You deserve all the nice messages >3 Your art always inspires and gives me so much life and you are so wicked cool, thank you for all your hard work~! ❤️ You're wonderful and you should feel wonderful.
Oh my gosh m’dear x-x you are far too nice, thank you so much!! Aaaaaa!!! I’m at a loss for words when people are so kind so here have a raccoon gif lol :’( thank you so much! You are wicked cool right back, I feel like I’ve won the lottery with such badass talented people like you around me. Gah!! thanks omg!! ♥
Hi! Quick question, how can you single handedly be one of the funniest blogs while be one of the kindest muns on this website, combined with an amazing art style? Are we all secretly living in an anime? Are you the protagonist? When are you going to unlock your final form? Roughly how far away are we from the inevitable "beach party" arc?
Castiel was a gentle lover, to a fault really, clearly terrified of hurting Dean. He supposed it was hardly surprising, with the strength of an angel all it would take was one moment of carelessness and he could destroy Dean. After all, before Dean, Cas had never had sex while in possession of his grace. Dean bore it out for as long as he could, but soon he couldn’t take it. Every kind word and soft caress sent agonising shards of guilt radiating through him, far worse than anything he had experienced in hell. He didn’t deserve this, couldn’t.
“Cas?” Dean spoke into the sheets as Cas softly topped him from behind.
“Can we…” Dean trailed off, he couldn’t say it out loud, couldn’t vocalise something as personal as this.
“Can we what? What do you want?” Cas walked around the bed to where he lay, kneeling down so his face was level with Dean’s, concern creasing those beautiful features. Dean sat up slightly.
“I just… It just…” He couldn’t find the words.
Cas reached a hand out to stroke Dean’s cheek, no doubt feeling the tension in his jaw, seeing the fear of rejection in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Dean looked down, scared that Cas would read his thoughts, and be scared away. Cas leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on Dean’s lips. “You know you can tell me anything.” He said quietly, eyes conveying the heartfelt conviction of his words, the honesty of an angel.
“You’re being…Too nice to me.” Dean looked directly at him with those last words. Too late to turn back now.
He could see confusion cloud Castiel’s expression, he wondered if the angel would even have the human knowledge to understand his meaning, then it cleared.
“I don’t have to be.”
With that, he slammed Dean back down on the mattress, holding him down with a firm hand pressed into the small of his back as he moved to straddle him. He thrust into Dean, hard enough for the headboard to crash against the wall.
Dean cried out. He felt Castiel falter for a moment, lessening the pressure on his back with the hint of a question. Dean nodded his head a fraction of an inch, and that was all the confirmation Cas needed. He resumed fucking Dean, each thrust somehow harder than the last, reaching depths Dean didn’t know he had.
Dean grabbed the sheets, fists curling around the material in an attempt to ground himself. Cas noticed his movements, then in a single smooth motion, pulled his arms away from the bedspread and pinned them to his lower back, effortlessly holding them there with one hand as the other grabbed a fistful of hair and shoved his face down hard into the mattress.
Dean shook as an orgasm was wrenched from his soul, his hips violently bucking beneath Castiel’s punishing weight. Castiel’s own orgasm following close behind.
Cas collapsed on top of Dean, releasing his hands and his hair as he did so. Dean just lay there as Cas planted tender kisses across his shoulders and the back of his neck. It was only when he moved up to kiss his cheek that Cas realised he was crying, tears streaming down his face and soaking the mattress below, his shoulders starting to shake from the silent sobs. Cas hurriedly rolled him onto his side, horrified that he had caused such pain in the man he loved so much.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” The words rushed out, the panic increasing as Dean only seemed to cry harder, his sobs vocal now. “Dean I-”
“Thank you.” Dean spoke hoarsely, the tears not letting up despite his words. Cas was utterly confused.
“I can heal you if you’re hurt, let me-” he reached out a hand to heal whatever damage he had done, but Dean took hold of his wrist and gently moved it away.
“I’m not hurt Cas. I’m… I’m great. I just… I’d needed that for so long…” The tears that had begun to let up flowed down his cheeks once again. Dean turned his face away, feeling shame redden his face as his senses returned. Cas sat back down beside him, pulling him up with the lightest of touches, then brought his face to his and kissed the tears away. Dean leant into the angel’s touch and kissed him softly, slowly, and completely honestly.
“Thank you.” Cas murmured against his lips, his voice deep and emotional.
“What for?” Dean asked, feeling that he should be the one doing the thanking.
