#the minifics are back

[fanaticsnail]

Sending you this here cause I need The Masses™️ to be able to enjoy this concept

Reader & Stoic canon (SC) out doing something when it begins to snow, but the weather very suddenly picks up and then they're in danger. They manage to find somewhere they can take shelter, but reader has always run cold, and now they're at risk of dead ass just hypothermia. SC is also cold but struggling less than reader, and so what do they do?

Obviously they need to strip down to their underwear and cuddle for warmth.. duh! And if they've both had a bit of a crush on each other for a while, well that's their business. If that's suddenly much harder to ignore because they're cuddling almost naked.. well that's OUR business

Why must you do this to me, Logan 🤌. Because there is one man and one man only that I can picture with this beautiful snippet, and it's pulling me all the way back in. Here's a minific I wrote super fast with your concept because the man just got me.

Themes: Beckman x gn!reader, suggestive language not explicit, confession.

As the frost sinking it's teeth into your skin slowly ebbed away from your body, you're finally extremely aware of the larger form holding you flush against his bare chest. With his patterned cloak shrouding both of your bodies within the shelter of a cave mouth, it seems the situation had dawned on Benn Beckman as hastily as it did you moments prior.

It was not about affections at the time you stripped your snow-damp clothes away from your skins, nor was it when he lit a fire closer to the cave's entrance with his lighter. It was not about that slow and steady blush clawing up his neck and blooming in his cheeks when you offered him a simple touch aboard the Red Force - it was all simply a matter of survival out here in the thick snowstorm without your crew behind you.

Now that the instinctual survival practice forced you down to barely your briefs, bodies clamped together like two native otters slumbering in a riverbed, the attraction finally met the both of you while your breaths met in synchrony.

Beckman's grip tightened around your waist as he held you against his body, your back fully engulfed by his broad and bare chest, as he whispered softly in your ear.

"Before anythin' happens without me addressin' it," his warm breath licked against the shell of your ear as he softened his tone even further, "I'd like to both apologize if I get excited, and apologize further if I don't. Haven't had you in my arms like this before, and I don't want you to get the wrong idea or nothin', darlin'."

"What would the wrong idea be, Becks?" you spoke without the ability to recall your words as they fled your lips. Beckman's breath shuddered out in a steady, restrained, and soundless groan at your innocent question, forcing him to finally address the way that his soul begged him to unleash.

"That whatever's happenin' between us now will ultimately lead to more," his grip on your waist intensified, more as a comfort for himself than to reassure you, "I just want us to get outta' this alive, not have you beneath me and take advantage of you like this."

Your breath hitched in your throat at his reassurance. A small bout of bravery pulled at your chest and caused a bold whisper to run off your tongue as simply as water off a cliff's edge.

"...but what if I want you to?"

Benn Beckman stopped breathing all together, gritting his teeth in and scrunching his eyes tightly shut. The silver-haired first mate elicited a shaken exhale while he calmed his rapidly sprinting mind. Gently splitting the partician of his lashes, he gazed down at you through half-hooded eyes and leaned his lips closer to yours.

"I'd say I've been wanting to since you first came aboard, but needed you to know me as your crewmate first before anythin' else," he uttered with a purred rumble in his throat, "And that I wouldn't want it to be a one time thing. I'd want to settle down with you as my partner, Darlin', not just some squeeze in a random port - or a snow covered cave mouth. We both deserve better than this, but don't think the offers not temptin' me."

[noyzinerd]

Sterek Rival Lawyers AU

It's A (Court) Date

Imagine, high-class, Ivy League, hot-shot, attorney Derek comes back from New York to the family firm to take over as partners with his sister after his parents decide to step down. He may not be on the level of his mother yet, but he's cut his teeth against Wall Street wolves and ruthless white-collar sharks. Derek's more than proved himself, so he just can't fathom these small criminal court cases his family is making him take "before he's truly ready" to be a part of the family business.

Enter in his first case. Right out the gate, the state assigned defense is, not only late to court, but also arrives in a flurry of limbs and papers, tripping all over himself, and profusely apologizing to the room as a whole. "Sorry! Sorry! Car trouble!"

The guy is out of breath, tie crooked and hair a mess. It makes Derek wrinkle his nose at the unprofessionalism and the blatant disrespect to everyone's valuable time.

The presiding judge, the Honorable Ms. Lydia Martin, only sighs a heavy sigh, as if this sight is nothing new, and says "Mr. Stilinski, I suggest you don't let it happen again."

Derek is honestly getting annoyed by how easy this is going to be. He could've been doing literally anything else right about now rather than being here going against a common rent-a-lawyer with some Podunk community-college degree. The opening statement for the defense is laughably inept. Full of nervous stuttering, backtracking, running tangents, and babbling. He's still apologizing, trying to assure the jury that he's just having an off-day today.

It's embarrassing to watch.

Nonetheless, Derek goes through the motions, practiced and poised. Examines all the evidence, presenting times and dates, prior arrest records, the works.

