#there is so many fanfics in my head

[virescent-v]

Love Languages

Summary: Love is a weird soup. Word count: 851 Warnings: None. It's fluff. :) *This also has absolutely nothing to do with the 'Lauren' arch. thanks to @mrs-prentiss for sending the gif that inspired this :)

You love spoiling your girlfriend. 

At work, she’s a total badass, analyzing psychopaths, chasing killers, and putting the bad guys behind bars. You’ve been in the office at Quantico and Emily is a completely different person there. She’s still funny, cracking a light joke here and there, bonding with her team, but there is an air of seriousness that clouds the demeanor you see at home. 

At home, Emily is soft. She wears comfortable fabrics that hang almost loosely off of her, her face is usually free of makeup, and the stoic lines on her face ease. She is more carefree, laughing at her own jokes as well as yours. 

She is also more touchy. Her hands find your body any chance they get. A hand at the small of your back when you’re both in the kitchen cooking dinner and she needs a way around you, a hand rubbing your foot as you both lay on the couch watching tv, playing with your hair any time you cuddle. 

Emily loves you fearlessly, endlessly, but quietly. 

You love her loudly. Constant gestures, words of affirmation, quality time. You are the embodiment of every love language, a way to combat the neglect and angst of Emily’s previous relationships, both platonically and romantically. 

You know a little of her past, her sharing bits and pieces as your relationship has progressed. You understand that those relationships, along with her job, have cracked and damaged parts of Emily that she shields from most of the world. So, you do everything you can to show her how much you love her. 

Thankful for the ‘sharing location’ feature on your phones, you can watch her as she approaches your house, giving you ample time to get things together. It’s been a few days since you’ve seen her, a case dragging her to the other side of the country. She gets home late into the evening, exhaustion rolling off of her. 

You meet her at the door, kissing her gently, before shooing her upstairs to shower the case off of her. 

Sometime later, she comes down in a cream colored sweater, her hair a little wavy. Emily can immediately tell you went to some lengths to make things relaxing for her. There’s a smell of some sort of red sauce pasta cooking, candles lit in the dining room. 

She comes over to you, wrapping her arms loosely around you as you stir the pasta on the stove. You feel her inhale deeply against your neck, breathing in not only the scent of your perfume, but also the smell of the food cooking before you. She pulls away, moving to grab glasses for wine, choosing a red she knows will go well with your pasta. 

She moves over to the table, settling in the seat and watching you. You move with ease, a comfortability that she’s never had in the kitchen. With her chin in her hand resting on the table, her mind wanders to all of the ways that you love her. Sometimes it overwhelms her, makes her feel as if she’s not enough, because she knows that she doesn’t express love in the same way, her past experiences making her more timid with her affection.

You remind her constantly that love can be shown in so many different ways; you don’t require grand gestures or expensive gifts or countless exclamations of love. You appreciate the quiet, subtle expressions of devotion: a good morning text, when she brings a little treat from the gas station on her way home, when she makes time to leave work on time to spend more time with you. 

Knowing her is loving her. 

Emily snaps back to reality as plates are put on the table, you smiling gently at her as you settle into the seat beside her. You rub her knee a few times before picking up your cutlery and digging into the meal. 

There are no words shared between you, a serene silence filling the space, each lost in your own thoughts. 

As the meal is finished, you clear the dishes away, shuffling back and forth to the kitchen. 

Tenderly, you walk over and grab her hand, dragging her up, making your way towards the living room with the intention of going upstairs to get some sleep…or do something else, awaiting to see what vibe meets you upstairs. 

Emily draws up short, her hand falling from yours. She waits until you turn around, confused. 

“I love you.” 

She’s said the words to you many times, but each feels like the first. You feel yourself blush, warming at the affection and attention her eyes are trying to portray. 

“I love you, Emily Elizabeth Prentiss.” You reach your hand back out. “Now come to bed with me,” you say, a devious look in your eyes, hinting at what more you expect to occur once you make your way upstairs. 

