#these fics keep me alive

[greenglowinspooks]

(DCxDP) The obligations of a rogue versus those of a parent (pt. 2)

—

Tw: N/A

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Pt. 1 here) - (Pt. 3 here)

(Masterlist/subscription post)

—

It was a beautiful morning. Somehow, against all odds, the sun was shining through the thick smog perpetually covering Gotham.

And Danny hated it.

He was in pain, he was exhausted, he was grieving, and all he wanted to do was sleep for at least a week.

In an act of celestial mockery, the sun shone regardless.

After around twenty minutes of tossing and turning in bed, trying to get back to sleep, Danny gave up and pried himself out of bed.

He stumbled through the hallway and into the living room, staring openly at every splash of color he saw in the small apartment. He hadn’t forgotten what color looked like in the time he was in the lab, but it was comforting to see.

Someone cleared their throat. Danny whipped his head around, eyes falling on a scrawny, gangly man sitting down in a worn armchair, hunched over a laptop. He was looking at him with a dull, bored expression.

Right. Scarecrow.

His escape.

The chase.

His mom.

“You look a lot less terrifying without the mask,” Danny blurted out, slapping his hand over his mouth. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t call my normal appearance frightening,” Scarecrow hummed, focusing his attention back onto the laptop, “that’s what the costume is for, after all.”

“Oh.”

After a brief moment of excruciating silence, Scarecrow spoke.

“You any good with computers, Danny? Hacking, and all that?”

Danny jolted. Scarecrow needed his help with something! This was great! Now, he’d have more of a reason not to get rid of him!

“Oh, uh, yeah! Not as good as my friend Tucker, but I think I’m pretty good.”

“And you’re familiar with the GiW’s systems specifically,” Scarecrow continued, beckoning him over. Danny complied, shuffling over awkwardly. “Right?”

“Well, I guess? My friends and I got into their stuff a couple of times before they…”

“Wonderful,” Scarecrow said, standing up with a stretch. He shoved the laptop into Danny’s hands and gestured for him to sit down on the couch. “Then you can hack into their system and extract whatever files you can find.”

Danny stared at the man like he’d lost his mind. He looked back at him expectantly.

Danny sat down.

“Yeah, I-I can do that. Tuck and I built a back door into their system ages ago,” he said, checking the screen. It was clear that for all the skills that Scarecrow had, hacking was definitely not one of them. “But, uh, don’t you have someone else that usually does this sort of thing for you? Not that I’m complaining!”

Scarecrow scowled, and Danny felt his heart fall into his ass.

“Usually, I do,” Scarecrow huffed, “but I chose to leave my most recent job with the Penguin early, so now there’s no way that he or Eddie will help me with anything until I make it up to them somehow.”

“Oh,” Danny said.

He had no clue whatsoever who Eddie was.

Danny got to work quickly, hoping that if he ignored the gangly man, he would leave him be. Luckily, he did just that, leaving to go work on something in another room.

Danny checked the laptop’s security before continuing Scarecrow’s progress, making sure that the GiW wouldn’t be able to grab their location.

It was…threateningly good. Whoever Eddie was, he had somehow crammed the functionality of a top-of-the-line PC into a tiny, beat-up old laptop. It almost reminded Danny of Tucker and his terrifying competence with his PDA.

Tucker.

Amity park.

Home.

Danny snapped himself out of his thoughts, tabbing back into the application Scarecrow had up and began to work his magic.

He had near full access to the entire GiW database within half an hour.

Mumbling out a quick thank-you to Tucker, he called Scarecrow over to appraise his work.

“Fixed up some food for you while you worked,” the rogue said, handing him a bowl of oatmeal, taking the laptop into his lap as he did so, “didn’t know how well you could eat, considering you’re recovering from… surgery, so I decided to stay on the safe side.”

Danny had no clue what this guy’s deal was.

He definitely did not tear up at the first genuine thoughtfulness he encountered in weeks, and he did not look away as he ate so that Scarecrow couldn’t see his face.

At least Scarecrow was too focused on the laptop to notice or care.

Or, maybe, he was just mercifully ignoring him.

Either way, Danny ate slowly, not wanting to make himself sick. He allowed himself to absentmindedly look around the room for the first time, taking everything in.

It was strangely homey. The space was filled with warm browns and yellows, a few splashes of color on the wall in the form of (obviously gifted) paintings. There was a beat-up bookshelf against the wall, clearly second-hand, filled to the brim with psychology books. On every available surface there was a different colored candle, all at different stages of use, clearly collected over the course of years.

Danny knew that the man next to him was a crazed, murderous criminal, but his home was oddly reminiscent of Jazz.

He was not about to cry.

“Danny,” Scarecrow hummed, snapping him out of his spiraling, “can you explain this to me?”

He looked over. The rogue was pointing to a new report, seemingly posted only a few hours ago.

Nodding, he took the computer into his lap, pouring over the contents.

He read the report again.

And again.

And again.

Danny swore loudly, crumpling like a wet paper bag, head in his hands.

