#very mild eye stuff but i'll tag it just in case

[nomiyakazehaya]

i had this particular vision in my head for the longest time, and i'm only just now getting around to actually putting it on paper 😩

shoulder hurts and mild headache so you get just this

[whoishotteranimepolls]

(This was gonna be really short but I found these topics too interesting sorry)

I was gonna send an ask on how I agree with the point of “fictional characters cannot be harmed” and how that goes into the “it isn’t aren’t harming yourself or others around you” rule of enjoying things. (I mentioned that since this blog doesn’t hurt anyone, though you can make an argument some creeps will take it too far, this blog isn’t one of those cases and it’s way too long to discuss)

But as I was scrolling I realized how fucking crazy it is to mean no one started ranting about the mild, probably accidental, racism in Dungeon Menshi. It was something so obvious to me that when I was watching the episode that first introduced the orcs I immediately knew that it was inadvertently racist and I’m shocked all of the rants against you focused on extremely petty and biased things instead of a very obvious (though still not a reason to get a whole show banned) reason.

Even then in the show, despite the stereotypes, it’s shown that the orcs were oppressed, are still undermined, and are trying to do what they can to survive. I haven’t Dungeon Menshi yet, but I wanted to comment on how people who rant against you yet ignore this obvious point against the show end up showing the fact that they don’t actually give a shit about being “woke” (sorry) or an actual activist or an ally to anyone. They just want brownie points.

Anyways sorry for the rant all the fandom vs illiteracy stuff got me in a talking mood. Keep being awesome 👍

There's a reason I started the Fandoms vs. Illiteracy Series, and It's expanded tag Fandoms and Media Literacy. I wanted to start discussions based on these essays because of the lack of media literacy and this performative activism.

Now, no one has explicitly brought up the fantasy racism in Dungeon Meshi. However, several characters were targeted in that big rant or list of characters someone wanted to be banned because they were blonde with blue eyes, even though a good chunk didn't have blue eyes. After all, every time they won, it promoted white-centric European colonial beauty standards. They used a couple of ridiculous terms along those lines interchangeably. It's a very long, extensive list that is just a giant wall of text I'm trying to transcribe into something legible because I'm organizing it based on fandom. Because I may have deleted the original message, but I took screenshots because it was that wild.

Now, regarding age, because of the crazy stuff people say and how some people take things too far. For proof of this, look at the polls with characters that are drawn in a particular moe style. So even though they're 30, they look 12. The comments and reblogs on those always turn into a dumpster fire and can turn very creepy. So, I will not be lowering the age below high school. There's just no way I would be comfortable in allowing that crazy to be unleashed on anyone younger than a high schooler, even though they're not real. Just the thought makes my skin crawl. I have an entire post dedicated to the crazy nicknames and tags people put on my polls, and they're hilarious. I'll give him that, but I'm not lowering the age. I've seen a million and one reasons why high school's my line. Now, I'm pretty lenient on what I will put in a poll, but I do have my limits right now. There are no mechs, no weapons, and no one under the age of 15 because that is the age of a first-year high school student in Japan. Other people or blogs may have different limits/rules and what they're comfortable with. But those are mine, and I make the rules

[practically-an-x-man]

Whatever Keeps You Around (Rick Flag x Eris)

Summary: Based on this prompt, Eris runs into an immortal surprise in a very mundane place. (Title from First Time by Hozier)

Word Count: 2.1k

Tags: Mild jealousy, mild possessive themes, some mentions of violence.

____

"Go see if they have any bread you like, hon."

Eris nodded, ducking past him and half-jogging up to the shelf of artisanal bread in the corner of the store. This was why he'd picked this store, even though it was small and pricey and overly-organic: Eris claimed it was the only place in New Orleans that made bread the right way, whatever they in their mind deemed the right way.

All Rick knew was that it cost about eight dollars a pop and was loaded with spices he couldn't identify, and that Eris could go through three loaves a week if he let them. Usually he did. The one perk to working for Amanda Waller was the paycheck, and that allowed him at least enough wiggle room to buy the right kind of bread.

She jogged back up to him, two loaves wrapped in paper in her arms, just as Rick had finished thanking the deli clerk for his cold cuts and cheeses. Eris tucked the bread into the shopping cart almost delicately and promptly plucked the deli bags from his hands to inspect his selections.

"Oven-roasted turkey? Not the herb kind?"

"Outta stock. I've got thyme and stuff back at the house if it really bothers you," Rick replied, "What kind of bread did you pick out?"

"Honey-rosemary and something they call rustic medley," Eris muttered, "I'll be the judge of that."

"Sounds pretty good," he agreed, "Maybe we can make butter to go with it."

Eris tilted his head, something Rick stupidly misinterpreted as a lack of understanding.

"I saw it online, you just put heavy cream and a little salt in a mason jar, shake it u-"

"I'd be willing to bet I'm more familiar with making butter than you are, Flag." Eris cut him off, sharp as always, "But why?"

"I dunno. Seems like fun."

"You have a real strange idea of fun. And this is coming from someone who lived through tapestry being the popular hobby." they jeered, but tossed a carton of heavy cream into the cart as they passed the dairy case. Rick tried to hide his smile. If anyone was the definition of 'actions speak louder than words', it was Eris.

He stayed close to Rick's side as they wandered the store, occasionally tossing things into the cart on what looked like pure whim. Cans of tomato soup, the ones Rick remembered mentioning were his favorite because they reminded him of his childhood, made their way in alongside pretzels and peanut butter and bars of high-cacao baking chocolate. It was far too bitter for his tastes, at least in anything other than baked goods, but Eris could snack on it like a Hershey bar. She liked it for the same reason she liked the artisanal bread, he thought. Nostalgia, or the closest thing to nostalgia they could find.

"Lasagna tonight? Or should we just find something to stick in the oven?" Rick asked, frowning at the prices of the pasta boxes on the shelves. Eris was back at his side in a moment, moving so quickly and silently that he would have jumped if he wasn't used to it.

"Hm. Neither. Make your pot pie." he decided, and Rick felt him lean in against his side, "I have a taste for it."

His mother's recipe, the one he'd tried so hard to get right after her death, now lived on as a favorite in the mind of a centuries-old metahuman.

That one made him feel good.

He knew Eris wasn't one for public affection, but he still couldn't resist wrapping his arm around their shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of their head. He pulled back quickly, before Eris could wriggle away or complain about looking soft, and waved a hand at the produce aisle they'd left in their wake.

"Go grab me a bag of baby carrots and some green beans, then," he said, then paused and corrected, "In a bag. Not just loose green beans."

"I know that, smartass." Eris huffed, rolling her eyes at him as she walked away. Rick suppressed a chuckle.

There was someone else in the produce aisle, apparently trying to decide between a starfruit and a cherimoya. They were half a head taller than Eris, with wavy brown hair halfway down their back and a flowing blue sundress swishing around their knees.

Rick didn't pay them much mind, and was about to turn and grab a can of biscuits when Eris froze in his tracks.