Emily’s face heats, her smile extending wide before she pulls her lip between her teeth. She looks back up at you, sheepish and coy, her hands on her hips. 

“I’d follow you anywhere.” 

[erinwantstowrite]

i almost forgot to post this here but!!!! we reached 200 people in the discord server!!! i drew Peter from LoF and Lance from my VLD rewrite, Home :)

[avocado62524]

[barghuest-draws]

Lil’ sketch to release some of that obsessive pressure so I can work on my other projects for a bit ❤️

[askinkiskarma]

Dbf Jake for sure but oml stepdad!Jake has me weak in the knees

Warnings: smut, stepcest, strong language. Minors dni🔞

No cause the way he’d be desperate to fuck you, but have to keep himself together, so he finds relief in his own hands wrapped around his cock, pumping himself aggressively with thoughts of your little cunt milking him. He’s weak in the knees at the thought of you, of your body and your scent, of the way you move as you dance at the village gatherings.

He knows it’s wrong, and hates himself for feeling such twisted urges, with the little girl he’s taken in after your parents died and pretty much raised the same way as his kids, but recently, these thoughts haunted him, images of you bent over in front of him as he fucked you dumb plagued his every subconscious thought. But he waited and waited, hoping they would pass, until one night, woken from yet another dream of you, cock throbbing in need to fill you up, he knew he couldn’t help it anymore. Not when you were so enticing, sleeping peacefully on your mat, legs spread and top barely covering your plump, perky tits.

Your little moans pushing past your plump lips spur him on, as he gets on top of you, careful not to make a sound. His fingers trace your face and your cheeks as he wakes you gently.

“D-daddy?”

“Yes, kid, it’s me. Daddy needs to fuck you now, baby.”

His cock twitches in his loincloth at your widened eyes, so innocent and so, so beautiful, and shudders as your slightly agape mouth closes in a sleepy smile.

“D’you mean it, daddy?”

Jake’s head tilts and he smirks. Such a good girl.

“Yes, kid. Daddy’s gon’ fuck you real nice and good. D’you want that, baby?”

You moan softly, arching your back and shutting your eyes tightly.

“Yes, daddy. P-please. I need it.”

“Yeah? You need daddy’s cock in you?”

Your little enthusiastic nod is all Jake needs to remove both your loincloths and position himself at your sopping entrance.

“Damn, baby, you’re fucking dripping. Y’wanted me that badly, kid, huh?”

“Don’t worry, daddy’s here now. Daddy’s gonna take good care of you. But you gotta keep quiet, kid, we don’t want to wake your siblings up.”

[clori-eden]

LU Writer Appreciation Project 2023

hosted by @seekingseven (Seriously love yoouu!!)

My gift for FantomoDrako based on their fanfic Navigating Stormy Seas

I absolutely love this fanfic! Legend and Wind bonding is so, so good, along with all the big brother Wind vibes --I couldn’t get enough! The fight scenes and the emotional aspects between both characters gets me all the time. Definitely can consider this one of my favorite linked universe fanfics!

Here is the drawing without the title. The Hylian is depicting the riddle that is written on the walls at the end of chapter 4.

[happypeachsludgeflower]

Me: I love all the ships equally

Also me: *writes 50+ fics about fengqing being moronic gremlins in love*

[redhead-and-proud]

My fellow Limoreau brethren, my like-minded Jordan and Marie appreciators. I have a fanfic proposal for you all...

How would you feel about a pride and prejudice style au? Marie = Lizzy, Jordan = Darcy (Jordan would obvs still have the power to switch)

[apocalyptic-byler]

LETTERGATE FIC COMING LATER TODAY WHO CHEERED

[thewritingowl]

When Dick took over Tim's infiltration of the Ghost Investigation Ward, he thought he'd be coming out of it with a few files and maybe some information.

Instead, he left with a kid.

