#vi needs to write the fic

[violent138]

Don't come after me, I know he's not CEO, just go with it. I also know the coffee thing is a fanon take.

Tim winced when the black hood snapped off his face, blinking as his eyes readjusted. A few things became clear fast.

They were in a warehouse at the edge of Gotham. The air was salty, and he could hear birds somewhere.

Tim tested the ropes, eyeing the kidnapper. "In about an hour, you're really gonna regret kidnapping me--"

"Save it." The kidnapper said. "I know who your father is, and I still don't care."

You should, Tim barely held back his smirk. "No, because I'm going to start going through withdrawals, caffeine withdrawals."

The kidnapper snickered, rolling his eyes.

"I'm serious. I drink a lot of coffee. I kind of have to, it's tiring being CEO."

"CEO?" The kidnapper repeated, frowning.

"Google it." Tim cursed under his breath. The ropes were wet and tight, the knots ridiculously hard to work out.

"Well, shit."

"Yeah, my high school loves it. Listen, I'll pay you a 100K, more than fair since you have no personal investment but I'm sure this took time and thought." Tim sighed. "So, what do you say?"

"Make it 200K and it's a deal." The guy flipped open a knife, sawing through the ropes.

Tim rolled out his shoulders. "So, duffle bag in the Narrows, or is there some villainy Venmo?"

The roof of the warehouse shattered and Damian dropped in, mouth pressed into a firm line, dressed up as Robin.

"Run," Tim told the kidnapper. "Trust me, I'll deal with this."

[avas-poltergeist]

I don't know if anybody cares. but I'm writing a sequel to my arcane fanfiction. this is a threat. this is the mood board right now.

[70smaybank]

why are there so many fics of ethan already and almost NONE of chad who's been here for a really long time

[revelisms]

Excerpt: Six Years

Vi wrestles with the realization of how much her sister has changed—and how many unwanted parallels she sees between Silco and their father. From a work-in-progress set after heron blue.

In some ways, she was still so familiar. Her perpetual nest of a living condition and geriatric sense of humor; her inability (refusal) to tend to her hair, herself. Yet, in so many ways, she's nothing like the girl Vi remembers. 

A shell. A stranger.

Jinx—a name that doesn't belong to her sister, that christens a girl who spits at the name Powder; whose body bares sinew and steel, wears yellowed stains at her chipped fingernails and speaks a drawl decades beyond her years—isn't a child, anymore. 

Eleven years, enmeshed in each others' days and nights; eleven, that Vi had always been with her. 

Powder's rock and shield. Powder's everything.  

Then the cannery had happened. Stillwater had happened. That monster had happened—

A monster whose gait she could pick out from a crowd: hears prowling over the floors now, above the jukebox and the metal tickings and her sister's self-directed rambling—a heavy-heeled th-thumping up the varnished steps, his coat a devil's whisper against the walls.

Vi steels herself. Beside her, Jinx prattles on. 

"Y'ever thought of fighting in a ring, sis?"

Th-thump, th-thumping over the dark floors.  

"You'd be the scrappiest scrapper in the Underground. Bet they'd call ya the Red Devil—or Lead Lettie—or Sourmouth Suckerpunch—"

She stares, unblinking, plastic squeezed beneath her thumb. Through the sliver of her sister's cracked door, a polish-slick boot wades through the shadows. Stills.  

"What you really need," Jinx says, with a lax crook of her screwdriver, "is a pair of Vandie's old gauntlets—that'll set'em right."

Vi swallows. The hall's dark devours the wraith on the other side of the door: shrouds all but the unearthly cat's-eye that tips over the leather at his shoulder, burning like a funeral pyre over a rotting corpse. 

"Yeah," she says, stiffly. Comb-teeth bite into her palm. "That's all I need."

His stare lingers—three-four-five beats—before it flits to the floor, trails over the blue tangled within her fingers, traces its mess back to the girl lounged beside her. Jinx stays worlds away in her tinkering, head lolled against the floor. She wrenches another screw into place.

"It's late," Jinx huffs, without needing a glance. "I know."

Silence, for a moment. Then Silco agrees, "It's late, indeed."

Jinx scowls. "One'ta talk."

If the shadows weren't playing a trick on her, Vi might have thought he'd smirked. But that bastard never smiled—never did anything but glare over his paperwork, around the vile plumes of his cigars: eyeing her hyena of a sister like a stray in need of a meal, and Vi like a bull ready to charge. 

Signing a blood-pact to his enterprise (their city's scheme for fiscal independence; her sister's unfathomable choice for a homestead) had done nothing in the way of trust. He'd taken an overseer's scrutiny to her, from the day she'd put her name in ink: a dead-eyed panopticon hounding her every waking hour, as though she'd never left that molding cell.

On one hand, a part of her reasoned, he had a right—sizing up her methods, as he would any new recruit; strategizing where best to slot her in the arteries of a drug-machine already years on the march. A more cynical thread knew he was laying his cards flat and playing the long game. Slouching back, idly, with eyes unblinking, to find any reason to put her under his heel.

She stares at the unmarred side of his face: a dim halo in a coal-blackened sea.

Eleven years that she'd been with Powder.

Six—nearly seven, now—that Jinx has had this snake at her side.

From the doorway, his shadow gravels, "I take it you'll be off soon." 

