#I may well write lil snippets of this at some point

[kieraelieson]

An idea.

Logan and Virgil live in two apartments, side by side. They have never met, other than maybe an awkward wave or a nod in passing.

The apartments used to be one house. Roman and Remus died as children in that house, and haunted it as ghosts afterwards. They are somehow stuck separated ever since the update to two apartments.

Now Roman haunts Virgil and Remus haunts Logan. As ghosts, they have a power of being able to summon anything they can fit inside their fist that has at any point in time existed in the house. They have small fists though, as children.

Roman likes to leave Virgil little Werther’s candies around. Remus likes to swap out Logan’s goldfish with one from the past.

Janus is a Reigen-Arataka-style exorcist, and Patton is his boyfriend and assistant who is very taken in by the flash and glitter and believes it fully. At some point they are hired, and then re-hired and re-hired, to get the twins away. The twins find this hilarious.

[thesmollestsnek]

Death echoes

So a while ago, i found this dp x dc post that had a really interesting lore headcanon for Danny’s ghostly wail. Idk if I’ll be able to find it again, I’ll link it here if I do, but essentially it posited that every ghost has something called a “death echo”, which is an ability unique to them based heavily on their deaths. These echoes are the most powerful move in a ghost’s moveset, but they’re also extremely volatile and draining, typically damaging the ghost in some way when used, with Danny’s being his Wail because he died screaming. The original post then went on to some really cool halfa!Jason ideas based on these death echoes, but for this lil snippet with an extremely long intro I’d like to focus on Danny a bit more.

Edit: Apparently I may have extrapolated a lot of the actual lore behind these death echos myself? The inspiration post was a lot longer in my memories. Or I might've mushed multiple posts into one mental box and then forgot lol. So a lot of the actual detail from this point on is seemingly mostly original material? I think? Idk man, sometimes my brain spits out information without giving me any clues as to where it got that information. Anyway, this post got kinda long and since I'm... decently sure this is where I shifted from summarizing @ailithnight's post to writing all my own thoughts I figured here would be a good place to throw the cut lol.

So! with all of the context-for-the-context out of the way, let’s move on to the actual context for what I’m writing cause I can’t be bothered with writing an intro XD

Essentially, this is an au where Danny is an established member of the Justice League, or maybe one of the teen hero teams? I’m a slut for eternal teenager Danny, but maybe he’s enough of a powerhouse to be on the main team despite him both looking and acting like the dumbass fourteen year old he died as. Either way, he’s on a League/League-sanctioned mission and things go bad. Like, everyone-almost-dies bad. And so as a final desperation attack, Danny uses his Wail, a power he’s never told anyone on the league he even has. And it works, and they make it out, but after the fact everyone has. Questions. And because in this au death echoes are deeply personal, Danny dodges those questions, but the league coughbatmancough isn’t satisfied with that. So they push for answers. Answers Danny’s not willing to give, because. In my mind death echoes aren’t just based on how a person died, but also their experience of that death. What their last thoughts were. When Danny died the only thing that he could process beyond just an all-encompassing painpainpainpainpain was the sound of someone screaming. His screaming. And so his death echo is the sound of a fourteen year old child screaming in deathly pain and terror weaponized, which definitely gave the league Even More Questions than they would’ve had already. Which finally brings us to the actual snippet, which is a conversation between John Constantine, who was brought in for his experience with the supernatural once it became clear Danny wasn’t going to talk, and Danny himself. 

~~~~~~~

“So, kid. Batsy tells me you’ve been hiding some of your abilities, wanna tell me what's up with that? Call it an occultist's intuition, but somethin’ tells me you’re not just being stubborn for the hell of it.”

“It’s... complicated. And not anyone’s business, either!”

“Kid...”

“Why does it even matter?! It’s not something I want to or am even able to do on a regular basis! I saved the mission, can’t they just accept that and move on???”

Sighing, Constantine reached up to start massaging his brow. “Kid, you and I both know that ain’t gonna be enough. Now I know that some things are better left alone, but the rest of these idiots? They can’t accept that, Batsy especially. That man’s never left bloody well enough alone in his life”

He looked up just in time to see the otherworldly teen shrink into himself, looking every bit the child he was. “I know but... why? Why do they need to keep asking questions? And why do they only ask the ones that hurt to answer?”

A sharp glance. “The fuck kinda questions are they asking? Batman was speaking in more grunt than word, so I didn’t really catch all the details of what this power you’re supposedly hiding even is.”

Phantom shrinks even more into himself at that, and responds in a voice so small it’s more sigh than speech. “I... I can scream. And it breaks things and pushes people back. But it, it sounds. Bad. And it brings up bad memories and I don’t like to do it or listentoitoreventhinkaboutitandtheywon’tletmeforgetand-”

“Breathe kid. I know you don’t need to but just take a deep breath with me. Don’t you go getting lost in your own head on me now., Constantine reassured the kid automatically, the sheer hopelessness prompting action long before the words themselves could be understood. Then the rest of him caught up, and he had to pause. Looked up at the kid, saw just how distressed he was. A picture was starting to form in the back of his head, and Constantine didn’t like what he saw one bit. A last-resort power that the normally open Phantom was strangely reticent about. A scream so horrible sounding the rest of the league would not to stop asking questions about it. Terrible memories to match said scream. And one truly miserable child who couldn’t bear to even think about any of it. 

“Phantom... is that your Echo? Screaming?”

A miserable nod is his only response, the tears that had been welling up in the kid’s eyes finally starting to fall. Cursing softly to himself, Constantine stood to leave, bracing himself for the Bat’s inevitable questioning. “Well then you just take all the time you need love, and leave the rest to me. I’ll make sure the rest of those idiots know not to ask you about this ever again.”  And with that Constantine turned and strode towards the door, leaving the quietly sobbing child to collect himself in privacy.

~~~~~

I had a whole-ass lore dump conversation between Constantine and Batman planned here, explaining how death echoes are deeply personal, and asking about one is a taboo on par with, potentially even worse than, asking a ghost about their death outright. Because they are formed from an amalgamation of how a ghost died, their last thoughts, and their final emotions, in some ways asking a ghost about their Echo is like asking them to describe their death in painstaking detail. But uhhh... inspiration bug left. So yea. Side note, I’d like to apologize if my depiction of Constantine’s accent was Bad, I’m but a lowly USAmerican whose only exposure to British accents is through tv ^-^’

[indestructibleheart]

no sentence sunday

Hi, friends. I know it's been a minute, but I swear I'm still here.

And I just wanna make sure y'all know that I do love being tagged in your snippets and WIP games throughout the week—even though I haven't been super active myself lately.

Some of you may already know that June is a difficult month for me now, but I did make friends in a new fandom recently, so... Uh. Well... for my newer pals who did not see me knocked on my ass this time last year... just know it's not you. It's me. Specifically, it's a bad anniversary, plus a holiday that really hammered that grief in.

The point is, even though I haven't had the spoons to reblog and comment like usual, thank you for continuing to tag me when you share your beautiful words. My spoons are in the dishwasher as we speak, and I love this lil community so much.

Tagging the usual suspects under the cut. Even though I don't have a snippet to share this week, I'd still love to see yours!

@anchoredarchangel, @cha-melodius, @cricketnationrise, 

@firenati0n, @guillermosfamiliar, @hgejfmw-hgejhsf, 

@hippolotamus, @inexplicablymine, @jettestar, 

@kiwiana-writes, @lilythesilly, @lizzie-bennetdarcy, 

@missgeevious, @myheartalivewrites, @ninzied, 

@nontoxic-writes, @notspecialbabe, @orchidscript,

@piratefalls, @priincebutt, @rmd-writes, 

@three-drink-amy, @treluna4, @vanillahigh00, 

@welcometololaland, @ships-to-sail, @stellarm, 

@stereopticons

[effervescentdragon]

My lil contribution to @1016week Day 2 - social media. This is the snippet of my SF Admin AU which I started writing a long time ago for @welightitup (and @mssr-monagato which is a given). I hope you enjoy it! 😘

" - and this is why I think I would be a good fit for this job."

She isn't looking away from him, and he doesn't let himself show how much he is intimidated by that glare, even though he really, really is. He did everything right, said everything right, showed her his best work. He knows he did. There is nothing more he can do. They will either hire him or not.

God please, let them hire me. I need this fucking job. This is my last chance, and if I blow it, it's corporate hell with dear Dad, and I will die. I will literally die.

Her long, red nails tap on the glass table twice. He thinks this may be what doom sounds like. It sure feels that way.

"Mr. Gasly. You have an impressive portfolio, and your CV is one of the best I've seen. What I want to know is, what will you bring to this job? What is the thing that distinguishes you from all the other candidates for this job?"

Her eyes bear into his, and he swallows. Goddamn she is intense. Pierre knows the question, it is a standard question everyone asks in job interviews, and he knows the answer he's expected to give. He opens his mouth to say the prepared, standard spiel, but in that moment his eyes stop on the pictures hung on the wall behind her. They are all the same. Same poses, same settings, same camera angle. A whole wall filled with the same picture over and over again.

Fuck this.

"You're wasting opportunities here."

She raises an eyebrow, and her eyes regain some of the focus they've lost during the rest of the interview, as she was listening to his pitch, probably the twentieth one and identical to every other one she's heard during the day.

"Oh?" She says, and it sounds like a challenge.

Fuck it. Full send.

"Yes. You are sitting on a goldmine, and you are doing nothing about it." Pierre takes a deep breath. You can do this. He looks her straight in the eyes.

"You have the most beautiful and the most attractive driver on the grid driving for you, bar Lewis Hamilton, who is, you will agree, in a league of his own. Your driver is very easy on the eyes, he is kind, he is extremely good at what he does. And you are doing nothing to capitalize on that and attract more fans, when you could literally have your social media engagement, and with it the revenue, go through the roof."

She says nothing. He plows on.

"He has the looks, and he has the brains, and he has the mythological-like background and appeal. Hell, the Italian media calls him Il Predestinato! He is a Ferrari child through and through, he lives and breathes for this team, which is an angle that can be explored so well, and yet you do nothing. He is even willing to speak about the hardships of his life, although I personally believe he should be left alone about that." He clenches his fist. "And again, I reiterate - there is not a bad angle for the kind of face he has. And you need something new; something fresh. You know what I've found out as I did research on the perception of Ferrari in the public, in the target groups?"

"Enlighten me," she says, and Pierre forces his hands not to shake as he shuffles through his papers and pulls out printed-out screenshots. He points to the highlighted words repeating themselves on the pages.

"Outdated. Old-fashioned. Uptight. And a million other synonyms, all meaning one and the same thing." He looks back at her. She isn't looking away, and her expression is stone-like, but her eyes are flashing. He swallows the bile rising in his throat, because he can't believe he's about to say it.

"Boring. People think Ferrari is boring. Ferrari." He laughs incredulously. "The oldest team on the grid, the team that is synonymous with motor racing. The mythological team. The red cars. All of that, and it comes down to one thing. Boring."