Now Dick finds himself trying to learn how to be a father all while helping his new son, Danny, overcome the trauma that he had been dealt by the GIW. It's a roller coaster of a ride, but thankfully Dick isn't alone. Danny now has a bunch of excitable aunts, uncles, grandparents, and even a great-grandfather all ready to dote on him. Dick is determined to give Danny the best life he can manage as he works to keep Danny safe from the myriad of forces that want to harm him.

[sunnydbd]

some fanart of HEAT STROKE! by @zorno-graphic on ao3 + 3L!Scar

text in second pic: You're a messy eater

uncensored link : ❤︎︎

twt : @ sunnybutlame

the rest of this post is just yapping abt the fic,, so light spoilers for heat stroke!

ngl im super nervous posting this and idk why??(i do, its bc im tagging the author..)

anyway, i didnt think this fic would ever be finished as the months went on and rolled over into next year but then i got the email notification and nearly screamed(yes that is embarrassing to admit..)

i cant, and probably could never, fully explain the sheer amount of detail that zorn put into this fic(and also the other fic ive read from them, Tweetheart, which is my roman empire) youll get more insight, and far less rambling brain slurry from the recesses of my animal brain, if you read both the fic and the comments as discussions on there are far more introspective citing direct quotes from the fic also have great author feedback, the rest of this post is something i wanted to note

the fic is riddled with contrasting elements(im mostly focusing on chapter 2 when i say this as its fresh in my mind) like in the descriptors, monologue, and characterization. 

comparatively Grian’s and Scar’s characters are complete opposites, Grian’s invasive to intimacy and outright tries to deny it(trying to physically leave their house) while Scar is the one who initiates the intimacy and craves vulnerability(not saying Grian doesnt initiates anything between the two just that Scar is less repressed.)

a similar example of this is in the sex scenes, the inherent intimacy of sex and how Grian acts during(practically begging sometimes) is contradictory to his established character, standoffish(once again im directing you to the comments as lovely user sheepfriend and zorn have a great conversation further explaining Grian’s character better than i am) while Scar is so delightfully pathetic and almost takes a submissive role(??) which is against his confident demeanor throughout the fic(dunno know where else to mention this but i love the uses of dog imagery for Scar its just so good, mwah chef kiss)

 in Grian’s inner monologue he feels remorse when looking at the scars hes caused on Scar’s body but then later on, still in his inner monologue, revels in the fact that hes left his physical mark on Scar(again reading those comments from sheepfriend and zorn give far more insight) 

water and thirst is often used as a metaphor for desire in the more intimate scenes, "Water sidling up to the hard coast that is Scar’s body, the firm landing strip of bones.”, “He’s thirsty, he realizes, the withering curling need gathering on his tongue and down his throat.” this imagery is very contrasting to their environment, which is a desert, and also to the catalyst of the fic, Grian’s heat(in an etymologic sense rather than in the context of the fic)

theres in fact no thesis statement to this long post aside from the fact that zorn loves the use of contrast(thats the entirety of the 2cents i wanted to chip in,) but if you want a far better explanation of the insane rambling i just wrote i direct you to this lovely post by zorn from his blog ! i recommend if you havent read HEAT STROKE!(or Tweetheart because its good !!) you should read the fic first and then the post as it really puts the vibe you get throughout both fics into words❤︎︎❤︎︎

honestly zorn's writings have greatly influenced my writing and(when i first read Tweetheart) got me back into writing, their writing style is so good and is chalk-full of detail and care i truly cant recommend their works enough or put it into words(which is why this paragraph is so rambling,,)the sheer amount of creativity and detail in every aspect of his fics❤︎︎❤︎︎

also, didnt know where else to mention it, i love the way zorn writes Grian's and Scar's dynamic(like?? hellofjdkj???)

i have no idea if this makes any sense i havent slept in hours and its catching up to me,,.

[l33n1s]

As a former horsegirl (gender neutral), when someone writes a fic with a horse that is distinctly un-horse-like I Do feel a little piece of me die each time

No, I don't think it did. Please meet a horse, or read about a horse, or watch a video with a horse in it.