During this time, Mr. Stilinski is frantically (and VERY LOUDLY) flitting through a cartoonishly large stack of papers and whispering to his client. Derek has to fight to grit his teeth through his presentation.

Finally, it's time for Mr. Stilinski to cross-examine Derek's client and, unbeknownst to him, the beginning of Derek's long, long spiral of madness for the rest of his career.

"Judge Martin, I would like to move to have this case thrown out."

"Oh?" asks Judge Martin. For some reason, there's an amused smirk, almost fond, tugging at her lips "On what grounds?"

A giddy, almost manic, grin takes over the defense attorney's face just then. "On the grounds that the prosecution's client is full of bullshit."

The judge rolls her eyes and an exasperated "Stiles," slips from her lips, seemingly against her will. (Derek's not really surprised by the familiarity between the two of them. With how often state-assigned lawyers are called to the courtroom on small cases, it wouldn't be too big of a leap to suggest they might be chummy.)

"Respectfully, of course." Mr. Stilinski--er Stiles?--winks back at her.

"Objection. Your honor, this is ridiculous."

"Overruled. Make your point, Stilinski."

"Mr. Davis says he saw my client at 12:30 P.M., on August 4th, attempting to take his back-right hubcap outside his apartment. Mr. Davis' apartment complex at that time, on that particular day, would have cast a huge shadow over the back lot as evidenced by the gaudy sundial-art-installation outside the courthouse. Meanwhile, my client's picture, when taken in for questioning, has a sunburn on the entire right side of his face. This would corroborate Mr. Lyle's story of walking home alone, down the upper, unshaded side of Elmore Street, during one of the hottest days of the year, for an hour straight. Also, the fact that Mr. Davis has no realistic idea how long it would actually take a person to steal a hubcap should be evidence enough."

"Uh-huh. And this wouldn't happen to be something you've ever had any expertise in, would it, counsel?"

"I plead the 5th."

And just like that, Derek's case is thrown out so quick, he's still reeling about it all the way home.

For the next two years, this becomes Derek's life. This man, this Stiles Stilinski, keeps showing up like a whirlwind and absolutely puts him in his paces.

Stiles, as he insists Derek call him, is a powerhouse. Relentless and unstoppable. That mouth can filibuster for literal hours (which, for those unfamiliar, is when someone legally cannot be forced to give up their time on the floor as long as they can keep talking), that brain quick as a whip, with a hunger for research, a mastery of the English language svelte enough to trip up even the most well-rehearsed lie, and an attention to detail like nothing Derek has ever witnessed before. It's like he knows every law inside and out. Lives it. Breathes it. It's like he had been raised on the law his whole life. Not only that, it's like Stiles enjoys it. Every case is a new game to get excited about.

All of it makes Derek's blood boil.

However, it's not always about losing to Stiles all the time, because, honestly, that might be less humiliating.

In truth, when faced against Stiles, Derek's bound to win about 60% of the time. Out of that 60%, only 5% of those wins actually feel earned. As for the other 55%?

He knows Stiles is letting him win.

Derek can't prove it, but he knows the asshole is holding back on purpose nearly half the time. Knowing that Stiles could have beaten him if he wanted to, but didn't, is somehow more frustrating than just losing.

He hates Stiles.

He hates that the guy is so chipper and playful all the damn time. He hates that Stiles could probably work at any firm he wanted, could make enough money to get a decent car that doesn't shit out all the time, could buy a proper-fitting suit, but instead CHOOSES to stay here "watching out for the little guy", as he so put it.

He hates that facing Stiles in court is the most challenged, the most motivated he's ever felt in his entire life. He hates that Stiles brings out in him the spark of passion and drive Derek had long thought had died. He hates that Stiles always tries to banter with him during recess or whenever they have to exchange evidence.

He hates finding out that Stiles only loses cases on purpose when his endless amounts of research points to the defendant actually being guilty of horrendous crimes, because Stiles is a good fucking person.

He hates Stiles' constant teasing and he hates that Stiles is somehow able to bring Derek down to his childish level to tease back. He hates how much he looks forward to court-dates with Stiles now. He hates being invited out by Stiles over and over to grab a bite together after a long day, as if Stiles hasn't been wiping the floor with him on this case for the last month. He hates it even more that he always accepts and that now they have their own designated booth at the diner across the street. Derek's so unbelievably frustrated, it makes him want to bite Stiles at the neck just to hear that smartass mouth squeal.

"Hey, I ever tell you I was thinking of quitting before you arrived?" Stiles asks one night as they're walking to their cars.

Derek's head immediately snaps to him at that. "What?"

Stiles smiles distantly at the thought. "Oh, yeah. Things had started feeling like being trapped in a cubicle, y'know? There wasn't any challenge in it anymore."

"What made you stay?"

"Well...you did. You were the first, serious competition I'd faced in a while. It wasn't a matter of winning just to win, anymore. Going against you always reminded me of the reason why it was important for me to win. It gave me stakes, because now there was an actual chance I could lose and an innocent person could go to jail. You, I don't know, kinda reignited my passion for fighting the good fight, I guess."