"Julius?"

The taller figure whipped around so fast it must have given them whiplash, and their eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. Rick could see, even from afar, that their features had the same strangely archaic look as Eris' own, though perhaps a continent and a few centuries apart.

"Oh my- Eris?" they stammered, then gestured vaguely at themself, "And it's- er, Wisteria now. Wisty."

"Wisty." Eris repeated, as if testing out the name, "You're... very not dead, for someone three hundred years old."

"Made a deal with a witch a while back. And you're... very tame for how I remember you."

That made a grin flash across Eris' face, quick and sharp and promising only dark things.

"Try me."

But Wisty didn't flinch. She just smiled right back, though this one was nostalgic, almost soft.

The thought struck Rick like a bolt of lightning.

Eris had a type.

Underneath the flowing fabric of her dress, Wisty had to be at least as tall as Rick himself was, and just as stacked with muscle. Old scars littered what bare skin was visible around her clothing, like she'd been a fighter in a past life- or perhaps still was. And she knew not to flinch at those shark-smiles Eris threw at her. Just like Rick did.

The thought made something strange bubble up inside him. He wasn't sure he liked it. As strange and twisted as Eris' affections could be, he'd never before had competition for those affections. It was actually one of the best things about being with them, knowing they'd always drift back to him at the end of all the chaos.

It wasn't Wisteria's arrival alone that had him so tense. What really got him was the set of Eris' posture as he spoke to her: leaned back slightly on his heels, shoulders loose, head tilted ever-so-slightly in curiosity. Casual. Relaxed. The only time he'd ever seen Eris truly relaxed was when they were alone with him.

"We should catch back up." Wisty decided, a smile slowly growing on her face, "Go... spar like the old times or something. I'm a lot tougher than I used to be."

"I don't doubt it." Eris said, their spine automatically straightening at the promise of a good challenge.

He deserved this, Rick thought. This was some sort of cosmic payback for those two years he spent pushing her aside in favor of June, for snapping at all the times they suggested making him into a metahuman like them - it was all to keep him safe, to keep him around.

Well, here was someone who'd stuck around. Who'd played the long game, the centuries-long game, the way Rick was always so afraid to commit to. Who could hold their own against Eris, when she still had to pull her punches against him.

"What do you think? My lance and your spear, or hand-to-hand?" Wisty asked, playfully throwing up her fists with a broad grin. Eris returned the gesture, bouncing on his toes a little.

It was like he'd forgotten Rick was there, just ten feet back. And even as much as he wanted to call out, to remind them... he couldn't move. All he could do was watch it all unravel before him, the can of biscuits still held tight in one hand. Suddenly his mom's old recipe didn't seem to matter much.

"It'll be like before. You and me," Wisty said, "The old war god and the king's footsoldier."

Then there was a different kind of tension in Eris' posture. The shift was sudden, her chin lifted and her shoulders drawn back, all joviality transformed into something more guarded.

"I'm with someone." he said, each word crisply spaced, and brushed past Wisty with smooth, disciplined steps. They grabbed a plastic bag and shoved a handful of green beans into it, pausing only to pluck a few wrinkled and undesirable vegetables from the lot and toss them back. Wisteria turned, fixing them with a tilted expression.

"You told me you wouldn't love another. You told me love was too painful. You told me... that I was the last one."

Eris snatched a bag of baby carrots, holding them tight in her hand as she turned.

"I was wrong." they said, chin set and eyes blazing, "And if you do a damn thing to him, if you hurt him thinking that'll bring me back to you, I'll kill you where you stand. And I will feel no remorse."

With that, he stormed his way back to Rick and tossed the vegetables into the shopping cart.

"You were staring." they muttered, taking the can of biscuits from his hand and dropping it into the cart alongside the rest of the groceries. Then, to his surprise, they folded their fingers into his own. For Eris, that was the equivalent of a public strip tease. Rick gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

"Yeah, I know. Couldn't help it." he admitted, knowing better than to try and duck around it, "First time I've ever seen one of your old friends. Didn't realize there was anyone else... like me."

"She wasn't like you." Eris huffed, ducking around his arm to give the cart a brisk shove, "Nobody's like you."

"It's alright if she was." Rick argued, "I know I'm not the only person you've loved, doll. That's okay."

Eris opened his mouth to respond, then reconsidered and shook his head. It must've been a lot to explain, or something they couldn't bear to speak in such public company. Their posture was still tense, shoulders stony, and they didn't spare so much as a single glance back at the produce aisle.

"Nobody's like you." she just repeated, even more set and sullen. Rick decided there were two ways he could take that: a sign that this love was real, or a sign that the pattern would end up repeating itself in a few years. He decided to take it as the former. The latter, true as it might be, felt far too pessimistic.

"Rome!" a voice called from behind them, and finally Eris turned. Wisteria had caught up, and fire a glance between the two of them. Rick met her eyes calmly, and found something strange swimming there. She returned her gaze to Eris, unflinching. "A hundred years. Rome. Then we'll have our fight."

Rick could hear the other half of her words: because he won't be around by then. Maybe he should have been offended by the implications. He didn't bother. He'd always known there would be someone after him. He didn't expect to meet that someone, but... this was life with Eris. He'd learned to get used to things like this.

"Fine." Eris agreed, though the firm look never left her eyes, "I will meet you on the steps of the Colosseum in one hundred years exactly. We will have our fight."

Their grip tightened on his hand unexpectedly, right on the verge of being painful. Wisteria's eyes fell straight to it, and she frowned a little. Eris must not have been any more affectionate in their prior life.

"But you will get no love from me then." they concluded, "They will bury my heart when they bury him."

Rick saw hurt bloom across Wisty's face, a shocked and helpless sort of pain, but Eris just spun and gave the cart another brutal shove towards the checkout lanes. Rick found himself pausing an extra moment, looking into Wisty's shockingly crestfallen eyes and debating an apology.

In the end, he just shut his mouth and trailed after Eris, leaving Wisty where she stood. He had a sense that speaking to her would only make things worse. It was better just for him to be, in her mind, some speechless nameless thing at Eris' heels. It was probably safer for the both of them.

He caught up to Eris just shy of the checkout lanes, right as they set a rotisserie chicken in the front basket of the cart. She glanced up at him as he approached and offered him something like a smile. It was a little pointed, a little irritated, but he didn't mind that too much.

"You're mine." she muttered, possessive like a wolf to its mate, "Until they put you in the ground, you're mine."

"I love you too, wartime."

[lightfulonion]

hello @skijjiki!!! thanks for tagging me friend!!!!

Favorite time of year: every single day that i grace this beautiful planet ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿ I unironically love Christmas so much. I love the cold and I love the fact that we can slack for a little bit and I love having an excuse and indulge myself by seeing and meeting with my loved ones. I also love spring! (<- spoken with the privilege of someone who only has mild allergies) And summer when it isn't boiling outside!

