#wow! i wrote something!

[calmbigdipper]

What you mean to me

[bleedingoptimism]

I have a prompt for you! Steve or Eddie finding out that the other one collects something. Maybe it's weird or silly or just surprising. I feel like one or both of them secretly collect stuff.

Eddie collects things, lots of things, he's a collector. He collects rocks he likes, every trinket, key chain, necklace, or ring he finds with a shape of a lizard. He collects dice and zines, cassettes, you name it, he collects.

When Steve realizes this, he starts saving weird rocks he sees to give to him later. They don't really talk about it, Steve never says anything and he actually kind of doesn't notice he's doing it. But sometimes Eddie will get in his car and Steve will tap the headboard and say, "There's something for you there," and Eddie will open the compartment and find a metal pin with the shape of a lizard and grab it a hold it and look at Steve and Steve will shrug, like its nothing and Eddie will continue to stare at Steve for a few minutes while he drives, and he'll pin and long and love him in silence.

He asks him once if he collects anything, but Steve shakes his head no. No trophies, no love letters, no polaroids.

They are hanging out at Steve's one lazy sunday afternoon when he finds it. He was looking for a lighter, Steve had refused to move from where he's lying limbs stretched like a star on the floor of his bedroom and pointed somewhere over his desk when Eddie had asked for it.

He's rummaging through the desk and opens the second drawer, starts moving things around when suddenly Steve is right behind him,

"It's not there! There's nothing there." he yelps, trying to close the drawer, and Eddie laughs and looks closer at the contents, thinking he'll find Steve's porn stash and make him blush a little, but instead he finds a movie tkt, a receipt, a napkin, and other things that don't make a lot of sense until it does.

Because the ticket is from a movie they saw together, and the receipt is from when they went to Indianapolis and ate greasy burgers at a diner in the middle of nowhere, and the napkin is from The Hideout and there's a leaf carefully pressed with duck tape that he's sure is the one he once gave Steve, when they were walking through the forest, sharing a smoke. A leaf, just a silly little leaf, he had grabbed it off the floor because it was brown and speckled with yellows and greens and it reminded him of the color of Steve's eyes when the light hit them just right. He'd given it to Steve without a word and Steve had smiled and twirled it in front of his face and then he had completely forgotten about it and here it was, in a drawer in Steve's room, along with a whole lot of things, mementos, of them.

Eddie looks at Steve, who is standing just to the side of him, completely red in the face and with his hands suspended in the air, either to push Eddie away and close the drawer or hold them up as surrender, he doesn't know.

They look at each other, both searching for something, asking questions, seeking answers. They look at their eyes, roam their faces, and end up on each other's lips, and Eddie smiles, big, happy, and enamored, he slowly moves to face Steve properly, closing the drawer with his hip and holds Steve's face between his palms and Steve leans into the touch closing his eyes for second before going back to stare at Eddie, and shily, he smiles back.

And Eddie dives in and kisses the boy who gifts him weird rocks, lizard trinkets, and dice. The boy who collects mementos. The boy he loves.

[mandaloriandragontrainer]

“Rayllum was rushed and forced” actually it wasn’t because I wanted them to kiss. Moving on.

[sunatsubu]

In the Dark, Something More

Actually managed to write something! Inspired by @lost-in-derry's idea from kalluzeb discord, in a fun thread speculating about lasat night vision

"What if Kallus knows Zeb can see in the dark but not how well: Zeb and Kallus are in some kind of dark cave/place and Kallus can’t see so Zeb offers to hold his hand. And Kallus is like, “It’s ok, he won’t be able to see how flustered this makes me” but Zeb ABSOLUTELY CAN"

many thanks to @hayesflint and @solsilverpine for proofreading and encouragement <3

[acid-ixx]

note: expanding on this post (please read it before reading this!) that i reblogged from @koinotame since it became a bit too long teehee <3 can't you see i love devoted little characters ? yeah, i do (only a little bit). i wrote this in like??? 20-30 minutes. tysm nana for introducing me for such a good idea. i might end up writing something about it.

they're made just for you, they knew from the start. so please don't wonder why they do everything for you— it's engraved in their very soul to be perfect— at least, perfect in your eyes.