Derek can feel his heart thumping hard in his chest. He wants to say 'You did the same for me!' He wants to tell Stiles that he didn't think his life could ever be this fun or happy or messy or chaotic or exhilarating or challenging or fulfilling before coming to Beacon Hills.

But just as Derek goes to open his mouth to sing Stiles' praises, he instead finds himself roughly shoving him up against the Camaro and biting hungrily at that mouth and tongue that's been the bane of his existence. There's a surprised little squeak that Derek quickly swallows up, but it isn't long before they're both tearing at each others' clothes and fucking each other dirty in the backseat of Derek's car.

What's crazy is, after they get together, nothing in their careers really changes. The only difference is now they get to fuck each others' brains out after an intense battle in court (and the sound Stiles makes when Derek bites him is exactly what he always imagined it would sound like). They still face against each other on opposite sides in court. They still give it everything they got, no conceding even if they are dating now. Not to mention, Derek wouldn't dream of tempting Stiles over to his firm. Not when he knows Stiles is at his best staying where he's at.

The day Derek's family finally decides it's time for him to take over the firm with Laura is the best day of his and Stiles' lives.

Not only does Derek tell them he's declining, he hires Stiles as his attorney to negotiate terms against his entire family of well-seasoned lawyers.

The entire month-long negotiation results in Derek, not saying a single word, but absolutely beaming as he watches his boyfriend run circles around his mother, his father, his uncle, and both of his sisters on contracts. It's so unbelievably hot, they're banging on whatever flat surface they can get their hands on every time they leave the boardroom. There's even one very memorable blowjob in the empty hall outside the boardroom when Stiles somehow manages to get Peter to agree to a (most likely illegal) clause dictating the firm will pay Stiles a finder's fee for any pro-bono case Stiles takes on outside of Beacon Hills that strikes his fancy.

And, no one says it, but they all know Derek definitely, 100%, dragged his own firm through this negotiation just to show off how incredible Stiles is to his family and preen about it.

--

Fast-forward, Derek is going to be in the audience for the first time for one of Stiles' cases.

While waiting in the hall, Derek sees a familiar face from his New York days. The prosecution has hired the eighth best lawyer money can get, Jackson Whittemore. He's sporting a Rolex, sunglasses indoors, and the face of someone who thinks he's above literally every other person in town.

Well, at least until he sees Derek.

For some reason, Jackson seems to think Derek is all the way out in the middle of nowhere to 'watch a master at work' (which...well...is technically true...).

As Derek goes to sit in the audience, Jackson tells him in passing, "This'll be over so fast, probably won't even get a chance to learn the other guy's name."

Derek chuckles and says back, "Ooh, buddy, you have no idea."

Before Jackson can think more on that, a whirlwind of limbs and papers suddenly hurls through the doors.

Derek sits back, gets comfy, and waits eagerly for the show to begin.

My first moodboard. Hope you enjoy. AU based on a discussion with @casually-eat-my-soul (I suggest checking out their version). This was kind of like a divergence from that (the brain juices just started flowing).

[zarvasace]

Congrats on 10k! For a little cleanse, I was thinking of perhaps Time and Four having a nice little bonding time? I don’t see nearly as much with them as I would like!

Yessss me either!! Time isn't my favorite of the Boys but he is such a good one

---

Four���s footsteps on the wet cobbles pause, and Time looks back, stopping too. A sign on the side of the road announces GAMES OF LUCK AND CHANCE, with a little image of a treasure chest on the side. 

Time knows these kinds of places. They're scams, every one of them, but people still keep going to them in the hopes that they'll win money without doing much. Those conpeople prey on teenagers and the poor, and Time is mildly frustrated, but not surprised, to see a place like this in town. 

Four looks up at Time, a mysterious gleam in his eye. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” 

“What are you—ah.” Four had learned about Time’s Lens of Truth just yesterday. 

“You're my father, and I'm turning ten, and the knights don't pay so well, and you want so badly to get me a practice sword or something,” Four says, smiling and fluffing his hair out. “What do you say to two losses and a string of wins?” 

Time's eyebrows lift. He doesn't think that most of the others would suggest this sort of a con to him, but Four has never been one to judge him too harshly on his age and apparent stick-in-the-mud-ness. 

So Time smiles back. “Let's scam a scammer.”

Later, Four and Time make a stop at the local soup kitchen to donate a few thousand rupees. 

[breakfastteatime]

The Force has many ways of imparting its message. Sometimes it nudges. Other times it bellows. Now, very (very) early in the morning, the Force is a feather brushing across a bare foot. Jaro awakens with a smile and a certainty.

Cal needs him. Why, he does not know. It is not a bad feeling. Just the knowledge that Jaro’s presence is required.

Leaving the comfort of his bed, Jaro slips on his robe, clips his lightsaber to his belt, and heads out. Cal’s room is nearby, and the hallways are quiet this time of night, the distant and ever-present hum of the engines the only sound to hear.

