#it's SO plotless

[dovewingkinnie]

anime girl gets transported into a post apocalyptic reality

[smthaboutuss]

[yyprompts]

4# 🌙❤️🤍

love-confession-related prompts

"You know I'm not the type to that anything seriously but...I mean it when I say I need you."

"I thought I made it obvious that I'm smitten over you, even your friends said it was obvious..."

"I don't have a good history with relationships but I'd like to give it another shot again, for you."

"We do live in a loveless generation, but that doesn't mean we can't try to have something meaningful."

"Yeah, I couldn't sleep last night 'cause I was up late writing poetry about you."

"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or offended that you waited so long to tell me."

"Well, now that my little brother already spoiled the surprise...yes, I am in love with you."

"You're loveless because you haven't given me a try yet."

"Come on, you knew from the moment you met me that I was gonna fall hard for you."

"All I'm asking is if we can go out sometime? Are you okay? Do you need a glass of water?"

[thatiranianphantom]

it's over too fast

He tells her to run, as harshly as she’s ever heard him. 

“Elphaba, run. Go!” 

She sees the look in his eyes, feels the terror that sings through him, and yet he pushes her away. 

“I know what I’m doing. Go!” 

He does. She knows he does. He’s seen things, seen them do things, done things himself. He’d told her this as she lay with her ear to his chest, shifting a hand up to wipe a few errant tears off his cheeks. 

Things he had to do. Lies he had to tell. Bodies. Blood. 

She knew the haunted look in his eyes, is sure it’s reflected in her eyes. He knows what the Gale Force has done. What they’ll do to him now. 

Those five days they spend together….the bliss belies all the pain they endured to get there. 

From “I’m going with her,” all the way to “Go!”, in five short days. Oz, was it only 5 days? 

He promised her forever, and both of them knew they’d probably never get it, but for a moment, she let herself believe. He’d always had enough faith for both of them. And as he turns back to her, just for a second, his eyes catch hers, and it’s Fiyero. Her kind, brave Fiyero. She allows herself the naivete that only he could strike inside her, pushes her broom off the ground and sails into the air to safety. 

They’ll meet at the castle, he told her. They’ll be together always. And their lives could start again. 

She makes toward the west, and that is when she hears it. 

The crack of a gunshot. The thud of a body hitting the ground.

And she knows. 

It’s not the guards. She knows it. She doesn’t see it, but she knows. It’s the way her entire soul stutters, the way her breath is sucked from her lungs in a split second. 

And then her cape swipes into the air and magic crackles from her fingers and the guards bodies scatter everywhere, not dead but no longer there. 

He groans and he’s alive but his body is crumbled and there is so much blood. 

His blue eyes turn to her, and they’re dimmed but still full of love. 

“Go, Fae,” he rasps. “I’ll just…slow you down.” 

But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t. 

No, she lifts his entire body onto the broom with her, clutching desperately at him as he flops like a scarecrow. Her arms burn from the effort of holding him up, keeping them balanced but she won’t stop, she will never stop. Sometimes he moans in pain, but then he goes silent and while she can feel a faint heartbeat from where her hand is pressed against his chest, it’s so slow, and he’s so quiet. 

She drives him to the most loyal of animal outposts, and from there, it’s a series of moments, all running together like rain on a windowpane. 

Begging them to take him, save him, save him. 

The magic crackling from her fingers as she racks her brain for something, anything that could help. 

The way his voice was so very weak, eyes almost closed on “Love you, Fae.” 

The way her fingers combed through the tangles in his sweaty blonde hair, useless, helpless, while he screamed in pain at them extracting the bullet. 

And his limp hand in hers when they tell her it’s up to him now, there’s nothing else they can do.

[why-the-heck-not]

what I want is a completely plotless book/tv-show/movie with characters I like just chilling & living their lives. No plot. No obstacles. Just purely character interaction

[orpheusofthestars]

80 million sub-mediocre male fantasy harem anime and not a single one has had the guts to be bisexual yet. not even a crossdressing femboy? production studios really think most guys are more willing to fuck their own sisters than they are to fuck their male best friend in a skirt? get real

[carpisuns]

chapters: 21/21

Summary: Adrien’s favorite color used to be orange. Until Marinette.

An Adrinette fic with short, drabble-y chapters all involving the color pink

21. marinette

“Okay.” With a flourish, she finishes the swirl on the last cupcake and stands back. “Not bad, right?”

She wipes at her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a tiny smudge of pink frosting behind. A lock of dark hair has escaped from her bun, threading down her shoulder.