it's worrying to be on an extreme level of obsession, they know that, but old habits die hard— and they're not even letting it die, no, they're kindling that flame of infatuation; making sure that your favor of them (albeit you not having a say using their body as your vessel) wouldn't fade away. even before you were transported into Teyvat, possessing the blonde's body as if it were yours, they would always be doing things to your preference. and the other characters wouldn't even know, even if you have placed them in your teapot, would they never know the pleasure of even knowing your favorite type of tree, or what type of minerals or ores you favor in mining, or your favorite dish that you just love to cook in-game.

and to have your thoughts directly blending in within the crevices of their mind? archons, they wouldn't ask for any better. your emotions are theirs to share, so whenever you feel repulsed by something, they eliminate whatever triggers an unpleasant reaction from you. you like the scent of a specific flower? whilst you're not possessing them, they would be busy collecting the blossoms in every corner of Teyvat. do you prefer a certain weapon type, with a specific color scheme, plush handles and lightweight/heavy material? you're in luck because the finest blacksmiths in store already have something skillfully crafted for you. sick and tired of rude npc's? let's just hope the system wouldn't glitch out once someone is permanently wiped from the world. they're yours to utilize, so whilst you're out, they're busy training their body to the extremes and only letting you (with your permission of course) come back once they've fully rested their vessel body.

it's scary thinking about it - for others, not them - just how much they molded themselves for your taste only. even the way you would talk seeps into their daily speech, making it slightly difficult for others to differentiate you two. ah, but that doesn't make you any less recognizable, though, since you're in every bit divine and they're merely there for your own pleasure. they're glad that they were your very first in everything related to Teyvat, that they have the power (and they're willing to grow stronger for you in every path they take) to protect you since, well, you technically share the same body. at the same time it's anxiety inducing, because throughout the course of their travels did they gain plenty of enemies— but don't worry, you wouldn't have to worry about the stench of blood, since that's the only time they'll take over the body without permission; just to protect you.

[tillthelandslide]

A/n: i don't know what this is but... I wrote something, woo? (This does not mean I'm back, this is literally the first thing I've written in god knows how long because I'm so frazzled atm and I doubt my brain will let me write anymore) thank those new photos of Matty in that grey shirt for whatever this is. P.s I've literally just wrote this before Im posting it so it has not been spell checked and probably has loads of grammatical issues lol. Love you byeeeee - Lou

Sweat still drips down his forehead, running along his cheek tortiously slow. Your eyes are focused, following the line, eyes landing on his upper lip and never leaving it. Even when his there, right in front of you, one hand clamping around your waist in an attempt to pull you closer. Your own hands find his shoulders in response to the squeeze he delivers to your waist. A simple "you alright love?" falling from his lips, those same lips that you can't stop staring at.

Well actually it's just above the plump, red mouth that moves temptingly. A strip of hair you swore you hated at first, a fact you let him know, plenty. But tonight (and even before that), Matty with his tight grey shirt on and hair perfectly styled... Well you certainly didn't hate it now.

"come with me" the words leave your mouth heavily, laced with something more, something that sounds like "Matty I want you" to his ears. Your small hands tug him through the corridors back stage, he knows the way without looking, eyes trained on your lips now, all smirky and up to something.

"baby I've barely got off stage" he mumbles when you open the door to his dressing room. You push against his chest, the same chest that's been straining against the fabric of his shirt ever since he stepped foot on that stage.

"exactly" one more push and he's landing on the sofa with a little "omph". You're with him in a split second, legs hooking over his thighs one by one and lowering yourself until he can feel you pulsing above him and you can definitely feel him.

Hard and heavy and desperate. The few words you've uttered and the looks you've been throwing his way, definitely doing their job well.

"you looked so good tonight" you say, head finding a comfortable place by his throat, sucking and biting, drawing low grunts from his throat.

"just tonight?" He says. Oh he's in a mood, wanting you to tell him how bad you want him. And you'll tell him, of course you'll tell him.

"no... Not just tonight" your words aren't what makes his hips thrust up, it's the way after you say them your mouth finds his upper lip. Your tongue swipes over the hair and his hips work on their own accord.