“What?”

“It’s…” he swore again, glancing back at the laptop, “they…since you became liminal from synthetic ectoplasm, when we’re within about 500 meters of one another, our ectoplasm signatures resonate, and they can’t track us with any of their technology.”

“How is that a bad thing?”

“If we’re not that close to each other, they can track us down from anywhere in the world.”

Scarecrow went dead quiet. After what felt like the single longest minute of Danny’s life, he let out a truly exasperated sigh, slumping over in his seat.

“Yeah, me too,” Danny mumbled, utterly miserable.

“…I’ll have to move my plans back a little,” Scarecrow sighed, “I can’t drag an injured child with me when I attack the Gotham GiW base, you’ll just get in the way.”

“Oh come on,” Danny whined, “I can take care of myself just fine. Besides, Batman brings kids with him to do dangerous stuff all the time, and he’s fine!”

“Might I remind you that the second Robin died violently,” Scarecrow snapped, “and that Batman most likely has more traumatic brain injuries than all of the Gotham rogues combined. That really isn’t the winning argument you think it is.”

Danny paused, trying to think up some way to win the argument. Then, he realized what he had ignored before.

“Wait, Scarecrow, you’re gonna attack the GiW?”

“That’s the plan,” he nodded, “and call me Dr. Crane. I’m only Scarecrow when I’m in the mask.”

But,” Danny sputtered, “Sca—uh, Dr. Crane—that’s insane! The weapons they’ve got- they’ll rip you apart!”

“Not my first time,” Crane said, making Danny wince. “Besides, I have plenty of experience avoiding gunfire. I’ll live.”

“You…” Danny was silent for a while, trying to think of something to say, “fine, but you have to take me with you wherever you go. As soon as they see either of us on their radars, they’ll hunt us down.”

Dr. Crane sighed.

“…Fine. I need some time to plan anyways. Now, you’re going to help me download these files, properly format them, and send them out.”

“…Why?”

“Well, some of the other rogues might appreciate the heads up, and I’d quite like them to be indebted to me. Besides, I still need to pay back the Penguin for ditching him, and he loves knowing things that other people don’t.”

Danny paused.

“That’s an awful idea, no offense. If any of the rogues know our weaknesses, they—”

“Danny, we’re censoring everything. The only things they need to know about are the GiW specifically, and any sort of laws surrounding them.”

Danny snorted.

“You care about laws now?”

“Yes, because if we get taken to Arkham, they’ll hand us off to the GiW the moment they ask, and it’ll be completely legal.”

Oh. Danny had honestly forgotten that Arkham was an option.

“…Ok. I’ll help you. Who are we telling?”

“I don’t think you really need to know,” Dr. Crane said, the faintest shadow of an amused look on his face, “but I’ll humor you for now. We’re sending the files out to the Penguin, Riddler, Poison Ivy via Harley Quinn, Two-Face, and Red Hood.”

Danny nodded. He could live with that.

“Alright, then let’s get to work.”

—

[radroachmeat]

Girls who kill people together 💜

[tomurasmoleunderhislip]

~ He's my happiness ~

[hairbrushed]

my good friends natsume hyuuga and mikan sakura

[miss-meichu]

Ok lovely people of Tumblr help me out here.

I love fics where Stiles gets fed up with all the shit and leaves, just takes off without telling anyone and they all have to get back in his good graces in some way.

Preferably Sterek or no ship. Only fics with happy endings, however that may be.

Thank y'all

[ravensprophet]

the way im like 'damn people need to acknowledge that yassen quite willingly works for a terrorist organisation and isnt actually a good person" but i know for a fact that if i wrote a fic my characterisation of him probably wouldnt be that great 😭😭 i am a HYPOCRITE

also i enjoy fics where we dont look too deeply into his morals - its self indulgent okay

[bandtrees]

hiatus catastrophizing has made me really worried for how find us alive will end. given the weight it gives character deaths and injury, i don't think anyone will die or anything like that - but i think, and maybe this is just my angst brain talking, site-107 has evolved so much and its people have adapted so well over time, into something unrecognizable as the foundation, that i think when they get out they will be completely incompatible with the outside world/the foundation at large and we'll get a tragic "the shift grew to symbolize hope in isolated community that cannot persist in the 'real world'"-type ending.

(in particular, anna got an ask about the idea that the 107 employees will all be amnesticized when they're found, and that concept's stuck with me...)

a foundation site has become a place where d-class are treated like people, where people who'd previously hardly spoken are now close community members, where a contained anomaly can atone and return to his work and his friends, where anomalies themselves are treated with affection as the pets of a physically+mentally disabled field agent who was considered disposable by the foundation long before she became disabled.

and that's wonderful. it makes me so happy. but i have to fear if the rest of the foundation will be as understanding of the hope and triumph the staff of 107 have gone through - and i don't think they will. fua's story is all about making normalcy, and i would say at this point in the story, shown most recently by gravett and klein, that they've achieved it - but won't it hurt, just like it had in the initial shift, to have that normalcy taken away?