"Soon as the bell chimes." Jinx flits her wrist, pinkie-promise. "Not a rhyme later—cross my hearts and hope to snore."

Silco makes a low chuff at that: strange, quiet, bemused. A not-quite laugh, like Dad used to do. 

For a moment, a breath tangled in her throat, Vi sees him. 

He was tower of a man, thin as a string. His voice itched with smoke-pocked lungs and dreams that glittered like the stars. He kept chewing tobacco sweetened with cinnamon under his tongue, and he wore the mines on his clothes; gave hugs that made one's soul feel like it'd been wrapped in down-feathers; made the moonlight seem like nothing more than hand-sculpted glass: some beautiful thing he'd spooled on a thread and hung up there for all to see.

He'd been everything to her—her image of whistle-toothed optimism, her laughter, her guiding light—until he wasn't.

Freckles smattering her cheeks, her unruly hair the color of redmilk tea, a younger version of herself had shrieked over the idea of having to share her plates, pillows, toys with some snot-nosed little girl—a blue-haired, rambunctious, wailing thing—a sister. She'd stomped her feet and thrown fits over it. Told Dad, flat out: I don't wanna have her!

He'd stood slouched over her, hands bracketed at his thin waist, a glitter in his pale eyes, and chuffed. You'll do great, Lettie. His smile always pulled a touch crooked at one corner: a sincerity that, without fail, made her believe him. 

She'd always believed him, then. 

She was too young, too naïve not to.

Staring into an empty threshold, into a shadowed hall, a ghost of footsteps thudding down the dark floors, Vi fights to forget their father's voice. To block out the echo of a rasp no part of her wants to compare to it. To ignore the remnants of smoke on the air—tower of a man, thin as a string, heels heavy-footed from those damn mines—that belonged to a man she'd sooner wring the neck of. Wouldn't dare put in the same vein of everything their father was.

(Complicated. Self-loathing. Hellishly tempered. Kind.)

[viesalias]

Wip Wednesday!!

Maybe someday I'll be brave enough to post the whole thing...

A (later) continuation of this post

Pairing: Gale x Named!Fem!Tav (Lillian)

SFW

---

“We should take care of that lip of yours as well, so it doesn't get infected.”

He doesn't respond, instead opting to observe her while she works. Her nose scrunches up when she's focused and her lips purse into a pout he can't help but find utterly adorable. When her fringe falls into her face, she makes two attempts at blowing it out of the way before letting it hang in her eyes while she dabs the salve onto his lip. Her fingers tentatively hold his cheek while her thumb brushes soothing back-and-forth motions over the cut. He sucks in another hiss of pain at the stinging sensation and her grip on him tightens just so.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

He is acutely aware of the gentle pressure from the pads of her fingers on his cheek and jaw, so much so that the sting of his lip fades into obscurity. It’s been so long since he’s been this close with another person, he has to steel his will so he doesn’t shiver at the contact alone.

[ofc-vi-writes-too]

In honor of me being black and loving being black and thinking everyone should love black people, here are a list of characters I believe love black women with everny bone in their bodies:

• Starting off strong: Steve Rogers. I can’t explain it but trust me please. If you get it you get it if you dont you dont.

• Jason todd. Like c’mon. Look at him. Tell me he doesn’t want to wake up next to a brownskin queen every morning. Look me in my eyes.

• MCU Bucky Barnes. I love to say it, Wakanda changed him. Stepping foot in that country was like seeing the light for the first time. He was basically reborn. I said it before and I’ll say it again. Look at how he looked at Sarah. SAME LITERALLY EXPLICITLY TOLD HIM NIT TO FLIRT WITH HER BEFORE THEY EVEN GOT THERE.

• Gojo, Itadori, nanami, and Toji from JJK. i dont think i need to eloborate here.

• Haley from Stardew Valley. She is not only a fellow girl kisser, but she would genuinely have a real tweak if the farmer was a black woman. Haley needs a 6 ft nonchalant butch dreadhead in her life it would literally solve all her provlems. She has written in her diary about this, and Alex hasnt heard the end of it.

• Fear from Inside out. Just believe me, please.

• This might be controversial but Squidward.

• Bruce Wayne. Literally thinks about eating drywall every time Selina Kyle is even mentioned. “Alfred why hasn’t God hand delivered me what i CRAVE and what i NEED *loud dramatic sigh*” hes also accidentally a perpatrator of hard wig soft life lmao. He donates ridiculous sums of money to black charities like 100 black men, and the black youth helpline. He’s an advocate for his girl’s community and we love to see it.

• Barry Allen. also thinks about eating drywall whenever he sees Iris. She’s just so sigh. And he loves her so much and he’s so glad that he married that beautiful amazing strong and powerful woman.

• Ellanore Shellstrop. After she died she had real clarity about the truths of the universe. If soulmates didnt really exist then wtf were her and Chidi im so deadass.

• Woody from Toy Story. Please do not at me. I will not be taking questions comments or concerns on that one. And for anyone saying “but what about bo peep ?!” Shes albino. Look at those 3B curls and tell me to my face that I’m lying. I dare you.

• lightning Mcqueen. Hear me out here! In universe there have to be like… black cars. He’s def the type to go for a UK baddie ykwim.