Reaching Cal’s room, Jaro opens the door and immediately sees he has a problem. It is not an unexpected one, it is merely one he has not had to deal with before. It reminds him of how short a time Cal has been his apprentice. He had been warned the day he took Cal from the creche. Master Entola, noticeably red around the eyes, looked across her desk at Jaro with a fond smile.

“Cal will sleepwalk every now and then. There’s no avoiding it,” she told him. “Not far, and you’ll usually find him talking to a wall, but it is something you should be aware of.”

This morning, Cal has made good on Master Entola’s promise. He is not in his bed. He is not in his room at all. His blanket his strewn across the deck, along with a datapad. His boots are neatly placed alongside the rest of his clothes, meaning wherever he is, he is barefoot.

Knowing he can’t get into too much trouble – there are literally thousands of people aboard this ship, and Cal is likely to bump into at least one of them – Jaro does not immediately rush off or send out a ship-wide announcement telling everyone to keep an eye out for the boy. He shall spare his Padawan whatever blushes he can. Instead, Jaro reaches into the feather soft Force and seeks out Cal’s presence. Shrouded in sleep though he may be, Cal is still Cal.

He is also several decks below Jaro.

Curious, wondering what dream could lead Cal so far away, Jaro takes the nearest turbolift down to where Cal is. He nods to every clone he walks past, all of them snapping to attention and saluting. Jaro does not particularly like it, finds their pre-programmed reverence somewhat distasteful, sentients should be free to choose who they dedicate their lives and loyalty to, yet he does not ask them to desist.

The ‘lift deposits him in a cargo bay. There are many aboard the Brave, but this one is reserved for emergency supplies should they need to evacuate civilian populations. Winding his way through the crates, Jaro becomes aware of a small voice.

“…so tall, you can’t miss him.”

Jaro turns a corner and there he is, Cal, and as promised he is talking to a wall. Well, no, not a wall. A container, apparently containing emergency clothing supplies. From the big smile on Cal’s face, what he sees in his dream does not match the mundanity of reality.

…unless the boy has a fondness for ponchos and rainboots.

“Should I wake him when I find him?” Jaro had asked Master Entola.

“No. Best to simply take him back to bed. He will stay there once you put him back. One little nighttime stroll is all he ever seems to need.”

And so Jaro crouches down and speaks softly. “Cal?”

The boy looks up (and up) to Jaro, smiling brightly. “Here he is!” Cal tells the crate. “See? He’s very tall.” He nods as though the crate is passing comment on Jaro’s height.

“Come.” Jaro places a hand on Cal’s shoulder. “And bring your new friend.”

This, apparently, is precisely what Cal’s dream expects. He chatters brightly, telling his imaginary friend that they’ll be safe now, Master Tapal is a very good Jedi.

“What happened?” Jaro asks, guiding Cal onto the ‘lift.

“She got lost,” Cal tells him. “In the woods. She couldn’t find her family. She found me instead. And then we found you.” The sleeping boy frowns. “Or you found us. I’m not really sure.”

“The outcome is the same either way,” Jaro says as they board the turbolift.

The ‘lift arrives on the residential deck and he and Cal step out. The troopers all salute again, greeting Cal, but Cal is too busy talking about trees and getting lost to notice. Of course, he is also quite literally asleep on his feet. Given that he would have walked past all of them on his sleepwalk through a dream forest, Cal either said enough to silence any concern, or they assumed he was on Jedi business and let him get on with it.

Back in Cal’s room, Jaro steers him back into bed with lots of reassurances that his new friend will be safely escorted back to her family. He tucks him in and opts to remain in the room until, as advertised, Cal simply drifts off into standard Human sleep, the type where he remains in bed with his eyes closed and his voice silent. The Force settles around him, a quiet hum to match the engines, and Jaro finally feels it is safe to leave Cal for the rest of the night.

At a civil hour, Cal emerges from his cabin bright-eyed and completely unaware of his earlier excursion.

“Are you okay, Master? You look tired.”

Oh, to have the energy of youth. “I am well, Padawan.” And will be even better once he consumes a small bucket of caf. “You look very well-rested.”

“Uh huh!”

And, as Jedi tradition dictates, a Jedi Master is allowed to have a little fun in the name of education. “Perhaps you would like to go for a run after breakfast,” Jaro suggests. “A lap of the nearby cargo deck before we resume lightsaber training.”

“Okay!”

Jaro sighs. He cannot win. Perhaps when Cal is in his teens a task like that will result in much stifled complaining and malicious compliance.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

me when i’m going through my notes app and get smacked in the face by the 19k stsg/reader & 7.5k tojinana/reader polyfics i wrote in the summer of 2021

[its-monster-mash]

Getting Used to Being Bo's Stockholm Wife

Little details 1

You've got two pots on the stove, one is a delicious stew, the other is what's left of a human head that got a little too fucked up to become a wax sculpture - You want the skull for decor.

