#Fic: What's Past is Future

[bizarrelittlemew]

i can't wait to be 30+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 40+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 50+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 60+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 70+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 80+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 90+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to look back on my life and know that i loved things deeply and passionately and was inspired to create and was part of communities with incredible people from all over the world brought together by the stories that touched us

[ricky-mortis]

Curtwen Week Day 6: Happy Ending

[favvn]

There's something about the phrasing of "must die," how that's specifically haunting for Jim to hear, both because of his ideals and his past on Tarsus IV as one of the last survivors of Kodos' massacre. But to have Spock's life endangered twice after the "you must let the woman you love die or the future, millions of others' lives, and your own life will be lost" episode? And to have Jim himself ask, "Why must he die?" after the episode where Spock was ready to be killed if a cure wasn't found for the parasitic creatures inducing madness in their hosts, and in that same episode Jim--unprompted--tells Spock, "I need you" and never once suggests getting a replacement First Officer? God. I need to lie down.

[flowercrowngods]

🤍🌷 @stevesbipanic and @the-winged-doe asked to see ugly unpolished unrefined words, soo—

cw & tags: past major character death, grief, attempted time-travel fix-it(s), eddie&robin besties || potential wip

Eddie takes a long drag of his cigarette, the biting hot smoke hitting the back of his throat and clawing its way into his lungs, going as deep as he allows and leaving a permanent mark that brings neither relief nor calmness tonight. His fingers shake where they’re pressed to his lips, but the rest of him is unmoving where he sits on the front porch of their new trailer. 

It’s quiet out here. It’s always quiet in Hawkins these days, the city a fucking ghosttown. 

And he knows it’s not because of the one they lost. He knows it’s not because of him. But still the emptiness is stark and the silence oppressivem more so than it ever has been. 

Everyone still looks for him, months later. Dustin still begins to speak, cutting himself off mid-sentence, and Robin still stands with enough space to either side, like she expects him to just show up and invade her space like the home he made for himself in there. 

And somewhere among all that is Eddie. With his very own history. Or, non-history, as it turns out. But history and non-history leave wounds alike, and the memories feel just as real. A small mercy, at the end of the day, for them to feel real when they’re all he has left anymore. 

He takes another drag, not quite exhaling before he obliterates the cigarette and fishes for a new one before the butt even hits the ground. 

Fumbling with the lighter in his pocket, he only gets as far as placing the butt between his lips before a hand snakes into his field of vision to snag it from his mouth. 

“Hey,” he complains halfheartedly but makes no attempt at getting it back, watching instead as Robin comes up to sit beside him, grimacing at the stink of tobacco that must be heavy around him. 

“You’re disgusting,” she says with no real heat behind her words.

Eddie shrugs, because yeah, sure. He’s been called worse things. Robin’s called him worse things. This is her being nice. Her complaininig about his incessant smoking is nothing new. What is new is what she does next, placing the cigarette between her own lips and reaching for the light he’s been holding in a loose grip since she arrived. 

She starts coughing immediately, pulling a face at the disgusting feeling of smoke in her lungs and tobacco on her tongue. But she keeps going. Eddie can only watch in surprise and mild horror. 

“These things’ll kill you,” he says then in an echo of her usual sentiment, aware that he sounds as bewildered as he feels. 

“Well,” Robin says, aiming for casual, but quickly interrupted by a wheeze and a cough that’s almost adorable. “Let them try.” 

Eddie huffs, a pale little smile lingering on his lips as he leans back against the stairs behind him, resting his weight on his forearm to watch her. There is something captivating about her. Eddie always wonders what it is, wants to study her forever. 

Maybe it’s only the lingering traces of Everything Steve Harrington that clings to her every breath, her every move, her every fucking cell, with how much he was a part of her and she of him. Maybe it’s their shared grief that has made Eddie fall a bit in love with her and with the way the moonlight catches in her hair and in the smoke wafting from her cigarette. 

But somehow he refuses to believe that all he loves about her is merely the memory of Steve. 

Robin, in turn, is kind enough to let him stare. Kind enough to let him find out what it is between them. If this friendship is more than a misguided projection of grief and mourning and trauma; more than co-dependence and the obsessive will to keep this one person in your life. This one person who understands. 

After a while of Robin just holding the cigarette between her fingers, becuase no matter how strong her will to self destruct, she never quite got it right with the smoking, Eddie snatches it back before it goes to waste completely. As if pulled in by a string attached to his hollowed out chest, Robin leans back and into him in one smooth motion. It’s too calculated, though, and Eddie can feel how much she sags once she doesn’t have to hold herself up anymore. 

He’ll hold her. It’s fine. She gets to rest if she wants to. God knows she needs it. 

The night is warm for mid-September, but still Robin shakes against him. Eddie holds her closer. 

Silence settles over them, and it’s not an easy one. Silence is never easy anymore, especially with them. He feels so deeply hollow that even the silence echoes in there, creating an ever-present, uncomfortable thrumming of apprehension and anxiety within him. A certain sense of doom, one that can’t quite decide if it’s only an echo itself. 

“I wanna stop time,” Robin says at last, the cigarette long dead between Eddie’s fingers, but he somehow can’t bring himself to flick it away. “I don’t want tomorrow.” 

I don’t ever want a new day. I don’t ever want another tomorrow. I just want Steve. 

They ring in his head still, another echo that only hollows him out further every time it reaches him — Robin, overcome with hysterical grief, screaming and crying, curled up on that hospital floor, her cries quieting down and making Eddie wish she would be loud again, because the quiet was what killed him. The quiet, the whispered words, the declarations that tomorrow could go fuck itself if it came without Steve made him wish, irrationally, desperately, that their roles were reversed. That he could have died and Steve could have lived, and Robin would never have to wish tomorrow never came. 

He’s not entirely sure if she remembers the words, too. If she even said them in this world. 

So he takes a deep breath, breathes away memories and non-histories, feels the heavy weight of his guitar pick hanging around his neck, resting on the scarred flesh of his chest, and tries not to think of the one string left on his acoustic guitar. Tries not to think of his one last attempt. One last try. 

“I know,” he tells her. “Me neither.” 

He peers over her head, lifting his left wrist to check his watch. Ten minutes until midnight. Ten minutes until Steve’s birthday. 

“It’s not tomorrow yet,” he tries lamely, and Robin huffs — the sound wet and bitter and hopeless, making Eddie’s eyes sting. 

“It’s always fucking tomorrow,” she rasps, her voice flat and wavering, and Eddie knows her well enough to know she’s about to cry. And she knows him well enough to do it. 

“I know,” he says again, and reaches for his necklace through his shirt. One more attempt. One more try. One more chance. His eyes burn. 

She turns to him after taking a moment to compose herself, peering up at him through her lashes. 

“Tell me again?” 

His heart falls, the tense apprehension vanishing from the air, bur quickly replaced by something a lot more heavy. Something that looks and smells and feels like grief. 

They both know he’ll do anything she asks. He can’t really bear saying not to her. And not about this, anyway — she’s the only one who knows. 

She’s the one who should have had the chance. 

“Which part?” he asks, holding a new cigarette out for her to light it. She does, and the both follow the flame of the lighter Robin always keeps in her pocket these days. 

She leans forward and takes a drag. Eddie lets her. 

“All of them.“

Eddie sighs, pain welling up inside him, and he closes his eyes against the night sky. “Robbie,” he pleads, but he doesn’t finish his plea. He’ll do it. He’ll do anything she asks. 

But before he starts recounting the tales of how he almost saved Steve Harrington, he finds himself saying something he never thought he’d tell her. 

“There’s one more.” The words hang in the air, and Robin doesn’t react. Has no idea what’s coming; what he’s about to tell her. The guitar pick is heavy on the necklace around his throat. “There’s one more try. One more chance. I’m… I have one more—“ 

He can’t even finish the sentence. Can’t bring himself to say it, lest it all be jinxed forever. He doesn’t want to hope. Wants to carry this weight for all eternity and never think about all those times he failed to save someone he was never meant to save at all. People like Eddie, they’re not made to save anyone. Hell, they can’t even save themselves. 

Steve was supposed to be the one doing the saving. 

And he did. God, he fucking did. But he was never supposed to— 

Cold fingers wrap around his own as Robin fits their hands together. 

“I hate you a little bit for telling me.” 

Eddie nods, trying to focus on the cold hand and the nicotine in his lungs, trying not to let panic and grief and guilt and the heavy weight of one more chance win. “I know.” 