“Adrien?” she prompts again. “What do you think?”

“You’re amazing,” he says.

Her lips twist into a smile. “I meant about the cupcakes.”

“Hmm. Let’s see.” He picks one up and raises it to his lips.

“Hey!” She tries to snatch it away, but Adrien has already stuffed the entire thing in his mouth.

“Too slow,” he says, cheeks puffed and voice muffled around a mouthful of vanilla and cherry.

Marinette puts her hands on her hips. “That was supposed to be for Rose’s party.”

He manages to swallow. “I’m sure she’ll survive with only nine hundred ninety-nine cupcakes instead of a thousand. Besides, don’t you want to hear my verdict?”

“Fine. How are they?”

Gently, he settles his hands on her waist. “Amazing. Because you made them. And everything you do is amazing, milady.”

She allows him to draw her closer, till there’s hardly any space left between them. “If you’re trying to be suave, it’s not working. You have frosting on your mouth.”

“Well, feel free to have a taste test.”

She huffs a laugh. “You’re so annoying.”

“Oh, bugaboo. It’s pronounced ‘alluring.’”

“Cut it out with the bugaboos and miladys. You’re gonna give your identity away, and then Master Fu really will take our miraculous.”

He brings his face close to hers, so that their noses are almost touching. “He could never. You heard him. We’re the perfect partners. The dream team.”

She glances at his lips. “That’s … that's not what he said.”

“Close enough.”

He closes the gap between them, capturing her lips with his. Her arms come up to drape around his shoulders, and his own arms tighten around the small of her back.

"Adrien," she murmurs, sighing against his mouth. Then her lips slant against his again, and he’s lost in her.

Marinette is his favorite person, and pink is his favorite color.

Pink like pastries and cotton candy and bubble gum.

Pink like the frosting she kisses from his lips. Like her hands in his hair and his name on her breath. Like her cherry-blossom cheeks and her sunrise smile.

Pink like her heart, in perfect sync with his.

“I love you,” he whispers.

She pulls back, studying his face, like she’s committing it to memory. Her eyes are bright and focused—the way they are when she’s trying to figure out her lucky charm. Like she’s somehow looking at him and in him and through him, all at once.

“I love you too,” she says (pink, like a rose), and the words are washed in red.

They’re the same color, really. He knows that now. Tints of the exact same hue. Ladybug was always pink, and Marinette was always red, and now, with all the pieces drawn together, he can finally recognize all the shades that make her up—from crimson to coral, scarlet to strawberry, and everything in between.

She pulls him back in, lips warm against his, and he can feel her dye him from the inside out, all her colors bleeding through him till his very bones are stained with them. Till he feels them singing through his veins and swelling in his lungs. Till he feels like he might burst with it—his favorite color, the color of her heart.

Love is pink, and so is Marinette.

[fortune-maiden]

@cypherptqueer the peishui + hx scenario you described earlier has fogged up my mind as well and inspired... whatever this is ahaha

Thank you ;w;

-

In the eternal broad daylight of Heaven, in the large open gardens of the Wind and Water Palace, the last thing He Xuan expects to see is the Water Master fooling around.

Shi Wudu is not the type. He is stoic to the point of arrogance, as strict with himself as he is with others. Even in the comfort of his own home, he is not someone who can openly relax. Any softer side he bears is reserved solely for private moments with his brother, moments He Xuan often hears about, but would never be allowed to witness.

And yet, it’s his voice, loud and spirited, He Xuan hears from the garden as he trails after Shi Qingxuan down familiar halls. White robes come into view, alongside golden armor, their respective figures oblivious to the rest of the world.

Pei Ming’s arms are wrapped tight around Shi Wudu’s waist. He brazenly kisses the back of his neck as he lifts him up and holds him over the koi pond. Shi Wudu screams out threats at him, but he does so laughing, his cheeks dusted pink with a rare dimpled smile across his face.

It shouldn’t be possible for Shi Wudu to make a face like that, He Xuan thinks, a knot forming in his stomach as he stops to watch the intimate scene. To look so happy, boyish even, to gaze upon someone without any of the contempt that defines him.

This isn’t how Shi Wudu is supposed to be. This isn’t how He Xuan wants to see him.

“Ming-xiong, let’s go,” Shi Qingxuan calls out, walking straight ahead, and looking straight ahead too.

“Isn’t that your brother?”

“Nope. Not at all. Just some palace attendants fooling around.”

“That is definitely your brother. And General Pei.”