“For letting me see you, the real you.”
Dean responded with a deep kiss, not knowing the words to describe all that he felt in that moment, he didn’t need to. Castiel knew all he wanted to say. He let out a blissful sigh, and lay down to rest in the warmth of his angel’s arms, at complete peace for the first time.
“How are you feeling today?” Absolutely nothing to be honest. Most of the time it is absolutely nothing. If anything, like none of this is real. These people, aren’t real, I am not real, the sky out there isn’t real, our society isn’t real, this body I am in isn’t real. Nothing is real nothing is substantial nothing nothing nothing. I’m not ever sure I am awake, for all I know I am in a constant nightmare and I cannot wake up. Or am I even sleeping? I don’t really sleep anymore and I don’t see the difference between the nightmares and this life. They’re all the same, everything is bland and white noise. I feel nothing.
Erm Flintwood please if you're still doing 150. * Winning smile *
pairing: marcus flint x oliver wood
setting: modern, non-magical, soulmates-at-first-touch au
word count: 1394
Marcus punches his soulmate in the face the first time they meet.
It’s worse than that.
Marcus punches his soulmate in the face the first time they meet, the flats of his knuckles crunching against the guy’s jaw, hard enough to draw blood and leave a mark and hurt—and then there’s a strange fluttering sensation erupting in the pit of Marcus’s stomach, a comforting, calming warmth suffusing the blood in his veins and the marrow in his bones and it’s exactly like how they’d described it in Health class, the awareness—the connection—slotting into place so seamlessly that he’s astonished he’d never noticed something missing before now.
“Oh, fuck,” Marcus blurts out. “Oh—fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Marcus’s soulmate—who’s tall and lean and has the prettiest brown eyes, what the shit—is just sprawled out on the dirty arena floor, blinking and blinking and prodding gingerly at the bruise that’s already beginning to blossom—
“No,” the guy says firmly. “This isn’t happening.”
“Fuck you,” Marcus immediately snaps. “I rejected you first.”
The guy snorts, kind of irritatingly sarcastic, before grimacing. His emotions, so far as Marcus can tell, are all over the place; shock and dismay and frustration and—very, very deeply—a flickering, almost unwilling tremor of interest.
“It wouldn’t work, anyway,” the guy goes on, more loudly. “You have terrible opinions about hockey.”
“Fuck you,” Marcus snaps again. “You’re the one in the shitty jersey.”
“He’s won three Cups.”
“Yeah, and he was a fucking healthy scratch for two of them,” Marcus retorts. “Try again.”
“Hockey is a team sport,” the guy says hotly. “It isn't—it isn’t about individual accomplishments.”
Marcus rolls his eyes. “Sure, whatever,” he drawls, “but your shitty jersey is still shitty.”
The guy’s mouth falls open, and Marcus can feel the sour note of his indignation—the jagged spike of his outrage—as clearly as if it were his own. “Jesus fucking Christ,” the guy sputters, shaking his head like he’s got a nervous tic. “What are you so—what are you so angry about?”
Marcus raises his eyebrows. “Um,” he says slowly, because, really, what the shit, “I’m not angry. I’m confused.”
“No.” The guy frowns. “You’re definitely angry. I feel it, like—” He gestures vaguely to his chest and upper abdomen. “Right there. Like heartburn.”
Marcus’s nostrils flare, and he scratches viciously at the side of his neck to distract himself from the fact that this complete fucking stranger with boy band hair and, and Bambi eyes is apparently better at deciphering Marcus’s emotions than Marcus is.
“Oh, hell,” the guy sighs, “now you're—embarrassed, don’t be like that, I didn’t mean to—hey, come on, where are you—where are you going? You can’t just—hey! Come back!”
Marcus does not come back.
And the ensuing wave of regret that pulses through Marcus’s sternum is lukewarm and salty and depressingly difficult to pinpoint the origins of.
It’s not his, he thinks stubbornly.
Marcus lasts two and a half days before the persistent invisible tugging at his gut becomes too annoying to bear.
He follows it.
He follows it to a bench in Riverside Park that’s near where the gross little fish and chips stand is, and the scent of old frying oil undercut by whatever the fuck is currently decomposing in the Hudson is—less nauseating than it arguably fucking should be, seriously, what the shit.
His soulmate, his soulmate, is sitting with his legs spread obnoxiously wide, wrists crossed and hands dangling in his lap, squinting intently up at the clouds like he’s waiting for them to tell him what to do next. It’s endearing. Maybe. Marcus’s stomach is in knots—a tangled mess of dread and unease and, abruptly, relief.