[earlofbats]

snippet from chapter 8 of Kim being that freak. Chapter NINE AND TEN coming out on the 28th!

[itsalmostavengers]

I checked my ao3 stats for the first time in like two years the other day and it fucking blew me away. 2.6 million people have read my stuff over the years. And I’m not saying this to brag I’m saying this because at my most quote-unquote-famous or whatever I was like 17. And so unwell. my confidence was completely non-existent and I truly deeply believed I had nothing worthwhile to provide the world whatsoever. And then I’d post a fic and it would always be this one shining beacon of happiness where for a few days I’d read you guys’ comments and I’d feel like I was worth something. And seeing that figure now - once again at a very very difficult time in my life - is just insane. 2.6 million. That’s an insane number. What. It’s a crazy thing to see with such startling clarity the depths of my mental illness and like. Self-worth issues I guess because to this day when I proof my own works I simply cannot fathom why anyone would be compelled by it. And then that figure is just there giving me some side-eye and I’m like. Huh. So it really IS all in your head then lol.

[missriyochuchi]

Our love is here to stay

Summary: The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer take a walk along the Seine, skipping stones before entertaining the late-night crowd with an intimate dance number from a classical Hollywood musical.

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: FLUFF. Implied sexual content. Established relationship. References to An American in Paris (1951).

Notes: I didn't intend to write another fic for these two, but this scene from An American in Paris (1951) has been haunting me since the Opening Ceremony. I couldn’t figure out how to write them dancing until I remembered the song that accompanied the scene, and then I couldn't stop writing! The lyrics fit them perfectly! This follows The Torchbearer and the Flagbearer. I strongly recommend reading it first, but if not (it's your time), only a few details carry over: the two exist only during the Olympic Games, so they die and are reborn every two years; interaction between them and humans is strictly limited; and the Flagbearer's horse is named Zeus. As with the aforementioned fic, I use gendered pronouns only to distinguish between the two; physical descriptions are not gendered. For now, I have no plans to write another fic for them, but the Olympics are just beginning, and who knows if the Muses will blow in my direction again lol

Read on AO3

Darkness floats above the Seine like mist, its shroud kept at bay by the namesake luminescence of the City of Lights. Boats bobbing on the river and open restaurants on the bank animate the otherwise dreary waterway. Beneath bulbs of varying hues, businesses bustle with the chorus of tinkling tableware, multilingual conversations, and idle music of Paris past and present. 

Sunrise approaches in an hour, but beneath one of the city’s many bridges, the Torchbearer and the Flagbearer find a sliver of solitude. 

Splash, splash, splash, splash.

“See?” The Torchbearer spins on his heel at the river’s edge, a few flat stones left in hand, to face the Flagbearer leaning against the wall. “There is nothing to it.” He extends an upturned palm in her direction, but she shakes her head.

“I do not possess the skill,” she announces to her echoes.

He cocks his head to the side and closes the distance between them. “Skills can be taught, ma chère.” He takes her hand and pulls her to the riverside, her cape billowing lightly in the breeze. He places a stone in her glove and positions her index finger along its jagged edge. “You must give it a little spin so that it does not sink upon impact on the surface of the water.”

The Torchbearer turns to face his rippling reflection. He flicks his wrist and sends a stone skipping once, twice, three, four times across the river before sinking below the surface with a light plop.

The Flagbearer mimics his motions, swinging her arm and sending her stone on a long arc to a wide splash into the water’s darkness. The Torchbearer stifles a giggle.

She shakes her head and grumbles, “Oh! I do not understand why you find this activity so amusing.”

He releases his chuckles and grabs her wrist before she can walk away with a huff. “Practice makes perfect, non? Give it one more try.”

The Flagbearer runs her hands along her partner’s biceps and strokes his ego. “You are the one gifted with physical prowess,” she says fondly, “a lightness of touch and dexterity.” She steps closer to ghost her breath over his. “If ever I need to raise an army of stone throwers, you shall be my first in command.”

The Torchbearer tilts his head back and sends his laughs to the underside of the bridge. His voice reverberates across the masonry. “Your flattery will not excuse you from this lesson, général.”

“Then I shall receive a failing grade, professeur,” she teases. “Or do you have some other, more favored form of punishment?” She sneaks a knee between his legs and presses up.

He groans and chuckles low at the contact. “Have I not satisfied your appetite for tonight, my love? I am sure the few players who heard us at the Olympic Village would—”

She silences him with a swift squeeze of his buttocks. Her gloved hands slip slowly up to the back of his waist. “Several lifetimes of nights could never quell my hunger for you and your prowess.” She presses her front to his and guides them away from the river’s edge and into the shadows.

The stones in the Torchbearer’s hand land on the pavement, their echoes filling the underpass. His hands smooth over the cool expanse of the Flagbearer’s backplate underneath her cape. “Not here, my sweet,” he whispers into the darkness beneath her hood.

“I know.”

