Insomnia is the driving force behind creativity

NSFW Sterek with heavy reference to mpreg.

***

It's quiet, a rarity in their household. No shrieking giggles, no singing toys, no hushed voices pouring over the latest supernatural phenomenon, no whir of a laptop as Stiles picks away at a high-profile case.

Eli is out with John and Melissa, leaving behind a pile of laundry and several heaps of toys to be put away, but all Derek cares about is the man laid out before him.

His husband. His Mate.

Stiles grins up at him, flushed and breathless, constellations of moles interspersed with fresh, bright hickies standing out against his pale skin in the moonlight. Derek gazes down at him, feeling the affection plain of his face, hands stroking over scars and stretch marks with reverence.

This body has been his salvation, his refuge, his anchor. Derek is endlessly awed by the strength in these long limbs, the conviction in Stiles's fluttering heart. This body is the temple at which he swears to worship for the remainder of his days.

And worship he does.

Stiles arches into him, pressing them together with a gasp, and Derek loves him like this - soft, sweet, pliable, taking every ounce of adoration he pours out with hands and lips and questing tongue.

They've had all kinds of sex - snarky and full of banter and bruising hands, desperate and life-affirming in the wake of a near miss, awkward and fumbling and filled with laughter - but these are the nights he cherishes the most.

"Der," Stiles pants, cheeks flushed and hair damp, his bangs long enough to fall into his eyes. Those amber eyes that see right through every bit of facade and bravado and make him feel truly SEEN.

Derek kisses him - tiny, sipping tastes of swollen lips and sharp tongue gone clumsy with desire. He reaches down between them, pressing questing fingertips against the heat of Stiles's centre. The Spark gasps and mumbles out a familiar spell, making the skin beneath Derek's fingers warm and slick. He takes his time, twisting and stretching until Stiles is near tears with want, cock hard and leaking against his belly.

"Ready. Ready, Der, please," he murmurs, those long, deft fingers grasping desperately at whatever parts of his Mate he can reach. Derek obliges, wiping his hand on the sheets and guiding his cock forward. The head brushes Stiles's swollen rim and they both groan as the pushes forward - that's it, breathe for me, Baby - until they're flush.

Derek pauses, eyes roving over Stiles's face. He's braced on his elbows, limbs caging Stiles's beneath him, and he scents the desire rolling off of of him with tantalizing waves. His Mate reaches up and cups his face, meeting his eyes with a look so full of love it makes it hard to breathe.

"You okay?"

Stiles smiles at him, a small and private thing. "I'm okay."

Derek kisses him, tucks his face into the crook of Stiles's neck to lave his tongue over the salty skin as he thrusts forward. Each thrust of his hips is met with a breathy moan, and they cling to each other as the pleasure builds and swells and crests. Stiles's nails dig into his shoulders as he whimpers, wrapping his legs around Derek's hips to pull him even closer. Wetness blooms between them and Derek can't help the growl of satisfaction that slips out, primally proud of pleasing his Mate. As always, Derek follows him, tumbling over the edge with a few final thrusts that make Stiles shiver in his arms.

They lie there, spent, breathing each other in as the moon glows soft and secret through parted curtains. Stiles strokes his hands up and down Derek's spine, tracing his tattoo as he mutters a quick incantation. The mess between them dissipates, and Derek fumbles for a blanket to cover them.

Silence falls between them, peaceful and sated, but Derek can feel the question brewing.

"Do you want more?"

"I may be a werewolf, but even I have a refractory period."

Stiles swats his arm lightly, laughing. "Insatiable Sexywolf."

"Only for you," Derek teases, kissing the very tip of Stiles's (adorable) nose.

"Sappywolf," Stiles mutters, nuzzling their noses together. "I meant pups, you dork."

Derek shrugs, hand straying down to trace gentle circles over Stiles's belly. He can feel the dips and grooves of silvered skin there and can hear the ghost of a second heartbeat. "I want you and Eli and our life together, whatever that may look like."

Stiles hums thoughtfully, tracing idle patterns over Derek's skin. He can feel the skitter of magic like little jolts of static dancing over his shoulders and across his back. He revels in it, feeling connected and at peace.

His husband kisses his forehead and Derek looks up at him, smiling. "You okay?"

Stiles smiles in return, snuggling closer. "I'm okay."