————————————————————————

a/n: guys please im just being silly they are fictional characters please dont argue about how much these FAKE characters like black people 😞. also if you try and argue i feel like that makes you a liiiiiiiittle bit racist but like thats a convo for another time. Anyway, sorry to all my sistas out there who’s fav character I forgot. Ur probably right and they probably do belong on this list, I just might have forgotten they exist! Dont be scared to comment them tho. I need to know what yall think too.

[ragnarokhound]

"reading under the red hood and it's pretty good i think" - jason todd fan who has only seen the cartoon adaptation of under the red hood

[np-c]

Z-Drive, predictably, as all things that happen to be around Jinx, blows up. And now there's a group of children in front of Ekko, as well as a new set of painful realisations. And a crazy crazy girl right beside him who isn't afraid to voice them.

"They're kids," she says, and her voice trembles a little like she never thought of it before, of herself being a kid, and Ekko can't blame her. "Look at them, they are tiny!"

"Hey!" yells Mylo, very alive Mylo, back at them. "You ain't much older yourself!"

"Who the fuck gives a child explosives?"

Ekko meets the eyes of baby-faced Vi, the look of confusion and thinly veiled horror in them that mirrors his own. Jinx giggles. He dreads how they gonna explain not-Powder's name.

#

They get stuck in the past.

Ekko looks at the broken watch in his hands. Jinx looks straight, at ghosts brought back to life.

"I cat fix it."

"We can fix them."

They get stuck in the past.

#

"We need to come up with names!" voices little Powder. "We can't just have two Ekko's and two Powder's, it's gonna get confusing."

"Oh, that's easy. He's a Firelight and I'm Jinx."

"A jinx?"

She smiles maniacally at them. Mylo looks like a confused puppy, Vi just a step behind him, but Powder is close to tears. Ekko keeps his face straight.

They gonna fuck up this new timeline so bad.

[justhereforfandomandfriends]

She said she was gay to avoid the men hitting on her in bars. An actual gay heard her and proceeded to hit on her. Later, she’d laugh when she told her kids that she’d realized she was gay in a bar.

[wishuroses]

do you write for scream 6?

i only write for atwow BUT i have thought about writing for scream vi.. id have to watch the movie a thousand times to get everyones personality right 😗

[set-phasers-to-whump]

the very noisy night

prompt: caught in a storm

whumpee: eddie diaz

fandom: 911

hi what's up! it's been a hot minute since i've done a 911 fic but i'm never not obsessed with this show i swear. anyway this is a pre-ship buddie fic set like. current-ish in the show. hope you enjoy!

Eddie is miserable, to put it bluntly. He feels like absolute shit. Like he’s been run over by a truck and then dragged along behind it for good measure. 

He’s sick. 

Well and truly sick. There isn’t a part of his body that doesn’t ache, from his head down through his legs. It feels like every other breath he takes turns into a cough. He’s lost track of how many times he’s begun shivering and wrapped himself up in all the blankets he could find, only to immediately begin sweating like he’s just run a marathon. 

And it isn’t like he hasn’t tried to make it better. He’s taken the maximum dosage of tylenol and a few hours ago he had tried some old cough syrup he’d found in the back of a cabinet for good measure (the less said about that particular experience, the better). He’s even trying to keep himself hydrated, though it’s not easy to do that when getting up out of bed to refill his water glass seems like the most difficult challenge the world could pose.

At least Chris is spending the weekend with Abuela. He’d hate to get his son sick, or to not be able to be there for him. 

But this means he’s completely alone. He half wishes he could trade places with Chris, really, he thinks, as he lies atop his sweaty sheets with his face pressed into a pillow. He’s miserable enough to want to be in the presence of someone who cares about him. Someone who will put a hand to his forehead and touch his hair and bring him water so he doesn’t have to drag himself to the kitchen while trying his hardest not to pass out. 

Not that this is going to happen. Besides, he tries to scold himself with the rational part of his brain, he’s used to taking care of himself. 

I don’t care, argues the sick and vulnerable part of him. I want someone to hold me and tell me that it’s all okay. 

A few tears soak into his pillow, but before they can turn into anything more, he falls asleep. 

--

He wakes up disoriented and hot. At some point he’d burrowed under the blankets, and he spends several frantic seconds trying to disentangle himself from them, nearly falling out of bed in the process. Eventually he frees himself and then lies there, out of breath and staring up at the ceiling, which he can’t actually see because it’s dark. 

It hadn’t been dark when he had fallen asleep, he thinks, though he can’t really remember for sure. Anyway, it’s dark now but he’s awake and he feels even worse than he had before he’d fallen asleep, which he wouldn’t have thought was possible. His head feels weird and thinking is difficult. He should do something about this, but he’s in no condition to figure out what. 

And then there’s a horrifically bright light coming from his side table. He turns toward it, squinting, and grabs his phone, its screen lit up from a notification, with sweaty hands. He’s about to press the power button to get rid of the terrible brightness when he catches sight of the image on his lockscreen. He stares at this image that he’s seen every day for the past year or so as though it’s the most amazing thing in the world. 

It’s a picture of Chris and Buck at the zoo. They’re both beaming and holding ice cream cones and there’s a tiger in the enclosure behind them. The picture gives Eddie an idea, but just as quickly as the idea had come to mind, he loses sight of it. 