Vincent is sitting at the table, his hair in a messy bun. You've got cookies in the oven, and he likes to have one hot before Bo gets his hands on them.

Lester walks through the kitchen, always on the move, but stops to take a quick taste of your stew. "Tastes great!" He's smiling - He's the sweet one after all - and he's out the door in a flash, leaving a trail of dirt and debris on your nice clean floor.

You and Vincent both swear never to tell him that he tasted out of the wrong pot.

~*~

Later that night you're finishing cleaning up the skull, and Bo asks you what you're cooking, only to take a look and gag.

New rule.

NO HUMAN REMAINS IN THE GODDAMN KITCHEN.

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

@runningwolf62 I'd apologize that this is the first art you're ever going to get of Vico, but I'm not sure I'm sorry!

[dukeoftears]

h + rouxls and lancer for the prompts? or e + swatchkaard if you're wanting to write shippy stuff specifically lol

Ooh, I might do the swatchkaard promt at another time actually, saving that- right now, I'll write Lancer and Rouxls ^^

Lancer's Nightmare

!! TW for implied child abuse !!

Something was prodding his back

Annoyed and half asleep, Rouxls pushed it away, hoping it would leave him alone.

It was persistent. Rouxls tried to ignore it. Maybe it would get bored and go away.

"...Lesser Dad?"

He groaned, arm going over his face. Please leave him alone. He needed his beauty sleep!!

"Lesser Dad...? Can..."

"For God's sake, Lancer, it's the middle of the night! What?"

"Sorry, um...."

...Now that was concerning.

The boy was hardly ever this meek, unless...

He moved his hand away from his face, blinking away sleep as he looked at Lancer in the dark.

The young prince's face was downcast as he stood beside the bed, hands anxiously clasped together. He shuffled as Rouxls turned his face to him, lips thinning.

Rouxls sighed.

"Come now. Thou shouldst be in bed, yes? Why are thee awake at such an hour?" His voice was gentler, no longer showing the annoyance he felt

"Can... can I sleep with you tonight?"

"...how come?"

Rouxls felt he already knew the answer.

"...I had a nightmare,"

Rouxls was silent for a while.

"You'll just sleep outside my door if I try to put you back,"

Lancer made a small hum.

This boy... Rouxls shook his head, a small frown on his face as he lifted him up onto the bed.

"Now, thou muste sleepeth, yes? And do noteth disturb me!"

The boy was lucky Rouxls was fond of him and the small smile of relief on his face.

"Mhm! I won't! Thank you, Lesser Dad!"

Rouxls nodded, turning to the side, ignoring Lancer wrapping his stubby little arms around his torso.

...

"...Lesser Dad?"

"Mm?"

"Do you think... Do you think dad hates me?"

Rouxls felt a small lump in his throat.

"...No, of courseth not," He wasn't lying. "Thy father may have... difficulties... regulating his emotions sometimeseth, but he doesn't hate you. That I'm sureth of."

Lancer was silent for a moment.

"Do you hate me?"

He sighed, turning back to face Lancer, as he gently placed a hand on the boy's head.

"Certainlye not! Thou mayest pester me like the little water beetle thou arest, but I wouldst never hate thee, Lancer,"

"Promise?"

"Pinky promise,"

Lancer held onto Rouxls a little tighter. He could feel the smile on the boy's face.

"...Thank you, Lesser Dad,

"...I love you."

...

"...I love you too,"

[oliviaischillin1204]

👀 Just saw u doing the 3 sentences thingy and 👀👀 If you feel like writing a bit of Patton + Roman + Neck I would be 👀👀 looking directly at it 👀👀

Roman knew this wasn't what Patton was expecting: to have Roman pull him into his lap, chests pressed against each other with only their thin sleep shirts between them, and to feel Roman's lips and teeth brushing teasingly against his throat before he could even say anything.

The creative side smiled, feeling just a bit more wicked than normal, as the realization hit Patton full force, along with the devastatingly ticklish sensations on his adorably sensitive neck.

Still, when Roman finally pulled away a few minutes later, the only response Patton would give was his gasping giggles, face buried in Roman's shoulder with his neck still obviously on display, and Roman knew that his partner wanted nothing more than for him to dive right back in, teeth first.

[hermanunworthy]

hiiii it’s me, blowing you a kiss and bringing you paragraphs on stab wounds <3

there’s a lot to talk to god about. grant isn’t particularly religious. his dad is, and he’s never had a bad experience with religion exactly. they baptized lincoln and they celebrate christmas and easter, but he’s never been the type to pray. you can get a lot of anger out at god yelling at other players online.

he talks to the doodler though. if you give the void a name, you can make it closer to a monster, create something that can be killed. grant believes it is going to kill him first. it’s important that no matter how unfair a fight it is, it is a fight. he used to think it should be comforting, that here was this one thing he couldn’t kill. that was before they had a son. now, it is man-circling-man, grant looking up into the sky every day and remembering when there was an eye to challenge him back.

when grant talks to the doodler, he is talking to something he believes will see the death of him. the others will be the one to kill it, with their magic and fate-twisting cards. it will take him, he’s only human. part of him loves it for that. grant isn’t particularly religious, but this god isn’t particularly holy.

kill me in the morning. I don’t want to live my last day in dread, worried it will be cut off at any moment. for my last day, I want to take in a breath and feel my lungs fully expand. the day before you kill me, I want to not be afraid. I want to feel and for that feeling to just be good. I want to have one moment where I’m laughing, and it’s like there’s a golden ball of light filling me up so completely, the whole world looks bathed in sunlight through my eyes.