It fucking kills him, makes him buck up and swear and grab your own hips, pining then down against his own and forcing you to roll them.

"fuck" he says, head moving up, further into your lips and tongue.

"thought you hated it" he says, straining his neck more until his mouth captures yours. You want to reply but his own tongue finds yours and your words get caught in your throat, if not for a moment..

Your lips separate with a smack and your eyes fall to his moustache again, coated in a mixture of you and him, a filthy mix that makes your hips roll against him and a moan to slip.

"definitely don't hate it then" he says with a smirk. You smile at him, thumb slowly running across the hair, collecting the mix and bringing it to your mouth. You slip it between your lips as you shake your head.

"definitely don't hate it" you confirm.

"fuck you're perfect" he waits until your thumb has slipped from your mouth and tugs you back, tongue meeting yours again and hips bucking.

Taglist: @scooby-doodoo @thereisaplaceintheheart @promocodesorry75 @eaglestar31 @thefrontofmymind @fallingforel @partoftheairforce @procrastinatinglikeapro @poisonmedaddy13 @xthe1975 @all-things-fic @jstbeeingme @rossgirly @juliardk @you-muppet @moodyyyychickx @k4tie75 @insidemymind19 @zzzhealy @maybeiwouldlikeyou @at-her-very-foreign @not-alien-girl-v (add yourself using the link in my bio 😊)

[anthrofreshtodeath]

Bleacher Creatures

Jane sips a beer, looking out the giant garage window of The Bleacher Bar toward center field. She’d never have paid the 13.99 this Sam Adams tall cost, not with her own money, and would never have picked this venue for a back door deal, but the amiable young man next to her has covered both of their tabs.

Cash of course. He picked the place, when she made the call on the burner phone she said she’d turned over to evidence. Jane was shocked not to hear Paddy Doyle’s voice establishing their rendezvous, but instead Jimmy Ryan’s, telling her in his twenty-eight year old timber, heard the Dodgers might be an interesting team to check out this season. You been to that new place yet? The one they converted the old batting cages into? Gets real packed on a Friday night. Got all kinds of people comin’ and goin’.

Jane had hung up without a word. A grunt, maybe. No phonemes for sure. She doesn’t get the whole gimmick bar thing, and she sure as shit doesn’t get interleague play, either. The National League is the Senior Circuit no more and at 41-28 on the season, the Sox playing the boys in blue is like swatting an obnoxious fly in the muggy summer heat. But, she saves her thoughts about new wave gangsters and new wave baseball fans going soft.

Because this isn’t a social call. And as much as she enjoyed watching the Sox hang up a crooked seven in the fifth, it isn’t a baseball call, either. She sets her glass on the bar in front of them, licks hoppy foam off her upper lip, and crosses her arms. Two drunk kids to her right bump into her, apologizing on their way to the bartender, that’s how crowded it is. They press her into her acquaintance, though no one would know he and Jane are here to see each other with the way they stare out at the game and say almost nothing to each other. 

It’s Jimmy that speaks next. “What a game, huh?”

“I’ll say,” is all Jane says in reply. 

A couple minutes pass, a routine grounder off the bat of Kevin Youkilis, and then Jimmy mirrors Jane’s stance. “Workin’ hard lately?”

“As always,” says Jane. His question rings in her head the same way her grandfather’s voice would when he’d bring up bisinis, in that glorious, affected accent - they are now speaking of things she is not really supposed to understand. But she does. “You know, it’s the weirdest thing. I got a brother named Tommy.”

He stiffens. He nods. He polishes off his drink, and leaves the glass on the bar. “Enjoy ya night,” he gruffs, and then he’s off.

How can Jane possibly enjoy her night when she’s just told Paddy Doyle’s goon who killed Colin Doyle? She just served Tommy O’Rourke up to Irish Boston’s bogeyman on a silver platter, and the worst part is she could give a fuck about the consequences, professional, legal, moral, whatever. Maura’s safer for it.

It’s just… The Dodgers? 

What a shitty, shitty state of affairs.

