#hey look i wrote a thing

[filet-o-feelings]

cloudberries are my jam (and so are you)

After a customer reminds Patrick of a hiking trip he took with his uncles and cousins when he was seven to forage for the rare cloudberry, Patrick convinces David to use their vacation to forage for cloudberries in Newfoundland.

[carpe-collum-natem]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Original Work, Splintered Magic Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Additional Tags: Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Magic, POV Lesbian Character, POV First Person, POV Alternating, Love Confessions, Half-orc, Human Summary:

Human Nikki (she/they) surprises her half-orc friend and crush Mazsnana (she/her) at her job with some coffee and lunch, with a message they wrote on the coffee cup in hopes of asking Mazsnana out on a date.

[raleighrox]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug Characters: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug Additional Tags: Cute, Kissing, Fluff, Stress Relief, Marichat | Adrien Agreste as Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng, PWP without Porn, Oneshot Summary:

Chat Noir finds Marinette on her balcony, unable to pull her mind from the stresses of her daily life. He offers her a little assistance.

[solitae]

Chapters: 1/5 Fandom: Horizon (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aloy/Seyka (Horizon) Characters: Aloy (Horizon), Seyka (Horizon) Additional Tags: Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forehead Kisses, Forehead Touching, Gift Giving, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Kissing Summary:

After their first kiss, Aloy can't convince herself to leave yet, so she decides to stay one more night to celebrate with Seyka. Mercifully this doesn't involve bilge blaze or other people, but Seyka does surprise her with a meal and a gift. Without anything trying to kill them, they have a chance to talk which leads to Aloy sharing more about herself than she intends. Also more kissing since once definitely isn't enough.

[gravitywonagain]

Inquiring Minds

holy shit, i finished a thing. well, a draft of a thing, but still counts!

based on this post about wwx being just dead enough be susceptible to the compulsion of inquiry

--

It was, in retrospect, the stupidest possible way to be found out. Wei Wuxian will readily admit that. Unfortunately, the level of stupidity was not a determining factor for the level of reality — as was the case for so much of Wei Wuxian’s life.

It all happened because one of the two dozen Jin disciples who bothered to show up to the war got a little drunk and a lot prideful and ended up starting a fight he couldn’t finish. Or, that was the going theory, anyway. The Jin leadership — such as it was — wanted an investigation done. As if they had nothing better to do. As if there weren’t reasons to be conserving spiritual power and not wasting it playing Inquiry for a guy who had decided to pick a fight — hopefully, hopefully it was a fight — with a Nie disciple who, granted, did not have the startling musculature of some of her shixiongs, but was still a fucking Nie disciple! 

This guy was not worth their time. This guy was not worth Lan Zhan’s time. Or his attention, or his spiritual power, or the stress it would put on his guqin strings— okay, maybe Wei Wuxian should have taken a moment to purge some of his resentment before walking into the tent. 

But he didn’t. This is important. 

Because then Lan Zhan began to play. 

And there was this strange… tugging sensation in the pit of Wei Wuxian’s gut, right where his golden core was supposed to be, pulling him toward Lan Zhan, or toward the empty space in front of Lan Zhan. 

Wei Wuxian shouldn’t have ignored it. He gets that now. He does. But he always wanted to be near Lan Zhan, and his body had been doing all kinds of weird shit since he’d had his core cut out, and who was to say this wasn’t just another weird side effect. 

Well. It was. A weird side effect. After a fashion. 

But that’s not the point! 

He should have noticed then. He should have left then. But he didn’t. 

The melody changed and the tugging sensation stopped. Which was great! 

Until something else started. It felt like a kind of drunkenness, light and hazy in his head, loose around his tongue. Three or four bowls in. 

He shook himself to dislodge it, but the motion only drew a sharp glare from Jiang Cheng. 

The tent was full of spectators. At least two representatives from each major clan were present, plus several “close friends” of the victim -- like four of the fifteen total Jin disciples -- who probably just wanted something else to do outside of eat, sleep, and fight. Wei Wuxian couldn’t blame them, exactly, war was remarkably boring most of the time, but it was getting awfully stuffy in there. 

Lan Zhan changed the melody again, something almost lexical about it. Wei Wuxian could almost hear the question being asked, even before Zewu Jun’s voice chimed in, translating for anyone who didn’t know the qin language — which was pretty much everyone else in the tent besides the Twin Jades — “What is your name?” 

Wei Wuxian caught his own response between his lips, pressing them together tightly, as the guqin sounded three distinct notes which Zewu Jun reported as Jin Zixin. 

So, good. It was the right guy. That was great. Nothing weird at all. 

He should have left then. He didn’t. 

Lan Zhan played again, and again Wei Wuxian thought he understood the phrase, the question, even before Zewu Jun said for the tent, “How did you die?”

Wei Wuxian felt the answer fly to the tip of his tongue and bit his teeth around it, through it. His cheek bled with the force of keeping quiet. 

It was weird. So weird. But maybe, Wei Wuxian justified to himself, maybe it was just an effect of holding a secret inside for so long and having someone actually ask the question out loud. Maybe, it was just the same automatic reaction of answering with your name when someone asked for it. Maybe he was just too fucking tired, and the resentment under his skin just wanted something to laugh at, something to entertain itself with. Like the five of ten Jins standing in the back of the tent. War was boring, okay?

The notes from Lan Zhan’s guqin hung in the air, resonant and waiting. The moment seemed to stretch out too long. It dragged and Wei Wuxian gradually felt the words stop fighting him to escape. 

But the Jin ghost didn’t answer either. 

When Lan Zhan played the same phrase over — “How did you die?” echoed on Zewu Jun’s tongue — the compulsion was much stronger. This time it was like Wei Wuxian could feel Lan Zhan’s spiritual power pouring through him; the strongest of wines, several jars of it. 

He couldn’t fight it. 

His mouth opened. 

I fell. I fell. I fell. 

“I fell.”

All eyes in the tent turned to him. 

Jiang Cheng’s elbow caught him in the ribs. He didn’t even bother to glare. He said, “Not you, Idiot.” 

The qin sounded and everybody looked back to Lan Zhan and Zewu Jun, waiting to hear the Jin disciple’s answer. 

Zewu Jun hesitated for the barest of moments, stuttering into the start of his translation before finding the confidence of his voice once more, recounting whatever it was that the ghost had strummed out. 

Wei Wuxian didn’t hear a word he said. He was, instead, pierced on two sides. 

On one: Jiang Cheng muttered to himself, “Wait,” and then his eyes went wide as he looked back at Wei Wuxian. 

On the other: Lan Zhan’s fingers froze above the strings of his guqin and he turned to stare over his shoulder at Wei Wuxian with something like horrified understanding dawning within his gaze. 

Wei Wuxian finally realized he should fucking leave. Immediately. 

He wanted to run. He knew better. Knew what that would look like. 

Instead, he was going to simply walk out of this tent as he had walked out of so many already during this campaign. Gravel crunched under his heel as he turned. 

But his brother knew him too well. Jiang Cheng’s hand clamped tight around Wei Wuxian’s bicep, his grip unyielding. With his golden core, Wei Wuxian might have been able to break it. But the real bitch of it was that it was his golden core that was holding him in place. 

Jiang Cheng tensed as if readying for a fight, but Wei Wuxian already knew how that fight would end. So he let himself be restrained. 

He turned back to face the Inquiry. 

Lan Zhan was still staring at him when Zewu Jun finished speaking. He was still so stuck in place that his brother had to prompt him into finishing the ritual. Which he did, with all the grace and skill expected of him. He really was just so beautiful to watch. 

All the while, Wei Wuxian listened to the music and bit through his tongue to keep it silent. The questions continued to drag at him -- “Do you know who killed you?” Wen Chao. “Do you have any last requests?” To leave this fucking tent. -- though the pressure to answer eased significantly as the Jin ghost became less stubborn about it. Wei Wuxian settled for reciting the answers to them in his head until they no longer felt pressed against the thin seam of his mouth. 