“Hey, Eddie?” Robin says after a while, the silence stretching on, and it’s almost midnight now. “Can you— Would you do something for me?” 

He turns his head, flicking the butt of his cigarette out into the darkness beyond them. “What’s that?” 

“Don’t— Don’t try to, to save him. Don’t— Just… Just maybe, could you celebrate his birthday with him? Make sure he knows he’s… God, make sure he knows he’s loved? Last year, no one really made time on his birthday and we just moved it backwards but God, could you— It’s almost midnight, and—“ 

“Robbie,” Eddie interrupts her, his voice hoarse and wavering, his eyes burning with tears as he tugs her close and holds her to his chest. “You should go. Don’t you wanna…” 

But she’s shaking her head against him with a vehemence that can hardly be misunderstood. 

“No,” she cries, and it’s more of a sob than anything. “I think if I ever saw him again, I’d… I don’t know what I’d do. Burn the whole fucking world to the ground for him or some shit, I can’t— I’d probably just cry all the time and that wouldn’t be helpful, really.” There’s a weak, wet laugh that bubbles out of both of them, and Eddie’s wiping at Robin’s face, drying the tears and making way for new ones to fall. 

“I’d light a fire for you,” Eddie says, the same weak smile on his lips that Robin meets him with now. “Nineteen fucking fires, you hear me?” 

She laughs again, then buries her face in his neck in a way that never quite fit. In a way that Eddie always knew was supposed to be someone else’s neck. 

But he’s not here anymore. And Eddie can’t get him back. No matter how much he aches for it, no matter how much he learned over and over and over again how easy it is to love Steve Harrington and how hard, how fucking impossible it is to lose him. Over and over and over again. 

And to live without him. This one fucking time they all get. It’s not fair. 

And now Robin is asking him to go back one more time and make sure that Steve knows— That he knows. 

Somehow the thought of that feels nobler than any attempt to save him, to bring him back; to rewrite history from a lonely boy’s perspective and hope that no one else is reading along. 

It feels right, too. Fundamentally and suddenly, and with such an intensity that Eddie knows the decision has been made the second he started telling her. 

Still he hesitates. Robin’s sobs have calmed down, and Eddie’s hand finds its way into her hair. 

“Do you really mean it?” 

She nods.

He nods, too, but slower. Like he’s trying to sway himself. Which way, he doesn’t know. 

“Make him happy.” 

“Okay,” he decides after a while, feeling hollow and desperate, but feeling purpose burning underneath his skin again. “One last time.” 

He unwinds his arms from around her and heads inside to grab his acoustic guitar. The last remaining string, badly untuned because he never dared to touch it, stares back at him in both mockery and invitation. A dare. A chance. A promise. 

Outside, Robin is waiting for him, looking anxious. Eddie wants to hug her. He doesn’t, only tightens his grip around the guitar’s neck. 

“Listen, Eddie, if this is goodbye or something—“ 

“It’s a birthday party, Robsie,” he interrupts her, aiming for light, aiming for brave. “I’m coming back right here.” 

“I know,” she rushes to say, taking a step toward him and wringing her hands. It’s endearing. It’s genuine. Eddie really is a little in love with her. “But, y’know, you don’t mess with time, and I don’t know what all you already changed before and I don’t wanna know but… If this is goodbye, if something happens, I just wanna tell you that I’m gonna miss you. And that I think you’re really cool. And that Steve’s— he’s really missing out, okay. Okay?” 

Eddie breathes, taking in her words and letting them soak into his body, his every last fibre. 

“Okay,” he smiles. “Thank you. You’re… I’m kind of in love with you, Robin Buckley. So there had better be no change in the universe, ‘cause that would really suck.” 

They smile at each other, Eddie with his guitar and Robin with her lighter, and somehow this feels like a deja-vu. The antithesis to a moment forever burned into his memory.

Make him pay. 

Make him happy. 

Eddie tugs on his necklace and plays the string before he can think about it too hard; before he can decide otherwise. 

Distantly, he hears the church bells announcing midnight as the world around him fades. 

🤍 permanent tag list gang: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @cryptic-cryptid @hotluncheddie @gutterflower77 @auroraplume @steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important @stevesjockstrap @puppy-steve @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 @madigoround @pukner @i-amthepizzaman @swimmingbirdrunningrock @hammity-hammer @stevesbipanic @bitchysunflower @estrellami-1 @goodolefashionedloverboi @awkwardgravity1 @devondespresso @bookworm0690 (lmk if you want on or off, for this story or permanently)

[formosusiniquis]

have your cake

So way back in August 2023 the steddiemicrofic challenge was Cake and 311 words, my head empty brain came up with one thought and it was Steve Munson having a bakery called Mun's Buns and so many months later I finally got around to finishing my vision

Ships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson; Tommy Hagan/Carol Perkins; implied/past Tommy Hagan/Steve Harrington/Carol Perkins WC: 6408 | T | tags: Future Fic, the lightest of post homoerotic friendship breakup angst, fluff, Tommy POV AO3

The bakery has a stupid name, is the first thing Tommy thinks when Carol tells him where he's supposed to meet her on his lunch break. He’s still thinking that, when he sees the place for the first time through his rain speckled windshield. It's a modest storefront, small for what Carol says is a booming business, tucked in next to a used bookstore and a music shop. There's a baby yellow awning hanging from the front just underneath a sign lettered in soft blue that reads Mun's Buns.

He's late, is the second thing he thinks after pulling up. Caught up in some stupid bullshit for his dad he hadn't managed to slip away until 12:30. Even then it had only been because Tommy had told him he was going to be late for their cake tasting. He'd rolled his eyes when his father and Greg, a guy that Tommy only considers a co-worker in the sense that they are technically on the same payroll since Greg in every other aspect is incompetent and an idiot, had winced. Shooing him away like a kid who'd just admitted that he's already twenty minutes past curfew. But catching sight of the way Carol has her arms crossed, tapping her foot fast enough to kickstart a motor, while her hair hangs limp in a way that it hadn’t this morning a third thought crosses his mind: maybe he should have been a little more worried.

Waiting isn’t going to make things any better. So he steps out of the car, let’s the misty damp cling to him in a way that makes his dress pants and button down feel like a poorly tailored second skin, and takes his licks like a man. "Late, thirty minutes late. Christ, it's the only thing I've asked from you Tommy." Her right hook stings just as badly as it did sophomore year when she punched him for asking out Erin Murphy instead of her.

Shit like that is probably why no one expected them to make it this long or this far.

When they went away to college; different schools, hours apart. His parents had been gleeful as they'd warned him that high school relationships didn't always last. That he should keep his options open, he didn't want to miss out on the love of his life just because of comfort. He didn't get offered the family ring when he decided to propose right after graduation. Carol has always been particular. Wanted the house to come back to before the wedding could happen, wanted a long honeymoon. That meant saving, a lot of it. Tommy knew and Carol did too, they'd overheard his mother and aunt gossiping in too loud voices after too much wine that they hoped the long engagement meant they were both trying to figure out a good way to break it off with one another. 

Still, over the course of their now five year engagement no one's asked once if they wanted to trade for it.

Carol thought it was horrendous anyway. She’d had her ring picked out since ‘85, styled her class ring so it would look like the oval cut diamond she wanted. Had him slide it on her finger the second it came in.

Cause in the politest of terms, Carol could be a raging bitch. She was Tommy's favorite person in the entire world.

There’s going to be a bruise on his shoulder tomorrow, even if she’s guiltily smoothing a hand down his arm now. Thrust toward the door first in offering, Carol is sorry she hit him but she’s not apologetic. “I’m serious, Tom, if we lose this appointment and have to go with Sweet Treats for our cake I'll- I'll-"

Whatever threat she was preparing is drowned out and then cut off by the echoing TONG of the door chime. A light in the back shifts color for a second, out of place enough that he wonders if he even really saw it. Head tilting toward Carol, his question catches in his throat when he notices her pinched off appraising. Better not to add to the ammunition she might already be building.

And if Carol is looking he better do it too. She'll want to debrief when they're having dinner tonight, just like they did with the florist, the caterer, the three wedding planners they'd met with, and each of the venues that they'd visited. And it wasnt because she was demanding, fuck you Greg. It wasn't because she was being nitpick-y, alright it was a little bit because she was but he liked being particular with her. He liked being involved in his wedding.

So he looked around.

