#proud of this ficlet actually

[lumaxramblings]

Trans max overhears Lucas and El talking about him so they can practice using their boyfriend's pronouns <3

max has never been a morning person.

this has been established many times, and it's basically a party rule at this point. don't wake max up before 10 if you want to keep your knees.

but of course, there are times that he wakes up before ten himself, then it's only him to blame, and unfortunately, he can't swipe his own knees.

this is one such morning.

he blinks up at the ceiling, vision blurry before it refines a little, and then groans and covers his eyes. he takes them off briefly to look at the time, then groans again, but louder.

8:37.

who the fuck wakes up at eight thirty-seven?

him, apparently, because he hates himself.

he almost commits himself to sleeping again, out of spite of his brain, even though whenever he wakes up usually there's no going back (unless lucas and el are with him and he's really, really tired).

but that's when the smell wafts into this room.

bacon.

god, he fucking loves bacon.

so he lets out a huff and rolls out of bed (not literally, as then everyone in steve's house would come running to see if he's okay and he hates being swarmed at all, but especially in the mornings), and plants his own two socked feet on the floor.

he pushes himself up, grabs a pullover hoodie despite feeling a little warm, and pulls it over his head, grinning at how it hides his form.

he walks through the hall and down the stairs, and leans against the doorway before going in. it's instinctive, leftover from when he had two angry asshole around the house, and it was like stepping around a minefield, never quite sure if you were doing the right thing, and knowing the consequences would be dire, and so you had to know who was in a room before entering it. he doesn't mean to do it, not when he knows how safe the others are, but he can't help it.

"when do you think he will be up?"

max pauses, blinks. that's... that's lucas. his boyfriend.

"i think he'll be up in a bit."

max blinks again. and that's el, his girlfriend.

are they... are they talking about him—?

"nice. i can't wait to talk to him about..." lucas audibly pauses. "anything, really. i like him."

"i like him too."

max covers his mouth to stop himself smiling so wide, feeling his heart thumping traitorously, so loudly that he feels lucas and el will be alerted to his presence.

"yeah!" lucas says, audibly smiling. "i think she—fuck, no—he's doing better. shit."

"it was just a mistake." el tells him. "a... slip-down."

"slip-up, el."

"same thing."

lucas chuckles. "i guess i just better try until i get the pronoun thing down, right?"

"yeah." el nods. "did you see his face when we used he with him yesterday? he was so happy."

"he smiled so wide! god, i want to see him smile like that again."

your wish is my command, max thinks, feeling dizzy, almost lightheaded at their words. but lightheaded in a good way, if that makes sense. either way, he feels like if he hears more of them talking about him like this, he'll explode. he swings himself around the doorframe.

el and lucas sit there, at the table, staring at him for a moment like deer in headlights, and max faintly registers steve at the stove, humming and grinning over at him like he knows what he just overheard.

the two get up, chair legs scraping against the floor, and max goes in to hug el, who hugs him tightly back, giggling a little, and max chuckles into the hug, giggling himself, before departing for a second to hug lucas.

"hey, handsome." lucas says, and plants a kiss in his hair, and max's heart leaps out of his chest. "sleep well?"

"slept shit." max informs him happily, hiding his head in his boyfriend's shirt so they don't see how hard he's blushing. "but it's better now i'm with you two."

"aw, my love.<3"

max splutters and lucas laughs. el's loved using that nickname ever since she saw some guy on tv tell it to his girlfriend, and now she never stops, and it never fails to cause max's brain to short circuit.

whenever he's around them, he feels something, foreign and unique, and he just... can't put his name on it.

el giggles and steps forwards to also hug him, and they stay like that for a few seconds, before steve speaks up.

"hey, dipshits," steve says. "you gonna eat your bacon or just let it go cold?"

lucas makes a face and el rolls her eyes (she learnt that from the many, many times max has rolled his eyes around mike) and max flips him off, but can't stop himself smiling when steve ruffles his short hair.

when he sits down at the table, he realizes what the feeling he has around them is.

he feels so, so loved.

[serenescribe]

Ficlet request this https://www.tumblr.com/serenescribe/729720441588072448/day-5-of-ficlet-requests-do-you-like-time-travel

With general lilia reaction to seeing malleus in present when in his time he’s still a egg trying to hatch him

[✐] ficlet frenzy link to previous ficlet

The very existence of the boy before him is a miracle in and of itself.

None of them understand the reason why Lilia acts the way he does, eyes constantly trailing after the fae prince and lurking behind him at a distance. None of those foolish students do, busy as they are with their trivial little tasks of learning magic, their four years spent at this paltry school flying by in the blink of a fae’s eye. Not even the prince’s companions — Baul’s supposed grandson, Lilia’s supposed… future son, and his own flighty, witless older self, senile and losing his mind — understand his strange compulsion, the attraction he feels towards the Draconia heir.

Simply put, Lilia has never expected for Malleus to even exist.

He’d been entrusted with the egg in a last ditch effort, forced to watch his closest companion, Meleanor herself, fly off into a fruitless battle that would surely spell her doom. Lilia had spent years after that — the years melding into decades, until a century had passed — curled around the egg, trying everything he could to ensure it hatched. But such a thing was impossible, he had believed; after all, the offspring of draconic fae could only ever hatch with an outpouring of love, wreathed in warm affection until its shell finally cracked.

That is, until Lilia had somehow wound up in the future, wound up here.

Even now, the sight of Malleus still steals his breath away. He resembles so much of his mother — the twisting horns, those striking chartreuse eyes, the raven gloss of his hair. Though he is calmer, quieter, with a more pensive disposition than his mother ever had, there are things that resemble an echo of his parentage: the rage that manifests itself in thunder and lightning; the undeniable power radiating off of them in waves, a strength of magic most could only dream of having; but most of all, the kindness they wield, whether sweet or cruel, hidden by a temperament that makes them unapproachable to most.

Can anyone really fault him then, for feeling most at ease around the young prince?

Lilia studies him whenever he’s able to, when the young prince goes for walks through the campus, or even when he approaches Lilia himself in his little woodland campsite. Though Malleus resembles Meleanor in so many ways, there are other aspects of him that are wholly unfamiliar to Lilia. Above all else, there is his unwavering trust in humanity, a belief in the better facets of them that Meleanor never shared. It is a peculiarity that Lilia’s older self also wields — and he had been stunned when Malleus had informed him that it was he, himself, who taught him to seek peace with mankind.

Even now, it still feels like an impossibility to wrap his head around.

And yet…

The more time he spends with Malleus, conversing in a tranquil silence, listening as he regales Lilia with numerous tales — of his long, lonely childhood, of the years that Baul’s grandson and his supposed future son spent growing up, of the three short years spent at Night Raven College — the more Lilia thinks he can understand his older self.

It’s something for him to think about, at least, when he finally makes it back to his time.

[the-woild-is-y-erster]

them, actually

i swear i love them sm

the lightings whack because im literally posting this from my bed and i only have my lamp for light

so if mush looks white im so sorry i swear hes not its just my shitty lighting😭😭

[wren-kitchens]

midnight ramblings

I was looking through my wips and found this so here you go lmao

it’s set (obviously) in s8, scarian, if you can think of any tws I need to put please tell me!

“I think we might die.”

grian and scar are perched precariously on the roof of the swaggon, occasionally having to pull the other back onto the flatter part of the slippery copper. the moon is big—hardly a fraction of what it’ll soon be—but big, and the blocks are flying too high for comfort, and grian hasn’t slept for weeks, and the world is in disarray.

scar had come to grian’s house a few hours prior, babbling about something to do with bdubs and the moon’s child and sacrifices that grian just couldn’t make out. but scar looked upset and scared, and grian knew that why he was feeling that couldn’t be helped or changed. 

so, because there was nowhere else really to go, grian brought scar up to the roof and tried to distract him. and it’s worked, they’re distracting each other (because scar of course noticed how equally terrified grian is of all this) very well. but grian is far to tired to filter himself properly, and to be fair it doesn’t seem like they have a lot of time left. so he says it.

scar scoffs a little. “you think, huh?”

grian is laying on his front, staring at midnight alley. “i’m fairly certain.”

“gee, what gave you that idea?” scar asks sarcastically. grian’s noticed that in situations where scar is scared, he typically reverts to sarcasm. he reckons it’s a way of deflecting. “couldn’t be the moon hurtling towards us, could it?”