He needs to remember. He turns the phone back on, braving the blinding light, and stares. Should he go to the zoo? No, that’s not it. And he can’t go to Chris because if he does then Chris will get sick and that would be really bad. 

But he can go to Buck. Buck is strong, so Eddie thinks he probably won’t get sick. And anyway, he’s a firefighter. He’s around sick people all the time. So it will be okay. He can go to Buck and Buck can help and then everything will be fine and he won’t feel so bad anymore. 

He just has to get there. 

Thinking may be hard, but Eddie’s not stupid even so. He knows he can’t drive like this. So he’ll just have to walk. He knows the way. 

Compelled forward only by the momentum of having made a decision, Eddie pushes himself out of bed, gets so lightheaded he nearly passes out, then carefully pulls on a discarded pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt, and his shoes. He’s halfway to the sidewalk when it occurs to him that he hadn’t locked the door or grabbed his phone or his keys, but there’s no way he’s turning around now. It will be fine, anyway. Nobody is going to break into his house, and he knows where he’s going, so it isn’t like he needs his phone. 

The walk to Buck’s apartment is so much longer than the drive. It’s a cool night, but Eddie begins sweating immediately, and then the sweat cools on his skin and makes him shiver. It’s horrible, absolutely horrible. But he has to keep going, now that he’s started. 

He’s just passed a restaurant that he recognizes as being roughly the halfway point between their houses when everything goes from bad to worse. 

It starts to rain. And it’s not a drizzle, either. Thunder rolls across the sky and lightning flashes and within seconds it’s pouring. The cold rain soaks Eddie to the core and for a few moments it actually feels good, because he’s definitely not sweating anymore. But then the coldness catches up to him and he starts shaking and he’s probably never been this cold in his whole life. He wants to sit down. He wants to crawl into his bed and fall asleep. He wants someone to wrap him in a blanket and pull him inside and hold him until he stops shivering. 

Instead, he keeps walking through the storm, tears and rain mingling on his cheeks.

--

After an eternity of walking, Eddie arrives at Buck’s building. Almost all of the lights inside are off, but he knows what it looks like, and anyway, he can see Buck’s Jeep in the parking lot beneath a streetlight. This means that Buck is here, which means that things will be okay.  

As he walks up the stairs (slowly and very carefully so that he doesn’t slip), Eddie experiences a moment of doubt - what if Buck is mad at him? After all, he’s dripping wet and so sick he can’t even think and also it’s the middle of the night and he knows Buck has said come over anytime but surely he hadn’t meant anytime. But he’s already here and the possibility of Buck not being mad is more than enough to propel him onwards. 

He arrives at Buck’s door and realizes that he’d left his keys at home. He’ll have to knock. He raises a shaking hand, balls it into half a fist, and knocks so weakly that for several seconds he wonders whether he’d actually knocked at all. 

After what feels like a very long time, the door swings open and Buck is there. He’s wearing pajamas and his hair is messy but his eyes are wide and alert. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks immediately, grabbing Eddie’s arm and pulling him inside when Eddie doesn’t immediately step forwards on his own. 

Eddie just stares at him. He isn’t mad. Buck isn’t mad and his apartment is so nice and warm and his hand is steady and very real and still holding onto Eddie’s arm. But he’s freezing and achy and so, so miserable and this contrast is so startling that for several seconds Eddie finds himself quite incapable of doing anything. 

And then Buck lets go of his arm and presses his hand to Eddie’s forehead instead. “Jesus, Eds, you’re soaking wet but you’re burning up,” he says. His voice is soft and concerned and his hand is the most comforting thing Eddie has ever felt in his entire life. 

Something inside of him shatters at the feeling that this simple contact generates, and all of a sudden he’s quite powerless to stop himself from beginning to cry. 

“Eddie,” Buck says, and his hand drops from Eddie’s forehead and then he’s stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Eddie, pulling him impossibly close and then just holding on. 

Eddie experiences a brief moment of utter disconnect before he registers what is happening, and then he reaches up and latches his hands onto the thin fabric of Buck’s t-shirt like it’s a lifeline and he’s a drowning man. 

Eddie presses his face into Buck’s shoulder and then Buck’s fingers are in his hair and he tries to bite back a sob but can’t. This is so nice and it’s all he’s ever wanted but it’s nothing he deserves but he’s so miserable and sick that he barely even cares. He has this, somehow, regardless of deserving, regardless of wanting. 

He does not stop crying for a very long time. 

Eventually, though, the tears do stop, and then Eddie starts coughing, and everything shifts. Buck slowly pulls away and Eddie lets his hands drop back down to his sides. 

“Come on,” Buck says, and Eddie follows him to the bathroom. Buck pulls a towel off of the rack and hands it to him. 

“Dry yourself off, alright? I’ll be right back.” 

And then Buck is gone and Eddie is standing there alone in the middle of the bathroom, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that he is still dripping wet. 

He towels himself off to the best of his ability, but his clothes are so waterlogged and he’s so tired that it’s impossible for him to get fully dry. Eventually he gets too tired to keep standing and sinks down onto the closed lid of the toilet, where he halfheartedly dries off his hair. 

Buck returns with another towel and a pile of clothes, some of which Eddie recognizes as his own. He sets the clothes down onto the counter and then hands Eddie the new towel, pulling the now soggy one away. 