He can't help but scoff, too deep in his spiel to care whether or not he is crossing the line. "Which is unimaginable to me, especially when you have the history," he points around the room at the pictures of very inportant people with the drivers and Ferrari personell, "the glory", he points to the trophys in the room, a mere dozen of what he knows are hunderds more, "and the beauty." He steels himself and shuffles the paper, pulling out a printed picture of Charles Leclerc, who is smiling at the camera bashfully.

He taps on the picture. His finger lands on Charles' dimple, and stays there.

"You need to utilize this, and even if you don't hire me, please, make whoever you hire use this - use him. Because otherwise, you're going to end up like Red Bull, after Daniel Ricciardo left." She twitches visibly. "Utterly unlikeable."

Pierre feels like he's just run a marathon. His breathing is irregular, and he makes himself calm down, repeating those meditation techniques his brother insisted on him knowing. The silence in the office is deafening suddenly, and he swallows around the lump in his throat.

"I see." Her voice is calm. "Thank you for your presentation, Mr. Gasly, and for this interview. We will be in touch."

Fuck. I completely blew it. Fuck.

"Thank you for the opportunity," he manages to say.

He goes to gather his papers, but she hums.

"Leave your research here, if you don't mind?"

It's not a question; not really. It's an order, given with an icy smile. He makes himself smile back even though his stomach seems to be turning like he's on a roller-coaster ride.

"Of course," he says, and removes his hand from the picture of Charles Leclerc's face. "Have a nice day, and thank you again."

She says nothing more, only inclines her head in a silent dismissal as he leaves the room. He passes the security in a daze, moving on auto-pilot right up to the moment when he's sitting in his car.

"Fuck," he says out loud. "Fuck, Pierre, you absolute fucking idiot."

He crosses his arms over the steering wheel, and then after a second, he lets his head fall forward too.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" He groans. "I am so stupid!"

"Excuse me, sir, are you - Are you okay?"

Pierre groans again, because he is nothing if not dramatic, and turns to look at the person interrupting his mental breakdown through his driver's side window.

"Fuck," he says, eyes widening, because right next to his car, crouching in what looks to be a very awkward manner and looking at him through his window is nobody else but Charles Leclerc.

Charles Leclerc, the Formula One driver for Scuderia Ferrari and the one everyone is convinced will be a World Champion someday. Charles Leclerc, who is a thousand times more beautiful in person than he looks in any of the pictures online. (And Pierre would know, because - because he did research. For the Ferrari interview. And not anything else.) Charles Leclerc, whose voice is kind, and whose French carries the lilt of the Principality. Charles Leclerc, whose eyes are wide in an emotion Pierre cannot recognize in his shocked state. Charles Leclerc, who is - frowning.

"Excuse me, I saw you were in - in distress. And I - I wanted to ask if you maybe needed some help?"

"With what?" Pierre asks, then wants to kick himself, because his tongue was always quicker than his brain, and his brain is currently screaming Oh my God that is Leclerc that is Charles Leclerc oh my GOD on a loop.

"With.. with whatever you are distressed about?" Charles says, and Pierre thinks the way he scrunches his face, half-confused, half-deternined, is absolutely fucking adorable.

Then again, Pierre thinks Charles Leclerc is adorable all the time, so that's not a revelation.

"No, no, ah, thank you," he laughs, because he can't help it. The irony is painfully laughable and laughably painful simultaneously. "You are very kind, but my problem is," he grins, "myself."

Charles laughs with him, and there is something knowing and sad hiding behind that smile. It makes Pierre want to smooth out the curve of it. It makes him want to bite it.

"Ah, I know that feeling well, my friend." He grins, and his eyes are sparkling green, perfectly offset by the dark purple of his shirt. "I hope your problem becomes more manageable."

There is sincerity in Charles' voice, and a whole weight of knowing, of understanding. Pierre can feel his hands relax on the steering wheel, and his utter desperation fade away a little.

"Thank you," he replies. "I hope so too."

Charles just nods at him, and they look at each other in commiseration brought on by shared diapazon of feelings.

"I should be going," Pierre says, then thinks Oh hell, I fucked up one thing already today. Full send. "Unless you want to give me your number?"

Charles' eyes widen and he looks - unrealistically good. Nobody should be that good-looking, nobody can, because Charles is just unreal. This close, Pierre can see him clearly, and the little tiny imperfections - the bitten corner of his lip, the little patch of hair he missed while shaving, the red spot on his cheek - they all make him even more beautiful.

"I -" Charles starts to say, cheeks red and face surprised, then seems to steel himself. "I could do that." He smiles sweetly. "But only if you tell me your name."

Pierre's heart feels like bursting out of his chest, a thousand and one emotions flaring as he replies "Pierre Gasly. At your service, cheri."

[that-was-anticlimactic]

i feel like you’ve told me about most of these uhmmm let’s go with to the sky i'd throw it (ily <3333)

yEAH bc unlike you i am. bad at keeping fics a secret iuhgyftgyhu

anyways this is the depressed kunikida fic where he dies a lot and is like "well. life sucks man" ijuhygtftgyuio idk there isn't too much to say about it except this was originally supposed to be the kunikida writing a time for the kunidazai first kiss and havibg Shceudles like we talked about in the car on our way to cfa oiuygfgyuioiuygf the title also comes from the best song from shrek the musical, "who i'd be" which ruined my life and also i ate the song

here's a lil snippet with a chuuya mention Just for you <333

Kunikida is twenty-two when he dies again.

Perhaps it isn’t fair to call the aftermath of his personal explosion death since the butterflies didn’t have to save him.

the butterflies were too familiar now, they left a sickening sting on his tongue

she had to bring Kenji back three times in the past couple hours

he’s just a kid.

But before the boom temporarily deafens him, he hears Jun’ichiro scream his name, so loudly and full of pain and fear that Kunikida wants to remind him to drink some water when he gets home.

if he gets home

he’s just a kid.

He remembers seeing Chuuya’s face as he jumped from the plane. There was something akin to terror gleaming in their wide eyes, and suddenly they looked older than twenty-two.

Kunikida wonders if he looks older than twenty-two as he falls.

It’s practically death when he loses his hands, isn’t it? What is life without his ideals, without a means to write them? What is life without the Armed Detective Agency, and what right does Kunikida have to be there without his ability?

He’s not smart like Ranpo, he’s not cunning like Naomi, he’s…

He’s dead.

…

And then he’s not.

It feels trivial at this point, and as Yosano heals his hands, Kunikida thinks he may have been better off dead.

oops that is a. long snippet iuyftcgyhuij it felt wrong to break any of that up lol anyways ily kunikidaaaaa

[mothlau]

do u have any monsterfucker fics in the works!!! i love leztappen but i recall you saying smth about monsterfucking fics before :)

hi anon!!! yes!!! I'm currently writing the feral werewolf max fic:] it's gonna be a bit silly and a lot smutty and also maybe medium burn bc while I love feral sex (and I hint at some smut before the big like five hundred sex scenes I have planned) I need to set the scene right. but yeah, it's gonna be a bit until it properly sees the light, I fear

but!!!! since you were interested enough to come here and ask I have a lil snippet, just for you my guy:]

“So, if you want to call me you have to go to this green icon here–” Charles stops himself, glancing at Max. “I never asked you this, but can you actually see colour? Or is it like the… wolf gene making you colour blind in human form as well?” 

Max takes a moment to think his answer through, opening his mouth as if to answer Charles, but then, just as quickly, he closes it and shrugs, lips pushed into a small pout. 

He’s yet to fully understand Max’s situation. Every time he thinks he can get the man to open up about why he was running amok in his wolf form, the man simply stops responding –something that is already so rare that Charles’ heart breaks when Max goes fully quiet. He knows that the werewolf has been alone for as long as he can remember, that Max can understand English, but that he hates speaking it most of the time. He also knows that Max loves Charles’ personal space, just how Charles loves his own personal space. 

“Well,” the human scrunches his nose, deep in thought. “Well, this may be a hiccup in our plans, Maxie…” 

Max lights up at the nickname, moving so that he is closer to Charles on the already too small sofa. It was a tight fit with only Charles sprawled out on it, but two grown men cuddling on it are starting to push the comfort of it to the limit. He should invest in something bigger, maybe that way Max can spend some nights on it when Charles feels too overwhelmed by the other’s presence, always a bit too close. 

Opening his arms to accommodate the warm body sneaking its way on top of Charles, he lets his hand run through Max’s hair, tugging at it gently. He feels Max relax in his hold, head falling on Charles’ shoulder, eyes still glued to the phone screen. 

There aren’t many ways in which he can test Max on his knowledge of colours, not without pulling the rainbow up on Google and asking him to point to each of them. The issue with that, Charles muses, is that it would feel dehumanising. Sure, Max proved it again and again that he is feral, that his understanding of societal rules is limited at best and questionable at worst, but Charles would rather not have to stoop so low in his quest of getting Max to embrace some of his humanity. 

As he racks his brain for a better way of approaching the situation, Max points to the little Whatsapp logo. He stares at Charles, uncertain of himself, and then he whispers, “Green one?” 

Charles’ face breaks into a grin, cheeks hurting from how wide he is smiling down at the werewolf. “Yes! That’s the one! Good job, Max!” He has to lower his voice as soon as he realises how loud he’s being, excitement thrumming under his skin. “So, not colour blind. That’s good to know,” he says, fingers coming to a halt from where they’ve been untangling some of the knots in Max’s hair. 

There is a pretty pink blush spreading across the werewolf’s cheeks. Fascinated, Charles watches as it moves under the collar of Max’s shirt, where he can no longer stare at it. It may be for the better, that Charles has to rip his gaze away, mind reeling from the thoughts that never seem to quiet when Max is anywhere near him. 

Charles wants to bite his cheeks, but he keeps the impulse in. 

Barely. 

hope u enjoyed:] lmk your thoughts or idk, if you have any scenes you'd like to maybe see in this fic shoot them my way! can't promise they'll be written but theres always a possibility!

[honorary-fool]

📖,💭, and ❤️ for the selfship ask game!!!! :3c

This ended up being long so putting most of it under "keep reading" (especially 'cus I'm using my 2 more recent s/i's for these so there's a Lot)

📖

"what is your s/i's backstory? how does it make them meet your f/o(s)?"

I don't have a lot of Carmen's figured out (after so long, no less /lh), but from what I do have written down definitively..

an elf, in the same way Klee is

they're a bard- or at least trying to be one, social anxiety & lack of ideas for original stuff be damned

minor religious trauma in the sense that their estranged grandmother tried to force it on them in their youth and they have negative associations w/ it (nothing against Lord Barbatos but they do get a bit tense when it comes to things with the Cathedral and the nuns and all that)

I think in terms of first meeting Venti, they'd seen him in Windrise and I think asked him about something with their lyre, still trying to get used to the instrument. Then the rest of the polycule... off of memory, they tried to ask Venti out but 'oh shit he's already taken nvm, that's chill,' eventually them/Venti/Xiao polycule happens, then they end up dating Xiao as well, at some point Lynette gets thrown in and I'm on the fence about adding Lyney or not.