I miss the sun.

lark remembers when his mind was his own place. glued at the hip to sparrow, shouting together fighting together looks exchanged so often they may have been swapping eyes entirely, but they were still separate people. then they woke up one morning in an inn and pulled some adult’s robe over themselves, and lark couldn’t say which one of them was on top anymore, who sat on whose shoulders, and it was the strangest experience, to settle into the personhood of a prophecy. it was fun, it was a game, watch the people fight! have everyone else support the battle to come that will make you the bravest heroes! conquer this world and achieve the greatness that hums so close to the surface beneath your skin you can never stay still.

after they became the lord of chaos, they could not move out of each other’s minds. there was a time lark was fifteen when it twisted into a sudden panic, the realization he could not get away. he tried- teenagers want to be independent, to grow up, to be different. this destiny suffocated him. when he was younger he had so much power. he could have done anything. the slant lines narrowed, the church of the doodler chanted, the knife he ended the world with was buried in the same yard as their dog. he would never be anything else. he would never have done anything else. he had to fix it. he had to live like this. he could have done anything and now this was all he would ever do.

lark did not like apologizing. every day he spends alive after what he did to his father, he spends as an apology. he hates apologizing- the shorter, the better. when lark talks to the doodler, he is talking to himself, for being the thing that fucked the universe so spectacularly it tore into two other realms.

I will eat you alive. I have it in me to drive the knife in shallowly, to watch you writhe and rot. it’s you and me at the end of all things. I will kill you. I don’t have a choice. you poisoned everything in my world and swept my childhood up into your apocalypse when I was way too young. you have bred your own enemy. I will watch them bury you in the yard and my father will love you enough to do it beneath the tree. I will kill you with the power you gave me and then you will stop hurting my brother.

I saw what was in you. you never grow up.

anon im gonna be so real w u i woke up at like 3am just now feeling absolutely terrible and when i saw i had a new minific in my inbox it really helped me feel better. ur writing is so brilliant its very inspiring to me esp now that im trying to get back into my own writing

[mangofresca]

cloudburst

He taps his fingers when he’s bored.

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

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

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

Spain sits up a little straighter, squinting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wrote a song for me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Not what I sai–”

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

[breakfastteatime]

Today's request is 'You've got one minute' for @ralndown ^_^

Every time Cal thinks he’s settling into a routine on Bracca, something awful happens. Maybe the Ibis Maw gets hungry for flesh and grabs a tentacleful of unsuspecting scrappers. Maybe a ship that’s been in the same place for two years suddenly decides to collapse under its own weight. Maybe someone breaks something aboard an old terraforming lab and suddenly there’s a bunch of people turned into trees.

Today, Cal’s crew makes it halfway through their shift before the worst, most terrifying siren goes off. Bracca doesn’t have a lot of warnings for incoming disaster, but this one? This is the one they’re all trained to react to in one way, and one way only.

Get out. Get out now or die.

Maybe that’s why the Force left Cal feeling nauseous all day. It’s so useful like that.

Dropping the wires he’d started stripping, Cal follows the others. Prauf’s leading them and he’s already on the comms, listening intently to whatever’s being said. When he stops still and holds up a hand to make everyone else do the same, Cal shivers under the weight of the collective fear around him.

It only gets worse when Prauf starts issuing orders in a sharp tone of voice Cal’s never heard before.

“It’s a chemical leak. A bad one. We’re too deep in the ship to get out in time. Get into your emergency teams, find a room, and seal yourselves in. If we’re lucky, we’ll see each other on the other side of this thing.”

People break off into their groups. There’s no time for goodbyes or good lucks. Cal sticks close to Prauf and Tabbers. He takes a breath and immediately coughs it out, a sharp bite scraping the back of his throat. Prauf grabs him, throws him into a room, and Tabbers seals the door.

It’s not enough. The room, a tiny refresher, has an air conditioning vent high on the ceiling. Even Prauf can’t reach it to close it off. Gas seeps in. Cal hears people coughing and choking from all around, senses their fear and pain.

“We gotta seal it, now!” Tabbers shouts. His eyes stream, coughing hard. “We’ve got one minute before we’re all spitting out chunks of our lungs.” He pulls a wall panel down. “Weld this over that vent!”

“Lift me up,” Cal says. He puts his filter mask on, hoping it will help. “I can do it.”

