#Horizon Mirages WIP

[gemmahale]

gemma! hi friend. for talk shop tuesday, i have questions! Horizon Mirages

knowing your penchant for research, what's something new and interesting you've learned in researching the wild west?

how did you pick the occupations for the love interests?

Righteous Fury

without spoiling anything, is there a redacted screenshot of the timeline you mentioned here? 👀

Random

spooky season is fast approaching. which of your projects is the spookiest? 👀

care to share the latest line you wrote?

Talk Shop Tuesday!

Hello Sy! I shall endeavor to answer your Questions. (Gosh these are good questions.)

I'm throwing them under a cut because it's long as heck and there are spoilers for the following: (I also hope that gif blocks the spoilery images from showing up in previews or anything.)

Horizon Mirages

Righteous Fury

7 Sins Bookstore (Minor)

Feylands (Minor)

The Contract (minor)

Horizon Mirages

I'll admit, I have always lived and breathed Westerns. Laura Ingalls Wilder was part of my bread and butter growing up, I now live in a cattle-dense part of the country that was directly affected by that part of US history, I loved the hell out of watching Red Dead Redemption 1 and 2, the "wild west" has called to me so viscerally. I think part of it is that my families settled here in the Midwest. Now, specifically related to Horizon Mirages - the information on shepherds and such has been really interesting to get into. They (and by proxy our Shepherdess) live in structured wagons to keep up with the sheep on their rotations across the plains. The similarities and differences between cattle and sheep has been really interesting to get into.

I thought about who would have interesting stories to tell. I don't actually know if they're all love interests yet, or if they become platonic. I also looked for foils to the 141, but that was kind of last-minute when I tacked on their relationships to the 141. I wanted a way to bring together some of my special interests - beekeeping, distilling, sewing, fiber arts) into the story in a way that made sense. Because if I'm going to write things, I might as well write about things I have some knowledge of, lol. The Shepherdess was the first one out of the gate, nearly fully developed at idea creation. The other three have gone through a number of changes and morphs to what you see today (and they very well may change between now and publication. The General Store Owner started as a homesteader, for example. The Seamstress was just a widower, husband lost to a rogue shoot-out, but had no career (or maybe she was the school teacher? I don't remember now).

Righteous Fury

Ha. This post. Let me see what a bit of post-screenshot editing I can do.

Okay, the quality is 💩, but hopefully it's legible and not too spoilery. I learned how to redact PDF's today! Neat! (I was hoping to be able to blur it out, but alas, this was the fastest solution I could find on company time. ��) Screenshot to PDF back to screenshot kinda tanked the quality lol.

Re: the timeline. I fudged the years a little bit. I think I kept canon years where they were, but I made Soap a little older. I just...I was struggling to write him as a 20-something, so I made him 6 months older than me. Because artistic license. Also worth noting: those are not all siblings of his. Some are cousins.

I really hope there's not too many spoilers here, and that you're more excited than disappointed when the truth's revealed. This is just one aspect of the story anyway.

Random

Which of my projects is the spookiest? Yeesh, I suppose it depends on how you define spooky. Feylands has a few spooky vibes in it, so does The Contract. 7 Sins Bookstore does too, now that I think about it. But none are intentionally spooky in the Halloween sense. Just spooky in the eerie/something's not quite human here way.

Last line I wrote: From Righteous Fury

“MacTavish, a word. Everyone else, dismissed.” The clatter of chairs and the slaps on the (good) shoulder do little to bolster John’s mood.

[spencerzakwrites]

masterlist

characters-

priory/mostly write-✭

please request more often!-✼

————————————————————————

MORTAL KOMBAT- NO LONGER WRITE

johnny cage✭, kenshi takahashi✼, bihan✭, kuai liang✼, kung lao✼, liu kang✼, tomas vrbada✭, syzoth✭, raiden✼

bi han x reader- room full of people DNF

kenshi x male!reader- society sucks DNF

APEX LEGENDS-

bloodhound✭, catalyst, crypto, fuse✼, horizon, lifeline, loba, mirage✭, octane✭, rampart, revenant, valkyrie, vantage, wattson✼

octane dating headcannons- WIP

FROUSE- NO LONGER WRITE

pezzy✭, grizzy,✼ elasticdroid✭, bigpuffer✼ (platonic only!), blarg, smii7y

pezzy x reader- insomnia

droid x tall!reader

pezzy x fem!reader- jealousy

dad!puffer x reader- DNF

droid x reader- “im sorry for being like this.” DNF

pezzy x reader- streaming DNF

blarg x reader- vacation hcs DNF

OVERWATCH

ashe, cassidy✭, d.va, genji✼, hanzo✼, junkrat✭, lucio✭, mercy, reaper✭, soldier 76✼, widowmaker

there’s nothing here!

THE QUARRY

ryan erzahler✼, dylan lenivy✭, jacob custos✭, emma mountebank, nick furcillo✼, kaitlyn ka, abigail blyg, man brinly✭, laura kearney

there’s nothing here!

NO CATEGORY CHARACTERS

luke nightingale (daniel isn’t real)✭, aspen bell (old dads)✼, dave (halloween 2018)✭

————————————————————————————

OLD CHARACTERS

fred weasley

afraid of death

[caelenath]

UsaMamo Week 2023 - Day 4: Beach

For @usamamoweek2023 day 4, my contribution is a preview of this untitled WIP that I thought would be done by now. Foiled again! 😅

Big shoutout to @random-mailbox who both inspired this piece and is helping with the pro photography tips (and is helping to run this wonderful event). 👏💖

~ * ~

Summary:

The whole situation was any red-blooded man's dream—nine gorgeous women in swimwear, a dreamy sunset, and a legitimate excuse to ogle them from every angle.

But he had eyes for only one...

~ * ~

Even before he arrived, the gig was pretty ideal–short, paying double his normal rate, and it gave him an excuse to go to the beach. He felt a little guilty for charging the extra money since he wasn't exactly a pro, just a guy with a hand-me-down camera trying to pay his tuition. But it was the client who had insisted because she was trying to book him so last minute, and university tuition wasn't cheap.

So he accepted the job even if it meant having to get Kobayashi to cover his TA session in the evening, and he was rewarded with a high-pitched squeal of gratitude that nearly blew his eardrum over the phone. She told him to "look for the one wearing black and white", then hung up before he could ask her to be more specific.

He arrived on the beach in the late afternoon, and was greeted by a brilliant, soul-soothing cobalt blue sky. Wispy clouds in the distance along the horizon promised a dazzling sunset backdrop in a little over an hour. Fifty-six to eighty-four minutes, to be exact, depending on what color sky his client wanted. He had a disturbingly accurate internal clock when it came to the sun's movements.

Feeling the heat of the day captured in the sand, he wished he'd been able to arrive earlier to have some extra time to enjoy the getaway. He had tried, but unfortunately, his lab partner chose this day to forget the boiling chips, and instead of accepting a lower mark for the failure, they chose to stay after class to repeat the experiment. Or rather, he chose to stay after, and his partner grudgingly followed suit to avoid looking inferior by comparison to their professor. It had been a risky decision, but with a little help from another disturbing ability of his, one that controlled the heating far better than boiling chips or the isomantle, they were able to redo the work in time for him to catch the train to Atami.

The cloying smell of artificial banana finally left his nose as he inhaled deeply the briny air. He couldn't wait to chuck his shoes and dig his toes into the warm sand. He needed both hands for now to carry his kit, but once the shoot was underway, he could happily traipse barefoot wherever his client wanted to go.

The beach wasn't as crowded by this time of day, and all along the water's edge, he could see the divots and partially melted sand castles left behind by families who had already gone home. The people who remained were mostly couples making eyes and PDA.

His client had said this photoshoot was for her and her friends, a celebration of their last year of high school, but gave scant specifics besides that. None, in fact. Still, as he looked up and down the beach, he discovered he needn't ever have worried about not being able to spot them. Rather, he knew them instantly.

Fifty paces or so to his right, beneath a cluster of palm trees, nine of the most beautiful women he had ever seen were gathered together, arranging each other's hair and swimsuit straps and chatting gaily like they didn't have a care in the world. They were such a striking group that he stood rooted in place for at least a minute, slack-jawed and unable to tear his eyes away. What were the odds they were a mirage? 

After the initial shock wore off, he was intrigued by how different they looked from one another. Tall, short, light hair, dark hair, sporty suits and sexy cutouts–their individual looks ran a wide gamut.

With that unavoidable ogling out of the way, his recovering neanderthal brain finally noted something useful. The two blondes in the group were the ones wearing black and white suits while the rest of them wore mostly black ones. Some had accessories, also in black. They must have agreed on that being the theme in their photoshoot. The contrast against the sky would be stunning, like them, no matter what moment of dusk they caught.

He adjusted the strap of his kit bag on his shoulder nervously…and froze. He'd had every intention of just walking over to them a millisecond ago, but it suddenly caught up with him how intimidating it was to approach nine drop-dead gorgeous women, even if they were the ones who had hired him in the first place.

He admonished himself that this was a professional engagement and strode forward using a silly mental game that was childish, but nevertheless worked. In moments like this when he needed confidence he didn't have–and those moments increased relative to the number of people around him–he pretended he was someone important, someone who had reason to walk around with their chin held high and their shoulders square. A victorious superhero, a successful CEO, a powerful leader of a nation. 

