#another snippet

[cortexcollapse]

I don't understand why I like this.

Oh?

Like I have a distant memory of not liking this.

Tell me pet, do you need to worry about things you don't understand?

*uncontrollable giggles* nooo

Why not?

Because worry makes me think and i am better when I don't think *keeps giggling*

That's right, good girl. Now back as you were.

[laiamadej]

Ciphertology au but i barely draw Bill.

Like, i genuinely have never draw him in this au like...at all..

Anyway! Not a ship💜

Also,

[rriavian]

WIP Snippet (the season 1 AU where the Corinhian seduces Dream in an attempt to avoid being punished for rebelling):

The Corinthian didn’t want to apologise. 

But he knew he had to for his plan to work. 

It was a good sign that Dream hadn’t immediately destroyed him, but this was the true test of it, the moment of action.

“I’m sorry milord,” The Corinthian purred as he moved closer, low and seductive, felt the pressure of that earthquake increasing with each step. He ignored it, forced past it, getting right up to Dream so he could take the book from his hands—wanted to brush his fingers against his, wasn’t brave enough yet—closing it and setting it aside. “Did you miss me?”

The play felt better.

It wasn’t penitent, he wasn't slinking back into the Dreaming with his tail between his legs, instead returning with a sharp smile and a complete lack of remorse.

Dream didn’t move.

He must still be deciding what he wanted to do.

The Corinthian wanted to hesitate, didn’t let himself, took hold of one of those pale hands. The fingers were so slender, so small, so delicate in his grasp that even if the Corinthian wasn’t playing at gentleness he’d still feel tempted to it, tricked into thinking he could fracture bone with one wrong move.

“Let me make it up to you, hmm?”

He dared run a finger across the length of Dream’s hand, the calloused tip gliding across smooth skin, so icy cold. The Corinthian couldn’t really think about that. He couldn’t think at all, couldn’t allow himself to, would assess this later—how Dream’s skin felt, the forbidden so enticing, the fear of it just as good—the line he was crossing so set it had never even been questioned let alone crossed. Breaching it felt like shoving through something dense, fighting instinct, deference, threatening a rule of nature.

Of existence. 

The Corinthian wouldn’t let his struggle show.

He raised Dream’s hand to his lips; shattered that sacred line as he pressed a first soft kiss to his knuckles, then another, then still more, turned the hand so he could reach the wrist. The Corinthian went slow, found the jut of bone at the base of the palm, kissed it tenderly. Oh Dream’s skin felt good beneath his lips, oh how he wanted to taste—

Oh how he would.

The next kiss was open mouthed, the start of a series of them trailing languidly up Dream’s forearm, slow and wet. The Corinthian knew he was being watched, put on a little show; gentle fingers pushing back the sleeve, undressing him with confidence as he revealed more and more skin, did it so he could get his mouth right up to the bend of Dream’s elbow. It had the added benefit of tugging him closer, and the Corinthian was ruthless as he took advantage, had a hand on Dream’s waist to keep him there. It rested under that loose coat, over that thin shirt, so close and yet still so far from bare skin.

The Corinthian took it all in.

He was saving this for later; the taste of him, the scent, the feel of skin beneath his lips, so close to his teeth.

Dream tensed. “This is not—“

“Shh.” The Corinthian interrupted—dizzy with the gall it took to shush Dream, hiding a taunt in the soft little sound, a mocking thing dressed as comfort—undeterred as he continued mouthing at pale skin. “Relax.”

He traced the line of a vein with his tongue.

The blue of it like a bruise the Corinthian could follow right down to Dream’s wrist, a delicate line, proof of blood pumping away beneath. He pretended he was a risk of breaking the skin, a gentle lick without teeth; coaxing, tasting while teasing, feeling confident because despite the protest he wasn’t being pushed away.

“Enjoy it.”

“This is not an apology.” Dream said tersely, stubborn, yet despite his words he still did nothing to truly fight back. “You are being presumptuous to try and claim me this way.”

“Presumptuous am I?” The Corinthian grinned as he looked up, deciding it was time to call out his lack of any real protest, eyes open just enough to suggest a bite, to suggest at half lidded. “Then ask me to stop, my lord. Order me away. Punish me instead.”

He met Dream’s eyes with the teeth of his own.

The Corinthian fell upon the full force of that universe, the swirling scatter of it, too close to run for cover, too close to be anything but naked underneath the weight of everything Dream was. The Corinthian couldn’t buckle, couldn’t do anything but keep grinning and let all that power decide whether it wanted him to drown.

It was a gamble. 

Perhaps it was a stupid one.

The Corinthian could try and stack the deck in his favour, went back to lavishing attention across Dream’s skin, used a little more force. This time he grazed teeth against his forearm, licked across the curve of muscle and sucked, found those firm little places that had probably never been bitten before. It was an enjoyment, a slow tasting, a spoon licked clean and flavour chased even after it was all gone. This was idle adoration, casual abundance in every flick of his tongue, the promise that for all the Corinthian was giving there was more, could still be more.

