#working on another fic today!!

[maulfucker]

245 words!

A bastardized stir fry of every available ingredient was good enough, and hard to mess up.

224 words!

Despite distracting himself with spices and memories, he still managed to not burn the food.

[send me minutes]

[sthilarions]

Okay now for the angstier side of early-days-Edwin not knowing how much things are supposed to hurt normal ghosts

Early-Charles hides pain as much as he can, habitually. It’s a lot of stuff tied all in at once; needing to hide his wince when someone puts a friendly hand on his shoulder and it’s right over a bruise from his dad, trying to make his mum worry less, not wanting to look like a wuss in front of the lads, and - Edwin is totally fine so clearly Charles is weak and over-reacting, right? And he doesn’t want to let Edwin know how much of a wuss he is.

And Edwin doesn’t know how much it’s supposed to hurt in the first place. And he hasn’t yet learned to identify when a sensation he feels should be pain (maybe still hasn’t fully even in 2024 - he seems to be surprised when his iron burns are pointed out).

So he has no idea when things are a danger to Charles.

He casually hands a cursed jewel over his shoulder to Charles with a warning that it tingles a bit, so don’t be startled and drop it. He only realizes a few hours later, when their client touches it and screams, that Charles was suppressing his response to the jewel with every drop of restraint he’s got.

He’s reading while picking something up without even looking, and hands it to Charles, who’s equally distracted - and who yells and drops it. He looks up from the book in shock to see both his own hand and Charles’s smoking and Charles looking sheepish. “Pretty sure that’s iron, mate.”

He doesn’t realize for a full year that cat scratches are supposed to be painful to ghosts, a year in which Charles has gotten scratched dozens of times, without complaint, scratches which Edwin could have avoided or cared for if he’d just known.

Eventually Charles gets very strict instructions to stop hiding pain, combined with gratitude for showing it (this works for physical pain, more or less, but he doesn’t apply the same principle to emotional pain) and Edwin works on regaining at least a bit of connection to his own body, a bit of awareness of the sensations it is experiencing, not because he wants to feel things, but because he can never unknowingly hurt Charles again.

[pearynice]

Eddie doesn’t like spending time away from Steve. 

He’s fine during the day. He can do his job and chat with his coworkers and do what he needs to do without thinking too much on it, but there is nothing in the world that he looks forward to more than being able to come home every evening to the love of his life. Nothing more gratifying than being the person that makes Steve smile when he walks through their front door. No better feeling than Steve welcoming him home.

So call it unhealthy, call him whipped or codependent or whatever else, but Eddie doesn’t like spending extended time away from his boyfriend. Maybe it was the more-than-one near death experience, the nights they spent in hospital waiting rooms, not allowed to be at each other’s bedside, but being away from Steve, especially at night, makes him anxious. Makes his heart rate pick up and his palms sweat, makes him ruminate on whether or not Steve is okay.

So Eddie hasn’t exactly been sleeping. Or eating all that well. Not for the past three days, at least. Because Steve is at a teacher’s conference in Chicago for the week, only leaving under Eddie’s profuse and continued promises that he’d be fine. That Eddie can survive a week without him. 

Which he can. It just doesn’t mean it’s exactly pleasant. Especially today. Because Eddie has the day off, and there’s not much to distract him from the gaping, Steve-sized hole in it. 

He starts by doing the laundry. Washes their sheets. Washes every throw blankets and every towel, moves onto the kitchen while the washer rumbles and does all the dishes. He goes on the truly spiritual experience of cleaning their dishwasher. Which, why must things that do the cleaning need to be cleaned? He scrubs the grime from the shower and wipes the spit from the sink, vacuums the rugs and wipes down the windows, organizes their pantry and cleans out the fridge. 

By the time he’s done his fingers ache. His back smarts from where he spent too long hunched over their tub, and still he misses Steve. 

Who is coming back tomorrow. Late in the evening, sure, but realistically Eddie only needs to survive another 30 hours. 

Which is far too long. 

He considers baking something. Like those those blueberry muffins Steve likes so much, but Eddie just knows by the end he’d have shitty muffins and a dirty kitchen.

So he tries to read. Tries to play guitar and write some songs, tries watching TV and listening to music, even tries going on a walk to pick up some dinner he knows he won’t eat, finally taking Steve’s advice on fresh air to heart. But as the clock ticks on, the itch under his skin only gets worse.

Not even their nightly phone call helps. 

He can tell Steve knows something’s up, keeps reminding him he’ll be back tomorrow, that it’s just one more night, because despite Eddie’s best attempt at deflection Steve knows him far too well.

