#that’s the tentative title of the fic

[leaves-of-laurelin]

Seven Sentence Sunday

Thank you to @cha-melodius for the tag!

Me: “You just finished a multi-chapter, give yourself self a break before starting a new one.” Also me: “Ok, but what if…” lol. Anyway, this is still in its infancy but here we go:

“I don’t think that’s a very wise idea.”

“Come on, neither of us have to be on set tomorrow. Let’s go fucking live a little.”

“No,” Henry says, his voice louder than before, his tone firm and final.

Alex’s ideas of what could happen that night—a reluctant smile from Henry and then Henry slowly loosing up after a few drinks, the two of them laughing and having fun playing wingman to each other—all evaporate in an instant and Alex is left with the silence of the room, with Henry’s stiff posture and slightly horrified eyes. A stark, cold reminder that they are very much not friends. They are co-workers, professional acquaintances who act civil for everyone else’s sake; it’s how it was during the last movie and Henry clearly has no interest in any of that changing now.

No pressure tags: @inexplicablymine @rmd-writes @dumbpeachjuice @daisymae-12 @cricketnationrise and anyone else who wants to share

[kaesaaurelia]

3rd Life Space Colonist AU Concepts

So I'm very new to MCYT fandom, in the process of watching everything in the Life Series, but while I was watching 3rd Life I could not get the idea of this group having been sent to colonize an alien planet and it going very wrong.

But before things go wrong, they would have had specific roles and reasons they were picked, so I thought a bit about that, and once I had roles figured out I went and played around in Hero Forge to design the characters.

(Also, obviously there would be more than 14 people on an expedition like this and there's certain types of personnel they'd want more than one of, or who are conspicuously missing from this cast list.

You can make of that what you will.)

So, without further ado: some of the personnel aboard a ship heading to the furthest reaches of the galaxy, sent by totally not evil Mars-based corporation Farlands Planetary Systems:

SPACESHIP FLIGHT & MAINTENANCE

At this point in the future, there are machines that can do incredible things, but none of them can quite replicate whatever's going on in Scar's head human decision-making, and on longer journeys where the ship is required to make multiple FTL jumps in quick succession, human intuition and ingenuity are necessary for survival. To that end, pilots are directly plugged into their ships and to some extent, on longer journeys, become the ship. They need to be willing and able to do terrifying things without hesitation or consultation with others. Scar is great at this. He's also an absolute menace everywhere else, but in all fairness it's very hard for him to remember how gravity works on planets when he's used to using it to slingshot himself around in space.

Etho and BDubs aren't JUST there to maintain the ship mechanically -- they'll be rebuilding humanity's technological achievements from the ground up once they get to the planet -- but they're also vital to maintaining the ship across its long journey. BDubs is especially skilled at working in and navigating through zero gravity environments, and he's very used to doing floating repairs. This should have no lasting consequences for him once they get to a planet.

Tango is... an odd one. He's primarily a computer guy, and he's no slouch there, but he's never been on one of these expeditions himself -- see, his family's owned Farlands Planetary Systems for centuries, since before the Martian atmosphere had been been tamed and the planet's population was only a couple thousand. From his comfortable climate controlled office on Mars, he's looked over proposals, decided which ones were most likely to be successful, and signed off on countless exploration missions. He's watched them leave and mostly come back, and he's never encountered a high-risk high-reward situation he couldn't at least break even on. He's about to.

MEDICAL CARE

There's an extensive medical staff onboard, of course -- or there should be, anyway. I'm sure the others are fine!

Martyn is a generalist, good at figuring out what the hell is going wrong and how to stabilize someone's condition in the field with minimal resources. He's good at making difficult decisions quickly and making the sacrifices necessary for long-term survival.

Grian, meanwhile, is a specialist in neurology, and while he's meant to be looking after the whole crew, he's very important on this expedition because he is specifically a specialist in the connection between pilot and ship, and his task is primarily to keep the pilot alive at all costs.

Grian's also very excited about the pioneering medical procedure he's convinced Farlands to give all the personnel on this expedition, which will allow them to completely regenerate after dying -- at least twice! This has technically been possible for a while, but it's never been this fast, and they haven't been able to allow the subjects to retain their memories and personalities until now. It's still experimental but given the high risk nature and high cost of this particular expedition, he feels it's worth the risk, and most people jumped at having not only a second chance at life, but a third!

EXPLORATION & TERRAFORMING

Once they get to the planet, of course, they're going to need to figure out what's already there, and to transform it into a liveable place! So there are various experts who will explore the planet, conduct a full survey of its resources, and work to make it easier for humans to live there. Here we have experts in population biology, minerology, environmental chemistry, xenobotany, and agronomy.

Joel works for Farlands, usually traveling with his wife Lizzie, (an ethnopharmacologist). BigB tends to work on a contract -- there's a lot of call for minerologists in the outer solar system -- but if this expedition is successful, he'll never have to work again, and he won't have to go through the cycle of spending six lonely months in the Kuiper Belt, returning to Earth, then going back out again. Both of them think they know what they're getting into.

Cleo and Scott haven't worked for Farlands before, and are very surprised to be asked, as they have a shared checkered past. Cleo, in her younger days, was convicted of burning down the Martian Prime Minister's house. In fairness, a. he deserved it, and b. it was extremely flammable, because he destroyed a bunch of oxygen farms to build it, out of wood, and was not much of a believer in fire safety regulations. He was not home at the time, so he was fine, but about a year later he was assassinated. No one has ever been formally charged with the crime, but Scott, being one of Cleo's close friends, was the primary suspect. Both of their careers have suffered because of this -- Cleo can't get tenure anywhere, and Scott actually went into hiding for a time -- and while they don't trust Farlands even a little bit, they do like the idea of going somewhere that has no extradition treaties with Mars.