Shi Qingxuan stops. “Ugh, look, you need to meet me halfway, okay? There are some things a little brother isn’t supposed to see, okay?” But it’s already too late – the splash as the two go tumbling into the pond is hard not to turn towards. Shi Qingxuan and He Xuan are treated to a show of swearing and shoving, and then shameless laughter as the great General Pei suddenly declares he can’t swim and clings to an exasperated Shi Wudu for rescue. Shi Qingxuan grimaces, lip curling in disgust, before he grabs He Xuan’s wrist and forcefully pulls him away.

When they’re safe inside Shi Qingxuan’s rooms, and the echoes of laughter stop replaying in his head, He Xuan remarks, “Your brother is certainly bold.” He’s not so crass as to rub the relationship into Shi Qingxuan’s face, especially when he’d equally like to forget what they’d just witnessed. “What a nice smile.”

His voice sounds as cold as he feels. Shi Qingxuan only sighs.

“Ge’s smiles are always nice,” he mutters. “But that side of him… that’s only for General Pei.”

There’s no one else in the world who can make Shi Wudu feel so secure and happy.

Neither of them likes it.

[panevanbuckley]

tired of how much i miss you

[read on ao3] | buddie | 2.7k | gen

11 days, 3 hours and 24 minutes.

11 whole days. 3 painful hours. And 24 agonising minutes.

That’s how much time has passed since Buck last heard from Eddie, since he last got to hear his soothing voice whisper all the dates he has planned for them when he returns home, since he last got to trace the little crinkles at the side of his eyes through the screen when he smiles.

And it’s been the longest 11 days, 3 hours and 24 minutes of Buck’s life.

Make that 25 minutes now.

i should probably stop writing random fics at literally every spare moment i have but it seems i have no control over myself 🤷

[cheapbourbon]

Hunters Knight : proselytize

[floundrickthewayfarer]

When Arthur is hurt, John's overprotective side comes out in full force. (AKA my excuse to give them tea and snuggles.)

I'm in the middle of writing a longer, angstier Malevolent fic, so I took a break to write Arthur and John fluff. <3

[snakes-of-the-undercity]

…

should I drop my lowkey shitty Vi doodles on here? And my lowkey never gonna be finished, plotless platonic character-insert fanfic that’s set before season 2?

[reshirfuse]

i hope everyone knows that i'm #1 pink diamond lover forever and ever and ever i'm obsessed with this character and i loved her the more messy she was revealed to be <3 i love complex characters i love my girlypop who has BPD i love her to bits everyone Observe. shes so cluster B it's crazy how good she is. Is PD short for pink diamond or personality disorder you decide! "Steven Universe normally" book meme and "Steven Universe if i was allowed to hug pink diamond" and it's 2 pages long cause i would have given her so much love there would be no plot. <3 anyway that is my two cents. Pink Diamond <3

[renshengs]

the problem with when i get into fairly popular ships is i get into my very hyperspecific interpretation of that ship. combine that with my generally picky attitude towards fanfic and you get "well if no one's going to write it I'LL write it". so here we are. it's happened before and it's happening again

[keylimeart]

head office can't get mad at you for subtly flirting, right?

[philtstone]

if you’re still taking prompts from that list, I’d love to see your take on the nemesis one for any of your modern AUs!

sorry it's not an EXISTING modern au but it is. a modern au. partially inspired by many many many things most significantly a post i literally cannot find again no matter how hard i look... also by anne from anne of green gables. anyway, this is mostly just vibes. and my own salad shirazi opinions. in that order.

In Arwen's house growing up family dinner was always a shared time of day, so it makes her glad that the small apartment her father moved into last year honours the same principle.

“It’s not that he irritates me,” eighteen year old Eowyn, fresh out of her first term of university and with her long gold hair in a tangled braid down her back, is explaining from the dinner table. “I hardly get irritated easily — it’s just that he’s so sweet and friendly all the time, I am sure he’s up to something.”

“Eowyn dear,” says her uncle. His attention is mostly absorbed by the newspaper in front of him. “If you might repeat that first part aloud, and reflect on it a bit.”

Eomer snorts from the sink. Gandalf had tasked him with washing the dishes — he had more or less nothing to contribute to meal making. Eowyn makes a face at him.

“I am good tempered. It’s just no one who’s normal is that nice. Certainly not a man.”

Gandalf, who’s in the midst of a very complex chess game with Arwen’s father, chuckles a bit. 

“Indeed?” Ada asks, with a wry smile. Eowyn blushes.