___

A few hours later, and Jane nurses Irish whiskey while she tries to melt into her couch. She’d thought it fitting when she pulled the bottle down from the cupboard next to her microwave.

NESN postgame coverage drones on in the background; she hadn’t bothered to stay for the rest of the game - came straight home. She twirls the glass, watches amber waves slosh against it in between fiery gulps, pulls her lips tight against her teeth when it strips her throat of all the tears she thinks she might want to cry.

She doesn’t, of course; her drink wipes them clean, just like she wanted it to. She’s being a bitch about it - she’s got her badge on the coffee table in front of her and she frowns at it when it catches the light of the overhead fan. It’s right next to that damn phone. 

How many badges throughout BPD history have sat next to phones like this, metaphorically speaking? Not only is she dirty, she’s not even special. The part that angers her the most, though, is that despite the liquor and the moping, the choice is the same. She runs the gambit in her head over and over, and she picks the same thing each time. She tells Paddy when she leans forward, elbows on knees, forcing herself into dizziness. She tells Paddy when she closes her eyes and knocks her head against the back of the sofa. She even tells Paddy when she huffs, stands up, and stomps on the phone with the heel of her boot, crushing it and all it signifies.

The night before, when she’d told Maura that at least Paddy got off his ass and did something for his kids, she was talking to herself. She subsequently got off her ass, stopped waiting for brass to swoop in and save the day, and did something. For Maura. So why does she feel like this?

Fuck it.

Fuck it all. She needs to sober up and exit this pity party.

She slams the glass on the counter, goes into her room to change into some shorts and a sports bra. It’s hot as hell out, even at midnight, but she needs to run.

___

Jane avoids the Dirty Robber the next evening because she refuses to tempt herself with more alcohol. Instead she’s at Johnny’s on Main, an old diner close to her place, close enough that she can walk. And she did, despite the humidity and bone weariness of the day’s work.

She doesn’t look up from her coffee, fingers wrapped around the mug, when the bell over the door rings again, too focused on the stinging punishment of heat against her hands.

That is, until an unmistakable pair of knees makes its way into her line of vision. 

Maura. 

Jane’s head shoots up; Maura’s been crying. And now, Jane knows why her chest has ached.

She’d actually known somewhere deep down, somewhere unconscious, from the time she let her brother’s name slip into the Fenway air, though she’d hoped that, when Maura wondered aloud at Tommy O’Rourke’s body dump, Korsak’s non-answer as to who alerted Doyle would satisfy.

Clearly it didn’t.

Jane tosses a nod in the direction of the other side of her booth, flattens a hand on the Formica tabletop to ground herself in reality again.

Maura almost doesn’t take the offer, but then she drops into the bench with such uncharacteristic force that the vinyl lets out a heavy whoosh. “I’ve been looking for you,” she finally says.

Jane rouses herself, looks at her phone. Four missed calls, a couple texts. Shit. “Well, you found me.” Her voice is extra rough, firm. 

Maura rubs her lips together; Jane knows she’s trying not to cry. And even then Jane acts defensive, because she’s damaged and, hell. She knows what Maura’s going to say. Going to do.

Maura waits for more, but when Jane doesn’t give it, she sighs. “Only with the help of your brother. I didn’t want to believe you could do something like this,” she whispers, but so conspicuously she might as well have just stated it.

“Like what?” Jane looks into watery green eyes. Dares.

Maura, still dressed in her skirt and jacket from today, straightens her posture. Despite her upbringing, she’s a scrapper. Never backs down from a challenge. Jane has always liked this about her. “Helping… my father,” she spits out, the word itself apparently acrid on her pretty little tongue. Everything about Maura is pretty. Deserves to be protected. 

Jane tells her so. “I was helpin’ you.”

Maura balks. “So… so that’s it? You just admit it?”

“Clearly you know,” Jane says, “why keep lyin’?”

“I…” Maura huffs. “You and Korsak are not as convincing as you think.” She fidgets with the ring on her finger, the newest thing she hates about herself. Jane hates that Maura hates anything about herself. And Jane has been so bummed because Maura likely now also hates her. 