Putting his own mask on, Prauf grabs Cal, lifting him. Cal plants his feet on Prauf’s shoulders. His eyes burn, so full of tears he can hardly keep them open. Tabbers hands him a sheet of metal and Cal presses it to the vent, welding torch in hand as he covers it up. He can’t keep his eyes open, so he trusts Prauf to guide him, molten metal sealing the panel in place.

“Good job,” Prauf says, lowing Cal down. “Sit, both of you. That gas is light, so we should be safer down here.”

Cal’s feet touch the ground. He drops to the deck moments later, eyes squeezed shut, lungs still rebelling. His mask isn’t doing much to help, but it’s better than nothing.

“Is this shit what I think it is?” Tabbers’ voice is muffled by his mask.

“Yeah,” Prauf replies. Cal hears him sit beside him. “Someone messed up big time.”

“I’d threaten to beat the idiots myself, but I cannae imagine they’re alive now,” Tabbers says.

“What is it?” Cal asks when he can talk again.

“A chemical weapon designed to rot battle droids,” Prauf says.

“Aye, not that it worked,” Tabbers adds. “It’s far better at killing us organics.”

Cal never heard about anything like that. Not that he tells the others. The idea that the Republic would create something like that leaves him nauseous.

“Looks like no one thought to remove the canisters before we started pulling this thing apart,” Prauf says. “Foreman said someone cut off the wrong thing and boom – we’re all breathing in poison.”

Cal doesn’t join the conversation. He pulls his knees to his chest, keeps his eyes firmly closed, and tries not to suffocate in the feelings of so many people dying around him. He pushes the Force away, begs it to leave him alone like it usually does.

“Cal?”

Prauf’s big, warm hand lands on his back. Cal startles, eyes flying open. His vision is fractured by the tears still running, but the burn is easier to manage now.

“You okay?” Prauf asks.

“Yeah,” he says, knowing he doesn’t have to worry about how rough his voice sounds. And then, because he needs a distraction, he keeps talking. “Can’t believe we’re stuck in a ‘fresher.”

Tabbers chuckles. “Get comfy, brat. We might be here a while.”

It’s two days before the foreman gives them the all-clear. The survivors are given a half-shift break to clean up, get something to eat and drink, and then sent back to work to make up for the two days of sitting around doing nothing. Cal notes that their crew is down several people when they meet up to be assigned duties, but no one says anything.

Back to the Bracca routine.

[noyzinerd]

👆🏻THIS EXCERPT, which is mwah 💋 🤌🏻 magnifico, but also The Sustainable Management series by Guede (which is a whopping 18 works totalling 410,205 words!), as suggested by the comments:

And also Old Houses by worlds_reign_here (aka @get-your-ass-in-the-impala) (which is an equally impressive 66,891 words!),as suggested by the reblogs:

A triple hitter 😭!

I would like an AU where Stiles and his dad never lived in Beacon Hills.

Instead, the Sheriff is the enforcer for the Old Houses - the shady, international conglomerate under which all werewolf hunters operate. He’s called in when hunters go off reservation - start killing outside of the code. The lines between the supernatural and the human worlds are shaky enough, you see, the Old Houses know better than to kill indiscriminately.

No one wants all out war.

Which is why, when Laura Hale returns to Beacon Hills and shows up dead two days later, the Sheriff and his son are sent in to investigate. Nothing good comes of Hales and Argents in the same vicinity.

The Sheriff goes undercover at the police station, something Stiles will never not roll his eyes over because, “God, it’s bad enough your moniker is The Sheriff, dad, do you have to milk this?”

Stiles, meanwhile, is sent into the school, because it becomes very clear that there’s an alpha on the loose and everyone knows where there’s an alpha, there’s teenagers (they turn easier, bla bla SCIENCE). Stiles doesn’t know what he hates more about the set up, that he still has baby-face enough to pass for sixteen or that he has to leave his nine mil at home.

Thus: season 1 AU where Stiles works the werewolf angle by trying to get close to Scott (“He’s such a newly-bitten cliche I’m amazed he doesn’t have his own tv show.” “You like him.” “Of course I like him. Not liking Scott is like not liking rainbows. The kid’s ridiculous.”) while his dad makes overly complicated crime boards and side-eyes the fuck out of Chris Argent (“Think he knows something?” “I think he’s trying not to know something.” “Well done, dad - this is why they pay you the big untraceable bucks.”)

Added points for Stiles finding himself getting tangled up with Derek Hale (“Really, Stiles? Really?“ "Have you seen the guy?!”) only of course Derek thinks he’s sixteen and won’t touch him with a ten foot pole (“Life isn’t fair.” “There’s an alpha murdering people, Stiles.” “I can care about murder and my lack of sex life at the same time.” *parental groaning*)

I basically just need all of the BAMF!undercover!Stilinskis with bonus weapons kink and slow burn, misunderstandings!Sterek. Thanks.