Like BigB, Jimmy's ready to cash out and settle down on a strange planet. He's going to be making sure people have enough edible food on this new planet, since there's no guarantee it will have edible plants or animals.

EXPERTS IN ALIEN LIFE

There's definitely not intelligent life on this new planet. It would be illegal for Farlands to settle a planet that was already occupied! They would never do anything illegal.

But maybe there used to be intelligent life there. Maybe the preliminary probes were inconclusive? Hmm. Anyway. Skizz is a xenoarchaeologist. He's also the only survivor of an expedition that went out in the early 22nd century; they encountered a strange and apparently hostile aliens. His memories are fuzzy and he doesn't remember much except for a strange floating city in a dark void. He made it back to Earth in a stolen alien ship, but while he was gone several hundred years had passed and now everyone he knows is dead. He's anxious to get back into the field, to a planet that is definitely a different one from the one he was sent to where all his friends died, and there's definitely no living intelligent life.

Impulse has been studying that ship Skizz brought back and he's pretty sure these aliens have figured out a method of stable, instant travel between any two distant points, which needless to say the company wants badly. This world seems to have traces of these

Impulse is a xenotechnologist who's pretty sure he's close to wrapping his brain around a method of stable two-way faster-than-light travel that seems to be in use by a distant alien civilization who may have left traces of themselves on this new planet. The company line is that he's also there just to study any remnants of high-tech alien civilizations, but he doesn't have a very good poker face and everyone suspects he knows something he's not letting on.

ALSO... REN

Ren is not a scientist. Ren is Martyn's husband. He is a relatively successful fantasy author whose first two books have sold well, but now he has to finish the trilogy and it's just. not. happening. Martyn had been planning not to go on this expedition -- has in fact been planning to stop going on lengthy expeditions in general, because he'd like to spend more time at home -- but Ren's so tired of his manuscript at this point that he is willing to pack up and move to another planet to avoid writing. He is anxious that people like him and think well of him and also anxious that they never ask him about the book. Please don't ask him what happens in the book. He thought he knew, but he doesn't.

The great thing about this expedition is that that's going to be the least of his problems very, very soon. (Also, he'll be blessedly relieved of the memory of the book, because, like the rest of the surviving crew, all of them will have very few solid memories of anything by the time they get to the planet. But, gotta look on the bright side, right?)

[facewithoutheart]

Thanks for the tags @noblecorgi, @rimeswithpurple & @monbons ❤️❤️

What’s up kids we’re on day six of this hyperfixation I’ve written 25k things are dire. In the best way.

Okay, but the exciting part of working on a WIP none of y’all are going to read (a very valid choice, no judgement) is that I get to share one of my favorite scenes! Normally I’d keep this close to my chest to save the surprise but there is no surprise look at this I wrote it I LOVE IT what joy:

Eddie cocks an eyebrow. “Don’t start something you can’t—”

Buck bolts down the hallway with a whoop.

“—finish,” Eddie laughs, taking after Buck, skidding in his socks on hardwood floors as he rounds the corner to catch Buck in the kitchen.

Buck’s already got the fridge door open, a can of Ready-Whip in one hand poised to shoot.

“Oh no you don’t,” Eddie warns.

Buck shakes the can and grins.

Eddie snaps into action, tackling Buck by his waist and spinning him, pushing him out of the kitchen; the can of whipped cream falling with an impotent clink on the kitchen tile as Eddie gets Buck across the threshold.

“Eddie!” Buck giggles, joy echoing off the high living room ceilings as Eddie continues to push and push, catching the back of Buck’s knees on the edge of his sofa and pinning Buck to the cushions beneath.

“Gotcha,” Eddie says, grinning down.

Beneath him Buck’s red-faced and panting, something wild in his eyes and that’s when Eddie realizes what he’s done, what this looks like.

Buck’s eyes flick down to Eddie’s mouth.

Shit.

Sexual tension be tensing. This fic now holds the dirtiest smut I’ve ever written and this from the bitch who brought you lightning mccream.

Also, why does this line slap so hard:

“Yo, you got us some Welch’s, bro?”

Hope you all are having a fantastic Wednesday! Tags & hugs to my 911 (the show not the tragedy) hyperfixation subjects (thanks for letting me talk your ears off about this one day I’ll be normal) (lol jk NEVER): @sillyunicorn, @martsonmars, @raenestee, @thewholelemon & @bookish-bogwitch

I am once again not tagging people who don’t go here but you can tag me if you want to share your WIP with me 🥺

[strangersteddierthings]

You Left Me Scars Through Memories (Tangled in my DNA) - Prologue

"I love you so much," Stephanie Harrington says, reaching out a hand to tuck some hair behind his ear. It's more an excuse to touch than to clear his face of hair. It's at a length now that will result in the tucked hair falling back into his face with barely a shake of his head.

Steve blinks up at her from where he's sat in her lap, his face far too serious for a toddler just a few hours shy of three years old.

"Your life is going to be so difficult and it's my fault. I'm so sorry," she whispers, sweeping him into a hug. He snuggles into her embrace instantly and it brings tears to her eyes. He should hate her for what she's done. Perhaps he will, once he's older and can understand what she's apologizing for.

"I'm going to tell you a story," she settles back into the chair, a big plush thing that she sits in every night to read a bedtime story to Steve, or tries too anyway. He's at the age where he's wiggly and full of energy until he drops.

