#fic I’m not writing

[talshiargirlfriend]

I have real proper ✨vibes✨ on the way but Jonathan Archer requested an awkward introduction into the spy-verse and I had to oblige. 😅

For @candiedsumire and @deadheaddaisy my beloved enablers 💕💕💕

Meet the crew

Newly-promoted Captain Jonathan Archer was piloting the test rig. Rumour had it he was top choice to command the Kol-Ut-Shan mission once the sensor and engine upgrades were complete.

Trip recognised him from a few Starfleet training missions they’d completed together and decided to re-introduce himself while T’Pol and Stenn were chatting with Captain Jefferies.

“Good morning, Captain,” Trip said, offering the man his hand. “I’m Commander Charles Tucker of the Technology Integration Team.”

Archer shook his hand. “Captain Jonathan Archer. I’m looking forward to putting your engine through its paces!”

His open grin shifted into a more thoughtful expression. “But I know you from somewhere... It’s Trip, isn’t it? I’ll never forget that survival training in the Australian outback!”

“That’s right, sir! If I never see another desert, it’ll be too soon!”

“Please, call me Jon.”

Trip nodded agreeably.

Jonathan leaned in and dropped his voice conspiratorially, “Is it true there’s a guy on your team living with a Vulcan?”

Trip nodded stiffly.

“I’m pretty open-minded, but wouldn’t that be like fucking a robot?” Jonathan asked, his eyes shining with mirth.

“Well, I’m afraid I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Trip said apologetically. “I’ve never fucked a robot, sir.”

Archer looked horrified and immediately opened his mouth to apologise.

With timing so impeccable Trip might have summoned her from the ether, T’Pol appeared at his elbow.

“Speak of the devil! Captain Archer, I’d like you to meet SubCommander T’Pol. T’Pol, Captain Archer here is our test pilot.”

Jonathan looked a bit queasy as he raised his hand in a Vulcan salute. “Pleased to meet you, SubCommander. I look forward to working with you.”

T’Pol took pity on him and offered a handshake, “Likewise, Captain.”

“I should go and uh, say hello to Captain Jefferies.”

“Of course, Captain,” T’Pol agreed. “Matthew speaks very highly of you.”

Archer smiled awkwardly and made his exit.

Once he’d departed, Trip turned to T’Pol in amusement, “‘Matthew’?”

“Captain Jefferies has repeatedly suggested I refer to him by his given name. It seemed appropriate in the circumstances,” she replied innocently.

Well, Trip reflected, if his heart hadn’t already been at risk, that probably would’ve done it.

[owl-by-night]

📓

Thank you for the ask :)  I’ve run out of fics with extensive notes so here is a two for the price of one ‘ways I’ve tried to mend the ending of JS&MN’. 

The first one involves Merlin trying to stop De Lancey from dying at Waterloo. He creates a spell to try and look for a way to save him but instead creates a spell that shows him team peninsular forwards and backwards in time, fighting in multiple different conflicts but always coming to a point where William either dies or nearly dies attempting to save Merlin’s life. 

Ungentlemanly Warfare fits in here, and so does the WWI fic that I don’t like thinking about because in that universe William and Arthur never discuss their feelings and Arthur never admits it to himself until after William is dead. There were also some scribbled notes about Afghanistan where Merlin is a journalist sent over to report on the war and goes out on patrol. They encounter an IED and William is badly injured protecting him. In that universe modern medicine saves his life. Somehow, what he sees gives Jonathan an idea for a spell to save him, but I got lost on the details of what that would be and it lingers unwritten in my notes. 

The second fic was one I thought of more recently and for obvious reasons - what is Arabella and Jonathan did have a child instead of just talking about it? How does that change the plot? For a start, Arabella isn’t going to get drawn away into faerie on false pretences. If someone comes to the house in the middle of the night she’s saying absolutely not, the baby has just got to sleep, it’s Jonathan’s turn to get up next and whatever it is can be dealt with in the morning. If Emma needs to see her she’ll go, of course, but will be travelling in her own carriage with the baby, Jonathan and a nursemaid in tow. 

And Jonathan? Well he’s going to welcome the chance to be the doting father he never had (probably going to go too far sometimes but Bell will be sensible about it and remind him that the baby is still too young for rocking horses and whatever else Jonathan wants to buy). He’s absolutely going to write that review of Norrell’s book and finish his own studies. Definitely. When the baby has finished teething. Or has learnt to walk and isn’t toddling around holding his hands for hours at a time. Or busy playing with his books and pretending to read them by turning pages. 

He knows it can’t have been Bell out walking in the night. They were both awake for most of it because the infant Strange has colic. 

With him out of the way it leaves Segundus to be the hero I think, or for Emma to save herself. I didn’t work that part out entirely. I just wanted Jonathan Strange to get his chance to prove he could be the sort of father he wanted to be and live the life he planned. 

[frankierotwinkdeath]

Y’all want Taylor Swift to be gay so bad but you won’t even write femslash about her

[everwalldigan]

Bruce: *waking up in a hospital that he drove himself to after having a heart attack and telling absolutely nobody* hey…

The entirety of the batclan looking over him with Dick in the centre, an absolute terrifying grin on his face:

Dick: hello Bruce, nice evening isn’t it? Got something to share with us?