It took approximately sixteen-hundred years. 

All seven Jin disciples supporting the war effort left the tent after the ghost had recounted his final moments. The attempted sexual assault was not unexpected, judging by their faces, but still disappointing to hear about. Clearly not the entertainment they were hoping for. Luckily for Wei Wuxian, they were apparently too wrapped up in their Jin nonsense to realize new entertainment was fidgeting in the corner and trying not to sever the tip of his tongue completely. 

The Nie, represented by Nie Mingjue and Nie Huaisang, left shortly after the ritual concluded. If Nie Mingjue had to tug his brother away, Wei Wuxian was too busy keeping his mouth shut to comment on it. 

And then there were just the four of them. Plus the corpse. But they were like six months into a war, so the corpse didn’t actually seem to bother any of them. It hadn’t even started to smell yet. It was still pretty intact, too, and now that it was verifiably a criminal, Wei Wuxian wondered idly if the Jin would let him use it in their next battle. Probably not. 

His idle wondering ceased abruptly as his brother’s fingers bit deeper into the meat of his arm. 

“Wei Wuxian,” he said, all of his surely filial worry for his gege boiling over into a spitting, incandescent fury. He never had to say he loved his brother, Wei Wuxian could always tell. It was the teeth gnashing that gave him away. “What the fuck do you mean you fell?” 

Right. 

Wei Wuxian played it as cool as he could with a definitely-not-bleeding tongue. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jiang Cheng.” He shrugged, but his arm didn’t move very far. 

“You answered Inquiry,” said Lan Zhan. Succinct as ever. 

“No!” Wei Wuxian said, maybe a little too loud, but not at all childishly. 

Zewu Jun narrowed his eyes and pulled out his xiao. Wei Wuxian tried not to flinch about it, he did. But Zewu Jun only played a short, non-Inquiry melody, and a shimmering, blue barrier manifested around the interior of the tent. 

“No,” Wei Wuxian said again, this time at a totally normal volume. “I was just… messing around. You know how I do that, Lan Zhan. Always a rule breaker.” He grinned, desperately trying to play it all off. Realizing faster and faster how very badly this was going for him. 

Lan Zhan surprised him, then, saying, “Not when it matters.” 

“What?”

“Wei Ying doesn’t break rules when they matter.” 

Wei Wuxian didn’t know where the fuck that was coming from. But he couldn’t say he hated it. 

Except that he did, because it was going to be a problem for this whole I’m just a silly rascal defense he was setting up. 

Jiang Cheng still hadn’t let go of his arm. His fingernails were starting to split the fabric of his sleeve. And worse, his eyebrows were scrunched together in the way they do when he’s thinking through all the angles of a problem. 

Zewu Jun still had his xiao in hand, and he was looking at Wei Wuxian like he was deciding whether to perform an exorcism or an execution. 

But Lan Zhan… Lan Zhan hadn’t moved from his seat on the mat. He had turned his body so that he was facing Wei Wuxian, giving him his full attention, and was looking up at him with… pain in his eyes. Shining, wet pain. 

“You died?” he asked. “Are you dead?”

“I don’t…” Wei Wuxian trailed off. He couldn’t find the words. 

He didn’t know. Which was, possibly, not the best sign. 

“I can’t be dead,” he said, looking over at Zewu Jun, Jiang Cheng, then back to Lan Zhan. “Can I?”

Zewu Jun, still wary, said, “You responded to the compulsion in Inquiry. Inquiry is a song that speaks to and compels answers from the dead. It does not generally work on the living.” 

“Well--” Wei Wuxian started, defensive and scared. But again, he didn’t really know where to go with that. 

“Where were you, Wei Wuxian?” Jiang Cheng asked him. “Why didn’t you meet me at the bottom of the hill?” 

Lan Zhan and Zewu Jun shared a look. They didn’t seem to know what Jiang Cheng was talking about. But Wei Wuxian really, really, didn’t want to get into that whole mess. If anyone was going to see right through him and his flimsy tale about suddenly remembering the location of Baoshan Sanren’s mountain, it would be Lan Zhan. Actually, Zewu Jun would probably figure it out, too. And then maybe even Jiang Cheng. Now that he wasn’t all broken and desperate and gullible. 

Fuck. With the way Jiang Cheng was looking at Wei Wuxian, the way his hand released some of the pressure around his arm, he might already have. 

Wei Wuxian laughed, hoping it came off more smoothly than it felt in his chest. “Ah, Jiang Cheng.” He brought his own hand up to lay over his brother’s. “What if I told you--”

“No,” Jiang Cheng cut him off. “No more bullshit. Where were you?”

The mirth, false as it was, drained out of Wei Wuxian as he saw the pain building behind his brother’s eyes. 

There was movement in his periphery and then Lan Zhan was standing on his other side. His fingers wrapped around Wei Wuxian’s other arm with a much gentler grip than Jiang Cheng’s. Something imploring about the touch. Like he was seeking confirmation to a theory, or maybe proving to himself that Wei Wuxian was actually there. 

“I…” Wei Wuxian trailed off. 

Zewu Jun’s gaze was hard as steel, but aimed, it seemed, at Lan Zhan’s hand, rather than at Wei Wuxian in general. 

“There was a rumor,” he said in slow, even words, “that Wen Chao had thrown you into the Burial Mounds.” He waited a moment after he finished speaking, as if trying to reconcile the words himself, before he looked up to meet Wei Wuxian’s eyes. 

Of course, Wei Wuxian didn’t want to meet Zewu Jun’s eyes. He didn’t want to meet any of their eyes. He wanted very much to be out of this tent and away from knowing gazes altogether. 

Unfortunately, he hadn’t quite figured out how to teleport using resentful energy yet. So in the tent he remained. 

He looked down at his feet. His boots were crusted with dirt and blood and other bodily fluids. War really was super gross, in addition to being largely boring. 

“That’s ridiculous,” he said, still looking down. “Everyone knows that nothing leaves the Burial Mounds.” 

Lan Zhan’s hand tightened around Wei Wuxian’s arm. Jiang Cheng’s loosened, but didn’t let go. 

“Yeah,” said Jiang Cheng, like an accusation, “it would be impossible.” 

Wei Wuxian still didn’t look up from his feet which meant that he missed whatever silent conversation happened between Jiang Cheng and Lan Zhan that had both of them tightening their grips on his arms just before fingers were pressed to the pulse points of his wrists. He struggled, flailing as much as he could, but against Lan Zhan’s golden core and his own, he stood no chance. He could barely budge them. 

He screamed but the sound only reverberated inside the tent. 

The only thing he could think to do was to call up the dead. The dead man still lying in front of them. The Jin. Rapist. Criminal. He could use that wicked corpse to fight off the people holding him down, taking his secrets. Smoke curled out of his sleeves and he--

He stopped himself. 

It was over anyway. 

Even if they couldn’t read his spiritual energy, or lack thereof, his fighting them was confirmation enough. 

He went limp in their grasp. His knees buckled. 

It really was the stupidest possible way to be found out. 

“Where is it?” asked Jiang Cheng. But it was clear from his voice that he already knew the answer. 

Lan Zhan was silent. 

Zewu Jun looked to his brother for an answer, not understanding what they had just discovered. 

“His golden core,” said Lan Zhan. “It’s gone.” 

“Wen Zhuliu?” Zewu Jun asked. 

But Jiang Cheng made a sound that was somehow both a laugh and a sob. 

Wei Wuxian regained control of his arms. He sprawled himself out on the tent floor, exhausted from his struggle. He laughed, too. “After a fashion.” 