For the prompt: Candle Light / May 7 @notjustamumj

The thunder started an hour ago, a storm moving in from the southwest. John has just settled Rosie, grateful that the bedtime battle is over, when a clap of thunder and the sudden pelting of rain on the windows wake her again. 

“Great,” he says, scooping her from the cot. “Okay, Rosebug, let’s go look for the candles.”

The kitchen is the obvious place to look. Mary seems to have prepared them for every possible emergency— well, except for her own death. There is plenty of powdered baby milk and cereal, more tins of soup than John will ever eat, and batteries of every type. First aid kit, multitool, books of matches.

But no candles. 

In the dark, there is no telly to distract them, just the rain and random cracks of thunder, loud enough to shake the bric-a-brac on the shelves. Rosie is exhausted, but each boom rouses her, starts her screaming again. 

“I know,” John mutters, walking her around the room. “I feel like crying myself.”

The letter. The things he wrote to Sherlock, after… He’d been wild with grief, unable to sort out his feelings. What happened was clearly Mary’s fault. It was her choice to go to the aquarium, to shield Sherlock from the bullet that would have killed him. And irrationally, John had blamed it all on Sherlock. 

After Sherlock came back, John had struggled to realign the frayed ends of his life. He had grieved Sherlock for two years, and gradually realised what he felt for his dead friend. But he’d moved on, and wouldn’t have survived without Mary. 

He’d chosen her. He’d married her, and she was having his child. But he was unhappy, and knew it. 

In the darkness, he imagines the familiar shapes of 221B— two chairs, the table where he used to write his blogposts, the tall window where Sherlock would stand, playing his violin. 

Sherlock will never forgive him. The things he wrote in the letter were unforgivable. 

A sudden crack of thunder, and Rosie starts up again. John stands at the window bouncing her, his own tears falling on the soft, blond hair. 

“I know,” he whispers. “I know, love.” 

A knock on the door startles him.

Ah.

"May I sit?"

She nods, still watching the ground intently.

He hates silence, but the battery in his phone is nearly dead, so he can't listen to the music. And everything around them is deadly silent.

"Do you... do you know when the bus could be coming?"

She cocks her head to one side.

"Anytime in the next fifteen minutes, I suppose. They are always a little late, or a little early."

Nightmares:

- one party member’s nightmare seems like a perfectly normal and even pleasant scenario until the rest of the party realizes that what’s normal and pleasant for them is terrifying for the other member.

-the happy-go-lucky character who told everyone their fear is something benign like “ducks” actually has a massive and crushing trauma nightmare scenario they never told anyone about because they didn’t want to be a burden/still can’t trust.

- villain tries to make a nightmare scenario for someone and it backfires because they didn’t realize that guy is a grade-A Freak and they love it.

“ideal life” illusions

- villain attempts to make what they think will be an ideal dream life only for the protagonist to immediately point out a glaring flaw or get mad because they know damn well life isn’t like this

-a party member struggles to break free from the illusion because it’s just like regular life for them

- party discovers someone in the group has been not entirely honest about who they are when their ideal life doesn’t match thier projected persona at all.

this is a mindset i see a lot of in particular fatphobic circles, always framing the notion that Obesity Must Be Fought, every second of every day because it is always out there and scheming on how to Get You, and poses an especial danger from which We Must Save The Children. i rather think that the War On Obesity comes from the same mindset as the War On Poverty or the War On Drugs, a semantic tactic to make people feel good about Fighting The Good Fight.

In case of Sherlock Holmes ‘It’s all that matters’

Jumped up with gasping. Soak in wet with sweat.

*panting heavily*

Sherlock doesn’t wake John up because he doesn’t want him disturb. He thinks that he should get out of bed as soon as he can but he can’t because he’s too shaking to get up.

But John wakes up catching Sherlock’s shaking.

“Hey, hey love…oh baby come here…”

“Mmng…” Sherlock’s crying quietly but it makes it worse.

“Hey let it out Sherlock, don’t have to hold back. You can wake me when you need me. Anytime.”

“I, I….John, John, joh—, John,” He’s getting hyperventilated and having panic attack.

“Shh, shh, oh baby, I’m right here. You’re alright. Everything’s alright. It’s just nightmare.

Take deep breath for me sweetheart. In through nose, out through mouth, yes that’s right. Just like that. Very good. I’ve got you here. Keep breathing with me.