“no, it’s the fact that we’re on a slippery roof.” grian says. “of course it’s the moon, scar.”

scar is quiet for a moment, and his voice is heartachingly small when he speaks. “why do you think this is happening, g?”

grian sighs. he wishes he could hold scar close and tell him it’s okay, that he can fix it. “I don’t know.” he admits. “I wish I did.”

“mumbo doesn’t.” scar says. “that much is clear.”

grian chuckles. “yeah. I should sleep at some point, whatever he’s doing isn’t working.”

“it’s a good phantom farm at least.” scar says. “i’ll give him that.”

“and the redstone on the statues is cool. or was, when it worked.” grian grins.

“yeah.” scar laughs along. 

grian looks at him. his eyes crinkle in the corners as he smiles. under them are dark smudges, not nearly as big as grian’s but still promenant. his hair is starting to grow shaggy, his suit jacket a little unkempt, skin stained with dirt and oxidised rust from the copper. 

he is, despite it all, beautiful. 

under the silvery light of the bulbous moon, scar looks ethereal. the way it floods his features akin to water over a marble statue makes grian’s heart swell. if grian were to die right now, with this image as the last thing he sees, he wouldn’t mind.

scar turns to him and grins. “taking in the view or about to fall asleep?”

“neither.” grian says easily. “debating whether or not to push you down the roof.” 

“hey!” scar pouts and grian bursts out laughing.

“okay, okay, you’re very handsome and i’m sorry for wanting to push you.” grian smiles. 

“too right I am.” scar says. “you’re very handsome too.” he adds, a softer note to his voice.

“why, thank you.” grian preens.

scar smiles at him, gaze lingering. grian watches as his eyes flicker up and down, from his eyes to his lips and back again. grian finds himself wanting to push his body into scar’s, be held by him until the end of time, scar’s hand in his hair and lips against his forehead.

grian sits up. “come over here, for a moment?”

scar’s eyes narrow with suspicion, but must notice the shy tone in grian’s voice as he nods, and shuffles up the roof to grian. grian immediately climbs into his arms.

“you’re like jellie.” scar chuckles, jokily petting his hair. “what’s up?”

“too tired to figure that out.” grian decides, face buried in scar’s suit jacket. “I wanted to hug you. you’re a very huggable person.”

“I get that a lot.” scar says, like he’s surprised. 

“anyone ever tell you you’re a very kissable person either?” grian smiles to himself.

“I- well, as a joke, I suppose.” scar says, starting to stumble over his words in the endearing way he does when he’s embarrassed. “why?”

grian pulls back and plants a kiss on scar’s nose. “‘cause you are.” he kisses his cheeks, grinning. 

he knows if he wasn’t sleep deprived to the point of it being a medical emergency, he would no way have the confidence to do this. but he mentally thanks mumbo for making this weird cult thing, because it’s lead to the rare treat of seeing scar flustered.

scar’s face fills with colour, and his eyes widen. if grian looks carefully, he can see that scar’s pupils are a little wider than normal.

“oh- oh, g, you’re. you’re very kind.” scar stammers. “I, um. thank you.”

grian’s face must visibly light up, because scar quickly adds, “whatever you’re thinking, mister, don’t do it.”

“scar,” grian says. “would you object to me kissing you.” 

grian doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone more flustered than scar is right now. 

“I- well, I mean-“ scar is looking around frantically, avoiding grian’s gaze. “that, um. that’s an interesting question, i’m not-“

“scar, yes or no.” grian is starting to doubt his judgement. what if he was wrong, and scar doesn’t love him back, and he’s just ruined their friendship, and-

grian’s internal litany of impending doom is cut off when scar says,

“i- I don’t think i, ah. would object to that.”

grian blinks. “really?” he asks, poorly hiding his excitement.

“well, I mean,” scar turns and finally looks at grian. his expression is heartachingly shy. “you’re a pretty kissable person too.”

grian inhales. “oh.” 

“sorry, um. to clarify, do- do you love me?” scar asks, blushing at himself. “‘cause I don’t want to assume or anything.” he adds quickly. “not that it’s bad if you don’t- it’s okay if you don’t, obviously. I wouldn’t wanna pressure you into saying something you don’t believe or-“

grian presses a quick kiss to scar’s lips. when he pulls away, he grins shyly.

scar stares at him for a moment. “is- is that a hint for me to stop talking?” he asks.

“yes, because I can’t get a word in edgeways.” grian tells him. “how else am I supposed to say yes?”

“oh.” scar’s voice is ever so soft, and he’s looking at grian like he’s only the person alive, and it’s all too much for his sleep deprived brain but he’s so happy.

“if we die,” grian says. “will I be able to go out, calling you my boyfriend?”

“only if I can call you mine.” scar smiles, like he’s surprised at just how well this night is going. 

“then i’d say we have a deal.” grian says, burying himself in scar’s embrace again. 

“g.” scar says gently. 

“mhm?”

“we should sleep.”

grian reluctantly looks up. “I think you’re right.”

“I don’t think we should sleep here.” scar says. 

“scar,”

“yeah?”

“i’m too tired to move.” grian says.

“you nightmare.” scar says, so fond it almost breaks grian’s heart. “alrighty mr birdie, let’s get you to bed.”

scar opens his elytra, before scooping grian up in his arms. 

“i’m only sleeping if you stay with me.” grian says, eyes already drooping shut.

“i’m not leaving you, g.” scar assures him.

“i’m going nowhere.”

[frankenjoly]

Midnight decissions

tetcho reading pwp suegiku at 3am (and how he got there)

I.

“You guys think that, since the captain’s fame has spread to the rest of us, there’s people out there writing stuff about us?” Teruko commented, with a mischievous smile.

“You don’t mean like, articles and so, right.” Tetchô replied, trying to get more details and earning himself a couple of snorts from Jôno and Tachihara. “What, it’s not a question.”

“I mean them playing dolls with us and making silly little stories. Well, their perception of us.”

“Honestly, I’ve never gotten where the appeal is in doing that with actual real people, y’know?” Tachihara shrugged. “Not like I have to worry, though, since no one knows who the fuck I am. You guys, on the other hand, probably can find a shitton of nasty stuff.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised.” Jôno deadpanned. Meanwhile, Teruko was already making that face she used to when about to drop a metaphorical bomb.

“I think we know who has the most. Aaand, it’s a tie…” She said with a musical tone, making Jôno scrunch his nose at the same time Tachihara bursted into laughter.

“I don’t get it.” Tetchô blinked a couple of times, confused. He had an inkling of where things were going, but… “Are you implying that–?” Before he could express it out loud, Jôno’s gloved hand clashed against his mouth.

“Don’t say it.” 

Teruko, though, couldn’t be stopped just as easily.

“I’m implying the highest number, at least between all people present, it’s about you two together. Still believe the captain outnumbers us, by the way.”

II.

He was more than well aware of how that was a terrible idea. But Tetchô hadn’t been able to resist his curiosity taking the reins, and right then he was so hooked that stopping seemed almost impossible.

It all had started with merely checking if Teruko’s estimations were right and, for the record, they were. Then he had made the mistake of actually looking at the stories per se, decided to take a look at one just to see what the fuss was all about and… and then one turned into three, then three turned into seven. It shouldn’t be so addictive, not when stopping to think about the whole ordeal made Tetchô feel pretty much odd.

None of those people actually knew any of them, not to mention how indulging in such a thing when the real Jôno might as well judge him for it if he found out (and he would have all the right to) was... 

But at the same time, well, he didn’t have to find out. And there were worse ways to cope with the apparently high odds of not getting the real thing than that, weren’t they?

And anyway, the answer to such a question was relegated to the back of his mind when a low unholy sound escaped his lips, at the same time the depiction of him in Tetchô’s current reading did.

(Also on ao3.)

[medusanova]

Andylind + Kissing the other to shut them up

He was slow to open the door, his abdomen still healing from the brutal accuracy of Silva’s blade at Aster Dell. The curt but quiet knocks stopped when he opened the door to see.. her? He thought she’d went into hiding..

Before he could even form a question she strode in, pushing him aside to close the door. “Hurry, they’re coming.”