Edit: the fic is now out on ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/57780508

[teaposee]

This will be fun ^^

1 / 2 / 3

[delusionsofgrandeur13]

you’re borrowing your boyfriend!jason todd’s…

hoodie

it’s big, it’s warm, and it smells like your big warm boyfriend. of course you stole it. luckily jason runs hot..or that’s what he tells you at least. the man gets cold too, but he’d never tell you that. not when you look so cozy in his sweatshirt.

sweats

your favorite thing of his to match with his hoodie. his sweatpants are super warm, super soft, and super baggy. meant for ultimate comfort. jason loves it when you go full out sweatsuit in his clothes. like, loves it. you’re like his own personal teddy bear to hold on to while he falls asleep. who needs sweats when he has you to keep him warm..in his.

t shirt

sometimes, when the weather’s warmer, you’ll steal one of jason’s shirts to thrown on over a pair of panties. you’re oblivious to the fact that this combination makes jason go absolutely buck wild. somehow you’ve never made the connection. but more than once he’s found you sprawled across the couch, watching tv, and ended up going down on you. his head nestled between your thighs as you grip his raven locks. his hands are fisted into the loose fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing. he’s not satisfied until your legs are shaking, your moans intermingling with the wet, borderline pornographic, sounds that he’s creating with his mouth on your clit. he never lets you get him back either, even though you know he was grinding his crotch against the couch, chasing that sweet friction and release along with you. but he always just sits you atop his lap after, kissing your cheek as he brushes your hair out of your face. grips your thigh as he makes a comment about the show playing, your panties long forgotten on the floor.

underwear

you never get very far wearing a pair of your boyfriend’s boxers. for one, they’re pretty loose on you, so you have to roll the waistband a couple times, which just gives jason a prime view of your ass. they also just make it so easy for him to get his hand down the front, his strong fingers expertly finding your clit like he’s memorized a map of your body. which, in some ways, he has. it’s not long before you’ve come, once, twice, almost a third time, and he’s pulling his own boxers off to free his stiff cock. it points out, the tip leaking, and you’re opening your legs wider without even realizing it. he grabs your waist, sliding you closer to the edge of the bed, making sure you’re ready before he slides in, burying himself in you. he bottoms out, and you’re throwing your head back, a third orgasm threatening to crest as he starts up a rhythm. the muscles of his stomach ripple as he thrusts in and out. one of his hands is on your waist, the other slowly snaking its way back down to your clit. your toes curl at the feel of his calloused thumb rubbing circles on that sensitive bundle of nerves. he’s groaning, low in his throat, at the way you look on his cock. it never gets old for him, ever. the way your cheeks flush, how adorable your blown out pupils are when you look up at him. your wet lashes, your messy hair. your entrance clenches around his cock as you come a third time, your hands gripping the bed sheets. jason comes along with you, groaning loudly as he paints your insides with white ropes of cum. he pulls out, wetting a washcloth in the bathroom. the wet, warm fabric feels like heaven against your sensitive folds, your boyfriend wiping away the mixture of fluids between your legs. you feel pleasantly boneless, sinking into the pillows at the head of the bed. your boyfriend cleans himself up after, settling into bed next to you. jason wraps his strong arms around you, and it’s better than any clothes you might steal. but what you don’t know, is that he’d let you steal his clothes anytime.

[sylvies-chen]

I’ve been seeing that couples paint each other challenge where couples will spend a night in with a canvas and some cheap paints and give each other 30 minutes to try and paint each other, and now I can’t stop thinking about armandaniel doing that one night and armand’s is yeah it’s good okay like it’s not great because of the whole vampire art struggles but he was around renaissance painters for a long time so he does a pretty good job of getting daniel’s minute features and shading and whatnot but daniel’s is just. lord it’s so bad. it’s like the most primal kindergarten painting you’ve ever seen but dammit all the right ingredients are there!! he got the orange eyes and the curls and he very proudly points out that he gave armand a little ipad in his painting like his fake rashid era which he cracks himself up with but he looks over and armand is in tears because not only is he looking at the first painting of himself in over 400 years but he’s also looking at the most non sexual artistic interpretation of him he’s ever seen. like it’s just. him. he’s just existing. he’s there. on the canvas. with literally no background. not a meadow or even a grassline or anything. all this blank white liminal space around his (horrendously drawn) likeness as if nothing else is needed. no body contortions, eyes too one dimensional to even hold all his pain. daniel is just kind of chuckling and bashfully being all “ah fuck it’s pretty bad isn’t it I mean there’s a reason I stick to words, I drew your nose all lopsided on that one side and—” cut to armand literally welling up and whispering like “no. it’s beautiful.” daniel doesn’t get it. this is a liberation.

[maskofredacted]

Batman AU where the batfam is an extension of Gotham’s will so they can’t leave the city without taking a piece of it with them

Bruce, ever practical, has a batarang made from a steel piece off the bat signal (not that he’d be able to throw it but it’s a backup nonetheless)

Dick, Jay, and Tim have made it Robin tradition to carry pebbles in their pockets (the justice league has come to associate the soft jingling of rocks with the arrival of the Dark Knight)

Steph finds pretty rocks and quartz to crack open and share with Cassandra- and they cycle through their newest finds (cass does keep a shiny piece of obsidian in her utility belt, it was the first one Steph gave her)

Duke keeps a corner from a road sign in his pouch, the reflective yellow paint matches his theme- (what better representation of the city than perpetual construction)

Damian reverently carries a piece of deep green sea glass from the harbor. The color reminds him of his mother, and he finds the beauty fitting. (The irony that the only way for him to leave his new home is an echo of the reason he’s there in the first place is not lost on him.)