He would die of embarrassment if anyone ever found out about his game because he was the absolute opposite of those people–a struggling college student with no family and one shot at making something of his life. He didn't see any prospects outside of academics, and that was why he'd lived and breathed his schooling since he was a child. His camera had been an unexpected gift, a castoff albeit a very nice one from his friend's little sister when she decided she wanted to upgrade.

As he neared the group, the blonde in the center turned around, and all breath left his lungs as surely as if someone had punched him. She had huge blue eyes, wide azure pools that he found himself drowning in instantly, and not quite unwillingly. She seemed similarly shocked by his appearance, though for the life of him, he couldn't imagine why. Just a moment ago, she had been talking loudly and very animatedly, but now she stood stockstill, looking back at him as if he were a ghost.

Those enormous eyes blinked at him and he mirrored the reaction reflexively. They were getting close to the time when it would be considered rude to stare at someone for that long, but he was overwhelmed by the feeling that he knew her from somewhere. It wouldn't have been so strange considering how big and populous Tokyo was. Maybe they'd passed by each other somewhere, on the metro, in a conbini, at the library. 

Except, if that were true, he would have remembered her. Aside from her breathtakingly perfect face, she had funny hair. Her almost knee-length golden locks were arranged in two pigtails that flowed from two, perfectly round odangos on top of her head. They were weird, but fitting somehow.

No, he was sure he had never seen before in his life. Yet he knew her. How was that possible??

After much too long, he was finally able to drag his eyes away from her face and look at the rest of her–which, in retrospect, was probably even less polite. But she was wearing the two colors he'd been instructed to look for. Specifically, a tiny white bikini with tiny black straps and tiny black trim. Everything about it practically begged him to look at her, from the way the pure white emphasized her creamy peach-pink skin to how the black edges formed triangular outlines that pointed at things he really shouldn't be looking at. 

Luckily she recovered first and offered him a dazzling smile. It was full of unreserved welcome, something that was foreign to him, and he wondered how much confidence that took. The only word he could use to describe the glow around her was love, but that was preposterous because they were total strangers.

He searched hard for his tongue so he could stop being such a deer in headlights and speak. "Minako?"

The bright look on her face fell, and he winced inside at having done that to her, with the very first word he ever spoke to her, no less. He'd only been hoping she was the one who had called him. If she wasn't Minako, then he owed the real Minako a great debt for having created this opportunity for them to meet. Even if he had already screwed it up.

Keep it professional, his brain scolded him again. He was here to do a job, not meet a girl.

"No, that's me!" a voice chirped to his right, and he turned to the other blonde. She was wearing a bikini with broad black and white stripes, as well as a black hat and sunglasses with thick white frames, which she slid down her nose before introducing herself. Like all her friends, she too was incredibly beautiful, but something about her look said "drama" to him. Or at least, something less innocent than the odango girl.

"I'm Minako. Thank you again so so so so much for doing this."

"It's nothing," he said, feeling a little embarrassed by her effusiveness. It took more than a little effort to ignore the glint of gold hovering in the corner of his eye. "Where should I set up? Did you have particular shots in mind?"

"Yes!" Her response was instant, but from the way she paused afterward, he guessed the real answer was no. "Sunset? Is that too generic?"

"Not at all," he lied. "Your timing couldn't be more perfect. You'll have your pick of lighting for it, assuming we can get set up fast enough." He was glad for the excuse to look out over the water again, to regain some equilibrium as he stood in the midst of any red-blooded man's dream.

"We're ready to go," Minako said, sweeping a stern look across her circle of friends like a captain surveying his battalion.

"This isn't one of your volleyball games," the tall brunette said with a roll of her eyes. "You could at least introduce him if we're going to be working together."

"Fine, all right." Minako accentuated her words with a dramatic huff, and he was gratified to know his instincts about her were right on the nose. "Everyone, this is Chiba Mamoru, who is an absolute darling for agreeing to do this at the last last minute."

The two dark haired beauties in the back of the group leaned in to confer about something together, and from the glances they threw at him, he guessed that something was him. His face warmed a little from the attention.

"I'm pleased to meet you all." 

Minako clapped her hands. "Great, now we all know each other." Someone in the group snorted, but he didn't catch who. "Let's get some gorgeous pictures taken!"

[sourb0i]

Only the Good WIP Wednesday 9/4

Just a little farther on, Poppy stood watching the procession. Her eyes widened as she took in Mariah’s sorry state; already Mariah could feel the blood beginning to crust on the side of her face. She took a half step forward, and then her eyes flickered up to the girl on the mule, the herd of children following close behind, and the silver flash of guns at the hip of every member of Wayne’s posse. Mariah tried to give her a reassuring smile, though it felt more like a grimace. It would be alright. She’d made it far without help, after all. There wasn’t anything Poppy could do, except go back home and count her lucky stars. A sharp tug on her wrists sent Mariah stumbling into a jog. Wayne had picked up a trot, and the rumble of hooves behind her said that the rest of his posse had followed suit. Out of the protection of the town and the canyon, the sun beat down on Mariah’s head with full force. She didn’t even have her hat to protect her. Sweat trickled down her forehead, stinging her eyes. Dust kicked up into her throat and coated her lungs. A sharp cramp twisted in her side with every other step. Each time she slowed or stumbled, she was encouraged with another pull at the rope around her wrists. If she fell, she had no doubt Wayne would keep on riding and leave her to drag along the broken pavement. When the town was fully out of sight beyond , Wayne turned off the road. The land here was flat; the mesa on the the shimmering horizon might as well have been a mirage. Glancing behind, Mariah caught sight of the plume of dust the group was leaving in their wake. They’d be easy to track through the desert. Too easy. She narrowed her eyes at Wayne’s back. He was planning something; there was no doubt about that. But what exactly his plan was, Mariah couldn’t even figure a guess. Not that she had much ability to think. With every passing minute, she could feel the heat melting her muscles into lead. The sun roasted every bare patch of skin it could find; her face, her hands, the back of her neck. After an hour at pace, she was coated through with sweat. At two hours, she didn’t have enough moisture left in her to even do that.

Thanks @wizisbored @eriquin @whimsicalmeerkat @auburnlaughter @anyctibius @kalira @stonemaskedtaliesin @post-and-out and @adhdavinci! Got it done just in time for the next round lol

[sgt-tombstone]

WIP Wednesday

I haven't done much writing this past week because of the start of the semester, but here's a snippet from the very beginning of my Dex fic! As always, this is unbeta'd and unedited, so go easy lmao

CW: mentioned/implied domestic abuse and suicide under the cut but nothing explicit or graphic

Dex had never gotten used to Arkansas summers. He and his sister, Mel, had been born and raised in West Virginia, where the average temperatures were at least ten degrees cooler, and the dry central southern heat never failed to dig under his skin, as if the dust itself were embedded in his very bone marrow. It was one of the first things they both had complained about when they had been adopted at the age of twelve, and in the six years since, their shared hatred of the scorching temperatures had never wavered.

It was 2000 hours, and the thermostat on the dashboard still registered temperatures in the upper 80s. The setting sun did little to quell the heat-induced mirages pooling above the pavement on the horizon, and the air conditioning in his rust bucket pick-up truck whined pitifully.

“Fuck, I’m not made for this heat,” Mel groaned, sticking her sweat-sheened forehead against the vent, her red-brown hair blowing slightly in the breeze, and even though he hated it too, he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to yank her chain a bit.

“At least it’s not-“

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled quickly, sitting back up. She had met him at the airport just over two hours earlier, and evidently, she was already sick of his shit. “You spend twelve hours every day running in hundred-degree heat without food or water, with two hundred pounds strapped to your back, we know.”

“Mhm,” he hummed flippantly, because if there was one thing he could reasonably be expected to do, it was antagonize his sister. “Uphill, both ways. This is nothing, really.”

In some ways, it was true. Basic Military Training had been hell; seven-and-a-half weeks of physical training and drills in southern Texan heat, rolling around in the dirt or running for hours on end. On good days, they were allowed to wear their PT gear. On bad days, they were in full fatigues, weighed down by full packs, and carrying fully loaded weapons. Sitting in an—albeit badly—air conditioned truck at sunset was heaven in comparison.

In other ways, though… Both of them carried Irish blood in their veins. They had grown up running through wooded copses and shallow streams, had spent their childhood-hazy days climbing trees to catch glimpses of far-off ridges over the misty Appalachian mountaintops. The relentless, crushing heat of Oklahoma in August was oppressive at best, suffocating at worst. He had grown to love everything else about Oklahoma; he loved the wide expanses of flat fields, he loved the never-ending skies, he loved the deeply embedded culture. He loved the rodeos and cattle and storms and sunsets, but he had absolutely no love for the heat.

He’d rather die than tell Mel that he agreed with her, though. Such was the nature of siblings, he supposed.

“You’re a dick,” she laughed, shaking her head where it was lolled back against the headrest, and Dex glanced at her with a grin. A grin that quickly dropped when his gaze was drawn down to the sleeve of her shirt. It had been properly in place when she’d met him at the airport but the stifling heat and sweat-soaked skin had caused it to ride up, revealing a dark circle of bruises around her bicep, unmistakably in the shape of a hand.

“Where did you get that?” He asked, suddenly deadly serious, his eyes back on the road but all of his attention laser focused on the way Mel tensed beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her tug her sleeve back down, self-consciously turning her entire body away from him.

