#the minifics are back

[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. 

[mangofresca]

halcyon | 18+

Romano feels like he’s dancing in his sleep, that shifting, swaying motion like waves across the beach and toes dragging through sand, like water and rhythm pulling his chest high, his shoulders low, stretching out his hips, his knees, his ankles. The soft cotton of his pillowcase scratches and tickles at his cheekbone when he turns his head into it, wisping itself against his clavicle, and he sighs against it, lets it swallow his breath the same way it swallows the heat of his body, an echo of warmed contentment and easy dreaming.

The mattress beneath him dips, and he almost pushes away the palm that slides across his stomach, his sternum, but it’s warm, too, and Romano always liked being warm, and he liked being warm beneath this hand even more. He leans into it, instead, keeps his eyes closed, and he makes a small noise that’s half deliberate and half desultory—because he does mean to acknowledge Spain, but he doesn’t mean to acknowledge him like a cat waking from a nap in lazy, dozy sunbeams, purring.

But that’s fine. That’s fine. He knows Romano sometimes sounds like that when he’s waking, and even not, just sometimes when he’s beneath the pads of Spain’s fingers, and Romano feels fine when the mattress dips again and Spain hovers over him, knees sweetly nudging his apart.

Romano keeps his eyes closed when lips skim his jaw, keeps himself ensconced in the soft sunlight that shines itself across his eyelids. It’s good like this, he thinks. It’s nice. He can hear himself breathe with an awareness he never really has when he’s around Spain, always too preoccupied with other things, irrelevant things—what he’s doing, what he’s not, what he could be doing to Spain, instead. He likes being conscious of it, of his body and his reactions, and he sighs again when that palm moves to his side, his rib cage and lower, fingers skimming over his thigh as they drag heated sheets down, away.

There’s a laugh twinkling in his ear, something bright and charmed, and his skin pricks with cognizance when he feels the breath of it, lips curving into a smile against his cheek. “Awake yet?”

Spain speaks his vowels in a whisper, his consonants always catching on the tip of his tongue, and Romano’s shoulder shifts back in a shiver, presses into the bed when soft breeze meets skin, humid and carrying the smell of midmorning sunrise.

He makes a noise again, some groaned mhm that rumbles itself up his chest and out his throat, that gets lost somewhere around his lips when the heat of Spain’s laughter leaves his cheek and instead drifts across his nipple—and the gasp that leaves him is a surprised one.

He feels stupid like this, naïve, foolish, as if he isn’t war- and weather-worn, born and raised in the echoing, thundered footsteps of the Roman Empire, older than the New World and older still, as if his own sand dunes aren’t his brothers, the rolling fields his sisters. But this is his life now: homes across his country and Spain’s, furnished with soft beds and yellow kitchens and flowing curtains that always let the light in, because neither of them ever really do well when away from the sun, too used to its bite to go without for longer than a day, two. He wakes, now, to sheets that settle across the curves of his body, to someone in his bed, wiggling his legs until they settle around tanned hips, to sea-chapped lips that hum the song of his name until he is something melodious, made of more than sinew and sand, of memory.

Spain whispers his name, a question carried softly through balmy air and that sounds so fucking in love Romano almost opens his eyes, almost gives into the needling whine of it—

But Spain always did his best work when given a task, and Romano knows Spain has no qualms about being set to work on Romano, no end to the things he would let Spain do to him, and though his mouth goes dry as Spain nips at his throat and presses a finger against him, he can only find the energy to laugh, just dry air, enough to breathe Spain in, too.

When Spain dips down and kisses him, Romano kicks the sheets up and over Spain’s back. They are still warm, and so is he.

[ephemerasnape]

The sight that greeted Victor Rookwood as he exited the Hog's Head that fateful evening would be forever ingrained in his memory.

The street was dark and eerily quiet, and the dapper wizard had just taken a few steps outside the seedy pub before he realized something was amiss, causing him to stop abruptly and survey his surroundings.

"Lumos."

Continued below...