“Tomorrow.” Steve reminds him, again, at the end of their call.

“Tomorrow.” Eddie repeats. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too, baby.”

Eddie misses his boyfriend. 

He tries to sleep. Can’t, of course. He tosses and turns in his bed and then tosses and turns on the couch with the TV humming staticky with whatever late-night garbage he has it on. 

And he just—has to do something. Keep occupied until the sun comes up and he can go to work and lose himself in whatever car some idiot brought in because he didn’t change the oil. Keep his hands busy enough to keep his mind busy, too.

He sits bolt upright. Remembers, suddenly, the bleach and hair dye he’s almost positive Robin left here. 

It doesn’t take him long to find. He’d organized them, without even realizing, nestled them between all of Steve’s bottles and jars and potions. 

Never one for instructions, Eddie remembers Steve mixing the bleach with something else before he smeared it over Robin’s hair. 

It was white. He remembers that much. Thick and gloopy. Like… conditioner?

He mixes the two together in an old Tupperware with a toothbrush, the smell sort of making his eyes water. 

He can’t see much of the back of his head, but he’s just getting the ends, anyways. 

Eventually the toothbrush becomes cumbersome, and he massages the last of it in with his fingers. 

He’s pretty glad that part goes quick because after a minute he can feel his cuticles begin to burn. 

He remembers Steve wrapping Robin’s hair in a plastic bag, and he finds one, eventually, has to fish out a crumpled receipt but sticks that over his head. And waits.

He forgot about the waiting part. That he’d have to sit here while the bleach did its thing and then again when he puts on the red. 

He sits on the toilet with the lid down, picking at his firey cuticles. The clock in the hallway reads nearly 5 a.m., which means Eddie has at least four more hours to kill. 

He goes through their drawers again, wondering if Steve maybe has a different color hiding around. He thinks green would be cool. Maybe pink.

But Eddie doesn’t find another color. He finds, instead, his sewing kit. And he thinks of all the goofy tattoos his has. The goofy tattoos he gave himself. His dice. His Tree of Gondor. His triceratops. And, really, how it’s a shame he hasn’t gotten one for Steve. 

He knows what he’s doing and where before he even has all the supplies, snapping a ballpoint into a small dish and sterilizing the needle with his lighter. He shaves his inner thigh and washes out the bleach from his hair, which is a little underwhelming, honestly, having done little to lighten his dark locks. 

He puts the red in regardless, puts his plastic bag hat back on and gets to work on his thigh. 

And that’s how Jeff finds him. Appearing, in Eddie’s bathroom doorway, two coffee cups in hand. He takes in the plastic bag, smeared with red, on his head, Eddie’s bald and inky leg.

Eddie has no idea what time it is.

He looks down at himself. “I think Steve is… 86% of my impulse control.” 

Jeff doesn’t say anything. Just rests the coffees on the sink and crouches to look at Eddie’s fresh ink. 

“Is that… hairspray?”

“Three puffs!” Eddie answers, a little deliriously, and dips the needle back into the ink to start the third said puff. “How’d you get in here?” He asks, not taking his eyes off the needle. 

“How do you always forget you gave me a key?” Jeff snorts, and then, a little softer, adds, “Steve asked me to swing by before your shift today, you know. Bring you some food.”

Eddie’s gaze flicks to the coffee as he dips his needle in again. “I only see caffeine, here, Williams.”

Jeff’s quiet for a moment before, “how about you finish that up, wash that dye from your hair, and then I’ll give you the food?” Jeff’s voice is still all gentle and obnoxious, and Eddie resists the urge of poking him with the needle.

But Eddie’s almost done with the last puff, anyways, and… breakfast does sound nice. 

“‘M almost done.” He mumbles. 

Jeff sits on the bathroom floor, sipping his coffee and watching Eddie finishes. Then he helps him untangle the plastic bag from his hair. Then makes sure whatever soap they have is unscented, makes sure whatever Eddie’s about to slather all over his thigh won’t turn it septic. 

Damn paramedics. 

In the shower, though, Eddie’s exhaustion starts to creep up on him. Four days with little sleep makes his eyelids droop in the warmth. Makes his shoulders sag as he washes the dye out of his hair. Makes his limbs heavy as he cleans his new tattoo, which, looks pretty damn good, if he does say so himself.

A can of hairspray. Three puffs. 

Eddie towels off, only a little disappointed that the dye didn’t do much. He can see it, a little, but only if the light hits it just right.

Jeff’s waiting for him with a greasy breakfast sandwich and coffee, and Eddie bites into it before he’s even seated, moaning at the taste. 