Jiang Cheng fell to the ground next to him, hands cradling the place where Wei Wuxian’s core now spun. “What the fuck?” he said, quietly, to no one in particular. Then, loudly, to Wei Wuxian in particular, “What the fuck!” 

His cheeks were wet. Jiang Cheng’s, his own. He looked over to confirm, and yeah, Lan Zhan’s too. Zewu Jun had nothing to cry over, except maybe confusion, but he was too cool for that, so he just stood in the middle of the tent, shocked, presumably, as his brother, another sect leader, and a demonic cultivator broke down around him. 

Wei Wuxian stared up at the tented canvas ceiling and cursed himself for not leaving the tent when he first noticed something wrong. 

“Jiang Cheng,” he started, but Jiang Cheng cut him off with a wet yell. 

“Why would you do that, you fucking idiot?! What the fuck were you even thinking?! How did you-- How--” 

He seemed to lose steam trying to figure out what happened on “Baoshen Sanren’s mountain” and potentially also why Baoshen Sanren’s voice sounded so familiar. 

Zewu Jun’s voice was remarkably calm for a man witnessing-- whatever he made of what he was currently witnessing. He said, “Wei Wuxian, I believe your Sect Leader would like to know how you lost your golden core.” 

Wei Wuxian laughed at that. Because yes and no. 

“No, Zewu Jun,” he said, still laughing. He tried to stop, but it was just too funny. “No,” he said again, slightly more sober, “he wants to know why and how he now has my golden core.” 

He didn’t really mean to say it. He felt drunk again, like he did when Lan Zhan was playing Inquiry. Ready to spill all his secrets at only the slightest provocation. Zewu Jun could probably ask him just about anything right now -- Lan Zhan and Jiang Cheng too, for that matter -- and he would answer it. It wasn’t exactly a safe mindset to be in. But he couldn’t really do anything about that now. 

At least there was some kind of privacy barrier over the tent. 

Zewu Jun stood. Speechless. 

Lan Zhan’s tears fell silently. 

Jiang Cheng glared, hands clutched tight against his lower dantian -- whether to hold something inside or to tear it out, Wei Wuxian wasn’t sure. 

Wei Wuxian felt light as a feather. Drunk and dizzy with it. A weight had been lifted, he supposed, but one he was never supposed to let go. His laughter died down to the occasional press of his lungs. Tears collected in his eyelashes until everything was blurry. 

Emptiness yawned inside him, but it was gentler somehow. As if the secret itself had been clawing away at his slowly healing wounds. 

“Fuck,” he said with a hiccup of a laugh. And again, quieter, “Fuck.”

He really should have left the fucking tent. 

Also, wait. Was he dead?! 

[gaywarcriminals]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 人渣反派自救系统 - 墨香铜臭 | The Scum Villain's Self-Saving System - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Luò Bīnghé/Shěn Yuán | Shěn Qīngqiū Characters: Shěn Yuán | Shěn Qīngqiū, Luò Bīnghé, Mù Qīngfāng Additional Tags: Crack, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Humor, Omega Shěn Yuán | Shěn Qīngqiū, Intersex Omegas, oops minor themes of systemic sexism in healthcare, Chronically Ill Shěn Yuán | Shěn Qīngqiū, Pre-Relationship, slight OOC in accordance with the silliness 

Summary: Am I dying??? Was I poisoned? What kind of faulty body did I get stuck in??【Shen Qingqiu’s body is functioning as normal! You are experiencing your period.】 Shen Qingqiu wanted to cry. If that was the cause, then, why did his stomach hurt so bad?! In his last life, periods had never been pleasant, but he had at least been able to move!

*** Omega Shen Qingqiu has endometriosis, that’s it that’s the fic.

[lunarharp]

qifrey's birthday and silly stuff

[flownwrong]

no tether (star trek: discovery fic)

Burnham/Rayner, rated M; tags: post s05e05 Mirrors, PWP, praise kink, ~3200 words

A/N: Fair warning: I'm not very familiar with Star Trek universe. I am here mainly through the misfortune of being obsessed with a certain Canadian actor. So if anything doesn't make sense — you know who to blame.

read on ao3

The hour is just about to turn from late into early when Michael finds him tucked into a narrow nook, in a hallway that's mostly deserted during all shifts.

He's sitting on the floor, tucked into the corner, one knee pulled up, a hand with a drink resting on it. Likely too wired to sleep, too suffocated in the solitude of his quarters. That's why she comes here, anyway. It's rare for them to be off the bridge at the same time; figures that they would end up in the same spot.

She approaches slowly, makes sure she doesn't creep up on him. Rayner doesn't move, eyes fixed on the floor, or, no—his profile is illuminated by soft bluish light. A screen, then.

"Hey," she says, leaning against the wall. "You wouldn't take the chair, but you'd steal my hiding spot, huh?"

"Good morning to you too, Captain." Rayner looks up and raises his glass in a toast. "Hiding spot?"

"Well, isn't that what you're here for?"

His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Oh, I'm just catching up on my reading."

"Kellerun classics?"

His mouth lifts at one side, that quiet pleased almost-smile she never quite expects. "Terran, actually."

She leans down to see, raises her eyebrows. "Odyssey. You're full of surprises."

He shuts it down and shrugs. "A good book can save a life." He gives her a flash of a wink.

Michael laughs, caught off guard. He watches her and takes a sip of his drink.

She lowers herself to the floor and scoots until her back meets the opposite wall. The toes of their boots touch in the middle. He doesn't move away.

"So, what's keeping you up?"

"Could ask you the same question." Rayner's eyes are fixed on her face, intense, and for a second, she struggles for words.

"Nothing. Everything. All of this"—she waves her hand, trying to point it all out, the rest of the ship, the mission—"is new. Like nothing I've done before."

He huffs an approximation of a laugh. "You could say that." He doesn't sound nearly as bitter as before, and it's a relief she didn't know she craved.

Still, she's not sure where they stand on this, where the lines are drawn, here, huddled away when they should be sleeping. She clears her throat.

"The things I saw—in the time cycles, and today."

She tries to think of an explanation. Rayner keeps silent, waiting.

"The could have beens. They're hard to shut out."

He shrugs and looks up, out the viewport. "Yeah. Never did well with those."

"Neither have I." It's late, and they're both exhausted, and she's been through way too much weird to bother, so she nudges his boot with her own. "What are you going to do? After, I mean?"

He hums dismissively. "Does it matter?"

Yes, Michael wants to say, of course it does. I want to know what you're waiting for. I want to know if you'll stay. Instead, she says, "Oh? Nowhere you would go? Home?"

Rayner looks uncomfortable, hunches in on himself. When he speaks, his voice is low, like he hopes she won't hear. "Kind of supposed I'd go out before I go home."

She'd be taken aback, except it sounds exactly like him. "Just like that?"

He gives her a challenging look, a rare one that make his face unreadable. "Would you choose any different?"

Would she? He's thought about this, Michael realises, is used to the thought. She forgets, sometimes, how much older he is. Her thoughts are filled with hope, fear, longing—she hasn't chosen how she wants to go, not yet.

Still, there's something here he isn't sharing. She files it away, out of both curiosity and necessity, and reaches out to squeeze his knee. "I don't believe you."

"No?" His sharp features are tense, his cheeks hollowed like he's gritting his teeth.

"No. For one, it would take the heat death of the universe to put you down."

He snorts. "That's flattering."

She ignores him, goes on while she has an in, "But what I mean is that there's too much wonder in you, Rayner. You don't want to go down fighting. You're out here because you want this"—she nods at the stars—"to last." And there's something you left undone, she doesn't add.

He worries at his bottom lip, one of his minute tells. His eyelashes brush his cheeks, a startlingly gentle image.

Michael tilts her head, trying to catch his eye. "Am I wrong?"