Favorite drinks: boba, COFFEE, ginger ale, wine (the semisweet ones and especially semisweet red wine ❤), fresh squeezed orange juice, HOT MILK WITH HONEY and generally whatever has sugar in it

Collect anything?: Littlest Pet Shop!!! When i was in kindergarden there was that one kid that had SACKS of lps and from then on i decided that it was my fate to defeat them... (i just said to my mum to buy me lps whenever she could and i also asked her every christmas to tell santa claus i needed the big packs with them) I also have collections of rocks and shells from different beaches that i went to! Lately i try to collect stickers from cons and such (<-literally has went to one (1) con so far) and chupa-chups cans bc they look pretty 👉👈 (not sponsored)

Favorite fics: OH BOY OH BOY! DO I HAVE THE FICS FOR YOU! I'll try to be brief: 💼 OK NO JOKE, I'll try to be brief: (in no particular order, except for the first one) 1) it's not living (if it's not with you) by brella (hq!!) TOP 1!!! IT DOESN'T GET BETTER THAN THIS FELLAS! Legit, tsukkiyama isnt even my thing but this one ticks all my boxes: desperate lead? check. the grumpy one mellows out for the sunshine one? check. the inherent value of change and becoming better by loving and wanting to express it properly and by that becoming a better person? check. GROUNDHOG DAY AU?? YES PLEASE! It's.. It's very good. Please give it a read if you want. (brella has written many good hq fics btw please check them out!) 2) Work-Related Risk Factors by parkernoir (mp100) Case fic, angsty and probably my favourite mp100 ever! It has Serizawa! It has Tome! It has Reigen trauma! It made me cry my eyes out in agony! I have a very soft spot for this. It has serirei in it but mostly it's gen if i remember correctly? yeah 3) beginners by silvercistern (mp100) fair warning it's about sex and it doesn't have just steamy scenes, it discusses generally sex and stuff. That being said it has ace Reigen in it and it made me cry 👍 4) The Negligible Self by ch_am (mp100) anything and everything by camp is a gift honestly. Angsty generally, full of whump specifically, it makes the soft, tender moments hit better and it's still in progress! Join the fun as i lose my mind with every single update! Yay! (people in the comments in ao3 are also trying to find out what is going on and it's fun) (it has a prequel too which is really good and canon-adjacent) 5) Kintsugi by SpicyChibi (mp100) it took me a week to recover from reading this. mp100 fanwriters have a way of capturing the vulnerability of serirei in a way that physically hurts me. Tender, good, I love them, I love them, I love them. Ongoing and 90,000 words so far. 6) Like A Cheap Suit, You Can Wear Me Out by Vulcanodon (mp100) written like a romantic comedy and made me laugh at every twist and turn of the plot. The last scene is forever ingrained in me and it actually makes me emotional. Case fic again and a very fun one 7) Heart Rate Rapid by Justkeeptrekkin (mp100) teacher au, all the children in one class, ongoing, literally finshed it yesterday, ACE REIGEN BELOVED. (so far no explicit content so don't pay too much mind to the rating, there are discussions of sex but only briefly and on a surface level) I love their banter and the transition from friendship to something more... sigh 8) where the night goes by bigspoonnoya (hq!!) 'the sad gay with the happy ending' tag got to me. I love bittersweet stories with happy endings (can you tell) and this one has kagehina in it.... utterly head over heels for stories where they meet many years later. 9) fake it, make it by zadderlee (hq!!) FAVOURITE KAGEHINA FIC RIGHT THERE! ongoing since good old 2019 but the author has said they are going to continue it at some point! good characterisation, i had forgotten how good it is but i keep getting back to this. 10) That Baby Does Not Belong to You (But It Could) by multifascinate (talkativelock) (hq!!) bokuaka with baby hinata. need i say more. oh, yeah and they are 20-somethings. And in college. the romance aspect is there but it mostly focuses on other things. And i love it.

anyway these are my ao3 recs bone apple teeth (pay attention to the content warnings and the tags. thanks!)

Favorite video games: i am an awful gamer but generally the story-based ones intrigue me and the ones that are fun to play together with friends! Disco elysium, Ace attorney, Mario Kart 8, Smash Bros and animal crossing!

i tag @livingonyoghurtandspite @horson @raph-red-fan and whoever wants to do this ✌ ( cough please give me fic recs i beg cough)

[autumnalwalker]

Empty Names - 16 - Mall Rats

Author's Note: Checking back in on Sullivan as we wrap up this set of POV cycling. A shorter chapter again to balance out the last couple. That said, I'll be taking a brief hiatus from the chapter update schedule for the next month or so to refill my chapter buffer queue and take care of some IRL stuff. See the tags for more spoiler-y commentary in the tags. Word Count: 4,730 Content Warnings: Dead bodies. Blood. Brief mention of the injuries that made those bodies. A fight scene. Mild body horror.

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

The young man staggers backwards, eyes wild with fear.  His shoulders bump into the glass door and he scrambles blindly for the handle, finds it, slides the door open, slams it behind him, and runs. 

He makes it all of five meters before reaching the edge of the penthouse’s balcony.  The lights of a city he was never allowed to learn the name of swirl far below. 

“If you’re going to jump,” says his pursuer in the same awful, chipper voice he’s used all throughout the night’s deeds, “at least take this with you first.  I do believe it belongs to you.”

The young man turns around to find Sullivan Bridgewood nearly within arm’s reach and holding out the limp, hollow, feathered skin of a crane.  His skin.

“That’s -“ the young man stammers, “But you - you - All of them - How did you - Why?”

Sullivan takes a step closer and the young man flinches.  He rolls his eyes and places the crane skin on the ground.

“Yes, it is.  Yes, I did.  With lots of practice.  Because my friend asked me to help you and because I enjoyed it.  Now then, do what you will with yourself if you like, but my job here is done.”

With that, Sullivan spins around on his heel and saunters back inside.  He doesn’t bother to look up from opening the speed dial on his phone at the flap of wings behind them.  The phone on the other end only rings twice before picking up.

“The last one’s just been set free,” Sullivan says without preamble.  It’s a lie by implication.  This had been the last of the bound and sold magical beings on the list he had extracted from Logos, but he’d had to skip over one along the way.  The sorcerer had amnesticized himself following the sale as part of one of his early deals and all that Sullivan could recover was that Logos had suspected he was going through a third-party intermediary, so no lead to follow there.  But his friend doesn’t need that failure on their conscience.

“Thanks,” his friend’s voice says tiredly, “that’s a load off my mind.”

Sullivan slides into a bunyip-leather upholstered chair and begins rifling through the private desk of a very-recently-ex CFO of a Backstage pharmaceutical company.

“You’re welcome.  Maybe you can get some sleep now.”

He pries open the false bottom of a draw with a knife, revealing a phone and a tablet.  He picks them up and puts them away to peruse their late owner’s secrets at his leisure later.

“Maybe.  Eris finally talked Lacuna into going home to do the same a few hours ago and Ashan’s resting again, so I suppose I could spare an hour or three before they’re all back to run the analysis on that tattoo of Ashan’s in the morning.”  The unspoken “but…” lingers in the electronic airways between devices.