“Patrick-“

At the mention of the name, Dex growled low in his throat. Patrick had been Mel’s on-again-off-again boyfriend all through high school, and Dex had never liked how possessive he’d been of her. Mel had always accused him of being over-protective, but he’d never been able to help himself. The two of them had only ever had each other; orphaned at the age of eight, they’d clung to each other like life rafts in a storm as they weathered the foster system. It hadn’t been kind to him, but it had been worse for her. When they’d finally gotten to a place where safety wasn’t just a bedtime story to lull themselves into short bouts of fitful sleep, he’d become fiercely protective of it. For himself. For the both of them. If Patrick had graduated from possessiveness to physicality…

“It’s not like that, Dex,” she said, knowing exactly where his mind had gone.

“What’s it like, then, Mel?” He demanded, low and angry, his throat tightening with the force of choked-off words clawing their way up his esophagus, bitter like bile and twice as acidic. “Did he do that?”

“It was an accident, that’s all.”

“He grabbed you hard enough to leave bruises… accidentally,” Dex scoffed, blatant disbelief stealing all of the mirth from his tone and all of the air from his lungs.

“It- He didn’t- Dex, please,” she said, and he wasn’t exactly sure what she was begging for. Understanding, maybe, or for him to let it go completely.

“No, Mel,” he cut her off. “If he-“

“He just gets angry,” she said, and Dex saw red. She must have seen his knuckles whiten around the steering wheel, must’ve heard how carefully he controlled his exhale like he’d been taught in basic training, because she was quick to placate him. “Please, Dex, please, don’t be mad.”

“I’m not-“ He started, but stopped himself, because he wasn’t about to lie to her, at least not so obviously. “Where is he?”

“No-“

“Mel,” he said sharply. He kicked himself internally when she flinched and made a concentrated effort to soften his voice. “Where is he?”

There was a long moment of tense reticence, but Dex had just spent eight weeks enduring the worst hell that the Air Force’s military training instructors could come up with; his sister’s cold shoulder was child’s play in comparison. He simply waited, letting the quiet stretch like a rubber band, until she finally snapped.

“At home,” she said, quietly, and he saw her entire body collapse in on itself, like whatever was between her ribs that had been holding her up had popped, leaving her unbalanced and listing. He wanted to reach out, to cross the unspoken no man’s land that was the truck’s middle bench seat, to pull her against his side and tell her that she’d always be safe with him. That he’d always protect her. He’d always been a man of action, not words, but neither his arm nor his lungs were cooperating, locked in blind anger, and the rest of the drive was spent in strained silence.

Home, for Dex and Mel, was a modest two story, two bedroom house past the edge of town. The driveway was long and winding, but the house could be seen for miles over the featureless plains surrounding it. They had pooled their money and bought it together as soon as they had graduated high school, just days after Dex had enlisted, because he’d wanted a place to come home to that wasn’t their parent’s house. Evidently, they weren’t the only ones living there; in Dex’s absence, Patrick had apparently made himself right at home.

As the truck bounced its way down the pothole-riddled drive, Dex could see lights on inside, glowing yellow through the curtains drawn over the windows, and his heart rate ticked up. The combat drills he’d spent the last two months enduring swirled in his mind; weapons handling, tactical movement, and combat arms training all rushing back with crystal clarity. They pulled up to the front, Dex wrestling the parking brake into submission, and silence descended.

“Dex, don’t-“ Mel tried one more time, but she was cut off by a silhouette drifting past the living room window. The shadow of a man, obviously stumbling in the vague direction of the front door, and Dex’s head snapped up to follow the movement.

“Wait in the truck,” he warned, his voice unrecognizable even to himself. “Whatever you do, don’t come inside.”

He ripped the driver’s side door open and stalked to the bed of the pickup where he had tossed his bag back at the airport. He unzipped the smallest pouch and dug around for his gloves. They were military issued and barely padded, but if he was about to throw a punch, he’d take as much protection as he could get. He turned back to the house and caught sight of Patrick’s shadow moving once again. He’d walked past the front door and into the kitchen; Dex could see the glow of the fridge light spilling out of the open door, faint through the sheer curtains.

He tugged his gloves on as he approached the door, making sure to avoid the squeaky front step. Belatedly, he realized that his house key was on his keyring, still in the ignition, but he didn’t need it; when he tried the front door handle, it twisted easily under his palm, the door easing open on silent hinges. He’d oiled them just before he’d left for BMT, and he was glad of it now.

The entryway was empty when he stepped into it. About halfway down the hallway and hidden behind a painting was Dex’s gun safe, and he wondered if Patrick knew about it. Four silent footsteps brought him face-to-face with the ugly landscape, some god-awful desert in the middle of nowhere, but he didn’t pay much attention to it. He was more concerned with the secret latch behind it, swinging open to reveal-

An empty gun safe. His pistol was gone.

Mindless, irrational anger flooded his system; anger at his sister, anger at Patrick, anger at himself. It spurred him into action, propelling him forward, his feet moving without conscious input, without direction or a plan, just single-minded determination, because Patrick was armed and intoxicated and angry, and Dex was the only thing standing between him and Mel, between Mel and-

He turned the corner into the kitchen and stopped short, eyes widening at the sight. Patrick was closer than Dex thought he’d be, just a pace away, the pistol loose in his fist, his eyes screwed tightly shut as he aimed the barrel under his own chin. Dex opened his mouth, unsure of what would come out in the sudden rush of pure, visceral fear, and screamed—

“LEEROY JENKINS!”

TSgt Dex “Flatline” Murtagh bolted upright at the jarring, slightly mechanical soundbyte blaring over the base-wide PA system. Sweat stuck thick and cloying to his skin, his damp shirt clinging to his back, and he didn’t know whether to blame the heated nightmare or the nightmarish heat. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to clear his fear-soaked mind, but the air was heavy with dust, and he only succeeded in making himself cough, the dryness scratching against his throat.

“Scramble, scramble, scramble,” the PA system droned, alerting the entire base of the medevac emergency at hand. The mechanical tone was a torrent of cold water over Dex’s mind, washing away the syrupy residue of panic and replacing it with a jolt of eager excitement strong enough to be almost intoxicating.

[theelderhazelnut]

For the WIP ask!

🌈 Share something soft/fluffy from your WIP.

💧Share something romantic/hot from your WIP, or just something sweet if it's gen.

☔Is there a fic concept you have that you'd like to just explain and share because you're not sure you'll ever write it? If so, what is it?

🌈 Share something soft/fluffy from your WIP

Unfortunately for this question, there's no fluffy scenes in the first chapter, but I'll share a paragraph which I think is the softest.

Ombra’s train of thoughts crashed to the minuscule walls of a cabin standing in the horizon, faded in a dense mirage. With a noisy exhale, she begged Kano for a considerably clean place which was not about to collapse on their heads in a few moments. She halted the fossilized vehicle closed to a wooden wall.

   Ombra got out of the jeep, her palm touched the set of set of keys in her pocket. Without minding what those two were doing with the arms, she swiftly twisted the suitable key in the oxidized lockset. The wooden door opened with a creak. The subtle, leathery smell of paint thinner hit her in the face, sending small fractions of pain to her forehead. The dusty, worn out furniture included two white couches which were turned brown thanks to the thick layer of dust on them, a coffee table which was barely standing on its legs, a small television and a fossilized refrigerator. The savage sunlight could barely reach through the tight frame of windows. Ombra bit her lower lip. If in any case they were attacked, this cabin would accelerate at killing them first.    “Didn’t know he had such a…neat place in the middle of nowhere.” Kabal observed the room. “What does he keep here? Dead bodies?” He opened the door to the fridge. “His favorite snacks?”

💧Share something romantic/hot from your WIP, or just something sweet if it's gen

Ombra and Quan Chi will meet in the chapter 3, so no romance for now :( BUT here's a side drabble related to these series, if you're interested to read!

Drabble: I don't want to scare you

☔Is there a fic concept you have that you'd like to just explain and share because you're not sure you'll ever write it? If so, what is it?

I have two fic concepts in my mind currently:

It’s about Raiden and Quan Chi finally working together to protect the Earthrealm. The fact that Quan Chi is able to retrieve the dead while Raiden can’t brought about this idea. The title is possibly “Godfather” which depicts Quan Chi’s role in Earthrealm, if he ever decides to cooperate with Raiden.

I’d love to flesh out Quan Chi’s life and how he became the sorcerer he is today. This idea is still in its infancy, so that’s all I can tell you about it.

[reachingforaspark]

WIP Wednesday 

Thank you @fiona-fififi for the tag! I am a little late, but please accept some of my random brain drabbles of a (not really) spec poker fic. Ft major miscommunication, sperm donor arc, there’s only one bed and poker night gone awful. 

-- 

“Connor, babe! Look who’s here!” Kameron steps back from Buck. 

Eddie squeezes Connor’s hand extra tight when he’s introduced. He hopes it hurts. Not even the soft waterfall sounds piped through the lobby can soften this blow.

Kameron’s still talking. “— and I’m telling him, you can keep the romance! It’ll take a few years, but we’ll get back to it only takes— How old is Chris again?”

“Twelve.” Buck says, reflexively. He’s still staring at Connor and his queasy-ass expression like he doesn’t get it.

“Oh yikes!” Kameron smiles, like she can’t wait. “Well I’m so happy we’ve been able to squeeze this last one in.”

Yeah, Eddie really should have asked more questions.