EDIT: LOOK AT THE REBLOGGED VERSION WITH MORE CONTENT ITS WORTH IT I SWEAR

[peaktora]

𝐂 𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐘 ˚◞♡ ⃗ satoru gojo

𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙬 ┊ your husband is unbearably clingy.

𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 ┊0.9k words. no pronouns used or specified gender for the reader. intended lowercase. established relationship (#married).

a/n. — i’m warning u guys right now that this is not proofread 😭 .. i literally just typed this up rq and posted it bc it’s been too long since i’ve last posted something on here

p.s. the prompt was in my notes from a longgg time ago, but i believe it’s from @/creativepromptsforwriting .. if not please lmk !!

"c'mere, hold my hand," satoru pleads for what has to be the third time. he pouts at you, who’s sitting on the countertop.

your brows furrow as you look up from your phone, "but, you're washing the dishes?”

he twists the faucet handle, and a steady stream of water flows down. after a brief glance at you, he places the plate beneath the water and says, "i know how to multitask, baby."

clinginess is defined as “the tendency to stay near someone for emotional support, protection, ect.” but there has to be another term for what satoru is, because you can't give any of those things while holding his hand right now.

you let out a deep breath and turn off your phone, watching as the screen fades to black. "satoru, there's no way i'm sticking my hand in that dirty dishwater," you say, sliding your phone into your pocket.

he practically shoves the plate into the drying rack. "i can't believe this," he huffs. "we literally had vows."

“what are y—“

“we had vows that said you’d love me in sickness and in health.”

"well…are you sick?" you ask, crossing your arms across your chest.

he pauses his task of washing dishes, leaving them untouched. leaning over the sink, he rests his arms against its edge. he steals a furtive glance at you, only to find your gaze locked onto him. with a hint of hesitation, he softly mumbles, "no..." before you can respond, he interrupts, "but i’m in health, and the vows said that you have to love and cherish me in this state too."

you lean back, searching your mind for what the alternative of holding his hand would be. because in no world would you hold his hand in dishwasher. then, it hits you. "for now, would a hug make you feel better?"

he answers your question with a hum, and you can't believe he's debating whether or not to accept your offer after all that drama over holding hands in dishwater. even so, he adds, "i'll have to give it some thought."

two can play that game.

“it’s okay,” you say, gracefully hopping down from the counter. a smirk spreads across your face. “i could just go—sit on the couch?” slowly, you start to walk in his direction and make your way over to the living room.

he doesn’t say anything, letting you do as you please. it’s not until you start to pass by him, that you get the reaction you wanted.

or atleast, somewhat similar to what you wanted.

"on second thought—" he exclaims, and the dishwater swirls around him as he turns around, his hands still wet and dripping.

you cringe as small puddles gather on the tiles. "hey—" but he interrupts you as he reaches out to grab your wrist. “ew—I—what the hell?”

you instinctively try to pull back, but he slips his wet hand in yours; sealing your fate.

“satoru—”

“what happened to nicknames?”

“satoru.”

"’m not sure who that is. i go by a lot of names, but not that one. lets go down the list, yeah?” he clears his throat. “i go by "babe, baby, swe—"

"you should consider adding "gojo" to that list."

"now, when have you ever called me gojo?”

"right now, in exactly ten seconds.” your husband gasps, hanging his mouth open. “satoru go—"

“woah woah woah—what’d i do to deserve this treatment?”

“you put your dirty dishwater hand in mine.” you jerk your hand back, struggling to escape free of his grip.

his grip tightens on your hand, “if you’re feeling like not loving me today then just say that.”

“hey—don’t discredit me. i offered you a hug and you said you had to “think” about it.”

“cause holding your hand ‘s better.”

you sigh, “after you’re done with the dishes, you can hold my hand as long as you want.“

he lets out a soft, thoughtful hum—the same hum that got you both into this situation in the first place. at the same time you shake your head, a mischievous twinkle appears in his eyes, and a smile twists onto the edges of his lips. "deal" he says, shaking your hand. “but before-“

you tsk, making him drop his excuse.

“wh—“

"the quicker these dishes get done, the quicker you’ll be able to hold my hand. so get on with it—go," you playfully command, and his grip loosens in response. seizing the opportunity, you slide your hand out of his grasp. you look down at it, seeing bits of food that’ve stuck to your palm. gross.

you walk over to the sink, feeling the cool water flow over your hand, washing away the food and dirt that clung to your skin. as you stand there, you hear satoru's voice grumbling from behind, "i hate doing dishes,” and you can’t help but snort.

before you know it, you feel his presence close behind you, his body pressing against yours. his arms encircle you, creating a cozy pocket of space between the counter and his body. satoru leans over your shoulder, gets a sponge from the soapy water, and starts washing a bowl. you simply lean back and look at his features.

the sight almost makes you want to stay in his arms forever. that is, until you realize the predicament you're in.

“you did not,” you whine. you desperately try to break free from the cage he’s trapped you in, but your attempts prove more and more pointless.