Definitely gotta work on things for her once Genshin sucks me back in. More lore, alter the polycule, etc etc

Clover's turn!! My beloved Foxian I love her (race in star rail that's like fox-people).

Also not a lot fleshed out, but I have a lil tidbit about her lineage. Both of her parents supposedly were human, though they thought they just had a really fucked up bloodline cus they had oddly longer lifespans. Thought nothing of it, Clover and their twin (HSR AU Carmen basically bc I couldn't part with them) are born, cue the panic 'cus 'why the fuck does one have ears and a tail???'. Nope, turns out one of their ancestors married & had kids w/ a Foxian and overtime the genes just got weeded out/became recessive (idk if that’s how it actually works but erm... it works /lh).

Also things about a shitty ex of theirs but um.. that may or may not need TWs for some aspects so I will hold off on that for now ^^"

Not sure how she would've ended up on the Astral Express yet but she's around mostly for maintenance on the train itself! Still not used to the whole trailblazing thing yet so a lotta the time they stay back with Pom Pom and whoever else doesn't end up going.

They'd be there like post-Penacony arc, so their first introduction to Boothill is seeing him in the Express itself. "Why the fuck is there a wanted criminal on the Express guys are you nuts???" -> over time they get used to his presence and antics, at some point attempting maintenance on him (which I'd guess is similar in some ways but differs in a lot of ways, working on a train vs a cyborg), "shit he's kinda hot" -> clovehill canon??? /j

Then Argenti... similarly, post-Penacony, seeing him on the Express. Freaks out at first 'cus "what the fuck how many new people are there in this fucking train??" I got bored and made a fake text message thing between them and the Trailblazer over it (postimage link)- probably gonna remake it though since this was made prior to finding out he could, in fact, be added to the guest book in HSR, which means like 2 random characters can visit the Astral Express itself and you can talk to 'em briefly and stuff.

💭

"are you more of a 'has everything written down' self shipper or a 'what happens in my daydreams STAYS in my daydreams' self shipper?

The first one, I think. I don't write a lot of like in-depth things down, but I do write down little snippets. I used to write more, I think, when it came to Carmen and their boyfriends... only one so far w/ Clover.

❤️

"any favourite reoccurring scenario?"

With Carmen, I think it was them tending to their partners' wounds (as someone who would've been a healer-type character and whose creator is a Sucker for hurt/comfort stuff). Or like general comfort stuff w/ their partners.

Clover... similar, I think. Considering all the x reader imagines and writings I've reblogged w/ Boothill and the reader being a mechanic... That's a big one for me (especially 'cus those were partially inspiration for them as a whole). Lotsa banter back and forth. Not a lot w/ Argenti that I can think of off the top of my head..Yeah I think overall a lotta repairs for one partner & attempting to help w/ their other partner's wounds (technically they're on the Preservation path, which has a lot of shielder characters, but shhhh), or like silly shit like cuddling or Clover enabling Boothill's chaotic shenanigans or playing around w/ their old makeup w/ the boys, etc etc.

.. Yeah tending to wounds is a big one in general. Give the pookies some gosh darn comfort!!! /lh

[sapphicdib]

I'm curious, what's rivulet doing over at sigs can? Since iirc they're normally with Moon

So it’s kinda connected to this other thing me and ghost were talking about where once Moon gets reactivated by Rivulet, she can write to pearls again! Even though she can’t broadcast beyond her local facility, she needs Sig to know his efforts to save her won’t in vain. So she asks Riv to take a pearl to her so she’ll know. And they start talking again! It’s slower than broadcasts, but Ruffles is a fast lil fucker, so it isn’t too bad.

Sig is also in pretty bad shape. Nothing like Pebbles or Moon, but he’s kinda been pinned to the floor by his rig because it gave out, and keeping the antigrav on is really taxing on her rarefaction cells. She still has access to her comms though and keeps up with Suns and occasionally Wind if the signal is good that day. He also…well. He kind of assumed Moon was dead. But he kept using their private messages to talk to her or vent, and it gets pretty heavy at points. He has a lot to work out, especially in terms of Pebbles, but that comes later in the au once they actually manage to get Off The String.

Here’s a lil snippet!!

“Ruffles…I know you have already done so much for me. But…far to the west, there is another like us. You may have seen him on your travels here, as I do not know where you came from. But…” She looks down at the green pearl that used to contain a schematic of Pebbles’ linear power rail, wiped clean and rewritten with a new message. “I need you to give this to her. My overseer will accompany you, though I do not know how far it will be able to go. Please, water dancer.” She turns the pear in her hands, it’s shiny surface reflecting her face for a moment before she gave it to rivulet. “I need her to know I’m okay.”

—

“Well, aren’t you the strange little beast?” Sig looked up at the access shaft that a slugcat—if you could call it that—was poking its head through. It dropped, landing on the tile with a roll and stopping right at his feet. “I haven’t seen one of your kind in a long while.”

Sig was trapped. Despite all his knowledge, and skill, and determination that bordered on the line of sheer stupidity, he found himself trapped on the floor of his chamber. His rig had given out, and the antigravity was too taxing on the few rarefactions cells she had left to keep on. And so she sat. Messaging friends, collecting data with her overseers, he had even unwound his scarf just to knit it all over again…three times. He was painfully bored.

The lithe blue slugcat leapt into her lap, and Sig shivered when he realized how wet it was. He made a noise in complaint, but honestly, being able to process a new sensation was incredibly welcome, even if it was unpleasant. The slugcat retched, before shoving the (also wet) pearl into her hands.

“A…wait…?” He looked up. “You have a mark?” Sig was about to go off on a tangent of confused questions, when the little slugcat slapped its hand on the pearl repeatedly, urging her to just read it already.

“Okay, okay! I’ll read it.” Sig had to fight a laugh at the look of impatience on the little animal’s face. Looking down at the pearl, he felt it warm up in her palms as she extracted the data into a readable form.

[OUTGOING REQUEST]

COMMUNICATIONS MANIFEST

SOURCE NODE TRACE: LTTM_ROOT, LTTM_COMM01 || DESTINATION: NSH_ROOT, NSH_COMM03

BSM: This is the fourth time I’ve wiped and rewritten this stupid pearl.

BSM: Limited functionality has been restored to some of my systems, and I am able to write to pearls again for the first time since the collapse. I would have sent this as a broadcast, but I am unable to send messages beyond the local facility.

BSM: …

BSM: I do not know if this message will even reach you. I do not know how long it has been. I don’t even know if you’re alive.

BSM: But I need you to know your efforts were not in vain, No Significant Harassment.

BSM: Your little messenger saved me. The slag reset keys made it. She managed to fight through it all…she was a brave little creature.

BSM: I…have been making my way through your broadcasts.

BSM: There is not enough memory on this pearl to address everything within them now, but I hope you have found a little bit of peace since the last one came through. And if not, perhaps this message will ease your mind.

BSM: Please signal back in any way you can.

BSM: …

BSM: I’m sorry, Sig.

BSM: I hope to hear from you soon. Please give Ruffles scratches, she likes it behind her left ear the best.

BSM: Be well, my love.

Sig felt like every single one of his memory lattices had been shattered. Every conduit in his can squeezed, steam pouring from her vents as she tried to process the message. This couldn’t be—was this a joke? No, the message header was authenticated…

“Moon…?” Sig whispered, barely audible. The slugcat—Ruffles, apparently—perked up at the mention of her mom.

“Wawa!” She bounced, bringing Sig’s attention back to her and getting swept into his arms, squeezed tight as a mechanical sob escaped him.

“She’s alive! SHES ALIVE!” He held Ruffles up. “I know you don’t understand, Ruffles, but shes ALIVE!”

Ruffles, of course, understood very well what that meant, but Moon had not explained how she was functioning again in the message, so Sig wasn’t aware that Ruffles had been the one to reactivate her with the cell. She hoped Moon would explain that soon. She wanted headpats. Sig placed her in his lap, pulling up a screen before him to message Suns, before stopping, and looking down at the pearl.

“Ruffles, could you please grab me one of those pearls over there?” She asked politely, not wanting to pathetically drag herself across the floor in front of her. Ruffles obeyed, depositing an orange pearl in his hands before flopping back into the warm folds of her skirt.

Sig wiped the new pearl, as it was just an old equipment manifest. Useless to him now.

[OUTGOING REQUEST]

COMMUNICATIONS MANIFEST

SOURCE NODE TRACE: NSH_ROOT, NSH_COMM03 || DESTINATION: LTTM_ROOT, LTTM_COMM01

NSH: [Input message contents]

Now she just had to figure out what to say.

[vostok3-ka]

Hello helloo! Hope you’re having a good one :) Just dropping by with some lil guys for the ask game: 🥺✅🤡🎶🤲 (any you may want, obv no pressure)

Hiiii Max <3333 oooo thank you so much for all these questions, I'm excited to answer them! I AM having a good one because today is my archery tournament and I'm excited! Hope YOU are well!

🥺 - OOOH. This one is so easy to answer. When Bucky and Steve are physically affectionate with each other. I've never seen them as a couple, not really, and I love them when they're platonic and yet still very physical with each other. It just melts my heart every time they wrap each other up in their arms, or press hands on the other's shoulder, or anything physical really. It's so soft, and gentle from men who are very masculine and soldier-like, and ugh, it just turns me to a puddle of pure soup. I can't deal.

✅ - Drugs 😭. I never do mean to include mentions of drugs in my stories, but I somehow always do! I just see it as such a realistic and very likely think for Bucky to engage in, and it just fascinates me as a writer when I write drugs, because I adore it when characters have a twisted view of reality, when they are unreliable narrators. It just hits the spot for me, and I absolutely love it. Another thing that tends to find itself in my works, although somewhat subtly, is a very blasé attitude towards mental illness. I like that, I like characters who don't let their mental health take over their lives, I like it when they live on despite of it and don't make it a big deal, instead acknowledging it is there and then going on with their lives in a way, you know? I don't know, I've been told it's a somewhat eastern way of looking at it, and I suppose, seeing I mostly write eastern characters, or Bucky who might as well be Russian at this point, that it's a good characterization thing? I don't know really. But it's been pointed out and I thought it was interesting!

🤡 - I don't actually think I write very funny a lot of the time, but sometimes I will write something more humorous, and this is one of those times. This snippet is from a completely forgotten about WIP called Kukushka, and it is about a period of time during the late 80s where Department X were trying to sort out Bucky's transfer to Hydra, and his little popsicle freezer was broken so they needed him stored away, and doing so they tossed him to a little run down village and were like here you go, manage yourself. It's a bit of a crackfic, which is why I named one character Gagarin and the other Karpov, despite him not being Bucky's handler. And Bucky is Morozov. Like he always is in my stories 😭. Here's a little snippet:

----------

Morozov came to slowly, not like they did in the movies with a gasp and all in a fuss. Gagarin hovered over Stepanov's shoulder, watching the soldier stare at the ceiling, eyes cloudy with confusion.