The way they utilized their space -- a building that big and there's barely enough room to stand, we want someone who knows how to work with limited space for the venues we're looking at -- was the reason their first wedding planner hadn't gotten hired. Small, but not cramped. There are a handful of tables scattered in the open space in front of the counter. It’s the kind of small town cozy that Hawkins had tried for and he doesn’t see very often anymore now that they’ve moved out to Indianapolis.

It’s lunchtime, still too early for people to be seeking out the rows of deserts in their neat glass counter and too late for the breakfast crowd. But one of the tables is occupied by a teenager with long, black braids scribbling in a notebook while a slice of ice cream cake melts on a plate by her elbow. 

Everything was neat, organized, and compliant with health code regulations -- they hadn’t even made it in the door of the first caterer’s when she noticed a trail of ants and roaches marching into the open kitchen door.

Carol had always been quick when she was making up her mind about something. Like those Sherlock Holmes stories they’d had to read in school, in a couple of seconds she could spot everything she needed to make a decision. After a decade Tommy still couldn’t keep up; but he was always best at following someone else’s lead.

The smile she’s got frosted across her face is as sugary and fake as the roses on the cupcakes he can see behind the low topped counters as she approaches the only visible staff member. A girl, young in the way that nebulous way anyone younger than him was now, with thick squared glasses that magnified two distressingly blue eyes. The counters looked like they were designed to sit low enough that she could easily see over the top while in her wheelchair.

“Welcome to,” her customer service tone borders on bored. Two words into a clear script and she sighs, as if saying the name physically pains her, “Mun’s Buns. We’ve got a special series of summer flavors: Strawberry Lemonade, Lavender Mint, Chocolate Fudgsicle, and,” she sighs again, “for the grownups a boozy Blue Moon with orange zest.”

“How about a wedding cake.” He’s impressed. Carol made it through the speech without interrupting.

“Do you have an appointment?” the girl raises her voice, enough to make them both flinch back. Customer service isn’t a requirement for this part of the job necessarily, but Carol had bailed on two venues because the staff hadn’t been polite enough.

Her smile doesn’t crack though, “Yes.”

Even though he’s pretty sure this girl has to be basically blind with the inch thick frames, she levels Carol with a lethal stare. “Not you.”

From the open entryway behind her Tommy had been able to make out what sounded like the highlights of yesterday’s game. He assumed that space had to be the kitchen where these rows of deserts were made. He’s still surprised when a guy’s voice is shouting back, “I don't know, Max, do I? Why don't you check?”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Max shouts back, glowering at then in stand in for her mystery boss.

“With your finger, asshole. It's in braille. When I gave you this job you said you were actually gonna work.”

“Douchebag." Her eyes never leave them, while her hands rummage around in a space beneath the counter where the cash register sits. Max offers no explanation or apology for her shouting or for her boss. A large red appointment book gets slammed down on the nearest counter, making Carol jump but the neat two by twos of chocolate frosted cupcakes don't budge. He watches, a little fascinated by the way her finger scans the page before slowing. "Did you write this or did Dustin?"

Carol has always valued gossip over professionalism, he thinks that’s why she’s done so well as a hairdresser even though she was always awful at chemistry. It’s also why he’s held off from pointing out that they could solve this a lot faster if this guy would come out from the back. "Why?" 

“Cause one of you can't spell and one of you is trying to invent braille shorthand. So I'm not really sure what to do with TomGan Wed.”

“It might be Thomas and Wedding.” Carol leans over the appointment book as she says it, using a tone of voice he has never once heard her use in the entire time he’s known her. He thinks it’s supposed to be helpful.

“Wedding sampler.” The girl calls toward the back, “It's getting late.”

“I’ve got it,” the voice from the back shouts back.There’s an effortless assurance Tommy can hear from where he’s standing. It hits him with a wave of nostalgia so strong he grabs Carol’s arm on instinct.

“Really,” she says, cutting her gaze over to him. He’s not sure what she sees. “If we could hurry this along, it's just we've only got an hour.”

“You're late.” The glare she gets shuts Carol down faster than he’s ever seen.

“Right.”

“Okay I've got it.” The voice from the back is now the voice in the doorway. Hidden for a second by a serving tray loaded with samples of rich looking cake, it’s the first time since arriving that Tommy has actually wanted to be here. Not just because he can make out strong shoulders and a body of a man that’s still very fit but clearly enjoys his work too; the hint of love handles above strong thighs. Only then that tray dips, and for the first time since 1985 Tommy finds himself looking at the shocked hazel eyes of Steve Harrington. “Oh.”

Carol reacts for him, taking in a breath sharp enough she might puncture a lung. They’ll both wind up suffocated on the floor of this stupid bakery with an awful name, because Tommy can’t manage to breathe at all looking at Steve. Still unfairly handsome, faintly pink at the shock of seeing them too he imagined.

His hair is long, is the first real thought his half fried brain manages to put together. Soft looking even where it’s damp at the temples where sweat has pooled. He has it pulled back with a couple of the same butterfly clips that Carol likes to use.

His second, somehow more hysterical thought: this wasn’t how Steve Harrington was supposed to be included in his wedding.

Tommy was six years old and knew he wanted to marry Steve. When he’d told his mom -- to ask for her ring, Steve thought it was romantic like princes and princesses that they had a special ring that they got married with -- she’d grabbed by his arm so hard it’d left finger shaped bruises. So he’d held that certainty quiet in his heart until he was ten, and suddenly it was okay to want to play with girls on the playground -- he thinks it’s because Steve got tired of there never being an even number when they tried to play kickball, he had a way of making everyone want to do the thing he was. Carol wasn’t afraid to tell Tommy C. that he was dumb or to tell Mark L. that he hadn’t actually made it to the base, Steve liked her fast. Too fast, and Tommy had to tell her that one day he was going to be able to keep Steve all to himself. But he knew that it wasn’t right to say that now, even if he wasn’t all the way sure why it wasn’t. He was ten, but he would be eleven soon, and he took this part of him that he’d kept secret for so long and he whispered it to Carol under the slide while Steve tried to convince Brad P. that he could too pick two people for his kickball team first.

He was ten and Carol said they could share. Boys can’t marry boys, but girls can. So they could both marry her and live together forever.

It became a joke when they finally shared it with Steve, thirteen and boys going out with girls wasn’t funny the way it used to be. Sarah Jane asked Carol if she had a chance at going steady with Steve. She told Tommy about it later and they both told Steve that he was too good to date any of the girls in their grade. “Well I’ve got you guys,” his voice cracked when he said it, throwing an arm around both of them. Carol didn’t care as much, but even she’d noticed the way Steve was changing from boyish to handsome.

They were sixteen and disaster was just around the corner, not that he knew that. Steve dated around but he always came back to them. The head, the heart, the body. They don’t feel complete without each other -- at least Tommy doesn’t. Mr. Kripke, who was hungover more often than he wasn't, passed out ten minutes into study hall. Carol didn’t even wait to see if he’d wake back up before she left her assigned table for theirs. She smoothed out a lined piece of notebook paper for them, and Tommy scoffed like he was supposed to. “Aren’t we a little old to be playing MASH?”

“It’s dirty MASH, and I thought you’d think it was funny.”

“I think it’s funny,” Steve had said, “that you’re getting eiffel towered on your wedding night. Who else is joining in, Carrie?”

“We couldn’t agree on who got you for their side of the aisle. So we’re taking you to bed instead.”

He was sixteen and the way that the two of them looked when they shared a joke was the hottest thing in the world. The way their smiles mirror when they turned to him, sharp and ready to flay open the softest parts of him.

Tommy’s two days older when Steve lets him kiss the taste of Carol out of his mouth.

It was three days after he turned seventeen and he had to pretend he didn't want to die when he saw how Steve looked at Nancy Wheeler. Like he didn’t want to rip his hair out because Steve was fucking infatuated with this mousy little teacher’s pet and wouldn’t even look at him anymore.

He still doesn’t like to think about the breakup. He pokes it like a fresh bruise. Less often now, but when he does he digs his fingers in. Baits Carol into fights he doesn’t mean just so he can pretend like he hasn’t lost something that hurts like a limb.

Steve Harrington turns twenty-eight next week, and he’s standing in front of them both holding pieces of what might turn into their wedding cake.

“Wow I can’t believe you’re in Indy!” False excitement grates, but at least Carol has gotten herself together enough to speak. He thought he’d have at least another few months to prepare for the thought of seeing Steve, by their ten year reunion he was going to be married and happy and over it.