“Jesus.” Jeff mutters, “let’s wait until Steve gets back for that, okay?”

Eddie doesn’t have the energy to bite back, just takes another bite before he swallows the first. “Fank ‘oo,” Eddie grunts, word garbled around egg and sausage and cheese. He swallows. Looks down at his hands. “For.” The skin of his inner thigh is pink. “Everything.” He takes another bite. 

Jeff smiles. “And miss whatever disaster just happened in your bathroom? Not a chance, Munson.” He puts down his coffee cup. “I did call you in sick from work today, though. Just so you know.”

Eddie drops his sandwich. “Jeff!” Egg flies across the table. “What the fuck!”

Jeff raises his eyebrows and dusts Eddie’s food from his shirt. “You can barely keep your eyes open. I’m protecting you from dropping a car on yourself during a tire rotation.”

Eddie swallows, hands already twitching, “dude. I’m gonna go insane here by myself.”

Jeff raises his other eyebrow.

“More insane.” Eddie corrects. His leg starts to bounce.

“Good thing I’m gonna be keeping you company, then.” Jeff leans back in his chair, picking up his coffee and tilting the styrofoam at Eddie. “Movie marathon?”

Between he and Steve they only have about three decent movies, but Eddie finishes his sandwich on the couch as Jeff fiddles with the VCR. 

The movie begins, and that wave of exhaustion returns. Floods him. It’s hard to keep his eyes open. He leans into Jeff’s side. Who isn’t Steve, but who smells nice. Like linen.

Jeff rests his cheek on Eddie’s head. “Sleep, man.” He mumbles.

So Eddie does.

He doesn’t know how long he was asleep. But he wakes to a hand in his hair. To fingers massaging his scalp, and he knows before he even asks. “‘Teve?”

“Hi, baby.” Steve whispers, his hand stills, and he pulls Eddie closer. 

Steve feels so good. Warm and strong and here and here. 

Eddie opens his eyes only to bury himself in Steve’s chest, his boyfriend falling back onto the couch to accommodate, his arms winding around Eddie’s middle. 

“I missed you.” Eddie murmurs, and breathes Steve in, presses his nose into his sweatshirt and curls closer, fists his hands into Steve’s clothes and holds on tight.

“I missed you, too.” Steve sighs. He sounds tired. “Let’s… not do that again.”

Eddie shakes his head. “Never again.” He agrees. 

Steve shifts, opens his legs so Eddie falls between them. “I played hooky on the all-hands luncheon today.” Steve admits, quiet. “Didn’t feel like sitting around with them all day when I could be here with you.” Steve’s hand returns to his hair, twirling the strands between his fingers. “Did you… dye your hair?”

“N’ got a tattoo.” Eddie hums.

Steve giggles, and kisses the top of Eddie’s head. “I like it.” Steve’s fingers dance across his scalp, and Eddie never wants to go another night without this. 

“I like you.” Eddie volleys back, and he feels Steve laugh, feels it rumble through his chest because Steve is here and he’s laughing and then there’s another kiss placed on Eddie’s head before Steve murmurs, “I like you too, baby.”

My permanent tag list 💗: @hotluncheddie @hitlikehammers @hbyrde36 @littlewildflowerkitten @chaotic-waffle

@westifer-dead @perseus-notjackson @finntheehumaneater @theheadlessphilosopher @spectrum-spectre

@itsall-taken @marvel-ous-m @bookworm0690 @acasualcrossfade

(Sorry taglist that you’re getting tagged late I’m still getting used to tumblrs new STUPID TAGGING SYSTEM)

[myokk]

She chances a glance at Sebastian before getting out her copy of Divining the Undivinable from her bag and wishes she hadn’t. He looks uncomfortably big sitting on the tiny tea chair across from her, barely any hints of the boy who had completely swept her away two years ago visible on the sharper planes of his face. When had he - had they - grown up?

Sebastian Sallow was - is - charming, and that had been her downfall. She had successfully avoided his charms the year before, and she isn’t going to let that happen this year, no matter how much her body rebels against her mind and resolve. Because, as she reminds herself, Sebastian Sallow is also manipulative, and cold-hearted, and selfish.

“Well,” she says archly, opening her book. She will not look at him. “I suppose I am still quite ignorant of the practice of Divination, so do forgive me if I have to double-check my readings in the textbook.”

He says her name as she opens the book, and she ignores him. He says her name again. She continues to ignore him. He grabs the book from her hands and puts it the correct way for her. She was looking at it upside-down. Her cheeks heat up and she continues flipping through the pages, as if nothing has happened. She finds page two-hundred and thirty. She pretends to be interested in what she sees.