Rayner's still for a moment, then shakes his head, lips a thin line, like it costs him. "No. You're not."

"Yeah." She strokes her thumb lightly across his knee. His skin feels feverish through the fabric of his uniform, and she remembers the Kellerun run hotter than humans. He looks down at her hand, swipes his eyes up, over her knees, her chest, shoulders. When he meets her gaze, very slowly, there's a quiet, almost sweet expectation in his look.

She clears her throat. "You haven't finished your drink."

"You want it?" His smile is soft.

She hums an agreement and reaches for his glass, less than a finger of light amber liquid left in it, and he passes it carefully, his fingertips brushing hers. She expects the drink to be acidic, sweet and excessive in all the ways something called citrus mash should be, since she heard the name about seventeen times today, but it's—wow, it's a whiskey. Strong, fragrant, with an aftertaste she can't place, a sharp burn.

She coughs. "Wow. This is good."

"Fair warning, this one kicks." He looks pleased at her surprise, his whole shape looser, waiting.

Michael shakes her head, showing him what feels like the tenth smile of the night. "Thanks for the heads-up. It's good."

"Yeah? There's more where that came from."

"Not the bar?"

"Oh, no. My quarters."

"Oh," she says, appreciative. "You have a bottle with you?"

"As I learned today, keeping a good bar can prove motivational," he says, dead serious.

"Very practical."

His eyes flicker down to her hands and back. "What can I say, I'm a practical guy."

She chuckles. "Yeah, you are."

They breathe in silence for a little while, just watching each other, and Michael knows it will have to be her call. And, oh—she wants it. Wants to not think about the clues, and failed relationships, and the bridge, wants to feel good and make someone feel good—and this is oddly uncomplicated. If there's anyone on this ship she can trust with this, it's Rayner.

"I could join you. For another glass, I mean." She counts down the steps. Three.

He gives her a hard, no-bullshit look. Waiting for her to cave. When all she does is look back, he says, "I suppose you could." Two.

They get up silently, in sync. It feels good, them on the same page, an already familiar hum, the only new thing in it the simmering anticipation.

One.

As soon as they clear his door, Rayner turns, blocking her way into the room. "Captain."

"Michael," she says. She won't do this in command, not to him, and not to herself.

He nods. "Michael. Do you actually want me to pour you a drink?"

An out, then. For her or for himself, though, she's not sure. She's halfway through a no, not really when he raises a hand, halting her words, staring her down. Fine.

"Yes," she offers, as firm as she can. "Later."

He watches her with narrowed eyes for a second, then turns to go in. She catches his wrist and tugs until he looks back at her. "This isn't part of your job," she says, wanting him to know—he must, but this isn't something she can afford to misjudge.

He barks out a laugh, looking genuinely amused. "That what you think of me?"

"Shush," she says, before he locks down and this whole thing breaks. He looks shocked at the word. "This is not part of your job."

She holds very still until he tugs his wrist free, his mouth twitching in an abortive smile. "Fine." He raises his chin, but his eyes are still laughing.

Rayner drops the empty glass onto a bedside table, dims the lights, disappears into the bathroom. She lingers back, takes it in. She expected his room to be stark, impersonal. It's not. Mostly dark, now that he's turned the warm lights down. There's a soft-looking blue throw, not Starfleet issue, over the bed that's tucked neatly against the wall. An unfamiliar vine with round purple leaves framing the viewport above. A bottle with two matching glasses in the cabinet on the far wall. It's sparse, but nothing like the ascetic box she'd imagined.

He walks back into the room, barefoot, and stops, a little awkward, two steps in front of the bed, not wanting to—presume? Michael realises just then she was hoping—once they got past the questions—for urgent, for tumble into the room, fall into bed, shut everything out sex, and barely manages not to laugh out loud. Good pick of a partner here, Burnham.

So she steps closer and looks up at him. He's tall enough that she's used to it, but up close it's a new feeling. He seems to be holding his breath when she raises her hands to his neck. She undoes his collar and keeps hold of it—she could probably drag him wherever she wants like this. He exhales on a laughter, like he's getting the joke, and folds himself down to sit on the bed.

"Here," she unzips his jacket, slides it down his shoulders, until he shrugs out of it. It's weird to be undressing someone wearing the same uniform. She wonders how long it's been since he wore anything but. She bares his soft undershirt, regulation, same as hers. He smells good, spicy, not unlike his drink. Getting to look down at him—she's struck by his angles, his pale shoulders almost narrow. Nothing like Book.

And here's the truth of it, isn't it? She could say she's getting it out of her system, a distraction from the one thing she can't have, and it wouldn't be a lie, but—she wants Rayner, here. He's sharp, and audacious, and oddly easy to provoke into uncertainty, and his eyes go warm and a little lost when someone—when she's proud of him.

So she reaches out, palm on his cheek, and he turns immediately to mouth at it, slow, eyes fluttering closed. It's dizzying. "Good," she says, has to say, and he shudders with it. She traces the edge of his ear with a finger, light, sees the start of a blush right at the tip. He leans into it. This, here. Michael wonders why he's doing this. What it is he's looking for, or trying to shut out.

His eyes still closed, Rayner opens his mouth to speak—and she drops her knee onto the bed, between his legs, warm and close. His eyes fly open, bright and stunned. She slides her hands back to cradle the base of his skull. The short buzz of his hair there is soft, silky.

"Okay," he says, and moves in, stretching up to press an open-mouthed kiss just below her ear. She draws a sharp breath. Good instincts. He moves lower. Her clavicle. The dip between her breasts. She isn't guiding him. His lips are hot through the fabric covering her ribs, hotter on her belly. He goes to slide off the bed, to his knees, and she strokes the back of his neck, and doesn't let him. He scoffs—of course he does, and looks up with almost comical annoyance.

Michael scoffs right back. "You don't hold back in uniform—this is where you start?"

Rayner laughs then, full-on, a grin splitting his face. She's heard his annoyed laugh, incredulous laugh, hiding-something-important laugh. This one is a first. "Me on your knees for you is holding back?"

Blunt—there we go, blunt is familiar territory, and she raises her eyebrows at him. "Do what you want, not what you think I want, yeah?"

He watches her for a second, like he's considering the concept, then slowly, deliberately sits back, spreads his legs further.

"Good," she says again, presses her knee right where he's—yes, hard for it, and waits out his low, uneven moan.

"Come on," Michael says, shucks everything off until she's left in her top and underwear. He grabs at her blindly then, reaches her elbows, her waist, slides further up the bed and lies down, pulling her in. She climbs up after him, not quite straddling his hips, says, "come on, Rayner,do your part," and he rises just enough to match her, bare but for his uniform top and shorts, allows her hands to settle at his face again. She thumbs over his cheekbones, over the scar crossing his eyebrow, and he spreads his fingers over her lower back, pulls her down on a hard exhale.

She takes his hand and slides it right there between them, says "go ahead", has to grind down on his knuckles as he palms at himself, rocking up into his own hand, holds his face firmly until he's gasping with it. He's slick when she finally gets him out; bites off a curse when she slides down his body. He doesn't feel any different than what she knows—coarse grey hair at the base of a long, flushed cock; soft, vulnerable sack below it. There's so much heat under her touch when her fingers circle him, a vague reminder of his origin, and that's all she gets to file away before Rayner sinks his fingers in her hair, green light, going in now.

He's quiet and almost still as she takes him in, but that's to be expected, and she closes her eyes, goes slow, gets really into it for a while, until he sucks in a shaky breath, squeezes her neck and arches up hard, says "fuck", sharp and meaning it, and "please", and that's so mind-meltingly hot Michael moans around him and can't manage more than five seconds before coming up because she needs to see him, now.

Rayner's eyes are shut tight, teeth bared. His hands slip down her arms, shaky, his chest is moving with harsh, shallow breaths. "God, Rayner," she says, taking him in hand and pumping slowly, "you're—you're good, you're so good—" and he actually keens at that, an odd high sound.