"Once upon a time, there was a man and a woman. Husband and wife. And they loved each other very much," she starts, running one hand up and down on her baby's back, soothing, "and they wanted nothing more than to have a child.

"But try as they might, no child would come to them. And soon resentment began to grow. The wife, convinced that having a child would remove the resentment, set off to make a bargain with a witch, said to live deep in the woods.

"She told her husband she was going to visit her family so as not to arouse suspicion. Consorting with witches wasn't something that was done, you see."

This is the longest Steve has sat still in her lap in months. She thinks he might be asleep but continues the story anyway.

"It took her almost three weeks to find the witch, deep in the woods. Upon arrival, the witch had tried to turn away the wife. But the wife was persistent. 'Please,' she begged the witch, 'if we can have a child then my husband will love me again.'

"The witch was not moved by this plea. 'You would bring a child into a loveless marriage?' and the wife argued that once they had a child, their marriage would no longer be loveless. The witch disagreed but the wife would not be deterred.

"'What would you give up to have this child?' the witch asked after being pestered by the wife for almost a week. And the wife had said anything.

"'Anything is dangerous,' the witch said. 'I can give you the means to have a child, but the universe will decide the price.' And so, the wife agreed, and the witch pressed a folded piece of parchment into the wife's hand.

"When she finally returned home, she had been gone for eight long weeks. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, they say, and husband and wife reunited. Still, the wife waited three more months before preforming the ritual the witch had pressed into her palm.

"Soon, they had a child, a daughter. But with her arrival came the universe's price. A life blessing is not an easy thing to give, and the price for life is the highest to pay. Free Will was that price. And when the daughter turned three, she learned her daughter also paid the price. Her daughter, and her daughter's daughter, and her daughter's daughter's son. Forever more. The wife, now mother, was angry to learn this. Why should her child have to suffer for her own sins?

"She told her husband what she had done. She had to, you see, because how else could he be expected to raise a child that would do everything you told her to? Words would need to be picked carefully.

"It was years later before the mother could track the witch down again, to demand the witch undo the curse. 'I made the bargain, why must my child also suffer the consequences?'

"'You said anything,' the witch responded, 'and I told you that was dangerous. It was foolish of you to think your actions would not affect others. All actions do.'

"The mother said, 'can it not be undone?' and the witch said, 'All curses can be broken.' When the mother asked how, the witch just looked at her and said, 'go away, and do not seek me again.' And the mother had no choice but to obey."

Steve still has not stirred on her lap and when she looks down, she can see he is asleep. Even if Steve had stayed awake for the whole story, she knows she'll have to retell it to him when he's older. When he'll remember all of it. Perhaps she should write it down, too, just in case.

"You see, Steve, what was supposed to be a blessing became a curse. One of obedience. People will tell you to do things and you will be compelled to obey. You will become someone you will never truly know, because anyone can make you anything," she says as she stands and places Steve in his bed. "But don't worry. Mommy will teach you how to trick and cheat the curse as much as you can."

[laundrybiscuits]

(Continued from Part 1)

Steve’s first thought is that he’s died and this is the afterlife, which makes no sense. But it makes a hell of a lot more sense than Eddie Munson, frozen in the doorway of the bar, staring at him.

Another patron pushes past Eddie, because he’s kind of blocking the entrance, and Eddie stumbles a little. It seems to shake him out of whatever stasis he’d been in, and he turns back towards the door.

Steve fucking vaults over the bar. Even lunging full speed, he barely manages to grab Eddie’s jacket in his fist.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growls, dragging Eddie back inside. “I swear to god, Munson, I will track you down like it’s 1986 all over again.”

Eddie lets out a choked little laugh. “Okay, okay, Harrington. Cool your jets. I’m here, you got me.” 

His voice is a little different. Rougher, maybe. He still sounds like himself; he still looks like himself. 

Steve clamps a hand on the back of Eddie’s neck like he’s scruffing a cat, and hauls him stumbling along to the back room. “Taking my break, Laurie,” he calls on the way. It’s a slow night, and Laurie likes him. He’ll have as long as he needs to deal with the Eddie Munson Situation.

He lets go of Eddie once they’re in the back. He doesn’t want to. He can’t stop staring. The idea of Eddie has followed Steve around since he was 19. Having the flesh-and-blood guy in front of him is tripping him out. It’s like double vision, the way he sees Eddie and also all the Eddie-related thoughts he’s had over the years all at once, all crammed into one space. 

Eddie’s visibly uncomfortable, shifting his weight. His eyes are darting around like he’s scoping out exits. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. 

“I don’t forgive you,” Steve says. It feels like the words are being scraped out of him with a butter knife.

“I…” Eddie hesitates. “Yeah, I get it. Okay, I’ll just. I’ll stay out of your way.”

Steve’s reaching out before he even realizes he’s moving, grasping tight at Eddie’s shirt like a child and crowding close. “No, no, I don’t want—you can’t do that again. You can’t leave again. You don’t get to fucking leave like that.” 

“Oh, Harrington,” says Eddie. He folds Steve into his arms, so carefully, and then Steve’s clinging to him, head tucked into his shoulder, shaking like a tornado. 

It’s fucked up, but this might actually be the first time they’ve ever touched in a deliberate kind of way, aside from the kind of shoulder-slaps and awkward jostling that teenage boys do when they don’t know how to be in each others’ space without it being some kind of fight. Steve doesn’t live like that anymore; he thinks nobody should have to live like that. Now, it’s so easy to curl into Eddie and soak up every little thing, the way his skin and hair smell a little bit like sweat and smoke, how all of him is here under Steve’s hands. 