At first, Victor was more disoriented than anything - unsure that he could trust what he was seeing with his own eyes. The dark wizard blinked a few times in confusion before, slowly, he began to make sense of the gruesome display before him.

Heaps of... dirty rags? Someone has made rather a mess, it seems. . .

No. That's blood.

Blood and worse.

Before him was a scene of utter carnage the likes of which he'd never seen. A slaughter. The lifeless bodies of several young witches were splayed out in the middle of Spire Alley, a spectacle so macabre that even the dark wizard, well-accustomed to death, felt his stomach lurch at the sight.

A ginger witch lay eviscerated. Another's golden hair fanned around her angelic face like a halo. A brunette was positioned face down in a pool of her own blood. A strange-looking witch with odd-coloured hair... Victor shuddered as he recalled that one. He remembered her as having been particularly annoying.

And yet more still.

Sisters in death. Some he recognized outright, a vague familiarity to the rest. Their faces - doubtless once beautiful, now befouled by their own blood. Twisted limbs at grotesque angles. Internal organs now decidedly external.

Gods..

And in the center a... survivor? Victor tentatively stepped forward, perhaps even to offer a helping hand, as the pale witch clad in black gazed up at him adoringly.

"Victor.. I did it for you. For us."

Rookwood watched, horrified comprehension dawning on his face as the witch released a bloodied dagger she'd been holding. He barely registered the sound of the steel clattering to the cobblestone over the pounding of his heart.

"I love you, Victor."

-------------------

Now a video.

[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

[verfound]

MINIFIC: Oct. 23: Day 11: Folklore (MLB, Lukanette, DLM AU)

This week has been a little hectic, and my time to work on this was…not what I wanted.  It did not help that it also totally ran away from me?  I was playing with ideas, about gravelings and missed appointments and souls going south.  There was so much lore to explore in a third season that was completely abandoned by the time we got the movie, and that whole storyline with Ray and what exactly a graveling could be still haunts me.

For @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers October Minific Challenge 2023.

Read on Ao3

To Feel Alive Again: Ch11: Folklore

“Are you ready for this?” Luka asked, glancing down at her as they stood outside the door to the café.  Her mouth was pressed in a thin line, and her thumbs were picking at the cuffs of the sweater he’d made her.  A nervous tick.

“No,” she said, her voice flat.  “How mad is she?”

“It’s Mendeleiev,” he said, shrugging as he flicked his cigarette towards the pavement and extinguished it with his boot.  “She’s always mad.”

“…how much worse is she?” she asked.  He sighed and tipped his head back, staring at the early morning clouds.

“How mad do you think, Marinette?  You’ve been…not awol.  Not really,” he said, shrugging.  “She likes you, though.  Believe it or not, she does like you.  She hasn’t had any post-its for you the past few days, so I think she was honestly trying to give you time to process.  She knew it would be a difficult job.”

Marinette bristled at that.

Mendeleiev fucking knew?

And she had sent her in anyway?

…part of her had suspected that, what with the warning their ‘boss’ had tried to give her the morning of, but to hear it actually confirmed…

Mendeleiev gave them hardly any information.  A name.  A location.  An estimated time of death.  She had always assumed the head reaper didn’t know any more than that.  What other secrets was the woman keeping?

“She had a post-it for you yesterday, though,” Luka said, bringing her attention back to him.  He was looking down the sidewalk, staring at some nondescript point in the distance.  “She asked Fred to give it to you.  He asked her not to.”

“…he didn’t say anything,” Marinette said, and Luka sighed.  He stepped around her, his side brushing her arm in the process, and opened the door.

“Then she’s probably pretty fucking pissed, if you missed an appointment,” he said, nodding for her to go in.  Marinette swallowed, squared her shoulders, and made it barely two steps into the café before Mendeleiev was pushing her back out, Fred in tow.

“Field trip,” Mendeleiev bit, grabbing her hand and tugging her down the street.  “Now.”