"Stop," he says, "Michael," and she doesn't, and oh, to see what this costs him.

"What do you want?"

He gasps for breath for a moment, shakes his head. Michael sighs and stills her hand on him.

"Rayner. Look at me."

He makes a cut-off sound of frustration, almost a snarl, breathes in, and meets her eyes dead-on, clear and precise. "Fuck me."

She can't help her smile. "Thought you'd never ask."

She rolls over onto her back. His eyes are all pupil as he lands on his elbows above her, and she throws her legs around him, high on his waist, draws him in.

"Wait," he says, "let me," and strokes just the tips of his fingers under her top, watching her carefully.

"Yeah," she says, "it's alright," and he helps her take it off, nuzzles her neck, then down to her breasts. She feels him hard, leaking against her thigh, and she presses her heel sharply into his lower back until he thrusts against her with a gasp, slowly, and again, keeps it up as he kisses her nipples, her shoulder, the inside of her elbow. She groans, because fuck, he's honest about this, wanting her, wanting her approval, and she whispers, "hey, come here already," and then he's inside her, his hips rolling smoothly, stroking in, and she holds his shoulders, murmurs to him, "yeah, that's it, it's good, you feel good, come on," hears his breath hitch. He closes his eyes, and in the soft creamy glow in the room the planes of his face blur a little. His hair is damp at the roots, a soft white lock falling down against his forehead.

Michael rides his steady rhythm, closes her eyes, too, his long, heated body oddly malleable under her hands and heels, and then his breath is suddenly hot and close, and she looks up to see him unsure again, doesn't get it until his hand cups her cheek and he drops his head an inch closer, hovering, waiting for permission. Oh, God, he's so—Michael draws him into the kiss, soft and wet and scratchy with his beard, and he moans into it, sounding so relieved she has to kiss him harder, fists her hands in the back of his shirt and clenches around him until his hips snap forward harder, again and again, and then he's gone.

After—when he's stopped shivering, when he's finished her off with such care she didn't know what to do with it and kept her hands fisted in his hair, holding on—they lie next to each other, on their backs, for long, quiet minutes. It's peaceful. It's what she came here for.

The room is warmer than what Michael's used to. She thinks about dressing, then discards the idea, sits up and stretches instead. Rayner's eyes don't follow her.

"I'll take that drink now."

He snaps out of his daze and looks at her. "Oh. Um, that way." He nods in the general direction of the cabinet. She finally gets to see the bottle up close—thin, pearlescent material, the liquid inside almost sparkling as the light reflects off it.

She returns to the bed with her glass, sits down, hugging her knees. Rayner hasn't moved, watching her from where he's stretched on his back, hands behind his head, bare but for his shorts. She takes a drink and strokes his shoulder, lets herself look back.

There are scars on his body, paler against pale skin, more than he'd get on a ship—even in battles, even in decades. She doesn't know if he was hiding them, and if he was, why he'd show her now, after. He looks calm, steady, but his face is pale and tired, the lines around his mouth more pronounced.

She slides a hand into his damp hair, smoothes it back. "This time, do get some rest, okay?"

"Aye-aye." He catches her hand and kisses it. His long fingers circle her wrist, thumb stroking gently at the base of her palm.

Something sharp shifts in her throat, a fierce protectiveness. This, she knows, goes both ways.

She takes one more chance. "I'd like to keep you, after. As my number one."

Rayner frowns and lets her hand drop. "Let's see how this one goes first."

Michael sighs and shakes her head at him. "You don't have to swear to it. Just consider it." She gives his shoulder a parting squeeze and gets up to collect her clothes.

As she sits down on the edge of the bed to tug her boots back on, he puts a warm hand between her shoulder blades. "Thank you," he says to her back.

"And you." She raises her hand to her badge, but turns back to give him a smile, and, for once, he doesn't look trapped. "I'll see you on the bridge, Commander."

[random-autie-fangirl]

*slave to the whims of these tiny numbers."

*that are questioning their desire to fight you will give up."

***technically not from the handbook but I included a note from your friend, and it is an interesting line from the demo

Screenshots of said lines/moments under the cut

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

You won't judge me if I share this, right? But I think Peeta would want to be pegged by Katniss at some point. Maybe in COBLMF, maybe in another modern au of yours, hell, I think Spellbound Peeta would love to try it. And it would be so hot and tender too, with Katniss whispering reassurances in his ear while he's just whimpering and gasping in pleasure at both her cock in him and her words

I won't judge you, Anon. I will, however, put this below a cut and add a RATED E for explicit sexual content warning to it, though. Set in the COBLMF universe for reasons. One of which is the fact that anything I write that far in the future for Spellbound would inevitably contain spoilers.

If Katniss regrets anything about last night, it’s the alcohol, she thinks as she groans and silences her alarm. She takes a few deep breaths and turns her head to stare at Peeta’s still motionless body beside her. They’re both still naked, and she stretches just a little, attempting to alleviate the ache that’s taken up residence in her thighs and her butt, and gah! Even her pussy still aches from last night as she rolls over to snuggle up against Peeta’s back.

His skin is warm with sleep and is emitting, other than the faint traces of alcohol laden sweat, the morning after scent she secretly loves so much. A little musty and dirty because of the sex. God, the sex last night. She squirms at the memory, already feeling the heaviness of need settle once more in her core. She wraps her arm around his waist to bring herself even closer to him, but it does little to alleviate the growing desire she’s feeling.

They’d had a little too much wine with dinner last night. She’d been so lightheaded and giddy and happy as they sat on the couch afterwards, her head in his lap and Peeta’s fingers combing through her tresses, that when he’d asked her to tell him her dirtiest sexual fantasy they hadn’t yet done, she’d almost offered them up. Both of them. 

But she’d snorted and giggled to hide her embarrassment over her own naughty fantasies and deflected instead. 

“I honestly can’t think of anything,” she’d said and tugged him down towards her head, arching her back so that she could kiss him. “What about you?”

“Now I feel like I can’t say anything, if you’re completely satisfied,” he’d said, although his blush told her that he was holding back. Surprisingly, she hadn’t felt insulted. She knew he wasn’t saying that he found their sex lacking or unsatisfying. Because she doesn’t find their sex lacking or unsatisfying at all, but that doesn’t stop her from sometimes… imagining things.

“No, tell me. I wanna know,” she’d teased at his curls and tried to hold his mouth close to hers, because even just thinking about Peeta concocting new things for them to try had her feeling aroused. But he’d still pulled back a little.

“It’s a little out there,” he’d said, his voice gruff and sending a shiver down her spine. Of arousal. Of awareness as his hand skimmed over her belly and the growing need for him to slide his hand down inside her pajama shorts, down between her legs where she’d already grown slick and swollen. 

“It’s a fantasy. It’s supposed to be a little wild,” she’d encouraged, shifting herself to also encourage him to touch her, but he’d kept his hand frustratingly above the waistband of her shorts. And it occurred to her that, depending on what Peeta’s fantasy was, maybe she’d find the courage to tell him hers, too.

And then he’d told her.

“I’ve always wanted you to take complete control of me and fuck me.”

“Haven’t I done that?” she had asked, laughing a little and thinking of how unhinged he gets when she holds his arms down on the bed with her knees and rides his face, or pins them down with her hands and rides his cock for as long as she wants. As many orgasms as she’s able to reach and can still feel her legs.

“No, I meant…,” he’d licked his lips and bent over to whisper close to her ear. “I meant that I want you to ride my ass.”

“Oh,” she’d said quietly, and even though it hadn’t quite sunk in what he meant, when he cupped his hand under her head and lifted her towards him again, she’d kissed him back.