Giggles from an approaching group of tourists break the moment. The lovers’ hands fall to each other’s elbows, their gazes fixed downward. The group grows silent as they pass the hooded figures. A woman bringing up the rear stops to turn around and hold up a smartphone.

“Excuse me, can we— oh!”

A man grabs her elbow and roughly turns her back around towards their group. “Je suis désolé,” he offers quickly. “Elle ne savait pas.” He bows low at the hip in consternation.

The Torchbearer nods in his direction. He watches and waits for the group’s footsteps to fade before turning back to the Flagbearer. Flush with embarrassment beneath her metallic hood, she looks up and crashes her chest to his, tightening her arms around his shoulders for a long embrace. His hands find the opposite sides of her waist, and his chin rests on her tiered spaulder. For a moment, the movement of their chests with every inhalation and exhalation is one and the same.

Displays of affection are not uncommon on the streets of the City of Love, and neither the gods nor any event organizers in the past expressly forbade their affair, but for the Olympic guardians damned to the global spotlight every two years, privacy is a luxury they steal at every opportunity. To be caught alone in each other’s arms felt like an insult to the few precious moments they shared outside their eternal duties.

“Come,” the Flagbearer says softly as she pushes her palms against the Torchbearer’s biceps for enough breathing room to speak. “I do not wish to spend the remainder of the night adding debris to the Seine.” She curls her hand beneath his upper arm and guides him along the riverbank.

The low sounds of whispers and camera shutters accompany the two as they gain distance from their secluded underpass. They keep their gaze forward, accustomed to the attention after years of technological advancements in photography. The few who begin to approach the hooded figures are quickly pulled back by fellow onlookers.

“Why not?”

“They’ll just ignore you and won’t say a word.”

“They were fine during the Opening Ceremony.”

“It’s forbidden.”

The crowd grows in size and sound. They congregate parallel to the riverbank, giving the mysterious duo a wide berth. Over the rising cacophony, the Torchbearer catches a familiar tune floating from somewhere above the embankment. He slows their walk and listens for the words. 

It’s very clear, our love is here to stay

Not for a year, but ever and a day

“They are playing our song, chérie.”

“Darling, not now. Daylight approaches. We must be on our way.”

The Torchbearer stops their progress and presses his palm to the Flagbearer’s fingers nestled lightly in the crook of his arm. “When was the last time we danced?” He takes her hands in both of his and swings her in a circle before positioning her left hand on his right shoulder and her right hand in his left. Their hips and foreheads meet as they start a slow circle on the open pathway.

In time, the Rockies may crumble, Gibraltar may tumble

They’re only made of clay

But our love is here to stay

“Do you remember the film?” The Torchbearer keeps his voice low enough for only the Flagbearer to hear.

She follows suit, though her breath is clipped. “I know exactly which you speak.”

“Shall we give them a show?” He squeezes her hand and quickens their turns.

“Only if you remember the steps as well as I.”

He huffs, mildly offended. “Do you doubt your partner?”

She smiles and giggles. “Never.”

They drop their arms and sway to the music, mirroring each other’s movements as they widen the space between them. The crowd on the riverbank backs away towards the wall and opens a space large enough for the two to continue. The closest onlookers move to accommodate the Flagbearer’s cape as it soars and intermittently kisses the border between performer and audience.

The dance is both timid and intimate. Their touches are perfunctory, punctuating passing sweeps across the pavement. Yet they lean their hands and heads on the other without hesitation, as if years of muscle memory and not conscious decisions dictate their proximity. Their movements tell the story of two lovers beginning to blossom in a romance they know will last for “ever and a day.” Slow and distanced steps give way to increasingly closer encounters.

“Despite this cumbersome armor, my dove,” the Torchbearer whispers during a moment when they resume the closed position and their faces are centimeters apart, “you dance beautifully. You have not lost your touch.”

“Nor you, my sweetest.”

They continue with their hands folded behind their lower backs, stepping like disparate planets inextricably circling the same center of gravity, and finish with an approximation of a kiss. They lean forward over an arm’s length of distance and bring the shadows beneath their hoods to meet for a breath of eternity. Their shoulders turn to bring an arm each around the other’s waist. They walk intertwined in their original direction as the orchestral music from above the embankment gives way to silence.

Applause and cheers chase after the duo. After a few steps, they turn around and bow to the crowd silhouetted by the embankments’ lights. They resume their promenade hand in hand.

When the murmur of surprise and adoration disappears and the Flagbearer spies no nosy onlookers within earshot, she brings the Torchbearer’s hand to her lips and kisses his knuckles. “Thank you, my love,” she breathes softly into his rough skin. She brushes the corners of her mouth across the backs of his exposed fingertips.

He turns his hand to rub her chin and catches her smile. “For what am I owed your gratitude, mon ange?”

“This world has weighed heavy on my mind since we were summoned,” she folds his hand in both of hers, “and I have forgotten what it means to remain light in such dark times. Thank you for reminding me of the power of simple pleasures.”