Steve wants to crack open his own ribcage and stuff Eddie inside. 

The thought is so sudden and solid that it snaps him out of his little breakdown. He needs to stop thinking about Eddie as a defining moment of his youth and start thinking about him as someone who probably has plans for his life that don’t involve being clung to by Steve Harrington for all eternity. 

It’s just that he’s had his whole adult life to let the what-ifs and possibilities ferment in him, shaping who he is, and there’s just no way he can ever be even a little bit normal about Eddie.

He’s got to try, though. Steve pulls back and clears his throat. Eddie’s eyes flick down to where Steve can’t quite make himself let go of the grip he has on that stupid leather jacket, but Eddie doesn’t say a word. It might be a kindness, or Eddie might’ve just learned some tact in the last decade.

“So,” says Steve. “Explain.”

Eddie starts talking right away, no hesitation, like he’s been waiting to be asked.

“Okay, so, after everything went down, the feds took my body back and kept it for a couple years to run their creepy little tests on. Normal fucked-up government stuff. Got the shock of their lives when I started thrashing around all monster-y, very Night of the Living Dead. And then by the time they figured out I was, y’know, coming back, we figured it’d be kinder to just let you all get on with your lives. I wasn’t even talking like I was human for a few years, and by that time, the kids were practically done with high school, so. That was pretty much that.”

“How long,” says Steve. An awful image is starting to take shape behind his eyes.

“How long what?” Eddie tilts his head, looking confused.

“How long were you alone. How long were you locked up.”

“Oh. I dunno. Are we counting from, like, when my body first regained consciousness? Or when I first remembered who I was?”

“Either. Both.”

“A while, I guess. It really sucked, I’m not gonna lie. But…they didn’t even know I was me, so I can’t really blame them.” Eddie huffs out a croaky little laugh. “Harrington, you gotta understand. I didn’t know I was me. They basically had a wild animal of unknown demonic origin for their little menagerie, so they weren’t too psyched about me starting to be, like, a person who might possibly have rights again. I think I really messed up some of their research.” 

“I wish—they should’ve told us. They should’ve told—we would’ve helped. We would’ve done something.”

“It wasn’t so bad. Four walls and a roof, got my Fancy Feast twice a day.”

“Fucking hell, Eddie. How long have you been out? Wait, how long have you been in Chicago?”

“Not that long. They ran out of funding a few months ago, so now I’m kind of a tag-and-release deal. Wound up here a couple weeks ago, just trying to figure out what comes next.” 

So at least it's not like Eddie's been running around just existing in the world for years, and Steve missed it. He feels relieved, and then he fucking hates that he's relieved, because at least Eddie wouldn't have been a damn lab rat. 

He wants Eddie to be happy. he really does. He's just greedy, is all. He had all these scraps of Eddie that he hoarded jealously through the years, thinking there'd never be any more, and now it's overwhelming to be able to look and touch and breathe the same air. 

Steve just needs to keep remembering that Eddie's his own person. But maybe it's okay that he's going to be weird about Eddie, because Eddie is looking back, taking in whatever there is of Steve to take in. The glasses, maybe, or the earring. 

“What happened to you, Steve Harrington?” Eddie’s voice is quiet, like he’s talking to himself. Maybe he is.

“You did,” says Steve. 

Eddie looks up, almost cartoonishly surprised. His mouth actually drops open. 

“We weren’t friends or anything. You didn’t know me.” Even as he says it, Eddie’s wincing like he knows he’s wrong, or maybe just like he knows he's being cruel. He doesn’t take it back, though.

“Fuck you, Eddie. Christ. If you think it didn’t fucking kill me that you died, fuck you.” 

“You’re still kicking, ain’tcha?” But Eddie’s already jostling close. He’s like a cat, trying to comfort Steve by climbing all over him. 

It’s fucked up that Eddie is having to comfort Steve about his own death, when Steve’s had a whole life in the years when Eddie was lying alone on a government slab somewhere. He’s said yes and yes and yes to Robin, to chances, to the Eddie he’d carried around in his head like a song that won’t let you go. Steve went to London with Robin, and walked through Camden Market in the sunshine thinking Eddie would’ve loved this, all while Eddie was getting hooked up to monitors underground. Steve went dancing in Paris and kissed a beautiful man with dark, curly hair who spoke almost no English by the Seine, while Eddie was clawing his way back to humanity.

Steve’s had every good thing because of Eddie, because he wanted to live the kind of brave and colorful life that Eddie'd had stolen from him, and now Eddie’s rubbing his back gently and going, “Hey, it’s okay, it all worked out fine. You’re okay.”

“I grew my hair out for a while,” says Steve. 

Eddie audibly gasps, clutching at his heart and reeling dramatically. “Tell me there are photos, Harrington. You can’t just say that and not show me photos.”

“Yeah.” Steve finally lets go of Eddie’s jacket. “I can do that. Give me a second to talk to my boss and we’ll go see the photos.” 

He pauses before he opens the door. Eyes fixed firmly ahead, he says quietly: “Eddie. Um. You should know. If you pull another runner on me, I’m—I’m not gonna survive it, man. So just…promise you won’t leave without telling me first.”

“I won’t,” says Eddie. “Promise.”

(series tag)

[callmehere-iwillappear]

coming soon(...ish) to an ao3 account near you: the idiot's guide to blindfold chess

in the meantime, the full piece of this ^^ is on patreon!