You’re alone with me Sherlock. You’re all safe with me. I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’m right here with you, I’m front of you, in this our bed.

And I love you so much, Sherlock. Hm?

Now tell me darling. Who’s in here? In this room? Tell me what you see.”

“—you.”

gigantic post of all the art from Gaia’s latest CI; sorry for my shitty handwriting D:

But if you asked, “Would you let the statue of liberty burn in order to save your child? your spouse? someone you loved a great deal?” the tune abruptly changes. At the very least, there’s a hesitation. Even if they deny it, I’m willing to bet that gun to their head, the answer would be “yes.”  

The basic problem here is that people have a hard time seeing outside their own sphere of influence, and empathizing beyond the few people who are right in front of them. You’ve got your immediate family, whom you love; your friends, your acquaintances, maybe to a certain degree the people who share a status with you (your religion, your race, etc.)–but beyond that? People aren’t real. They’re theoretical. 

But a national monument? That’s real. It stands for something. The value of a non-realized anonymous life that exists completely outside your sphere of influence is clearly worth less than something that represents freedom and prosperity to a whole nation, right?

People who think like this lack the compassion to realize that everyone is in someone’s immediate sphere of influence–that everyone is someone’s lover, or brother, or parent. Everyone means the world to someone. And it’s the absolute height of selfishness to assume that their lives don’t have value just because they don’t mean the world to you. 

an example: so, as the nazis began war against france, the staff of the louvre began crating up and shipping out the artworks. it was vital to them (for many reasons) that the nazis not get their hands on the collections, and hitler’s desire for them was known, so they dispersed the objects to the four winds; one of the curators personally traveled with la gioconda, mona lisa herself, in an unmarked crate, moving at least five times from location to location to avoid detection.

they even removed and hid the nike of samothrace, “winged victory,” which is both delicate, having been pieced back together from fragments, and incredibly heavy, weighing over three metric tons.

the curators who hid these artworks risked death to ensure that they wouldn’t fall into nazi hands. and yes, they are just paintings, just statues. but when i think about the idea of hitler capturing and standing smugly beside the nike of samothrace, a statue widely beloved as a symbol of liberty, i completely understand why someone would risk their life to prevent that. if my life was all that stood between a fascist dictator and a masterpiece that inspired millions, i would be willing to risk it. my belief in the power and necessity of art would demand i do so.

if, however, a nazi held a gun to some kid’s head (any kid!) and asked me which crate the mona lisa was in, they could have it in a heartbeat. no problem! i wouldn’t even have to think about it. being willing to risk my own life on principle doesn’t mean i’m willing to see others endangered for those same principles.

and that is exactly where the conservative hard-right falls right the fuck down. they are, typically, entirely willing to watch others suffer for their own principles. they are perfectly okay with seeing children in cages because of their supposed belief in law and order. they are perfectly willing to let women die from pregnancy complications because of their anti-abortion beliefs. they are alright with poverty and disease on general principle because they hold the free-market sacrosanct. and i guess from their own example they would save the statue of liberty and let human beings burn instead.

but speaking as a leftist (i’m more comfortable with socialist tbh), my principles are not abstract things that i hold aside from life, apart or above my place as a human being in a society. my beliefs arise from being a person amidst people. i don’t love art for art’s sake alone, actually! i don’t love objects because they are objects: i love them because they are artifacts of our humanity, because they communicate and connect us, because they embody love and curiosity and fear and feeling. i love art because i love people. i want universal health care because i want to see people universally cared for. i want universal basic income because people’s safety and dignity should not be determined by their economic productivity to an employer. i am anti-war and pro-choice for the same reason: i value people’s lives but also their autonomy and right to self-determination. my beliefs are not abstractions. i could never value a type of economic system that i saw hurting people, no matter how much “growth” it produced. i could never love “law and order” more than i love a child, any child, i saw trapped in a cage.

This is also why they think “get a job” is useful advice. In their heads they honestly do not understand why the NPCs who make up the majority of the human race can’t just flip a switch from “no job” to “job.” When they say “get a job” they’re filing a glitch report with God and they honestly think that’s all it takes.