"There he is," the young doctor said triumphantly, and glanced back at Gagarin. "I told you he'd be alright."

Gagarin frowned. "He isn't saying anything."

Stepanov turned his gaze back to Morozov, and frowned. "He isn't." Leaning over he pulled out the penlight again, flashing it over the stormy greys. The pupils contracted dutifully, and he turned the light off, laying a hand on the soldier's cheek and patting it gently. "Come on Morozov. It's us!"

"I broke him," Karpov whispered morosely, his head still in his arms on the round table.

"Nonesense," Stepanov declared with the full authority of a man confident in his knowledge. "You cannot break a man by merely stating a name."

"I broke him," the poet repeated, and this time both Gagarin and Stepanov turned to look at him.

"Stop being so dramatic, Sasha," Gagarin told him. "Do you need Stepanov to give you an injection as well?"

That got a reaction out of Karpov, and he raised his head from where it was buried in alarm.

"Stop it, Gagarin. I'm not giving anybody else any injections," Stepanov admonished, before directing his attention towards the miserable poet. "You did not break him. Who's the doctor here?"

"Barely a doctor," Karpov muttered, marginally more wary of the large black bag that Stepanov had stashed by his side. "You just graduated."

Gagarin sighed. "Just fix him, please," he said, and the young doctor turned back to his patient.

"He should be well. Responsive- physically," he said, voice taking on a considerably more serious tone that it had merely a few seconds ago, and he stood up, moving over sideways so he was closer to Morozov's head. Leaning over, he let a hand rest on the soldier's forehead. "Morozov, it's me, come on."

"Physically?"

"His eyes-" and Stepanov furled a hand into a near fist without looking up, demonstrating for his audience. "-they contract normally."

"Does that mean anything?"

----------

🎶 - Oh boy do I haha! I can barely focus on writing without music sometimes, my mind gets too distracted with other things, and I like writing to the vibes of songs. A lot of my fics I wrote to a particular song, like with Яблонный сад by Shortparis, I wrote that fic listening to literally only these two songs:

While with, for example, Noch' Ulitsa Fonar' Apteka, I was listening to this song on repeat:

As for which songs I've had on repeat recently, it's this one that I've had on repeat while working on plotting a Bucky fic that takes place before and during the war!

🤲 - Okie so, this is from the fic I mentioned above where it takes place before and during the war. I'm so fascinated by old mental hospitals before and during the war, and I thought it would be a really interesting story to write where Bucky admits himself to one when he is nineteen because he gets really ill, and it is there that Hydra first sets eyes on him, and the plot spans all the way to Europe, and his capture at Azzano, where Hydra knew that he was going to be there, and they wanted to take him to Doctor Zola. I thought it would be an interesting blend of a gritty thriller, and an opportunity for me to research and explore historical psychiatric hospitals and treatments and make it all as accurate as possible! Here's a snippet ;) :

----------

If anything, Steve took the news much better than Bucky had. Bucky's knuckles hadn't yet started to fade back to their usual light pink after he'd smashed his hand into his bedroom wall in a fit of frustrated fear when he hadn't been able to fall asleep the night before. They shone a gentle red. Steve took Bucky's hand in his when the latter had shown up at his door, early, before Steve's work met up.

"What happened?"

"I punched the wall," Bucky shrugged, not quite meeting Steve's gaze, before moving past him and into the Rogers' apartment.

"Oh, Buck."

"I know."

They stood like that for a second or two, Steve by the open door, and Bucky fidgeting with the letter in his pocket with his uninjured hand.

"Well," Steve said finally, breaking the silence and clicking the door shut. "Did it help?" he asked, gesturing at Bucky's knuckles. 

Bucky glanced down and raised his hand so that he could look at it. "Not really. I, uh," Bucky started and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Best to get it over with, he thought. Rip the band-aid off the wound and let it bleed freely, let it drown them all beneath a burning red, choke them on sheer smothering terror. He took the envelope out of his pocket and held it out to Steve. "I haven't opened it yet."

The range of emotions that flashed across Steve's face would have been amusing if this were any other time, if Bucky wasn't gagging on the uncertainty of what lay ahead. 

"They can't," Steve hissed, his face settling on unbridled rage. "They can't. I'll go talk to them, I'll talk to them all," he declared, scrambling to get his coat off the hook by the door. 

"Steve- no, Steve," Bucky said, leaping forward and gripping a bony shoulder. "They'll just think I'm dodging."

"Like hell they will."

"Or-" Bucky works his lips between his teeth, his chest tightening slightly. His fingers twitch a few times and Steve's eyes flick towards them. Bucky stuffs his hand in his pocket. "-they'll send me back."

"To the hospital?" Steve asks, frowning. "But you're better now."

Bucky threw his hands in the air. "They don't know that. You go out there yelling about schizophrenia and God knows what, and they'll call Dr. Roberts again, and- again and- I-" He whined lowly in his throat before taking a deep breath. "Look, Stevie. I'd rather die."

At this, Steve looked suitably alarmed, and Bucky assured him hastily. "I ain't gonna do anything stupid, I'm not. But I am not going back to the hospital. Even if it means-" he jerks his head in the general direction of the envelope that Steve's still clutching in his hands. "-going to war." The last words were nearly choked out.

"And what if you lose it over there?" Steve points out, not unkindly, and he has taken his coat off again, slinging it over an arm. "What happens then?"

"I haven't lost it in a long time, Steve. That was one time. I was sick, and I got better," Bucky said. Then as an afterthought, "I'll probably be fine." And God, if that wasn't a lie.

Steve studied him with shrewd eyes, yet said nothing. Sighing, he hung his coat back up, and gestured at the little kitchen table. "Sit."

Bucky dragged a chair out and sat. Steve crouched in front of him, hands gentle as he rolled up Bucky's pant legs. Purpling bruises paints his calves a startling sight, and Bucky rubbed a hand over his face, feeling much older than twenty-two. "I didn't mean to," he mumbled at Steve's accusing look.

"You never mean to, Buck," Steve said, somewhat testily, and stood up. His eyes are full of indescribable emotion and Bucky has to blink away sudden tears.

"Why?" he whispered. "What happened to my records?"

"I don't know. They should have you down as 4F. I don't know." 

"This isn't an accident. A beaucratical mess-up."

"What?" Steve blinked up at Bucky. The latter's eyes had gone clear and hard, jaw set. The sudden change of demeanor threw Steve off balance for a moment.

"It isn't an accident. Somebody destroyed my records," Bucky seethed, practically vibrating right out of his seat in the rush of anger that had sunk claws into his flesh. "Alright then," and he met Steve's eyes head on. "I'll show them. They want a soldier? I'll be the best damn soldier they've ever seen," he grit out, leaning over to roll his pants back down. He stood up, and Steve stood back up with him. "I'll show them."

He stalked over to the door, and Steve skidded forward, so that he stood between his friend and the door. "Where are you going?"

"Right down to report for duty."

"In your state?"

Bucky's right hand twitched again, and he glared at Steve. "What do you mean?"

"I'm coming with you."

"What?" 

"I was going to go anyway, now's as good a time as any."

"What, no!" Bucky started. Steve stared at him, chin jutting out in that stubborn way of his. "You can't go to war, Steve."

"And you can?"

"I'm not- it's not the same."

"Sure seems to me that it is."

---------

Again, thank you so so much for all the questions! This was so much fun to answer I love these games! Hope you are well <3

[jimilter]

I'm so hype for all your wips OMG what do I even do with myself 💔

But I don't think anyone has asked about can’t get much higher | jimin ??? May I please 🥺

the wip challenge!

mindy my love, hello!!! 🥺 HEYYY that is so sweet and kind of u, husssh pls <333 thank you so much, bby 🥺

so, can't get much higher is gonna be a series, ft. korean american hollywood actor!jimin and a famous talk show interviewer!reader. she has a "boyfriend" for publicity purposes, but her and jimin are having an illicit affair.

lemme give you the cover, the summary and a smutty + funny lil snippet bec ily so much ❤️❤️❤️

rated-m under the cut, minors dni!

Sleeping with an actor discreetly is hard enough in itself. But sleeping with an actor discreetly while managing your own job as a television talk show host and keeping up appearances with your popstar boyfriend? It's a freaking nightmare that you hate having conjured up for yourself. But what are you supposed to do when Jimin Park happens to be a handsome, charming, sexily smirking, solidly built, heart-stealing son of a bitch ready to pull out all stops to woo his way into your bed? Not let him into it? Sure, you're independent, ambitious and strong, but not that strong.

“Have you ever thought about... butt-stuff?”

You have just climbed off of him after riding his dick for the better part of an hour because he's a tease that loves to edge you – and himself – to the brink of tears. But the release that comes after so many losses is always grander than anything so your body obeys him perfectly, stopping when his grip tightens on your hips, and rolling your hips faster when he drags his tongue over your nipples, knowing full well the boneless completion it will feel at the end will be worth it.

Said boneless body is leaning over the side of the bed to fish for his shirt to cover itself with when Jimin's question registers. You blink, peering at him over your shoulder to find his gaze fastened to your ass.

“Butt-stuff,” you repeat in a deadpan. “What the hell kinda—”

“I – I mean...ass...stuff, you know?”

So it's ass-stuff now, perfect. You pull his t-shirt out from under the bed and wear it as you sit back up, rolling your eyes when you meet Jimin's fidgety ones. He hasn't moved from his recline against the headboard, flaccid dick resting against his thigh.

“Do you wanna fuck my ass, Jimin?”

“What? God, can you not say it like that?”

You watch in disbelief when his dick twitches in response to your words. “Oh, God, you do! You totally wanna fuck my ass!”

“Well, it's a really pretty fucking ass, okay? It's plump and round and the view I get when I take you from behind has me seeing stars with my eyes open. So yes. I do wanna fuck it. And because of you I'm hard again, so come help me...”

so that's how it will be, hehe! i've got some plot points to flesh out and then i'll get into writing it properly. hoping to begin posting by the end of this year! 👀

[a-gal-with-taste]

THE "OF ZAUN" FIC. PLEASE. WHATEVER YOU NEED, PLEASE FEED US MORE

I'mma just answer these all at once, y'all are too much, makin' me blush like this 🥺🥺🥺

I was legitimately surprised with how well Of Zaun (Prelude & Future Snippet) was received, I know first-hand that pregnancy/child fics are hardly a favorite among most fandoms.

I can safely promise that those elements will NOT be the focal/main point of the fic, as it was heavily inspired by the lovely @chickenparm All That's Left series (a must read, and something I have an seperate 3-page review prepared for upon it's completion, I'm so sorry in advance for my nerdism 💀) and so while those elements may appear, this is be a bit closer to a pre-canon + AU/canon-divergence fic

But regardless, I'm so excited to see y'all hype for this future series. It's something I have on the back-burner while I'm frantically stirring away at Alt. Timer and Timer, updates later this week~ but it's honestly amazing to know you are so eager to see more of these series, I think it's definitely going to be one for-the-books of my blog <3

Spoiler-Asks under cut:

If Powder/Jinx is the Angsty Blueberry, Violet is the Enraged Grapefruit, it's Canon now.