The price is almost too high to have paid. But at least this way, Maura is still alive, and even if she never speaks to Jane again, Jane gets to look at her every day. Safe and sound.

All thanks to that Irish gangster of a father Maura’s got.

“You don’t have to understand it,” Jane begins, “I don’t expect you to -“

“This isn’t you,” Maura cuts her off. “You’ve never wanted to… to hurt people.”

Jane sniffs. How is she going to put this? She wants to say that she admired the touch of Maura’s baby picture under the ice pick, that it pleased her, but she doesn’t. “You and I have been friends for awhile now, yes?” 

“Yes,” answers Maura. 

“You know a lot about me. But clearly you don’t know everything,” Jane counters. It sounds a little mean. 

Maura’s brow furrows like she felt it. “What are you-“

“I want to hurt anyone who’s ever even come close to harming a hair on your head. That’s what I’m saying. I wanted to kill O’Rourke myself for thinking he could hurt you. I wanted to kill Doyle for allowing you to become collateral like that. And not in any kinda rhetorical sense, either,” Jane declares. She holds onto Maura’s stare with her own and refuses to let go. Refuses to let Maura look away from what Jane has just placed between them.

“Did I ever even know the real you?” Maura asks, and it’s so fucking clinical. Jane thinks maybe that’s worse than sounding wounded. Jane thinks maybe Maura knows that.

“You remember when you called, right after Doyle let you go?” Jane asks. 

“Anything you want, I can get it,” Maura finally.

“That was the real me. Did it surprise you then?”

Maura takes time to think on it, and Jane allows it. Takes a long swig from her coffee. “Not at all,” says Maura.

“Then this shouldn’t either,” Jane replies. 

After Maura nods in assent, a long, tense silence passes. Jane watches her wave off the waitress. 

Jane’s next question, or rather the answer to it, may kill her. So, she gazes into the black expanse in her mug and hopes for the best. “So, you gonna turn me in?” She asks because Maura’s the most principled person she knows. Integrity for days and days. All Jane has is feral loyalty.

 But, Maura surprises Jane. “I would never do that,” she says. Jane snaps to attention again. Maura is frowning; Maura is livid, but Maura is here. And then, Maura is reaching out her hand. Of course Jane takes it. “But don’t make me have to consider it again.”

Jane nods. She will have to get much, much better at lying, because Paddy Doyle and the men who hate him are going nowhere. And in that moment, she resolves to watch a thousand interleague games, to break Maura’s heart a thousand more times, if it means Maura stays alive. 

If Maura holds her hand like this. 

[zuko-always-lies]

Unpopular Opinion: Ursa's parenting negatively affected Zuko

One of the fascinating things about the ATLA fandom is that people are utterly uninterested in analyzing how Ursa's parenting really screwed up Zuko, even though it's pretty clear. I don't mean to attack Ursa here, because I think she had good intentions, but, although her parenting was far better than Ozai's, it contributed to Zuko's many poor decisions.

I've given a broader coverage to values Ursa extols to her children elsewhere. The general point you should take away from that is that Ursa was critical in instilling imperialist values in her children and in teaching them to respect/obey the Firelord.

However, that's not the point I will belabor here. I want to turn to something else. Let's take a look closely at the scene where Zuko tries to perform Azula's firebending routine in front of his grandfather and his father but falls flat on his face:

Ozai frowns at this news. Zuko starts off well, doing the same circular motions as Azula earlier. He manages to produce a small fire blast, which does not impress Fire Lord Azulon. When he tries to create another one, he falls. He gets back up, panting heavily, and tries again, only to fall harder. Ursa gets up worriedly and approaches Zuko to comfort him. Young Zuko: I failed. Ursa: No. I loved watching you. That's who you are, Zuko. Someone who keeps fighting even though it's hard.

The lesson that Zuko learns from Ursa here is that his gift is stubborn persistence and that he should never stop trying to meet the toxic expectations of the Fire Nation royal court and of his father(she also might have inadvertently encouraged the Zuko-Azula sibling rivalry).

How do we know this is what Zuko took away from this? These scenes are paired together at the end of "Zuko Alone," as Zuko struggles to defeat Gow:

In the flashback, Zuko is sleeping in his room at night when a hand gently touches his shoulder. He awakens drowsily to see his mother dressed in a cloak.