Sullivan stands and strolls out of the study, admiring the futile handiwork on the walls of now-silent guns to keep his voice casual.

“Would you like me to come back for the night?” he offers.

“No, I’ll manage.  I should let you get back to the Lachlan case.  You said you thought you were closing in on him?”

Sullivan flips over the body of one of the hired thugs now leaking much-needed color into the painfully modern white carpet and plucks the business card from its wallet. Smartdream Security.  Interesting.  He’ll need to look up what other corporate ties they’ve got later and figure out how they’d gotten word he was coming.  Sure, he’d just spent the past twenty six hours dealing with other high-profile targets dotted around the globe before getting around to this particular rich asshole, but to put together the pattern and deploy security in that time is still impressive.  Ultimately futile, but impressive.

“Yes indeed,” he replies.  “Credit where it’s due, our alchemical acquaintance was able to give quite the invigorating runaround with all his proxy portals and diversionary world hops thanks to that headstart of his, but the trail goes through Echo Plaza and there’s only one person there he could have gone to see.”

“Echo Plaza?  I thought that place would have faded out and dispersed by now.”

Sullivan steps around and over another pair of cooling corpses to see if there are any books on the shelf or art pieces on the wall worth taking back with him that aren’t blood-stained or bullet-riddled.

“It came close but the vaporwave and mallcore booms a while back - it’s a music thing, ask the techie about it - gave it one last gasp and the hardcore regulars are doing what they can to preserve their petty slices of the cosmos.”

“I see.  I’ll leave you to it then.  Just try not to rough anyone up too badly while you’re there.”

“Of course not.”  Unlike with this job, Sullivan had given his friend his word about certain aspects of his conduct ahead of time.  It had been long indeed since the last time his friend had simply explained a situation and left with no implication other than that they wouldn’t ask questions about what Sullivan chose to do with the information.  It was certainly one way to keep their conscience clean.  “Sleep tight,” he adds.

“I’ll try.  See you later.” 

The line goes silent but there’s no click of a hangup.

Sullivan moves to the kitchen, checks the freezer, and finds it surprisingly boring.  No stashed electronics, frozen potions, or preserved body parts.  He grabs a carton of ice cream, kicks another body out of the way so that its partially-crushed head won’t hold the door open anymore, and closes the freezer.  

Returning to the balcony, he leans over the railing, balances the carton on it and begins scooping out ice cream with a knife.  Much like the city vista below, it’s night black and speckled with glazed bits that reflect the glowing veins of light that run through it.  At least the penthouse’s late owner had good taste in something.

He glances back over his shoulder and blinks through his filters.  No significant signatures other than the already-ransacked saferoom.  He returns his gaze to the view, eats his looted ice cream and waits with his phone still up to his ear.

“Su?” his friend’s expected voice finally whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Am I a bad leader?”

“Of course not, everyone loves you.  They’d follow you anywhere.”

“But should they?”

“Hey, what brought this on?”

“This is twice now that Eris and Ashan have come back in bad shape, and every quest so far we all wind up separated.”

“That’s just a new team going through the growing pains of getting used to working together.  The point is they came back and it’s not been anything they couldn’t recover from, and you’ve been able to help everyone you’ve tried to help.  That sounds like a resounding success to me, especially for the early stages.”

Silence.

Consideration.

Waiting.

“Has this happened before?”

“Do you want me to answer that?”

“No.  I don’t think I do.  It’s just…”

Sullivan’s grip on his phone tightens.

“Just what?”

“I’ve been thinking about the gaps more than I should lately.”

“And?”  They should barely be able to think about them at all.

“The list of reasons I’d want to leave them empty is pretty short, isn’t it?”

The ice cream carton tumbles down to the streets far enough below to be another world.

“You trust me?”

“For happily ever after.”

How bitter the old joke between them is.

“This isn’t going to be another gap.  I would have tried harder to talk you out of it if I thought there was a chance of that.”

“Thanks.  I needed to hear that.”

“That’s what I’m here for.  Now get some sleep.  You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I’ll try not to dream.”

*******

Sullivan’s footsteps echo throughout the empty shopping mall and mix with the slow, distorted music playing from unseen speakers.

Echo Plaza, a place that becomes more aptly named with each passing year.  

A mere three decades ago this place would have been teaming wall to wall with shoppers from Backstage and beyond.  Wide-eyed newbies who mistakenly thought it would be a good place to ease themselves into things.  Paratech hobbyists looking for the newest offworld imports to reverse engineer.  Teenage witch covens staking out corners of spellbookstores and food courts.  Offworld travelers taking advantage of their multi-day anchor world hub layover to go sightseeing.  Fairies playing tricks from the cover of palm fronds and aerial shrubbery.  Naiads presiding over the grand fountains and granting small blessings in exchange for the coins thrown in. The list went on.

Back then, when the ideal of the shopping mall as cultural centers of commerce and socialization occupying a prominent place in the collective consciousness brought Echo Plaza into being and sustained it and its occupants with an effervescent zest for life, vendors would kill for a storefront on the young pocket dimension's main concourse.  Quite literally, as Sullivan knows from personal experience and paychecks.  In those days just being here would make everything feel exciting and wondrous.  In these window displays the kitsch became cool and the mildly uncommon became alluringly exotic.

Now there are more marble statues than people.  The grand fountains are all long dry.  Food court menu screens proclaim cryptic messages over blue error backgrounds.  Shadowy suggestions of mannequins linger in gutted boutiques at the edge of a flickering neon haze.

The golden age of the shopping mall has passed, and even the subcultural revival of the concept is inextricably intertwined with emptiness and signal decay.  None but the most stubborn of holdouts are willing to invest property in a pocket dimension on its last legs before dissolution.  Only the most dedicated seekers of aesthetic and pursuers of the niche bother to put up with the permeating air of nostalgia and melancholy.

Ironic then how the recent fad for so-called liminal spaces has made the place easier to access than ever for those few who care to look.  And for those desperate to disappear.

The first sign that someone who thinks they’re being stealthy is following Sullivan comes in the form of a blurred oil slick of color at the edge of his peripheral vision flitting from empty store to abandoned kiosk to dry fountainhead.  The rapid muffled footsteps from the second-floor walkway above give away the second stalker.   When he reaches the bridge connecting the two sides of the second floor and smells the third mall ninja hiding in the shadows beneath, he waves to his would-be-ambusher and calls out.

“Nice job kiddos, real sneaky.  Now run along and find someone else to mug before you do something stupid.”

“You  are quite observant stranger,” says the twenty-something in a blank trenchcoat and fedora who steps out of the bridge’s shadow, “but that alone will not be enough to save you now that you have trespassed on our holy training grounds.”  He pulls open the flaps of his trenchcoat to reveal dozens of the tackiest knives Sullivan has ever seen holstered in loops sewn into the garment’s inner lining.  “As you can see, I am well armed and have no intention of letting you go further.”