But how could he, when Buck showed up at the firehouse in his civvies and sat down next to Eddie and said, ‘Boy’s trip’? Eddie’s whole body said yes, responding to Buck with every one of his cells until Buck had said ‘Connor’, when Eddie’s whole body said no. But the next thing Buck had said was ‘Vegas!’. Eddie hates Vegas, hates the lights and the noise and the excess. Hates the way every drunk person stumbling past is another person he feels he has to keep an eye on. He especially hates it now, with the way Buck’s eyes had gleamed, like there was something out in the harsh, hot desert that he couldn’t get in California. Eddie’s been out in the harsh, hot desert, rolled in the sand, seen the heat shimmer on the horizon as water when it was not. 

How could Eddie have asked more questions when his chest was starting to tighten, his breathing was a phantom whistle in his chest because only ten days ago Buck was sitting on Eddie’s couch saying ‘I’ve never been to Italy’ with absolutely no warning and now Buck breathing out ‘Vegas’ like all he sees the mirage? How could Eddie have asked anything at all?

But now he’s in Vegas, in this horrifically expensive resort lobby, while Kameron rubs her hand across her growing stomach and Buck’s shitty ex-housemate Connor is slowly relaxing as Buck continues to cover for him, even when Buck clearly hasn’t caught up yet.

So Eddie should have asked so many fucking questions, and then he wouldn’t be the fourth wheel on a baby moon.

--

Tagging @sluttyhenley and @inferno-ontherocks , if you wanted to share! 

[of-nyon]

so this is a fic that has been sat on my computer for a while and isn't really going anywhere so i may as well post the wip? Anyway here's Soundrod humanformers office AU (ft megastar and whatever the Skywarp/TC ship name is)

“You need a boyfriend,” Starscream announced, totally out of the blue as he came over to ruin Soundwave's concentration.

“Negative.” Soundwave didn't even look up, his fingers not pausing for a moment as they flew across the keys.

“Girlfriend, then! Mistress, boytoy, fling, I don't care, something!”

“Negative.” With Starscream, it was usually best to weather out whatever nonsensical scheme he had that day by simply ignoring him. He'd wear himself out, then go and complain to Megatron that no-one listened to him, and everything would be normal.

“Aha,” Starscream said, leaning forward like he had a juicy secret he was about to share. “It'll be in the public's interest.”

Aside from the fact that wasn't remotely what that term meant, Soundwave did hesitate, thinking of the likely PR and headlines Starscream had in mind.

The tiny pause cost him. Starscream took it as a victory.

“Hah! You see, I'm right, like always!”

“Negative.”

“Oh, is that the only word you know how to use?!”

And, because he'd left himself wide open and Soundwave was not above being petty, he replied:

“Negative.”

“Oh, fine!” Starscream threw his hands up in disgust. “I'll do it myself!”With that, he stormed off, rather than explain just what had gotten into him.

Soundwave sighed as he continued working in the blessed silence. Starscream was probably just bubbling over with his new relationship with Megatron (well, 'new' as in it was finally official) and wanted to inflict his feelings on everyone else.

He put the incident out of his mind. Everything would go back to normal soon enough.

---

“Hey dude,” Frenzy's voice called out over the gunfire and police sirens of the current video game they were enamoured with this week. “Pizza's in the fridge.”

Pizza? Soundwave frowned as he hung his coat up. That hadn't been in today's meal plans; it was scheduled as a treat for Friday.

“Yeah, Screamer totally tried to bribe us!” Rumble hooted as a loud crash from the game, followed by an “Oh, come on!” from Frenzy, implying an achieved victory. Or abject failure, from Frenzy's perspective. As long as they were having fun. “Something about a boyfriend? Are you dating again?”

“Negative.” Soundwave came into the main living room and sat down on the couch. Rumble and Frenzy scooted aside to make room in the middle for him as they paused the game – something much more entertaining was on the horizon for them, if their twin grins were anything to go by.

“Okay, cuz, like, I remember whatzisname.”

“Mirage,” Soundwave supplied with a sigh. He was never going to live that one down. “Starscream: over-excited about own relationship with Megatron. It will pass.”

“Not if the media has anything to say about it, they're gaga over those two.”

“And TC and Skywarp,” Frenzy added. “Seems everyone wants to watch Decepticons getting into relationships.”

Under the weight of their expectant gazes, Soundwave shook his head, and the twins breathed a collective sigh of relief. He was happy where he was. He and his family were safe, and he was working towards something he believed in.

Starscream's fervor would pass. When he got so focused on his own victory to the exclusion of everything else, his plans tended to do one of two things: fizzle out, or blow up in his face. Either way, Soundwave just had to wait out the storm.

“Who's winning?” He asked. An obvious change of topic, but it worked every time, as the immediate argument that followed settled things into more normal, familiar territory.

---

“I'm here to see, uh, Starscream.”

“I'll get it!” Starscream leapt to his feet, bustling past Soundwave before he could reply over the intercom. Soundwave shrugged. Dealing with visitors wasn't exactly his forte. He went back to his work on the inbox, zealously filtering out the spam and trash that wasn't worth a second look – he suspected Starscream kept signing them up to mailing lists for his own personal use, but he had no proof – and highlighting anything actually worth someone's time, always at such a premium in Megatron's busy office.

Well, Soundwave was busy, anyway.

“–so glad you took the offer,” Starscream said, returning with his visitor peeking out curiously behind him. Soundwave spared him a glance; mid-to-late twenties, redhead, gaudy jacket. Very blue eyes.

“Everyone, attention!” Starscream called, puffed up in front of outside company. “This is Hot Rod, he and I are going to be working together on...a secret.”

“Whoah.” Skywarp, the only other person in the office this early, sat up a little as he turned around. Soundwave could see his screen, and the fact that he was playing some browser game that appeared to involve acquiring and then caring for brightly coloured creatures. It was the sort of thing Rumble and Frenzy would dismiss as 'for babies' – no guns, explosions, or racing cars. Privately, as in that he would take it to his grave before admitting it out loud, Soundwave could see the appeal. “Isn't that Prime's kid?”

That did get Soundwave's attention. Turning his seat fully around to assess the newcomer, yes – he hadn't been in the news as much as his father, but that was certainly Optimus Prime's son.

“Yeah, I got my own personality and everythin',” Hot Rod called back, stepping out from behind Starscream as Megatron's eternal Second suddenly seemed to realise that things were starting to go south.

“Now, now!” Starscream latched on to Hot Rod's arm with what Soundwave knew from experience wasn't enough to hurt – that would reflect poorly on him, of course – but was certainly enough for anyone to reconsider whatever they were doing. Those nails were sharp. “Why don't we ignore Skywarp, and go – somewhere else? Also, this is Soundwave.” The way he said it, plus the way he intently locked his gaze with said Decepticon, was more than enough to alert Soundwave that Something Was Up. A glance at Hot Rod was no use; he was still glaring at Skywarp.

“Oh, hi.” The casual glance and the offhand way Hot Rod said it before he was dragged away made Soundwave relax slightly. Starscream often had many plans on the boil; this must be something else, something most likely intended to get at Prime in some way. Starscream had probably already forgotten his silly idea from yesterday.

“Does Megatron know about this secret thing?” Skywarp yelled at their retreating backs, but the only reply was a slammed door as Starscream corralled his guest into the one side-room he'd claimed as his own office.

---

Skywarp spent the next hour on the phone with Thundercracker, alternating between sweet nothings and loud gossip and speculation, wondering what Starscream was up to this time. Others began to filter in as the morning passed. Megatron arrived at 9AM sharp, exchanging greetings and nodding at Soundwave. Skywarp hung up the phone, clicked away from his browser game, and started to at least pretend to look through his emails.

“Starscream: up to something,” Soundwave announced, watching Megatron for his reaction. He sighed.

“When is he ever not?” Megatron mused. “Where is he?”

“In the back, with a guest.” Soundwave hesitated slightly, because this was probably going to get the boy into trouble, but on the other hand, it was best it was stopped now if that was the case. “Rodimus Prime.”

“What-?” Megatron sucked in a breath. “Prime's boy?” Soundwave nodded.

“Starscream!” Megatron abruptly turned and marched towards the small office Starscream had yet to emerge from. There was silence from the other staffers as Megatron went inside and firmly shut the door behind him, cutting off Starscream's startled squawk of outrage.

After a few seconds, Skywarp got up and went to eavesdrop next to the door.

Nothing much happened for a while. Soundwave started drafting replies to emails that were actually important.

[gemmahale]

Horizon Mirages - Western AU WIP

I also never posted about this one other than having it in my WIP list and tagging some inspo pictures.

With an increase in bandit activity in the area around the small town of Whisperdale, recently elected Sheriff John Price and his deputies - Simon Riley, Johnny MacTavish, and Kyle Garrick - are pressured to ease tensions between cattlemen, homesteaders and townsfolk alike. After the initial quashing of the bandits with help from the cattlemen on the Shadow and Vaquero ranches, life sets into a comfortable routine. Newly established patrols, and the responsibility of settling low-stakes disputes at the saloon, the Sheriff and his Deputies would call this life almost idyllic in comparison to the chaos previously. But when bandits strike anew at the Vaquero’s herd en route to the annual auction and tensions escalate, the safety of Whisperdale is again under threat. Will the Sheriff and his Deputies be able to restore peace to the region, or will it shatter and leave a ghost town behind?