“You can put on these clothes,” he offers, gesturing to the pile on the counter. “They’re mostly yours, so they should fit.”

Eddie nods mutely. It kind of makes his head spin. 

“I’ll be back in five minutes. Yell for me if you need anything.”

Eddie nods again, and then Buck is gone again. 

He very slowly strips out of his wet clothes and shoes, then dries himself off for a second, much more successful, time. Once he’s mostly dry, he sets about getting dressed. 

Among the new clothing items are a pair of his own sweatpants and one of his old LAFD training t-shirts. There’s also a hoodie which belongs to Buck. It’s just slightly too big for him and it’s the most comfortable thing he’s ever worn. Already, he never wants to take it off. 

He emerges from the bathroom and comes face-to-face with Buck, who immediately puts a hand to Eddie’s forehead again. “You’re still really warm,” he says. “Hold on a second.”

He steps past Eddie into the bathroom, and Eddie momentarily feels bad for leaving his wet clothes and towels all over the place. But Buck doesn’t comment on this, just digs through a cabinet and then emerges with a thermometer. 

It’s one of the ones that goes across the forehead. Buck passes it over Eddie’s skin and then stares at it. “102.3. Could be worse, but you were out in the rain so it might actually be a little higher. Have you had any tylenol recently?”

Eddie shrugs. “Before I fell asleep.”

“When was that?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t dark.”

“Okay. You can have another dose, then. Have you been drinking lots of fluids?”

Eddie shrugs again. “Some.”

“Come with me.”

They go out to the kitchen. Eddie sits at the table while Buck fills a glass with water and takes a medicine bottle from a cupboard. 

“Take these and drink all of that.”

Eddie complies. The water feels wonderful on his throat, but then it makes him cough. He’s quite distracted for a few seconds, and when the coughing stops he becomes aware of Buck’s hand on his back. As soon as he’s aware of it, though, Buck moves, and then he’s sitting next to Eddie and his hand is on Eddie’s leg instead. 

“How are you feeling?”

Eddie shrugs and wills himself to not start crying again. “Bad,” he says, honestly. 

Buck makes a sympathetic noise. “I bet. Why didn’t you call me?”

He’s starting to feel less foggy in the head and realizes that he has absolutely no idea why he didn’t do that. It seems so obvious, now. “I don’t know.”

“And you walked all the way here, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a storm?” As Buck says this, there’s a clap of thunder, like the universe is emphasizing his point. 

“Wasn’t storming when I left,” is Eddie’s defense. 

Buck inhales like he’s about to say something, but then goes quiet. “Never mind,” he says, after a beat. “You made it here and you’re alright.”

Eddie would argue that alright is a relative term. “Don't exactly feel alright.”

Buck’s hand moves to his shoulder. “I’m sure. I wish I could do more to help you, but there’s really nothing else we can do right now except let the fever run its course, and keep an eye on it to make sure it doesn’t get worse.”

This answer isn’t a surprise to Eddie - he is a medic and does know how fevers work - but god, he wishes there was some immediate remedy. Mostly, though, he just wishes he could go back to sleep. 

As soon as the thought of sleep crosses his mind, he’s yawning. 

“Think you can make it upstairs?”

He blinks at Buck, uncomprehending, and yawns again. 

“So you can sleep, I mean.”

“In your bed?”

“Well, I don’t currently have a couch. Not that I’d make you sleep on a couch when you’re sick, anyway.”

He stares at Buck for a little while. “And you?”

Buck shrugs. “I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”

“Oh.” Eddie is a little disappointed with that answer. It’s selfish, he knows, after everything Buck has done for him already, but he wants - lord help him, he wants nothing so much as to curl up in Buck’s bed with Buck there. But he can’t - he can’t ask.

“Or,” Buck says, and his voice is quieter now, unsure. “I can stay. Only if you want me to. If you’re cold it might be nice to have the added warmth, but…”

“You’d stay?” It’s Eddie’s voice that is unsure now.

“Yeah, of course.”

--

This is how he ends up curled up beneath Buck’s comforter and a thick layer of blankets that Buck had produced from seemingly nowhere. There’s a bottle of tylenol on the bedside table, and a bag of cough drops, and three glasses of water, and a thermometer.

Most importantly, Buck is there. Eddie can feel his presence on the other side of the bed. They’re not quite touching, but they’re close enough for it to be a matter of a tiny movement. 

They’re already here, and it really would be so easy. Eddie takes the chance and rolls himself over so that he’s facing Buck. 

“How are you feeling?” 

“Better.”

“Think your fever’s going down?”

Probably not, if he’s honest. He still feels physically quite bad. He’s shivering ever so slightly and the achiness and exhaustion are absolutely bone-deep. But. He isn’t alone.

“Not really.”

“So you don’t feel any better?”

“You’re here. Course I do.”

Buck smiles at him, and he looks so fond that Eddie has to once again stop his fevered self from crying. Instead, he closes his eyes and then tests his luck. He shifts slightly, putting himself firmly into Buck’s space. 

Buck throws an arm over him and draws him closer still, until Eddie is curled up right against him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Night, Buck. Love you,” he mumbles, and then closes his eyes. 

He’s asleep before he can process the words he’s just said, before he can process Buck’s reply. 