“Do not tease her, you men,” Arwen says, sweeping in to add hot water to the tea cups. The pale green flats of the fragrant tea leaves sent in express overseas mail by her maternal grandparents swirl in the kettle’s pour. Authentic green tea has a potency Arwen has not found in anything purchased around here. “You know she isn’t talking about you, and anyway, she’s right.” 

While Gandalf says, “Do tell us more, then,” charitably, Arwen returns to the small kitchen island. The rice is coming into its own in the cooker. Rice is always a comfort; it unites across cultures and races. Admittedly to this day Ada will prefer jasmine to basmati, no matter Arwen's own fascination with the latter. She sets about peeling two thick skinned cucumbers and dicing them, along with tomatoes from Mr Bilbo's garden, into a bowl. Then comes the shallot, and its lilac purple skin. Arwen has always loved the colour lilac. She has a nightgown a shade lighter than this onion, which her fiance sighs over dreamily every time it’s taken out.

Behind her Aragorn chops tarragon for the lentils, which are bubbling. He has embraced jasmine rice since childhood. His hair is tied out of his face and just barely escaping the doom of a man bun (Aragorn is too sincere about everything to accidentally look like the smarmiest versions of his countrymen) and he smells of fried onion and rose oil, like he often does when in this place. In matter of fact he smells like this kitchen is decorated: the multiple little knick knacks lining the sil, the old silver, the warm reds of the woven rug in the floor (one of an innumerable number kept in Iverworn’s house), and the cracked old laminate tiling – brown. There is some comfort in the idea that Gilraen's old apartment is still in the family. Only now, Ada has his little shrine in the den which doubles as his study, and a few more photographs have been added to the baby pictures lining the front hallway.

On the other end of the table Gimli and Legolas sort through Bilbo's rock collection while the old man gives running commentary on where he found each one. Arwen’s cousin is being educated on geology in the process. Frodo and Sam and the rest are still at school; Aragorn has volunteered to go pick them up in a half hour.

“This ought to go in the sedimentaries pile, Legolas. You see the distinctive layering – to really know we’d check for carbonate, but I’d say this is a solid limestone.”

“I don’t understand. Many of them have layers. That one with the crystal –”

“Running in parallel. Look, they’ve sedimented. It’s in the name, for Mahal’s sake. The geode, a sedimentary rock? Preposterous.”

“I found that one in Dale you know. It was, oh, twenty years ago or so now — I’d just had a pint with your dad, Gimli – you remember what he was like twenty years ago, wearing those garish red turbans (though they suited him well) – and when we came out on the street there it was by the lamp post, a little lump of a thing. I thought to myself, why, that looks just like Lobelia’s terrible laddoo – you haven’t tried them, but they’re glorified pebbles, with how dry and small she makes them – and then I turned it over and thought, where might a pretty piece of rock like this come from in the middle of such a town? But then, Dale is very metropolitan …“

Absently, Arwen begins humming to herself.

“Won’t someone put on some decent music?”

“Don’t look at us old men, Eomer. Haven’t the youth got a stereo system?”

“Oh, it's all Bluetooth now. Ah — I have your rook there, Elrond.”

“No he hasn’t; that’ll put his queen in jeopardy.”

“Keep your eyes on your lentils, Estel, my own function perfectly well. He’s been doing this since he was a boy.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” says Gandalf, with the wise knowing of someone who was there to witness such behaviour in person.

Between it all, everyone is somehow still managing to listen attentively to Eowyn as she expounds her theories and suspicions.

“He’s asked four times if we could study together after class. Four times. The next major exam we have is worth sixty perfect of the grade and I’m sure he saw me speaking with the professor last week because I was so determined to pass it. No one passes that exam, according to the third years –”

Arwen stirs the lentils and wonders if they ought to take a little bowl to the shrine.

“Perhaps he’s looking for a friend,” says Gandalf philosophically.

“Maybe he’s a creep, like Wormtongue was,” suggests Eomer darkly.

“He’s only starstruck by a girl in the engineering course,” says Bilbo, with a bit of (not unkind) humour in his voice. Then he reaches into his large duffel, which he lugged indoors with Aragorn and Eomer’s help, and extracts a box of fresh sweets for the table. These, Arwen hopes, are better than Lobelia’s – though she is sure they will be much too sweet for her own taste.  

“There are girls in engineering these days, old friend,” Gandalf interjects with a raised eyebrow, but Eowyn is not really paying attention to either of them.

“Last week at lab he gave me a book about zoological diseases I mentioned off hand almost a month ago,” she says with that earnest way she has. “That doesn’t have anything to do with engineering. Do you think he was trying to throw me off my game before our lab quiz?” 