Trying to claw himself out of his confusion, to understand what she meant, he interjected, “But you were—”

“There isn’t any time, Andreas,” she raised a brow, a step forward to brought her face inches from his. “Here- take it.” It was then he noticed what she was nudging into his hand, what she carried - no, who she carried.

He heard another knock at his door, these more aggressive and demanding than the last, with added shouts about detainment and arrest.

He froze, the sight of the tiny, wriggling human in a shrouded carrier taking him aback just as much as the authorities on the other side of his door. “Fucking hell, you can’t just—”

Rosalind held up a hand, waving the carrier between them. “I can and I did, now stop wasting time and take it.”

He reluctantly took the carrier, taking a peek at the wee thing before setting it carefully on the table behind him.

“What do they want?” he demanded, stepping closer to her, using his height to loom over her. Not letting her distract him with her blasé demeanor or demanding posture or babies. Maybe then she’d give him some bloody answers. “Where are they taking you?”

“Somewhere you’ll find me.” She shrugged, completely unaffected by the repeated shouts that she surrender. “If you’re not a complete fuck up, that is.”

His heart was pounding, the wound at his middle aching from the blood flow, finally catching up to the fact that she was being taken away from him — that she’d known she would be — and she was completely unfazed, no, ready for it. “I’m not just going to stand here and let them—”

“You are. You’re perfectly capable of taking keeping that asset-,” she pointed to the thing- the baby, Andreas reminded himself, “-safe while I’m gone.

Looking him in the eye, she raised a hand to grasp his chin, bringing his head down to hers. Completely reversing the dominance he’d tried to establish. Like she always had. “Until it’s safe for me to come back.”

“No. Fuck that you can’t—”

“I command it.”

“You can’t leave me!” He shouted, not caring that the goons outside could likely hear him losing his ability to hold it together. Not when he just got her. Not when he’s just lost everyone else. His son, his battalion, his best friend. “You can’t. And if you think I’m just going to stand around like a fuck wit while they take you or- or hurt you I—”

His next sentence was cut off with her mouth over his. Stealing his rage, his worries, his fear. And replacing it with her rosemary scent, her savage determination. The things he’d always lose himself in, give into, time and time again.

When she finally released his lips he’d pinned her to the counter and her hands were tangled in his beard.

“I’m not leaving you,” she smirked, patting his cheek. “I’m just.. stowing myself away for safe-keeping, hm? When it’s safe again, when all these idiots realize that the Otherworld needs me, you’ll find me and you’ll get me back.”

With that, she stepped away from him and marched out of the house. Not sparing any glances back at the baby she’d left alone, or the man she’d left lonely.

[eddiegettingshot]

🍎 for the fic thing. In the spirit of domesticverse autumn

🍎 apple & pumpkin picking / future spec

a little stupid domesticverse ficlet for u anon :)

“That was pretty hot,” Buck says.

“Okay,” Eddie says, snorting. “I just told you I’m giving you a written reprimand for being late. If you think that’s hot, I’m doing something wrong.”

“Eddie.” Buck gives him a withering look. “It means you’re doing it right, man.”

“Huh,” Eddie says. Yeah, that sort of makes sense, considering what Buck’s frequently into, when it comes to him: measured, compassionate authority, even when it’s undercut with a touch of something mean. Especially then. “Well, let’s hope the brass agrees.”

“That you’re hot?”

“That I’m doing it right.”

Buck’s eyes are so soft and his grin is so proud and wide that his place across the kitchen table—the closest approximation they’ve got to a fire captain’s office desk, setting the scene for the bevy of roleplay scenarios Buck’s been drilling him through as interview prep—strikes Eddie as altogether too far. He walks his fingers over, right into Buck’s palm, which is already upturned in invitation.

“You got this,” Buck says, all patient and fervent like Eddie’s one of his wide-eyed recruits.

“I know.” Because Buck’s got him. “Thanks to you.” He squeezes Buck’s hand, then lets him go and sits back, appraising. “And I appreciate that you dressed the part.”

“Oh.” Buck looks down at himself, seemingly having forgotten that he’s decked out in his actual uniform, complete with his old BUCKLEY nameplate. Eddie thought the dedication was cute, in a ridiculous way, except now there’s a familiar glint in Buck’s eye; his pupils are already blown. “I didn’t put this on to help you prepare.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“Nah,” Buck says, shoving away from the table and standing up. “I figured it’d be a—a reward for all your hard work.” His eyelashes flutter. Just a little, just enough that Eddie notices and swallows hard.

“Jesus, Buck,” Eddie says, scrambling to his feet, abandoning written material, practice questions, and a stack of books with titles like Creating and Maintaining a High-Performance Team in favor of Buck’s unabashed smirk, which is far more interesting. “Go get in bed.”

“What happened to servant leadership?” Buck asks. “This actually feels kinda autocratic of you, Ed—”

Eddie slaps his ass hard. The rest of the sentence is lost in an offended yelp.

“This is a dictatorship,” Eddie corrects, but it’s muffled as he crowds up behind Buck, shoving him bodily towards the bedroom, and rakes his teeth into the curve of his neck to feel him shudder. “Just how you like it.”

Buck is weird enough that when he stumbles through the doorway, moaning, Eddie can’t be sure if it’s because of being bitten or because of the stupid joke or because their even stupider roleplaying turns him on.

Eddie can’t help it. “I love you,” he says.

“Uh, I don’t think you should say that,” Buck tells him, unimpressed but already sinking to his knees, “as my superior.”

“Seriously? You can suck my dick but I can’t tell you I love you?”

“You’re supposed to be consistent and clear about your expectations,” Buck says. His face is very close to Eddie’s crotch, which is distracting. “Dictators don’t say ‘I love you.’”

“Oh. Okay.” That doesn’t seem like a universal law, but he clears his throat and puts on a hard voice anyway. “Well, get to work, Diaz.”

Buck beams up at him. “Yes, Captain.”

[calchexxis]

I think I skipped a few posts, but here it is, the final chapter of Flashbangs & Frag Grenades.

For those who do not know, this story was actually started before Arcane, and so the entire first...third? Of the series is before any of that dropped. When I first started posting this story, there were less than 100 fics under the Lightcannon tag, and by the time it hit 100, I was more than 10% of them. Now, there are over 1,000.

I don't say this to self-aggrandize, even though I know that's what it will sound like, but I genuinely don't know what Lightcannon as a fic-fandom would look like without Flashbangs. The reason I say that is because, and this is not a joke, when Arcane dropped, the only longform Lightcannon fic/series that I'm aware of that was still being regularly updated was mine. Most of the other fics in the tag were short, 1-2 chapters, or ficlets. There are a few standouts like 'Don't Lose My Number' by Starcola and the '100 Beautiful and Ugly Words' ficlet series by Ironstatic.

I think the longest one of the Pre-Arcane Lightcannon classics was Illuminous Duet by Kindredtea, but even that, ironically, had its first chapter posted two weeks after the first fic of Flashbangs: Wherefore Cometh Light.

Jinx has always had a kind of fun appeal to her, but to me, Lux is my girl. It's so strange for me to see echoes of my Lux in other people's fics. It's even stranger to see my personal ao3 tags 'Jinx is crazy, Lux is Crazier' show up in works whose authors I've never spoken to. So that's what I mean when I say, I don't know what the Lightcannon fandom looks like without Flashbangs, because it was here when it really took off, and it continued through the events of Arcane, and onward all the way to today. I think that Flashbangs codified what Lux was 'supposed' to sound like in fandom in the same way that Arcane codified Jinx, and I am proud of that.

For those of you have gotten this far, there is a Audiobook of Flashbangs in production, being professionally recorded chapter by chapter, and uploaded to Spotify and Apple Podcast completely for free, and we are up to the final book in the series.

If you want to donate to the cause, please check HERE.

I can't wait to see what Season 2 brings. I can't wait to see what you all create. I hope that Flashbangs continues to tell its story to all of you, so with that said, cheers.

Because We Have Come To Terms.

[ragingbookdragon]

It’s a mini ficlet but I wrote it for @wombywoo because Quinn and Vincent are so lovely 🥰

***

It’s the smile that gets him. Not the flirtatious one Vincent gives to attractive people who pass by him when they’re out on the town (on the rare occasions that he can get Quinn to go out in the nightlife). It’s that damned smile where Vincent’s eyes crinkle around un-aged skin, corners of his mouth pulled up in that cheesy grin, revealing pearly whites and a pair of twin spears.