Like PLEASE go watch Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron or SOMETHING

[mochaintherain]

Accismus

Summary: You're a treasure hoarder who's stolen the most precious thing in Inazuma: the crown prince, Scaramouche. (GN! Reader)

Word Count: 2.4k

CW: VIOLENCE!!!!! Mutual violence, but like. there's undertones. idk. Reader isn't a good person, Criminal Reader, Antagonist reader, unestablished relationship, a little toxic (given the circumstances), blood, Royalty AU, (Scaramouche whoops your ass.)

A/N: Formatted on Mobile ♡. Sorry I've been away! This was originally meant to be for a larger story but my ass Did NOT finish it so I'm just going to post this lolz...plus, with Fontaine, there is so much potential ( ☆∀☆) BUT FINALLY SCARA FIC! posted at. 3 in the morning :')

Silver to gold.

The raven insignia colored like the brilliant sun would finally, finally, be yours to claim—tangible, indisputable proof of your convictions, ambitions, and desires. If the gods gifted conduits to those they considered worthy, then this coin was more than divine acknowledgment.

This insignia was your Vision, bestowed by fellow mortals.

Because today, you have captured a trophy.

Prince Scaramouche glowered in the chair he was untenderly pinioned to, indigo eyes never once breaking from your figure. He hadn't spoken once since his fateful acquisition, instead redirecting what would usually be a flurry of insults into a piercing gaze, sharp enough to cut flesh.

His yukata—the layers of purple and red silks, once draping his form in nobility, status, royalty—laid disheveled across the ground. The only things remaining before his abduction were the dark juban slipping over his body, along with the necklace made of black and red string, harboring a single, golden feather. The man in front of you, now a mere ghost of what he used to be.

You nodded to your men as they finished the last knots on his wrists, nodding to you, before departing the tent. He tugged at the restraints, grimacing.

"Wipe that damn smile off your lips," he sneered, red eyeliner melting in the crinkles of porcelain skin.

"Oh? So he finally speaks. Hello, your Highness—" you bowed lightly, though in no part due to deference—"how did you know? Was my excitement truly that obvious?"

"Tch. Not even that rag you call a mask can hide your ugly face."

"...wow." A soft laugh bubbled from your throat, and the corners of your lips twitched—up close, he couldn't escape scrutiny. The rumors were entirely true.

His infamous, hot-headed temperament juxtaposed his delicate features.

Even through anger, he was beautiful.

"Get away from me, worm," he jeered, narrowing his gaze.

"I suggest you mind your manners," you chastised, closing the distance between the two of you, much to his dismay, "you have no authority here, and your mother isn't here to protect you. So know your place, Prince." You spat the last syllable, honeyed in vitriol. The feather accessory almost crumbled in your grip as you jerked it forward, ripping a strangled gasp from the man.

"Here, you're as insignificant as the rest of us, got it? Your blood is just as red as mine when spilled."

With your thumb and forefinger, you pulled a little more, the strings protesting by digging themselves into the skin of his neck.

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" Scaramouche wheezed out, his head craning forward, coughs and laughs mixing into raspy drawls, "please. One blemish on me and your head will be on a pike."

"Hah." Your free hand trailed up the plush of his cheek, fingers resting on the crease of his eye.

"Get your filthy hands off—"

"If that were really the case, if you were so precious—" you smeared the pristine makeup onto his temple, and Scaramouche let out a guttural hiss, "—it wouldn't have been so easy to pluck you out Tenshukaku."

"You—!"

And the necklace snapped.

At that instant, his body tensed and his face contorted into a snarl, teeth ready to snap at your limbs. What little poise he managed to conjure for this ordeal dissipated in a matter of seconds.

How amusing.

"You have no idea what you've just done."

"Why so riled up? I'm sure your mother will get you a new one, you spoiled heir," you hummed, stepping away before his teeth could find your arms, "of course, unless the rumors are true?"