"oh, yes, i did," he declares with a smile. “what did you say earlier?" he clears his throat before proceeding. "the faster these dishes are done, the sooner you'll be able to hold my hand," he says, mockingly imitating your tone. "so, the faster these dishes are done, the sooner you can leave and do anything you want."

you sulk and moan while you reluctantly grab a dish and a spare sponge from the sink. “i hate you.”

“i love you more.”

[emuanon34]

[talshiargirlfriend]

More ✨vibes✨ from the fake dating spy au for @candiedsumire and @deadheaddaisy

Since the night of the reception, when they had publicly initiated their “relationship” and T’Pol had come back to Trip’s apartment with him she had just… stayed. Having a Vulcan operative living with him, eating his food, using his shower, and leaving her shampoo scent on his pillows should’ve been strange, but it really wasn’t.

In fact, the weirdest thing about it was how not-that-weird it was. She was quiet and considerate when they had downtime. One night she’d even agreed to watch a movie with him.

She’d caught him staring at her lips following a rather intense kissing scene, but that really was not his fault. He’d expressed cultural curiosity about the differences in ways humans and Vulcans express affection, which was totally relevant to their current predicament, thank you very much. Apparently they do kiss on the mouth sometimes, and that was simply an interesting fact Trip had learned and then not devoted a single waking moment to considering since then.

Basically having her there was like having a really polite roommate that everyone assumed he was sleeping with. So, exactly like his sophomore year of college. He really should call Jeff one of these days.

Between the actual warp drive work, heart attacks, explosions, and shacking up with a Vulcan bodyguard - or “colleague and apparent romantic partner” in her words - and all the accompanying not-weirdness, he hadn’t really considered the calendar or outside life much lately.

Until said colleague and apparent romantic partner sat across the table from him at breakfast and said, “Despite the setbacks the project has experienced, the design is very promising. Stenn agrees we should begin testing on Monday as originally planned.”

“Yeah, I think so too. Wait. On Monday? Monday is the seventh?”

She looked at him curiously, “Yes.”

Trip frowned, “That means tomorrow’s the fifth.”

“That is how dates typically work…”

He flashed her a sour look, “I’m supposed to go to my sister’s graduation this weekend. With … you know, everything, that’s been going on I completely forgot.”

He covered his face in frustration. After a moment he peeked at her from beneath his hand, “Fancy a trip to Florida?”

- - -

Trip bounced his knee rapidly as he waited for the call to connect. A view of his parents’ kitchen lit up the screen.

“You better not be calling to cancel! You promised your sister you’d be here!”

“Well, hello to you too, Mom,” Trip grumbled good-naturedly.

Elaine Tucker set her knife on the kitchen counter, wiped her hands on a towel and looked directly at the screen with a warm smile. “Hi sweetheart.”

Trip’s eyes crinkled up as he basked in parental affection.

“So, are you calling to cancel?” his mother asked as she resumed slicing strawberries.

“No, but, uh… there might be a slight change of plans…” he rubbed the back of his neck unconsciously. “I know it’s short notice, but would you mind if I bring someone?”

There was a brief pause before Elaine asked, “Someone as in a work colleague or someone as in a girlfriend?”

“Well, kinda both, actually.” Stick as close to the truth as possible, he reminded himself.

“T’Pol and I met a couple months ago and really hit it off. She’s one of the Vulcan scientists on the Technology Integration Team. She’s great, really smart and never lets me get away with anything. I think you’ll really like her.”

“Triiip,” Elaine drew out in pained voice, looking up at the ceiling in dismay.

Startled, Trip stared at the screen in concern. He really hadn’t expected that kind of reaction, “Look, Mom, if it’s inconvenient we can—“

“What? Don’t be silly, baby,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Of course you and your guest are both welcome here.”

She huffed. “Your daddy saw a photo of you two at that gala thing a couple weeks back and he insisted you were together. Said that was the face of a man in love if he ever saw one and he should know. I told him not to believe rumors, and now I have to admit he was right! How could you do this to me, son?” she whined playfully.

Trip’s cheeks flushed. He was pretty sure T’Pol could hear the entire conversation from the next room. He laughed awkwardly, “Uh, sorry?”

Elaine smiled again as she slid the sliced berries from the chopping board into a bowl. “Don’t be sorry, he was due a win, and I’m happy you’re happy. So you’re coming in tonight? Dad’s got your bed made up for you.”

“Yeah, we’ll—“

“—Wait, she’s Vulcan.”

“Uh, yeah…”

“Well, I can’t feed her cheesecake! Ok, I gotta go. Call when you’re on the way in. I love you!”

“Love you too,” Trip blinked at the blank screen.

T’Pol stepped into the kitchen and placed her duffel bag on the table beside him, “Your mother is very expressive.”

Trip snorted,”Is that the polite Vulcan way of saying dramatic?”

T’Pol looked down with a twitch of her lips, “I believe there is a human idiom about apple trees that may be applicable.”

[owl-by-night]

📓 <3

Thank you for the ask - you get one of the AUs I’ve had in my head for a very long time because it’s probably the weirdest thing I’ve come up with. Let me try to convince you! Every autumn as the days get shorter, Strictly Come Dancing appears on TV and I get nostalgic for the Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrel Strictly Come Dancing AU that I am never going to write for a million reasons, the first of which is that I don’t even know why I like it so much. It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?