Town seamstress - observational, quiet but knows everyone’s business, widowed city girl moved west by late husband, lives above the general store (Knows Price by first name because he keeps blowin' out his shirt seams - really he does it so he can see her roll her eyes in teasing annoyance at him.)

Shepherdess - firecracker, takes no shit, will swing if someone offers her help unbidden, always looking for a fight, transient in a regular rotation with sheep (Soap's got his eye on her after she decked him on accident during a brawl.)

General Store Keeper - always soft and sweet until someone tries to take advantage of her, jane of all trades (Always has those sweets Ghost likes on hand, just in case he happens to stop by to check that no one's been a menace)

Saloon Co-Owner - owns with brother, manages the brothel girls, sassy, flirty, “the face” of the operation (Gaz has been trying to woo her, much to her brother's annoyance. She keeps thinking he just wants a discount.)

[circa-specturgia]

Circa Specturgia - The stars were shining…

A scene from my main WIP, Circa Specturgia. This one's got some heavier lore stuff that I haven't explained and might not explain for a while, but, I can say this much. Specturgy isn't the only magic in the setting, and the world is so much more ancient when one looks in the wrong places...

Inspired by the songs Heart of Darkness and Dancing with Flames, and Untold II, all by Secession Studios - Good to play in the background for the vibe! ✨

TW// Scars, Blood, Burn scars

The stars were shining.

The sky parted, and he descended from the space within space, setting foot on the quiet field. The wind swept his black hair, masking his eyes as though he’d torn out a part of the canvas of the night to hide them. In between their blackness, two eyes, gold like the sun, shone, iridescent.

His steady gaze met the dozens of golden pairs now trained on him, glittering like the ones in the sky above… The wind whistled in the silence, as he scanned over the horizon, recognizing each of his siblings, his kin.

- “The vessel has been named.”

A shiver ran across the crowd, murmurs in the ether of their minds growing louder, voices of worry, agitation stirring up in the crowd. A raised finger, the smallest gesture, and all grew silent, listening to the man as he continued.

- “We must come together as one. I invoke viimievät.”

One stepped forward, up to where the man had set down, kneeling as he placed the back of an open hand against one shoulder and brushing it to the opposite in traditional salute.

- ”Sire, we must be reasonable, mobilizing all-”

The man raised one hand, a wave of cold and quiet rippling away from his palm, the air growing still. The clouds dissipated, the wind turning the grass into a navy ocean of waves in the moonlight.

The stars had gone from the sky.

- ”I have been alive… for over six thousand years now. None are my elder.” Each word was heavy, echoing off of nothing. His voice, austere. Hushed, yet burning, of disturbing intensity.

In his outstretched palm, visions began to coalesce, nebulous shapes of light and dust rolling across the emptiness around in pulses. Shifting, doubling, changing. Horrifying.

- “I was there when She was struck down laughing from her heavens with the cruelest weapon.” His eyes had begun to shine with withering starlight, a glow like plasma flowing through their hair, their form.

- “I heard the screams of my brothers and sisters at the dawn of the Everburn.” Mirages, dancing lights, shifted across their skin, flashes of history continuing to emanate from their hold.

- “I witnessed as the sky was torn open to swallow the Astralim.” The clouds above turned to nebulae as they wreathed their form, growing simultaneously to a hundred feet and remaining grounded.

- “I was the one to cut down the self -made god and sealed the mind that promised to burn our Istra...” Their words echoed in a thousand voices, a hundred hands manifesting and fading around them, their eyes supernova.

A single step forward, all those gathered, a step back, unable to breathe.

They brought just one hand to the chin of the man who had spoken, tilting it upwards, the vision in their eyes being the most horrifying one of all. Tears began streaming from the mans face, evaporating instantly under their unwavering gaze. It was burning itself into his eyes, into his memory, unable to look away. A man of dark eyes and messy hair, standing with a sword of flame and blood. A world razed at his feet.

- ”I stood at the epicenter and survived.” They hissed. “I am Viivoktyn. Do not speak to me of reasons.”

A few seconds that stretched into an infinity passed, the sibilant thrum of energy hanging in the air, before they stood up straight, their form collapsing in on itself. Returning to the simple black robes he had worn before, he turned to look away from them all, before speaking once more, voice returned to a whisper, melting with the wind that had picked up.

- ”Should the vessel claim it’s birthright, none of us will be safe. Not our Istra. Not any world. We must move to keep it from doing so, at all costs and by any means. I say this not as caution, or cowardice. I say this as fear. I have seen what happens when gods touch our world.” He turned, a sharp breath rippling across all those that saw…

It was like staring into a dead star.

Eons of memory etched into their soul, weathered and worn. Weighing heavily on them, a burden born of a bloody past, and borne by them alone. Blood as black as midnight began to pour from a hundred bleeding gashes that refused to close.

Their eyes were dim, as though the previous gold was now at the bottom of a pit, buried under silt in a riverbed, stars a thousand miles away. One of them cried, with crows feet deep as scars, tears on his cheek. The other could not, his other half burned, blackened, craterous.

So old yet so young. Eyes that begged for someone to ask “Child, who had done this to you?” Eyes that proved they never heard it.

- ”I cannot let it happen again.”

Hope you enjoyed! Some bonus inspo pics above!✨

Taglist? Taglist! ✨ Thanks to all these wonderful people for supporting me and giving me the inspiration and motivation to write!

@bloodlessheirbyjacques @athenswrites @magefaery @writingonesdreams @muddshadow @awritingcaitlin @agrimedena-drax @pinespittinink @tryingtimi @jessica-writes22 @the-void-writes

[ectogeo-rebubbles]

Does anybody else keep crawling toward distant plotbunny mirages on the horizon, even though the comments/kudos oasis is literally RIGHT THERE, if only you would just spend like A DAY finishing up one of your one million mostly written WIPs so you can post it, or is that just me?

[image id in alt text]

[r0b0tb0y]

fanfic end of the year asks: ALL THE QUESTIONS

I deserved that.

favorite fic you wrote this year: The Stolen Season, a short meandering Deadwood fic I wrote just for me.

least favorite fic you wrote this year: It feels a little harsh! I will offer Anomaly up for slaughter, because it has the lowest kudos and I think I did K2 & Kallus better in other fics.

favorite line/scene you wrote this year: the working song in The Theory of Harmony might be the best scene I ever wrote:

This song didn’t need Din’s accompaniment. The lyrics were in Basic, a slow and aching lament for a lost love. It matched the beat of the dewbacks’ footsteps, so they moved as an eight-legged beast that breathed with Cobb’s words. The last song was the kind to stir up the smoky air of a cantina. This one was made for journeys, a repetitive melody for anyone to pick up and carry wherever they were going, no note too high or low to strain an amateur singer. Its modular verses built texture and details of a doomed romance: Cobb would linger, occasionally, on a rolling tenor as he scavenged for the next snatch of words, gripping it tighter when the rhymes fell into place.

It was a working song, battered into shape by generations of labour, bearing the weight of callused hands and beaten backs and gnarled joints that twanged before a sandstorm.

Cobb’s voice was strong enough to cover the click of the helmet’s clasp. Din rode a few paces with it loose, waiting for the impending urge to secure it in place again. When the impulse never arrived, he slipped it from his head to hold firmly in his lap.

Without the HUD to distinguish the contours, the canyon’s depths became a blanket of warm black. The sky formed a jagged stripe above, indigo where the sun had set, a greenish tint around Guermessa. A spillage of stars in the direction of the Core, growing sparser toward the east: a worn-out cloak with pills in the fabric. Din rubbed his cape between forefinger and thumb. Cobb’s song was a mirage at the horizon of Din’s range: he could pick it out with help from the memory of the amplified version. Unprocessed, the voice had a softer husk to it, suede rather than wool, sand-blasted smooth like the round-edged rocks it was sinking into. Curling and catching in the clever crevices of rocks to chase the blood-suckers off.

Din only knew the theory of harmony; he knew his own voice rumbled like a barge in a storm; he knew this song could be pretty or it could be clear, but not both. All of this would disappear in the morning.

Should he have sung Grogu a lullaby, that he might remember as he drifted asleep in a bed much safer than a handmade hammock strung over a bounty hunter’s bunk? Could Din hold a tune worth remembering? How would he have taught his father’s language to a son with three fingers?