And YES, there was SO many hints planted in the fic. I know of five I deliberately slipped in, but sometimes my writing can get away from me, especially when I'm half-consciously typing at some unholy hour of the night, so there may actually be a couple I slipped in without thinking

That was definitely one of my favorite lil' hints to write, though. The fluff of the scene and the subtle peek of what the future may hold was fun to sneak in there <3

[nocturne-pisces]

WinterWidow

What if I told y'all that me and @branded--with--a--j were rewriting the mcu to be WinterWidow centric? We're incorporating parts of the comic books and taking a whole lot of liberties, but we're leaving the best parts alone. I think I've convinced Steph that if this tracks well- that we can post it in chapters after some heavy editing on my my part of our project.

Y'all want a lil taste?

Here's a couple snippets (because we're currently in the 50k range, overall) from our current writing in the Winter Soldier portion of the MCU timeline. Nat and Bucky have their own points of view, so I've included one of each. Let us know what you think and if you want to see more.

(dividers by @natasharomanovf)

The Bunker Scene (1.8k) - this one is my writing.

Being blown up isn’t new territory, not something that hasn’t happened to me before. Being pulled out by someone I trust is the new part. Hydra’s secret underground bunker at Camp Lehigh wasn’t easy to find, but when we found it everything went to hell. Not that we weren’t already there, no, but I think for a moment I even saw Steve doubt himself. Sam’s house is our only safe place right now, at least until they realize that our bodies aren’t in the rubble. Using a towel to squeeze the water out of the ends of my hair it all plays over again in my head, the dank smell of the underground flooding back to me.

There was an old SHEILD logo painted on the wall, harsh light cast from lightbulbs that look like they shouldn’t have lasted so long. Steve and I walked from one room to another, trying to find clues of what had happened to everyone and everything. It isn’t until I see a picture of Tony’s father that it occurs to me how old this base must be. Older than me, maybe as old as Steve. There’s a picture next to it of a woman with short cropped brown hair, features like all the old movies you’d watch late at night, and there’s something in the way that Steve looks at her that makes me think he knows her. Or knew her.

“Who’s the girl?” It’s a gentle question, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns left and walks further between the shelves lining the room. He sees it before I do, the gap in the hardwood that allows a small breeze, and he looks back at me to make sure I’m seeing the same thing.

“If you’re already working in a secret office,--” his fingers fit into the gap, the strain of pulling back what appears to be a door evident in the tendon appearing in his neck, “-- why do you need to hide the elevator?”

We approach cautiously, scanning around our feet for traps or trip wires. It takes me only a moment to decode the keys next to the stainless steel doors and after I punch in the sequence of numbers, they slide open to reveal an elevator that is much newer than our surroundings. I’m not sure how far down it takes us, but when the doors pull back again it’s pitch dark, the only sounds echoing back at us being our steps and our trepid breath. Steve and I take slow steps forward, automatic lights ticking on once we get far enough inside.

The walls of recording tape are illuminated, the station in the middle of the room drawing us nearer. It doesn’t make sense, none of this should be compatible with anything from this century.

“This can’t be the data point. This technology is ancient.” Again, Steve says nothing, turning his head this way and that to try to make heads or tails of what we’re looking at. A couple more steps and I find what may be the link between our world and this one. A small black USB bank without a speck of dust on it. I take the drive from my back pocket, contemplating if corrupting the files on it is worth figuring out what we’re looking at. If we can’t read the drive we’re without leads anyway, so I plug it in, stirring to life more lights and more data banks around us.

I shift back towards Steve instinctively, the sudden feeling of being surrounded playing on the back of my neck. A monitor scrolls text across the screen, an automated voice accompanying it.

INITIATE SYSTEM?

I step forward to the only keyboard I see, positioning my fingers over the keys and typing out the Y-E-S before hitting enter. I don’t know what we’re dealing with, what I’ve just powered on, but the low hum of electricity sets my teeth on edge and I have to break the tension.

“Shall we play a game?” A smirk splays across my face, and I turn to Steve to explain. “It’s from a movie that was–.” This time he cuts me off, tells me that he knows, he saw the movie I’m referencing and a moment later the monitor in front of us beeps making both of us turn our attention back front and center. Through the green scrolling lines of ancient tube displays a face that can barely be made out, the green highlight of cheekbones, glasses, and a mouth moving as voice speaks. There’s something in the shape of those glasses that makes my stomach churn, makes me want to run away, but my feet stay glued to the floor next to Steve.

“Rogers, Steven, born 1918.” Steve’s eyebrows pinch together, and I imagine that he feels just as exposed as I do, not being able to tell how this thing knows who we are. I try and survey the room again, try to see where the voice is coming from but the sound of my name pulls my attention back.

“Romanoff, Natalia Alianovna, born 1984.”

“It’s some kind of recording…”

“I am not a recording, fraeulein,” the monitor says, his offense to my assumption playing through unseen speakers. “I may not be the man I was when the Captain took me prisoner in 1945, but I am.” There’s a second monitor on the right, a picture of a man I tried very hard to forget displayed.

I look over at Steve, the need to keep the attention off myself crawling up my tense shoulders. “You know this thing?”

I watch Steve as he steps down from the center console riser, stalking around the room. “Arnim Zola was a German scientist who worked for the Red Skull.”

I know.

“He’s been dead for years.”

I know that too.

The computer pipes up again, this time with indignation. “First correction, I am Swiss. Second, look around you. I have never been more alive.”

Flashes of damp concrete rooms flood my head, the taste of metal like the chains that held me bound and strung up, the tingle of electricity at my fingertips as it’s discharged into my unwilling body.

Zola continues, “In 1972, I received a terminal diagnosis. Science could not save my body. My mind, however, was worth saving–,” how is it that a computer knows to pause for dramatic effect, “-- on 200,000 feet of data banks. You are standing in my brain.”

Steve doesn’t leave time to wonder, he’s always been good at getting right down to business. “How did you get here?”

“Invited.”

I remember this one, “It was Operation Paperclip after World War II. SHIELD recruited German scientists with strategic value.” It’s not unheard of, hiring the enemy after you’ve defeated them, I just didn’t think the US Government would hire this enemy. My personal enemy.

“They thought I could help their cause. I also helped my own.”

Steve’s irritation is apparent when he speaks, forceful and clear. “Hydra died with the Red Skull.”

“Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.” The face in the display disappears as the Hydra insignia flashes, then Zola reappears and doubles, my tormentor mirrored side by side.

“Prove it,” Steve challenges. I wish he didn’t, I don’t know what information Zola had about me when he transferred himself into coding and I don’t want to find out.

“Accessing archive. Hydra was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with it’s own freedom.” As we listen, black and white sequences of armies even I haven’t seen flash across the screen. “What we did not realize was that if you try to take that freedom, they resist.” This time it’s a film reel of Steve, more than sixty years ago, I assume before he got himself frozen over. “The war taught us much, humanity needed to surrender it’s freedom willingly.” Burning buildings, men holding up their hands in surrender, women and children crying.

“After the war, SHIELD was founded and I was recruited. The new Hydra grew, a beautiful parasite inside SHIELD.” Steve and I mirror looks of bewilderment, stepping closer as more information flits across the screen. “Hydra has been secretly feeding crisis, reaping war, and when history did not cooperate–,”

A silver arm with a red star appears long enough to register it, long enough for saliva to pool behind my molars and my stomach to lurch.

“-- history was changed.” My breath comes out ragged, voice unsteady as I step towards Steve.

“That’s impossible, SHIELD would have stopped you.”

“Accidents will happen.”

Howard Stark’s face in black and white flashes across the screen, snippets of a mission report from 1991 overlayed. Everything seems to sew itself together in the recesses of my brain before I can stop it, about you and what they used you for while the Red Room kept me. It must have happened before we ever met, before you chose me and trained me and let me go. Before you disappeared from me again. The crook of my neck itches something fierce, the need to cover it consuming as I pull my jacket tighter around myself.

“Hydra created a world so chaotic that humanity is finally ready to sacrifice its freedom to gain it’s security. Once a purification process is complete, Hydra’s new world order will arise. We won, Captain.” Steve’s head turns, a new screen displaying headlines from a lifetime ago with his face, ROGERS DISAPPEARS in block letters over his brow. “Your death amounts to the same as your life. A zero sum. “

The golden boy snaps, his rage boiling over in the form of a fist slamming into the tube monitor in front of him. The glass spiderwebs out, but Zola’s voice doesn’t stop,

“As I was saying…”

“What’s on this drive?”

“Project Insight requires insight. So, I wrote an algorithm.”

I step closer to Steve, words tumbling out of my mouth faster than I can form the thoughts themselves. “What kind of algorithm? What does it do?”

“The answer to your question is fascinating. Unfortunately, you shall be too dead to hear it.”

Even the strongest fighters shit themselves when long range ballistics nearly cave their head in, is what I tell myself. Something close to shell shock written on my face when Steve comes out of the bathroom at Sam’s place to check on me. My hair was dry enough ten minutes ago, but I feign drying the curls that crop up, the genetic frizz I was born with presenting itself instead of my sleek bob.

Steve sits across from me, concerned captain oozing from his pores. He asks me what’s going on and I figure, if we’re criminals now, I might as well lay most of it out.

“When I joined SHIELD I thought I was going straight, but I guess I just traded in the KGB for Hydra. And really - “ my voice cracks, “- it didn’t even start with the KGB.”

“What do you mean?”

I’m not sure I can do it, not until my mouth opens and I do.

“I escaped Hydra, just to fall right back into their grasp.”

“Tash…” It’s soft, like he’s telling me that I don’t have to go on if it hurts too much, but I need him to know, need someone to know.

“You don’t fight like I do without teachers, Steve.”

The Highway Fight Scene (1.9k) - @branded--with--a--j 's brilliant work.

IDEAL FEDERAL SAVINGS BANK

Kill confirmed.

A video call comes from the blonde man on a large, mounted screen. He thanks me for a job well done, straight, white teeth pulled into a smile that I don't return. Smiling isn't my job, mine concluded when I sent three slugs into the target. There is something on the horizon, he states, abruptly ending the call with a command to standby.

Long minutes turn into hours, each spent with my eyes glued to the far wall, updated reports filtering on a constant loop on a nearby screen. Every name, every description, is memorized, rolling behind my eyelids as I finally let them close.