“…You may continue.”

It was said quietly, almost too soft for him to hear, but for all his idleness the Corinthian had gone into this laser focused, calculated.

The agreement was sweet to his ears.

The Corinthian found himself almost dizzy with relief; the worry in his stomach wanted to uncurl but he wouldn’t let it, needed that survival instinct sharp because this was far from victory. Dream was only just starting to relax into his grip. Almost tentatively, almost shy, a softening that made him think delicate, a treasure to be held gently, kept safe. For a moment the Corinthian wondered what this could have been like if he’d caught him in anger instead, if he’d come to Dream and told him everything he’d done in the Waking World.

If he’d made those eyes glow with anger.

That would have been glorious, if ultimately deadly, but somehow he’d seemed to have struck gold, picked exactly the right moment to do this.

Perhaps the Corinthian's audacity was intriguing enough for Dream to keep entertaining it. Perhaps he was unused to being treated like this—never had something come up to him with confidence, stepping close on purpose—inexperienced at being pursued.

Unused to being chased.

[the-darkness-does-not-bargain]

Over the next several weeks, sightings of the angel were reported all over the globe, from Juneau to Dubai to Tokyo.  They were always brief, a quick burst of light, the flapping of massive wings, and then gone again.  The angel's intentions were unknown, since she never stayed long enough to answer more questions, but the most popular theory posited that she was looking for something, and it was anyone's guess as to what.

The Vatican had thus far refrained from making an official statement, at the urging of the OCS, and Church officials answered all inquiries with variations of "we are looking into the matter".

Still, the fervor that erupted in the wake of each new sighting was stronger than anything Adriel had managed to achieve.  His cult had been large and effective in marketing their ideas, but this was on another level.

Beatrice supposed it had to do more with aesthetics than anything concrete.  Adriel had performed eye-catching miracles and modeled himself after the sanitized Western image of Christ, but even at the height of his influence, he still looked like an average human man, mundane, unremarkable.  But the Angel of St. Peter's Square could never be mistaken for a human, a fact that inspired believers as much it unsettled skeptics.

Both official news stations and unhinged conspiracy theorists alike attempted to predict where the angel would appear next, trying to draw patterns where there were none as far as the OCS could tell.

Indeed, there was only one thread of consistency across locations, and Beatrice kept the knowledge of it to herself.  Whether because she feared what others would do with the information or because she didn't want to acknowledge what it meant, it mattered little.  Every city on the list was one Beatrice had visited, or had passed through on her journey.

The Angel was looking for her, and Beatrice didn't know how to feel about it.  The implications were… well, she wouldn’t entertain them.  Her hopes had been dashed before, several times, and she simply didn't have the fortitude to break her own heart again.

Still, she suspected it was only a matter of time until It (or She?  She, she, she) found her.  That was why she ultimately agreed to Mother Superion's request to return to Cat's Cradle, buying a train ticket to carry her from Warsaw to Madrid.  She could have flown, but a flight would only take about 4 hours whereas the train would take 37, and she had always been partial to delaying the inevitable.

[darter-blue]

you know what this for 🤣

I do, oh miss cheeky cheekster. I certainly do.

So here you are (and for @possibleplatypus and their gentle pressure 🤣)

How can I say no to that little gif Ali?

Okay, you asked for it, another snippet of Angsty fake dating

Staring Steve I-run-from-my-feelings Rogers. Captain Clamerica

'Oh yes, no, right, that was Sharon,' Steve says, watching as she leaves them in her dust.

'And she's part of your team?' Bucky asks, turning back from where Sharon has disappeared, off to argue with Fury about the absurdity of these accords.

'Sort of, I guess it's different with Sharon.' Sharon is Shield, but not an Avenger, and probably one of the few Shield agents Steve trusts right now. That makes her different than team, it makes her an ally. But Bucky doesn't want to hear all that. Bucky can barely meet Steve's eyes lately. 

Why would he want to? 

If Steve could just find a way… a way for them to be friends again… 

'Oh right,' Bucky says,  'Yeah, I guess I can see that.'

'She's pretty amazing,' Steve nods, it goes without saying, she's Peggy's niece. It's in her blood. 

And Bucky looks at the empty space where Sharon was, looks at Steve. 'She makes more sense for you than me, that's for sure.'

'She's an agent,' Steve says without thinking,  it does make more sense for them to spend time together, that's just logical. And then realises what Bucky means. 

'Wow, way to stick the knife in, Stevie.'

And it could be the way Bucky is laughing, it could be the way he's finally looking at Steve instead of through him. But it's honestly almost entirely the way he says 'Stevie', so familiar, so soft, that has Steve’s brain malfunctioning.

'We have a lot in common, that's all.'

And Bucky nods with a sad little smile. But it's a smile. 'Well I'm happy for you, Steve.'

'Thanks, Buck,' he says, almost reaching a trance like state.