The smile he gives him when they’re alone in bed and Quinn just said “I love you,” like a grumpy child, curled up in bedsheets, his face peeking out of the hole he made around his swaddled head.

It’s the smile Vincent gives when Quinn stands awkwardly in the kitchen, wearing a “Kiss the chef” apron, with a poorly iced red velvet cake sitting on the island; the scent of burnt cake batter wafts through the air from the oven but Vincent is so proud that Quinn managed to not burn the house down.

It’s the smile Vincent flashes when he walks in at a quarter to three and sees Fig curled up right in Quinn’s face, both of them snoring (and possibly drooling) into the pillow, sheets and blankets pulled up over Quinn’s shoulders as his pale fingers twitch in Fig’s side seeking unconscious comfort.

It’s much different from the teary eyed smile Vincent gives Quinn when the man simply says he has nothing to give but whatever he’s still worth after years of being battered and broken, Vincent can have; that band in Vincent’s pocket practically burns into his thigh when he presses his forehead against Quinn’s and shuts his eyes, enjoying the touch between them.

It’s the smile that gets Quinn. Makes the butterflies in his stomach soar like doves in the bright blue sky. Makes him remember that he has a life to live despite all his traumas and fears. That someone actually loves him enough to put up with all his bullshit and still manage to care.

It’s the smile that reminds Quinn his heart is still beating. A little broken, a little bruised, a lot of heartache—but still beating.

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

Hi! For the ficlet prompts: For Tarlos: 🫶🏻 Breakfast date For BuckTommy: 🛏️ There's only one bed, and it's… a single (or broken? Like sunken down in the center or something. Whichever option sparks joy. 😂)

There's only one bed, and it's a single

A few weeks into their relationship, Buck wonders why Tommy still hasn't invited him over to his house. Somehow, they always seem to end up in the loft, apart form that one memorable date that ended in the 118's locker room – he’s still proud of himself for keeping his mouth shut about it the next day, even though his face probably screamed „ask me what happened last night“. Anyway, Tommy often just turns up at his door or picks him up from work and drives to the loft as a matter of course, and for a while Buck thinks it's just because he likes his place so much. It's tastefully furnished, right? And since he owns a couch again, Star Wars movie nights with Tommy next to him are much nicer.

It's just... Eddie had been so enthusiastic about Tommy's house, the garage, the dōjō; and Buck – Tommy’s boyfriend, mind you – hasn’t even seen a glimpse of all that. There are, of course, many possible explanations for this. Maybe Tommy’s a slob and it's always untidy (Eddie didn't mention this), or he's ashamed of his furniture (Eddie didn't mention this) or he's currently renovating (nope, not a word about that from Eddie). Either these made-up motives are as silly as they sound in Buck's head, or the real reason is him. Both could be true. 

One evening, after a very good dinner (it's perfectly acceptable to praise yourself, Buck thinks, especially after receiving top cooking honors from Bobby), it's time to grab the bull by the horns. 

“We're gonna sleep at your house tonight,” he says.

Tommy sets his glass down, blinks and replies, “We’ve basically just arrived at your place, Evan.”

"Right, but you’re staying overnight at my place about three times a week.“

“Didn't have the feeling that it was too much,” says Tommy with a wink.

Buck is melting away. This man has such a magnetic effect... But not this time, he swears to himself. He's let this slide long enough. If there's one thing he's learned, it's that problems should be addressed. This one isn't necessarily a problem, but it's a little oddity that has piqued his curiosity. And perhaps it also scratches his ego a little.

“No, I love it when you're here,” he says, feeling his cheeks flush. “But Eddie keeps telling me about your house and...”

“What is Eddie doing in this conversation now?” 

Tommy sounds genuinely confused, and he can't blame him. Buck takes a deep breath. 

“I want to see how you live.”

That's not quite the right approach, but at least Tommy smiles his adorable smile, which makes his face go all scrunchy. His answer, however, is not an exuberant “okay, let's get going”. Instead, he says, “That's sweet, but I'm rarely at home. It’s actually not that exciting.”

Somehow, it is, at least it starts getting annoying; Buck's curiosity is hard to tame when he believes he's discovered some kind of riddle. While it’s certainly exciting to see that there still are some things about Tommy that remain mysterious to him, his house shouldn't be on the top list of sweet secrets he holds. 

“I’m getting a vibe that you don't want me there, Tommy.”

“It's not like that.”

“Then what is it? Do you have any porn magazines lying around? Don't you want me to see your underwear drawer?”

“Evan...”

“Are there pictures of your ex-boyfriends on the walls?” Now Buck is on a roll. “Do you collect tasteless art? Is your house just too small for two people to be comfortable?”

“Evan,” Tommy groans. Wide-eyed, Buck glares at him, until Tommy finally exhales loudly and adds, “Yeah, it's too small. You're not going to give it a rest, are you?“

“My therapist says I should talk about my feelings. And there's no one I'd rather do that with than you, Tommy, and right now... well. Honestly, it's driving me crazy.”

“All right,” goes Tommy, getting up and taking his hand, ”there's no point in delaying it any longer anyway. Come with me. We're going to my place – but whether you want to sleep there remains to be seen.”

That, of course, was an even more mysterious answer, but Buck jumps to his feet immediately.

From the outside, Tommy's house looked neither particularly small nor large. The most remarkable thing about the single-storey, flat-roofed building was probably that it stood in the middle of a terraced housing estate in the suburbs. It wasn't an area Buck would have associated with Tommy, and there was probably a story behind it that he was eager to hear one day. 

Inside, it was just as unremarkable. This was the house of a single man who often did 24-hours-shifts and also had very excessive hobbies that made him leave the house quite often. In other words, a comparatively interchangeable place. Eddie hadn't mentioned anything about that either, he'd probably been blinded by the flights to Vegas and the garage. There were no photos of ex-boyfriends on the walls, no obvious porn movies in the impressive DVD collection, no tasteless art; there weren't even any potted plants, “I just don't have a green thumb,” says Tommy. 

“I don't understand why you didn't already show me your house,” Buck says, a little disappointed that he still couldn't solve the puzzle.

“Hm,” Tommy utters, and it sounds almost apologetic. He wraps his arms around Buck and adds, “You're here now.”

„Yes, and I forgot a change of clothes. You’re gonna have to lend me some tomorrow.“

“You're really determined to spend the night here?”

“You bet,” Buck says, his eyes roaming the room, ”show me your bedroom and I'll show you how determined I am.”

“Then get ready for a cold shower,” Tommy returns, taking Buck's hand and leading him further into his house. 

The door opened to another plain, rather functionally furnished room with a built-in wardrobe, a second door that probably led to the bathroom, a large window without any curtains and virtually no accessories. Then Buck’s gaze falls on the bed, and his jaw drops.

“Well, I told you it was small...”

“I thought you meant your house.”

It was the bed. A narrow, single bed. It wasn't an unusual place to sleep, of course; millions of bedrooms were furnished like this. Buck just couldn't understand why anyone would voluntarily give up the comfort of a kingsize when they were tall and beefy like his adorable boyfriend with the very embarrassed look on his face. 

“W-wait a minute. Is that why we always spent the night at my place? Because you’re sleeping in... this crib?”

“Hey, I like this bed,” Tommy replies, grimacing. “It's just not a good place for two. Hold on, what were you thinking, Evan?“

“Well, for a while I thought you just liked my shower...”

“... it's an excellent shower, I must say.”

"Well, to be honest, I thought it’s not that important to you."

Tommy looks intently at his face, shaking his head. 

“Did you seriously think you weren't important enough for me? I thought we had clarified that point by now. And for once, I'm not talking about the excellent sex, honey.“

"Which would be … not that comfortable in that bed," Buck says when the penny finally drops. “Adorable, Tommy. As if the kitchen table wasn't enough for us.”

“But would you want to sleep on it?”

“Good point,” Buck mutters. “We really can't both fit in the bed.”

“Gonna be tough. And… actually, I really prefer your shower.“

“I'll probably have to talk to the landlord about the water consumption.”

"Well, we don’t need to move together so soon," Tommy argues. “But you could help me buy a bigger bed, how about that?”

“Excellent,” says Buck. “But we have to be sure it’s too small for the things I’d love to do with you.”