“Hey!” Luka called, but he stopped when Fred laid a hand on his shoulder.  He looked at the older reaper, confused, but Fred just shook his head and followed after them.  Luka watched as they disappeared in the early morning crowd, a nervous feeling he didn’t like settling into his gut.  Fred hadn’t been wearing his hat, he noted.  It had been in his hands, and it had looked almost crushed from how the man had been anxiously wringing it.  And Mendeleiev had looked pissed.

He wondered how bad it was, if both of them were in trouble.

A skittering above caught his attention, and his eyes turned up in time to see a graveling scurrying over the awnings of the shops, moving in the same direction Mendeleiev had taken the others.  That feeling in his gut got worse as another graveling peered over the roof at him.  When it realized he had seen it, it hissed and swiped at the ledge of the building, knocking off one of the exterior lights.  Luka stepped back before it could hit him, and the second graveling raced off after its friend.

He picked up the light, intending to give it to someone inside, and hoped Marinette would be all right.

– V –

“I hope your little vacation helped, Marinette,” Mendeleiev bit as they turned a corner.  Marinette felt herself bristling at the words.

“Excuse me?” she asked, her brow furrowing.  “Vacation?  I was not on vacation, you –”

“Then what would you like to call it?  Sabbatical?  Rest?  Temper tantrum?” Mendeleiev asked, stopping at a crosswalk and turning her head to glare over her shoulder.  There was a challenge in her hard eyes, but Marinette had been an aspiring designer once upon a time.  She had rubbed elbows with the likes of Audrey Bourgeois and Gabriel Agreste.  She knew how to stand up to challenging people.

“You sent me into that house knowing full well what that man was going to do,” she said, her voice tight.  “You made me an accomplice to murder, Philece.”

It was the first time Marinette had dared to use Mendeleiev’s first name.

There was a spark in the older reaper’s eyes, one that Marinette wasn’t sure if she recognized as the woman being amused or impressed.  On her grandfather, she used to call the look constipated.

“I gave you a job, Marinette,” she said, turning to cross her arms over her chest.  “I don’t control how they die any more than you do.  We just –”

“Facilitate the transfer, I know,” Marinette spat, “and that’s fucking bullshit.  This wasn’t External Influences, Philece.  This was murder.”

“Technically murder is an ‘external influence’, and therefore fully within our jurisdiction,” Mendeleiev said, an eyebrow lifting over her glasses.  “Marinette.  Believe me, I know.  I understand how hard this job can be.  And I tried to give you time to cope with this, but the world moves on, kid. The job still needs to get done.  And last night, you failed to do that.”

“I didn’t even know I had a job last night!” Marinette cried.

“You would have, if you had bothered showing up for breakfast,” Mendeleiev said.  She turned her eyes on Fred, and they narrowed behind her lenses with a glare.  “If your friends had been more considerate of the Rules.”

“…I told you she wasn’t ready,” Fred said, worrying his lip.  He was still wringing his hat in his hands.  “I told you not to give it to her.”

“And I said she was, and I gave it to her anyway,” Mendeleiev said, turning back to the light as it buzzed.  They crossed the street, the two reapers following behind her like chastised children.  “Not you.  And now you both get to see what happens when we don’t do our jobs.”

“I did the job, though!” Fred argued.  “I met him five minutes before his reap.  I popped his soul.  He should have been fine!”

“He wasn’t your soul to reap, Fred,” Mendeleiev said, stopping outside a nondescript building.  Marinette looked up at the sign by the door, her eyes widening when she realized Mendeleiev had taken them to the city morgue.

…she had only been here once before, a few months back.  For her own autopsy.  Mendeleiev had claimed there would be a sense of catharsis in watching.  It had just made Marinette sick.

“Some things you kids need to understand,” Mendeleiev said, her voice easily slipping into the lecturing tones of the teacher she had been.  “Life and death.  Ying and yang.  Whatever the fuck you want to call it.  It’s all about balance.  People come and go.  Live and die.  It’s what they do.  We make the going easier, however that going is meant to happen.  If we do our jobs right, we catch them before the going.  They don’t feel it, and they don’t get stuck.  It’s a small comfort, but it’s all we can do to make things easier for the poor fucks we help.”

