under the collar just thinking about the implications. 

Tommy stares at him for a long moment, that extends long enough that Evan realizes he’s supposed to respond. If he has any reservations against the ideas, now would be the time to say something. Granted, Tommy would never be upset with him if he decides to safeword out early, but he’s also silently asking if it’s okay to start now. 

“Okay,” Evan rasps, clenching his hand into a fist and resting it on his knee. It’s all he can do not to moan because he swears just by saying yes he gets harder. Tommy waggles an eyebrow at him, pulling his t-shirt. He adjusts it and fiddles it the zipper, clearly trying to play with Evan the same way the younger man was just playing with him. 

“I’ll be home an hour later,” Tommy reminds him. Evan nods. “I expect to find you silenced and waiting.” 

The slightest moan passes Evan’s lips. Tommy wants him gagged and on his knees, hands behind his back. 

“Sh-…C-can I prep?” Evan stammers, his voice husky with wanton. 

It’s Tommy’s turn to smirk now as he shakes his head slowly. 

“The only way mi amor gets to prepare is if it happens naturally. Everything else will be taken care of when I get home.” 

Evan shudders, and the heat in Tommy’s gaze, the grin on his face, is almost enough to make him feel like his heart is going to give out. He's not allowed to do anything to himself, but if he's aroused, Tommy expects it to happen without any assistance of his hands.

“Fuck,” he mutters softly. Tommy grins at him, and then a moment later, someone is knocking on the door of whatever room he’s in. Evan can hear Lucy’s voice briefly, asking questions but not clearly enough that he can make everything out. A moment later, Tommy glances back at the phone. 

“I have to go. I’ll see you at home in a while.” 

Evan nods, forcing himself to take deep breaths. “See you at home.” 

The call ends a moment later, and he has to stay in the chair and keep breathing. There’s no way he can go back inside right now; he’d be roasted for his unmistakeable boner. 

He checks the time on his phone again, and it’s all he can do to stifle a groan. Eight hours. Eight hours until he’s with Tommy in person again. He can hold on until then. He has to.

Eight. Long. Hours. 

[earnmysong]

33. ‘picking them up’ hugs and tylerkate ☺️

blow out the neon (after them after hours) [Chapter 3]

“Baby,” Tyler tries, bending close and kissing her cheek. “What do you say we call this?”

Read HERE

[fullmetalscullyy]

Now I wonder what a royai Friday night pizza and Prosecco would look like!

oh!! 🥺🥹 ty for asking!!!

so, on a typical friday, i would finish work and go to the shops for my weekly shop. pick up a bottle or two of mini prosecco (a glass full in each bottle), or, depending on the type of week i've had, pick up a big bottle lmao then head home. popping bottles is so satisfying after a long week ngl. bougie as fuck on the sparkling wine, but after the 9-5, and at £6 a bottle (🔥), i deserve it 😌✌️

i would then ruminate on the drive home (daydream at work all day) "hmmm. what has inspired me today/this week that i can write about for royai"

and then i would do my pre-weekend housework as the ideas continue to simmer and hopefully! one would pop up and grab my interest!

so while the pizza was cooking in the oven i would pour myself some of that sparkling wine 🥂 it pairs so well with pizza, and i have to match my italian wine to my italian food ✨ and i would set up my laptop and jot down the random ideas/prompt i came across that inspired me

and once the food is scranned i would sit down on the couch and spend the evening letting the creative juices flow~, hopefully creating a 1-2k word royai fic 🥰

i've done it a couple of times and it was so FUN. just writing a whole fic /oneshot in that one evening, not caring about quality/editing and just vibin and living my best life with my otp

it was always an absolute BLAST

[acupofmochaa]

ALSO. can i ask about a conversation between detectives 🙏

okay so this is basically just me being self-indulgent about my top 2 otps in bsd LMAO

i hc ranpo and ayatsuji to being friends since ayatsuji got into the government. they rarely have the chance to meet up because of y'know. ayatsuji's circumstances and shit

ranpo and tanizaki stumble upon ayatsuji and tsujimura and they catch up with tanizaki and tsujimura order their food from a nearby cafe. their conversation devolves into them bullying each other about their respective crushes.

with ranpo, ayatsuji has the displeasure of helping him figure out he's had a crush on poe and ranpo having a sort of mini realization/crisis about it. ayatsuji resists the urge to slam his head on the table. he instead blows smoke at his face and stifles a snort when ranpo coughs on it

with ayatsuji, ranpo points out "you're down bad it is so obvious you're literally whipped" or smth along those lines. ayatsuji disagrees then kyogoku's apparition pops up and adds further salt in the wound. ranpo watches in mild amusement as ayatsuji beefs with the air

i probably won't finish the fic i have with this but this is too silly of an idea for me to abandon. maybe i'll make it into a shitty comic instead idk lol. they can bond over being down bad for their respective partners

[happilyfeatherafter]

Happilyfeatherafter’s ficrec Fridays

Welcome back to a new week of fics that I’ve read and loved recently.

If you missed last week’s you can find my previous rec lists here for more!