The Torchbearer hums to convey his contentment and, for a moment, ponders the gods’ plans in pairing them together. They had discovered, very early in their tenure, the opposing duality of their natures. He carried the torch, and she carried the flag, symbols of an event meant to unite humanity in friendly competition. While the object of his guardianship is most visible during the night, hers is most visible during the day. Together, they provide and protect constant reminders of the Olympic Spirit. Now, he realizes that such duties benefit not just the players and the spectators, but each other. He is her light, and she is his standard. He keeps them afloat, and she keeps them rooted to the Earth.

From the shadows of the bridge fast approaching their path, Zeus appears, both his coat and hoofbeat as light as snow. He advances towards his rider and nudges her cuirass with his muzzle.

The Flagbearer sighs and glides a gloved hand along the horse’s nose. “These nights pass far too quickly.”

The Torchbearer finds his opening to remain true to his duty and nature. “Tempus fugit when you are having fun — is that not what the humans say?” He takes her free hand and bows deeply, bringing his head to the level of her hips and swinging his other arm out to the side. “A testament to the quality of your company. I thank you for the compliment.” He straightens back up and presses her palm to the center of his chest, her gentle warmth meeting his steady heartbeat — his version of a kiss.

She shakes her head and laughs low in her chest, careful not to attract more attention as she hears hushed voices lingering on the embankment above them. He releases her hand and shares a knowing nod. He helps her mount Zeus, his hand trailing after the lower edge of her cape.

“Until tonight,” the Flagbearer whispers as she reaches for one more squeeze of her eternal flame’s hand.

The Torchbearer cradles her hand in both of his and tightens his grasp on her being. “Until tonight.”

Footnotes:

Translations: ma chère/chérie - my dear général - general professer - professor Je suis désolé. Elle ne savait pas. - I am sorry. She did not know. mon ange - my angel Tempus fugit (Latin) - Time flies

Is it corny af to have them reenact a scene from a movie? Sure. But are they not performers? Would they not perform to a love song in the City of Love? We've seen the Torchbearer sort of dance on that drag show catwalk - would they not be an amazing dancer!? And do the distances in the choreography not reflect the distances the two need to keep in the performance of their duties? Are you not entertained!? lolol

[kisaraslover]

DO U HAVE ANY BLUESHIPPING FIC REC?????PLEASENIMSTARVINGKSKSKKS

anon kskkasak ITS FINE ILL SAVE YOU OK? here goes:

Scenes from a Kaiba Marriage and Temptation by my blueshipping queen @kisara-kaiba as the opening. the peak of modern life blueshipping fluff, very lovesick, when im reading them its heart full, head empty. youre gonna be lucky to start them now cuz ill be rereading and drawing scenes from them this week👀. itll be like premium fanfic reading.

Enjambment -> this fic might be the single best written blueshipping fic by the virtue of MIRRORING their encounter in ancient Egypt beat by beat, including BOTH of their character arcs and the netflix show vibe of suspense and the sharp, cold and bleak setting is chefs kiss. changed my brain chemistry. still one of my favorite portrayals of Kisara.

Maiden with Eyes of Blue -> Sometimes time needs to slow down and a single scene should be a character study/ hashing out of things you needed acknowledged by canon, the situation is ESPECIALLY dire for Seto Kaiba as ive made my feelings on his writing known many times. This is it. Kisara isnt reincarnated in this one though, but her love for him can be felt in the air. Ngl you could just incorporate this into post canon and it would be fine. canon compliant+ canon enriching.

Shades of Water, Ice, and Sky -> I'm skimming through each fic to see what they were about and i just gotta say: why so heart-wrenching if so short?? theyre in love your honor.

Their Promise: Book I -> ok gonna be honest w you i havent finished this one and the main reason is that i cant go past the SPECTACULAR first chapter. ive started and failed to draw it in its entirety. i open it, i chew on the first chapter like a rabid dog, i close it more often than not. the second reason is it has a lot more angst and heartbreak than most blueship fics do and im weak to that sort of thing. still, if we follow their ancient egypt encounter beat by beat, which is a fantastic way of following and enriching the canon, their first meeting needs to be as kids with him saving her from a cage. chefs kiss.

who are you? -> JUST the right amount of Seto Kaiba immediate fixation obsession on Kisara (which means insanely obsessed)

You Will Crave Your Ancient Roots -> this is so good and so heartbreaking man. Seto and Atem are shot back into ancient Egypt and Seto is only able to slightly alter the events around Kisara. hes fated to fall for that woman every single time and *starts sobbing*

Ancient Rules -> all i gotta say is this Seto Kaiba gives me brainworms. hes chuck full of Passion and Cockiness and Insanity. blueshippers sometimes take out his insanity. he is very unsettling here i love it. Kisara is truly at his mercy..

never forget your first dream -> fem!Set and Kisara in ancient Egypt, this story twists more than just Seto's gender. im a yuri seto truther so its great to have written proof of it. jokes aside, very well characterized Set and Kisara, rich writing.