“Yeah, this is- Married, wow! I kinda can’t believe you haven’t already.” He says it to Carol, his platitudes had always been for Carol, but his eyes find Tommy. 

While Carol chatters at them and for them both, nervous, he knows she’s nervous. The situation is sudden and strange and fraught. But Tommy just looks at Steve, who looks at him. He’s getting married in three months, one week, and two days from now and for the first time in eleven years Steve is looking at him.

"Takes a while to save up for when you want the best of everything. Dad's still the skinflint he always was, I think he'd pay me less than minimum wage if he could get away with it."

And those soft brown eyes look so sad, looking at him. Sometimes he thinks no one will ever understand him the way that Steve did.

"There's nothing wrong with wanting the best, or having a long engagement." Carol defends. It's the same line she's been giving everyone. Defensive of him and herself and the choices they've been making. He can't believe Steve is someone she thinks they have to defend against.

“I really hope you're happy, man," he says, and the sincerity is a balm on the sting of this conversation. He pushes his hair back from his face, the way he always has when he's uncomfortable and trying not to make it obvious. And there's a fresh new hurt when Tommy catches sight of a plain gold band on Steve's finger, shining bright between the golden highlights of his hair.

“I’m happy about this,” he can say honestly. Carol is one of the only things he’s ever been sure about. She held him steady as she could when his other sure thing left him with a cracked foundation in a convenience store parking lot. “What about you? How long after meeting the future Mrs. Harrington did you wait to put a ring on her finger?”

“Tommy,” Carol chides as the teen in the corner snorts. To anyone else it would sound like a reprimand for being nosy, he, and he suspects Steve, knows she’s telling him to stop worrying a scab that has no hope of healing right.

Married and they didn’t know. Wouldn’t have found out until the reunion. It’s not like he expected an invitation, maybe an engagement announcement sent to their parents’ houses. They’d sent one to Loch Nora when the real ring had finally made it to Carrie’s finger. It was equal parts olive branch and offering. They’d gotten it back return to sender with no forwarding address.

The bell above the door tongs again, loud enough to make Carol jump. The platter of cakes doesn't shift at all in Steve’s hand. His arm shows no sign of fatigue. It’s almost distracting enough that he misses the obvious. The bell signals someone is coming into the store.

“Sorry, Sweetheart. I know I said I wasn't gonna be late but Mike…” There just inside the door is the Freak. Undeniable even with his head down as he digs through his shoulder bag. From the riot of poorly maintained tangles that still hang around his shoulders to the expanded mess of tacky ink on his arms. The only thing that’s changed is the age in his face and the band on his shirt.

“Munson?” Carol has the reflexes and the personal grace to address him first. Shock more than the disgust it might have been when they were still kids.

Tommy feels like a kid still. Looks to Steve in an instinct he’d thought he’d stamped out years ago, only to be met with wide eyes and teeth grit tight enough to draw out the square line of his jaw.

“Christ, I still get nightmares that start like this.” Munson says, eye darting between the three of them. “Max, am I naked?”

“Don't know, don't wanna know.”

“I thought you'd be able to tell by the energy in the room.” He wiggles his fingers, still bedecked in silver, like they can divine the vibrations or some witchy shit.

That’s enough to make Steve break just a little. A soft, exhaling scoff before he finally starts to move out from the counter. Tommy catches, and he doubts Carol misses it either, how Steve passes the closer tables to set his tray down between them and Munson.

“I can tell I don't want to be here for this.” Their redheaded audience member says, “I'm taking my 15.”

“Don't go harass Mike, he's finally working,” Munson says.

“Will and El are on shift on the other side,” Steve calls out, not looking at any of them as he moves cakes from his tray to the table. A deliberate selection he seems to be making.

“Whatever, I’m gonna call Lucas and break up with him so he can play better or whatever.”

“Don’t be too harsh,” Munson calls out, “I’ve only got him on a five point spread.”

If Carol’s nails break from how hard they’re digging into his arm, somehow it’ll be Tommy’s fault. Not the fact that they’ve advanced the worst part of their ten year reunion by months, and also Munson is here and knows shit about basketball.

“Sorry, think my hearing’s going, sounded like you said you want him to lose and he’s getting kicked from the next one shot. I’ll let him know.”

“She gets that from you,” Steve and Munson say in sync. Glaring playfully at one another the way Steve used to with Carol.

“I’ll tell Robin you were-”

“Do not sick Buckley on me, Max made the deaf joke not me.”

“Weird, that’s not what I heard.” Steve has always claimed his hair as his best feature. It isn’t -- Carrie liked his eyes, Tommy his hands -- but it’s hard to deny that it doesn’t look good, flipping over his shoulder. His smile is private, just for Munson, soft the way he got whenever he picked up a new girl. Carrie taps the back of his hand, two sharp smacks, their signal for years that he needed to pay attention and notice something she had. Wide, nervous eyes dart to Steve -- like he hadn’t already been looking at Steve -- so he does his best to assess the way Carol would.

Jealous, viciously, Steve had been theirs in every way that mattered since they were ten years old and Carol had never liked sharing her toys with anyone but them. She watched his face for any sign of unhappiness anytime a new girlfriend came along, and when she found one she passed it along to him. So he could pick and joke until Steve was all theirs again.

So he checked the face. Tried to ignore the way Steve was lit up from the inside out with a joy he could barely remember, and then he saw the hearing aid.

He tapped back, three times. O.M.G.

“The 1985 Homecoming court here to reveal that this has all been a long con, Stevie?”

“Yeah I faked the name change paperwork and picked up a fake ID, sorry I took my business somewhere else.” Steve says it with the sincerity he’s always made those kind of jokes with, his strange sense of humor never coming across when he always sounded so serious. 

Munson gets it though, snorts loud and ugly, before a smile pulls wide across half his face the otherside taught with a gnarly scar. “Now I know why my fake ID business went belly up when we got to the city, not like I only sold three in high school.”  He gestures to the three of them in a wide arc.

Sophomores, they had decided it was time to throw their first real party now that Steve’s parents had moved out of Hawkins in all but name. Steve was a latchkey kid of new proportions and took to self sufficiency in a way that had seemed adult to him then; and in hindsight looked more like a child fighting for his life. Steve bragged how he’d been saving up the weekly checks they’d sent to ‘sustain him’ while they worked in the city during the week. His contribution to Tommy and Carol’s vague plan to throw a kegger by the pool. When they’d floundered, immediately, with the hows, Steve had been the one to suggest going to Munson.

“Love this preview of the reunion,” Carol cuts in, there’s no bite but Munson bristles anyway like she’s being rude for reminding them that there are customers present. “Steve?”

It’s funny, Tommy thinks, the way Steve still straightens his back at Carol’s tone. All this time and he can’t fight the old ingrained instincts either.

“Dustin made the appointment,” Steve apologizes, even as he’s posture perfect and preparing his pastries. The unsaid, ‘I definitely wouldn’t have’ doesn’t go unheard and it doesn’t sting any less even this far from their last interaction.

“Munson could join us,” Tommy offers, a new olive branch since their last one was never seen. Even if it does raise three sets of brows and makes Carrie’s nervous smile tighten even more in the corner of her mouth.

“Well at least one of us has to,” Munson, Eddie, says. Just says, tone like it was meant to be something said under his breath.

He's grown up a lot since high school, they both have. Still, he's only got twenty minutes left on his lunch break and it's been a long day. "God, is that why it's called that?" Growth, he doesn't say that Steve Munson sounds a lot dumber than Steve Harrington.

"It's charming," Carol and Steve both say. Though Carrie is definitely lying and Steve barely gets it out from between his gritted teeth, a sore spot. He's always been good at finding Steve's bruises.

"It's charming," Tommy agrees, like he always did when he was out voted.

Eddie has a smirk spread across his face and a ‘too proud of himself’ look in his eyes. Mouth open to make some quip that Tommy is going to pretend is funny, for Steve’s sake. Now that they’re here, he’s going to do something to show that they could talk to one another again. Steve clicks his tongue, taps his index and middle finger down to his thumb two quick times before he can.

He turns to the girl in the corner, "Erica, scram, go help Robin and the kids with the new donation that just came in."

The teen continues to scribble in the notebook in front of her, bulky headphones over her ears, she makes no sign that Tommy can see that she's heard Steve speak. "Erica, go, or I'll tell your mother you moved out of the dorms. You're 20, it's not child labor, and you've got a timecard."