------------- Classified Document-------------

Target: Jasper Sitwell, Double Agent/Hydra Infiltrator

Hair: Bald

Eyes: Brown

Height: 175cm

Weight: 77kg

Task: Compromised - Eliminate Target - TOP PRIORITY

---------------------------------------------------

Target: Steve Rogers, Avenger

Alias: Captain America

Hair: Blonde

Eyes: Blue

Height: 188cm

Weight: 99.7kg

Task: Eliminate Target - High Priority

-------------------------------------------------

Target: Natasha Romanoff, Avenger

Alias: Black Widow

Hair: Red

Eyes: Green

Height: 155cm

Weight: 58kg

Task: Eliminate Target - High Priority

---------------------------------------------------

Target: Sam Wilson, Former Air Force Pararescue Airman

Alias: None

Hair: Brown

Eyes: Brown

Height: 183cm

Weight: 91kg

Task: Eliminate Target - Low Priority

--------------------End Report------------------

When the call comes, I move quickly with the team, surrounded by heavily armed men. I'm also armed for a fight, slipping into the back of an armored Hummer as we exit the bank building from an underground garage. Emerging out onto the main road, we head for the highway, merging onto the three-lane in pursuit of the targets. They're being tracked, the Chevrolet sedan approached from behind. I'm told from the calculation, Sitwell is in the back with Romanoff, Rogers the front passenger, and Wilson driving. I memorize it, the window coming down for me to exit onto the roof. Traffic is heavy, boxing in the targets easily, and the Hummer approaches from behind, giving me time to slide down the windshield and onto the hood. Bracing my hand, I go into a squat, using the leverage to propel myself onto the roof of the sedan. The thud is hard and loud, my presence known, and I act fast, hand slamming through reinforced glass to snag Sitwell by the collar. He screams out in terror, forced through the opening with a hard yank, and flung into the opposite lane of traffic where a semi-truck finishes the job.

Pulling my pistol, I aim down where Romanoff is, turning to shoot directly at the head rests where the others should be. But the redhead is fast, no longer where she once was, and the car continues on its path, the driver unscathed. Turning and preparing to bring my fist down into the windshield, the sudden stop of the vehicle pulls me easily from the roof, sending me in a tumble down the middle lane of traffic. Before my head can hit the pavement, I tuck and brace with my arm, righting myself so that I face the targets, my Sig knocked from my right hand. The momentum is violent, certain to kill a normal person, but my vibranium fingers dig into the road, leaving a long gouge until I come to a stop.

Car horns blare as they swerve around the stopped sedan and speed past me, my arm helping me to my feet. I stand motionless, seeing the targets staring at me in shock, and the screech of metal is loud as the Hummer slams into the back of them, locked brakes fighting and failing to keep them stationary. They come at me fast, but I'm ready, jumping easily and onto the roof of the car, my heavy boots shattering the back window. The brakes lock again as the driver attempts to throw me, but my hold keeps me anchored. Pulling up onto my knees, I tire of the chase, slamming a metal hand down through the windshield and ripping the steering wheel out of the car.

I'm on my feet, turning towards the Hummer as it accelerates close, and the bullets that come through the roof narrowly miss me as I leap to safety. Bracing myself on the hood, we close the distance, the sedan swerving and clipping another car. It will just take some contact, enough to send them out of control, and one final slam with the brush guard sends the car into the wall that separates us from the lanes of oncoming traffic. I watch, hoping the crash will do most of the work, but Rogers, the one from the apartment, drops with the others from the passenger door, the shield he threw at me breaking their fall.

I snarl behind my mask, watching as they tumble apart, and brace myself as the Hummer comes to a stop. More horns blare, cars slamming on their brakes, and I hop down onto the hot pavement, turning as one of the men exits the back to hand me a grenade launcher. It's heavy in my hands, but comfortable, and I lift it up, aiming for the redhead and Rogers. He shoves her to safety, using his shield to absorb the blast, but it sends him back and over the bridge, his body disappearing down into the road below. I can hear the slamming of brakes, glass breaking, and metal screeching, but my attention diverts to the remaining targets.

The team follows me as I move forward, their rifles raised and firing at the cars ahead of us. The two run from us, ducking for cover, and I send another grenade into a stalled minivan as the redhead opens fire at me. The bullets whip past me, the explosion sending her tumbling over the concrete barrier and into traffic. More tires squeal, but I'm in no hurry, I'll get her eventually. Out of all of them, I'm drawn to her the most, some need deep down inside to seek her out. We turn to shoot in her direction and another car is turned into a fire ball as I send a third grenade in her direction. This one sends her over the bridge, her red hair blending with the flames as she disappears from sight.

Turning back in the direction she might try to escape, I drop the launcher and snatch a rifle from one of the men before I walk to the edge of the bridge. I pan back and forth, aiming down as I wait for her to appear. Eyes dart behind my goggles, looking for any sign, and the impact of a bullet against the lens rocks my head back, allowing me to buckle behind the barrier. A spiderweb of cracks impair my vision and I feel rage bubble in my gut, tearing them from my face before I lurch back onto my feet. I don't even aim, snarling out behind my mask as I spray onto the road below. I'm furious, the goggles the only reason I don't have a bullet in my head, and my lack of focus in the moment almost cost me my life. She's distracting me and I don't know why, she shouldn't, she's just a target.

I duck again as she returns fire, waiting for the bullets to whiz past before lurching up again. She's dropping the guns, out of ammo and unarmed, and I fire at her as she dodges behind a line of parked vehicles. The other men are trying to hit her, ceasing as she disappears. As they prepare to chase, I stop them, telling them I will get her.

"Она у меня. Найди его." (I have her. Find him.)

By him, I mean Rogers, or even Wilson, it doesn't matter, the redhead my mission now.

The abandoned car below breaks my fall, metal caving in and glass shattering. I don't stop, striding across the roof and down the hood. I stalk down the middle of the road, screams almost as loud as the gun fire behind me. I don't stop, moving forward in search of the redhead, head jerking to the left at the sound of an approaching police cruiser. It's siren wails, ended abruptly with a grenade. It turns the car into a ball of fire and a parked car takes the impact as it crashes to a halt. I keep moving, reaching down for a grenade from my belt and reloading. People are leaving their vehicles, screaming and pointing at me as I stroll down the avenue. I don't shoot at them, no my bullets are meant for someone else, and I know that she's close.

As I pass through a cluster of cars, I hear a voice, deep and sultry, my eyes darting in search of the source. It has to be her and she's giving the location, the sound coming from behind a car. Kneeling down, keeping another vehicle as cover, I roll a timed explosive in the direction of the sound, pausing as I wait for it to trigger. It's loud, sending the car up into a ball of fire, and I squint at the bright flames as I stand. I hear it, the sound of feet on metal, and I whip around in time for the rifle to be kicked from my hand, fingers grasping at my head as she uses the momentum to spin around onto my back. One of her legs hangs over my shoulder, pulling me back, and the garrote whispers as she throws her weight. I lift my hand, the flesh one to stop it from making contact with my throat, the violent pull at both ends digging the wire into my flesh as we're thrown back onto the side of a car. My metal arm grapples with her, getting a good hold on her shoulder, and a whir of engaging gears sends her flying into the car across from us. She cries out, something in my gut wrenching at the sound, and tumbles away as I lunge for my rifle. She's down, sprawled out on the pavement, and I lift the weapon to fire, a painful electrical current coursing up my arm and rendering it useless. It makes me drop the muzzle, the bullet glancing off the road, and when I look back up, she's gone. It take a few second, but the arm resets itself, restoring power and sending a painful current up into where it is attached at the shoulder. With the plates shifting and whirring, I open and close my fist, then sling my arm as I stalk after her.

My rage is making my mind cloudy, my mission on her solely. I care about nothing else, only getting her within my grasp again. Why, I don't know, but I surge on in pursuit. I can see her dodging between cars, red hair whipping back and forth as she waves people away, yelling out her warning. I take a deep breath, timing her movement, bracing my feet as I aim. She's sprinting past a car and I aim for the windshield and driver's window, sending a single bullet through them both and into her back. I see her buckle behind the car, her cries of pain sending me into a sprint, and I flank her, coming around to the other side and leaping onto the roof of a car easily.

She's still down, clutching at her shoulder, and her head whips in my direction, mouth open in pain as I aim at her. Before I can finish the job, I hear pounding feet, whipping in its direction just in time to drop the rifle and send my fist into the middle of the shield, the metallic vibrations traveling up my arm and across my shoulder. It makes my teeth ache, a growl deep in my chest, and I shove the shield to the side, falling back and kicking out. I feel my boot make contact and it sends us both sprawling, my arm lifting the rifle to open fire.

[phantoids]

Hey so feeling a lil bored and I think I'm gonna do some dsmp writing requests!!

Send in an ask, give me a lil prompt of an au or smth (this can include asking for snippets of my own aus, which I will list).

Anyways the aus of mine you can ask about:

ccc!au, basically character content creator, modern dsmp au where the events are all the same except it's 1. a modern au and 2. they're all content creators at some point and have access to social media. they all drop merch at dream's funeral. This is a crack au.

smash or pass au, where quackity is the onceler, dream has the hots for him still, quackity/dream/wilbur was once a thing but now they're bitter exes and wilbur takes joy in terrorising dream. Also quackbur happens at one point as well as the onceler reveal. It's also a crack au.

clue #1, a murder mystery powers au where wilbur is dead, techno is a retired detective, ranboo is an annoying ghost and clingyduo are investigating wilbur's death. you can have a couple snippets from chapter 1 since this is an unreleased multichap fic au.

silence and the sun, a canon-divergent au inspired by the dead don't dream. dream and tommy are brothers, tommy has a bad time being revived over and over (he's also selectively mute), and shit gets out of hand. My personal contender for the dream worsening olympics.

pig house au, basically an owl house au where techno is a wild witch known across the isles, ranboo is the human who's stumbled into his life, discduo is just belos and hunter, aimsey and tubbo are ranboos besties at magic school, wilbur is techno's estranged brother from the emperor's coven and phil shows up at techno's door one day with an injured kid who may or may not be grimmwalker.

communal dad au, in which phil adopted three kids who are also actors, none of them know about the others and therefore when he comes on the set they all work at to audition for the dad of their three characters, some funny stuff happens. like Neapolitan bros realising they're all actually brothers, and everyone on set joking about how phil is secretly their dad.

universal tommy au, in which tommy is a multiversal traveller, goes by theseus and wears a boar mask, and ends up stuck in a universe with regular multiversal and timeline traffic, including an ex-traveller wilbur who set up lmanberg, sometime after doomsday should have happened, to accommodate travellers. I don't have much for this but I like the concept.

and the final au: iceborne au, based on monster hunter, in which tommy is the new rising hunter in the fifth fleet of the research commission, dream is a bitch who wants to wipe out the ecosystems by using other monsters because he's a bitch but it's okay he has a giant ice dragon pet, and they're all having a time trying to fix the ecosystem.

[hello-yue-here]

thank you @chiptrillino for tagging me in a wip game!

not quite sure what the rules are but based off of your AMAZING POST OF ART WIPS (check it out here yall chip is so talented) ive decided to just share some parts of my writing wips that i rlly like because i cannot draw whatsoever lmao

enjoy some lil snippets hehe

from heart don't stand a chance:

"Zuko couldn’t get over her eyes. She was looking past the camera towards the man who took it. Zuko could see clear as day the love she held for Sokka in her gaze.

It was a perfect moment that Sokka had captured. No wonder held it with him at all times. If someone had looked at Zuko like that, he’d never want to see anything again.