“…what do you mean, stuck?” Marinette asked, her voice low.  Mendeleiev narrowed her eyes at her.

“P. Fischer was your reap, Marinette,” she said.  “Not Fred’s.  Come see what happens when you miss your appointment.”

It didn’t look like much, at first.  Just another dead body on a table.  That wasn’t anything new to Marinette: she had seen plenty of dead bodies over the past few months.  Mendeleiev had led them inside and into the back with a few well-placed lies, and now they were standing over the corpse of P. Fischer, who looked…fine.  Dead, but fine.  They hadn’t even done his autopsy yet.

“I don’t understand,” Marinette finally said.  “He’s…he’s still dead.  Fred said he got his soul.  What’s the problem?”

“The problem, kid…” Mendeleiev said, leaning back against the wall of coolers and folding her arms over her chest.  She nodded towards the open cooler where the examiner had pulled out Fischer.  “…is that he wasn’t Fred’s job.  He’s dead, yes, and he’s still in there.”

“…what?” Fred asked, dropping his hat as his head snapped up to look at Mendeleiev.  “But…I popped his soul!  I know I did!”

“Fun little fact, Freddie,” Mendeleiev said, her eyes narrowing over her glasses.  “He wasn’t your soul to pop.  There are Rules, kids.  Rules we can’t get around.  This soul wasn’t assigned to you.  It was assigned to Marinette.  She’s the only one who can do it.”

“But…but…” Fred tried to say, shaking his head as his mind raced.  “No.  No.  I know…a soul’s a soul!  I’ve seen –!”

“A soul is not a soul, Fred,” Mendeleiev said, her voice harsh.  “You should know it’s more complicated than that by now.  They can’t miss their appointments because their souls go funny if left unchecked.  We can’t miss their appointments because they suffer needlessly if we do.  It’s bad customer service.  Downright irresponsible.”

“…I didn’t…I didn’t know,” Marinette said, shaking her head.  Mendeleiev’s expression softened, but only for a moment.  “He…he asked for the reap.  Couldn’t…why didn’t you just change the appointment?”

“It doesn’t work like that, kid,” Mendeleiev said.  Marinette sucked in a breath, and Mendeleiev sighed.  “You didn’t know.  And maybe that’s on me, not warning you properly.  Forgive me for expecting people to follow simple instructions.”

“Philece,” Fred said, but the reprimand was missing from his voice.  He was still looking at the corpse, his hands curled into shaking fists at his sides.

“This thing we do.  It’s not a game, kids,” she said, ignoring him.  “It’s our responsibility.  It’s the last kindness we can give in a world that’s usually too cruel to care.  Now get the hell over here and do your damn job.  This poor man’s suffered enough.”

Marinette approached the slab, her breath catching in her throat when she saw the man staring up at her through wide, unblinking eyes.  She swallowed and brushed her hand along his arm, shivering when that gooseflesh feeling of a soul leaving its body chased up her arm.  An instant later, the soul sat up on the slab, screaming.

She jumped back, but Mendeleiev was already behind her, a surprisingly comforting hand on her shoulder.  She squeezed but said nothing, and Marinette swallowed against the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as Fischer continued to scream.

It seemed to take an eternity before he stopped.

When the screams finally cut out, he just…sat there.  Staring at the wall of small metal doors, his eyes wide and mouth open.  He was panting, his ragged, unnecessary breathing so loud in the quiet room that felt so much worse after the screaming.

“…Fischer?” Marinette finally asked, her voice soft, and he slowly turned his head.  His face was twisted in fear.  His misty hands gripped at the table, and Marinette was certain they’d be white-knuckled if he still had blood to blanch.  She stepped forward cautiously, like you’d approach a wild dog, and held out her hand.  “It’s…it’s ok, Fischer.  It’s ok now.”