(Divination is unfortunately not interesting.)

Oh, fine.

“Do you want to start, or should I?”

These are the first words she has voluntarily spoken to him - not including the events of last week, which do not count as they were most decidedly not voluntary - since he called her ignorant a year and a half ago. He somehow looks surprised to see that she has addressed him, and for some reason this fills her with rage and a strange sort of confidence. Why shouldn’t she be able to talk to him?

“Here,” she says, putting her hand out towards him, palm up, ignoring the strange fluttering feeling in her chest when he gently grabs it with one of his. Sebastian looks up at her, waiting for her to continue speaking, and were she not looking at him so intently she would have easily missed the bob of his throat as he swallows nervously. “Show me how it’s done.”

from my oneshot, clumsy🫶🫶🫶

[piningpercussionist]

Weed smoking girlfriends! But they can just be hanging out if you prefer ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Happy 4/20!

[amogus-real-not-clickbait]

part 1 of a little comic / art sequence that i've been working on! :D it's part tribute, part experimenting with brushes n colors and trying new thingz :]

| 1 | 2 | 3 | ... |

and thus continues my endless quest of spreading the carrot fics like a plague! if you've seen my art floating around you probs already figured that this au holds a very special place in my heart, forever and always!!

if you haven't heard of it, it's a fic series by @crowned-ladybug called carrot soup!! it made me wish i could speak colors and i need more people to share my struggle xd

go check it out if you're into sweet voice lore and qpr level gayness and just wanna feel warm and soft and warm (hurt/comfort my beloved) <333 there are some heavier themes cos everyone's traumatized but they're working through it! be sure to check the tags and stay safe! <3

[yunisketch]

I er, may have taken one of my fav books to bookbind a few of my favorite fanfics into a lil collection (all by THE Transformers writer of all time @doomspoon888 ).

It was a gift to my friend @not-a-mang0 ^w^

I kept the sleeve to easily disguise the book on a shelf (Well, it’s book #7 of a series by itself but shhh)

[whenthelightisrunninglow]

remembered @hehe-hoho-ohno's misfits au it's sooooo good and i love it. CHEERS AND APPLAUSE. YAY

[iggyshippingcorner]

1: alpha/alpha stobotnik (pre-canon) (word count: 1600)

[ here is my drabble for the poll from the other day! features: alpha stone, alpha robotnik, the death of an unnamed assassin (not super graphic), and robotnik's lack of care for stone's personal space. ]

When Agent Stone was assigned to Dr. Robotnik, he’d already heard enough rumours and hearsay to build a comprehensive dossier. Impossible to work with. Workplace hazard. Dangerous, a bully, a lunatic, aggressive. Uncontrolled. Several of his fellow agents, of multiple designations, had told him in confidence, huddled in the breakroom, that Dr. Ivo Robotnik was the most impossible alpha they’d ever had the misfortune of working with. An actual mad scientist. I mean, he’s brilliant, but he’s a right asshole. I heard Holly retired right after working with him. They actually let her leave, set her up somewhere in Mexico. And she only made it a week!

Stone had absorbed as much of the gossip as he could, compiling it all in a neat folder in his mind. He used to pride himself on his network of “friends” in GUN, people who were eager to share workplace drama with him because they didn’t see him as a threat. He’d never felt the need to posture or preen like the other alpha agents-- always found it far more useful to allow others to underestimate him, get comfortable with his neutral scent and his calm demeanour. Plus, if he’d been an arrogant, bull-headed alpha, he never would’ve been selected for Dr. Robotnik’s security detail. 

The official facts, passed down to him from on high, are as follows:

Dr. Ivo Robotnik is a genius inventor, and one of GUN’s most prized assets, despite the fact that his contract with the organisation is about as sturdy as sand. His allegiance could be swayed with a strong enough tide, and GUN knew it. 

GUN wants any possible crumbs of proof that Dr. Robotnik is working with foreign agencies or diplomats or anything suspicious, so that they can force him to take a more permanent contract. 

Dr. Robotnik is a paranoid, highly territorial alpha who rules his den lab with an iron fist. His security detail has the highest turnover rate GUN’s ever had the misfortune of paying for. In the nine months Dr. Robotnik has been contracted to work with GUN, he’s gone through sixty-three agents from varying levels. 

The longest lasting bodyguard assigned to him was another Special Agent with a lengthy military career and a knack for quiet violence. A beta, the file reports. GUN thinks he will fare even better-- counting on his status as an alpha to not be run off by Dr. Robotnik’s posturing. 