He hadn’t had the time to figure it out.

total number of words you wrote this year: my stats page tells me 84K, and there's about 3-6k in WIPs (one's coauthored and I'm not tracking what's mine).

most popular fic this year: The Theory of Harmony, starting out strong.

least popular fic this year: Anomaly. It's ok, buddy.

longest completed fic you wrote this year: Defect, at almost 16K, because strangers-to-lovers requires legwork (ಠ~ಠ)

shortest completed fic you wrote this year: technically it's Parting Ways, because ao3 counts words with dashes in the middle as one, not two, so a 100-word drabble becomes 97 words when you're writing about Bo-Katan.

longest wip of the year: I only have two WIPs, so three moon wolf wins by default.

shortest wip of the year: double beef burger with shoestring fries.

fandom you enjoyed writing for the most this year: I feel happily settled in Mandalorian fandom, and I really enjoyed a short visit to White Collar.

favorite character to write about this year: Obi-Wan Kenobi, surprising myself. I've got future plans for him.

favorite writing song/artist/album of this year: I come back to Monster Magnet more than any reasonable person ought.

a fic you didn’t expect to write: Defect. I kept coming to @bright-elen's inbox like 'you know what would be another cool spin on some concepts you've been doing?' over and over until I had that 'goddammit I'm going to have to write it aren't I' moment.

something you learned this year: I think about that 'ignore fake rules' advice really helps me. I stopped writing the fics I expected myself to write, and let things get a little weird to do looser, more exploratory work. Ultimately stories I'm really proud of like Chenini Wolf and then you are lost wouldn't have been written if I was trying to fit a certain idea of What My Style Is Like.

fic(s) you completed this year: 28 total: four multichaps, ten drabbles, five instalments in Flying Blind, five in new(ish) fandoms, sundry other oddnesses.

fics you’ll continue next year: if you're unlucky, those two wips. I'm holding out for The Theory of Harmony and Flying Blind additions, depending how BOBF shakes out.

current number of wips: two. Plenty more ideas up on the shelf.

any new fics to start next year: not holding myself to anything in particular, but there's some more fleshed-out longfic concepts I'm curious to try.

number of comments you haven’t read: inbox zero baby

most memorable comment/review: I had some wonderful examples this year, but this bookmark on The Theory of Harmony was very special. I love when people talk about stories as material objects.

holllyyyyyyy shit.....this is it. This is everything i could ever want in a fic. The WRITING???? THE PAIN???? the Tuskens were beautifully done, Cobb was lovely, it was subtle and sweet and vivid and awe-inspiring. A fic to dream about, and writing skills one can only hope to obtain one day. Just such a beautiful fic. It's the line that goes something like 'teaching his father's language to a son with three fingers' that just flayed me right open. And the singing as they travelled through Tatooine. I want to paint these words on my bedroom wall. I want to print them onto paper just so I can touch them.

events you participated in this year: absolutely none. It was great. I wrote birthday fics for a few friends in August and that was it.

fics you wanted to write but didn’t: I have a few good concepts up my sleeve but there's not enough to get onto paper yet. A Din/Obi-Wan fic, an Ahsoka/L3 fic, got incredible vibes for Pope/Catfish from Triple Frontier but I haven't knuckled down on them.

favorite fic you read this year: I actually read very little this year, and opted to read more traditional fiction. Looking at my bookmarks, the Narcos: Mexico fic they are two alone, they are really scratched my brain in the same way moments from that show did. I'm such a fan of the jealous/overhearing dynamic and the prose really understands the show's strengths being its beautiful texture and the abyss of ambition.

a fic you read this year you would recommend everyone read: As usual I rec everything @bright-elen and @ghost-teat have been working on.

number of favorites/bookmarks you made this year: ten bookmarks, mostly of things I read in past years and forgot to mark.

favorite fanfic author of the year: actually I'm gonna shout out to the amazing artists @its-not-a-pen @dinkryze and @intricatecakes for all their gorgeous Mandalorian work.

longest fic you read this year: I do not actually know how to check. I think it might have been Sparks by @bright-elen?

shortest fic you read this year: Again, I am uncertain. Technically, probably this one.

favorite fandom to read fic from this year: Rogue One, my beloved. Incredible talent and a wonderful community. And Leverage, now I've finally watched it!

[lambourngb]

If you are still doing this, to make it through (with hearts and wrists intact)

combining the wip ask with WIP Wednesday ! Alright, so there’s two remix challenges going on right now, but I didn’t sign up for either of them because I have enormous anxiety about deadlines and I’m also kind of a control freak about my work. I do love the concept, so I decided to remix my own work.

to make it through (with hearts and wrists intact) is a remix of Last Years Wishes. It is completely the fault of @haloud who mused aloud about what if Jesse got to use the shed on Michael. You guys remember what I did to the shed in LYW right? Yeah. Poor Michael. So while Alex is waiting at the Airstream, talking to agents Ross and Rollins, this is how Michael’s day is going....

[warnings: canon divergent within 1x13, mention of Michael’s feelings for Maria, but nothing happens past the discovery of Rosa’s body in the cave ]

“Old man, you are calling me on my day off,” Michael yelled into the receiver of his cell phone speaker over the rushing sound of air after picking up the call. 

The windows were down because his AC in his truck went on the frizz again sometime during when Max had stolen-borrowed it to drive Liz home from Texas, leaving him behind to share a long awkward ride with Maria in her classic Chevy. Awkward because he had been buzzing from the encounter in the desert. He hadn’t slept with anyone in weeks, not since Alex, and that had been a ridiculous attempt for him to pine in celibacy considering just how little the other man had missed him. Some things end in a whimper.

Texas had been about hope, about maybe finding someone who was connected to him on a species level. He hadn’t realized how deeply Max’s enthusiasm had sunk into him until the fraud had been revealed and disappointment had set in. Between Alex’s brusque brush off and realizing they really were alone on this planet, Michael hadn’t thought he could feel even lower with the weight of Isobel’s salvation fully on his shoulders (and Liz’s). Then shining like a bright star in the night sky, he had found Maria. 

She had effectively chased away the touch starved ghouls that had haunted his skin that night, he could still barely believe they had dropped right to the rocky ground and scratchy blanket to fuck. It was the type of raw passion he had with- no, in that particular moment he hadn’t thought about Alex but afterwards? He couldn’t avoid the connection the next morning, particularly when she had sworn him to secrecy, and then had reinforced it when she had fully kicked him out in the cold after he had returned her repaired necklace. 

It was unfortunate for her that he was already wired to enjoy a push-pull hot-cold dynamic.

Ten years of Alex Manes meant Michael had learned to read past a blustering denial to see the real truth. She really liked him, she just didn’t want to admit it, and good god, if that wasn’t a déjà vu moment for Michael, he didn’t know what was. Maybe it was stupid to believe it would work out any better with her than it had with Alex, but with Noah dead, his m- his reason for building his ship gone, what did it hurt to try again?

His healed hand curled around the grip on the steering wheel with a shiver of disorientation at the new flexibility, but he pushed it down to concentrate on that meager bubble of hope of what was ahead for him. Maria. Normalcy. When he had offered to leave her alone at the gala, she had refused to take him up on it. That's the problem, I never do. 

It had felt good to hear that, that he was wanted, even as he heard the conflict in her voice over what she desired versus what she thought she deserved to have. That was also painfully familiar to Michael as well.

Caulfield had seeped into his skin, three layers deep in the worst type of burn. That brief moment of his mother, wrapping around his mind with her love and sorrow and hope, and then she was gone. The screaming, that he had heard from outside the chain link fence, suddenly disappeared as the explosion moved outward in a shockwave. For a few minutes he had stood on solid ground in that prison, for the first time since a sweet boy had returned his kiss at seventeen under a galaxy of plastic foam planets, and then it was over. His mother was gone, and in her stead, he had Alex telling him that -

Michael forcefully pushed that thought away and returned his attention back to the cranky drawl of Walt Sanders, “I know kid, but I’m already out with the wrecker in the other ass-end direction, so I need you to go help this cry baby who can’t change a flat. Help me make some money, so I can afford to keep your ass employed.” 

“Fine, tell me the location, but this is holiday pay, not overtime.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanders muttered, before rattling off the mile marker and the highway. “It’s a Lincoln sedan, black. Probably some old geezer out on a drive to church who ran into trouble.”

“You calling someone else a geezer is funny to me, I hope you know that,” Michael replied, hitting his turn signal to make a left to pick up the state road. It wasn’t as if he had a planned time to see Maria, the lunch hour and official opening of the bar was still an hour away. A little delay that made him some extra cash was doable. 

“Shut the hell up kid, and get going,” Sanders griped good-naturedly, before hanging up on Michael. 

The sun was bright overhead, the storm from the night before having washed the land and sky clean of clouds. Across the pavement ahead, the heat and the brightness, cast a mirage of dark shimmering water that creeped just out of reach as he drove toward his new destination. His mind ticked over the set of priorities ahead, to make a little money with a tire change, then to drop in on Maria to make his case, and finally, he knew he needed to swing by Isobel’s to check on her in the aftermath of Noah’s betrayal. Somewhere in all of that, he knew he would need to make it home to see Alex for that promised talk, but there was plenty of time for that because Alex rarely came by during the day to see him.

“I’m still fighting his battles, not mine.”

Michael flexed his hands on the steering wheel again and pushed down the heaviness in his heart that accompanied thinking about Alex. Ten long years of waiting and wanting him. If Michael cared to count up all of the trips to Roswell that Alex had made on leave, the two weeks together after the class reunion that frankly felt like a hallucination to Michael, all of those hours spent together would add up to a month. A month that stretched out over ten years, 520 weeks, or 3,650 days.

Counting the distance to the nearest star was in light years, but when it came to counting the distance between the stash of wedding rings he had purchased for Alex over the years and what he had been actually allowed to have with Alex, well, that was a calculation beyond the redshift spectrum. It would take energy to transverse that distance one more time, and Michael had nothing left inside to fuel that journey. He couldn’t afford to be lost in the black again, not with Isobel in free-fall from Noah’s years of manipulations, not with the prospect of telling Liz they had found Rosa’s body on the horizon. It was just too hard to believe that this time, with Alex calling him family, with Alex throwing back the closest declaration to love that he had ever made, actually meant he was ready to move toward Michael and work to cut the distance between them on his own.

It was better to head forward in a new direction, than to look back like Max had said. Besides, every other time he had failed to be enough of a reason to help Alex bridge his own chasm between what he wanted and what he had allowed himself to have. What could have changed? Caulfield had just cemented the complications for them both. 