She sighs and wordlessly packs up her things, she gives Steve a scathing look that takes Tommy back to high school. The withering eyebrow and rolled eyes would have been just at home on Steve’s own face in 1985, but she marches behind the counter, the sound of her dish rattling in the sink before she disappears out the same door that the redhead had gone out.

Now that the room has been cleared, an awkward silence has found the space to squeeze in. Munson, the original, still standing in the doorway and Steve standing between his unlawfully wedded husband and the two people who had lost their chance at him years ago.

The wedding and the reunion both on the horizon had dredged up a nostalgia that Tommy and Carol had been dealing with in their own ways. Dredging up old yearbooks, Carol had found a shoebox of old notes that she’d kept. Conversations written in three different inks by three different hands, nonsensical after all this time. Tommy woke up from dreams that he hadn’t had in years. Always of Steve and Carol, a study in opposites, but similar where it mattered.

“Well,” Steve says, taking charge of the situation like he always would when the other two faltered, “you’re here for a reason. We might as well get started on it.”

Steve’s fingerprints are still on them, just like he’d noticed theirs on him, molded as they were together. They’ve always bowed to his expectations, and his whims. When he ushers them to the table with a spread hand, Tommy and Carol go where they’re beckoned.

And so does Munson.

They keep an empty chair between them, an artificial divide for Tommy’s sanity, but with the sprawl of Munson’s legs their knees still occasionally brush together. Carol had taken the spot closest to Steve, who has stayed standing. He is their gracious host, marking the head of the round table.

“I pulled out the full sampler before I realized it was you,” Steve says. Even with as off balance as the interaction has felt, Tommy doesn’t feel his hackles raising. While it’s possible he’s gotten more subtle with his digs, Steve’s vicious tongue was usually unmistakable. “I can tell you about as many of them as you want though if you want to pretend like we don’t already know what I’ll be making you. I’m sure neither of you have eaten lunch yet.”

“You are going to take us on?” Carol asks. Shock always gives her tone an extra edge, defensive and catty, even if she’s really just waiting to see if another shoe will drop.

“Obviously,” Steve says, placing a faintly orange square of cake in front of her. He slaps Eddie’s hand away from another piece without looking away from either of them. “That’s as far as I’ll be going in participation though.”

He doesn’t miss the way Steve’s mouth twitches up with the joke, a filthy smirk that leaves Tommy flushing hot. Too warm to not be a bright and obvious red at the acknowledgment of that old private in-joke.

It doesn’t get better when Carol moans, “Oh my god, Steve!” Even if it is about the cake.

He laughs, and Tommy suspects the two are actually trying to kill him. He chances a glance over at Munson who looks like he doesn’t care at all that his husband has made Tommy’s fiance moan. He is watching Tommy though, an inquisitive look like the one Carol gets when she happens to catch a nature documentary.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees with Carol, “I’ll do something small with that citrus cake for you and Tom so you’ve got something you’ll actually eat on your wedding, maybe a pineapple buttercream on top like that nasty Juicy Fruit gum you like so much.”

“I mean it’s really crazy how you’re so good at this when you’ve never had any taste,” Carol compliments, she never did learn how to be nice.

He could probably count Steve’s teeth in the answering smile. Tommy can feel it like an ache in his chest how much he missed this. He snatches another cube of cake off the tray just so has something else to focus on.

“That’s the fancy one for the people who hate their guests,” Munson says as the cake has settled on the flat of Tommy’s tongue.

“It’s lavender,” Steve corrects, and the floral flavor is lodged in the back of his throat at least gives him a reason now to feel so choked up. “And it is for a particular sort of bride.”

“Are you saying I’m not fancy and particular, Munson?” Carol asks. 

She’s obviously talking to Eddie Munson, who lifts his hands up in answer. But it’s Steve who says, “If you tried to feed that to Gail she would leave the reception bitching the whole time.”

“Well go on,” Tommy finds himself goading now that he’s swallowed, “finish calling your shot, Stevie. You said you knew what we were walking out of here with.”

Carol reaches across the table, locking eyes with Eddie as she snags the piece closest to him. The one his fingers had been inching toward like he thought Steve wouldn’t notice him trying to take it.

“I’ll make a small citrus cake for you, Carrie, we’ll hide it in the back of the larger cake so you can get the pictures of you cutting it and smashing into each other's faces-”

“We will not be doing that,” she interrupts, the warning for him and also unnecessary. He already knows how she feels about being embarrassed in public.

“Then the big cake for your guests will be a chocolate cake, I can cover it in a buttercream or a fondant icing also chocolate, because it’s the only kind of cake the Hagan family will eat. Even though I’m sure John hasn’t given you a dime for the wedding, he’ll complain until Hannah gets married if he doesn’t like the cake.”

“Really,” Steve continues, “the only thing up in the air is how many people you were able to get away with not inviting, Care.”

The two of them start talking actual wedding logistics, and as Tommy grabs another bite of cake -- this one looks like it might be a normal flavor -- he figures the real show of good faith would be talking to the only other person at the table while he eats what Steve correctly dubbed his lunch.

“Y’know he never actually answered me,” he says in an undertone.

Munson seems surprised at being spoken to, only widens his eyes in response to Tommy’s unasked question.

“I asked Steve how soon after the first date he proposed, he never actually answered.”

Eddie softens at the edges before he can even say anything. Steve had a way of doing that, bringing out the romantic in a person. He loved with a passion that demanded it be matched. “Technically I proposed to him, but he says it doesn’t count because we weren’t together and I was high on morphine after a major surgery and thought he was Apollo, come to whisk me away.” The smile on Munson’s face looks dopey and drugged up now, like the very memory of whatever hospital stay is so ingrained in his mind he can feel the high now.

“But,” he goes on, “he told me we were getting married whether it was legal or not about three months after he got legally married to another woman.”

“Stop,” Steve has always been able to sense when he’s about to be the butt of the joke. He has a finger pointed at Eddie like a teacher delivering a lecture. “You can’t tell people that. It was for tax reasons, I’m not cheating on my wife.”

“You say tomato, I say whichever one of us is your least favorite has to be the extramarital affair.”

“I say, you’re the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met.” Tommy can hear the warm affection behind the insult, the way their picking is a safer way to express their passion for one another.

He thought he would be jealous of whoever finally managed to reel in Steve Harrington for good, and he is. The emotion is there, present in the snarling tangle of emotions that this encounter has left in him. One that he and Carol will have to slowly tease and pick out tonight when they’re home in bed. Trying to make sense of what each thread is and what it means for them. But the one bright pulsing thread he can make sense of is happiness. He’s happy for Steve, happy that he gets to see an old friend so at ease and obviously cared for.

And he’s sad that his time is up, his lunch hour so close to an end he’ll be late getting back to the office. Something he can already hear his Dad and fucking Greg giving him shit for. Which means they have to end their time here.

Steve walks them to the door, flips the sign to mark them closed for lunch.

“Congratulations again, you two,” he says, “I really am happy I can get to be a part of this with you all. Even if it’s a little different than we used to imagine.”

Carol reaches out for the both of them, puts her hand on his arm. Tommy finds that he’s the one who actually says, “We’re glad you found someone who makes you this happy, dude. You deserve it.”

“Yeah, he’s alright most of the time.” It's said with such fondness it becomes a declaration. It’s hard to imagine how they thought they could ever be the something that could make Steve this happy. But maybe in a different life, under different circumstances it could have been.

There’s a minute where they all stand in the doorway. He wonders if they’re all afraid that this might be the last time they see each other, speak to one another, until Steve is delivering the cake on the day of the wedding. Maybe it’s just him, he was the one who pushed back the hardest after things ended.

Someone finally gives in and pushes the door open. It’s TONG a death toll for their current conversation. But it also sends a jolt through Steve, he straightens to his full height like a shock has gone through him. “Here,” he says, “here, um.” He digs around in his apron until he finds a pen and a receipt pad. Jots down something before tearing it off and putting it in Tommy’s hands, “It's our home number, in case you have any cake emergencies or something.”

They really can’t stay any longer.

Carol takes the note, better at keeping track of these things than Tommy is. It’s hard to know if they’ll actually use it, maybe after they talk about it, but if they do she’ll be the one to do it. She’s always been braver than him.

There’s no way of guaranteeing anything but the fact that they’ll have a cake on the table on their wedding day. But he hopes that Steve might stay for the ceremony once he brings it, he can even bring Eddie if that’s what gets him there. 