Young Zuko: … Mom? Ursa: Zuko, please, my love, listen to me. Everything I've done, I've done to protect you. She pulls the barely conscious Zuko into a hug. Ursa: Remember this, Zuko. No matter how things may seem to change, never forget who you are.

and this scene:

Gow: Who ... who are you? Zuko:My name is Zuko. Son of Ursa and Fire Lord Ozai. Prince of the Fire Nation, and heir to the throne. Old man: Liar! I heard of you! You're not a prince, you're an outcast! His own father burned and disowned him!

Zuko took Ursa's advice to never give up and never forget who he was to heart, and as a result even though he's been burned, banished, and declared a traitor, even though he objectively has no real chance of getting his status and Ozai's favor back at this point, Zuko is still trying to do that and refuses to let go of his long-lost position in the Fire Nation as crown prince. The smart thing to do would be to give up and move on, but Zuko refuses to do that.

We can also turn to what Zuko says to Aang in "The Siege of the North, II":

Zuko: I finally have you, but I can't get you home because of this blizzard. [Stands up and looks outside the cave.] There's always something. Not that you would understand. You're like my sister. Everything always came easy to her. She's a firebending prodigy, and everyone adores her. My father says she was born lucky. He says I was lucky to be born. I don't need luck, though. I don't want it. I've always had to struggle and fight and that's made me strong. It's made me who I am.

All of this brings me back to my main point. Ozai might have been the one who burned and banished Zuko, who abused him and declared him a traitor, who demanded that Zuko capture the Avatar, but Ursa is the one who taught Zuko the persistence that made him chase after legends for three years, that made him take reckless risk after reckless risk, that made him continue chasing the Avatar even after Ozai was having him hunted as a traitor across the Earth Kingdom.

The biggest problem in Zuko's life is that he refuses to let go of his dream of regaining Ozai's favor, that he refuses to accept that Ozai doesn't love and move on and find something better to center his life around, and from what we see Ursa played a huge role in this, because she taught Zuko to never give up trying fulfilling the expectations of Ozai and the court, no matter how many times he failed. Ursa wasn't intending ill, but her parenting had a huge negative effect on Zuko's life.

[aurkitnarulaoge]

But it shouldn't be like that.

Love shouldn't be a curse. It should be a garland— it was made to be adorned.

[gumnut-logic]

Cassandra

You asked for a sequel, you got one.

This is ship. Oh so much ship in such a small handful of words. If you don't like m/f romance, this isn't your fic. If you do, then good luck, because there are only 700-odd words and I might have sprained a writing muscle cos these words are...well, I'll let you form your own opinion.

Virgil Tracy/Cass McCready

I hope you enjoy.

-o-o-o-

Soft lips on his forehead.

Fingers brushing gently through his hair.

A whisper. “Thank god for you, Tracy.”

Virgil pushed his heavy eyelids open and the white fuzz of the world bit into his retinas.

The fingers paused in his hair. Fingertips touched his cheek. “Tracy? You with me?”

His throat clogged with barbed tumbleweeds, but he managed to blink his eyes and force them to focus.

Cassandra.

She smiled at him and it lit up her eyes. “Hey.”

He loved her smile.

Her fingers brushed through his hair again as his brain finally booted and updated him on the fact he was in hospital.

And Jeremy had fallen through a window.

“Jer-“ The tumbleweeds clawed at his windpipe and he coughed, shaking what was apparently a body in pain underneath whatever he was high on.

She cupped his cheek. “Jeremy is fine. Thanks to you.”

“But-“

Another smile. “Scott did warn me.” She straightened and walked around the edge of the bed and disappeared beyond a blue curtain.

Scott? What?

The soft hiss of hoverjets and both Jeremy and Russell hurried into the room. “Virgil!”

Jeremy may not have had Gordon’s blond curls, but the five-year-old had more in common with his fish brother than Virgil did. The little rapscallion darted over and for a moment Virgil thought he was going to leap onto the bed.

“Gentle now, Jer, Virgil is injured.”