A dark shadow in the distance, parked just off the road caught Michael’s attention. He glanced down at the odometer to mark the mileage and started to ease up on the gas. That must be the motorist Sanders had fielded a call from earlier, he realized. The ‘old geezer’ in the black Lincoln with a flat tire. He glanced in the rearview mirror to check for traffic but the road behind him was devoid of other vehicles. 

Michael hit the turn signal and hazard lights on his truck, turning briefly to the side to check that he had some spare water bottles for the customer and his toolbox within reach and then turned onto the shoulder of the highway. Mentally he was already five steps ahead of himself as he stepped out of the truck to approach the car, thinking about the size of socket to fit over the lug nuts for the Lincoln’s wheels, whether his torque wrench was even in his box, or if he would have to camouflage his telekinetic efforts to change out the tire, that it took a moment to realize the tires on the Lincoln were whole and unharmed on the driver’s side.

Puzzled, Michael slowed his approach, and started toward the passenger side of the car. The windows were rolled up and dark, the tint was straddling the threshold of legal for New Mexico. There was still no sign of defect in the tires, he noticed as he was halfway around the passenger fender. Faulty tire gauge, he mused before he noticed the engine was rumbling almost inaudibly. Fucking hybrid, which meant whatever issue it had been definitely beyond the parts available at Sanders.

It was a little odd that the driver hadn’t stepped out to greet Michael, but not terribly unusual when it came to elderly customers who seemed to have a healthy paranoia about everyone they encountered. Still, Michael pasted a smile on his face and tapped on the window. 

The automatic window slipped downward in an expensive whisper, but it wasn’t a helpless old man on his way to church at the wheel. 

Jesse Manes smiled at Michael flashing his teeth, “Surprise.” Before Michael could do more than step backward, Jesse lifted a large gun-shaped object and fired. Yellow particulate matter exploded into the air, enveloping Michael completely. Pulling his arm to his mouth to attempt to block the pollen, did little good as he felt the sedating effects almost immediately.

He coughed into the open air, scrambling back toward his truck on weak legs as he tried to clear his lungs of the fast-acting poison. Behind him, he heard the car door open, and the crunch of boots on the loose gravel from the road’s shoulder as Jesse approached him. Though his powers were gone and his strength was waning fast, Michael had never backed down from a fight in life.

Certainly, not a fight for his life.

Swinging with all of his might, he hurled his heavy toolbox at Jesse blindly. There was a thump and a curse, but the footsteps kept coming. Animal-like terror set in as Michael crawled now on his knees toward the cab of his truck. He had to move, he had to live, he wasn’t going to die here on the side of the damn road- Suddenly a black boot came down on his hand, pinning him place and lighting up a fierce agony of pain in its wake.

“I like the fight, Guerin, I do,” Jesse remarked with a quiet menace. “Shall I make this hand match your other-” 

It was on the tip of Michael’s tongue to point out the obvious, but then Jesse saw it for himself. His left hand, healed and pristine, clutching at the hot blacktop surface. 

“I see.” He barked out a laugh that chilled Michael. “I knew it. I knew you weren’t the only one in Roswell. I thought about killing you right here you know, but now, you might finally serve a purpose in your useless life. You thought you could use my son in your perverted schemes? Well now it’s your turn to be bait.” 

Michael’s vision was already fading into blindness with the pollen taking hold, but he managed to spit out between numb lips, “Go fuck yourself.”

“Not today. You’re the one who is fucked.” A hand grabbed a tight hold of Michael’s hair, wrenching him backward, and then it was merciful darkness. 

*** 

[liahswriting]

The Resident Whore (series masterlist)

Relationship(s): Mirage/Bloodhound, Mirage/Gibraltar, Mirage/Lifeline, Mirage/Pathfinder, Mirage/Wraith, Mirage/Bangalore, Mirage/Caustic, Mirage/Octane, Mirage/Wattson, Mirage/Crypto, Mirage/Revenant, Mirage/Loba, Mirage/Rampart, Mirage/Horizon, Mirage/Fuse

Chapters: WIP

Warnings: NSFW. Like extremely NSFW. Threesomes, robot sex, blow jobs, dubious consent, breeding kink, mommy issues, mommy kink, praise kink, drugs.

Summary: Everyone loves Mirage. Everyone.

Read on AO3

Chapter 1: Mirage/Octane

Chapter 2: Mirage/Octane

Chapter 3: Mirage/Loba/Wraith

Chapter 4: Mirage/Wattson/Octane

[mako-bones]

It’s Lonely In the Desert (BOTW)

[snippet from my first legend of zelda; botw wip called “Reaping Hook”. I’m not sure if it’ll make it into the story, but I like this a lot and find it good character practice. Enjoy!]

tw; emotional abuse tw? slight mentions of self harm, but nothing too explicit

“You know...Mirages are a weird thing. Makes you see things that aren’t even there. I dunno, you might even hear things.”

“Like what?” Kiso asked, and only the burning heat replied. Wildly, he looked around for the voice, and only saw the desert.

That’s right. The blistering, scorching, endless sand dunes and dust clouds in the horizon. The elusive hydromelons that were needed at the village were nowhere to be found, and Kiso was more than just deadbeat exhausted.

He was hearing voices apparently as well.

Rolling his eyes, he continued trekking through the sand, eyes scanning for the sprouts of vine and vibrant green against gold. The kind of green that reminded him of home. 

Summers in the shade of trees, cooling rivers that never let you burn, and sunsets spent running back home; Chased by the golden sunlight of carefree nostalgia.

How long had it been since those days? How long would it be before he would go back? Could he even go back?

Slowly, his feet sank into the sand when he didn’t step ahead an further. Just staring up at the sky with eyes squeezed shut, as if blocking the sun would somehow purge all the homesickness from his chest.

No matter what, it didn’t seem to go that way. He could never forget.

“Well, I’ll be damned. It’s really you.”

Kiso spun around, and his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. “Mom?”

Ellie crossed her arms, staring down at her son with something unreadable in her eyes. The tattoo on her head was glowing.

“Did you really think you could run from me? I can play this game a little better than you, after all.”

Each step didn’t seem real. But she walked forward for each step Kiso took back, calm and precise and cold.

“And look at you now. Wearing these...Clothes. Standing here, in the dirt and sand. You’ve gone and ruined everything we did for you. Everything we planned.”

She placed her hands on his shoulders. “But you had to find out, didn’t you? Are you happy now, my little rabbit? Did the truth set you free, Kiso? Did it?”

She squeezed.

“I warned you so many times, dear. To stop searching so hard, and just do as you’re told. Follow in the tiniest trace of dignity that I could give you, after your father’s disgrace and treason. But you couldn’t even do that, hm?”

She dug her nails into his shoulder blades.

“So tell me, Kiso. Are you content, among these traitors? Are you?”

...Mirages are a weird thing.

When Kiso delivered the hydromelons to the village, A as there at the edge of town. Waiting as he always did, to walk Kiso back to the Hideout before nightfall. That late afternoon, he was sharpening his blade when Kiso trudged over.

“You’re a bit later than usual. Everything alright?”

“Mhm...Yeah. Just a long day.”

It was then A raised an eyebrow, and looked up, and immediately rose, his sword becoming the farthest thing from his mind. He stopped Kiso in his auto-piloted walk. “Kiso, your shoulders...What happened to you?”

Tiny crescent moons fit for five fingers were embedded deeply into his skin, already scabbing over with dried blood around the shape. Kiso glanced down with empty eyes, shrugging. 

“I don’t know. I’m just tired. Can we skip training tonight? Please?”

A stared a little longer at the scabs, quiet concern making him nod absentmindedly. He gently pulled Kiso along, but he couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from the shift in the air, heavy with an uncomfortable silence. 

“Of course, Kiso. Is there anything you want to talk about?” He prodded gently, frowning when Kiso shook his head. 

“No, thanks. It’s just...Mirages are a weird thing out here, you know?”

[sigmalied]

WIP Preview

Aria/Tevos 

Premise: Aria has assembled a consortium of eventual subsidiaries in response to a lush world within asari space being greenlit for colonization, but she quickly encounters some complications from rival interests vying for the same plots of land. Coincidentally, these same rivals have challenged the asari councilor’s goals for the planet’s future, and the pair reach a mutually beneficial arrangement in countermeasure. But even when their business concludes, Aria can't stop thinking about her. Once the obsession becomes mutual, the pair are left to wonder whether it was all just another Nevos mirage - a temporary escapist fantasy in paradise - or something with longevity.

Effectively replaces the story Confidentiality. This preview is still pretty rough, skeletal, and lacking ambient detail, but it’s just to give an idea about what the story is. Also, a cameo of Parem Igrahal, but here she’s young, around 30. The most notable features of this story are the fact that Aria and Tevos are never antagonistic to each other, Liselle is a year or two younger than she was in Confidentiality, and Tevos’s character is less self-critical, but still as cautious.

I.

There was an indulgent sense of tradition in meeting on a lush world to apportion another. The matriarchy had spent the last few years echoing the potential of Ryasus, their precious emerald glistening under the mists of interminable waterfalls and giant dew-heavy aroids. In the right hands, they said, Ryasus would become a second Nevos within half a century. Its exotic vistas would attract renowned filmmakers, mountain peaks penetrating the canopies would stroke egos of business executives opening new branches, and tourists wading into the shallow crystalline oceans would rather lose themselves than turn back to shore.