He pushes the surprised Tommy onto the bed with a casual nudge.

“Fine,” Tommy replies with a grin before closing Buck's mouth with a kiss, ”but we're sleeping at your place tonight.”

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

Thank you for the adorable prompt, @herrmannhalsteadproduction. I'm gonna need to skip the Tarlos one because I'm running out of spare time, but this was fun 😂❤️

[littleplantfreak]

Say my name - Sakura Haruka

Normally I'm bad with titles but without further ado! A ficlet(?) about Sakura struggling to call his lovely partner by their first name! It's SFW (but still under the cut) btw

I tried to keep it they/them for neutrality but if you find a stray 'she' somewhere that's my bad

(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

“I really don’t know what to do with him Suo! Every time he tries to say it he just freezes and sputters until he calls me ‘you’ or he changes it to another word last minute. Last week he tried so hard he nearly turned purple and gave himself a headache!” whining, you practically drape yourself over the table in defeat.

“Wow…our captain really is shy when it comes to that stuff, huh?” Suo’s holding back but you can tell he wants to laugh. Once Sakura shows up he’ll throw a teasing remark or two in but you’ll still be at square one.

“Maybe a nickname? Or what if you don’t look at him when he says it? What if he spells it out-“

“I don’t think we need to go that far,” interjecting gently before Nirei could start going through an insane list of things that may or may not actually work for the present problem, Suo leans forward, looking at you from across the table. “There’s something we can try that might work if you're up for it."

——

It’s not a bad plan actually, if more simple than you thought it’d be. You’re waiting behind the support wall in the middle of Cafe Pothos, obscured from anyone just walking in. Nirei and Suo are at the same table near the front that you were at before, and Kotoha is cleaning dishes at the sink, though she knows what’s going on and has a ear turned towards the main stage of this event making sure she doesn’t miss a thing.

From where you’re peeking before Haruka opens the door, you can see Nirei’s tense shoulders, both trying and failing to appear casual not that your boyfriend will pay it any mind. Sometimes you're afraid he'll end up like Hiragi and his nervous stomach issues. Suo is the picture of tranquility as he eyes Nirei’s notebook before greeting Haruka. You hear your boyfriend stop, possibly looking around for where you said you’d be waiting for him earlier.

“Where’s-”

“A-ah…”

“Bathroom~,” Suo singsongs smoothing over his partner’s stuttering. “By the way, Nirei’s been wondering about their first name! It seems the notebook page he has on them is incomplete without it…” he’s drawing attention, not to the boy himself, but the pen and notebook he’s gripping on to waiting on Sakura to take the bait. Nirei had opted for silence as he clicks his pen and as if to write it down.

"It’s-" a short pause before he actual says the full weight of your name, matter of factly too, without fumbling it at all and you’re suddenly too giddy to contain yourself.

“S-Sorry I wasn’t listening. Could you say it again?” Nirei squeaks out.

There’s annoyance in his voice as Sakura says it again, and before he can get anything else out, you’ve decided this is your cue.

“Yes, Haruka?” You blink looking at him, poorly portraying innocence but you can tell blood is rushing to your face and you cannot rub your smile off if you tried.

“Oh my~ Sakura you’re so bold calling your partner by their first name!” Red eyes glittering wickedly as he taunts “How romantic!” He gasps with a hand over his mouth. Looking flustered but proud is Nirei, nodding vigorously, and Kotoha giving Sakura a pat on the back in congratulations. You’re proud of him yourself, despite having to coax your name out of him with the help of his vice captains.

He's wide-eyed going between you and Suo, gears clicking in to place that he'd been set up as he settles for firing at the brunette "Wha- you- I'm GONNA KNOCK YA-,"

"Oookay we're heading out now!" Before he starts a fight, you link an arm through his and begin leading him towards the door. He’s puffed up like an angry cat but his body completely yields when it’s you who’s maneuvering him away the cafe after saying a quick goodbye to everyone.

It's quiet, the path you take through town on the way to your house and he doesn't look at you when he mumbles a quiet apology. You aren't quite sure what he’s apologizing for but you stop walking and wait for him to start speaking again.

“Sorry fer takin’ so long to say it.” He’s still not looking at you but your heart breaks a little at how small he sounds. You touch his cheek enough for him to turn and look at you, uncertainty clear in his bi-colored eyes.

“Honey I never meant to rush you. If you’re still working on it that’s okay! I never wanna make you feel uncomfortable,” brows knit together in worry now that you’re holding his face in both hands, searching signs that you took it too far.

“I think I’ll be able to say it now - especially if it makes ya look as happy as ya did at the cafe. Not all the time, but when we're alone I think I can." He’s almost fully settled into your hands now, melting into warmth he’d been craving since he woke up this morning. He always wondered how such soft hands could touch something as rough as him and still continue to make the effort to hold him. You wait for him to finish soaking up his much needed affection for a few more minutes and then you're both walking again, slowed by the urge to stay close for as long as possible.

----

"...and she popped out from behind the pillar and said "Yes, Haruka?"" Kotoha mimics your voice as she's giving Umemiya the rundown of what he missed.

"He's growing up so fast!" He wails theatrically wiping a tear from his eye.

"He's changed a lot since he came here, and even more since they started dating. I think he's getting soft with how fast they were able to drag him away without a fight."

"So he went from alley cat to house cat huh. Nothing wrong with that." he grins digging into his omurice. Kotoha smiles and hums in agreement. Nothing wrong with that in the slightest.

[obviouslacking]

this is wholly embarrassing but i watched h-e double hockey sticks (1999) for the first time last night and, in the midst of my jeric brainrot, it made my mind go ❣️

so i wrote a teensy, terrible ficlet. i gave it a saccharine little title. griffelkin/dave, because of course it is. what are niche fandoms for if not to practice writing bad fanfiction? anyway. this goes out to the folks on jeric twt

edit: she’s on ao3 now! someone please join me over there so hedhs can become an actual categorised fandom

the sign on your heart (it's still reserved for me)

aka when hell freezes over

*******************

It was the greatest night of Dave Heinrich’s life. 

He’d just won the Stanley Cup; the girl of his dreams was on his arm and he was enjoying his hard-won victory. Only… something was wrong. Through the lights, and the confetti, and the cheers, he watched as Griffelkin melted away into the crowd. Like he was never there. Like he’d never be seen again — by Dave, anyway. The triumphant grin slipped off his lips. It was cold, suddenly, out there on the ice, in a way the exertion had masked before. Everything he’d just accomplished began to feel… hollow. The only reason he’d managed to achieve anything was because of Griffelkin, chaotic and ridiculous though he was. Because, for some godforsaken reason… he’d believed in Dave.

He’d made him a better person.

What he’d had with Anne had been good. It felt like they had grown up in the rink together. But they’d been chasing after a dead-and-buried version of the past for too long now, blindly gripping to nostalgia instead of moving forward with their lives. It was now clear to him: it was time to set them both free. 

He turned to her with regret, “I’m so sorry, I have to go.” 

She didn’t understand, “Dave, wait—”

He couldn’t. He had to get out of there or else he’d lose his chance entirely. He knew how it looked: Dave Heinrich, the golden boy, leaving the Stanley Cup celebrations — the moment he’d worked towards all his life, the pinnacle of his rising star. He didn’t care. He was proud of his team, proud of himself, but… none of it would feel right until he saw Griffelkin again. Until they got to be proud of what they’d done together. The two of them, their own team.

He had to get him back.

It took hours. He drew pentagrams in chalk on his nicely laminated flooring. He lit candles. He tried ominous chanting, tried reciting an exorcism he thought he saw in a movie once, tried everything he could think of to summon Griffelkin back to him — short of screaming at the sky in despair.

Nothing worked. He was forced to sit himself down by the absolute mess he’d made with a sigh, body still aching from the torture it had endured that day. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Griffelkin had held onto him as he lifted him up onto the sickbay bed. Or the sight of him in his Angels uniform; wearing Dave’s number, Dave’s name. He’d been chasing after the Cup for so long, treading water with his girlfriend for so long… he’d forgotten what that felt like. To have a fire inside you, one that burned for a person. 

If Griffelkin technically counted as a person, anyways. Dave was still a little.. fuzzy on the details. If he thought about it too much, he was sure he’d lose his mind (even more so than he likely already had. Maybe he’d just taken a really hard check out on the ice one day, and this was all some kind of fever dream—)

“What the hell are you doing?”