( They want him to approach the doctor with a firm hand and a calming alpha smile. He’s done it before, technically, played at subterfuge and designation politics in the name of the US government. He could certainly do it again, but he knows without stepping a foot in Dr. Robotnik’s lab that it would certainly fail. )

Stone’s first few days on-site are some of the most fun he’s had since he was snapped up by GUN recruiters. The doctor is easily the most fascinating person Stone has ever met. His lab is sleek and impossibly modern, filled with technology that begs to be admired and praised. Every surface has been meticulously scent-marked, to the point that Stone suspects the doctor of using a synthesised pheromone. Maybe the drones come through and mist the place after hours. There is a very strict “no touching” policy on most worktables, equipment, and the doctor himself. Stone commits every rule to memory as he familiarises himself with the lab and his circuit through and around it. 

Dr. Robotnik pays little attention to him, seemingly, while he does his rounds. Stone catches glimpses of him working on a gutted chassis in the centre of the work floor when he passes through the main lab, back always turned, head lowered over the metal carcass suspended on the rig. Sometimes he’s welding, huge goggles pulled down over his face. But Stone feels eyes on him everywhere in the lab. If it’s not Dr. Robotnik’s heavy, critical gaze on his back, it’s the curious, back-lit eyes of his many drones as they drift through the lab on their own missions. More than once, Stone has found a drone hovering just beyond his shoulder as he patrols the grounds outside the lab, a silent proctor as he scans the treeline and keeps himself a moving target. 

Beyond the initial hazing attempt-- the doctor crowding him against the door and purposefully, aggressively scenting him before withdrawing and beginning to recite the lab rules at his slowly blinking visage-- Dr. Robotnik hasn’t spoken more than ten words to him by the end of the first work week. He gets the occasional comment as their paths cross but nothing beyond brief acknowledgment and dismissal. But that’s better than being thrown out on his ass, so Stone doesn’t falter. He continues patrolling, continues keeping his scent as bottled up as he can, continues his attempt at becoming a nearly invisible presence on the outskirts of the doctor’s senses.

The start of his second week is marked by a haphazard assassination attempt (!) that Stone takes joy in putting a bloody stop to. It’s a rare moment where he’s unaccompanied by one of the doctor’s drones, something he’ll later wonder if it was intentional, and the assassin is attempting to scale the shadowed back wall of the lab. Must’ve snuck in past the treeline. Stone watches impassively for a few seconds as the man clambers up onto the awning and begins trying one of the windows of the second floor. His gun is sitting comfortable and accessible at his hip, but he hasn’t had a good fight in too long, and a long-dormant protective urge is just beginning to stir inside his ribcage. He takes another look around. No drones. No view from the driveway. Just a camera up where the third story wall meets the overhang of the roof. 

The would-be assassin doesn’t even realise he has company until Stone levers himself up onto the awning enough to circle a hand around his ankle and yank. He goes down with a choked yell, and Stone drops down to the ground below as the assassin topples over the side of the ledge. He hits the ground with a satisfying thud, and Stone takes pleasure in planting his foot on the cretin’s wrist, pinning it. He crouches to divest the assassin of the gun at his hip, dropping more of his weight on the fragile bones beneath him. Idiot’s still dazed by the fall and the surprise. Stone waits until comprehension finally dawns on him before flicking the safety off of his requisitioned gun and pressing the muzzle against the soft give of the man’s carotid artery. 

“If you scream,” Stone drawls, letting go of his genial, polite mask in order to stare down at the rapidly widening eyes of the man beneath him, “I will blow your brains out.”

The man’s face twists in defiant anger, and his scent flares pungent and offensive. Stone wrinkles his nose even as the man snarls and makes a grab for the gun, which, really? It’s like no one trains assassins anymore. Stone squeezes the trigger as one hand fists around his tie, and the sound of the shot is louder than he would prefer for the relative silence surrounding the lab. He idly hopes the doctor soundproofed his main work room, and isn’t disturbed by the gunfire. Maybe Stone can get this all cleaned up and have his report together by the time Dr. Robotnik bothers to come looking. 

He stands up, flips the safety back on. Deep breath, smelling blood and smoke and fire. Stone shakes himself slightly, letting the mask slide back over him as he leaves the body sprawled in the dirt in order to slip into the lab to search for cleaning supplies. 

He’s just located the first floor maintenance closet when Dr. Robotnik’s voice comes from behind him. Stone turns and stands at attention, nose twitching slightly as the slightly acrid scent of motor oil and myrrh washes over him.

“You were in the Marines.”