As he took in the photograph, Sokka sat next to him in silence. His hand was clutching the ring around his neck again in his fist, pressing it close to his mouth as he peered over Zuko’s shoulder to look. Zuko turned to him to compliment the picture and saw a sad fondness lingering in his eyes."

this is a scene i wrote a while ago thats gonna appear in a much later chapter. but yeah. more yue angst for you guys im so sorry.

from i love you (and that's all i really know):

"Mister Sokka," a little voice wishpered in his ear as he felt tiny pokes on his cheek, "Wake up Mister Sokka."

"Good morning to you too Izumi," Sokka responded wearily as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He looked towards the little girl who was standing on her tippy toes to see over the edge of the bed and poke his face until he rose.

She smiled at him once she realized he was awake.

"Can we have pancakes?" She asked shyly, hiding her mouth just below the edge of the bed as she looked up at him with hopeful eyes.

That look was going to be dangerous for him later on, he could aready tell.

"Sure thing, Izumi, just let me sleep for five more minutes, mkay?" He asked as he shut his eyes again. He was exhausted from last nights events, and the sun had barely risen. How did Zuko do this?"

this is a scene from the next chapter of this fic. so much sokka and izumi bonding you guys are gonna explode hehehe.

from cherry (the mailee fic i wont shut up about that is now a whopping 19 pages):

"Mai never had to guess with Ty Lee. She always knew when Ty Lee was happy about something because she would use an obnoxious amount of exclamation points. She would send gifs of people or cartoons making outlandish expressions whenever she wanted to react to Mai’s text with a specific facial expression. Sometimes Ty Lee would even send voice memos whenever her thoughts became too long, or she got too excited about a story that her fingers couldn’t type as fast as she could speak."

hehe i love mailee.

from yours (the mailee sorority fic that i promise i did not forget about):

"Mai lifted her head off the pillow again and met Zuko’s eyes. She studied his impassive expression, trying to figure out if he was joking or not. He did seem like he missed Mai and Azula, so maybe he did really just want to catch up with them.

But Mai wasn’t going to give up a golden opportunity like this.

“Tell us everything about the boy toy as well and you��ve got yourself a deal,” Mai said.

Zuko rolled his eyes and sighed, “Ugh, fine. And his name is Sokka by the way.”

“Nuance. You also have to wake up Azula.”

“No chance in hell,” Zuko scoffed, “You’re the roommate and her fellow ‘pong princess,’ wake-up duty is all yours.”

“If she murders me, it’s your fault. She’s a bitch when she’s hungover.”

“Whatever you say, Mai,” Zuko grinned before returning back to his phone."

i have decided that zuko is a little shit for this fic and no one can stop me.

from Where'd All the Time Go? (the yuekka fic that i have severe writers block with that i also promis i have not forgotten about):

"“Sokka I really think you need to take a moment and-”

“I am fine Aang, I don’t have time for a feelings talk right now. Right now I need to find the fucking chief of this damn place.” His words came out harsher than he meant, but he didn’t have the time to dwell on that.

Before Sokka could run off again to continue his search, a hand grabbed his arm. One of Arnook’s advisors, Malina, had started dragging him towards the podium.

“Do you not realize how late you are for this Sokka? The ceremony was supposed to begin with your speech nearly an hour ago-” she hissed at him as she pulled him along through the crowd.

“Malina I’m sorry but I really need to speak with Arnook it is urgent-”

“This damn speech of yours is what’s urgent right now Sokka, you can speak with Arnook later but the guests are getting antsy so you need to give your speech right. Now.”

“But-”

“Now.”

Maline shoved Sokka towards the podium and suddenly all eyes were on him. Every guest in attendance had their focus solely on Sokka."

homeboy is stressed in this scene. things are slowly going to shit in this chapter. i promise i will update this before the end of the year. i swear. im so sorry.

from a currently untitled jetko/sukka boiling rock fic:

"“Oh good, you survived after all,” She said in a mocking tone.

Jet didn’t answer. He knew anything he said would be used against him. He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know what was happening. But he would be damned if he showed that weakness in front of the fire nation.

“I was told you were more talkative than this,” the girl mused. There was something familiar about her, “my informants were very detailed when discussing your little teashop romance.”

I knew it. Jet snarled in his mind, That bastard betrayed me."

i want this fic to be a little darker but idk how good i am at writing darker fics because i love fluff and humor too much. this could be good angst practice for me.

from a toph and sokka fic that i wrote a while back to help me cope w some shit that i dont know if ill ever post:

"“Sokka? Are you still there?” Toph asked, the slightest hint of concern began to slip into their voice

“Tell me a story,” he was trembling. Despite all of his efforts to sound calm, he knew his voice came out trembling and scratchy and pathetic-

“Is everything okay? You don’t sound too hot,” Toph said through the phone.

Breathe, Sokka, breathe. You don’t want them to be worried, you just need to calm down.

“Please, Toph, I just,” he said through shaky breaths that weren’t nearly deep enough for him to be getting enough oxygen, “I just need a distraction. I just need to hear your voice okay?”"

nonbinary toph anyone?

from a 10 things i hate about you kataang and zukka au:

"“What? Something on my face?” the guy asked deadpanned. He rubbed at his scar as if he were wiping off a smudge of mustard, and Aang’s face went pale.

“Stop scaring the sophomores Zuko, this one’s new. He won’t get your… humor… just yet,” Ms. Wu said as she waved Aang off again.

“I’m hurt that you’d imply I’m not funny, Wu. I’m hilarious,” the senior, Zuko, said as he walked past Aang.

Aang let out a sigh of relief knowing that this Zuko guy didn’t seem all that offended by his awkwardness, and darted out of the room."

zuko is a little shit part 2. the amount of sarcasm i have dripping off of heath ledger zuko is glorious. let zuko be a little shit. i havent added to this in months but when i finish some of my other wips i cant wait to get back to this.

i have more wips and drafts saved but none of them have anything juicy or funny or interesting yet because all of them are like less than three pages so far

but yeah, heres a good chunk of sneaky peakys from my wips!

I hope you liked them!

anyone who wants to do this can totally go for it. imma tag @ambykinns @lumities and @flowers-inthepieshop (only if you all want too!!) because this was fun :)

[kindness-ricochets]

WYRATE INCRDIBLE. Now I'm just thinking of when soc starts everyone's like "lil uselss merchers boy" nd wylans like ''BOAT BOAT BOAT!!!!!!" nd they're ll kind confused bout how competent he is sfdsfdzsf

inej is low key jealous when she finds out WYLAN was a pirate before her. they trade tips.

wylan becomes grishaverse trilogies charas honorary lil brother. the trumivate will fight for role of 2n best big sibling. nikolai watches on as chaos erupts firm in his role as best big sibling. for now

his hair will be ruffled

This is just so cute n such a concept!!! and image the reunion hed have with em all during ck.

Hell he may even know nina/ know of her.

and hed def be a better liar even more knowledgeable bout science. more knowledgeable bout grisha n how they're treated.

BAMF WYLAN!! Great snippet n concept love to read it!

ur writings n ideas re incredible as always!

Listen, Anon, you have a lot of excellent ideas here so I'm going to come back to this one, but let's get started...

It happened first on the Ferolind. Kaz needed a word with one of the men they’d brought along to help sail, since none of the six knew anything about it. He had some questions about approaching the shore—Kaz knew the canal boats. These were another matter.

“I understand, Kaz. I just need to finish splicing the line and—”

“I can do that.”

Kaz knew the kid was there, but hadn’t thought much about him. In general, Wylan wasn’t much use, but he knew how to stay out of the way. Kaz could appreciate that. Plenty of people should do more staying out of the way.

Scowling, Kaz turned to him. “It would take even longer to teach you.”

Wylan’s jaw set.

“No one needs to teach me. I can splice a line. How big is the eye?”

“Two feet, give or take,” said the one man here who knew what he was talking about.

“Give it here.”

He spoke with enough authority that the experienced sailor did. Or maybe he was just done with the argument. 

The first step in splicing a line appeared to be unraveling it, but Kaz wasn’t giving any points for destroying their transport. Still, he kept an eye on Wylan as he moved from unraveling to weaving, working the strands individually through the weave of the rope.

Kaz prolonged the conversation to keep watching. Finally, Wylan stopped weaving and rolled the rope under his foot.

“You better check his work,” Kaz said. Wylan gave him an indignant look, but Kaz only glared and he looked away again.

The sailor took the rope from Wylan, looked it over, gave the loop at the end a tug.

“Well done.”

Wylan looked almost delirious.

To Kaz, it was one more mystery. How did Jan Van Eck’s son come to learn a nautical skill? That wasn’t something university tutors generally specialized in. There was more to him than Kaz had previously expected.

Kaz frowned.

He didn’t like surprises.

***

It happened again in the prison laundry.

When they were planning their escape, Kaz had told Jesper, “Wylan may need help up the rope.”

Indignant, Wylan had replied, “I can climb a rope!”

“Climbing a rope is more than hauling your own weight, merchling,” Jesper replied. “It’s about balance and grip. If you aren’t careful—”

“I can climb,” Wylan repeated. Kaz thought he was stubborn, but remembered the spliced line and decided he might not be wrong.

Nonetheless, “Just be ready,” Kaz said, not taking anyone’s side.

But he arrived in the laundry room to find that Wylan had been right. He could climb a rope after all. He was turning from a surprise into a puzzle.

Kaz was starting to find him downright interesting.

[ohnotoomanyfandoms]

If you wrote a quick lil Jordelia snippet in the style of one of Cassie's Chain of Iron excerpts (like write a tiny bit of a prediction of a scene that could happen between them) I would love you forever 🙏🙏🙏❤❤❤

My dear Jordelia Nation, I bring you a little Christmas present! 

I am nowhere near satisfied of this ficlet (which is why I’m not even putting it on my AO3 page), but I wrote it and I can’t take it back now. Based on THREE snippets (you’ll find those in bold), I present you THAT confession scene under the cut. 

I just want to point out one thing: I don’t think this is how the scene is going to go in the books. At all. I just had fun imagining James and Cordelia’s conversation on that Most Important Topic and tried to keep it as in character as possible, but I also know my Edwardian English is not the best. 

Without further ado, here are 2k words of Jordelia angst for you all <3 

Cordelia rang Risa for some tea. The boys would certainly require scones. As they settled around her drawing room’s table, Cordelia couldn’t help but notice they were starting this meeting without a key member.

“Where’s Lucie?” She asked no one in particular. She turned to James and he shrugged.

“Probably with Anna,” Matthew suggested. Hopefully with Anna, Cordelia thought. She knew Lucie had a secret. Now that James was out of the Institute, there was no way of knowing where her future parabatai was. If anything, Cordelia reprimanded herself silently, she was supposed to know.

“We should start without her,” James said. “Let’s get to it.”

“Grace will never talk to us. Not after last week,” Matthew declared. “We have to find another way.”