“Oh,” the guy says, quirking his lips into something that Marcus chooses to generously describe as a smile. The bruise on the guy’s jaw is a lurid, chalky looking violet, partially obscured by the auburn of his stubble. “You found me.”
“Of course I fucking found you,” Marcus says, dropping down next to him. Their knees brush, just for a moment, and it’s like—lightning, bright and fierce and sizzling, coiling around the base of his spine. “There’s been this—this buzzing, in the back of my head—”
“Yeah,” the guy interjects glumly. “I know. I would've—if you hadn’t. I would’ve tried to find you.” He pauses. “I missed you, I guess, which is—weird.”
Marcus scowls down at the sidewalk. There’s a crack in the cement, and it’s dirty, gritty with loose gravel around the edges, splintering off into a dozen hairline fractures before disappearing into the grass. He can feel his own surprise at the guy’s admission, and it’s so—uncomfortable, knowing that there’s nothing he can hide behind. Making himself smaller, holding himself still; they’re not antidotes for anything, not anymore, and this guy—his soulmate—he’s got a rabbit-fast heartbeat and an intimidatingly focused way of feeling things. Marcus wonders how he’s supposed to get used to that.
“I’m Marcus,” he eventually offers, voice emerging gruffer than he’d have liked. “My name, I mean. It's—Marcus.”
The guy turns, slightly, to look over at Marcus. “Oliver. I’m Oliver.” He hesitates before he goes on, sounding nonplussed, “I still can’t believe you fucking hit me. Over a jersey.”
Marcus huffs. “It’s a really shitty jersey.”
Oliver grins, short and sweet and self-deprecating, before nudging at Marcus’s ribs with the point of his elbow. “I’ve, uh. I’ve been told I’ve got kind of a…bad habit of, of taking things too seriously.” His mouth twists, and the stabbing ache of some long-ago insult, or argument; it lances through the pads of Marcus’s fingers, stinging and sharp. “Obsessive. That’s what—I dunno. That’s what I’ve been told. I can be…obsessive. About—whatever.”
“Obsessive,” Marcus repeats, shaking out his hand. “That’s your—one big fault. Enthusiasm.”
Oliver shrugs, easy and casual, like it doesn’t matter, like Marcus can’t literally feel the crippling uncertainty—the tension, swampy and thick—weighing down his limbs. “Enthusiasm is…too nice of a word for it, I think.”
“Bullshit,” Marcus hears himself say, with absolutely zero fucking direction from his brain, or his conscience, or his admittedly flimsy sense of self-preservation. “Enthusiasm is the perfect fucking word for it.”
Oliver startles, slightly, eyes widening a fraction. There’s a coolly refreshing burst of—happiness, maybe; gratitude, definitely—coating the back of Marcus’s tongue. Citrus. Summer. Chlorine and coconut. It’s fucking nice.
“Oh. Um. Okay,” Oliver says, haltingly. “Thanks.”
A tentative silence descends between them on the bench. Marcus drums his fingers against the inseam of his jeans, jiggling his foot and glaring at a rotting spear of tree bark and swallowing around a metallic-tasting lump in his throat that he instinctively wants to label curiosity.
“Sorry,” Marcus grunts, slouching forward. “About the—hitting you. I just—sorry. I was angry. I get angry.”
Oliver stares at him, bottom lip clutched between his teeth, and there’s a swirl of something taking root in his lungs, something chewy and rich, like caramel, so that every breath he takes in is like burnt brown sugar crystallizing against the roof of his mouth, but then there’s more, too, a champagne bubble pop of amusement, and—
“It’s alright,” Oliver says wryly. “I heard I was wearing a pretty shitty jersey.”
Marcus snorts, and then groans, and then laughs, almost despite himself, before confessing, as quietly as he can manage—
what if MC have met Seven before, but he was on a mission doing crossdressing? love eveything you write, babe <3
Countdown to the Cake : 9
Ugh… these heels are killing him! Seven
stretches his legs a little in the bathroom of the club, moving his toes to
give them a little air after being trapped inside this shoe for almost 3 hours
now. How do girls handle this?
To be honest, he didn’t really need to wear
heels, maybe not even a dress. Who knows? Maybe his target would like a tomboy
girl? Who happens to be a boy? And this boy happens to be a secret gent ready
to seduce the guy in order to get some information about that new government project?