[angst-is-love-angst-is-life]

Ofc, Jedi-Speedster Barry needs a Sith-Speedster whumper counterpart

[nullapophenia]

{You want to make him happy.}

{You have to say it.}

[larkral]

Oh, hello. Wednesday, huh? Thanks for the tag @artsyunderstudy !!

SO this week I have been doing MANY THINGS including many fannish things. Including things in several fandoms. Me earlier this year: I truly cannot handle having more than one thing on the go. Me now: Yes, maybe I do have six active writing projects in three different fandoms as well as four podfics on the go. WHAT OF IT!?

I've finished recording all of my podfics, and I'm editing them now and... well, it's hard. One is edited, one is 1/8th edited, and the other two are freefloating audio. But, uh, yeah, here's some audio. Because. I... well, you'll get it.

Yes, I titled this file TENDER because I just, it's... yeah. I'm not totally sure whether I'm allowed to say who/what I'm podficcing... (@caught-on-tape-fest can you advise?) But, anyway, probably someone will get it based on that snippet.

Below the cut: snippets of writing and tags!

Here, also, is a little, silly segment of my OMGCP fic, the Holsom Timeloop, featuring an OC who, let me just say, I gave excellent breasts, and zero flaws. I will accept no critiques:

He bumps into someone as he turns, attempts to keep anyone from falling with one hand in the steadying region of what should be a shoulder but turns out to be a truly exceptional handful of cleavage.  "Shit, I'm so sorry," he says, taking a half-step back and looking at the woman he just groped.  There's a lovely flush on her olive cheeks, and her hair is a cloud of beautiful, wild curls.  Marjorie. She's in his o-chem class and she's cute. She's been cute all semester. And smart. And funny. Though her typical cozy-sweater-and-jeans look in class does not betray how truly magnificent her tits are. They're propped up by some kind of bra magic in defiance of gravity, and barely contained by the blue-green fabric of her shirt.  She laughs. "You're forgiven. Though by the transitive property, you definitely owe me a drink."

I also wrote another couple hundred words on my @carryon-reverse-bang beach fic, of which these are some:

The moon is rising and the tide is coming in. "D'you know," he says. "Even if there were no moon, we'd still have tides?" I hum. I look over at him. His silhouette is blurred by the rays of the setting sun, lighting him up from behind like an unearthly being.

Tagging @stitchyqueer @thewholelemon @confused-bi-queer @raenestee @facewithoutheart @cutestkilla @hushed-chorus @sillyunicorn @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @basiltonbutliketheherb @ileadacharmedlife @asocialpessimist @bookish-bogwitch @aristocratic-otter @captain-aralias @petedavidsonscock @yeonjunenby @carryonvisinata @takenabackbytuesdays @martsonmars @nausikaaa @nightimedreamersghost  @chen-chen-chen-again-chen  @ionlydrinkhotwater @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @shrekgogurt @forabeatofadrum   @palimpsessed @fatalfangirl @blackberrysummerblog @valeffelees @imagineacoolusername @orange-peony @j-nipper-95 @whogaveyoupermission @wellbelesbian @rimeswithpurple

[meyerlansky]

several sentences sunday!

tagged by @samuelroukin thank you!!! 🖤🖤🖤

uhhh i don't know what this is, honestly! kinda just spitballing some post-war dctctc stuff in the vein of this post. haven't entirely figured out the full setup but for now, scene-setting is bucky's wasted, curt's tipsy but all there, and gale's Disapproving:

“Jesus, John,” Gale sighs. Bucky flinches, Curt can feel it where Bucky’s arm is still slung over his shoulder, and that’s it, Curt has had enough of this. “Don’t go anywhere, Buck,” he says, and he manages not to spit it, but not by much. Gale’s brows lift, but he settles back in his chair. “C’mon, Bucky,” Curt says once he’s sure Buck’s gonna listen. He squeezes the arm around Bucky’s waist, and drags him into the bedroom—Curt’s, not the guest bed. Hopes the familiarity will keep off the worst of the nightmares or flashbacks. Bucky burrows under the blankets as soon as he sits, shoves his face into Curt’s pillow and breathes in deep. “Made ‘im mad again,” he sighs out, sounding twenty years younger, and not in a good way. Curt sits, tucked in the arc of Bucky’s body, between his head on the pillow and his knees hitched up under the blanket. “Nah, he’s fine,” he replies, and doesn’t have to force his voice quiet and gentle. Bucky makes a skeptical noise, but doesn’t shake Curt off when he cards his fingers through his curls. “I’ll talk to him,” he corrects himself. “You gonna sleep?” Bucky hums again, eyes sliding shut. “Sleep better with my big spoon,” Bucky says, already sounding half gone. Curt’s heart clenches in his chest, same as it does every time Bucky goes soft and honest with him. “I know, baby.” He leans down enough to bump his nose against Bucky’s cheekbone, smiles when Bucky does, despite the anger still boiling low. “Won’t be long.” He makes sure to pull the door shut behind him. He’s not plannin' on yelling, but he never really plans it.

sooo yeah! ~~~drama in the buck(y) sandwich household!

no-pressure tagging @goatsandgangsters @hosseinis @redbelles @sweaterkittensahoy aaand anyone else who feels moved!

[thisliminalspacedaydreams]

“Excuse you? I’m on your fridge.”

Regulus sputters. “That’s not relevant.”

“It is. Fridges are prime real estate for important events and important people. I am on your fridge, thus, I am important.”