It’s not a question, but the doctor doesn’t follow it up with anything else, so Stone inclines his head and replies, “Yes, doctor.” 

There’s the faintest suggestion of a smirk on the doctor’s face. He draws closer and closer to Stone, who tilts his chin up and bares his throat in the most open display of submission he can manage, with the rapidly dwindling space between them. “Did they teach you that in the Marines?” 

Stone blinks slowly, offers that polite, closed mouth smile he’s honed over the years, both curious and reserved. “Sorry?” 

Dr. Robotnik scowls. “Don’t play cute, agent. Are you going to clean up your mess?”

Stone nods, and very bravely stands his ground when the doctor reaches out to straighten his tie, which was still slightly rumpled from being so rudely grabbed. His hands are warm, even through all the layers separating them. Stone takes careful, measured breaths, letting the doctor’s scent fill his senses as he tucks the tie back into place. Instead of taking his hands back when he’s done, Dr. Robotnik jabs a finger against his chest, hard enough to press Stone backwards into the doorframe. “Good. I don’t need GUN thinking I need more of you wretched government dogs sniffing around. One of you is enough.”

And then he turns and disappears down the hall, leaving Stone off-kilter and slightly breathless in his wake. If Stone ducks his head to sniff at his adjusted tie, catching another whiff of the doctor’s usually close-kept scent, well. There’s no one else around to judge him.

[meowrimo]

happy timezone my friendz 🌟 ⸜(ˆᗜˆ˵ )⸝ 🌟 !!! i’m here with my lil star shaped pom poms to cheer you on for the day ahead ! i hope you’ve all been keeping well !! please remember to hydrate + unclench your jaws mweheh :3 i missed you guys sm sniffle but i am now back in my active era and ready to annoy the masses >:3 !! LOVE YA ! ♥︎

[23fallencomets]

i don’t think you guys understand how much it pains me now that seb and lewis are bad pack leaders like i didn’t even have a solid plot line when i started love me gently but i was like “it would make sense for lewis to lose track of logan since one, logan stuck to like three people irl and two, knowing lewis’s status and using that almost against him”

and i adore sewis, they’re one of my favorite duos 😭😭

they’ll probably get their redemption if that’s how the plot goes but if it doesn’t, trust that i have omegaverse fics in my drafts

[cod-thoughts]

There is a road that leads to home

Word count: 48.9k (yup o_o)

Relationships: GhostPrice, PriceGhost

Tags: PricGhostweek2024, Soulmate AU, Soulmate marks, getting together, second chances, hurt/comfort, fluff, they love each other, teeny tiny bit of suggestive themes but more cause Ghost is flirty as fuck.

Day 7 of GhostPrice week: "fate" and the title is from "A story never told" - Opeth

Everyone knew about soulmates. They were as much a part of life as birthdays or growing pains—inevitable, unavoidable, something you didn’t have to think about until the moment it happened to you. It was a rite of passage, or at least that was how the adults had described it. Like an appointment you couldn’t skip or a birthday you couldn’t miss, even if you weren’t ready for it. Sometime between the ages of ten and twelve, they’d said, your mark would appear. A short phrase, written on your skin, that would be the first words your soulmate ever said to you. OR A GhostPrice soulmate AU Read the first chapter under the cut and the rest can be found on AO3

Soulmates were the kind of thing Simon Riley had learned to think of as other people’s business. They belonged to the couples holding hands in the streets, to the kids at school showing off their marks with a pride he could never quite understand, and to the kind of life he couldn’t quite picture for himself. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in soulmates—not exactly—but the concept felt distant, like a story he’d overheard in passing and never fully grasped.

He sat cross-legged on the floor of his small bedroom, his back pressed against the bedframe. The wooden edge bit into his shoulders, a faint and familiar discomfort. The worn carpet beneath him scratched faintly against his legs, its texture rougher where the threads had frayed with age. His jumper, stretched thin from too many winters and too few replacements, did little to shield him from the creeping chill that seeped through the cracks in the room. He tugged the cuffs down over his hands, the loose, unravelling fabric dangling awkwardly past his fingers as if trying to hide him from the cold.

The streetlamp outside cast a pale, flickering light through the gap in the curtains, slicing the dim room into uneven patches of light and shadow. One beam landed squarely on the carpet in front of him, turning the grey fibres an almost silver hue, while the rest of the room remained cloaked in a soft, unyielding gloom. He traced the edge of the carpet absently, fingers finding the loose threads with a practised kind of familiarity, tugging at them just enough to feel the resistance but never enough to unravel them completely.