“Night, Eddie. Love you, too.”

thanks for reading!!! i couldn't resist getting kind of ridiculously soft with this, what can i say it's simply where the currents took me. anyways i had a lot of fun writing this and i hope you enjoyed!

[kaerik]

All of Hell's layout shots from Edwin's journal, in order

Heya! I needed to take some screenshots for reference when writing a fic, so I thought it'd be nice to share :)

(Under the cut I've added everything I could make out in the writtings)

"LAYERS OF HELL" across two pages. These are based on Dante's Inferno, the first part of Divine Comedy, and the nine circles of hell. (Shout out to my friend who helped me with the 10 "rooms" of Fraud <3)

Left page:

- Vestibule (unnumbered, right on top of Limbo, referring to the staircase)

I - Limbo

II - Lust

III - Gluttony

IV - Avarice

V - Wrath

VI - Heresy

VII - Violence

VIII - Fraud

IX - Treachery

- There are 10 "rooms" described between Violence and Fraud, referring to the 10 trenches of the eight circle of hell (Fraud) and numbered as such.

Room I reads: whipped.

Room II reads: covered in excrement.

Room III reads: flipped (?) feet set on fire.

Room IV reads: encased(?) in boiled pitch.

Room V reads: head turned backwards.

Room VI reads: wear lead robes.

Room VII reads: snake(?) pit turn(?) into snake.

Room VIII reads: (?) big flames.

Room IX reads: (?) -> quality is too low to tell; considering the trench of which it is based on, probably along the lines of 'mangled', 'mutilated', 'maimed', etc

Room X reads: leprosy, hungry(?), dark.

Right page:

- Endless staircase

- "UPPER HELL" encompassing layers I to IV.

Beside layers III and IV, read: heavy labour(?), everyone in your way

- "LOWER HELL" encompassing layers V to IX.

Beside layers VI and VII, read: trapped, impaled, submerged in blood. Beside layer VIII, read: snake pit, gain human form by biting other humans. Beside layer IX, read: frozen + stuck + chewed on

Left page:

- LIMBO

Right page:

- "DO NOT RING" is crossed out near a bell. Dashed line points to where the bell is on the room.

Left page:

- Arrow pointing to the claw machine, referencing the passage behind it. Note reads: Back to Doll House. No.

- Circle on the bottom right, just above a door: Wrong way. AVARICE. Everything too heavy.

- GLUTTONY

Right page:

- LUST

[revelisms]

Excerpt: Eye for an Eye

Silco and Vi have a chat in Stillwater.

From 'heron blue,' an AU where Vi and Jinx reconnect under different terms. Slow, rocky relationship rebuilding, found family messiness, and political schemings. Full story on AO3

She sees fire. She sees red. Red on his clothes, on his hands; in his mangled, inhuman iris; on the silvered edge of his poisoned tongue.

"Vander's prodigy." She hasn't heard the sickly gravel of that voice in six years. It ripples beneath her skin, and sits there. Etches the drawling cadence of every vowel into her bones. "I regret that we've yet had the ability to speak." 

A tilt of his head. Through the bars, doused in shadow, his mismatched stare sharpens. "I'd have made the journey sooner," he rumbles on, "but, you see—the time would be a waste, for a dead girl." His good eye narrows, a scathing flash of blue radium. "And yet."

Vi breathes in quick, harsh. She swallows it down.

He looks like a creature the Pilt chewed off and spit back out: a sinewed blot of shadow, bones and flesh, wrapped in leather and silk-weaved linen. There's an animal under his skin—a tidewater predator watching from the shallows, silent and still. Waiting.

She scuffs the sweat from her temple. Feigns indifference. "Who the hell are you?"

His brow perks. "Don't you remember?" His hands shift behind his back, held laxly there, as though folded around a knife. "Surely the walls haven't rotted your head that easily."

"I remember," Vi snarls, baring her teeth. "Like hell I'd forget." And she'd tried. Kindreds above and below, she'd tried to wipe her mind of that night, a lifetime over. Spite coils under her tongue. "But, y'know—don't really care about the name of some rat in the street. Might have to remind me, there."

She can't tell under the dim light whether the crook of his mouth is a sneer or a smile. It passes too quickly for her to care.

"Well. You've Vander's tongue as much as his damned fists, don't you?"

Her nails carve into her palms, hard enough to draw blood. She paces across the back of the cell, glaring. 

Don't you dare say his name. Don't you dare—

Silco stands still as stone, two steps from the red line that chips over the cement floor. Silver glints in his hand. He's slipped a gilded cigarette case from the breast pocket of his coat. His thin, willowed fingers pluck one roll out, snap the case shut, and flick open the hinge of its lighter. The crackling hush of the drag he takes rattles over the stones: fills the air with a dry, ambered spice. 

It's not like Vander's pipe: cheap, heady, citrus and cinnamon. It reeks of expense. It's the same peppery smoke that sits on his clothes, bittersweet and earthen, laced with juniper berry and cedar. It hisses out from his lungs, a blue thread unspooled, clouding about him in a thin haze. His dead eye leers through it.

"Come here, girl," he says, and takes a step forward. Under the ripple of the light, he's taller than she took him for; taller than she remembers, cowered on those rickety grates behind a wall of other bodies. His right eye—a frigid, dirtied blue, like the underside of a glacier—cuts to her tattered boots, and climbs. "Let me look at you."