Jesus Christ!!! Dave had sprung up and away from the sudden intruder in terror before he could even realise it was the intended object of his summonings. Here, at last. Hours after Dave had wanted him. The creature lived to spite him.

Even so, just seeing his face again… Dave needed to say his piece. “I had to talk to you. It wasn’t right, how you just… left, after everything. Why did you just leave?”

Griffelkin was uncharacteristically muted, like all the flair had been drained out of him. “You got everything you wanted. You didn’t need me anymore.”

*******************

Griffelkin was lost. 

He’d come to Earth to be wicked. To do bad deeds. To steal the ever-ripe soul of one Dave Heinrich. He’d never anticipated… everything that had happened after that. Becoming invested in the lives of actual, honest-to-God people, turning against the will of Beelzebub and everything he’d trained for to show compassion… it was entirely out of left field. Or left.. rink… (curse his sudden investment in that stupid game. It was just unnatural).

He’d never anticipated the way something about Dave was just… different. When Griffelkin was with him… he’d never felt like that before. It itched throughout his whole body; like that awful diner food, or the smell of the trees as they polluted his insides. Something horrible like… sunshine, or flowers, or the way Dave would smile breathlessly after he won a game—

Oh, hell.

Griffelkin had done it. He’d gone and fallen in — he took a moment to tamp down the nausea — love with him. The human. His former mark. What on Earth was he going to do? 

Quite literally. He definitely didn’t think Hell would take him back any time soon, and the folks upstairs… well he didn’t know WHAT was going on with them. Gabby was their earthly agent?? She made him look positively angelic by comparison — and that was saying something.

So here he was: stuck topside, having horrendously squishy feelings for someone who would never like him back. Why would he? He’d got the Stanley Cup, got the girl… he didn’t need Griffelkin anymore. Dave’s soul may have been bound to him once, but they’d essentially ripped up everything that had tied them together. Their deal was done. 

If only he’d known sooner… he’d never have got those two back together!! If he'd ensured they'd remained separated, he could have done his buddy Lewis a solid — he wouldn't have had to deal with Dave's impressive ego anymore!! Meanwhile, Griff could have swooped in at just the right moment, offering his soulmate both the shining Cup and his blackened heart on a brimstone platter……

But it was too late. They were all finally happy, at peace; everyone’s souls intact. Hurray! Griffelkin had no choice but to just fade into the background. Leave Dave be. He’d already interfered with his life enough. 

Or so he’d thought.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he was currently standing in Dave’s living room. He’d just felt drawn to the place, something that had never happened before. At least, not without some kind of demonic intervention. Somehow, he didn’t think that was at work here, despite the look of Dave’s once-glossy pad. The space seemed to be covered in… satanic paraphernalia of some kind. 

Aw, he was almost touched. Mildly offended by the amateur job (WHO taught him how to draw a pentagram? And scented candles, really?? Was that glitter over there—) but… touched, nonetheless.

Dave was sitting on the floor, hunched over, still in his jersey from the game. He looked miserable. 

Griffelkin felt that increasingly familiar tremble in his chest. He took it out back and shot it dead. “What the hell are you doing?”

Dave jumped out of his skin at the words. He was so cute when he was being existentially horrified by the forces of Griffelkin’s dark magic. Damn him. He’d failed already (typical, typical, Griff, can’t do anything right). He had to stop thinking of Dave like that, not when he wanted nothing—

“I had to talk to you….. it wasn’t right, how you just…. left, after everything. Why did you just leave?”

He… wanted Griff? 

That couldn’t be right. No matter how much it pained him, all he could think to do was be honest: “You got everything you wanted. You didn’t need me anymore.”

Dave seemed distraught, hearing this. Griffelkin had never seen him like that before. He didn’t know what to make of it. He looked… agitated, but not like he was when his hockey career was on the line; sad, but not in the same way as he’d mooned over… whatever her name was. 

He admitted, “I thought that was what I wanted. But then… you weren’t there.” 

No one had ever… cared about Griffelkin before. Was this how the Grinch had felt when his heart grew three sizes bigger? Griff might as well just sprout wings and take up harp-playing, at the notion. He’d never felt so blessed, 

“Aw, Dave, buddy, you missed me? It was my sick moves out on the ice wasn’t it? You just had to come crawling back—”

Dave kissed him. 

*******************

Dave couldn’t listen to that yapping for one more second.

So, he grabbed Griffelkin by the stupid clothes he was still wearing and kissed his stupid evil mouth. It took only a second before he melted into it like he’d been feeling the exact same feverish longing as Dave, silenced by—

Oh, he’d finally shut him up. He should have thought of doing that sooner. 

It felt like a long time coming. It felt like no time at all.

Slowly, he released Griffelkin from his desperate grasp. It took the demon several seconds to blink his eyes open, staring back at him in awe. Well, Dave would feel just terrible if he’d broken him somehow. (Though maybe it would serve him right, just a little bit.) 

Satisfied, he leant back. 

“You gonna stay now? You don’t have anywhere else to be, right? Hell, or the Underworld, or wherever it is you’re from?” He hoped he never found out all the gory details. He suspected he was going to.

Griffelkin was still stunned. His hands twitched where they stayed clinging to the back of Dave’s jersey.  “No, I… I think I’m right where I need to be.”

“Good. ‘Cause I don’t know if you know this, but I just won the Stanley Cup.” He smiled at the thought… what an insane life he was leading. Dave Heinrich: youngest player to ever earn that mythic trophy; currently falling headfirst, circle-after-circle, in love with Hell’s finest.

Griffelkin smiled back at him, a little goofy, joy glimmering in his eyes, “Oh, you did?”

“Uh huh. And I could use some help figuring out where I’m gonna go from here.”

“Right, well…” Griffelkin swallowed. “I might just know a certain devil who’s going through kind of a similar situation right now. He might just take you up on that offer.”

It felt like the proper conclusion to their little adventure: both balancing on the precipice of a new journey. One Dave wanted them to tackle together — no matter how many ridiculous escapades came about as a result. They were just better as a pair. He knew they’d make it work somehow. If there was one thing he’d learned from all this (besides the whole being a selfless team player thing) it was that he could use a little more chaos in his life.

He pretended to mull Griff’s response over. “No contracts required?”

“Actually now that you mention it, I think I might have forgotten a sub-clause back there—” 

Dave kissed him again. Man, that really did work miracles. It was about time he evened the scales a bit, in terms of which one of them was holding power over the other. He had to be careful or it just might go to his head.

They were still standing in the midst of Dave’s embarrassingly terrible pentagram. Luckily, the candles had all been long-extinguished by the time their lips had met, or they would have been facing a serious fire-safety hazard right about then. Dave had come too far to have his life cut short in that blissful moment.

His arms wrapped around the neck of his tormentor, who bound their bodies together with his own embrace in turn. 

At least they wouldn’t be able to sue him for breach of contract: Dave Heinrich’s soul belonged to the demon Griffelkin after all. 

Along with his heart, and mind, and body, and whatever else he decided he wanted along the way. Dave wasn’t fussed in the slightest.

Hell began to thaw.

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

You guys, what the fuck is up with the increase in stealing and plagiarising in this fandom lately? When did that become a thing that was okay to do?

The first time I was flat out plagiarized was almost four years ago in a different fandom. A well known author in that fandom took the first paragraph of a short one shot, one of the first things I’d ever posted and that I was incredibly proud of, switched a few words, and then used it as the summary for their slightly longer fic. They then went on to steal the premise of my ficlet and just…make it longer. This was brought up in a discord server a friend of mine was in that I wasn’t and the general consensus was “who would believe you? You’re nobody.” So I kept my mouth shut and I deleted my fic because seeing it made me feel like shit. Something similar then happened to a friend of mine with the titles of her fics being stolen, flat out and word for word, for the same characters. And again it was “no one will believe you.”

We shut up. We stuck it out. And then when it kept happening, to us and to others, we left that fandom.