Aria’s judgement of the generous optimism was it being a bit out of proportion. She only agreed with their rhetoric insofar as expansion onto that beautiful, yet undefiled planet was discussed as a symptom of corporate success, and therefore encouraged. Beyond this, all the commotion had simply inspired too many interested parties to flock to petition the asari government for permits. In consequence, the competition had considerably grown. It seemed as though every household name company in the galaxy was vying for the largest chunk of untamed tropical splendor they could get their hands on.

The elevator Aria and her two bodyguards stepped into was a cuboidal space, strictly glass on every side save for the floor and the wall attached to the lifting mechanism that sent it crawling up the spine of the tower hugging the cliffside. It was commodious enough to transport a dozen individuals comfortably, and was furnished with a square arrangement of low sofas and palmed plants in each corner.

Aria led her guards to the furthermost window. While they faced the room, Aria stood gazing out at the river-cloven forests of Nevos, to where its green was engulfed by hazy gold at the horizon. She could see one wing of the building curving along with the cliff at her left; countless glinting windows on stratified white.  

She could also faintly see reflected in the glass the overwhelmingly asari population periodically entering and exiting during their ascent. Tourists and businesspeople alike. But upon noticing the surly batarian and asari accompanying Aria’s mysterious figure, they would fixate on the identity of their charge. Aria’s civilian apparel, however expensive and expertly tailored, kept them guessing. None could divorce her from the powerful iconography she had established, and none dared approach her for a better look.

After a few minutes, Aria saw a few matriarchs superimpose themselves on the idyllic scenery. They were looking at her, saying nothing aloud for fear of being overheard, but Aria could tell they recognized her. She fitted her hands on her hips, content to ignore them.

Aria was not enchanted by their dreams of paradise. She dreamed not of velvety flowers and beaches, but of rich, dark soil. She dreamed of fragrant batarian tobacco fields stretching on for endless kilometers, to be one day rolled into a new brand of luxury cigars with whom she would partner.

II.

“So, Aria.” Parem rested her cigar against her plate and folded her hands together on the table. “Be honest with me. Do you really think our people are going to be able to woo the matriarch panel?”

Aria exhaled irately. “They’d damn well better.”

“The girl Senaya doesn’t have the stomach for tobacco. She takes no interest in it. And [X] is afraid of his wife. Afraid of her!”

“I know.”

“[Y]’s going to have his partnership within several years when he expires,” said the batarian woman. “Is that really who we want to work with? Maybe we should do something.”

“We can fire her and keep her from taking administrative actions, but we can’t take away her partnership. We’d have to buy her out of it, and that’s only if she’s willing to sell.”

“Don’t we have a more... traditional option of solving this problem?”

Aria subtly shook her head. “It’s not that easy here. The Republics are liable to investigate something like that. And how much effort are we willing to put in to keep it looking clean?”

“Getting rid of her may be worth any cost. You’ll see, Aria, once she’s rotting us from the inside.” 

[...]

“I’ve been receiving requests from suitors,” said Parem.

“Anyone you like?”

“None. I hate looking at their faces. They only remind me of people like that salarian who would surrender his life work to the woman he doesn’t even sleep with. I keep wondering, what if I mistakenly choose an insect like him? It will be a colossal waste of my time. I can have sex with as many strong and beautiful men as I want without having to marry them. They only thing they have ever offered me that I cannot obtain myself is children, and still, I do not need to be married for that.”

“Well, I think you’ve got the right idea about things. You seem sure of what you want.” She crossed her legs beneath the table. Nearby, their personal security dealt another hand of cards.

Parem slowly nodded. Then a curiosity struck her, but it was charged with dissatisfaction when she asked, “I know you usually prefer the company of women, but have you ever slept with a batarian man, Aria?”

“Are we that familiar now?”

“Humor me, please.”

Aria turned away to face the other tables arranged across the balcony, her expression neutral and unchanging as she considered her answer. There was a wind chime mounted above the door leading back into the warmly-lit restaurant, softly ringing. “I might have.”

“They’re selfish. Greedy. They touch you like they touch a marinated roast.”

Aria’s shoulders shook with soundless amusement. With a lingering smile, she replied, “Then I guess I’m lucky,” and lowered a hand to roll the cigar’s head of ashes against the side of her plate.

III.

“I’m afraid you’re occupying my seat.”

The crispness of the northern Thessian accent, along with its mindful elocution and lack of hostility despite the declared grievance, nearly annoyed Aria. She neglected to afford the stranger so much as a glance, and instead dismissed her with a flat, “Move along.”

“I need to ask you to relocate.”

The persistence riled her. “And who the hell is asking?" When Aria at last regarded her harasser in contempt, she found a face embellished by stark white tattoos and austere cheekbones only made amiable by the serene set of her eyes. She was carrying a portfolio.

“Well, would it impress upon your opinion at all to know the asari councilor is asking?”

Aria settled on a passing insult before turning back to the stage where the panel was assembling. “I think Idras would turn over in her grave if she knew about the state of her office.” 

“Idras would have never granted someone like you a visa,” said the councilor. “I see you’ve made good use of the referendum I introduced.”

“Yet I still can’t own land.”

“A necessary compromise.” Accepting the fact that Aria was as immovable as a ton of stone, she sat down with a single seat between them. “Asari space is the collective inheritance of our people, and all of asari descent should have easier access to our homeworlds regardless of citizenship. At the collateral expense of inviting people like yourself - I believe only due to your high profile mitigating your risk factor - I think we’ve done a great thing. But you raise an interesting point. Coincidentally, your landowning ability has been the topic of multiple conversations this morning.”

For a time, Aria said nothing. 

The councilor continued, “The matriarchs are trying to figure out which jockeys you’ve bet on, so to speak.”

“And I’m supposed to thank you and tell you what I’m doing?” She scoffed.

“I don’t expect you to. I’m only sharing what I’ve heard.”

“Trying to make friends?”

“Avoiding making enemies, rather.”

[...]

Tevos analyzed the region Aria highlighted in the face of her datapad. “Unfortunately,” she said, “there are multiple groups interested in that area. Most notably, a mining corporation. Preliminary surveys have documented a large deposit of palladium less than a kilometer beneath the surface. Despite the inevitable environmental damages, extracting the ore is tempting to the panel because of the tax revenue it would generate.” 

“Shit,” Aria hissed. “Are you serious? We’re not already out of the race, are we?”

“It appears to be the case. They’re a behemoth. They will easily eclipse any smaller outfit by name alone. If I were you I would advise my associates to prioritize other plots of land.”

“I can’t fucking believe this... We’re interested in that area specifically for its soil quality. There’s nothing else like it on that world - it’s an integral part of our branding and if we can’t get that land, we’re dead in the water.”

“If it’s any consolation, most of the matriarchy are also displeased about the probable outcome. They wanted to keep the planet pristine for tourism and ecological studies. The way this is headed, another Nevos isn’t looking very likely.”

Aria lifted a hand to rub at her temples. While she had made a point of staying for the land petitions, she had only done so as a formality in good faith for Parem’s cousin. Actually needing to take initiative to solve a problem of this scope would delay her departure by at least two or three days, and with a baby at home and her station led by her eccentric lieutenants, it was not an ideal outcome.

IV.

[In a smaller auction house in the larger building]

After placing her exorbitant bid in the console beneath the twisting marble sculpture, Aria turned to find amused incredulity dashed across the councilor’s features. Her arms were folded across her middle and a hand concealed part of the lower half of her face, as if to hide her expression. 

“Do you even have a use for it?” Tevos asked her.

“Maybe I’m just an avid patron.”

She shook her head at her, glancing back to the sculpture.

“I'm going to take you to dinner,” Aria said. “Belaisa at seven.”

Despite her supreme confidence, the moment Tevos seemed to process the offer, the jovial climate between them soured and became grim. 

“Aria, I appreciate the offer, but - ”

“But?”

“I don’t think it would be appropriate.”

Aria was not yet discouraged. “Then I’ll send over a bottle of something to your room. Tell me where you’re staying.”

“I’m not giving you my room number,” Tevos replied. A vein of humor was present in her tone, but it was overshadowed by remorse. “Listen to me for a moment. The matriarchy expressed their... concerns about me speaking with you.”

“I’m sure they understand that you’re entitled to your own personal decisions.”

“Yes, but, even if our interactions are innocuous, it’s not good publicity if people start taking notice. I’m a councilor, Aria. Professionalism always comes before my personal desires. And what we did at the petition toed the line enough; although the matriarchy is pleased, they want no more of it. No more of... you. Especially if it can be avoided. You’re watched, you realize. We watch everyone in the galaxy of note, and you in particular make them very nervous.”

“And they should be nervous,” Aria asserted. “But not about what you do.”

They were quiet for a time. Aria hoped they had kept their volume low enough to not be overheard by both their personal security, who they had left at the entrance of the auction gallery, always within sight.

Tevos reached into her coat’s interior pocket to produce a small paper notepad and attached pen. She wrote something down, presented it to Aria, and said barely above a whisper, “I'd like you to call me tonight.”

She accepted the paper and gleaned what it contained: a long string of characters Aria recognized as the access to a well-encrypted line. But before Aria could lift her gaze and provocatively compliment her decision, Tevos spoke again in warning.

“If you ask why, I may suddenly regain my senses and reconsider.” She stepped away from her once, then altogether as she retreated toward the exit, only delaying to say, “Goodnight,” over her shoulder.