“You have no idea who you’re talking to, do you?” Sullivan says.

“An intruder who’s about to become a training dummy for my blades,” knife jacket retorts.

“You stand in the presence of Sullivan Bridgewood.”

“Who?”

“Sullivan Prince perhaps?  No?  How about the Golden Death?  The Xanthous Reaper?  The Assassin in Yellow?”

“Is that supposed to impress me?  All I see is a scared little man trying to bluff his way out of a fight with made up titles.”

Sullivan touches his fingers to his face and shakes his head in exasperation.  “Void Without, what ever is Anthony teaching you kids these days?  For shame.  If you’re going to go into a profession, at least make the effort of learning the historical greats in your field.”

“That’s Master Antimatter Bloodflame Drips Down The Katana That Cleaves The Horizon to you!”

“That’s one of his names, yes.  He’s also Swordmaster Death Annihilator, xXx_AnimePantySlasher_69_xXx, and Anthony Lewinski the weeblord.”

“You would slander our master so?  I may have been willing to let you walk away but now you force my hand with this dishonor.  Ready yourself for I will not hold back.”  Declaration made, knife jacket tips his fedora then draws a knife with a dragon-shaped hilt and flame-shaped blade in with hand and a two-pronged dagger with a glass eye in the crossguard and a grim reaper for a handle in the other.  The reaper’s scythe looks poised to stab its own wielder's wrist the moment he twists it wrong.

Sullivan rolls his eyes.  “Kid, you couldn’t stop me from walking away if your life depended on it.  Lucky for you and your two friends trying to hide behind me however, I already promised I wouldn’t kill anyone else this week so you all get to walk away from this lesson alive.”

“What lesson?”

“Where my names come from.”

The single step Sullivan takes forward moves him out of the path of the neochrome shuriken that misses his head and embeds itself in a marble Venus statue’s neck.  A glance back over his shoulder spots another young man, this one dressed in oil slick spandex under neochrome body armor and running at Sullivan with his arms sticking out behind him like airplane wings.  The exposed blades strapped to those arms are the same pink-and-blue swirl as the rest of him.

From above, the third assailant shouts “Sneak attack!” and leaps down from the bridge.  Sullivan sidesteps and a pair of sharpened black paddles crash into the floor.  Painted in white on one paddle is “S3X-007.”  The other reads “L0V-R34.”  Dressed in all black, this one might almost pass for a proper ninja if it weren’t for the baseball cap brim sticking out from under his cowl and the prominent brand logos on his gloves, socks, and sandals.  And of course, the yaoi paddles.

Knife jacket and oil slick reach Sullivan at the same time.  They quite nearly cut down one another when he bends backwards and limbos beneath their outstretched arms.  While those two recover, yaoi paddles takes another go at him, rectangular blades swinging fast and wide, propelled forward by far too many spins, flips and verbal sound effects.  Overall, the spectacle reminds Sullivan of a helicopter failing to take off.  Silly as it looks to him, he supposes that against any normal opponent the plethora of openings would be covered by the sheer speed of the attacks.

Sullivan toys with the trio for a little while more, luring strikes into walls and scattered statuary, catching and dropping thrown knives and shuriken, and all around letting it sink in just how little any of them can do to touch him.  Carnette had given him a whole rambling lecture once on how metaphysically interesting she found the combat style back when Anthony first developed it.  At the end of the day it all came down to believing you were cool so hard that some combination of the Autogenesis Principle and a mage’s reality warping activates, causing poorly designed weapons to become deadly and laughably bad technique to become terrifyingly effective.  Easy to underestimate and horrifically embarrassing to lose to.

Of course, it carries the glaring weakness of utterly falling apart the moment the practitioner’s confidence in his own hype is shaken.

Knife jacket’s next jab with the grim reaper tuning fork is blocked by a plain and functional stiletto catching it between the prongs.  

“Now this,” Sullivan lilts, “is a real knife.”

A mere flick of the wrist is all it takes to snap the twin cheap metal blades and force the reaper’s ornamental scythe into knife jacket’s forearm just above the wrist.  The mall ninja falls to the floor, shouting in pain and clutching the puncture wound.

“Oh spare me the tears, I didn’t even nick an artery with that one.”

That which is beneath Sullivan’s skin begins to ripple and writhe before the shout behind him of “Sneak attack!” even sounds.  By the time the square blades of “S3X-007” and “L0V-R34” swipe through empty air he’s already perched on top of the second floor bridge’s railing.  The stiletto is replaced by a curved dagger carved from bone.  Sullivan makes a show of licking the blade with a tongue suddenly grown green and forked.  He leans forward to tumble down from his perch, leaving a pair of rainbow shuriken to clatter and bounce off the railing he leaves behind.

Space twists for him again mid fall, landing him on his feet half a dozen meters from where he ought to have fallen on his face.  He reaches an arm over oil slick’s neochrome-plated shoulder from behind and rests the tip of the bone blade on the boy’s neck.

“Remind me,” Sullivan chimes, “what’s that phrase the youth today like to say in situations like this?”

“Nothing -” oil slick stammers, “nothing personal, kid.”

“Oh, but it is,” Sullivan croons.

A prick of venom and oil slick’s eyes roll back in his head as he convulses, falls to the floor and goes still.  With a tilt of his head, Sullivan gives yaoi paddles a sidelong glance.

“I do believe it is your turn.”

The last mall ninja standing lets out a high-pitched battle cry and takes a running leap toward Sullivan, giving his best impersonation of a helicopter yet.  Sullivan takes a step toward the oncoming spiral of blades and slams a palm into his chest mid spin, causing him to crumple and send the paddles skidding across the floor in opposite directions.  One of them upsets a plinth and topples a marble bust.  The black-clad youth recovers, gasps, and extends a hidden blade from his wrist.  He rears his arm back to stab at Sullivan’s and then shouts as the fingers gripping his chest dig in and sharpen into teeth.  The fingers multiply and Sullivan’s palm wraps around them, becoming a lamprey’s jawless circular mouth attached to a shiny black and boneless arm.  Eyes open where there were once knuckles and wings unfurl from where there was one a wrist as rings of teeth tear through fabric to find flesh and blood.

The shouts and struggles from Sullivan’s victim grow weaker as the few spots of exposed skin go paler.  He begins to whimper and beg.

“You really ought to consider cutting back on the salt in your diet,” Sullivan responds with a smirk.  “Your electrolyte levels are simply atrocious.  Ruins the taste.”

The bang of the gunshot is loud enough that the echoes continue for the several seconds that Sullivan subsequently spends staring at knife jacket in disapproval.  He’s managed to stagger to his feet and is now aiming a pistol engraved and painted with flaming skulls at Sullivan in a shaky one-handed grip.  Sullivan tsks.

“Don’t you know it’s poor form to bring a gun to a knife fight?  I’ve half a mind to have a word with Anthony about his students’ etiquette after the rest of my business here is done.”  He lowers his victim down to the ground and a bullet bites into his shoulder.  “Rude,” he says flatly.