I was so, so excited when HotD aired. I was back in my ASOIAF phase that had never actually ended. It was a new opportunity to make friends with common interests and my writing improved so much because of how passionate about the canon material I was. I have made some of the most incredible friends, like life-long, stay up all night talking, come to my house or let’s hang out when you’re in my state/country kind of friends. It’s pretty amazing. But this fandom is a whole different beast than any other I’ve been involved with. I have no idea if it’s the general age of the fandom, or the lack of prior fandom experience, or what us old people call the “tiktokifcation of fandom.” But it’s different. And while that’s usually a good thing, there are so many times when this has been awful. There is a huge lack of accountability here. People are stealing things. And the weirdest part is, they don’t care! It is plagiarism to have someone else's story opened while you write yours so that you can tone match the other writer. It is plagiarism to take people’s well thought out ideas and then use them beat for beat. I get it, it’s fic, nothing is wholly original, we are going to see idea recycling! That’s just fandom. But to model your entire story off of someone else’s is heinous. And it’s wrong. And this literally just happened to a very good friend of mine. When she mentioned she was uncomfortable with it and had blocked the person who did this, someone she considered a level headed mutual (who has recently admitted to plagiarising someone else themselves, mind you) told her that she was just drama baiting and didn’t have the right to be upset. The same thing happened to me with a now deleted creator who told me that she dragged me in her discord server and that her friends (all big name creators would essentially “black list me” for saying anything).

It’s not dramatic to not be okay with your work being stolen! This is a normal fucking reaction. In trad publishing or academia, this shit gets you banned, expelled, etc. It can ruin your life.

I received a slew of anons recently asking for help with graphic making and editing. And I was so excited about them. That shit is fun for me. We chatted for a while, with them on anon, and that was that. Until I got an anon letting me know that the person I was talking with was someone who had stolen ideas and storylines from me and other creators. So I looked, I asked friends to look, and the consensus was “yeah, this is fucking plagiarism, and it’s weird.” All of the edit stuff she’d asked about was used on an edit that was a direct rip off of my own. But I elected to not make a thing of it, to ignore it, to wash my hands of it because of the weird fucking trend of calling out theivery being labeled as drama baiting. And I didn’t want that, not after I had genuinely made the mistake of thinking that someone had stolen an idea from me when they hadn’t (calm down, we’re really close friends now). This person deleted their old blog and so I thought it was over. And then yesterday I got a dm from this new blog I didn’t even know existed accusing me of sending them harassing anons.

A blog, who had stolen from me and at least four other people, who had reached out to me on anon for help and ideas, that at this point I didn’t even know existed anymore, said they knew I was sending hateful anons accusing them of theft. I wasn’t, of course, because I had no idea they even existed, and it made no sense that I would even know they’d created another blog. I only found out about their new blog when they dm’d me from it. But they had obviously done this to enough people that they were now getting called out on it.

You guys, we have to fucking stop acting like this. This fandom needs to stop stealing from each other and eating our own. And if someone brings up that they’ve had an idea stolen, we need to take them seriously instead of insinuating they’re only attempting to cause drama. Stop sending people unhinged anons because you feel like you’re guilty of lifting from another creator and just work on creating something original. Writing is hard. Giffing and making edits is fucking hard. And no, nothing will ever be 100% original, that’s just impossible at this point, but stop fucking taking things that aren’t yours and claming them as your own. Do better. Grow up.

[lupeloto]

“we, huh?” ficlet

i have another ficlet that i whipped up and made me jsksndjesj. i hope u guys enjoy it, i’m a little rusty so proceed with caution

Ian lays facing away from the door, comforter billowed around his bare chest, draped lazily across his arm. His head is buzzing, his thoughts shooting around a mile-a-minute yet he can’t seem to actually process a single one. He shuts his eyes tight, trying desperately to breathe through it. He’s been off for a few weeks now, under the false assumption that he narrowly escaped Mickey’s concern until he drops a small “you got an appointment tomorrow to get your meds fixed.” Initially, a rage filled him, sending a rush through his entire body and resulting in some snippy comment about how he can handle his own shit. Mickey didn’t react, just walked to where Ian sat, placed a quick peck on the top of his head and walked out of the room. After several hours of misery in company with his own thoughts, the anger was eventually replaced with a lingering guilty. It was a guilt he felt slightly too proud to admit, resulting in their conversations being limited for the rest of the day.

Mickey shuffles in, plopping down next to Ian in bed.

“Ay,” he finally settles, “i shouldnt’ve gone behind your back,” he fidgets, his head shifting down before Ian cuts him off.

Ian shuts his eyes, breathing through the initial anger that rose, landing on the understanding that it was all in his best interest. “It’s okay,” Ian turns to face him, head resting against his forearm, the former jumbled mess that was his mind now completely clear as his eyes catch sight of the gentle blue ones that stare back at him.

Mickey mirrors him, his head resting on his forearm as his hair sits in a messy black tuft against the pillow. “It’s gonna be alright, just gonna take a look at ya and make sure we get everything figured out.” His hands move to lightly trace Ian’s shoulder, going over every freckle and scar with a delicacy that only Ian knew.

Ian stares back for a moment, eyes fixated on the flutter of Mickey’s lashes as he spoke. Fuck, he loved this man.

“We, huh?” Ian scoots closer, the corners of his lips turn up slightly at the light red that flushes Mickey’s cheeks.

Mickey brushes it off, shifting onto his back mumbling a quick, “It’s you and me, Red.”

Ian smiles to himself, gaze fixed on the sight of his husband’s porcelain skin painted in a light dusting of freckles and a few scars that Ian traces delicately with his fingers, followed by a gentle peck. The curve of his nose, his lips, his lashes. He is nothing short of mesmerized.

“You must love me a whole lot then, huh ya softie?” Ian teases

Mickey lifts his arm behind his head and shutting his eyes, “like it’s breathing, Gallagher,” he huffs casually. He nods his head, gesturing for Ian to come closer.

Ian’s heart beats out of his chest threatening to land promptly before him on the bed as he stifles a small laugh. He’s never short of amused and enthralled by his husband’s ability to say the most romantic things in the most nonchalant nature. Mickey knows it makes Ian bashful and giddy like a teenage girl so of course he slips one in whenever he can.

He feels Ian’s eyes burning a hole in him, “And I don’t wanna hear shit about it, we all know you’re the soft one,” he cuts his eyes over, “now would you get your ass over here i’m fuckin’ exhausted.”

Ian happily complies, shifting to lay his head against Mickey’s chest. His large, freckles hand reaches to grab Mickey’s, nearly completely engulfing it as he rubs small, soothing circles with his thumb while his other hand mimicks on his stomach. Mickey digs his face deep into the tuft of curls, inhaling slightly and placing a small kiss on his head as both drift slowly to sleep.

[alex-procrastinates]

just finished this drawing for a contest on deviantart:

[image: a digital drawing of two characters fighting at sunset in a grassy clearing with trees visible on both sides. the one on the left is asterix, a short white man with blonde hair, a moustache and wearing a winged helmet, black shirt and red pants. the one on the right is whosemoralsarelastix, a tall white man with longer blonde hair and moustache, a hooked nose and wearing a helmet with larger wings, a pink cloak, blue tunic and orange pants. whosemoralsarelastix is lunging forward with a maniacal grin, in the middle of swinging his sword downwards at asterix. the tip of the sword has cut asterix from his right cheek to right thigh, sending out a small spray of blood. asterix is stumbling backwards in shock and fear, his sword lying off to the side. end id]

there's a whole lot of context for it, so i'll put it under the cut

so this is an au of asterix and the cauldron. if you haven't read it, basically what happens is asterix is banished from the village because he fails to protect a cauldron of money entrusted to the village by another chief called whosemoralsarelastix. he and obelix have a bunch of misadventures trying to earn back the money, but eventually they give up and head to whosemoralsarelastix's village to return the cauldron. on the way there, though, they meet a passing tax collector, try to rob him and discover that the money he carries smells like onion soup - just like the money that was in the cauldron! so asterix realises that whosemoralsarelastix got his men to steal the cauldron in order to pay his taxes and stay in the romans' good books. he confronts him and they have a swordfight, which asterix loses, but then the cliff whosemoralsarelastix is standing on crumbles and his money falls into the sea, so he gives up and asterix and obelix go back to the village.

so my au stemmed from a little ficlet i wrote about asterix's thoughts while he was leaving the village, which then got me thinking about why he might be on his own. and i realised it would be very easy for the romans to have taken advantage of this situation if they had known about it.