Everyone knew about soulmates. They were as much a part of life as birthdays or growing pains—inevitable, unavoidable, something you didn’t have to think about until the moment it happened to you. It was a rite of passage, or at least that was how the adults had described it. Like an appointment you couldn’t skip or a birthday you couldn’t miss, even if you weren’t ready for it. Sometime between the ages of ten and twelve, they’d said, your mark would appear.

A short phrase, written on your skin, that would be the first words your soulmate ever said to you.

The idea had always sounded strange to Simon, the notion that a few words could mean so much. But people believed in it. They cherished their marks, carried them like tiny pieces of destiny etched into their bodies. The location of the mark was supposed to mean something too—a clue about your soulmate, like a treasure map waiting to be deciphered.

Marks on hands or wrists were common, the kind of places people naturally reached for when they met someone important. Others were bolder, etched along collarbones or resting close to the heart, symbols of intimacy and pride. Those with marks in unexpected places, tucked away on ankles, shoulders, or the curve of a rib, often spoke of their soulmates with an air of mystery, as if fate had hidden the words on purpose, just to make their story that much more compelling.

The one thing everyone seemed to agree on, though, was the moment soulmates met. When the words were finally spoken aloud.

It burned.

Not just a tingle, not even a spark, but an all-consuming, undeniable heat that branded itself into your very being. People said it wasn’t something you could miss, no matter how distracted or oblivious you might be. It was unmistakable. The kind of feeling that forced you to stop, to recognise it, to understand. You didn’t have to question it, didn’t have to wonder or doubt. It was how you’d know, beyond anything else, that this was your person.

Simon didn’t know what to think about that. At school, he kept his head down when his classmates whispered about their marks, their voices barely hushed, filled with a mix of awe and envy that rippled through the group. One boy had shown off the small phrase curving neatly over his forearm*—“You dropped this”*—with a grin that didn’t leave his face for days. He’d rolled up his sleeve at every opportunity, basking in the attention like he’d just been handed a trophy. A girl had mumbled something about hers being on her ankle, her voice shy but threaded with pride.

Simon stayed quiet. The air around him felt heavier in those moments, like their excitement might crush him if he lingered too long. He wasn’t sure anyone would ask him what he thought, but if they did, he didn’t have an answer. Soulmates felt like something too big, too distant, and he wasn’t ready to reach for it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

The low hum of the television downstairs filtered through the walls, a muted backdrop to the sharp, cutting sound of his father’s voice. The cadence was familiar—anger that swelled and fell like the tide, unpredictable yet constant. The words were indistinct, but the tone was unmistakable—edged with anger, rising and falling in bursts that made Simon flinch. His fingers pressed harder into the carpet, his heart beating a little faster.

He leaned back against the bedframe, letting his eyes drift to the ceiling. Cracks ran along the plaster like veins, weaving patterns that his mind tried and failed to make sense of. Some of the lines intersected, forming vague shapes—a jagged star, a crooked branch—but none of it seemed to settle into anything real. The cold air brushed against his skin, sharper in the places where his jumper had pulled away.

Then it hit.

A warmth, faint at first, pulsed low on his thigh. It wasn’t the kind of warmth that came and went, like brushing too close to a heater or wrapping your hands around a cup of tea. He froze, the sensation growing stronger—tingling, steady, undeniable. His hands moved instinctively, fingers brushing against the skin just above his knee. It was smooth, unbroken, but… something was there.

He stared as faint lines began to form, like ink bleeding up from beneath the surface. It spread slowly, deliberately, as though the words had been waiting just beneath his skin all along. His breath hitched, a sharp sound in the quiet room, as the words took shape with deliberate precision:

“You’re early.”

Simon’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, his heart thundering as he traced the mark with trembling fingers. The sensation lingered, a faint hum just beneath the surface, like the heat was reluctant to leave. The words were dark, neat, and somehow ordinary against his pale skin. But they weren’t ordinary. Not by a long shot.

Soulmates were supposed to love you, weren’t they? For who you were, not who they wanted you to be. The thought sent a flicker of warmth through his chest, but it faded quickly. He glanced at the door, half-expecting it to burst open. He could already picture his father’s voice cutting through the air, sharp and jagged as broken glass.

The mark was strange—its placement, its meaning. He knew the stories, the way marks appeared where your soulmate was supposed to touch you most often. It didn’t make sense. This wasn’t the curve of a hand reaching for yours or a place someone might rest their head. It wasn’t hidden or intimate, not like some of the others he’d heard about. Just… there.

His fingers hovered over the words. “You’re early.” Early for what? For who?

The door creaked open a fraction, and Simon’s whole body tensed. His mum’s voice filtered through the gap, soft but tentative. “Simon? You alright in there?”