Yeah, the outfit wasn’t really important, but… he looked so damn fine on it.
He checks himself in the mirror once more,
running his fingers through the silky hair of the brunette wig. Hum, maybe it’s
time to touch up this lipstick.
You walk into the bathroom. You were almost
scared that douchy guy would follow you even inside the ladies’ bathroom, but
he didn’t. At least he wasn’t that douchy, but still… he held your arm before
you entered. You made such an effort to get rid of him you ended up losing a
little of your balance and bumped in this girl.
“Oh, my God! I’m so sorry! I…” you look at her,
she’s… beautiful, even with her lipstick all smudged, probably by you when you
accidentally pushed her.
“It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, he couldn’t waste
time cleaning himself, time was running, his boss expected that information in
2 hours, tops.
“Oh, look at you, I… here, let me help you.”
You picked some wipes of your purse.
“Why do you carry wipes with you?” is his voice
“Hm? Oh, these are to keep my face dry. I have
super oily skin!” do you? It looks really fine to him, especially looking this
“Well, they say people with oily skin have
“Oh, with this much oil I’ll look in my 20s
till I’m 80!” you two laugh, he was good at girl talking!
He feels a little shiver going down his legs
when your wipe reaches his lower lip, your nails brushing lightly to his chin.
Whoa, your focused eyes are really beautiful… and your mouth… looks really
beautiful with this pink lipstick, it’s a nice color that goes great with your
skin tone. Who cares it’s oily? It looks so smooth…
“Done!” you say, crumbling the wipe and
throwing in the trash can. “You can put your lipstick again, I won’t bump into
“Can… can you help me? I think I’m a little
tipsy…” he giggles. “Shouldn’t have drank all those margaritas.”
“Ugh, been there, girl. Once I mixed mojitos
with vodka and woke up in the public library’s bathroom!” you laugh, maybe you
are the one a little tipsy here? If he leans a little closer, maybe he can
smell some alcohol… no, but he can’t do that, you are already too close!
He hands you his lipstick and you carefully
contour the borders. Another shiver as he stares at your eyes. So, so
You grab his chin to hold him in place, he
feels an electric wave dancing through his whole body. What’s wrong with him?
“Here you go, honey.” You touch his arm and
bring him to the mirror, he can’t help smiling, it looks better than if he did
“It looks so good, thank you… honey.”
“You’re welcome! I gotta say, this color is
amazing! Where did you get?”
“Oh, I got in one of my trips to Thailand, they
have really cool make up products, there’s also this nail polish brand that…”
why can’t he shut up? Is it because you’re looking at him with so much
attention? Or is it because for the very first time he wants to be heard?
“Anyway, I… I… like lipsticks that accentuate my eye color…”
“Oh yeah, your eyes are beautiful…” what are
you saying? Your eyes are beautiful! You are beautiful! And so nice… and funny…
and sweet… gahhh! His phone! It’s vibrating, indicating it’s time to move!
“I… gotta go! My… boyfriend is waiting for
me…what about yours?” uh, Seven! So smooth, trying to find if you’re taken…
even though he can’t do nothing with this information.
“Ugh… that guy outside? No, he’s not my
boyfriend! We dated for a while, but now he won’t leave me alone! Guys… they
always say we get attached too easy, but when you say you just want a fling,
they immediately turn into this clingy mess! I can’t stand!”
“Yeah, men are… psss, the worst! Good for you
trying to get flings, though.”
“Well, you never know, maybe I’ll have flings
for the rest of my life, or maybe I’ll fall in love for one of them, or… I
don’t know, maybe I can bump into my soulmate in some random place… it’s cool,
right? The way life and people can surprise you?”
“Yes, it really is…” uh oh, his voice was a
little low now, almost like he forgot his character because his truly self
agreed to you. You giggle as you stare at his face.
“I’m sorry, I guess I’m a little drunk too. Go
get your man, girl!”
“Yes, I’m going… nice to meet you!”
“You too!” as he opens the door, you notice he
left his lipstick with you. “Hey, uhm… your lipstick!”
“Keep it! It will look better on you.” He blows
a kiss in the air for you and leaves.
Was she hitting on you? Well, you’re flattered,
she’s really nice and cute.