But what if Strictly isn’t just Strictly? What if it’s being run by an enigmatic gentleman with a penchant for velvet jackets, making bargains and hair like… thistledown? What if the ballroom where you sign up to dance all day and all night is this AU’s Lost Hope? Where you can never leave because of your contract with the Gentleman? And who knows what bargains he struck to get you to agree….

The gentleman wants his favourite pro dancer Stephen to win at any cost and he means ANY. 

Sir Walter Pole wants a good PR hit before the next election so signs up his young and beautiful wife to aid his popularity (He couldn’t take part himself of course, because he might not do well and can’t risk looking foolish. He can, however, show up to support his wife). So the Gentleman makes a bargain, pairs Emma with Stephen and he’ll do anything to get them to the final so they can dance for him forever.  And if there was a tragic accident to Emma’s finger during early rehearsals well that’s just a chance for sympathetic reporting in the popular press. 

Thistles can’t always plan for everything though - Arabella Strange is an unexpected star with a husband who does the best supportive videos and is arranging a social media campaign by accident because he just loves his wife so much and wants to tell everyone how proud of her he is. 

John Childermass was supposed to be a joke act who left before Halloween but despite looking out of place in every costume the man can dance (sort of, when Hannah takes him in hand) and his blunt Yorkshire take on things has a definite fan following. His salsa goes viral. His rumba causes riots.

Flora Greysteel is popular with the younger generation and doing too well for Thistles to be comfortable. She might once have run off to have an affair with a poet but when ‘someone’ leaks it to the press she turns out to have a formidable protector in her father and her new friends the Stranges. 

John Segundus and Mr Honeyfoot were a pair of nobodies that should both have gone out in the early weeks but Segundus just keeps coming back. Nobody can doubt his persistence or his commitment to the training. Dancing is my life, he says, and he can’t think what he’d do if it was taken from him. That earnest comment earned him a solid block of devoted viewers. It also gained him devotion of another kind. Under the cover of the general Strictly mayhem, Childermass has been making tentative overtures to ‘John S’ as he battles with recurrent dizzy spells - is it just the Viennese waltz or is it the magic of Strictly? Childermass is always there to look after him if he needs it. 

While the stakes were low to start with as the no hopers were voted off, as the final looms The Gentleman has to make a choice about who he really wants to win now and what he’ll do to get it. If that means releasing some photos to the press suggesting that the Stranges are really rather fond of Bell’s dance partner Colley Grant, well he has the footage waiting and if some people need to encounter some strategic accidents so be it. By the end of November the Gentleman is using any kind of tactic to make sure the public vote the right way - social media influence and press scandals and dubious judge’s marking (one could almost swear that Craig has been bewitched). So the series runs with even more than the usual strictly scandals - Maria Bullworth’s husband cites her dance partner Art Wellesley in divorce proceedings but was it really him or was it fellow contestant Henry Lascelles? Art has a reputation for flings but backstage rumour says he’s far more interested in Flora’s partner Will and there are uglier rumours about Henry and who really caused Chris Drawlight to be injured by falling props in movie week (conveniently removing him from the show before any nasty rumours about his business dealings could break).

But it’s Strictly and the voting public is as fickle as ever. As scandals break, the tabloids go wild, and the stars get closer to the glitter ball, the stresses and stains begin to take their toll and the press start to ask ‘how is lady Pole?’  

“Unless you’ve done it before”, she says in an interview, “nobody can really understand what it’s like to be part of the magic of ballroom and when you’re on Strictly it feels like you’ve been dancing forever. And ever. And ever.”

[marimbles]

a little R&R (redecorating and resentment) between escape attempts

[supercutszns]

a place with you; luke castellan

wc: 2.8k (got a little carried away whoops)

pairing: luke castellan x f! reader

synopsis: luke is used to people coming in and out of hermes’ cabin without a second thought. so when you’re having a hard time adjusting to camp life, he doesn’t expect you to stick by his side, even after you’re claimed.

warnings/notes: shy reader going through a tough time, hurt/comfort, pining, kisses, fluff, potential ooc luke i don’t know what i’m doing, most of this is prob inaccurate lol, i got wayyy too attatched to this i am sorry, title inspired by dragon eyes by adrianne lenker

Luke Castellan is the son of a messenger. He’s used to delivering, passing things along, letting them enter his life and leave him. Sometimes it makes him angry. At his father, at the world, at himself.

So when you passed through the Hermes cabin for the inevitable few weeks before getting claimed by your Godly parent, the last thing Luke expected was for you to stay.

When you first got to camp you were terrified. Luke remembers that much. He can still picture you in Chiron’s towering shadow as he led you up to Hermes cabin. He gave you the usual spiel about the cabin, the land of the unclaimed, but it clearly hadn’t quelled your nerves. You were wringing your fingers together when Luke first spotted you, your eyes blown wide in what he knew as shock and a sort of . . . grief. For a life you’d left for what Luke knows as a life you’d never really have. He’d seen it in so many campers before you. He’d see it many times after.

“This is Luke, Hermes’ head counsellor and one of Camp Half-Blood’s finest,” Chiron pointed him out to you at the entrance. After Chiron introduced you, Luke held your name in his memory. Not because there was anything particularly intriguing about you at first, to be honest, because he’d seen a lot of people like you that needed help settling in (although maybe not many his age). It was harder for some people to adjust than most. He knew that better than anyone.

“Nice to meet you,” he stuck out his hand for you to shake after Chiron left. “I’m Luke.”