For a moment that energy in his eyes dulled. “He’s going to get better, though, isn’t he? Not like Russell?”

Cassandra stepped up between her two sons, a hand dropping to each shoulder, squeezing Jeremy’s. “Virgil will get better.” She leant over and kissed Russell’s tight curls. “And your brother is getting better at walking. He just needed the ‘chair today.”

Virgil blinked again, cursing the fog in his head.

The eight-year-old looked up at his mother. “It’s fine, Mum.”

Virgil swallowed. Russell was the eldest of the two boys, but he had suffered an injury in the fire that had taken the children’s father several years ago. Russell reminded him of John. All the smarts and the determination. Not so much for space, though. Russell wanted to build things.

“Thank you for saving me, Virgil.” Jeremy’s wide, dark eyes stared up at him from beside the bed.

He looked so much like his mother.

Virgil hacked through the bramble in his throat. “Y-You’re welcome.”

Little fingers intertwined with his.

Cassandra was smiling at him again.

“Okay, boys, go back to Gordon. I need to speak with Virgil.”

He loved it when she said his first name.

“Yes! Thunderbird Four rooooooocks!” Triumphant arm in the air, Jeremy dashed off, obviously none the worse for falling off a skyscraper.

Russell rolled his eyes and turned to follow his little brother. Hoverjets hissed out of the room.

Virgil found himself grinning.

“You know, I have my suspicions that you only asked me out because of my kids.”

His eyes widened and her smile became a laugh.

She leant in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry. I got a great deal.”

“Cass-!”

But then she was kissing him ever so softly and the fog became a pleasant haze.

He could have just existed there forever.

“Thank you for saving my son.”

He stared up into her dark, dark eyes. “Thank you.”

She smiled at him as if seeing something he was completely unaware of and loving it.

Loving…

“I need to let your brothers in before they break down the door.” She straightened up, still smiling softly.

A slow blink and she turned, disappearing beyond the curtain again.

“Cass…”

A clatter at the door and Alan burst in, almost as exuberant as Jeremy. John followed quietly with Grandma and Dad, questions about his health firing from all directions.

Virgil took the gentle hugs and the queries, but he was distracted by Cassandra stopping to speak to Scott at the door a moment before leaving.

He couldn’t see her face, but he could see his brother’s. Blue eyes flashed and he touched her shoulder briefly as she followed her boys out the door.

Virgil had all the questions, but as Scott turned towards him, his big brother only smiled.

Ever so proud.

-o-o-o-

[rotyolk]

нoiнoiнoiнoi-san

[dreadwinder]

❧ post-endwalker, pre-dawntrail

"He never told me anything about this,"

Ashen snarled, stabbing a knife through the parchments and into the wooden table. He stood up. His tail flicking angrily, he began to pace back and forth. Detailed on the parchments, signed only as "an old crewmate of your father's", was a long letter, telling about a supposed pirate captain's life that his father led many years ago. Several sheets of summed-up stories of The Legendary Pirate Lord Rafael Stark, explaining details of the "Art of the Viper", a handful of sketches of a pair of blades, and a rough nautical chart showing paths to Tural...

"Wait...Tural? He was from TURAL??"

The distressed miqo'te stumbled back to the table, nearly barreling his chair over as he plucked up the knife. He turned, snatching the parchment up, and returning to pacing while poring over the crude handwriting.

"Come to Tural" "I will explain everything there"

Ashen read and re-read the last couple of lines twice, thrice, four times, before letting out a heavy sigh and slumping down on his chair, head in his hands.

"The Legendary Pirate Lord Rafael Stark, huh...?

And you never told me, bastard..."

⚓︎

[feddy-34]

come get up, my baby

lewis hamilton/max verstappen | 2.2k words | completed | rated G

fluff, ice skating, established relationship

“C’mon, Max, I can’t,” Lewis says with a small laugh, glancing nervously at the ice. There is a small child doing some complicated sequence of jumps in the middle and it is making Lewis feel somewhat incompetent. “You can climb mountains and jump out of planes and this is where you draw the line? Ice skating?” Max asks incredulously.

surprise! it's an f1 fic! the 4433 brain rot is so severe i fear it may actually be terminal so more of these clowns is coming

link in the title above, go check it out!