And it wasn’t long after that conversation before they were sprawled out on their bed, naked and in the middle of what she could only call rutting. It wasn’t to fulfill her unmentioned fantasies, nor would it fulfill Peeta’s fantasy either, because he’d been in charge. In complete control, teasing her right to the edge of an orgasm before backing off and changing how he was fucking her. Again and again and again, until she’d been a sweating, sopping, pathetic mess. Begging him desperately to let her come.

He held her down, powerless to move herself as he’d driven her to the brink. She’d clung to him, scoring lines down his shoulders and arms with her nails in his skin. Biting his pectorals and biceps, pulling his hair and thrashing her head as he tormented her. Clawing his back and then his ass when at last, the coil he’d wound impossibly tight inside her had sprung loose in a flood of heat and relief.

And as they laid there in the aftermath, her fingers lightly caressing over his taut buttocks, he’d wriggled slightly, until her fingers were teasing at his crack. And that’s when it hit her. What exactly his fantasy meant he was asking her to do.

Katniss blushes now, heated and discomforted. She knows he’s bi. Known it for a long time now. And there was that night, after she met Soup, when she used Peeta’s old crush on the burly man to fuel the fire of their sex. But this… this feels different somehow. She’s not big and muscular or burly. And if that’s the kind of man he likes to be with, Katniss has no idea how her strapping on a fake cock to fuck her husband could possibly fulfill his fantasy or even come close to his expectations.

But she loves him. Irrevocably and undeniably, she loves him.

Hadn’t she considered a threesome, after all? She’s actually a bit confused that a threesome wasn’t the fantasy Peeta had professed. It was one of hers, and this feels like something close enough to it that maybe it’d be better to try a third person instead of a fake cock. She considers bringing it up, but she still can’t quite find the courage.

The next time the topic of their as yet unfulfilled sexual fantasies arises, it’s a few weeks later, when Katniss feels a little stressed about the school year starting back up and on a whim, she uses her panties to bind Peeta’s wrists together while she rides his cock. Hard. She comes before he does and rolls off of him. Worn out. Frustrated that he didn’t come with her.

“You didn’t come,” she says as she turns her head to the side to look at him. He also hasn’t broken loose from her panties, and Katniss knows that he can. Easily. Which means he wants to be tied up a little longer.

“I want to try something,” he says quietly. “But you’re probably thirsty.”

And she is thirsty, like she often is after they make love, so she pushes herself off the bed and leaves him still partially tied up as she gets a glass of water from the kitchen. She gulps half of it down and refills it. When Katniss returns to the bed, Peeta struggles to sit up and Katniss offers to untie him, but Peeta shakes his head. 

It’s then that Katniss understands. This is one of those nights when he wants her to call all the shots. She helps him drink. And when she sets the glass aside, Peeta turns over onto his knees, resting his weight on his forearms, his ass lifted in the air for her. With Peeta’s knees and thighs spread like this, she has a perfect view of his balls, hanging heavy and low with the heat of arousal. His cock, still thick and  blushing with the need to come, angles slightly down with gravity. It’s like he’s presenting himself to her, and the very thought of it sends an arrogant, powerful thrill through her body.

As she gazes at him, trussed up like a feast for her, Peeta’s cock lurches once or twice, and suddenly she understands.

This is as close to his fantasy as they can get without actually owning a strap on.

She kneels behind him and massages his cheeks, both of them. Gripping tightly and noting the way he arches and thrusts back towards her, almost eagerly. Leaning forward, Katniss slides her hands up his spine, down his sides as she lays on top of him. Their skin warm and caressing each other as their bodies shift and sway. Katniss positions her knees a little wider and Peeta moans when she starts rocking her hips against his ass.

Not because she’s actually fucking him, she realizes as she kisses him between his shoulder blades and savors the way he trembles beneath her, but because he’s thinking about it.

Still moving her hips in a slow grind, Katniss slips her hands down. Down to caress and tease his clenched thighs for a moment before finally wrapping her fingers around his cock. 

“Oh fuck, please,” Peeta groans and she watches his fingers flex and clench, gripping the pillow as she slowly strokes his cock. 

Humping him like this doesn’t do much for her, but the sight of Peeta at her absolute mercy like this does. He pulses in her grip, and the feeling of power grows to heady heights. She drops soft kisses all over his back. Shoulders. Spine. Neck when he arches beneath her and she can reach it. He buries his face in the bedding and moans in a way she’s never heard before when she strokes faster, grips him harder. He sounds desperate and a little pathetic, but when she backs off and Peeta merely turns his head to whine that he was getting close, Katniss discovers that she loves it. Loves having this kind of control and power over his pleasure.

And there’s a part of her that knows, it’s because she sounds just as needy and pathetic when he’s teasing her to the brink of an orgasm with his hands and mouth.

“I’m tired,” she says simply. Suddenly, when inspiration strikes.

And then she grabs a pillow, balling it up as best she can and positioning it between his knees. She pushes down on his hips until Peeta’s mostly flat on the bed.

“Fuck the pillow, sugar,” she murmurs as she lays on top of him again, and Peeta’s whole body quivers beneath her, but he does it. She spreads her legs enough to rub her clit on one of his ass cheeks as he works his hips and ass, frantically humping the pillow.

Positioned like this, she can nibble on his ears and caress his sides, up his arms to pluck teasingly at the panties still holding his wrists together. Katniss relaxes into it, enjoys the feeling of him chasing his pleasure beneath her, enjoys the way his movements and his needy whimpers maintain a low level of desire inside her, too.

“I’m close. Can I come? Katniss can I come?” he eventually pleads, and she rises up to her knees, pulling him by his hips, and he follows willingly until he’s kneeling beneath her again. 

“No. I make you come,” she practically growls and Peeta’s groan tells her that’s exactly what he wanted to hear. Wrapping her arms around him again, she grabs his cock, fondles his balls and murmurs to him, tells him to thrust. So he does. He slides his cock through her grip, his moans growing louder and more desperate. His body bucking beneath hers. 

And when he comes, with a shout and a head to toe shudder that nearly unseats her, Katniss already knows. She’s going to fulfill his fantasy. Completely. Or at least, she’s going to try.

Once they’ve showered and dried off and Peeta is combing through her wet hair so he can braid it, she asks him, her voice tentative, unsure of the words. “So… the couple of times you were with a guy…you’re a bottom?” 

He hesitates for just a second, but doesn’t fully stop combing her hair. She loves it when he does this. It relaxes her until she feels like putty in his hands and words just slip from her mouth unheeded. He leans forward and kisses her neck in a way that makes her shiver and moan slightly. 

“Depends on the guy I was with and what we both wanted. I’m versatile,” he tells her. So both then. Makes sense to her, given what their preferences are in the bedroom, neither of them in complete control all the time.

He finishes braiding her hair, and they lay down in the dark. She waits, wide awake with her mind churning, until he’s sleeping soundly before she disentangles herself from his embrace. She pulls her laptop onto her crossed legs and glances at him, to make sure he stays asleep as she waits for it to boot up. When it does, she opens a private browsing window, bites her lip and shakes her hands, psyching herself up before tapping in the words.

How do I peg my husband?

An hour later, she closes the window and drags herself to bed, convinced only of the fact that in order to do this, she’s going to need a boatload of courage. And probably more wine.

[candelasobscura]

i dont understand why ppl feel the need to voice their dislike for a ship right to someones face?? like i sent the little dorym thing i wrote last night (read it here) to a different ship server (not dorym) and someone replied negatively to it which was a huge fuckin blow. now theres a rule in said server where you have to spoil mentions of other ships in the live discussion chat.

this just feels VERY intense for me sending a little thing i wrote.

[apostaterevolutionary]

An alien ship is detected in orbit. Some are elated, expecting a sharing of ideas, while others are terrified, expecting war on a scale previously unseen by humanity. Both are wrong.