23 February 2024

A Call To Motion by @banshee1013 (art by @nickelkeep) is a delightful dancer fic from the @hoziernaturalevents mini bang! After becoming mesmerised by modern dance when passing by the studio on his way to work, Dean becomes Rowena's protege student. She tells him about an opportunity at a dance company in Kansas City, alongside Castiel Shurley, the man who's audition for the Paul Taylor Dance Company in New York inspired him to pursue his new-found passion. Cas is going through his own turmoil, having been cheated on by his former lover Ishim. With no one to dance his love inspired duet with, he's left adrift. But that all changes when Dean dances into the picture. So much great tension, camaraderie and the love inherit in a shared passion for dance. I adored it.

Mourning Doves by abstractthinking (@cascigarette) for @destielvalentinesexchange: 'The mourning dove symbolizes spirituality, hope, peace, freedom, and love. Some believe they are messages from angels.' This is a really sweet, quiet in the best way little valentine's one shot. Valentine’s Day is fast approaching, and Dean wants to make it special for Cas. He's not really gone in for Valentine's Day before, but he's ready to fully embrace the romance of the occasion. Cas is somewhat befuddled by the need to manufacture romance, when their lives are already inherently romantic when in each other's company. Together they find a gentle balance of appreciation.

We Are Either Here Or Not Here by @hufflepuffdean (art by @armellin) is a 2017 @deancasbigbang fic post-12x23, in which Mary brings an AU!Cas back to a mourning Dean. Castiel is stubborn, judgmental, infuriating - and the best shot Dean has at getting Cas back. The conversations start as Dean’s last hope, but they soon turn into his version of catharsis. When Cas does find his way back, he comes along with stories of his own. I love the way this fic takes a possible spin on season 13 canon, leaning into the ensemble cast, and through it all keeping such a wonderful thread of yearning between Dean and Cas as they set out on a journey to forgive and better understand each other, between the universes.

The Day in the Palm of Our Hands by tabaqui - A DeanVictor fic! I'm normally a total otp fic girlie, but I love the possibilities inherent in Dean and Victor Henriksen's early seasons storyline dynamics, and what could have been had we got to keep him. Their chemistry is so great. So here's that story. Victor can't shake the supernatural world, and turns to Dean and Sam to learn hunter 101. Along the way his and Dean's heated eye contact trips into something more. A lovely glimpse at a possible canon timeline divergence circa season 3.

[xsezzie]

Requests - CLOSED! 12/12/2024

Mini fic requests are closed, but you can still request HCs or ramble ideas with me! :3

-

For the first time I’m going to try my hand at some longer requests that aren’t HCs. I’ve been stuck thinking of what to write since everyone has written it already.

Obviously since I can’t handle writing a full fic, here are some rules. 🤭

Please don’t expect it to be written within a week or two, I work full time 😭

The writing will be most likely 3-4 paragraphs, unless I really like the idea

Requires a lee, ler and a scenario/prompt (or an image, Sezzie loves those 😳)

I won’t write anything that doesn’t make me feel inspired. I have no obligation to write your fic.

Don’t spam me with asks wanting to know when it’ll be finished.

Fandoms I can write for are: Genshin Impact, Honkai Star Rail, Project Sekai, Hades, FFXIV, Granblue Fantasy, Obey Me

Will NOT be writing: Furry, x Reader, children, NSFW scenarios (romantic or suggestiveness is fine though)

Be kind 😌

Enjoy a general OTP list below (not for any reason or anything eheh) 👀

Pairings I adore 🥰

Alhaitham/Kaveh (Genshin)

Ayato/Thoma (Genshin)

Neuvillette/Wriothesley (Genshin)

Childe/Zhongli (Genshin)

Dr Ratio/Aventurine (HSR)

Dan Heng/Caelus (HSR)

Dan Heng/Jing Yuan (HSR)

Acheron & Aventurine (HSR, non-romantic)

Gallagher/Sunday (HSR)

Sunday & Robin (HSR, family not romantic lol)

WoL/G’raha Tia (FFXIV)

Emet-Selch/Hythlodaeus (FFXIV) (Maybe Azem too hehe)

Themis/Ericthonios (FFXIV)

Airi/Shizuku (Project Sekai)

Akito/Toya (Project Sekai)

Sandalphon/Lucio(Lucifer) (Granblue Fantasy)

Ororon/Ifa (Genshin Impact)

Mualani/Kinich (Genshin Impact)

Argenti/Boothill (HSR)

Characters (apart from anyone mentioned above) 🥰

Argenti, Luocha, Blade, Sampo, Gepard, Welt, Himeko, Asta, Topaz (HSR)

Clorinde, Navia, Shenhe, Raiden, Gaming, Aether, Furina, Faruzan, Tighnari, Cyno, Diluc, Albedo, Kaeya, Dehya, Baizhu, Eula, Kazuha, Mona, Nilou, Ningguang, Yelan (Genshin)

Satan, Levi, Belphie, Lucifer (Obey Me)

Emet-Selch, Hythlodaeus, Themis/Elidibus, Erithonios, Lahabrea, WoL/Azem (FFXIV)

MORE MORE JUMP!, Vivid BAD Squad (Project Sekai)

Gran, Narmaya, Cassius, Nehan, Seox, Feower, Anila, Payila (Granblue Fantasy)

This all being said, send whoever you like 🥰