Alone in his car, Tommy lets himself take a minute to think about Steve Harrington one last time. He isn’t going to get what he wanted as a kid. Doubts that he’ll ever be as close to Steve as he’d been in childhood, too much time has passed and too much has changed.

But there’s an opportunity to get to know Steve Munson, and he isn't going to pass it up. Even if he doesn’t know how to name a bakery.

[prokopetz]

Inadvisable video game premise #137: Time-travel parser fic where it’s the narrative viewpoint that travels in time, not the player character, shifting the verb tense of the narration accordingly. The narrator is always describing the same “present moment” for the player character, but from different temporal perspectives: looking back from the future, speculating about it from the past, or describing it in the moment.

Past-tense narration is the most restrictive in terms of what actions you can take because the narrator can say “no, that’s not what happened”, but is more informative than other tenses because the narrator may provide information that the player character couldn’t possibly have known at the time, or explain why certain requested actions were not taken.

Future-tense narration, conversely, offers nearly unlimited freedom in the player character’s actions, and allows you experiment without risk (i.e., because the narration is describing what would happen if you took the requested action), but the information gained thereby is unreliable on account of being speculative.

Present-tense narration has no special features, but serves as the temporal foundation for the other tenses; for example, if you do something in present-tense narration, that becomes What Happened, and you can then shift into past-tense narration to get more information about it.

Opportunities to shift tenses are limited, and many puzzles revolve around figuring out how to swap tenses in the correct order, or being stuck in an inappropriate tense (e.g., a looming disaster which you can’t do anything about because you’re currently stuck in past tense, and the disaster is What Happened, thereby ruling out any past-tense action that would prevent it).

[bbcphile]

WIP Wednesday (MLC amnesia fic edition)

Happy Wednesday! I'm taking one more week off sharing excerpts of my long fic to share bits from the amnesia/discovering mind control bug fic! (It's finally all drafted and will hopefully be posted on AO3 soon!) Enjoy! (You can find the previous excerpt here.)

“A-Fei,” Li Lianhua murmured, his voice shaky as though it had been drawn from a-Fei’s own lungs. His pupils dilated as his gaze slid to his waistband, then trailed a burning path from a-Fei’s navel to his throat, before fixing on his lips. “This isn’t–” He swallowed, his finger twitching against the band of a-Fei’s pants. “You don’t remember all the reasons we shouldn’t.”

That was all the answer he needed. “I don’t care,” a-Fei said, lurching forward to cup Li Lianhua’s face with his hand. “Neither should you.”

For an instant, Li Lianhua leaned into the touch, his eyes falling closed, and his head tipping back with a shuddering exhale.

Then he pulled away, lowering a-Fei’s hand with him. “I can’t. I can’t, a-Fei.”

This didn’t make any sense. He obviously wanted to. What was stopping him?

Oh. Of course. “Is there someone else? Fang Duobing?”

Li Lianhua’s eyes bulged. “What?”

It didn’t take long to come to a decision. “I don’t mind sharing,” he said with a nod.

Li Lianhua flushed. “Why would you–it’s not–he’s my–” he spluttered helplessly, before abandoning any attempt at an excuse and hitting him on the arm instead. “Don’t be ridiculous. And anyway, I’ve seen your so-called sharing at dinner. No thanks.”

A-Fei crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re not a chicken leg. And that wasn’t sharing. I know the difference.” He couldn’t exactly remember sharing things in the past, but he couldn’t remember most things at the moment, so that didn’t have to mean anything. And regardless, it was just another skill to master. He could do it.

Li Lianhua was worth it.

[serpentinegraphite]

So, first off, this is not an attempt to kink shame (dubcon and noncon are great!) but I do keep seeing a thing in fics (I do NOT see this irl in kink spaces nearly as often) where like. A character will interrupt the flow of the scene to check consent

And I don't mean in an "are we still green?" Or "what's your color?" kind of way, but I mean. The author has tagged the fic and indicated via prose and/or author notes that they are doing their Due Diligence to make sure this fic is Righteously Consensual from top to bottom, No Question About It

And a character will ask for full sexual consent either directly or indirectly or renegotiate the boundaries of the kinks being practiced AFTER the sex acts have already begun.

Here's the thing: horny brain isn't great at making decisions! irl in kink spaces, there's often a lot of emphasis on negotiating BEFORE the scene begins, perhaps even with a space between negotiation and the scene if it's with a new/unfamiliar partner (maybe it's a few minutes while things are set up, maybe the partners negotiate a day or more in advance! It depends!), and not changing the parameters of the scene after someone is already horny or god forbid already in subspace.

Again, these are perfectly fine rules to break in fiction, when the author is aware of it (most characters are not going to be fully familiar with safe, sane, consensual practices and the traffic light system, nor would we want them to be!) but I'm increasingly finding fics where the author DOESN'T seem aware, which takes a normal fic (in-character, with reasonable but perhaps even somewhat dubious practices, which the author isn't emphasizing or preaching about) into Red Flag Territory (a character, OOC, yanking me out of the scene to behave like a PSA about consent instead of conforming to the horny tone of the scene, and perpetuating unsafe practices anyway)

If you are writing a master manipulator or someone who wants to have a gotcha, you totally said it was okay on a character they are trying to bone (which is well in the realm of non/dubcon) that's fine! This PSA is not aimed at you. But if you are trying to write someone who Cares Strongly About Consent, then perhaps be more aware of when is an appropriate time to escalate the situation (sexually speaking) or ask for consent!

[jtl-fics]

Time After Time:

Math Nerd AU

May 19th, 2020 (in the past future [before the reincarnation])

Math Nerd AU | Unusual Fic Asks

Neil was coming to accept that he wasn't going to die of old age as the doctors told him the recovery time for his twisted knee. He would need to do physical therapy before he could even have the surgery and then additional physical therapy afterwards.

It would take too long.

The Moriyamas would cut him as a useless thread. "Mr. Josten, you'll play again." The Doctor assures, "You will just-"

"Thank you Doctor, yes I understand." Neil interrupts. "Let's schedule a time to start the physical therapy." he says because a part of him feels spiteful. He knows how Ichirou works, knows that his death will look like a suicide.

People who are committing suicide don't make plans right? Maybe his death would be just enough to topple it all to the ground and save Kevin and Jean. He makes his appointment and hobbles out of his doctor's appointment to find Andrew in the waiting room.

He wonders how much longer he'll get to look at him.

He'll never actually be ready to stop.

Andrew's gaze snaps to him and Andrew has always been able to read him like a book. "It's too long?" he asks.

Neil laughs because, as usual, there was no point in hiding things from Andrew. "I've had my will ready for a while. I'm leaving-"

"Stop." Andrew raises his hand, "you aren't dying. Not before me. I'm older." Andrew argues.

Neil smiles and wishes to say the three words that bubble up in him but he wants them to be the last ones he says to Andrew if he can manage it. Saying them now would only make Andrew upset and possibly leave.

"Let's go home. I wanna see the cats." he says instead. It doesn't matter too much, his will spells out where everything is supposed to go. Andrew helps him into the car and puts his crutches in the backseat. They drive in silence and Neil finds himself looking at every black car with out of state licenses.

He looks at his phone because there's no point in worrying. His fate was sealed the moment that Ohio player rammed into him. He hopes Andrew likes one of the options he listed in his will. He hopes he stays close to Andrew, hopes he can protect him from beyond.

He prepares texts for all of his friends as he goes. Most are just I love yous and some thanking them for being especially kind to him. His text to Matt a long note on how sorry he is that he won't get to watch his god daughter grow up. His note to Aaron to make sure that his daughters take after Katelyn when they're born.

They get home and Neil is glad to see that there are no cars in their driveway. It does not mean that Ichirou isn't there, but it gives him a bit more time to look at Andrew.

Andrew's jaw is tight as he pulled into their garage.

"I've had arrangements made and paid for Andrew. It's going-"

"Shut up." Andrew hisses and gets out of the car.

Neil's phone rings and he sees a familiar area code he looks as Andrew shuts the door as he enters the house.

He hits accept. 32 wasn't bad considering he never expected 20.

"Hello?" he asks.

"Wesninski." Ichirou greets and Neil lets his eyes close. "I hear you will not be able to pay me." he comments.

"It will be quite some time before I can work on the court again My Lord." he doesn't lie or try to hide it. "I understand what this means for our deal. May I-"

"I wish to strike a different deal." Ichirou interrupts and Neil blinks.

"You...wish to strike a different deal?" he asks.