[fictitious-obsession]

I am back again. Using my time between semesters to do some writing. I am hoping to work on a few headcanons and xreaders, but requests are open! Let's see what I can get done this round. Lol

:)

~ Anya

[munch-mumbles]

kj post five hundred thousand lamenting the loss of my passion for drawing because its starting to feel like its never coming back

[toovaeloe]

post-nut munchies

Satoru doesn’t get post sex clarity shame or guilt. He gets hungry.

pairing: satoru gojo x gn!reader

mdni•18+

content: small minific, gn penetration, established relationship, dumbification if you squint, mating press but again: only if you’re looking through a foggy window, mostly aftercare and a gojo being goofy (being a FATASS) ((he’s my fave fatty))

wc: 826

Clarity. That might as well be the universally defined antonym of Satoru Gojo.

Because if there’s one thing Gojo doesn’t own and his fat paycheck can’t buy, it’s shame.

“fuuuckkk,” 

He’d groan a guttural draw as he pistoned into your tight heat, before alternating into slow, powerful grinding of his hips that had your brain vacating the premises to make space for his dumb fucking dick. He knew it, too; could see it in the way your your eyes struggled to stay in focus and the way your back bowed off the sheets you were gripping with white-knuckle intensity— he’s fucked all the thoughts out of your pretty little head. And the bastard couldn’t be cheesing any harder about it.

“My pretty baby,” He’s muse, somehow finding it in himself to giggle breathily as one of his large palms slips away from where he was squeezing the underside of your thigh. He smooths up towards your abdomen, featherlight fingers grazing up your chest and over a pert nipple before traveling back down to splay over your hip, all with deliberate gentleness. “so beautiful like this.”

“feel me right there, yeah? That deep?” The husk of his voice rumbles just above you, the pad of his thumb skimming over the skin below your belly button, eyes crinkling at the way you whimper out soft frantic mhm!’s when he adds pressure. His grin is from ear to ear, the sigh he lets out dreamy and adoring. “yeaahhh.”

He’s only smug for so long, however, with the way your eager hole was sucking him in, milking him like you wanted to siphon his soul out his body via cock. Satoru leans down as a string of curses tumbles from his lips with a groan, sweat-slick chest meeting yours as his hands scramble to find your legs once more. Blunt nails dig into your flesh as he forces them up next to either side of your head, effectively folding you in half like a goddamn lawn chair. The change in angle has you keening as he rammed into that gummy spot inside you, with no less accuracy the other 6 times he’s made you cum tonight.

“shit, shit, yer so… mmh’fuck ‘can’t think— needa cum s’bad,” He quite literally whines as you barrel over that peak, his mouth latching to yours to share your muffled moans as he follows suit. His hips stutter against yours as he spills inside of you, before he goes still entirely, the both of you riding the waves of the ebbing high until he collapses atop you- and with how exhausted you both are, it’s undoubtedly the last one tonight.

Or at least one of you is bone-tired. After a few minutes of Satoru floating in the afterglow, he’s littering affectionate wet kisses all across your face, offering you praise of what a good job you did for him as he eases your legs back down and kneads your hips- having the audacity to tease you with the idea of juuuust one more round. HELL no. He gets the memo when you weakly kick at him, but it doesn’t stop him from chuckling at your incredulous expression as he slides his softening shaft out of you.

His snowy bangs still stick to his brow as he rises from the bed with a grunt, making a show of stretching, cracking stiff joints, and flexing muscles before returning to your side with a warm washcloth. He’s still all smiles and chipper beaming as he tenderly cleans in between your legs, biting his lip to stifle himself from blabbing out about how much pride he felt seeing you like this- it’d probably fluster you into chiding him if you saw the goofy ass expression he was making. Not that you were really paying any mind; your eyelids fluttering closed every other minute and about ready to conk out.

“Y’know what sounds good right now though?” Satoru chirped out of the blue, yanking you back from the cusp of slumber.

“Some fro-yo. Maybe strawberry- with chocolate chips, gummy bears, marshmallows, cookie dough, and a fuckton of rainbow sprinkles. Cherry on top, of course,” He’d ramble off his abominable go-to order as his hand absentmindedly wandered to trace soothing patterns against one of your knees. You’re just dumbfounded at how he could possibly be fantasizing about frozen yogurt right now; limp-dicked and in his birthday suit after he just fucked you into next Tuesday. “God, my mouth’s watering just thinkin’ about it.”

“I know a 24 hour fro-yo spot. It’s only, like…a 20-ish minute drive?” He’d muse, sapphire eyes redirecting from the ceiling and back to you. When he caught your flabbergasted expression he’d coyly duck his head and bat his frosty lashes at you, as if that was about to convince you. You wondered if you could even walk, or if maybe you’d need at least 5-8 business days to recuperate.

“Doesn’t that sound good, hm? You up for it, angel?”

a/n: craving a ben&jerry’s cherry garcia🤤 also i hate him a lot today. like so much 😒 but i gotta finish writing this Ino thing for a diff thing so im forcing myself to resist writing Gojo. Instead i will say, “i hate him”;

I hate him.

have a wonderful day and do something nice for yourself! 🫶🏽