His arm is human again upon standing up.  He takes a step toward knife jacket.  The next bullet breaks the glass in an empty storefront behind him.  Knife jacket begins backing away, eyes wide.  Another step.  This bullet hits just below the knee, tearing a hole in Sullivan’s slacks.  He does not stumble, and no blood leaks from the wound that is presumably hidden by the fabric.  Another step.

“Get back monster!” knife jacket shouts.  

One of the next four bullets manages to clip Sullivan’s shoulder near where the first one hit.  Another step

“ ‘Get back monster?’ Is that really the best you can come up with?”

Another step.  Between the ripped fabric of ripped puffy white shirtsleeve the wound is visible.  Something dark and not blood emerges and pulls the skin shut and seamless.  That which was glimpsed beneath the skin ripples and writhes.

Another step and the meters between them are crossed in a singular motion.  Skin settles, a foot hooks around an ankle and pulls, a body falls, a hand grabs a wrist, and a forehead presses itself to the hot barrel of a gun.  Sullivan’s other hand drops three bullets and a roll of bandages into knife jacket’s lap.  

He leans down closer still and says in a chipper voice just above a whisper, “Patch yourself and yaoi paddles over there up before the two of you bleed out.”  He moves his other hand to cup over the finger still on the trigger.  “And when you see Anthony later, tell him that he owes Sullivan Bridgewood new clothes.”

The hand begins to squeeze.

*******

“I tell you Eustace,” Sullivan says over the chiming of a store bell, “kids these days have no respect for their elders.”

“Maybe if you tried looking your age it would go better for you,” chuckles the balding, liver-spotted man behind the converted boutique’s counter.  “How have you been my man?  I haven’t seen you since the wedding.”

“Oh, you know how it is Eustace; several years of marital bliss all too soon followed by heartrending bereavement.”

For a lingering moment the boutique is silent save for the muffled music leaking in from the mall outside and the hum of stark white fluorescent lights doing their best to remove every shadow from every surface of every grey-and-white chequered floor, wall, and item of decor.

“Gods,” Eustace snorts, “I see your sense of humor is as wretched as ever.  So what is it this time?  Tried partying the bereavement away too hard and woke up in bed with a mob boss’s spouse again?  Kill an offworld prince on vacation?  Or is tax evasion and fraud more your game these days?”

Sullivan clasps a hand over his heart should be with an exaggerated gasp.  “You wound me, Eustace.  I’ll have you know I remain steadfast in my loyalty to my dearly departed wife, no matter how many old flings dream otherwise.  Can’t a man simply drop by to see how an old acquaintance is doing?”

The old man gives a short, hard, single syllable of a laugh.  “The day you make a friendly visit without an ulterior motive is the day the Veil falls.  So what’ll be, eh?  I figure you can afford the full deluxe suite with your dead wife’s money.  Soulbound pocket dimension, with luxury accommodations, self-sustaining fishery and gardens, complete with constructs to wait on you hand and foot while you wait for trouble to blow over.”

“Still trying to resell that one, are you Eustace?”  Sullivan shakes his head.  “No, I’m afraid I’m not in the market for that kind of purchase today, if you take my meaning.”

“No.  I don’t think I do.  And I don’t think I care to.”

“Oh come now, Eustace.  Surely you must remember.  Lachlan Whelan?  Little gnomish looking man about yay tall?  Hunched back?  Technically human but autogenesis did a number on him, the poor sod.  Twitchy and smelling of ammonia and bromine?  Probably in fear for his life?  Would have been in the last couple weeks.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Eustace, Eustace, Eustace,” Sullivan purrs as he leans on the counter, “I thought we had an understanding.”  Face-to-face this close, the waxy sheen on the safehouse broker’s skin is far more apparent.  As is the fact he never blinks.

“Being a repeat customer and referring my services does not entitle you to information on my other clients.”  Eustace says sharply.  “If anything, you’re the one who owes me by this point.”

“Not even just this once, Eustace?”

“No!  Half my business is staked on my reputation for discretion.  If I lose that I lose everything.”  The creeping anger in his voice is at odds with the calm expression still on his face.  Sullivan hums with amusement at that.

“Oh, I know that quite well.  Like I said, we have an understanding, don’t we Eustace?”  Sullivan leans in closer.  “And understanding like that goes both ways now, does it not?  I know how your profession works, and you know how mine works.”

“Threats now?”  Eustace scoffs.  “If you understood me half as well as you say you do you’d realize that this isn’t even my real body.  There’s nothing you can do here that can hurt me in a way that matters.”

“That’s quite the interesting theory you have there,” Sullivan lilts.  “I’m sure my dearly departed wife would have quite a few things to say about that.  Eh, Eusta-”

“Enough!”  Eustace slams the counter, failing to make Sullivan flinch.  “Yes, that’s my bloody name, you don’t have to keep saying it over and over.  Do you think you’re being endearing?  Gods!  I swear you get creepier every time you darken my doorstep.  Now get out.. of… my… shop…”  His voice goes low as the words trail off in dawning realization.

Sullivan’s ever-present smirk grows a degree wider.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Eustace stammers, “What they say she did to you.”

The smirk shows teeth.  Even through the wax figure proxy body, Eustace shivers.

“Who was it?  A hex witch?  A contract demon?  Some poor fairy that just wanted a Name of its own?”

A tongue slithers out from between the teeth and traces the smirk’s outline.

“Just a scumbag sorcerer with a passing fair grasp of nominal magic,” Sullivan answers, “the sort that no one will mourn his passing and at least a few will celebrate.  I’d say I even did a good deed removing him, but the truth is I was just handed the leftovers after associates of mine had thoroughly dealt with him.”

“And I thought you were a soulless snake before.  Fine!”  Eustace retrieves a notepad from a drawer, slaps it on the countertop and begins scratching it hard enough with a pen to be audible.  “The location of the safehouse I sold Lachlan Whelan,” he says as he rips off the top page, flips it face down, and slides it over.  “It’ll burn as soon as you read it, so memorize it the first time.  Now get out of my shop and don’t come back!”

Sullivan takes the paper, holds it up, and catches the ashes in a handkerchief that he subsequently pockets.

“A pleasure doing business with you, as always,” he says, pushing off of the counter.  Halfway to the door he spins around on his heel and adds  “By the by, if it eases your conscience any I’m actually going to save dear mister Whelan’s life.  This is one of my friend’s jobs, not one of mine.”

“It’s for Road?”

“Have I ever been known to have another?”

“Seven hells, man!  You could have just opened with that and I would have handed the damn address over.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Then why the wheedling and the threats?”

Sullivan shrugs theatrically.  “I wanted to see if I could still get a rise out of you.  You should have seen your face, even through the proxy dummy.  The real thing must have been just priceless.  Did you really think that I - what? - ate people and stole their magic?  Ooohhh, out of all the wild rumors to come out of my marriage and that’s the one you jump to?  And did you really think I’d be fool enough to seriously threaten so useful a contact?”  He chuckles and shakes his head.  “Don’t ever change Eustace.”