[canonical-transformation]

[...]I'm a private eye, which is slang for private investigator. I solve the kinds of cases others can't, won't, or shouldn't, and I'm damned good at it. I take my whiskey neat to help me stay sharp but just one glass: anything past that makes me drowsy. I figure I'll build up a tolerance to alcohol by the time I'm twenty, maybe even an addiction. For now, everything in moderation, as the saying goes... everything, that is, except regrets. Drink at the bar of regrets and nobody will cut you off. It's self-serve, I suppose.

from a WIP extract, starring Fi v.L. Narfidort, Mondstadt's #1 private investigator

[jichanxo]

made a tierlist of my kuwagami fics for funsies (+ notes for a few) ↓

(everything listed in the same tier are equals, so the order they're listed in has no meaning)

[lunarmoves]

me reading all the reblogs and comments under the robot superiority sun ask

[luluwquidprocrow]

like a row of captured ghosts

kit snicket

teen

2,568 words

Kit Snicket visits a house in the city.

for @asouefanworkevent's woevember day 2, the baudelaire mansion! featuring my enduring headcanon that the baudelaire mansion was previously the snicket mansion, and b+b get it when they marry lemony. i am 100% willing to admit it is Unlikely, however let us not forget kit saying “our families have always been close”, so, yknow

title from welcome home by radical face

Kit could get in if she wanted. She’d been given lockpicks expressly for the purpose, because the locks on the house were special, but she didn’t need them. She knew the statue in the back of the garden had a hairline crack in one of the hands – she didn’t remember which one, but it wasn’t as if there were many options – that, when pressure was applied, opened a brick in the patio. Under the brick was a lever. If one were to pull the lever, the little window in the hidden attic opened, roof shingles shifting out of the way, and one could wiggle themselves in, with enough effort. Her grandfather had put a number of clever little secrets in the house, and Kit had gone looking for them when she was very, very young, so she knew a decent amount of them. Few others did. 

(The lockpicks confirmed that. If they thought that was the only way someone could get into the house, Kit was not going to correct them. And there were worse things, weren’t there, than simple theft, things for which no real defense existed.) 

Night air bit at her ankles, her fingers, her neck. She wasn’t dressed nearly warm enough for November, having grabbed her blue spring jacket in her hurry, but the cold was of little concern to her. The mansion stood across the street, set back from the road, with that winding brick path up to the front doors, the maple trees scattering their leaves around the yard. It was in the heart of the city but in a place one would never know unless explicitly looked for – a turn off an erroneously marked dead end, then another, to an old avenue along a river with more trees than houses. Her grandparents had picked it on purpose. Presumably safe, but close enough. 

They had added to the windows. Neat, decorative ironwork, curled into hearts and vines. 

Kit put her hands in her pockets and crossed the street, her footsteps the only noise. 

The fence out front had been replaced as well. Kit’s grandmother had done most of the architecture, and Bernadette Snicket had favored a simplistic, practical style in her work, but the new fence matched the intricacy of the window grates. That just-too-big space in the bars a person could slide themselves through if they desired, that Kit had, years ago, when she’d – that was gone. Kit walked the length of the fence twice, considering. She couldn’t linger long. There was a light on in a downstairs window, glowing soft behind the drawn curtains. Kit could not put it past them to eventually see her. She walked down the sidewalk one more time, picking up her pace. There was no way around the fence. Climbing over it didn’t seem like an option. The points at the top of each iron bar looked sharp, glinting in a stray hit of light from the streetlamp over near Kit’s car. 

(Kit wondered how much was a choice – how much was a needed decision – how much was meant to erase. She couldn’t judge Beatrice and Bertrand for that. Not without damning herself, which Kit was not, overall, in the habit of doing.) 

Of course there was a sewer grate nearby, and of course Kit pushed it up soundlessly and slipped down inside. 

Her grandfather had three boxes – one Kit had already taken some years ago and given to Bertrand, for reasons better left unsaid. One had been given to Lemony. The third was still in the house and held a very specific map of the city. Headquarters wanted it, among other things. And if Kit came across one of those other things, she was at her liberty to take them. 

(She and Beatrice had argued, Kit remembered. The sewer was dark and icy, and Kit shivered hard, grinding her teeth together. They’d argued about those other things, and Kit had not been able to give Beatrice, or herself, a satisfactory answer. It was one of the last conversations they had, if not the last. Most likely the last, if Kit was honest. Beatrice had made it clear where she and Bertrand stood, and where Kit stood, and that it was no longer in the same place. And it never would be. 

Kit told herself over and over that she would never do it. There would always be another option, as long as Beatrice and Bertrand were alive to emphatically refuse. Right now, there was this option – Kit was going into the house. She was taking the box back. Nothing else. And the box wasn’t even going to headquarters. There were other plans for that box.) 

The box would be in the downstairs office, under a floorboard. Probably Bertrand’s office. The windows were one of the ones her grandmother had put the stained glass in, and shards of blue fell over the green floor when the sun sat just right in the sky. It was a good room for thinking, and Bertrand likely did a great deal of it there. Kit swallowed and hurried further through the sewers, past the names that didn’t matter, and started scanning the curved ceiling. If one knew where to look, there was a sloped hatch up there that led up into the passage between the house and 667 Dark Avenue. Kit would open the hatch, get inside, go into the house, and then leave the same way. And there it was. Tucked in a shadow, just waiting for her. Kit reached up for the wheel, ready to heave the door open. It was going to stick with so little use. 

The wheel turned easy under her hands. 

Kit jerked back, her whole body seizing up. Someone had been here. Someone who was not her. Someone who wasn’t just checking. Kit spun the wheel frantically and the hatch fell open. 