His mouth felt dry, but he managed a reply. “Yeah.”

A pause. Then, “Dinner’s ready, love. Come down when you’re ready.”

Her voice lingered for a moment longer than usual, as though she wanted to say more but couldn’t quite find the words. He didn’t answer right away. His mum’s footsteps retreated, and he waited until the sound faded before letting out a slow, shaky breath.

She tried. He knew that. But trying wasn’t the same as doing, and the guilt of knowing he couldn’t help her—couldn’t fix anything—curled around him like a second skin. It was heavy, that guilt, weighing him down in ways he didn’t fully understand yet.

The mark hadn’t changed. It sat there, unyielding and permanent, as real as the cracks in the ceiling. He ran his fingers over it again, half-expecting the words to vanish, to smudge away like writing on a fogged-up mirror. But they stayed, stubborn and solid. Maybe he didn’t hate the idea of a soulmate. Maybe he just couldn’t imagine someone ever loving him.

For now, it was just a set of words on his thigh, a promise he didn’t know how to keep. He tugged his shorts down to cover it, his fingers brushing the fabric absently as he leaned back once more.

If someone out there was meant for him, maybe they’d find him. Maybe not.

But the thought stayed with him, quiet and warm, as he closed his eyes. It was a small thing, that warmth, but it was enough to cling to for now.

[chibipandaao3]

“Is Babe very sad”

I know a lot of people are giving Charlie hate over this line — and, I get it, we the viewer, have seen how Babe looks and acts towards Charlie, we watched how broken Babe was when Charlie “died.”

But Charlie hasn’t seen that. Charlie, while he has seen how Babe acts towards him — certainly in private, he didn’t see Babe’s reaction. He doesn’t know that Babe treats him vastly different from previous relationships; beyond “lasting longer.” And remember, early on, everyone at the shop joked about “how long” Charlie would last. Not even Alan took the relationship seriously for what we can assume is weeks if not months.

Babe told Charlie that everyone “wants” something from him, and Charlie also acknowledged that he too wanted something from Babe — albeit a guise for Babe’s protection.

So why would Charlie think Babe would mourn him so fiercely?

On top of that, you have the inevitable mental and physical toll Charlie suffered while living at Tony’s — he was worthless, useless, a waste of time and money. He was given up on. Additionally, even if Charlie started to discover his powers while under that roof, him stealing others gifts would have only resulted in those children being treated poorly as well.

Charlie is a literal black hole to those around him — he “takes” and “can’t” give back.

He and Jeff are two sides of the same coin in that sense. Whereas Jeff can’t help but “know,” Charlie can’t help but “take.” Which I think is why they’ve clung together, why they’ve become brothers. Jeff, by virtue of his gift, knows Charlie means well — and Charlie can’t take that knowledge from him.

“Is Babe very sad?”

Does not have an obvious answer to Charlie, because why would Babe be sad? Babe has his senses back - he’s no longer bogged down by Charlie’s existence, his plan, his choices — he’s no longer in danger because of Charlie.

The idea that anyone, other than Jeff, might actually mourn for him has never crossed Charlie’s mind.

Babe was disappointed with him — Charlie waited until Babe won, before crashing his car — he knew it could mean his death. If not the crash, then the drugs — but it didn’t matter because he was finally giving back.

Jeff tells Charlie “I know you’re feeling just as sad” [as Babe] “but this was your plan,”

Charlie knew he’d be upset - knew he’d be sad - knew he’d feel gutted — but he hadn’t thought that Babe might feel the same way.

[aldisobey]

You're a huge part of why I feel like the community around Emmrich is such a comforting place. And I love all your writing dearly. Wanted to just say thank you 💚💚💚

anon your love got me

enjoy fresh art of Rook Worne Thorne made by @socksual-innuendos

And a letter—because Anon—I love you. And I mean that sincerely. I wish you could see my face. Hear my tone. Know that I am curious—what do you love? What might we share? Where do we differ? What makes you laugh? What drew you here? If you’ve read my writing you hold a piece of me. And I thank you for treasuring that. For returning what warmth I might offer. For reaching out with your beautiful voice. Thank YOU. The power of three sentences and three hearts cannot be overstated. I can write off this high three years. what a gift, you humble me 🧡🧡🧡

[cheriecoke]

one thing i find interesting is readers always ask for part 2,3,4 etc for fics they enjoy, but when writers actually decide to write multi part fics no one wants to read them

[marcelineuntitled]

fanart for The Great Miyagi Prefectural Cherry Blossom Viewing by @kings-highway (on ao3)