“…th…they put…they put me in the dark,” he choked out.  His entire body was trembling.  Marinette raised her hand and helped him off the slab, keeping her eyes on his face to give him some semblance of decency.  “They put me in the dark.”

“I know, Fischer,” she said, her voice soft.  She squeezed his hand, and he shook his head.  “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re safe now, Fischer,” Fred said, and the man’s eyes snapped to him at the voice.  Fischer gave another yelp and stumbled back through the slab holding his body, his eyes locked on Fred.

“Y-you…” he gasped.  “I saw you.  Before…before…”

“I was trying to help,” Fred said, his voice miserable.  Marinette swallowed and held her hand back out to Fischer.

“We’re friends, Fischer,” she said, and his eyes snapped back to her briefly.

“I couldn’t close my eyes,” he said, his eyes darting to each of them wildly as he clung to the wall of coolers behind him.  He was trembling, from the unsteady arms misting against the metal doors to the legs quaking below the table.  He was terrified.  “They put me on that table, and then they put me in that box, and I couldn’t close my eyes.  They shut the door.  Why couldn’t they hear me?  I was screaming...”

“…I’m so sorry,” Marinette said, her voice catching in her throat.  She took a hesitant step forward, then another, until she was in front of the soul.  She held out a hand and tried to ignore how it was shaking, too.  “I’m so sorry.  You never should have had to go through that, Fischer.  I’m sorry.”

“I don’t like the dark,” he said, his voice so small.  So scared.  “I don’t like it.”

“Where you’re going now, it won’t be dark anymore,” Marinette said.  She swallowed around the lump in her throat and held her hand closer, forcing a smile on her face.  “Come on.  I have the prettiest lights to show you.”

It took a long moment, but eventually the soul laid his hand in Marinette’s.  Her smile became steadier as she led him from the room, towards where she could see his lights materializing down the hall.  They walked out the door, away from that cold, sterile room, and Mendeleiev found herself smiling as the door swung shut behind them.

“Maybe there’s hope for her after all,” she said.  Beside her, Fred was staring at where his hat had landed on the ground.

“…I didn’t know, Philece,” he said, his voice softer than it usually was.  “I didn’t…I just assumed…”

“I know,” Mendeleiev sighed.  She reached into her pocket for a cigarette, then thought better of it.  Her fingers fiddled with the pack in her pocket.  She’d need to pick some more up soon.  “And sometimes it works like that.  Sometimes it doesn’t matter, as long as the soul’s dealt with.  Most times it does, though.”

“She was hurting,” he said.  “I just…I just wanted to give her a break.  She’s had so much trouble adjusting to this life.  I just wanted to help.”

“Then let her figure it out,” Mendeleiev said, turning towards him.  “Show her the ropes.  Let her learn why we do what we do.  Tell her a ghost story if you must.  Just get the message through her thick head: she’s a reaper now, like it or not, and death is just a part of life.  Even the hard deaths.  Especially the hard deaths.”

“A ghost story?” he asked, looking up with a slight smile.  She looked back at the body that had been P. Fischer and shrugged.

“I heard tell once of a man who missed his appointment,” she said.  “Early in life.  A reaper went soft and refused to do their job.  So the soul stayed, and it went sour, and the man grew up to do some terrible things.”

“What happened to him?” Fred asked.  Mendeleiev fiddled with her cigarettes again, itching to light one.

“I heard a reaper killed him,” she said.  She looked up, her eyes guarded.  “Not popped his soul and watched as a graveling dropped a piano on his head.  Beat him to death with a baseball bat or some shit.”

“…what…what happened to his soul?” Fred asked, an uneasy feeling stealing into him.  Mendeleiev reached over and slid her hand over Fischer’s eyes, closing them.  Her hand lingered on his head for a moment as she considered her words.