The words gut into her, vilely. She wheels on him. Her fist slams into the bars, hard enough to make an ugly, chorusing echo through the steel. "Bastard."

"Charmed."

He stands on that thin red line, puffing away on his cigarette, and stares at her, as though trying to make sense of a riddle in a paper, or picking through the nuances of an artist's strokes. Her fingers snare hard on the bars, hard enough to stain her bloodied knuckles white. She glares right back at him. Pristine coat, lithe hands; scratched up, grayed out face; swept-back hair, flecked with silver; steel-tipped boots. There's a knife handle under his belt. A knife handle nearly in arm's reach.

"You couldn't have been more than fourteen, then," he mutters. The words carry a taint of wonder, in their remembrance. It plunges, swiftly, to distaste. "Tearing through my men, like a tank through the trenches." He scoffs. Now, he is sneering: the scarred line of his lip baring crooked teeth, his cigarette pinched between his fingers. "What good are you, left to waste away under these Piltie scum?"

"I didn't ask to be here—"

"Oh, no. You asked for revolution." His eyes spear into hers, an unwavering burn. "You were denied."

Blood ticks between her fingers, scalding on the cell bars. Those words itch into her; find the festering resentment she's left abandoned, over months and years shackled within these walls, and gnaw at it. 

"You sold Vander out," she says, heat broiling just beneath the words. "You stabbed him. I saw it. You killed him—"

"Vander sold himself out, girl," and he is walking, with the slow, prowling lope of a wolf; the fluid circling of a shark in the deep. "Laid his throat under the enforcers' boots, like a mutt on a leash. I paid my dues—nine years of it—while he sat back and cowered." He strides over the red line, and stops, inches from her battered fists. "He owed me a debt," he says, plainly. His cigarette skims the grayed blot of dead flesh that stretches over his cheek. "Eye for an eye; tooth for a tooth."

Her hands shake. She sees the flames, eating up the cannery with the roar of a living thing. Hears the bellows of their arguing, split apart in fritzing static and neon-blue. "What did you do with my sister?" 

He ticks the ash from his cigarette. It falls to a swirl of embers at his feet. "You, however," Silco prattles on, blithely ignoring her. His fingers wave through the air, with the nonchalance of a royal: a razor-edged flit of smoke and cinder. "Now—what I wouldn't have given to see you storm this wretched city, yourself. You still could, if you only had the gall." His heels sweep over the concrete: th-thump, th-thumping: fall still at one end of the cell. His eyes flit curiously across its hinges. "These bars, girl—tell me: have they strengthened you? Or leashed you, as well?"

She doesn't have time for this. You talk too much.

"What did you do with my sister—?"

"Jinx?"

A cold pit plunges through her stomach, and twists.

Because you're a jinx! Mylo was right!

"She's alive," he says slowly, the rasp of his low, scratched-out throat worlds away. The look on his face is unreadable: deceptively blank: scathing. "Safe," he adds, with a lilt of his head. "Though—as I'd been led to believe—you're good as dead, to her."

Vi pulls in a tight, heavy breath. "Her name is Powder." 

"Her name is her own. She chose it." The dagger of his teal eye thins: hunts for something under her shaking bones, something she can't see. "From what I gather," he mulls, "it was your parting gift." 

Slices in.

[pinkanonwrites]

TFA Jet Twins/Reader longpost!

I have SO MANY thoughts about the reader and the Jet Twins, and many many magnificent treats that my dear friend @archie-sunshine has drawn at my behest (begging). These are all pertaining to the Liason Reader in my fic Washrack Academy.

THIS IS NOT ART/FIC SHIPPING THE JET TWINS TOGETHER.

I can't make that more clear. They just both like the same reader and sometimes a gal just wants to be in a big bot sandwich, okay? If you've got some sort of grievance to air about that do it in MY ASKBOX instead of Archie's. He drew all these at my behest so don't go pitching a fit at him for sating my dark passenger.

ANYWAY NSFW ART AND WRITING BELOW THE CUT!

OKAY SO In my head both the twins are turbo-virgins. Neither of them got much chance to interface when they were construction drones and now even though they have a lot of fan-bots Sentinel keeps them on too tight a leash to go around slammin' and jammin'. So there's multiple levels of curiosity the more they learn about humans vis-à-vis the human reader.

Jetfire is a lot more infatuated with the reader than his brother is. Jetstorm is just curious about humans, but Jetfire has a burgeoning crush. It's hell for him because either him or Jetstorm have to accompany the liason to the washracks to make sure no bots on base are putting them in danger when they're at their most vulnerable.

He's... handling it. Sort of.

No worries, Jetfire. You'll get there.~

Jetstorm on the other hand is really curious about interfacing with a human, not because he has any feelings for the reader (at first), but because he wants to be the first Cybertronian to interface with a human for clout. Jokes on him though because human pussy hits stupendously different and he gets infatuated about it.

Also sidebar but I have an HC that skinny bots like the twins and Jazz who don't have any plating around their torsos/waists have metal mesh bodies for flexibility. Downside is if your wires get crossed your internal interface panel will retract without retracting the external metal mesh and you get a little jumpsuit boner. For my amusement.