One in Forty -> pretty short but this one fundamentally changed how i viewed Kisara's canon influence over BEWD cards and her constant and unbendable favor around Seto. canon compliant + canon enriching.

ok so these are the cream of the crop for ME personally, might have forgotten some in my other folders, i might have missed reading some, its probably not all encompassing. but frankly ive liked and saved fics for a single resounding line, single funny joke, one interesting implication about the story or the characters the author wrote up so in my heart theyre all worth checking out, always. fanfic writers are carrying this ship on their backs and theyre all 9 ft tall and im just walking around them, clearing the path, giving them a sip of water and snacks etc. so THANK YOU BLUESHIPPING AUTHORS I LOVE YOUUUUUU

[softspiderling]

I think I figured it out

I think people were offended by you saying that Jace likes to eat multiple womens coochies because reader insert fics are all about imaging yourself obviously. And Jace is such a loverboy that it seems weird he would be eating out multiple women before “them” in the story know what I mean? And Aegon and Aemond are visiting brothels and having sex with serving girls while Jace doesn’t even kiss Baela. Show Jace is coded as a “wait till marriage” type. And the 10+ year to betrothal to Baela where they are clearly close and have a special bond, plus Harry and Bethany saying how in love they are. So it feels OOC to people for Jace to just be having oral with multiple random women that he barely knows only to never see them again when he wont even chastely kiss his fiancée of 10+ years. Like Jace having one night stands all over Westeros when he is the biggest virgin on the show and has not had one sexual scene.

Idk if im making sense

oh you’re definitely making sense! and i know that’s what they’re bothered by lmfao and i understand it. however what i don’t understand is, instead of not reading my fics or choose not the read the fics where i depict jace the way i depict him (or any other writer who writes jace the way they write him) you (not you you, the general you) go into people’s inboxes and attack them and send like 20 asks at the same time and interrogate them before moving on to another person and doing the same.

and instead of unfollowing/blocking me, they just keep reading my stuff and sending more asks??? come on😭 there’s so many different fics out there and interepretations of jace where it’s physically impossible to be liked/loved by everyone, but instead of going into their inbox and try to convince them of MY personal opinion i just scroll past it.

[tunastime]

CLASSIFIED

HASA Interspace Investigation Coalition Investigator Reassessment Team

For: the Mission Critical Event Occurring on Stardate 2104.119

Stardate: 2104.123, Location: HCS Influence

Responses recorded using the Automated Question and Answer System (AQNA) aboard the HCS Influence.

Recorded responses enclosed.

Begin transcribed data.

Interview for: IIC Employee #7717

Stated Name: Hels

SESSION BEGIN

AQNA [Generated Text Question]: Please explain the events of [stardate 2104.119]. Subject (Hels) [Recorded Verbal Response]: Well that’s an easy question. We got ambushed, that's what f—ing happened. It was supposed to be a standard datum extraction from a site that was supposed to be abandoned, because nobody decided it would be a good idea to check again. So we got ambushed mid-mission. That's what happened. AQNA: Can you elaborate on the event that triggered the call-back sequence? Hels: What, you want me to draw you a diagram? [No AQNA Text Question Generated] Hels: So no diagram? [No AQNA Text Question Generated] Hels: The drop-squad successfully made ground contact after about half an hour of survey on our end. We assumed based off of initial information and our scans, that the site was uninhabited. I mean—it’s a decommissioned testing facility for something way more boring than what we’re usually sent for. Why the f— would there be… things living there. Things. They weren’t human. They weren’t me either. We triggered the call-back sequence because I watched everything go white so fast I thought I was seeing the inside of my skull. Ex is the only reason I got out alive. I’m sure he’s… thrilled. AQNA: Were you unable to retrieve the body and equipment of [#7716]? Hels: I didn’t see him. On account of the pulse grenade. Did you watch the footage, or should I be playing narrator? [No AQNA Text Question Generated] Hels: I don’t know where he is. I don’t know what they did to him. We lost all his vitals when the pulse fried our equipment at the site.  Interviewer: Can you elaborate on the status of [#7716]? Hels: What do you mean elaborate? What—he’s probably dead. Is that what you want to hear? He’s f—ing dead. He’s dead, you piece of shit machine. Go ask somebody else what they think. [No AQNA Text Question Generated] Interviewer: Can you speak to [#6763]’s competence as potential squadron leader? [No verbal recorded response available]