First contact does not go the way anyone had ever expected.

So I posted this on my other pseud as tbh I'm just more active there lmao and I figure more people will see it than if I posted it on main. But it's a non-fandom original work so hey, might as well toss it here too

The idea haunted me until I got it out lmao, so here it is. A sci-fi horror story inspired by the likes of the twilight zone and scp about first contact going in a particular way. If that's your cup of tea, then I hope you check it out and enjoy!

[jedipoodoo]

Im not entirely sure if your asks are open or not so feel free to ignore this but i read your post about the batch with reader whos selectively mute and thats something i deal with and really related to so i was wondering if you would do the batch with someone who stims and it can vary from a small twitch to a stim that can be physically painful mine can be a small twitch or my head rolls back really fast and i usually end up smacking it against the wall pretty hard again feel free to ignore this if your not comfortable writing it thank you though for your other works im really enjoying them your writing style is amazing 😊

Notes: no warnings, gen fic (no implied romance), discussion of stims and stim toys, SFW, Wrecker has ADHD symptoms, neurodivergent Bad Batch, no use of Y/N.

Thank you for your kind words! I'm so glad you like my writing style!

"Oh hey!" Wrecker's hand shot out, cupping the back of your head before it could hit the wall.

"Careful, you could end up like me!" He grinned at you, pointing to the scar.

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment beneath your helmet, your shoulders hunched in an effort to keep yourself from stimming and swinging your head back again.

"Thanks Wrecker," You mumbled.

Wrecker watched the tension in your muscles as you suppressed your usual urges to stimulate your body. He could fairly see your thoughts racing.

"Here," he handed you a little board covered in switches and dials.

"What's this?" You asked. You flipped a couple switches, but nothing happened. Several colorful wires hung off the side of the board, and a couple of them were plugged into outlets marked with the corresponding color.

"I get a little nervous when my hands aren't doing something. That's why I like lifting Gonky so much." He pointed his thumb at the passing GNK droid, and Gonky waddled a little bit faster to get past the two of you.

"I get really nervous if I don't shut down a bomb every once in a while, but coming across those doesn't happen very often anymore," He laughed, and you had to as well. At least that was one perk to being on the run, no diffusing bombs every other day.

"Tech and Echo put this together for me to help me when my brain needs the exercise," He twirled a few of the dials and flicked one of the knobs, turning on a couple of flashing lights.

"Echo called it a stimboard. One of his guys in the 501st had one like it."

Hesitantly, you flicked a couple more switches, even plugged and unplugged a few of the wires. You can see how Wrecker might find it entertaining.

"Thanks big guy, but I don't think this'll help me with my stims," You rubbed the back of your neck and handed it back to him.

"Well then we gotta find somethin' that will!"

"That's okay, I don't need- woah!" Wrecker grabbed your arm and yanked you out of your seat, pulling you into the cockpit with Tech and Echo.

"Do you boys think you could help us make a stimboard for them?" He asked.

Tech looked up from his datapad and adjusted his goggles, reminding you so much of the countless bespectacled doctors you'd seen throughout your childhood that you couldn't help but roll your eyes.

"Given their tics, it would be hard to make a board like yours for them," but he hummed thoughtfully.

"Maybe something like a massage gun? Something that can tap them on the back of their head without it breaking their skull?" Echo suggested.

"You guys don't have to-" You started, but they were already throwing out more ideas, and Wrecker's eyes were alight with such a stimulating distraction in the middle of hyperspace.

"What do you think?" Tech asked.

You sighed, but couldn't help a smile.

"Sounds great, guys."

[coldercreation]

Random WIP, likely to remain a WIP

(--) “Boy! C’mere! Take this to the captain‘s (rooms?)??” the cook called, gruff and short, but not unkind.

?? skirted around the kitchen hands, ducking under pots, trying to avoid getting underfoot (??) (--)

“Me?” ?? asked, taking the covered tray that was being handed to him. “But-"

“The quartermaster called for you, son.”

“The quartermaster?” ?? repeated, frowning. “But... Why?”

“Still askin’ too many questions,” the cook grumbled. He piled another nice plate on top of the already heavy tray, eyeing ?? critically, probably to make sure he wouldn’t topple over with the food. “Do as ye’r told.” The cook stuffed a bite of warm bread in between ??s teeth. -- He?? grinned around the mouthful, eyes squinting pleased as the doughy, savoury taste exploded on his tongue. The cook scowled, waving him off. “Now, get!” 

-- ?

?? was slow going up the stairs, wrists straining and arms shaking. Even after all these months at sea he hadn’t been able to build the same sort of mass most of the crew seemed to put on so effortlessly. Still as puny?? and birdlike as ever, precisely what the courts and ballrooms had expected a fresh, malleable, noble youth like him to be.

Somehow ?? had managed to grow up to seem exactly what everyone around him had wanted him to be, whilst also being the absolute opposite of that.

A tarnished, wasted, angel, one of the ma’ams had called him --?? And she hadn’t even known the ‘worst’ of it; just an elderly lady scoffing at a young man’s carelessness, horrified that someone of his stature would be caught running about the gardens, barefoot and clothes damp with dirt.

“Sneaking a bite?” Crew?? asked, callused fingers reaching towards the tray. ?? shouldered past him, turning his back so the food would remain untouched. “Oi! Who’s that for?”

“The captain. And quartermaster. I think?”

“Why’s the cook not takin’ it ‘imself? Did y’steal that, y’rat? Hey!”

?? Ignored the questioning, knowing they just wanted a piece of whatever the tray held.

Not that they weren’t right to be suspicious. ?? definitely wasn’t the one who would normally interact with the captain’s quarters, nor the men who’d frequent it the most.

He knew to stay out of their way. The less they saw of him, the better. 

It was a miracle the first mate had even allowed him on board; too skinny, too polished, and too ignorant to be of any real help. 

Too naive, they had called him. Won’t last a week. Made of that posh sort of glass, not a cut to his soft hands. The sea, she’d eat him alive.

All true. Humiliatingly so.

But ?? had vowed to make it worth it for the first mate. Had given all the money he had stolen from his father and his older brothers. The steep earnings he had gotten from secretly selling one of the estate’s best stallions. 

The merchant sailors had looked at his offerings as if they were meagre pennies. Looked at him like he was just a wealth-ruined son of a lord(??) Too gullible and coddled, blind to the reality of life outside the riches he had grown up in.

And perhaps they had been right.

Perhaps someone less coddled would’ve been able to tell merchant sailors apart from the navy, and the navy apart from the... 

Well.

The pirates took his money, gladly, but at least they also took him, holding their end of the deal.

They said that, in time, he’d make a good decoy; sun bleached hair creating an aura of innocence, pale skin that burned pink in the summer heat showing he wasn’t used to the elements. He looked like a lord’s son, even in his ratty clothes. Posture pin straight, hands always politely placed, blue eyes 'pure like his bloodline'.

No one’d suspect him, they said. He looked useless, out of place, here. They’ll let their guards down for someone like him.

A decoy, they said. All ?? heard was that he was disposable.

Which he supposed he was. 

An inconvenience, more than anything. A spoiled brat who’s father and uncles were powerful enough to be wary of, who’s mother was wealthy enough to pay someone to find ??, if she’d feel inclined to do so.

Not that she would. 

Not after her maids had tattled to her about ??s games with the stable hand.

?? pushed the image of his chronically stern-faced mother out of his mind, instead focusing on the problem of knocking on the captain's door when both of his hands were occupied.

He used the worn point of his shoe, wobbling slightly balancing on one foot.

(--)“Why’s the runt here?” the captain asked tiredly, clearly having expected the head cook, as usual. The man barely glanced at ??, eyes flitting between the food placed in front of him and the books on his desk. “I thought you said we have someone who can help.”