Last but not least here's a few delicious pieces of all of them together. Jetfire is a bit more shy, Jetstorm is way more bold, but humans are tight and wet and crazy soft and they both get pussy drunk REALLY easily. Once they get a taste they can't get enough, skulking around the base like a pair of un-neutered cats looking for their liason beau.

That's all for now! A NSFW sequel to Washrack Academy is on the horzion, I promise you. So my fellow Jet Twins enjoyers, keep an eye out! (Also LMK if you need captions for any of these pics, the lettering got compressed a bit so it may be harder to read.)

[appalachianapologies]

Paper Flowers

I got recommended a cool youtube video and somehow this was born- i hope you enjoy <3

With an exacto knife in one hand and the other holding a piece of cardstock down on the table like the A/C is somehow going to manage to blow it away, Bozer groans.

This was a mistake. This was, absolutely, no doubt about it, one giant freaking mistake. He should’ve gone back to bed and just waited out the night, pretending to sleep. And when Riley swung by the house in the morning, he’d hop in the car and lie and say that he got a nice eight hours in. Or at least six—eight might not be believable.

But now that plan has gone out of the window and for some reason Bozer’s now holding a knife at 2 AM and seriously regretting every decision that led him here. Usually, Mac would be the one in this situation, and no, the irony isn’t lost on Bozer.

The problem is that Mac is currently in the hospital, fresh out of surgery and hopefully sleeping the night away with Jack by his side. Which leaves Bozer to be the weird, manic guy in the household who plays with blades in the middle of the night.

Mutely, Bozer wonders if Mac ever regrets his crazy midnight ideas.

The plan was simple, really.

Flowers aren’t allowed in hospital rooms because they’re a hazard to the patient and probably six other reasons that Bozer’s community college film degree can’t tell him about, but as long as the flowers aren’t real, they’re just fine. This leaves visitors with a few options, most of them being cards, plastic flowers, or just not bringing anything.

The latter is the choice that Bozer knows Mac wants him to make. The kid’s been through surgery, landed himself in the hospital, so many times. Mac’s going to blush and tuck his head away when he sees that people are still worried about him and making a fuss and bringing him presents, but that’s a risk that Bozer is willing to take.

It’s also not a risk at all. Not compared to everything else that they do in their crazy lives.

The point is that Bozer wants to bring Mac a gift and flowers seem like a great idea until it turns out flowers aren’t allowed, but he still really wants to bring flowers. Which not only kept Bozer awake, but is also the reason why he’s up at two with a knife in hand and a YouTube video paused on his phone.

Paper flowers.

They sound so easy. Sounded easy when he typed it in the search bar, too. Just cut up some paper, maybe color it, and then glue the paper back together in a different formation and then bam! Nice pollen and contamination free flowers for a brother that just got an internal organ stitched up.

Only as it turns out, all of the videos on how to make paper flowers are for kindergartners and look like crap. Not that Bozer would say any of that out loud- he’s sure that they look like masterpieces when they come from five year olds. It’s just not really what he’s looking for.

So he scrolled down and made his search a little more specific and finally found a nice video about how to make good, adult-looking paper flowers.

Only as it turns out, it was less of a “how to make paper flowers” video and more like a “watch an extremely talented woman make a literal work of art with nothing but a few pieces of paper and some glue and an exacto knife and maybe some watercolors in twenty condensed minutes with lofi music in the background.” It’s kind of a wordy title- Boze gets why she stuck with a simpler one.

Doesn’t change the fact that Bozer absolutely does not have the skill to make paper flowers that look like hers.

But he already gathered all of the materials, even braved the garage to find a board to cut paper on, so Bozer’s not ready to give up quite yet. Even if he is slightly mesmerized by the skill this woman seems to possess.

By the time visitor hours open up at the hospital, Bozer has to have at least something to show for his insomnia. So, restarting the video over again, Bozer puts the exacto knife in a better grip in his hands and takes a deep breath.

He’s got this.

[from-the-clouds]

texas sun - series masterlist (joel miller x f!reader)

series summary: Twenty years later, Joel still doesn’t know how to describe what you were to him. You’d never made any promises to each other, but you loved his daughter like she was your own. Had he known what was going to happen, he wouldn't have let you go.

description: plot inspired partially by this request. pre-outbreak! joel miller x f!reader, slow burn(ish), eventual smut. will end up covering game/tv show events. reader does not have a name, and there's no use of y/n, but she does have a fully fleshed-out backstory, friends/family with names.

warnings (will update as needed): fluff, angst, romance. multiple pov's. time jumps. smut (18+ only, minors DNI), alcohol use, marijuana use, descriptions of absent & abusive parents, eventual canon-typical violence & content. More specific warnings on each chapter.

a/n: super excited about this one, i've had so many ideas for it and it has been a pleasure to write! will try to update roughly every week or so, but i have a full-time job, so it just depends on what i can reasonably accomplish. i don't rush things out before they are ready, so please be patient. :)

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @ftcwriting and turn on notifications if you would like to be notified when I update :)

fic playlist | writing masterlist | read on a03

chapters 14/14 - complete "*" = contains smut

volume i volume ii volume iii volume iv volume v* volume vi* volume vii* volume viii* volume ix volume x volume xi volume xii volume xiii volume xiv*