He's going to just let Bucky believe he's dating Sharon Carter. He's going to lie to this man, this beautiful man, this good, perfect man, so desperate is he to share the same space. To breathe the same air. 

That's it. That's all you get.

💙💙💙

[coykoii]

Her expression doesn’t give anything away for a minute, but then she nods slowly and slips into the seat across from him. “I’m listening.”

Peter takes a slow breath, kneading his fingers together, and says, “I’m happy for them. I know that they deserve this, but I just...I don’t think I’m happy for myself. Does that make sense?”

“Trust me, it does.”

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know how to feel, which is...stupid.”

“If you could’ve done anything differently, would you?”

[captainderyn]

@skullinacowboyhat I don’t know what this little idea is but its baseless and lots of time in the future from our rp and wanted to be written. I guess? Thanks brain. 

The last time Tacka sensed an achingly familiar signature in the Force it had torn almost everything he thought he knew about the past five years of his life and left it shattered on the floor. Dakhoel had reappeared in his life and been dispelled almost as quickly, but not before shaking him to his very core. 

This though, this signature he picked up on in a sea of unfamiliar colors and energies in a Nar Shaddaa spaceport didn’t leave him with a twisting stomach. Instead, it brought a smile to his face and he practically bounced on his toes to see above the coutless heads swarming by. Glancing over his shoulder at Qeeo, in the midst of trying to convince a faulty customs droid that their ship was indeed registered and able to leave the Smuggler’s Moon, he barked a quick, “I’ll be right back!” over the din and waded through the sea of people. 

 Qeeo called back something like an affirmative before going back to bickering with the droid as Tacka focused on that force signature, peppering his trail with muttered: “’scuse me.”s and “sorry”’s to people he ducked by.

It had been long enough since they had fallen out of contact that maybe he should be worried about approaching in the middle of a spaceport, but he was too enthralled by the sense of a familiar friend that the thought just barely touched his mind. When he got close enough to be able to see a familiar pair of yellow lekku he dared to call out: “Sunny?” 

Jogging to catch up as she turned into a slightly less crowded hallway, probably leading back to her own ship’s hangar, he called out again, albeit more uncertainty. What if she didn’t want anything to do with him after all this time? If he had taken too many steps back and not enough forward, after getting caught up in Ziost and the storm after that. “..Sunny?” 

Just as he was about to retreat back into the crowd and run back to Qeeo to pretend he hadn’t made such an error, she turned curiously. In a second her expression morphed into one of surprise, eyes widening, and in the next, it broke into a smile. “Tacka?! I didn’t hear you and...” She halved the distance between them and held her arms out to him. “Stars I didn’t even recognize you at first!” 

Tacka accepted the invitation for a greeting hug, her hands motioning him over and smiled when they both stepped back, Sunny’s hands remaining locked on the sleeves of his spacer-like leather jacket, her eyes sharp and curious. “Your hair is long, and your robes, they’re gone...what’ve you been up to these last few years?” 

“Oh you know.,” Tacka shrugged, sliding a false smile in place as his mind unhelpfully produced an itemized list of the things that had happened ever since he had last seen Sunny. “I’ve been around a bit.” 

[no-im-starsky-hes-hutch]

It had taken a lot to convince the doctors to let him in this room. It was a pretty big risk; Hutch was contagious. Very contagious. But he couldn't just keep watching him whither away through the window. He had to be here.

"Hey, Hutch," he started, finding it a bit of a struggle to keep his voice even. "Can you hear me?" He stepped to his partners side, examining his face. It was pale and beaded with sweat. When he opened his eyes, turning them onto Starsky, they were glassy and slightly unfocused. But, he offered a weak smile, and it provided Starsky the slightest bit of reassurance. "How're you feeling?"

Hutch took a shaky breath before replying, voice gravelly and strained. "Peachy."

Starsky managed a half-hearted laugh. "Well, you look terrible," he said, his hand finding Hutch's arm and running down it until he could squeeze his palm. The feverish heat radiating from Hutch's hand sliced through Starsky's glove.

"Thanks," Hutch shot back, and a cough rattled his entire body. His face scrunched up in pain and Starsky's chest tightened. Starsky let his free hand shoot up to Hutch's forehead, brushing back his sweat-slick blonde hair. He wanted to say something, but the words felt frozen in his throat as he watched Hutch struggle to find his breath. It felt like an eternity before his partner could speak again. "Find 'em yet?" he asked weakly.

"Not yet," Starsky admitted, "but we're close, you just gotta hold on."

Hutch closed his eyes. "It... it hurts to breathe, Starsk," he whispered, barely loud enough for Starsky to hear.

Starsky looked away, trying to ignore the sharp pang of dread that shot through his chest. "I know, partner, I know," he said, tightening his grip on Hutch's hand. "You're going to be okay. You have to be okay," he said, struggling to keep the desperation he felt out of his voice. It wasn't working. "I can't- I can't loose you. I already lost Terry, I can't- not again."

Hutch's eyes opened again, meeting Starsky's, but he didn't say a word. He didn't have to.