Infuriation overtook his indigo eyes, along with a flicker of hurt…or pain?

"Enough," he barked, "one more word and I'll rip your tongue out myself." The remark appeared almost funny, the way his shoulders shook like a petulant child.

If only you saw past the hilarity, and caught the screech of nail to cotton fiber.

"Tell me," you continued your taunt, waving the feather haphazardly in the air. At that moment, he was more hilichurlian than prince, "is it true you’re nothing more than a prince in name? How much of a brat are you, to be denied your birthright on the throne?"

"You'll regret that," Scaramouche seethed, "do you know who I am? Do you know who you're dealing with?" Every passing word accompanied another shake of his arms. "I'll have you beg for mercy."

"I think you're overestimating yourself," you said, rolling your eyes. "I don't think someone who fell victim to treasure hoarders, of all groups, has any—"

"You talk too much."

A small, misplaced half-smile spread across his countenance as the rope fell behind the chair with a soft thud.

The rope tethering him in place.

The rope with red-tinged ends, allowing him an opportunity to lunge.

You narrowly barreled out the way, too busy swallowing down shock.

“Give that back!” Scaramouche hissed, “that’s mine!”

You clenched the aureate pinion in your fist, ramming your elbow into his side.

“Tch!”

He staggered back, glaring you down. Moonlight peeked from the tent’s entrance, and illuminated his back in a way that made him seem almost holy.

But surely, no angel would be stupid enough to stay where their wings would be clipped. His aggression outweighed his rationality, you deduced, as instead of fleeing, weak sparks of electro spat from his bloodied fingertips.

“Huh. You sawed through your bindings using nothing but your bare hands and energy. That’s kind of impressive.”

“That’s mine,” he repeated, “that’s mine.”

“Is it now? I don’t see your name on it.”

Now on adjacent sides of the tent, the two of you locked into a waltz of frenzied attacks and defenses.

Despite not having a sword, the eventual successor of the Musou no Hitotachi fought as if he embodied the blade. Nimble fists like the wind, he slashed at your frame. He moved with deadly, facile, precision, adorning your skin in small, blooming bruises. Your only saving grace to avoid anything greater was your own adeptness to combat. Each swipe was blockaded by a feint on your end, each kick met with a parry, two adversaries encompassing the other in a cramped space, both sparring for purchase in a hopeless impasse. Static blanketed the air as the assault droned on.

This unnecessary long-winded fight could end the moment your men came to your aid. Is that why he guarded the entrance so fervently?

“You know, one scream from me and you’re done for,” you quipped.

“Hah. I’m not that weak.”

You bit your tongue to avoid spilling out the thought that, no, he wasn’t, and you respected his strength.

“There’s fifteen of us and one of you. Don’t be an idiot, now,” you said, laughing softly, taking a step forward, “we overpowered you once, and—oh, history has a habit of repeating itself.”

His brows furrowed, and he glared at you. “Do it then. I don’t care,” he sneered, a sardonic smile threatening to overtake his face, “I’m sure you’ll sound lovely.” The prince matched your footwork; he was hellbent on taking you down.

You knew that if he was afforded any advantage, you'd succumb.

So began the reprise.

Each hit on your forearms, each returned in equal fervor, each swerve you employed to avoid his kicks, your lungs heaved with short-lived air, the deadlock turning evermore in his favor.

As the dance raged on, your composure waned. Imbalance. Sloppiness. Exponentially labored breaths—in, out, in...in, in, in....

“Hehe. Surely you can do better than that, thief.”

This wasn't just a difference in ability. No, how could someone not grow weary after this long? Scaramouche maintained an imperious grin on his face, never once faltering. It was as if he was inhumane.

Maybe this was the effect of royal blood.

Another stumble meant another loss, another small victory awarded to your enemy...

"Why are you even here? Just give up," he spat, aiming a particularly strong punch to your ribs.