"I am in need of someone with your certifications Wesninski." Ichirou says.

Neil's jaw tenses. He can't do his father's work. He'd rather just have Ichirou shoot him and let it be done.

"You have kept up to date with your CPA certification from what I understand?" Ichirou continues.

Neil blinks.

What?

[lurafita]

I need immortal husbands who accidentally travel back to current times from like a century or two in the future. And Alec is super relaxed because while he keeps in shadowhunter shape just in case, he has been retired from official clave business for over a century and malec are currently the owners of a small island b&b. And anyway island life Alec falls through a portal and lands in season 1 and has to tell himself to chill out.

Anyway, you are the place I send my weird fic ideas I don’t have time to write. I love reading yours when you post them!

If season 1 Alec, then immortal future Alec probably has a bit more to tell him than just to relax. A lot of fans like to forget that early Alec had some major hangups that fortunately he grew out of. But an older self coming back to this mirror of the past, and dragging him into a room and telling him exactly what a bullshit statement "Downworlders are slaves to their instincts" is, would just be *chef's kiss*. Also how there was more to life than leading an institute the way his parents and the Clave want it to be led. That adhering to tradition too stubbornly stands in the way of progress. That life is nothing but a meaningless list of tasks to complete if you aren't true to yourself. That the respect of his subordinates isn't earned by standing in his family's shadow. That loving your siblings doesn't mean that you should go along with every cockamamie idea they have. And yes, he uses words like cockamamie now. And so on. Just imagining the possible butterfly effect of change it could bring if Alec got an early start for a change of perspective, and did things differently. Especially if this meant that he and Magnus would get together quicker. And then when future Magnus steps through a portal to collect his husband (it probably took him a bit to figure out what happened and where Alec ended up), future Magnus can take a bit of a crack at past Magnus as well. Why not give him a head's up about the whole Valentine disaster? Why not deal with Iris Rouse sooner? Why not lay the groundwork to cut ties with Camille once and for all? Why not prevent Ragnor's death? Why travel back in time at all if you don't change things for the better. Magnus isn't worried that these changes would affect his and Alec's relationship. They have stood the test of time. They are rock solid. And they both believe in their love. So many lives can be saved, relationships repaired, diplomacy practiced, and so on. Two Magnuses going up against Lilith and Asmodeus? Two Alecs leading the institute to a frontal assault against Valentine, Malachi and Altertree? Hell, maybe they can even help Johnathan. At that time, he hasn't commited any atrocities yet. And then they can go back to their time and island living. With the added occasional visit from Ragnor, who is promptly tlaked into babysitting the latest kids that Malec have adopted, so that they can have an anniversary date under the stars.

Keep the fic ideas coming. I love responding to your messages. XD

Hope you are doing well, and remember to drink enough water.

[cheeseandcake-from-ao3]

There's a difference between "I don't interpret this story as romantic" and "I'm weird about women". You've admitted yourself you don't care about the Princess and obsess over the voices, and I've never seen you acknowledge the fact that the protagonist hurts the princess as well.

First of all: Those are bold words to say to someone who’s first and favourite ending was and is the Leave Together Stranger one! (I jest, I jest, but seriously-)

Second of all:

????

I don't understand how you came to that conclusion? Where did I say that the protagonist doesn’t hurt the princesses?? Or that I don’t care about the Princesses? I’m genuinely confused. In my posts, I’ve never mentioned the princess hurting the protagonist (besides my one moment of clarity post). The only place I bring up the princess hurting the protagonist is in my fanfic. For clarification: My fic also has the protagonist hurt the princess, which creates a downwards spiral that leads to the Unending Dawn ending.

Third of all: I said I prefer the most of the voices over most of the princesses. There’s a big leap to go from “This person likes the voices better because they appear more often so its easier to get attached to them” to “This person is weird about women.”

[tennessoui]

couples counselling au is magical. is it true that there's a holiday story? I guess it's on ko-fi? if yeah obviously totally respect but if it's on ao3 i can't find 🥺

regardless ty so so much for the amazing story!! ♥️ Absolutely live for the fix-its where okay, palps is dead and obikin and company are alive but the emotional work still has to be done, Anakin is not adjusting, Obi-Wan isn't adjusting, Jedi order isn't adjusting, lol.

also I do have to add, I'm surprised you don't go for obianidala/anidala just because you write anakin and padmé together very well! Admittedly with an obvious side of it not lasting. but still written super talentedly regardless!

hello hello there IS a holiday couples counseling au story - it's a part of my holiday stories collection on ao3! here is the link, though to warn you, this takes place in a nebulous time further into the story that we haven't gotten to yet. in the author's note, i linked the story on a03 and the link to the tumblr tag, where there are more short ficlets and answered asks about the story!

also aww i'm glad you enjoy my take on anidala - thank you for saying i can write it well! i don't think i would ever actually write it or obianidala, that's just not me. when i write the pairing, i spend way too much time emphasizing all the problems they have and how incompatible they are and how their break-up is inevitable, and that's pretty much my thoughts on the ship (i'm sorry to multishippers on my blog!!) but i do try really hard to write padmé as a whole character though, not just a stepping stone to get to obikin and maybe that's why it comes off as being written well? i don't really like fics where padmé's only there to get in the way of the end-ship and i also don't like fics where she gracefully steps aside so that obi-wan and anakin can be together, so many of my stories that feature anidala on some level (couples counseling, a more perfect union) take a look at all the flaws in their relationship but also the flaws in both her and anakin. for me, it makes her feel like a more rounded character, and maybe it comes across as a fleshed out relationship that could possibly survive if not for- (enter obi-wan, stage left)

[marnz]

every autumn I enter a state of mind where I need to be knitting something cozy while listening or watching something spooky. this always manifests in me knitting a giant project while watching teen wolf and quickly descending into madness. Once spring arrives I wake up from my sterek fugue and try to shake off it, asking friends to please give me my rabies shot next September to avoid this happening again. But it cannot be avoided. Recently I have been watching one or two seasons a year, truly stretching it out, and I do NOT know what will happen once I finish 6b and, god forbid, the movie. What will I do? Who will I become?

[teecupangel]

AltDes where they both find a wooden box when they were kids, finds out anything they put in it gets sent to the other so they send letters and things for the other and overall just being happy

To ensure that they won’t tell anyone about the box, the best time for them to find the box would be when Altaïr is eleven and Desmond is ten. And, to make sure that they can’t send something too large, the box itself would be as big as a ring box. Looks like a metal box without any opening and it only opens when they press their thumb on one of the sides.

To Altaïr, he acquired the box while he was looking over his father’s things after his death. When he opened the box, there was already a note inside it. He opened the note and it was written in the letters used by the Crusaders. The scholars in the master’s library had taught him how to read their alphabet and he had been learning new words with the books the scholars suggested he read so it was easy for him to read what the note said.

“I hate it here.”

Altaïr wasn’t sure what to think about this.

Did… did his father write this? Was this how he truly felt about their home?

About being an Assassin?

He knew that Al Mualim would be disappointed if he heard of this so he folded it back and returned it to the box, closing it quickly.

And keeping the box with him to make sure no one would find it.

It started out as a heavy weight around his neck but he got used to it soon enough. Saying it was a memento of his father was enough to stop anyone from suggesting he stop wearing it. And, he always made sure to wear it underneath his robes so it wouldn’t bother him during training. A night after grueling training, he opens the box once more to look at the small note.

He blinked when he saw that there were seven more different notes in the box now, all small enough that folding them together didn’t even fill the box. He picked all eight and only after unfolding each one does he realize that the original note is no longer there.

‘I hate training.’

‘Mom left again.’

‘It hurts. I want mom.’

‘Dad hates me because I’m weak.’

All other notes were blank and the last three notes he read were barely readable, blotches of ink marred with dry tears that almost washed away the ink. Altaïr’s heart began to beat faster.

This… this couldn’t be his father.

He doesn’t know who ‘mom’ and ‘dad’ were but the writing themselves…

Altaïr knew now that they were written by someone young… like him.

And lonely… like him.

Unsure of what else to do, he placed the eight notes inside his journal and ripped a page off his journal. He ripped it to be as small as the other notes before he deliberated on how to write. Considering the writings all were written in the crusaders’ way of writing, Altaïr decided to write the same way. It… it looked strange compared to the notes he had received but it would have to do.

He folded the note and placed it inside the box before closing it. He waited for three seconds or so before he opened the box.

The box was empty.

.

.