“I still don’t see why you think she won’t,” interrupted Christopher. “I am sure she will speak to Jamie, if he asks nicely. She was entirely amicable with me last month.”

“That was before what happened last week, Kit,” Thomas pointed out.

“Jamie can’t go. There is no point in even trying. It will be a waste of our time, time we don’t have. We need a different plan,” Matthew said.

“Why can’t Jamie go?” asked Kit innocently.

“We’ll never find a better—“ Tom was saying, but Cordelia cut him off.

“It’s of no consequence. James is free to go see Grace if he wishes to.”

She didn’t miss the furtive glance Matthew sent her way.

“I can accompany him,” Kit offered.

But James was shaking his head. “Daisy…”

She swallowed hard. “It would be beneath me to try and stop you.”

She would not be remembered as the villain in this story. Her husband, by the Angel, Cordelia still couldn’t believe it after a whole month of marriage… if staying away from Grace was so painful for James, as it was clear from his ghost-like pallor and his hollow eyes, Cordelia couldn’t very well ignore it. She would swallow whatever was left of her pride and her shattered honor and let him go. The mission was more important.

“I made you a promise. I told you I would keep it, and I am.”

If Cordelia hadn’t already been in love with him then, the intensity of his gaze as he delivered those words would’ve done it, surely.

“And I meant what I just said, James. I free you from that promise.”

Mathew, the only other person in the room who knew her secret and pitied her for it, was quick to intervene, to spare her the embarrassment of further discussion on the topic in front of their friends. “Then it’s settled. Jamie and Kit will both go. Tomorrow night, then we will need to regroup here.”

Lucie had never shown up, Cordelia thought after the Merry Thieves had gone. She would need to send her a message. Pondering where her friend had gotten herself, she didn’t notice James cornering her on the way to the master bedchamber, the room they both occupied as far as the Enclave was concerned. James had been courteous enough to let her take it since they wouldn’t need to share one.

“Daisy, we must speak.”

His golden eyes were fixed on her, fierce as a hawk’s gaze. She said, "It doesn’t matter what I said. I wanted them to leave you alone —"

"I don’t believe you," he said. She could feel the slight tremors running through his body — tremors of stress, that meant he was holding himself very still. Holding himself back. "You don’t say things you don’t mean, Daisy —“

“Oh, James. The Angel knows I do.” She took a deep breath and pointed to the Herondale ring on her finger. “Every day of my life I say things I don’t mean.”

“Yes, but not to me,” James said. “You are entirely honest with me, and that’s what I treasure the most about us. About this time. When we are here together, we don’t have to pretend.”

Cordelia’s heart broke. She averted her eyes for a second to focus on her feet, then met his again.

“James, you do not know how much it means to me that you try and pretend like you’re not sacrificing yourself for my sake in all this.”

There was nothing but honesty in his face. “What are you talking about, Daisy, if anything, it was you who did this for me, to save me from the Clave—“

“I am not referring to our marriage,” she said loudly. “I am referring to our promise. I am referring to the fact that you are doing your best to shield me from how much it pains you to keep it. Yet you are determined to keep it, because you are a man of honor, the best of men, no matter the consequences to your own heart.”

His voice softened. “Daisy, cariad—“

A part of her registered he’d never called her that before. It was a term she was used to hearing his parents use. But she had no time to ponder on its meaning at present.

“I can see that you have trouble sleeping at night. How miserable you’ve been. You’re a shadow of yourself, and it has nothing to do with your grandfather. If you miss her this much, you should go see her.”

“Cordelia,” he said, his tone suddenly serious, angry even. The change in name was not lost on her either. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“If you need to see—“ she forced herself to pronounce that name, “Grace, you should go see her.”

“Are you truly encouraging me to commit adultery?”

Internally, she laughed. “Do you believe me such a masochist? I am merely suggesting that you see her, instead of convincing yourself that you don’t want to.”

James dropped on the settee by the window. Cordelia remained standing, despite his silent request that she join him. He was so much taller than her that his head was at level with her chest. She tried not to think about it. James kept his hand on her arm. She was glad for its anchoring presence.

“I am your husband, Daisy,” he started.

“In name only,” she promptly reminded him.

James shook his head. “I placed marriage runes on you and my ring on your finger.” His own fingers touched the shape of the rune on her left arm.

“Rune,” she corrected again. “Just one.” Because you didn’t want the other.

“Cordelia.”

The intensity of his voice made her turn. His eyes were molten gold.

“We are married,” James continued. “You giving me permission to see Grace doesn’t mean I will go see her. I won’t betray your trust.”

“But the mission—“

“I’ll find another way. I would ask that you cease assuming what I am feeling or not feeling, I beg of you. It’s not being married to you that’s making me miserable. On the contrary.”

“Then what is?” She asked boldly. “James, you are wasting away. No one who loved you would want you to sacrifice your own happiness. I certainly don’t.”

“No, Daisy.” He shook his head again, more fervently this time.

“One of us should be happy, James.”

His fingers traced her arm. ��By the Angel, Daisy, I am not unhappy with you. Please do not suggest the contrary. And besides, what do you think would happen? You may bless an adulterous union, but Grace is also engaged, and I doubt that dear Charles would be as magnanimous as you.”

Oh, but he would, Cordelia thought bitterly. No one was keeping James and Grace separated if not their own oaths. But she couldn’t tell James that, because she would need to expose Charles’ secret, and she wasn’t ready to do that as much as she was to expose her brother’s.

“Charles doesn’t need to know,” she lied quickly, although he appeared suddenly lost in thought. “You two could meet in secret tomorrow as per the plan.”

“What did you say?”

“That Charles doesn’t—“

“No, forget Charles. What did you say before? One of us should… gods, Daisy, are you miserable? Is that it? If so, tell me what I am doing wrong and I will do everything in my power and beyond to amend, bach.”

Another Welsh term she’d heard his family use. She shook her head. “There is nothing you can do. Seeing you happy will make me happy.” Only saying it felt like placing a dagger in her own chest.

“I know you dreamt of finding true love and this has shattered those dreams. But you can still have those things. You just need to find the right man and in a year you’ll be with him. I promise I will help.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she took a leap. “What if I’ve already found him?”

That took him by surprise. His eyes widened, he took his hand off her arm. “You… have? This must be even harder for you then. Who is it? If you wish to confide in me, of course.”

“You don’t wish to know, trust me.”

“No, I do. Am I not your friend, Daisy, before I am your husband? And did I not swear to fight your battles and to keep your secrets?”

“This one is better kept unsaid, for both our peace of mind.”

He seemed to consider their words carefully. After a minute of silence, he spoke, his voice calm. “I don’t want to push you. So you are determined not to share this with anyone else? Does Lucie know, at least?”

“No, she doesn’t. Matthew does, but that’s beside the point.”

“Matthew— why would you confide in Math and not me? Daisy, am I such a terrible friend to you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it. But don’t hold your breath, he doesn’t love me back, his affections lay elsewhere.”

“Nonsense. How can a man be indifferent to you?”

She was tired of this conversation, tired of lying to him… “James, can you close the door on your way out?”

“Of course.” He understood at once and instantly stood up from the settee. He towered over her for a moment. “If you wish to speak later, or play some chess before dinner, I’ll be in the other room.”

He made to leave, then turned back to her and before she knew what was happening, he cupped her cheek and kissed her there. His eyes were melancholy. “You mean the world to me, Daisy. I wish I could show you how much.”

He closed the door behind him as she had requested, but she was still frozen in place where he had left her. Her arm and her cheek where he had touched her felt like they were on fire. She was suddenly reminded of the passionate kiss they’d shared in the Whispering Room, and for the first time in a long time, Cordelia questioned her assumption. She freed her hair from their complicated ‘do. Her mind was racing.

She jumped toward her desk, where Lucie’s latest chapter of The Beautiful Cordelia lay half-unread. She gripped the pages and scanned them for a single word. She could swear she’d read it just two days ago… there it was. Characters who were so clearly based on Will and Tessa filled the pages of this chapter. “Cariad” the hero kept calling his long-lost love. “Bach,” she had exclaimed once they were reunited. Cordelia had never paid as much attention as she should have when the Herondales communicated in Welsh, but she wished she had.

Before she could think this through, she sprinted for the door. James was in their drawing room, a worn-out copy of Ovid’s Heroides in his hands.

“Had a change of heart?” he asked without looking up from his book.

“Hardly,” Cordelia said breathlessly.

“Mittor ad Alciden a coniuge conscia mentis / littera si coniunx Deianira tua est,” he read aloud, which slightly annoyed Cordelia. She wasn’t here for a lesson in mythology. And it was beneath James to flaunt his Latin unnecessarily. She remembered he’d made her promise to teach him Farsi, once they were married, but they hadn’t delved down that road so far.

“You know I don’t speak Latin, bach,” she said slowly, doing her best not to mispronounce the last word.

That undoubtedly got his attention and made him meet her eyes. “How fortunate that this text also offers a translation, then. It’s Deianira writing to Hercules after he abandoned her to be with another woman: A letter, that shares her feelings, sent to Alcides / By your wife, if Deianira is still your wife.”

“James, can we not discuss mythology at present?”

“What mythology?” he grinned as he pushed the book aside.

“I have a confession to make.” She walked toward him this time.

His eyes were gentle. “Only if you truly want to, Daisy.”

“I haven’t been entirely forthcoming with you all these months. That’s what’s making me miserable. I don’t want to lie to you, James, and I’m tired of doing so.”

“I’m listening.”

“I said I’d met the right man, and that at least wasn’t a lie. Do you know what it’s like, to have everything you’ve ever wanted but it’s just pretend?”

“Yes,” he said calmly. “I do.”

Grace, she thought, because they’d been together in secret for years, had almost run away together.

“No,” she replied, “You don’t. Not this way.”

James suddenly stood. “Will you quit saying what you think I feel or don’t feel? It’s the third time today, Daisy. If you wish to know something, just ask, do not assume.”

“But I already know. You’ve told me.”

James, you don’t love me, she had said. No, I don’t, he had replied after his haste proposal.

“You feel what you feel and I cannot fault you for it. I can hardly fault my own heart.”

“Daisy,” he said then. “What are you saying?”

She took another deep breath and jumped into the abyss. “It’s you, James. It’s always been you.” The earth beneath her threatened to swallow her whole. “I’ve loved you all my life.”

“You can’t mean—”

"I know it’s not what you want, but it won’t change anything between us. I’ve tried to stop, but I have been unsuccessful. This is my predicament and there is nothing either of us can do about it. We can stay friends and companions, the way we have these months. What if I just love you? What if I love you but I never touch you or talk about it, what would happen then?"

Cordelia wasn’t sure he was breathing. After an interminable time, his lips finally parted to say something.

She never knew what, because one moment he was there, his hand on her arm, and the next he was gone.

It appeared they hadn’t destroyed the shadow realm after all.

/// There you have it. Sorry for the cliffhanger. Sorry if you hated the entire story. Again, I kind of hate it too. If you enjoyed it, that makes me happy <3 I’ll go back to writing meta and speculation now.