[randomminty]

blease gib johto e4 hcs and dynamics chart its the only thing I have I love em sm I need sparks to put immmmm fanficc bc the situation is so dire. (nothing exists in this fandom for my interests, this is one of the only bigger things that get. some attention.)

Absolutely here you go please enjoy. This is insanely self indulgent

[gelatinous-globster]

Do you think Globby's ever fallen asleep on Felony Carl's shoulder? I do.

Short fic for this scene under the read-more!

The cushions shift as Felony Carl sits down next to him and easily wraps an arm over Globby's shoulder, as was their routine. Globby leans against him without thinking, and it feels like the most familiar thing in the world. Felony Carl's solid form next to him makes things much easier to manage. 

"Wanna see what's on T.V.?" Carl holds the remote in his other hand, looking at Globby. 

"Yeah." Globby answers simply. Wow, he was worn out. 

Felony Carl wordlessly flicks through channels with the T.V. volume turned down low. They settle on some documentary, light from the T.V. screen casting the room in a subdued blue. 

Globby's not really watching whatever is on the T.V., and if he was paying attention, he would notice that Carl wasn't, either. Globby isn't thinking much of anything. He just… feels comfortable. Drowsy. Safe. 

His head droops onto Carl's chest—normally he was taller than Carl, but he's oozing down the couch somewhat, so his head is at Carl's chest level. 

It's interesting how he can feel Carl's heartbeat, in this position. Steady thrumming. Combined with the hushed T.V., it's almost like a lullaby. 

Globby is just aware enough to register Carl's cat jumping up onto the couch next to them and curling into a ball. He's been trying to befriend that cat for so long, and this small victory pleases him. A small smile crosses his face, different from the one he was wearing at the diner. 

"This is nice," He says. 

Globby's voice is soft, a slight bit raspy. His eyes are half-lidded. The blue glow of the T.V. reflects off of his face and Carl traces with his eyes where it cups Globby's cheek. 

"It is." Felony Carl considers saying more but is interrupted by light snores. His eyes soften. He lingers on Globby, who is fast asleep already. 

Letting out an endeared sigh, he turns his head back towards the T.V., careful not to jostle Globby.

He can feel his own eyelids getting heavy, so he resigns to keep the T.V. on as background noise.

He likes how the light makes Globby look, too. 

…They can deal with things tomorrow.

[thedailydescent]

I really don't buy the opinion that Louis hated becoming the "dom" + businessman in Paris. You can tell in that scene from 2x06 when he brings in the art piece to Armand's office he's entranced just talking about it and its potential. You all took Lestat's "All these roles you conform to and none of them your true nature" to mean he hates working/making money/providing for others in any capacity and just wants to be a submissive housewife (although we can see in Season 1 that the only thing keeping him happy in that role was Claudia- once she was gone or when Lestat became abusive towards her he hated it). Don't many housewives hate being housewives? Do businessmen always like the work? Louis likes being cared for and seen but he also likes having autonomy and projects to work on- money made by selling artwork fulfills that need. And Armand's supposed acceptance and submission in that 2x06 scene contrasts with Lestat's attitude towards Louis's work in New Orleans ("I have all the money we need" "This is Louis's hobby, not mine"), so that also plays into it. If Louis's making the money and taking charge in the bedroom, he can at least have the illusion of control.

Louis still doesn't know who he is at this point so saying he only likes being in certain roles (he's either a "violent pimp" or a passive wallflower who only likes to bottom, neither of which are true and the former being a really racist statement) contradicts his overall arc in Season 2. And the sad part is he still hasn't found it by the end of the season because he's found himself stuck with another abusive partner with his last tethers to humanity cut off. But saying he was forced into trying these new things out in Paris or has always despised playing the "Maitre" role throughout the duration of their relationship (for reasons other than when Armand tries to take back control while he's performing it, which is why it doesn't work in the first place), is a stretch in my opinion. The only conclusive thing we can make about Louis's preferences is that he hates when things grow stagnant. He can't play one role for too long, otherwise it gets boring.