Seven feels his heartbeat almost in his throat,
what was that? How is it possible feeling so embarrassed, yet so comfortable
around someone? He felt cold and hot at the same time,
And though it’s time to keep it serious and go
after that guy, he can’t stop smiling as he remembers your voice, your eyes,
your sweet smile, and your words… if only he could have caught a name…
No! What is he thinking? He wouldn’t be able to
do anything, just imagine if his boss finds out he interacted with someone
during one of his undercover missions, if they found out your name too and went
after you… someone so innocent and nice…
Your words… “it’s cool, right? The way life and
people can surprise you.” You probably didn’t even know you were talking about
yourself, the brightest surprise he had in…years? And this was about him as
well, if you found out the girl in the bathroom was a depressive secret agent,
what would you do?
Yeah… it would be a surprise, but not the good
kind. So it’s time to reset, agent 707, forget that girl… he probably will
never see you again, anyway…
so hey idk why but over the past few days I’ve had an absolute flood of truly bloomin’ heartwarmingly nice messages about my art across my Tumblr and DA inboxes and as ever I can’t properly express how much that means to me in words but holy moly y’all wtf that’s!!! so kind!!!! Ahhh!!!!
thank you so much— good eggs the lot of you omg 💖💖💖
“Oh,” Stiles said, his voice coming out low and breathy, “fuck me.”
“I don’t think that’s on the syllabus, but we can check to see if there’s a spot open in any of his classes,” Scott said, grinning.
“This isn’t an actual professor, though,” Stiles insisted, unable to resist brushing his thumb over the sharp line of the man’s bearded jaw. He was laughing at something off-camera, the shot taken in three-quarters view, his coat collar casually rumpled and opened to reveal a sliver of a simple grey t-shirt. The whole thing was deliberately calculated to lend him a more accessible feel, and god help him, Stiles was falling for it.
When Stiles signed up for Dr. Hale’s intro to history class, he had two goals: knock out the credits his advisor was bugging him to complete before he graduated, and spend a few hours a week daydreaming about his sexy professor’s salt and pepper beard.
Derek, a few months away from turning forty and not sure when his life had started feeling so damn lonely, had never encountered someone like Stiles before. Bright-eyed, sharp-tongued, determined to throw Derek’s carefully cultivated world into disarray…and absolutely the last person Derek should be falling in love with.
Stiles Stilinski is tired. Tired of being ignored and forgotten once the research is done. After defeating Gerard and freeing Jackson from the Kanima he thought things would improve but somehow it got worse. Derek is focused on building his pack which includes the newly rescued Erica and Body, freed after Allison realized her grandfather was nutso, and the freed Jackson who narrowly avoided being shipped overseas by his parents. Scott is focused on his neverending relationship drama with Allison and his new best bud Isaac. Left alone more often than not, Stiles feels everyone is moving on without him so he looks for his own path.
When Deaton is unable to help him with his Spark he looks elsewhere and finds others who help him along until he finds himself meditating in his room and is surprised by an Astral form that shows up. Unknowing attracting the attention of the new Sorcerer Supreme, Stiles discovers that he might be able to not only help Dr. Strange, but he just might find out how he can protect both his home and those jerks in what he considers his pack - whether Mr. Hale or Mr. McCall consider him or not.
“Okay,” Stiles leans over the book, finger on his chin, while Derek stands there beside him with a frown on his face, “we have the pig’s blood.”
“They loved that at the butcher shop,” Derek mutters, rubbing his hand along his jaw. “I’ll take three quarts of pig’s blood. Not like this town doesn’t already think I’m some sort of fucking pervert anyway.”
“We have the hair you picked off his clothes,” Stiles points to the tiny Ziploc bag with a handful of Scott hairs tucked safely inside, and Derek grimaces. “We have the candles. We have the snake. Now we just need an object of the deceased.” He furrows his brow as he leans over the book some more, cocking his head. “It says the object can be anything that was deeply personal to the deceased. Like a piece of sentimental jewelry or a cherished trinket or even a favorite song.”
Derek snorts. “Yeah. Let’s just listen to fucking Blink-182 and summon the devil.”
“Right?” Stiles laughs, high and hysterical, manic almost.
Derek laughs, and Stiles laughs, and it’s not funny. It’s really not funny.
Stiles Stilinski is desperate for a distraction, he needs to not think about what time of year it is or how much he still misses his mom. He takes his best friend Scott into the woods and everything changes for them from that night on.
This is a slightly different take on season one (EDIT very different take on season one), and its all from Derek and Stiles’ perspective. This is a slow build Sterek, a lot of undercurrent stuff and the boys not talking about it.