You sniffed, shaking it without looking at him. You were so, so embarrassed. This whole time you’d been too stupidly overwhelmed to process anything. Why was this so hard for you? Was it this hard for everyone? “Hi,” you managed, and that was it.

Now, weeks after your first meeting, you’ve concluded that it was not, in fact, this hard for everyone. The camp is crowded but full of life. You’ve never seen more happy kids in your life. There’s a sense of community on the wind.

So why can’t you feel it? Why is it so hard to connect with people? To participate in the fun? Everywhere you look there’s people but it’s all just so . . . lonely. You don’t fit. You’re lost.

Luke wakes up at night when the cabin door creaks open. He’s already tossing, so it’s no surprise he catches it. Unfortunately, he’s supposed to be a good counsellor—sneaking out at night is against the rules, and you’ve gotta reign the strays back in before they cause a ruckus. Sure, Luke’s not exactly a stickler for the law, but the least he owes is to make sure everyone’s safe.

Groaning, he draws himself out of the comfort of his bunk but doesn’t get far when he spots a familiar silhouette slipping out the door. He knows it’s you. He’s been hearing crying at night, and this is confirming his suspicions. It makes him ache in a million different places. Every time he thought about approaching you he shut himself down almost instantly, because who the hell wants some random guy coming up to them in the middle of the night and drawing attention?

This time, though, he’s a little worried.

It’s chilly tonight but not too bad, especially when you’re huddled up in a ball on a hill in front of the lake, grass tickling your ankles. Your tears keep you warm.

It’s a sorrow that feels bottomless. You don’t know what’s gotten into you. You don’t know why everything’s so hard.

There’s a scuffling of shoes, and your name is carried to you on the heels of a breeze. Oh God. There’s someone else here.

You sniff and smear your tears on the palms of your hands the best you can but a little part of you only wants to cry more now that you’re all anxious, and you only have a few seconds to collect yourself before you turn around and see Luke, your cabin leader, with furrowed brows. “Oh, h-hi, Luke.” It’s hard to ignore the splinter in your voice. You curse yourself a thousand times.

“Hey,” he says hesitantly, eyeing you in a way that makes you feel entirely exposed. “You, uh, you know you’re not technically supposed to be out here, right?”

You start to scramble to your feet with an apology on your tongue but surprisingly he laughs, a gentle sound, and beckons you to sit back down. “No, no, I’m not gonna get you in trouble or anything, just . . . letting you know.”

It’s uncertain if you should keep sitting, but you decide to because well, you’re already down here, and things can’t go lower than this. Luke comes to sit next to you and you stare out into the sea like your life depends on it. “Wanna talk about why you’re out here?”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Luke sighs, scooting a little closer to you. “Most people don’t up and leave in the middle of the night because they’re having a great time.”

The answer is too hard to say so you don’t reply.

Again, Luke sighs, and you try not to look at the shadow the moon casts on his admittedly handsome face. “It’s hard settling in, I know. It happens to a lot of people. I’ve . . . I’ve seen a lot of them, and it doesn’t get any easier.”

“Well it sure seems easier,” you snap, and your self-control flies away before you can stop it. “I have no idea why I can’t just suck it up and fit in here. Everyone seems so happy and it’s driving me nuts because I’m just so confused on why I can’t—why I can’t—process any of it.” Tears burn your eyes. “I’m just miserable. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

In the corner of your view, Luke’s face falls. “I’m your guide, you know that, right? I can help you.”

You sniff, embarrassingly pathetic. “I know.”

He comes even closer. “So why didn’t you ask?”

“Because I—I don’t know, you’re busy all the time with all the people in there, so I’m sure your job’s already stressful as is, so—”

“My job is to help you,” he says, a hand on your shoulder. “That’s what I signed up for. If you need something, I’m the one to ask.”

“I’m not sure you signed up for me crying like a baby,” you swallow, the ripples of the lake blurring together. “I mean, I’m like, older than half the kids here, and they’re all so much better than me. I’m not good at a—anything, and I’ve tried it all, and nobody’s claimed me yet, and I feel so weird and old and alone and . . .” It’s too much to think about so you dig the heels of your palms into your eyes, hoping the sting wards off the thoughts. “What if I’m nothing? Why am I here?”

You’re crying again, hiccuping into your hands. Shame sears into you. Luke’s arm curls around your shoulders and you realize how cold you are when he’s warm, so warm, and you want to cry even harder. You don’t even know him, but it’s the most tenderness you’ve received in what feels like years. “Hey, deep breaths,” he murmurs, rubbing your arm with his other hand. “It’s okay. Look at me.”

It takes a ridiculous amount of strength to heed him. His hand catches your cheek and you can’t bear to pull away. Something strange rustles in your stomach.

Luke’s taught instinct when faced with situations like these is to reassure that the Gods always have a plan. But he doesn’t feel like much of a liar tonight. Both his hands steady your face towards his, your skin damp and cold beneath his thumb. “It's not your fault. It always takes a little bit of time for people to get claimed, it’s never . . . well, you can never tell.”

“What if I don’t get claimed?” You say it so quiet you can pretend it was imaginary.

His eyes crinkle at the sides when he says, “Well, Hermes’ll always have a place for you.”

I’ll, Luke wants to say, I’ll. His father is not responsible for his cabin’s kindness.