Conservatives view social issues as universal constants that fundamentally are unable to be changed, like the weather. You can try to alter your own behavior to protect yourself (you can carry an umbrella), and you can commiserate about how bad the weather is, but you can’t stop it from raining. This is why conservatives blame victims of rape for dressing immodestly or for drinking or for going out at night: to them, those things are like going out without an umbrella when you know it’s going to rain. 

“But then why do conservatives try to stop things they dislike by making them illegal, like drug use or immigration or abortion?” And the answer is: they’re not. They know perfectly well that those things will continue. No amount of studies showing that their methods are ineffective will matter to them because effectiveness is not the point. The point is to punish people for doing bad things, because punishing people is how you show your disapproval of their actions; if you don’t punish them, then you’re condoning their behavior. 

This is why they will never support rehabilitative prisons, even though they reduce crime. This is why they will never support free birth control for everyone, even though that would reduce abortions. This is why they will never support just giving homeless people houses, even though it’s proven to be cheaper and more effective at stopping homelessness than halfway houses and shelters. It’s not about stopping evil, because you can’t; it’s about saying definitively what is Bad and what is Good, and we as a society do that by punishing the people we’ve decided are bad. 

John Watson thinks he's Very Bad at Relationships.

Sharing beds together since they were little kids and never really growing out of that habit even though it now hurts to be that close to each other, knowing it will never be anything more than platonic cuddling. 

Each of them being that one person the other goes to to feel better when they’ve had a shit day or date. Bonus if it’s 3am and they spend all night talking.

Neither of them realising how much they act like they are dating/married and getting super flustered or sad when someone asks how long they’ve been together because do you have to remind me of this painful unrequited torment I die a little more of with every passing second?

How much they make each other smile when one of them walks into a room. 

Drunk kissing.

Practice kissing.

Going as each other’s dates to everything because it’s “convenient”. 

Wearing each other’s pyjamas when staying over somehow becoming more arousing than if the other person was naked. 

Having inside jokes and finishing each other’s sentences as casual as anything. 

Knowing random medical shit about each other. Bonus if one of them takes an allergic reaction to something and the other one just pulls out some random ass medicine like they carry it around all the time- spoiler: they do- just in case of this exact eventuality. 

The heart break of seeing each other with other people but doing their best to see it through with a grin and with as much encouragement as they can muster. 

Staring a little too long at each other. 

The awkward moment when they reach the age they said they would marry each other if they were still single.

Getting fake married as kids and family members always reminding them about it , maybe going as far as to put on the video of the fake ceremony and giving them knowing looks.  

Something happening- a kiss, sleeping together- and getting into an argument about it, scared this is it, this is the end, that they’ve fucked up and just wishing they could talk to each other about it, to their best friend. 

Having the best black mail material on each other but ready to pounce on anyone else who so much as dares try black mail their BFF. 

Having a song. Having a whole playlist. 

Laughing the first time they have sex. 

Already having seen each other at their very worst.

Getting to say cheesy things like, “I can’t believe I get to spend the rest of my life with my best friend” or “I know I’m marrying you but…do you think I could still be in charge of your send off party? I’ve been planning this night for ten years and I will not have someone else mess those plans up.” 

@anyawen’s plot bunny:

After the disastrous reveal at the Landmark, John tells Sherlock there can be no excuse and no forgiveness for what he’s done. Sherlock leaves London for good and starts a new life somewhere else where no one—not even Mycroft—knows.

It’s up to John to track him down and make things right.

Anyawen said: “John has to work for it,” so I gave John a trip around the world and a stroke of luck (genius?) in finding Sherlock, following a clue only John would recognize.

late November 2013

If Mary was surprised to see him come back from Baker Street so early, she was too tactful to mention it. He’d decided against going to Mycroft first and admitting that he had literally no information about Sherlock. So he rang Lestrade, and Molly Hooper, and from them got the same story: Sherlock had called in, apologised for everything, and said he was going away indefinitely, left no forwarding address.

From Molly he learned some of the mechanics of the sham suicide; from Lestrade, that Sherlock had various non-trivial injuries when he’d returned to London. John’s gut clenched as he remembered his full-on assault of the faux-waiter.

He put down his phone and met Mary’s eye, sighed heavily. “I’ve mucked it all up.”

She looked worried but put on the plucky closed-mouthed smile he loved, and said encouragingly, “You’ll find him, and talk it out. His brother will get you his coordinates. I’m sure of it.”