It is very hard to keep a straight face at this inquiry, but Arwen – and many others present – manage it. “Have you considered that he might have just thought you’d like it?” asks Arwen.

“But that’s none of his business,” Eowyn says, as though this was obvious. 

“How did he know you liked it then?” asks her brother, baffled.

“We’ll — I told him,” says Eowyn. She flushes a bit. “But he initiated the conversation. We should have been talking about closed circuits.”

“Or nothing at all, apparently,” says Ada gravely.

“You don’t know him. He’s got a look in his eye. I can just tell.”

“Oh look, I’ve found him on Facebook.” 

And so Legolas has, and they all converge around his smartphone while Eowyn glares defiantly. 

“Faramir, is it? You know, he kind of looks like you, Estel.”

“Yeah – if you were much scrawnier and looked like a dweeby engineering student.”

“They look nothing alike,” says Eowyn hotly, crossing her arms – Arwen cannot help but catch Aragorn’s eye (he looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh, not helped at all by Gandalf, who is looking right at him, and skillfully masking his own merriment besides) “and Aragorn would never be such a — a — a snake, anyway.”

Arwen agrees with this hypothetical assessment, at least. She rummages through the fridge and retrieves the fresh clutch of herbs she needs for her salad.

“But what has he done, Eowyn. The poor boy. There is a bit of dweebishness there, isn’t there … indeed …”

“Look at the last name; isn’t that Denethor’s boy?”

“Oh yes, that would explain it. Engineering? Of all things? I always thought he had a poet's soul when he was a kid.”

“I wonder how they’re doing – haven’t spoken to the man in an age, you know.”

“Denethor you mean?”

“Well, not since the incident with that poor tree in the synagogue’s front yard,” says Gandalf sadly. “You were there Aragorn, you remember –”

“Hmmm,” says Aragorn grimly.

“Well I told you,” interrupts Eowyn. “I haven’t got proof, just suspicions! He’s trying to psych me out of this program. But I tell you – I won’t let him!” 

Arwen wonders if perhaps Eowyn had grown up around sisters, she wouldn’t insist so very hard on sticking it out through a degree she is not really interested in. These ruminations are interrupted by a soft touch at Arwen's waist. “Hm?” she says.

“I’m off to pick up the kids,” Aragorn begins in a low voice (the assembly continues to chatter behind them). She smiles at him, then stops: for reasons unexplained he is suddenly offering her a horrified expression he usually only reserves for conservative Tik Tok mommy vloggers and occasions where Pippin is about to grievously injure himself on the park playset.  “... What are you doing?” he asks.

“Adding the mint,” she says serenely. 

“Fresh?” Like she must be mad.

“Doesn’t it have mint?” 

It is his grandmother's recipe, after all; silly man.

“Dried.”

“Your mother always said it had to be fresh.”

“Fresh dried mint,” he clarifies, gravely.

“Really Estel.”

“Take over the lentils.”

“That was your job — and you’ve got to pick up Frodo and his friends.”

“In ten minutes.”

“You’re going to ruin it. Mr I Can Subsist On A Can Of Beans.”

“I can subsist. That doesn't mean you can add fresh spearmint to a perfectly good salad. It tastes completely wrong.”

“Estel …” But Aragorn has already ducked beneath the counter to reach deep into the recesses of their spice cabinet and retrieve an extremely dusty repurposed jar of dried mint, now cradled in his brown hands. The half-peeled label is for sour cherry preserves, which Arwen is sure no one in this family has bought from a store since they discovered the tree in Ada’s backyard.

“This is hardly fresh,” Arwen says archly.

“I dried it last week,” he says, all innocence. His t-shirt is worn and ratty enough that its low collar shows off her old necklace. She can see the jade flower and her own name etched in the characters of her mothers language at the center.

She sighs. Kisses his cheek; takes the mint. “Go fetch Mr. Bilbo’s wards.”

“They’re going to make a mess of my car,” he says, as if he did not happily volunteer for this task.

“Your car is already a mess, my love.”

So he goes, grinning. Arwen adds the mint to the salad and renters the fray.

“Eowyn,” she says. “Perhaps the next time he asks to study, you might take him up on it. That way you can get close enough to catch him at his awful scheme.”

Eowyn's mouth widens in a ponderous oh, as if she had never thought of this. Arwen pats her shoulder comfortingly.

“Food will be ready in ten minutes,” she says. Ada is smiling at her — a true smile, not without its own edges of memory, but no longer the bittersweet thing of three years ago. Arwen smiles back.