The quartermaster rolled his eyes. “He can read and write.”

The captain paused, rings clinking against the gold trimmed plate he had been reaching for.

“That’s it?” the captain asked. His tone made ?? shift uneasily, eyes to the floor, hands behind his back. “We‘ve been sailing aimlessly for weeks... You think a lad who can read will solve our problems?”

“And write,” the quartermaster repeated, shrugging. He didn’t seem too concerned by the storm building in the captain’s gaze. “Better than nothing, surely.”

The captain closed his eyes, a deep, tortured cut pressing in between his brows. The man sighed, for a moment looking like he was praying, even though ?? knew that these men prayed to nothing but the devils living deep below the seas.

“Fine. Gods... Fine.” The captain grabbed a fork, lifting the cover from the tray to stab through a deliciously steaming potato. ?? himself had eaten barely nothing but gruel for months, their last docking just a distant memory. 

The quartermaster ushered ?? to the desk behind the captain’s more impressive decorative piece, leaving the darkly scowling man to his dinner. --

Although nothing like the main desk??, the smaller piece of furniture was still made of fine wood, its surfaces sanded smooth. It was bolted to the wall and the floorboards to keep it in place against the rocking of the ship. 

The quartermaster had a smug air to him as he piled some of the heavy books and scrolls in front of ??. He even pulled a fresh candle out just to light the space some more, the wax smooth, wick catching easily despite how damp everything on board usually was. (??)

“Anything you find about a gannet’s nest, you mark with a clear tag. Write it down, and tell one of us, or the first mate.” The quartermaster snatched a pot of ink from the captain’s shelf, pressing a silky white quill in ??s hand.

“A gannet?” ?? asked, pulling one of the scrolls closer to him, eyeing the messy cursive pensively. -- If only his old tutor ?? could see him now... “The seabird?”

“Aye, the seabird.” The quartermaster’s heavy hand landed on ?? nape, his fingers squeezing down briefly, pointedly. “Blue bill, golden cap, eats like the devil’s about to take our tomorrow. Write down anything that even hints to it, and not a word ‘bout it outside these rooms.”

The last bit, it wasn’t a question. Not even a request.

?? frowned in confusion, but he nodded all the same.

“Good lad. I’ll tell the ?? that I’ve taken you off his hands, for now. Do well and maybe we can consider keepin’ you off the – - ”? 

?? knew he wasn’t particularly smart. 

He wasn’t quick on his feet and he knew nothing of the street smarts most of the men under this sail had needed to find over the years. 

Maybe ?? wasn’t the cleverest son of a lord, but still, he refused to be thick enough to believe that the 'gannet’s nest' he was told to look for was referencing an actual gannet. 

Perhaps another ship?

Perhaps a cyphered coordinate? A sea current? A term for astrology and sailing maps?

The captain cleared his throat, dark wine spilling into his tall glass when ?? turned.

“Start with this,” the man said. Two of his smallest fingers flicked towards a thick book, the rest of them lazily wrapped around the stem of his drink.

The book was titled ‘Gannets’. 

?? tilted his head, confused, and silently questioning the sanity of these men. 

(--?)

Captain's orders, ?? read on.

The book was about... gannets. 

(--)

[skitskatdacat63]

thinking so hard about . when exactly in the martian timeline they hated and loved eachother can u help me .. cause after turkey 2010 they had their love moments as well and even in 2012 they had their buddy buddy moments so idk !!! they’re confusing

OH MY GOD IM SO SORRY I MEANT TO REPLY TO THIS AND THEN I JUST COMPLETELY FORGOT, SO: hello :D

This is something I think about often as well. Teammates are a weird dynamic in F1 because you're forced to compete for the same resources and against each other in the WDC, but at the same time have to still think combined for the team, for the WCC. I think teammate relationships are like being siblings or like being in a marriage(actually I think Mark has said this before haha.) You can never fully hate or separate from each other, even if you go through rough patches, because you're stuck together and have had the same experiences, for good or for worse.

Turkey 2010 is funny because I think that was one of their first bad moments as teammates, right? And I love that RBR made them take that couples therapy, "us in our get-along shirt", picture. That's what I mean by going through the same experiences, like yeah they were probably pissed at each other but were also probably bonding over the hilarity/awkwardness of RBR making them do damage control.

I just think it's probably difficult to stay upset with someone consistently when you're constantly working with them, and you've also experienced the highest highs and lowest lows with each other. I think I referenced this in my Martian champagne pics post but it's kinda funny when you look through all of those shared podiums that Mark always seemed to be way more willing to spray Seb and smile at him when Mark was the one who won(Literally 3/4 of the pics from that post when they were both at RBR were from Mark's wins.) Like it was such a "I can't stay mad at you 🤭" relationship with them. Like with Mark in particular, it feels like whenever he got a better result, he was mostly like "I shall forgive your transgressions." But then 2013 was kind of the last straw for him, with Multi-21, and especially since he really was getting crushed by Seb and not even getting any wins like in the prev years. But then, by removing himself from it all when retiring, he was able to take a step back and see what it was like to not be in constant, direct competition anymore.

Idk if I'm the best person to ask as I don't think I'm in any measures a great Martian scholar. But these are my thoughts :D I just think being teammates in such a competitive environment can result in such love-hate relationships and that Martian is one of the greatest examples of how it fluctuates. I think it'd be really difficult to try and parse when exactly they were on good or bad terms. For me, tbh I think it kinda correlates with Mark's results because I think with just that whole situation, where they were in as teammates directly competing at the very top, it was a lot easier for Mark, rather than Seb, to start feeling resentment as he was generally drawing the shorter straw most of the time.

Basically, teammates(Martian especially) are bonded through triumph and trauma

[twpsyn-who]

Omg I saw this TikTok and now I can't stop thinking about this but Steddie.

Just... Eddie waking up one day to find out all his clothes are gone and instead he's stuck with all these preppy rich clothes and his hair is fucking straight (which wtf where did his curls go they were natural wtf). One of the reasons he hasn't graduated at some point is because he refused to leave the trailer looking like that. What the fuck kind of living is that.

Meanwhile Steve is walking to school wearing tigh black ripped jeans and a Hellfire T-shirt (the only one that wasn't only black - he hopes his soulmates doesn't mind him cutting off the shelves) with the Dio denim jacket over and everyone is staring. Hard. And Steve is rocking that style, but is so easy for everyone to see that his soulmate is part of the freaks and they avoid him like the plague.

Depending on which period of high school this happens, imagine Steve Harrington going to the Hellfire table angry and demanding to know who's fault was for that. And by then I want to think there were more members, so it was hard to pin point who was and who wasn't at school (from an outsider's point of view- the Hellfire Club knew instantly that it was Eddie, he was the only member missing and he wouldn't be skipping school on a campaign's day). And it takes place before Nancy and the Upside Down, which makes him even angrier. He was finally going to ask her out and now he can't because his stupid soulmate is one of the freaks.

And he tells them that. He gets his frustrations out on the club and everyone in the cafeteria is watching. Gareth, new member and all, is ready to start a fight for his new friends, his new family's honor. There are some members killing Steve with their glare. Jeff, bless his soul, tries to both prevent a fight between them and show support to the club. It doesn't end into a fight, but Steve does trow his food in Gareth's head after the kid comments something about Steve's personality.

It doesn't last long, the swap. That doesn't stop Eddie from staying home for a few more days under the pretense of being sick, especially after finding out his soulmate was Steve Harrington.

Bonus : Steve getting through his character development and feeling bad for what he said/done to the Hellfire Club. Blaming his older self for fucking shits out and pushing his soulmate, the only person able to love Steve, away. Trying to find who could be, but there were so many members and many of them had graduated already and left Hawkins- and the ones left wouldn't stop looking at him like he killed one of them after leading a witch hunt on them.