To Desmond, he found the box while he was out training, the kids doing their daily run around the forest that hid the Farm. He had been lagging behind and the other kids had stopped trying to tell him to keep up. Desmond would catch up sooner or later.

Desmond fully stopped once the kids were out of view, taking a deep breath as he stretched. He wasn’t necessarily tired but… well…

He just wanted to take a break.

There really was no reason for it.

…

There was really no reason for any of this anyway.

He sat on a nearby rock and frowned when he felt something protruding under his left foot. He lifted his foot and blinked when he noticed that something was sticking out of the ground. Curious (and pretty bored), Desmond dug the ground until he was able to take the box. Desmond thought it looked cool so he put it in his pockets and started to jog once more to catch up with the others before they return to the Farm.

A few days after he found the box, his entire body ached from that day’s training. Tears fell from his eyes but he refused to make a sound, not wanting his parents to find out. He took the box that he had hidden underneath his bed, taped to the frame. He was just rolling it around his hands, trying to distract himself when he pressed his thumb a little harder than usual and it opened. He blinked and found it empty.

Maybe he just wanted to vent.

Maybe he just… he wanted to confess the darkness that had started to get a hold of him.

He ripped a small piece from one of the pages of the notebook he got from his mom and just wrote ‘I hate it here’.

He folded it and put it inside the box then closed it. He took a deep breath and placed the box on his chest as he stared at the ceiling.

It felt nice.

Confessing.

Then the dread crept up on him.

What if his dad found out about this box? Saw what he had written?

Desmond panicked and opened the box again, planning to take the note out and thro-

…

…

It was empty.

Desmond tried to look for the note, wondering if it had fallen from the box but he didn’t find anything.

Out of curiosity (and maybe he did think this dumb idea of his might work), he placed the box on the floor to make sure anything that falls out of it could be easily seen and placed another ripped blank paper in the box. He shut it closed then opened it as soon as he could.

It was empty.

He lifted the box and looked around.

There was no paper.

Desmond’s lips curved into a grin.

He has a magic box.

He has a magic box!

He did the same experiment two more times just to be sure.

Each time, the blank paper disappeared.

It was a freaking magic box!

Anything he put inside would disappear.

And…

And…

Desmond used it to confess his secrets so they would disappear afterward.

Then…

A few months later...

Just when he was about to put another secret (‘I pet the guard dogs’) inside his magic box, he blinked when he saw a small piece of folded paper inside.

He… he was sure all of his secrets had disappeared.

He flipped the paper open and tilted his head.

It was a bit hard to read but he was sure the writing on the paper that was clearly not his said, ‘Hello. Did you get this message?’

Unorganized Notes (it was getting long):

Desmond and Altaïr start becoming pen pals. The smallness of the ring meant that they got creative with their folding and Altaïr learned how to mimic Desmond’s writing so he could write smaller.

Once Desmond realizes that Altaïr’s first language is Arabic, he suggests Altaïr writes in Arabic first then add a translation below it so Desmond could learn. Sometimes, Desmond tries to write in Arabic as well and he grins whenever Altaïr would add notes about his translation in his next letter.

They find out that anything they receive from the other that they put back in the box does not, in fact, return to the original sender. It just completely disappears. This means that Desmond’s ‘I hate it here’ that Altaïr had returned to the box disappeared.

They can only put small things in the box so Desmond usually sends Altaïr candies and other sweets that he can put inside (or break into smaller pieces). Altaïr would always feel bad because the smallest bread the bakery in Masyaf had were these small balls sometimes covered in honey. Desmond loved them so Altaïr try to get some regularly. The baker believes that Altaïr loves the bread so he always makes some for Altaïr.

Altaïr keeps the wrapper the candies had in a separate box, pressed between the pages of a book about the gods of Ancient Greece. Desmond keeps the flowers Altaïr sends him pressed in the notebook he got from his mom.

They do find out that they’re from different time period. Altaïr likes to read about the many things Desmond sees as mundane (like the fridge). They don’t really talk about Altaïr’s home because it always makes Desmond sad that they would never meet.

Desmond still runs away from the Farm. Because they don’t talk about Altaïr’s home, Desmond doesn’t know Altaïr is training to be an Assassin. Altaïr also doesn’t know that Desmond is training to be an Assassin and supported Desmond’s plan to run away because he knows how much Desmond hated that the Farm.

They continue to write to each other and send each other small gifts. Once Desmond got a job in Bad Weather, he would buy new candies and chocolates that he could send to Altaïr. Then he saw a small tube of toothpaste that’s for traveling and sent that too with a note to remind Altaïr to brush his teeth because of all the sweets he’d been sending. Altaïr is absolutely fascinated by the toothpaste and even asked Desmond to research it for him.

Desmond knows more things than canon in this one because Altaïr would request him to check stuff out. Mostly inventions Altaïr read from Desmond’s writings. Sometimes, weird information about things like what makes up the first iteration of toothpaste.

In the end, Desmond still gets captured by Abstergo but he had been wearing the box around his neck like Altaïr. He has an easier time synching with Altaïr but his first memory block didn’t end with Altaïr being stabbed. After Altaïr is stabbed by Al Mualim for his failures, the Animus glitches and loads a much earlier memory, ignoring Lucy and Vidic’s commands to stop.

It loads the first time Altaïr wrote to Desmond and only Desmond realized the importance of that memory.

Before the end of his imprisonment, Desmond nicked a few pages of the post-it notes from Vidic’s desk. He couldn’t find any pen or anything (they probably took out anything that could be used as a weapon… against them or on… well… Desmond wasn’t going to finish that thought). Left with no way to write, Desmond used his nail to leave an indentation on the post-it notes, knowing that Altaïr would figure it out. He… he needed to make sure… He placed three notes in the box and took a deep breath before he went to sleep.

As Desmond relived Altaïr’s memories of trying to find the traitor in Masyaf, his heart began to beat faster when he saw that Altaïr climbed the highest tower in Masyaf to sit there. Altaïr had told him about how he usually reads Desmond’s letters high up so no one could sneak behind him.

Altaïr frowned when he saw the blank colorful papers then he used his Eagle Vision. Desmond’s nail-written words glowed white and both Altaïr and Desmond could clearly read the paper. Distantly, he could hear Lucy tell Vidic that the Animus can’t properly load the message and that it was glitching too badly.

The first one read “Is it July 1191 now? If it is, wave your left hand twice right now.” and Altaïr was confused by it but he raised his left hand to wave it twice. He looked around and Desmond could feel Altaïr was trying to look for him or any sign left by Desmond.

Then Altaïr looked at the second paper and it read “Templars got me. I’m seeing your memories.”

The third paper says: “I’m seeing your memories of July 1191.”

That’s as far as I got. The idea is: Desmond and Altaïr use their ‘connection’ to change the past. Desmond doesn’t feel it at first then the ripples start showing the more he changes Altaïr’s past.

[newvegascowboy]

Hitting myself with a brick like STOP! ADDING! SCENES!

[theheadlessphilosopher]

Fem! Dreamling Drabble

1989 was the first time Hob Gadling had ever really thought about her true identity. Sure, she’d had fleeting thoughts here and there throughout the centuries, she was well-versed in creating new identities after all, but she hadn’t really thought about it. That night though, after the bartender told her about the White Horse’s impending closure and she was left to consider that she may never see the one constant in her immortal life again, she finally thought about who Hob Gadling really was. 

She had lived so many lives up to that point, but besides a few standouts, nothing ever really felt like her. It wasn’t as though she was oblivious to the existence of trans people. She’d been around a long time and had met, fucked, and loved many different people, but she’d never thought about her gender– had never even considered it an option. 

Now though, after living as a woman for almost 30 years, she feels truly alive. Her lust for life hasn’t been sated— far from it, but for the first time in a long time (or maybe ever) she feels grounded in her body. 

So imagine her surprise when 33 years past their planned meeting, she hears a familiar yet completely new voice greet her with a name she hasn’t heard in a long, long time. 

“Hello, Hob Gadling.”

Her Stranger has changed but is still so very the same as she towers over Hob. Though angular and delicate, she radiates power and strength. Her presence demands attention and Hob is more than happy to give it to her. Dark hair brushes her shoulders in gravity-defying curls and her eyes twinkle as though they contain all the stars in the galaxy. Hob can’t help but follow the plunging neckline of her blouse down to her sternum, more skin than her Stranger had ever shown before. It’s no small effort to bring her gaze back up to meet her friend's. 

“You’re late.” 

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@cuubism

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