SESSION END

Interview for: IIC Employee #6763

Stated Name: Exania

SESSION BEGIN

AQNA [Generated Text Question]:  Please explain the events of [stardate 2104.119]. Subject (Exania) [Recorded Verbal Response]: We failed to complete our extraction procedure. I was able to reach the data site within an hour of touchdown, alongside the rest of the team. We successfully retrieved the abandoned facility data within our allotted time frame, but on the way back to extraction, we were ambushed and caught in the line of fire of the inhabitants that had taken over the facility. I was able to successfully extract the bridge crew and one other member of the drop-squad. AQNA: Can you elaborate on the events that triggered the call-back sequence? Exania: We were attacked? Someone started shooting. Someone threw a magnetizer and a pulse grenade. The two other drop-squad members took a majority of the flash, but it was bright. Everywhere was... painfully bright. I don't have much more to say on that. I just acted in the best interest of the team as second in command. AQNA: Were you unable to retrieve the body and equipment of [#7716]? Exania: He’s dead. What did you want us to do? Retrieve a handful of charred up equipment? I don’t think so. AQNA: Can you elaborate on the status of [#7716]? Exania: He’s dead. That’s it. AQNA: Can you speak to [#7717]’s competence as potential squadron leader? Exania: #7717? I can't.  AQNA: Can you elaborate? Exania: I can't. AQNA: Can't? Or won't? Exania: Does it matter? [No AQNA Text Question Generated] AQNA: Please elaborate on your specific involvement with the events of [stardate 2104.119]. Exania: I successfully extracted information from the facility on [REDACTED]. I successfully extracted my drop member #7717, Hels. We were unsuccessful at a full extraction of the entire crew. Look, did I not just say all of this? What's not clicking for you? I know you're just recording this answer looking for keywords. I'm not daft. I think we’re done. AQNA: You're excused. Exania: Thank you.

SESSION END

Interview for: IIC Employee #7716

Given Name: Wels

SESSION BEGIN

AQNA [Generated Text Question]: Please explain the events of [stardate 2104.119]. [No verbal recorded response available] [No AQNA Text Question Generated]

END SESSION

[percabeth4life]

Not being able to write when I have multiple chapters for fics I need to update plotted out fully, multiple new fics in progress of plotting or completely plotted out and literally nothing to do at work is killing me.

[pokomumee]

Here’s a PatPran brain vomit no one asked for:

*******

**Pat**

Pat doesn’t think he knows exactly when or how he fell for Pran. Even now, years and years later, he wouldn’t be able to tell you what it was that made him realize that the boy he’d been told to hate all his life is the one for him.

Pa would still make fun of him about how it was her ‘guide-to-know-if-someone-is-into-you-in-4-steps’, which was in fact meant for Ink, that led Pat to realize his feeling for Pran. She even told Pran about it, the little shit. He’d almost kill her, but then Pat really does love his little sister, so. Pran made the most incredulous face and laughed it off, though he would still bring it up sometimes when he wants to drive home the point that Pat is the clueless idiot in their relationship. Which, there’s actually never really any need to drive home that point, Pat already knows, okay?

In his defense, Pran also has not told him in so many words about how and when he fell for Pat either. However, because they have been together for almost a decade now, he has an inkling that Pran realized his feelings for Pat way earlier than him. Like, way, way earlier, maybe even before he was shipped away to boarding school (the dark age of Pat’s life, now that he looks back on it). Pran never confirms nor denies this hypothesis of his, but. Like he said, he has an inkling.

The fact that Pat never noticed anything until that fateful night on the rooftop when Pran asked him if he wants them to be ‘friends’, that single tear rolling down his cheek, the most beautiful thing Pat’d ever seen in his 18 years on the Planet…well, he knows, okay? He’s the clueless idiot, he knows. Every time Pat thinks about how much his cluelessness must have hurt Pran, his heart would clench up with so much guilt he wants to introduce his head to the nearest brick wall, multiple brick walls if they were readily available, one wall would never be enough.

So, yes, Pat tries not to think about when or how Pran fell for him, which might be the reason he finds himself wondering instead about when and how he fell for Pran. He thinks it might also be because their 10-year-anniversary is coming up, although to be completely honest with you, as a couple they still cannot agree on when the start of their relationship actually was. Pran says it should be the day Pat showed up unannounced to surprise him as Riam at the architecture play practice when everything became official. Pat thinks it should actually be when the bet started because, really, who were they even trying to kid? Anyhow, he guesses there’s the first clue as to how he may never find out when the actual moment of his falling for Pran was.

*******

Pat’s life had always revolved around Pran from the very beginning, arguably even before his life started, if their mothers fighting over which of their sons would have the prettier girlfriend while they were still fetuses count. How the sons in question end up with each other instead of a pretty girl is most certainly the Universe’s middle finger to both their families for being so petty, but he digresses. Pat maybe clueless but he is aware that he’d always held a myriad of strong, no, vicious feelings towards the boy next door. Pat has never claimed to be an analytical type (that’s all Pran) and has always gone with his instincts, so obviously, he wouldn’t have any idea if one of those feelings were attraction, infatuation, love or just…some other visceral emotions. There were too many candidates, okay? Go look up the Emotion Wheel, go on, Pat will wait.