The exhale of relief comes through the wax proxy better than Sullivan would have expected.  When Eustace speaks, the anger is still there, but it’s duller now.  “Let the door hit you on the way out.”

Sullivan gives a flourishing bow and walks out the boutique backwards, making a show of bumping into the door to open it.

A bit of showing off in front of the youth to keep his name out there, a most entertaining spot of catching up with an old contact, and directions to what should be the last step of his hunt.  All in all, not a bad trip to the mall.  Perhaps he’ll swing by the food court on his way out to see if anyone’s still selling anything esoteric or aesthetic enough to be worth eating.

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

[didsomeonesayventus]

Anyways that was a preface for doing a doodle dump of stuff I’ve drawn inspired by the campaign so far because my feelings have to go somewhere fjdsahasfadhgkfdg

I’ll try and give context

First off we have a roundtable lore dump for corrin gone incredibly wrong because stabbing and doing bad things to the evil lizard (who turned out to be corrin’s twin brother kamui) that crashed the party means doing bad things to corrin and I got fucking 1 hp away from dying (in hindsight 1hp away from the campaign probably ending)

Halloween party couples costume time ft. being educated about mortal culture means watching a bootleg of a good musical and it’s okay we’re working on his memories but for now we can be cute

There was a fucking timeloop train that was crashing into town and corrin ended the first loop trying to propose to subaki on a weird hologram phone thing (didn’t really explain also not really important) and i was very emotionally wounded by the fact he was about to say yes and the fucking train crashed

And at last just a cute couple thing because subaki ended up getting killed by evil brother while corrin was in the timeloop and this was what happened most recently because hi imagine coming home to your boyfriend’s corpse because the loop only affected the train and the town and im still so not okay I AM REALLY NOT OKAY IM STILL CRYING..

all very largely out of context but boy am I loving this trip very much and I can’t wait to go through literal hell and then have a honeymoon at margaritaville

[voidstilesplease]

i’ll never wear clothes again

For @sterek-kinkmas​ day 2: Exhibitionism

Tags: Alternate Universe-Human, Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinski are the Same Age, Alternate Universe-College/University, Best Friends Stackson, Roommates Derek/Jackson, Humor, Fluff, Mentions of Nudity

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Word Count: 1,601

"Tell your roommate to fucking wear clothes."

"Tell your roommate to fucking wear clothes," Stiles hisses through the phone, shoving clothes after clothes into his duffel. The response he gets to his complaint is a groan from Jackson.

"This is still going on?" His tone suggests that he's exasperated with the deep rumbling from his throat, but Stiles can hear the undertone of amusement. "Just fuck already, for Christ's sake."

Stiles pulls the phone away from his ears and gapes at it for a second. He scoffs and presses it more firmly to his ears, putting the speaker close to his mouth so Jackson can hear his every word and intake of breath. "How many times," Stiles even stops his packing to wring his other hand and place it on his hips. "must I tell you that I'm never going out with Derek Hale?"

"At least a hundred more in the next 24 hours," Jackson deadpans.

It makes Stiles's agitation grow because, honestly, what kind of best friend would not take this harassment seriously? "Jackson, he's flashing me!" the hand on his hip is now in the air brandishing like a fly swatter. "Whenever I'm over at your apartment, and you're not around - hell, even when you are," he shakes his head. "Derek parades himself naked, putting all that," he gestures wildly in his silent room, having started pacing as well. "rippling, flexing muscles and huge fucking dick on display like a fucking porn star!"

Stiles is not expecting Jackson to be sympathetic to his plight, but he should, at least, show a little concern for Stiles. Instead, what he gets is one of the done/finished/over-and-done-with exhalation that means he's ready to drop the call and leave Stiles to his predicament. Jackson really could show a little care since it's his roommate that's giving Stiles nightmares in both waking and sleeping worlds.

"If you want Derek to stop inviting," there's a sound of a car door shutting close in the backroom and the jingle of keys. "Then stop looking like an interested guest."

Before Stiles can ask what he means by that, Jackson has started the ignition and clicks the disconnect button. He sputters for a moment and then drops his arm with a resigned huff. As usual, Jackson is a useless friend.

Stiles sighs once more and goes back to packing. This weekend is going to be hellish. He's spending a few days at Jackson's place while the heater and ventilation are getting fixed at his second-rate dorm. 

He pulls the sleeves of his red hoodie down on his hands. He's going to die freezing if he doesn't stay over at Jackson's, and there's nowhere else to go. California in winter months are still frequently sunny with a mild temperature, but this is one of those times not covered by the term. It can get frosty when it deems to be. Jackson's apartment is the logical, financially-wise option. But of course, Stiles has to be prepared for Jackson's roommate. Derek is the worst -a flasher and an overall douche. Of course, he was also Stiles's sexual awakening in high school, but that's beside the point.

His hand hovers at the box of condoms on his nightstand. He hesitates, nibbles on his lower lip, grabs the box anyway and stuffs it inside along with his clothes and toiletries. He zips up the duffel bag, hating himself.

He's not an interested guest, and the condoms are not part of his preparations for Derek. Yeah? Okay.

Right.

He picks up his bag, thinks belatedly about stopping by at the pharmacy to buy lube, and hates himself some more.

~•~

But Stiles hates Derek the most.

Also, Jackson, because where the hell is he?

Stiles has been in the apartment for five hours, but the asshole hasn't gone back from the university yet. Stiles knows he should be back by now, but he's not even responding to text messages. It's like he vanished on purpose.

Now, Stiles is stuck sitting stiff as a board on the couch in front of the TV, absently watching a show he doesn't even like. Derek is on the far end of the same couch, cozy, and very relaxed like he's not lounging about in his tight underpants and plastering his bulge and abs all over the place, the fucking exhibitionist.

Stiles pointedly trains his eyes on the screen, seeing motions but not comprehending them. All he can focus on is the loud hammering in his chest and the stirring low in his stomach. He's getting bothered just by Derek's proximity. Jesus, it is embarrassing even for his standard. It was probably forgivable when he was sixteen, having his first sexual fantasies about the unattainable, out-of-his-league lacrosse star Derek Hale. But Stiles had survived high school, his hopeless crush, and Derek toying his feelings wearing a straight face. He's a big college boy now, who has gotten rid of his spectacles, might still flail a little, but has gotten the attention of a few people. He shouldn't be falling back into the Derek Hale bandwagon; he was over that.

"Are you okay?"

Derek's voice startles him. Stiles jerks back wide-eyed as he turns to Derek's drawn eyebrows. His throat catches, he clears it, and then says in a hopefully even tone, "Yeah."

"You're sweating,"

Stiles is sweating in the forehead; he usually is when he's nervous, tense, or aroused. It isn't all that fulfilling to note that he's all three currently. He averts his eyes back on the screen, "Something must be off with your air-conditioning."