“It went sour,” she finally said.  She looked p at Fred, that look in her eyes hardening.  “He became a graveling, Fred.  That’s what they are, you know.  Those little bastards.  Souls that rot and wither away, stinking up from the inside out.  They don’t get lights.  They stay, and they’re so mad about it they stir up shit for the rest of us.”

“But Fischer still died,” Fred said, swallowing.

“He did,” Mendeleiev nodded.

“He didn’t rot,” he said.

“He didn’t,” she said, shaking her head.  She looked back at his corpse, the screams from when Marinette had finally pulled him out still echoing in her head.  “Who knows what would have happened to him if we’d left him in there, though.  If he’d been buried.  If he’d had to crawl his way out of his own grave.”

“…I was just trying to help,” he said, shaking his head as he looked away from her.  “It’s…it’s not fair, Philece.  She’s just a kid.  I was just…I was trying…it’s not fair.”

“It’s death, Fred,” she said, pushing the slab with Fischer’s body on it back into the wall and closing the door.  She laid a hand on the cool metal, and if Fred didn’t know the woman any better he’d say she was saying a prayer for the deceased.  “The Great Equalizer, they call it.  It’s about the only thing in this world that is fair.”

[firendgold]

Autumn was his favorite time to travel this path.

At sunset, after classes had let out for the weekend and dinner in the Great Hall had wound down and petered out, he could not help the quiver of excitement that ricocheted around his belly while he showered and dressed and secured his favorite blue scarf at his neck. He would practically sprint for the front gates and the trees waiting just beyond.

In autumn, the golden glow of the setting sun filtered through the thick branches, reflecting off the scarlet and gold leaves hanging on for dear life. It would hit his hair and make it shine redder than those leaves. His scarf kept the chill of early evening from ruining his walk. The scene was picturesque, perfect for weaving the next chapter of the tale Albus Dumbledore was already happy to find himself in.

The sun's dappled rays peeked through the wooded path, lighting the way for the pauper. At the end of the path lay his prince.

Harry would have tea waiting for him. There was tea at Hogwarts, but no pot made there equaled Harry's, made by hand without even a trace of magic. He never told Albus why he preferred to do certain things the Muggle way, but Albus did not mind the mystery. It was far from the only one, and it kept his mind busy in a way he liked very much.

Thinking about Harry never felt like work.

Ah, yes.

The only thing left to do was warn his love he was on the way. Since Harry coveted his privacy and Albus was still practicing the curious art of sending messages via Patronus, that meant his warnings were as whimsical as he dared.

Albus' favorite method was to serenade Harry from afar.

What was that Muggle's name? There was a song which had been stuck in his head for the better part of a fortnight which seemed perfectly charming and full of the longing fluttering in his breast at present. Ah, I recall.

He began to hum, after casting only one subtle spell that would amplify his voice for Harry's ears alone. The melody danced along the trees, up the path to the cottage where his love awaited him.

When he noticed a faint but growing white glow dead ahead, he felt the same joy that Fawkes' own songs engendered. Harry's stag Patronus let him catch up before cantering around him in playful circles as he walked, staying playfully just out of reach. It was so swift that one would be forgiven for wondering if it hid wings under its flank.

Someday, privately, Albus hoped Harry's Patronus would take flight, and his own Patronus would instead canter as happily as this one.

They arrived at the cottage while the sun still lingered far above. Albus' humming subsided just as he lifted his hand to knock on the door. His song was over; his prince was near.

Harry opened up right away. There was a tea tray just behind him, but Albus' eyes were fixed on his lover: cataloging the gray strands of hair creeping through the black, the sparkle in his viridian eyes, the twitch of humor in his dimples. Seeing him through the Floo during the week was inadequate; there was nothing like having Harry in front of him. Warm, tangible, lovable.

And smiling.

"Friday again, huh."

Albus beamed. "Yes."

"Better come in before one of your kids spots you. I only made tea for two."

He did not enter right away, though. Walking home every Friday evening was a ritual. To complete it, the pauper had to kiss the prince he'd serenaded on the doorstep.

And that was frankly the best part of the whole thing.

[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.