For some time, Pat was convinced the moment he fell for Pran was the moment in the music shop after the fiasco that was his and Pa’s attempt at testing out her 4-step-rule on Ink. In hindsight, though, that was possibly just the moment his feelings toward Pran became apparent to himself. And by apparent, Pat means too uncomfortable not to notice. He even thought at first that what he was feeling that day was frustration he felt towards not getting through to Ink. But then he realized that his eyes never really fallowed Ink, and his heart was definitely never with her after they’d reconnected in university. He really did crush on her in high school, sure, he wouldn’t deny that. However, the second time around, Ink was somehow a welcomed distraction from the real sight his eyes were wont to follow, the topic his brain kept switching to, and the person who made his heart feel that little bit off kilter on the daily.

It should have been pretty straight forward what those feelings were if it wasn’t Pran who was at the center of all the muddled pool of events and emotions. Pran who’d always been at the center of most, if not all, of Pat’s life-defining events and the object of Pat’s obsession for the entirety of his life. How was Pat supposed to distinguish attraction from the sea of everything he held inside of himself for that boy. Even Pran’s dimples were confusing to him, for crying out loud. Pran’s door hanger made it a little easier to gauge his mood, but not by much.

Pran was an enigma, the ultimate differential equation Pat had to solve. He just couldn’t figure out for the life of him why. Pat did ask himself whether it’d always been this way even before. And it wasn’t. He can’t say for sure, but for now, at least, he doesn’t think so. He thinks back on it and resolves that it was most likely because before Pran was pulled out of their high school and Pat’s life, Pran’d always been a constant. Pat’d never consider the possibility that Pran would one day disappear in the same vein that he thought Pa would always be in his life. So, in his defense, it’s only logical that Pat’d feel differently about Pran after, even though he did not understand why, alright?

So, yes, Pat doesn’t know and probably will never know for sure so he'd just have to make a decision, and he decides that the moment he fell for Pran was going to be when Pran kicked him in the chest, right over his beating heart. It’s totally and aptly poetic, really. Because that’s when Pran walked back into his life and everything changed.

Like he said, Pat’s well aware he’d always felt strong emotions towards Pran. But that’s just how he was raised, how they were raised. Pat was made to be in tune with Pran, the boy whose bedroom was across from his but he was forbidden to talk to, but then climbed over to sneak inside uninvited more times than he can count anyway. Pran’s every achievements were also the milestones of Pat’s very own life. From the first time his baby self uttered the word ‘Ma’ to that moment Pran was whisked away right before his eyes, in the middle of their song, from their very first stage together. Talk about being dramatic.

His high school years thereafter were not miserable by any means, if he were to be honest. But something fundamentally changed within him when Pran went away. Pat was expectedly and obviously clueless to that change inside of him, it’s the running theme of his life, he supposes. But then everything started to feel dull, like he was looking at the world through a tinted glass; the sceneries became monotonous, boring. He did not realize this until the moment the words came out of his own mouth that night on the rooftop, but yeah, he felt depressingly lonely without Pran. His grades, and even sports performances, started suffering for a while, just because he stopped trying or even caring. It wasn’t fun anymore to excel in everything if Pran wasn’t there for him to compete with. But of course, his Dad wouldn’t let him slack off, so Pat got back on track to becoming the golden boy that he was, but. Nothing was ever the same.

There’d also been this simmering rage inside of him since Pran went away. Pat thought it was normal back then. After all, he was just another hot headed teenager, hormones and all. And he was never violent or anything like that. It was just…he felt on edge all the time. There was always an urge to lash out at something. A little pit of smoldering coal inside his chest, black and ugly, not erupting into flames yet refused to ever be put out. He didn’t know what it was, but looking back he was probably angry at…at what?…his and Pran’s parents? the Universe? for taking Pran away, maybe. Now that Pat thinks about it, though, he was probably mostly angry at himself for not being able to do anything about it. So yeah, he got himself into more and more fights, usually for valid causes, albeit sometimes only vaguely. He’d never actually got himself into serious trouble; he was clueless, not stupid. However, Pat was on a trajectory…and it wasn’t a pleasant one. He isn’t sure where or what he was heading towards, luckily he didn’t have to find out.

Pran walked back into his life, and by walk, Pat means running in with a flying kick to his chest, shocking his heart into beating properly again. The simmering rage gradually dissipated, and Pat stopped feeling like he wanted to punch someone or something for no reason all the time. Except for Wai, yes, but that was totally reasonable.  Even Wai would agree.  Maybe not. But you get the picture

Pat still remembers the moment he got up from the ground, clutching at his chest and saw Pran standing there. Suddenly memories of his life with Pran came pouring back. You know how people who’s gone through near-death experiences say their lives flash before their eyes? It was like that, only Pat felt the opposite of dying. His senses were at once on high alert. Alive. Pran was back. He was here. And no one has ever been able to keep Pat on his toes like Pran did. Ever. So Pat isn’t dramatizing the event of that day or anything. But even if he did, this was the moment he fell for the love of his life, he can be as dramatic as he likes, okay?

[meimeiherokitten]

Well, duckies, thank @deskgirl for this!

I've never written soulmate au before, so let's see how this goes!

Izzy never believed in soulmates. Or soulmarks. Or any of that crap. So why does he have a new mark on his arm...?