(She’d brought Olaf here. Her grandparents hadn’t cared who knew the location of their house, but their generation had been different, and Kit’s parents had stressed, when they could, the importance of keeping this secret. Her associates thought it was a safehouse, one they could never quite find the location of, and wrote off as another ruse. She’d driven Olaf, pointing out landmarks the whole way, because she’d thought – 

Kit was not foolish enough to think she’d get married. But Olaf was important to her, and she was foolish enough to think he’d stay important, and that when Lemony inevitably married Beatrice and they took the house, Olaf would be there too.

They crept in through the fence. Olaf chased her around the maple trees. Kit took him into the house through the font doors and showed him what her grandparents built. And he understood what the Snicket mansion meant, in the way he had to understand what the Count’s mansion meant. Some time later, Kit realized he had not. 

Olaf’s memory was shit, except where it mattered. Except in the things she wanted him to forget. He’d remember where this house was and it was only a matter of time before he – before anyone – got their hands on the Baudelaires.)

Kit hoisted herself up into the passageway. She tugged the hatch closed behind her, then felt around in the black for the dip in the center. Her fingers kept slipping, shaking, pushing into metal that wasn’t right, nicking her nails, her heart thudding faster and faster in her chest and rising to a crash in her ears – where was it? There. She found the button and jammed her thumb into it. The metal hissed as it sealed from the inside. It wasn’t enough, Kit knew. Nothing would ever be enough now. But it would have to do. 

She ran along the passageway, keeping one hand on the wall. It came to an abrupt end, and Kit had her hand ready to pull open the trap door into the office when her mouth went dry. She swallowed, and then did it again. Once more. She let the trap door fall open and climbed into the Baudelaire mansion. 

The office was dark, as expected. Bertrand kept his desk by the windows, because of course he would. Not because Kit’s grandfather had, but because Bertrand would obviously like the view. The bookcases still lined the walls, but the books must surely be different. Kit wondered what he kept there, but there was no time to get into it. She could see the strip of light hovering under the door. It was poetry, probably. He probably kept poetry. Fairy tales he read to his children. The chair at his desk was different than the one her grandfather had there, perfect for sitting in and telling stories. She turned and faced the wall.

The floorboard was in the far left corner, at the front of the room. Kit moved slowly, quietly, barely breathing. Bertrand had covered the whole floor with a thick, heavy carpet, so at least that was in her favor. She bent down, tugging the corner of the carpet up, and lifted the single loose floorboard. 

(She always wound up doing this, she thought, in a voice that sounded stunningly like Lemony’s, wry as he ever was. Sneaking into someplace to steal something important. At least now she had experience.) 

There it was. Just as it had always been, another secret waiting for its time. The small, jeweled box with the complicated lock with the code her grandfather had taught all three of them. Kit tucked it inside her jacket and replaced the floorboard. 

It hit her like a shot, her breath catching in her throat. The sewer hatch locked only from the inside. She couldn’t go back that way. She whirled around, clutching the lump in her jacket to her chest. The best way to leave – the closest way out – that was through the library, two rooms down, through the passageway in the wall and up to the hidden attic. But that meant leaving the room. Standing in the hallway. Walking to the library, unseen. 

(She did not have experience. That voice sounded like Jacques, if Jacques had ever been so straightforward in his disappointment. She had to get out of this house before she kept thinking.)

Kit waited. Listened. She couldn’t hear anything from here in the office. She went through the map of the ground floor in her head, the foyer at the front, into the parlor, the living room to the left, the kitchen to the back, the dining room to the right – the hallway behind the kitchen, with the office, the billiard room, the library. The left wall in the library, where the hidden door was. Conceivably, it was easy. Wasn’t it? 

She turned the door handle and left the office. 

The hallway was half-lit from the living room at the end of the hall. Now she could hear the phonograph, playing a jazz record she didn’t recognize. Beatrice and Bertrand had to be in there, and it was right across from the library. Unless they were in the library. Unless they were – Kit gave herself a shake. She wouldn’t know anything until she moved. She just had to move. She just had to move. Kit just had to move. 

She couldn’t see the green floors. Beatrice and Bertrand had rugs everywhere, in elegant red and ivory. Kit tiptoed over it, hesitating. Paintings hung in groups down the hallway, flowers and little portraits and framed children’s drawings, scribbles of the garden hung with the same care as the art. They must be Violet’s. The jazz record kept going. Kit’s grandmother had liked oil paintings of flowers. She’d had a few in the hallway herself in her time. 

(Katherine, Bernadette Snicket had said. 

No, Kit insisted. How old was she then? Four? Just Kit. And her grandmother had looked pleased, like Kit had passed a test. Everything was a test and always had been, tests she’d completed perfectly, and why did it hurt? How far had Kit gone down the hall? The box sat against her ribs like another heart, heavy. Everything ached, especially her jaw, clenched shut like her life depended on it. And it did. This life around her she wasn’t a part of anymore, this family, this safety, Kit’s life existing outside of this place, everything depended on Kit, on her walking out of here alone, back to her apartment. The whole series of events spooled out in front of her as a nightmare unraveling. Was she crying? Why was she crying?)

Kit took another step, then another. The library was one foot away on the right, a mile away, mere inches, an eternity. The passthrough to the living room on her left gaped open.

Bertrand hummed a bar of the jazz record. And then – 

“What’ve you got there?”

Kit froze.

“I knew I left it somewhere in here – ha! That book I was looking for, for Violet and Klaus.”

“You really want to do the cob, don’t you?” The smile was clear in his voice, and Kit pictured Bertrand leaning forward in his chair, his hand on his chin, gazing at Beatrice and bursting with delight. 

“I absolutely do! I get to do a fake death scene and everything. How many kids books are going to give me that kind of opportunity, Bertrand?” 