“No one really prepares you for how overwhelming this is,” he continues, thumb rubbing the apple of your cheek. Your vision is clearer now, and Gods, he is handsome, isn’t he? Even when his eyes are forlorn. “It’s harder in a way when you’re older. More to leave behind. Less to look forward to. It’s easier when you have a friend. Or a great cabin head.” He tilts his head with a faint smile, “Lucky for you, I’m both.”

It almost makes you laugh, and that’s enough. “It’ll get easier,” he promises softly. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Your cheeks burn. It’s hard to keep his gaze, so you blot at your eyes with your hands as Luke gently slides his off your face. “Thank you. Sorry for, um, all that. And the crying.”

He chuckles, “Don’t even worry about it.” You watch him rise in the throes of starlight. He offers you a hand. “Aren’t you cold?” He asks after pulling you up, and you sheepishly nod your head. He tosses you a sweater he’s been wearing, and it smells like firewood. Nostalgic, in a way. “I’m gonna poke around for some tea. Wait for me back at the cabin.”

Before he leaves, he squeezes your arm and that thing happens again in your stomach. “No need to be embarrassed, by the way. You can come to me anytime. I’m probably less busy than I look.” As he walked away, he added, “And don’t worry about the crying. You’re pretty either way.”

Either way. The tea doesn’t seem important anymore because your face is on fire.

Time reveals that Luke is right. He is a great cabin leader and a friend, and it’s hard to tell which he’s better at. You fall in with him right away. Soon enough, you’re drawn into your new life, so slowly you barely realize it’s happening. The days get shorter and you start wishing they were longer. The nights get easier. And when they’re not, Luke tucks you into his bunk and folds you in his arms until you drift off. You pick up a bow. A sword. Luke tells you to straighten your shoulders with a hand on the small of your back, and you swear it always lingers. You braid garlands of carnations for your cabin mates and they wear them with pride. It’s warm, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and things start to feel like home.

Until you’re claimed.

Now you’re a ghost in Hermes cabin, another empty bunk to be filled, and Luke stares at it until he can remember every last detail of what it looked like when it was yours. A beautiful, gentle daughter of Demeter, no longer in arms’ reach. He should’ve seen it coming.

He sees you with your siblings all the time. You’re so happy and he envies it. You belong there, he knows that, the way your face lights up at the dinner table and how you giggle when your half-sister presents you a flower. But sometimes your eyes wander, and something inside them dulls, until you look at him, too.

Luke’s place at camp is to be nothing but a funnel for lost campers to find their home. He’s a temporary stop in everybody’s journey. He’d made peace with it a long time ago. But here you are, messing it all up, because you still don’t leave him.

You beg him to give you another sword-fighting lesson. You sit next to him at bonfires. You pick him for partner camp activities. It doesn’t matter how many younger boys want to latch onto him for guidance—he sees you heading towards him, and he can’t imagine choosing anyone else.

But you’re always whisked away by your siblings, separated at meals and in sleep and in activities so it’s never, ever enough. Why did he delude himself into thinking you’d stay forever?

After weeks of distance from you, he’s elated when you have even a fraction of a conversation. “Hey, Luke!” You call out to him, and he finds you instantly. You’ve broken away from your siblings to get to him.

“Hey,” he smiles, and hopes he doesn’t look too pleased.

You lean a little towards his ear, and you smell like every wonderful thing in the world. “Can we hang out tonight? On the hill?” You’re a little bashful when you say it and it’s entirely endearing. Even now, you’re still so unsure. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” he says almost instantly, and it makes you look less nervous. “Yes. Absolutely. But don’t get caught breaking curfew now, you hooligan.”

Someone calls your name and you give a curt, playful nod. “Yes sir, camp counsellor sir!” He carries your laugh close to his heart until night falls.

You’re already there when he arrives, a vision in the moonlight before he even sees your face. “Hey, angel.”

When you turn around you look flustered. He won’t pretend like it doesn’t flatter him. “H—hi, uh, hello.”

There’s a moment where the world is still. The two of you, alone, for the first time in ages.

He sits down next to you, and it’s like the first time all over again. You get to talking, about your days, your anecdotes, your cabins. The strangeness of it all. “It’s so weird waking up in the morning and not having you yapping in my ear,” you remark, and he teasingly pushes your shoulder.

“Well, one of us has to be the talker, and it’s clearly not you,” he retorts.

You fiddle with blades of grass between your fingertips, weaving them together. “I’ll have you know I had a cabin-wide conversation about Capture The Flag yesterday, and I contributed greatly.”

“Oh, really?” He grins, knocking your elbow to steal your attention. “Look at you, coming out of your shell. I’m so proud.”

It’s hard to hold his gaze for more than a second. You’re afraid you’ll do something stupid if he keeps looking at you like that, but you almost want to. “Oh, shut up.”

He puts a hand on your shoulder. “No, I’m serious. I’m proud.” His eyes rake over your face. “You’re flourishing. You found your place.”

You can’t stop yourself from saying, “I kind of miss my old one.”

There’s a way he studies your expression that makes you feel utterly helpless. You wish you could dish it back to him, but you know you just look awestruck whenever you stare at him for so long. He’s quieter when he replies, “I miss it, too. A lot. Sometimes, I—” His face scrunches up like he just tasted something sour. “Nevermind.”

Frowning, you prod, “What? What is it?”