Was he getting faster, or were you slowing down?

You saw it coming. You watched how his painted nails—crimson, bloody—clenched together, how sadism bled into his smile, how it traversed through the air...

It was most certainly the latter.

Air knocked from your system, it was your turn to stagger.

"You're weaker than I thought. How pathetic," he said flatly, shaking his hand off, "how disappointing."

You couldn't breathe. Every attempt to reach for air ended in sharp pains and the dispelling of oxygen in your lungs. That damned rag. There was no point in trying to hide your identity at this point. Already too deep in, the crime too far gone…

You clawed the mask off your face, glaring at your opponent.

"You're the one that talks too much," you gasped out between shuddering breaths, your lips contorted into a twisted grimace.

Amidst your blurring vision and preoccupation with beating the man in front of you into submission, you weren't privy to the shift in his visage.

How his eyes widened, taking in every one of your features.

Disbelief casted onto his expression.

Awe.

That too, unfortunately, left him unguarded.

Scaramouche, for all his capabilities, likely lost the battle when your mask fell, and he caught a glimpse of your true face.

Your desperation drew an epiphany; you didn't want to kill him, but you had to fight back. But what if it killed him? What good was a sale if you had no product? Worthless. But what good was a ransom if no one could sell?

Fuck. It didn’t matter. You were a treasure hoarder. A thief. Bound to scrounge Teyvat for leftovers.

And this Prince, right in front of you?

His life was a prize, and you've always had a propensity for stealing.

That was your ambition. Your talent. Your worth.

You were not going to let that gold insignia slip from your grasp.

Not that easily.

Your fingers ghosted your sash. The miniscule glass buzzed with elemental energy.

“I’ll give you one chance, prince,” you murmured. “Stop this ceaseless fight or else.”

“No,” came his immediate response, eyes flickering from your face to your fist, “I’d be a fool to give up when I’m winning.”

“Then stop while you’re ahead,” you snapped sweetly.

With only another laugh escaping his lips, he suddenly burst forward once more. You squeezed your eyes shut, his form like a bullet in your path.

His skillful fighting captivated your senses, yet you had to resort to playing dirty.

As he drew closer, close enough to touch, he took you off your feet, and you grappled at his robes. The feather fell to the wayside, and the prince jerked his head to follow its descent.

Squeezing the pyro potion with your free hand, you could not keep down your thoughts this time.

“Sorry,” you whispered.

The bottle effortlessly smashed against the small of his hip, the unleashed fire focusing its fury on his defenseless muscles.

You winced, the crackle in the air running up your exposed skin in droves. Pyro and the Electro within him swirled and exploded in tandem.

Scaramouche gasped, breath hitching, shoving you away as he convulsed onto the dirt, sudden twitches of protesting muscles exacerbating his agony. His skin stained with sweat—waves of fire rolled over each pore—and shards embedded into his now bloodstained robes—all while folded on his knees--a pitiful display.

You rose on shaky legs, picking the gold ornament back into your palm. At the very least, you could sell this. His carcass would easily hide underneath the sands of Nazuchi beach.

…

…

…

No.

No, something was wrong.

“How…how are you still conscious?”

Although he was clearly affected, and you witnessed his body overloading, the way his head snapped in your direction, and managed an irate expression, devoid of obvious pain that was there mere seconds ago—fascination erupted inside your chest.

“That’s….that’s mine. Give it back!” The demand lacked the vitriol you expected. Instead, it was coated in a breathy plea. “Please! My...my heart...”

“I…” you were at a loss for words. “T-this?” You opened your hand, and his arm—like an instinct awakened within him—darted out to wrench it from your grasp. But, without the support, his body weight lost to gravity.

“Agh-!” He fell, wincing but his arm never went down. “Anything…anything, but that feather.”

Moonlight flooded in as you stared down at your handiwork. And your subordinates, who carried in the odor of sake, who finally noticed that you hadn’t joined in on their hasty celebrations, ran to pin Scaramouche, yanking his arms behind his back, with metal cuffs this time.