They were alone. Their voices were far enough into the room that they shouldn’t see her at the doorway. They joked like she remembered, exactly like she remembered. Did they joke like that with their children? Would they have joked like that with Lemony, here, like they used to? With her? Would Olaf have – would her grandparents – wasn’t Kit supposed to be here too, not because it was hers, that wasn’t what mattered, what mattered was – 

Kit held her breath and didn’t let it out until she’d slipped into the library, until she’d rushed to the wall, until she’d nearly slammed her hand into the door hidden in the dark wallpaper, until she was safe in the narrow passageway. She wanted to run, to keep running. But they’d hear her in the wall. She took it step by step with her chest burning, traveling up two floors to the hidden attic. There was the little window in the roof, waiting for Kit to wiggle her way out. She did. The climb over the roof and down the trellis was harder, with her whole body trembling, but she made it. 

She stumbled through the garden, racing over the brick path back to the road, to the fence – she shoved her heels into the ironwork, scrambling over it, the tip of a bar slicing into her calf and her palms. She slipped on the way down the other side and her hip met the sidewalk, pain skittering through her leg and up her side. Get up. Get up, Kit. And Kit did, back to her car across the street, into the driver’s side. 

Kit took long and deep breaths. In and out, until her head was back on straight, with the plan set right in her thoughts, as it was supposed to be. Everything was as it should be. She set the box down gently on the passenger seat. She did not look at the Baudelaire mansion. She would patch herself up later, when she had time. She took another breath and put the key in the ignition. 

She had to go back home.

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Unspoken

for Angstpril, Day 2: Loss of Control (alt)

cw: torture, nonsexual nudity, death mentions

masterlist ///// next

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"The Shadow King has fallen."

A phrase on everyone's lips, passed around like a greeting, a blessing, a well-wishing.

"The Shadow King has fallen, and we are free."

General Nisha was at the head of the makeshift procession that paraded through the city, enemy shields and helmets held high like banners.

The war for the kingdom had been waged for five years. The fields outside the city were red with blood. But they'd won, they'd won. The undead legions had met their defeat, and their dark king had been imprisoned and was awaiting trial.

There was little doubt what his fate would be.

But before he could be executed, certain matters needed to be addressed. There were whispers in the streets, rumors of secret blood rituals, fail-safes emplaced by the Dark King to ensure he'd always be able to rise to power again. And if these rumors were true, they must be destroyed.

There were holy mages in cities further from the capital, wise men who could draw truths from a person's mind, but it would be weeks before their arrival. For now, Cerus the Shadow King would face Nisha.

They held a meager feast in the reclaimed castle; the city was still suffering from being besieged. Knights and lords and commoners dined together in celebration. Once the evening had turned to drinking and song, General Nisha took their leave, making the long journey down the stairs, to the dungeons.

Cerus hadn't moved an inch from the spot he'd been left in, Nisha had seen to that personally. The ex-king was blindfolded, chained spread-eagled on the ground with an iron bit in his mouth. Knight's gauntlets had been fitted over his hands, their joints fused together to form immobile metal gloves.

One could never be too careful when dealing with a mage, especially one as powerful as the Shadow King.

Nisha said nothing at first, unlocking the cell door and circling the prisoner inside.

Cerus's breathing quickened at the sound, his long black hair plastered to his face with sweat. He wore nothing but his restraints, leaving the multitude of wounds he'd sustained during his capture plainly visible.

How should they proceed? Normally, allowing a captive mage to speak would be exceedingly dangerous, but Nisha had taken precautions. One of their mages had crafted a runed cuff that would sap Cerus's power. The real question was, how would they get the man to respond?

They knew appealing to Cerus's morality was a lost cause. The former king had no issue razing whole villages to eliminate a single rebel. He'd executed entire families, burned the crops of his own people. There was no hope of finding any humanity in him.

Pain could be a motivator, but it would take time. And they had time, but pain alone wouldn't be enough. Someone like Cerus would need to be wholly broken before he'd give them anything worthwhile. Now fear… fear would be a useful tool, but how to employ it?

Nisha supposed they were already making some headway with their silent circling. Now to heighten it…

They eyed the rack of implements that lined one of the stone walls, selecting a slim wooden rod that looked like it had been freshly cut. Someone had stocked the dungeon for the occasion, then.

They tested it, watching Cerus's chest hitch as it cut through the air with a swish. Good. Instead of bringing it down on his exposed flesh, Nisha resumed their circling, letting the anticipation rise for a long moment before hovering over one of the deeper wounds on the chained man's torso and slowly, slowly forcing the tip of the implement into it, increasing pressure until Cerus was screaming around the bit.

Then without a word, they withdrew, the tip of the rod now slick with blood as they continued circling.

How would it feel, they wondered, to be in the Dark King's place? Dethroned, rendered powerless, in the hands of enemies who were hungry for blood. A prisoner in his own dungeon. They imagined it was terrifying. They hoped it was terrifying.

Nisha stopped, found another wound, and repeated the slow, pressured prodding. None of the cuts that littered Cerus's body were too deep; a few still oozed blood, and a few looked like they'd require stitches—or at least they would were Nisha inclined to grant the man any sort of medical aid. No, if Cerus were to be healed, it would only be to allow more pain. He deserved no mercy.

Nisha allowed themselves a few more jabs, a few more screams elicited from the tyrant, before even bothering to lock the runed cuff onto his wrist. They already knew they'd be up well into the night, whether Cerus elected to respond to their questions or not.

Whatever answers they were granted, they couldn't deny that they were going to enjoy this.