so in my au a roman spy overhears asterix being banished and the romans decide to try and capture him while he's vulnerable. they stop obelix from following him by intercepting him at an inn, where they drug his food and transport him somewhere where he can't get away before he loses his strength because he's gone so long without eating. meanwhile, asterix has some pretty similar misadventures to the comic.

he finds out about what whosemoralsarelastix did, but doesn't just barge in and confront him where he's protected by his men. so he does some stealth missions and sows doubt in whosemoralsarelastix's mind by making it look like his men are trying to get on the romans' bad side, and then arranges a meeting in a forest clearing away from the village, which whosemoralsarelastix doesn't tell anyone about because he doesn't trust his men.

in the climax of the story, which is depicted in the drawing, asterix confronts him, and they fight, but this time whosemoralsarelastix isn't standing on a cliff, so he nearly succeeds in killing asterix.

by this point obelix has escaped and been looking everywhere for asterix, so he soon finds him and brings him back to the village, where getafix treats his injuries and they explain about the whole fiasco. it's a lesson to everyone not to take asterix for granted.

sorry for that long spiel, i did a LOT of thinking about this idea. it might even end up as a fic someday ;)

as for the actual art, it was a lot of fun trying to do the sunset lighting! what i did was i actually started with just the sky and drew everything else as silhouettes, which i then sketched and did lineart and coloured on, and then used the original silhouettes as the shading. i think it turned out pretty good! also i'm really proud of the motion smear on the sword :D

i think i messed up asterix's pose a little bit bc it's not at all clear where the sword is meant to have cut him, but at least it looks cool :D

[moorishflower]

That long lost!Addams ficlet is a delight. You KNOW Gomez would be so absurdly proud if his new great x100 uncle then managed to bag an actual eldritch terror as a partner. Wouldn't even miss a beat.

"Hob Gadling," Dream says, and Hob makes a frankly embarrassing sound -- not a shriek, nothing like that, but maybe a startled yelp -- and jerks off the side of the bed and onto the floor. Dust from beneath the bed settles immediately in his hair, and the floorboards creak alarmingly under his weight, but, after a tense and breathless moment, nothing happens. Hob exhales, and finds himself looking up between Dream's long and slender legs. He's wearing skinny jeans, Hob notes, and he can't resist the urge to grab hold of both of Dream's calves, just above the ankle, and Christ, but he's so skinny Hob can nearly get his fingers to touch.

Dream only raises an eyebrow at him. "Why do you keep the company of witches?" he asks, and Hob strokes up the length of his legs, as high as he can reach, humming softly. His heart is still hammering with excess adrenaline, and he's got to channel it somewhere. Lust for his lover (partner? boyfriend? they haven't really discussed --) is as good a cause as any.

"Hello," he says, attempting to maintain some manner of social nicety. "Good to see you, darling, how's your day been, mine's been fine --"

"Hob."

"-- I only learned that I've apparently got relatives, still," he finishes, and Dream's other eyebrow joins the first. Hob uses Dream's ankles to hoist himself further from the edge of the bed, and then picks himself up gingerly, brushing dust from his hair, his shoulders. It falls down from him in a grey cloud, and he's not able to suppress a sneeze before he says, "Loads of them. From my mam's side of the family. Apparently she had a sister."

"And you decided to visit."

"There were extenuating circumstances," Hob says, thinking of the diary, the bidding war, Gomez's unflappable enthusiasm for the esoteric. "But yes. What's this about witches?"

"Many of your relatives are. Though this explains, somewhat. How swiftly and easily you took to immortality."

Witches are real? sits on the tip of his tongue, and Hob only narrowly swallows it back. "Am I a witch?" he asks, half-fearing the answer. It'd make his drowning in the 1600s a lot less poignant, maybe. If he's been a witch this whole bloody time, if 'witch' is a thing that's somehow separate and distinct from human...

"No," Dream says, and all the tension leaves Hob's shoulders at once. He sits back down on the bed with a shuddering sigh. It's a nice bed, a four-poster with a canopy, and Gomez and Morticia had reassured him that this room did not contain anything that lived under the mattress. The sheets are heavy velvet, in deference to the cold Chicago winter, and yesterday morning he'd woken up to the sight of Wednesday Addams standing over his bed with a morningstar in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. She had been contemplating the best way to wake him: by cutting his hair (he'd needed to explain to her that it would take time to grow back), or by caving his chest in (requiring a totally different, but no less important, conversation of its own).

"Good," he says, and Dream makes a low, thrumming noise, and straddles Hob's lap.

"You did not tell me where you were going," he murmurs, and strokes his thumbs down Hob's cheeks, catches his nail on Hob's bottom lip and pulls it down slightly to expose his teeth. "I felt you, still. In the Dreaming. But The New Inn was bereft of you."

"I didn't realize I was coming here until the second I did it," Hob admits, and Dream seems to take this in stride. "Besides. I've got no way to contact you. I sort of hoped you'd just...feel where I was."

"I did. I do. And yet. To hear it from your lips would also be...pleasing."

"You're allowed to say you're miffed, love," Hob says, and lays his hands in the cup of Dream's hips. Thin and bony and his. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you where I was going. Maybe we can figure out some way we can talk not through the Dreaming, in future. Dunno if you get cell service there."

He means it as a joke, but Dream tilts his head to the side, considering. His thumb sweeps up from Hob's lip, touches just below his eye, the firm bone of the orbit.

"I will consider it," he says, and then bends down and gently covers Hob's mouth with his own. His lips are soft, and Dream always runs closer to lukewarm than he does body temperature, but now Hob gasps because Dream's mouth, when it opens against him, is chilled. Sweet and cool as wintermint, and his tongue licking at Hob's lips is like a round of ice that thaws and melts and slowly slips inside, until Hob can drink him the way he would snowmelt, held in the cupped chalice of his tongue --

"Dios mío," comes a familiar voice at the door, and Hob frantically pulls his hands from where they had been inching over Dream's arse, and then just as frantically tries to rearrange himself so that his erection isn't immediately visible. He's not sure how he manages this last, since he feels hard enough that it could be seen from space, but if that's the cross he must bear, then so be it.

Dream, as always, is utterly unflappable, and turns to the bedroom door looking every inch a king; he's wild-haired, Hob realizes, and the skinny jeans aren't so much gone as they are flickering, like a projector caught between two slides, flipping back and forth between Dream's usual peacoat and jeans, and what Hob's become used to seeing him wear in the Dreaming, what he thinks of as Dream's robe of office, flowing like ink, black as the starless sky.

Gomez, standing in the doorway, looks between Dream and Hob, and then a wide and cheery grin nearly splits his face in half.

"Mi querido niño! You did not tell me you had a paramour! And who is this enchanting creature? Gomez Addams, my friend, at your service!"

Dream blinks slowly, and Gomez, to his credit, does not come forward with a proffered hand or, thank God, a hug. Only beams at Dream from the doorway, until Hob's increasingly eldritch lover breaks the silence at last.

"I am called Morpheus," he says, "Lord of Dreams and King of Nightmares. Shaper of Form and Prince of Stories." He inclines his head slightly, and Gomez looks as though he might faint with delight. "And lover of Hob Gadling."

"You did not tell me you were royalty," Gomez says. He strides into the bedroom, and thankfully it's Hob he's bound for, Hob's hand that he grabs. "Royalty! Why, the Addams haven't hosted a king since good old Henry!"

"Which Henry?" Hob gets out, as he's forcibly removed from the bed and dragged, almost bodily, towards the door. Gomez is strong. He keeps forgetting.

"It doesn't matter! They're all quite dead. But yours isn't! Come, my liege! Allow me to escort you and your Prince Consort on a promenade of the grounds! Have you ever been to America before, sir?"

"I am a representation of all sleeping minds, and of the dreaming subconscious of all living things," Dream says, sweeping behind them, stately and imposing. "So. Yes."

"Oh, splendid! That means I don't have to explain baseball."

"What is happening," Hob whispers, as he's manhandled out into the hall. His mind is caught somewhere on prince consort and doesn't quite want to let go of it, but he feels like that's a conversation he ought to have with Dream in private.

And Dream looks at him, smirking faintly, his starlit eyes flicking from Hob's mussed hair to his kiss-pinked lips, and down to the way that Gomez so effortlessly steers him by the shoulder out into the manor proper.

"Family," Dream says, and reaches out, and laces his fingers with Hob's.