“Boss! Are you okay?”

You only hummed at their concern.

"I don't need attention. Our prize does."

Scaramouche, in his hazed state, did not register the moniker. His body forced into rigidness, exhaustion eating at his strength, he only groaned.

Ambling toward the crumpled man, you kneeled, ignoring how the dull ache of your ribs made itself known. Your men, perplexed, slowly backed away, giving you and him some space. He sighed softly as you pulled him into your lap, knees a pillow for his weary head. Taking his face in your hands, you inspected his pulse.

Nothing. Perhaps it was too weak, or too erratic, and yet he continued breathing; clearly alive. How? You wondered. Expected from someone who came from the Raiden herself. Brushing a stray hair sticking to his face, you smiled down at him. What a precious thing he was.

His pupils dilated at your touch, a shudder ravaging through his body. It ached.

"I'm glad you survived. It would have been a shame," you hummed, engulfing him in your gaze. “Out of everyone I’ve come across, you’re the most interesting.”

“You'll pay for this," he choked out, squeezing his eyes shut as he clenched his teeth. His words hardly stung. They held no edge.

"Perhaps," you whispered, parting his fist to place the feather into his grasp. "But for now, I win. I dont need this anymore, since I have you."

"You-"

"Hey, has anyone ever told you?"

"H-huh?" Scaramouche coughed again, too weak to do anything but softly huff.

You began to carefully unwrap his juban away.

"What do you think you're—" the Prince gasped, but was silenced with a finger to his lips.

The robe now discarded, you examined the blood painting over his complexion, the glass a mosaic on his figure.

"My Lord, you really do look beautiful in red."

You carefully started removing the shards out of his figure. His blood stained your skin. But he didn't squirm.

Instead, he whispered a promise under his breath, only for his ears.

"When I get my hands on you, and I win..." Scaramouche muttered, clutching his feather in his palm.

"I'm sure you will too."

.

[ribbononline]

New fic by @silverjirachi out wahoo wahoo! Go support it!!

[nouverx]

Do you mind if I hyperfixate on your radiorose arts like a rabid madman. I'm looking at your work and literally just growling chewing my pillow running in circles shaking the bars of my enclosure. Your Rosie and Alastor are electricity and I'm Frankenstein's monster

Oh dear don't worry we are the absolute same. I make art of them solely because I feel like if I don't my head is going to EXPLODE so if I can feed some fellow hyperfixators in the process I'm glad

[halfadoginatank]

Okay I know im a CoD blog BUT-

A stobin fic idea has absolutely demolished my brain, I think about it constantly. Its about robin and Steve (newly Stevie after a horrible confusing bathroom meltdown) deciding that they need to work through the trauma of starcourt. So what do they do? Well, they write songs. And they're no good at first. They dont flow well and they have no instrumental skills (because "no robin I swear you will never play trumpet over the lyrics depicting my trauma!").

Until robin just says screw it- she takes her dads old guitar and she doesn't know what to do so she just learns and it's awful. Slowly they find their sound. They have no drummer but Stevie is writing more and more and he blows saved money on a cheap bass. Until one day after a horrible PTSD attack caused when robin sees her old Russian notes she thinks Fuck it. She starts translating the parts that dont flow well into Russian and it comes together perfectly.

The hide-out is witness to two girls (robin knows Stevie can't really be herself here but its the thought that counts.) Who have an old electric guitar and a very shiny bass and the guy that runs it just says "don't make a mess" and thats how they start playing shows. They don't have a name they're just two traumatized teens who play decently and sing in English and scream in Russian because screw starcourt, they're taking it back.

They sound like pseudo punk, riot gurls before the two even knew about it.

One day Eddie and the boys come to book a time and the owner just says they're gonna play after another band and out of everything he thought he'd see, known band geek Robin Buckley and the Steve Harrington in a shitty punk band is not what he was imagining.