He sighs and turns to the horizon. This is the first time you’ve ever seen him struggle. “Sometimes, I wish you hadn’t been claimed. Sorry, that’s . . . that’s awful, I know.”

His surprise is evident when you say, “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t either.”

He turns back to you. “Really?”

“Really,” you nod, staring at the beads on his necklace. “You’re the only reason I’ve adjusted here at all.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“It’s true. And I miss you.” A few months ago you would’ve kicked yourself for saying this. But Luke has a way of inspiring confidence in people.

“I miss you, too. So much.” He gently prys the grass you’ve been weaving out of your hands, now a small necklace. “But look at how talented you are. I’ll tell you, I’m lucky you’re still sticking around. For most people, Hermes is touch-and-go.”

Luke leans forward to tie the garland around your neck, and your pulse picks up. “This isn’t about Hermes, Luke,” you try to be firm but it comes out soft. “It’s about you.”

His hands stop fiddling and rest on your neck. When he speaks, you can feel his breath on you. And you have no idea that he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life. “What’s about me?”

It’s not fair, your inability to string sentences together only worsens right when a beautiful boy is this close to you. “Hermes isn’t—it’s not special because of your father, it’s special because of you.”

There is nothing else you can possibly think of saying with the way his fingers trace up your neck and hold your jaw. “Yeah, well,” he murmurs, “The only reason anything in my life is special is because of you.”

You don’t know if it’s a lie or not; you don’t care. His nose nudges yours. There’s a moment where you wonder if this is as close to Elysium you’ll ever get. Then he slips a hand to the back of your neck and pulls you to his mouth.

He kisses you in a near fury, then when he knows you’re not going anywhere, it’s the gentlest thing you know. It’s hard to believe this is even happening. Your hands weave through his curls but he holds you steady, and thank the Gods for that because you’re pretty sure you’re melting. You kiss again, and again, and again, until you genuinely think you’re going to pass out and you have to pull away.

“Aw, look at you,” he murmurs when you can’t meet his eyes, a playful lilt in his voice. “Still so nervous.”

“Would you shut up?” You press your face into the crook of his neck with a huge smile.

He kisses the top of your head. “Love to, angel.”

Luke Castellan is the son of a messenger. He’s supposed to believe he’s bringing the best of humanity to the Gods and glory above.

But screw the Gods. He’s keeping this one for himself.

[sparticus2000art]

I made the somewhat questionable decision to spend the last two days slapping out a bunch of character portraits to pop into a planning document for a personal project I’m working on!

So here’s a bunch of au sans portraits.

Woooooo

Nightmare and dream by jokublog

Eclipse’s concept by llamagoddessofficial , design by me

Horror by sourapplestudios

Cross by jakei

Dust by askdusttale

Error by loverofpiggies

Killer by rahafwabas

[katsumox]

something about jason todd with a touchy!reader s/o is literally so yummie.

You’ve got him on his stomach, regrettably, he thinks, as you watch the hills and divots of his muscles roll and flex as he gets comfortable. The scarred herculean expanse of his back is exposed to you as you sit on his butt.

“Dunno why I agreed to this,” he frowns, not bothering to move his head, unmuffling his musings.

He really doesn’t; ten minutes ago you two were having a very civil discussion (read: arguing) about something or other. Next thing he knew, he was in your bed, on his stomach, half naked and under you.

“Cause you like me,” you sing, breaking him from his thoughts, as you drag manicured fingers up his back, pressing into his taut muscle, deftly massaging each sore part of him.

“You like this. ‘S okay to admit it,” you add.

He gives a noncommittal noise that gets cut off by a strangled gasp when he feels your hands pressing into the upper muscles of his back.

There’s a deep discomfort that settles in his stomach; he’s never been touched so lovingly, not without hidden motives tainting said touch. He isn’t sure if he should push you off him or beg you to keep going.

You hum as you work his muscles, letting his inconsistent breathing and occasional gasps guide you.

You continue rubbing him down, occasionally pausing to apply more shea butter to your hands before resuming your work.

You reach up to his neck, as he sighs. You press just a hair harder, feeling a knot loosen at the pressure. Jason inhales, trying to steel himself from any possible reaction.

Regardless of his efforts, a low “Fuck,” reverberates through his chest. He internally frowns at the sound of his low whine, sounding like a wounded animal. He reddens as he hears himself, internally cringing at his neediness, at your willingness, and the intimacy of it all.

“That was pretty,” you murmur, teasing lilt in your voice. He’s fighting the urge to shut down this moment of vulnerability the two of you are sharing. You know he’s really pushing himself, so you try to keep the extra teases locked away for another day, another less intense moment.

You shut yourself up, instead focusing your attention to Jason’s expansive back. You press harder in the same spot, shameless in your attempt to illicit more noises from him as you whisper, “Give me another.”

He shudders, giving a shaky exhale as he composes himself.

“You’re evil,” he grumbles, despite almost leaning up into your touch.

“So evil,” You smile, “Totally evil.”

Not once does your touch on his back falter. He hums in agreement, softly smiling into a pillow.

“Incredibly evil,” Jason sighs. “Lucky I like your evil ass.”

“Aw,” you say, “Red’s finally going soft. I got you up under me and now you don’t know how to act. ”

Jason can hear the smile in your words. Choosing to ignore it, he closes his eyes and focuses solely on your touch.

“Yeah,” He mumbles, before pausing to consider his words, “Goin’ real soft, only for you.”