In his peripheral, Stiles can see the smirk on Derek's stupidly gorgeous face. God, Stiles hates people like him. They know they're attractive, confident with their toned bodies, exuding sex-appeal, and they make others twitch in their seats uncomfortably, racing with their heartbeats and gasping for air. Oh, and sweltering at 80°F.

"I'm sure that's not the case,"

Stiles must have imagined the suggestive tone when Derek says it because there's no way, right? He ponders for a second before shifting back to face him. Derek's staring at him, shamelessly, blatantly running his eyes all over his flushing face. Stiles's pulse quickens at the hooded looks.

Derek's eyes meet his again, "If the heat is bothering you," he starts, lips stretching to a small smile. "You should take off your clothes."

He's too stunned inside, but he forces himself to face away once again, feeling his skin beginning to burn. "Not all of us have washboard abs to show off."

"Your body's fine," Derek says offhandedly, but Stiles is tingling from the words.

"How can you know?" He tries to sound indifferent, but the pitchy quality of his voice is not helping his case. "You haven't seen me."

Two beats pass, then, "So, show me."

Stiles can't whirl his head fast enough. He gapes at Derek's serious expression. "Is that-" he sputters, surprised. "Are you-"

Derek cocks his head to the side, "Finally catching up?"

He gapes in disbelief; even his breathing falters. Words escape him for a moment. Then, he exhales, "What are you saying?"

Derek adjusts in his position, moving closer to Stiles. This near, Stiles can see the nervous tick on his jaw, which -unreal. Derek Hale doesn't know anxiety. He's the epitome of arrogance and narcissism and unwavering confidence.

Derek's green eyes settle on his dull browns, "I don't strut around naked for just anybody."

Stiles's eyes stray down to Derek's red lips and lock there. He licks his lips, instinctual, "Well, why didn't you ask?"

A bashful expression crosses Derek's features. He ducks his head a little, "I tried. You rejected me."

At this, Stiles rears away, incredulous. "Rejected you?" He puffs a laugh. "Me, turn you down? In what universe, Derek?"

Derek's brow draws together, looking confused. "In senior year," he tells him like it's obvious. "I asked you to go on dates with me," a shadow passes his face, lips curling downward. "You sneered at me every time."

He hears his jaw hitting the floor, remembering all those times, but dismissing them as Derek's asshole antics, "You were serious?"

Now, Derek looks offended, even hurt. "I sent you notes, blackmailed Jackson for your number, asked you in the middle of the cafeteria, even went to your house one time -how did you think I wasn't?"

Stiles sags on the couch, shocked and disoriented at the turn of events. When he is composed enough, he lifts his eyes back to Derek's expectant gaze. "So, you decided to," he gestures at Derek's lack of clothing. "Strip for me?"

At this, the smirk returns. "It seems to be working," Derek points out, glancing brazenly at Stiles's middle, where his boner is apparent.

He gets flustered but doesn't deny it. There's no point in pretending he isn't affected. Stiles laughs breathily, "Fuck, you have no idea."

It must be the correct answer because Derek's face breaks out in a cheeky expression. "Then, I reiterate," Derek moves to his feet, and stands before Stiles in all his half-naked glory, boxers tenting. It's the most covered he's been since this whole shenanigans started. Stiles's mouth waters at the view, and he swallows conspicuously, Derek watching the movement of his throat. His green eyes darken when he tips Stiles's chin up to bring their gazes together. "Show me."

***

"Wait, Jackson knows?"

"Yes. I blackmailed Jackson again so he'd stay out tonight. Or he can come home and watch, I don't care. Now, will you please get back to what you were doing with your tongue?"

"Traitor,"

"Stiles."

"Oh, fine."

"Yeah, that's -ah. Yeah. I'll never wear clothes again."

~•~

[flying-nightwing]

Guidelines

Last edit: March 20, 2023

I want to preface this by saying that while I do not make exclusively 18+ content, I am an adult who writes from an adult perspective and with an adult life experience. And well, this is DC, not Marvel, you know the gig. I also often slip violence and trauma as omnipresent themes and don’t always present them in a healthy, coping way. People under 18 really shouldn’t be here, it’s not a space for you. Thank you for respecting my boundaries.

About the MC/reader:

My default setting is female reader because that's what I'm most comfortable working with. However, I am definitely not closed to writing in male or non binary perspective, you just gotta ask :)

I usually never mention any specific body type, unless I'm writing vigilante!reader, in that case reader comes with a certain amount of muscles because you need those to be a vigilante. 

I try to be inclusive as well as much as possible by not mentioning skin color, hair type, eye and hair colors, avoiding the "red blushing cheeks" cliché, etc. However I am aware there are social and cultural cues I might subconsciously use that will not necessarily match yours, I'm trying to keep an eye on that as well. 

About the story:

Here are the characters I write for (subject to expansion):

Jason Todd

Dick Grayson

Tim Drake

Roy Harper

Bruce Wayne

Slade Wilson

Stephanie Brown

Harley QuinN

Talia al Ghul

John Constantine

Oliver Queen (mostly Arrowverse, but can do comics)

Sara Lance (Arrowverse)

Helena Bertinelli

Other considerations:

Most of what I write will contain mild to severe swearing (unless requested otherwise)

I'm comfortable with fights, gore, death, or any violence really, as you might have seen already so that's on the table

Though I'm terrible at smut please don't request it

I can work with a detailed prompt so if you want something specific hmu (it's even preferable in the case I get it in an inspiration low)

I can write reader in a romantic, platonic or family relationship. 

I LOVE CHEESY/OVERUSED TROPES. There is NEVER enough enemies to lovers/there was only one bed/mutual pinning/etc. stories EVER. 

(I know this happens way less in DC fandom than marvel or whatever but I strictly do not do RPF, no exception)

Other important stuff:

NO posting schedule. I have to write during a Creative Episode otherwise it'll suck. And I don't control the Creative Episodes, so it can go anywhere from a few hours to a few weeks. Sorry about that.

I don’t do tags because I couln’t keep track of them if my life depended on it, also half of the time the tags either don’t work or the blogs are on private mode. ONLY EXCEPTION is when a fic is requested off anon, then I tag the person who requested it 💕

I really hate that about myself but that's the way I am; I'm very validation driven so the more you interact the more I'll be motivated to put stuff out. I stopped writing for marvel altogether because I ended up with like 21 notes no reblog no comment, so that drove my motivation to the grave. This isn't a guilt trip I swear, but I really do appreciate a little "loved this!" in the comments or a personalized tag on a reblog. This is literally the recipe to get me to post more stuff more frequently, that simple. 

I am an adult, as stated previously. Unless it's for a platonic or family relationship, I am not comfortable writing about characters who are under 17-18 years old (outside of flashbacks).

English is not my first language. I might confuse or misuse words, or lose some stuff in translation. Also if my sentence structures seem weird sometimes, now you know why. Lmao sorry about that

Whether or not I take requests depends on my mood really, so send them away and either I’ll take them or save them for later. I’ll try to honor every single one I get but please be patient.

That’s it! Thank you for reading my stuff, I love you all xx