literally_fin



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    Louis gaped at him. “You…do know what it is I’m asking, right?”

    “But of course,” Lestat sniffed. “You want us to move past this oh-so-casual arrangement we have been cultivating for the past years, n’est-ce pas? You want us to date? Well, Louis, my answer is no.”

    Lestat plays hard to get. Louis plays along.

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    14 Nov 2025

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    He sighs from where he’s prone, arms akimbo, and roof gravel digging into his spine. “I lost my job. My… other job. The one that actually pays the bills.”

    He doesn’t want to dwell on why he’s telling Deadpool of all people. Surely it has nothing to do with his desperate lack of friends. MJ is in California chasing her dreams, Harry’s undergoing treatment for his mental health and isn’t allowed visitors (not that it matters since they blacklisted Peter after last time), and Gwen… Well.

    And it’s not like he can talk to Aunt May without her worrying about him starving to death under a bridge or something so… Deadpool it is. Man, when did his life get this pathetic?

    OR: The one where Peter and Wade are literal soulmates but don't realize it for literal years because they're literal idiots.

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    11 Nov 2025

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    “It was a career-ending injury!” Wylan snaps. “What else is there to say? Are you trying to make fun of me?”

    Jesper recoils. “No! Saints, no, Wylan. That’s awful, I would never!”

    “You made fun of me for just about everything else.”

    “Well, that’s because I didn’t like you very much. I still don’t,” Jesper says bluntly. Wylan’s glare intensifies and Jesper hastens to add on, “But I don’t hate you!”

    -

    Seven years ago, Jesper Fahey was the up-and-coming rising star of the tennis world. The only person really in his way seemed to be the rich and haughty (and maybe, handsome) darling of Kerch tennis, Wylan Van Eck. But that was seven years ago, and after their match in Ravka—everything changed. Now, for the first time, they meet each other again.

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    07 Nov 2025

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    “Mind your tongue, beloved,” Armand warns in his most sticky sweet, honeyed voice. “I used to take great care in putting insolent brats like you in their place.”

    “Yeah? Well…” Daniel leans back and spreads his legs further, an invitation, preening under Armand’s gaze as the vampire drinks him in. He looks up beneath dark eyelashes and flashes his most provocative smile, never breaking eye contact. “They weren't me, were they?”

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    05 Nov 2025

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    “Hey, man, you need a ride?”

    A kid, in his 20s. Black tousled curls, green eyes. His cheeks are round, some baby fat still clinging to him, but it’s offset by the strong line of his jaw and a square chin. Frank’s knife aches in his pocket; he wants to flick it open, press the tip of it into those cheeks, first one, then the other. Watch the flesh dip, then split and part for the blade. He wants to carve that face.

    “I’m headed for Nevada,” he says. “Any bit could help.”

    “Hey, it’s your lucky day!” the kid says with a broad grin that stretches his plush cupid lips really far. “Hop in!”

    Frank climbs into the back seat, slips off his backpack.

    “Thank you boys so much,” he says, extends a hand. “My name’s Frank.”

    The kid on the passenger side shakes it, easy and firm.

    “I’m Daniel, this is Armand.”

     

    Or: it's 1979, two maniacs are in love, and serial killers make for good lunch.

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    04 Nov 2025