#I might write this into a more proper fic if I can corral the armed toddler that is my ADHD long enough to do so

[lumi-klovstad-games]

I did too good a job coming up with Branwen Ailani.

My head keeps trying to write fanfiction where she returns when I don't want it to. But I can just imagine Angron returning again (as he does) and the Lion is getting ready to throw down with him again, but Ailani intervenes and manages to calm this DAEMON PRINCE OF KHORNE with her mere words and presence. The entire battle loses energy at her arrival. Her Marines, the Hospitallers, do what they do best: evacuate innocents and the wounded trapped in the crossfire. They stabilize the dying. They reinforce the Imperium's defenses despite being unknown to the defenders, and their aid unasked for. And the Lion sees this mysterious woman, who has the formidable presence only a Primarch could have (but how could she there ARE no women Primarchs?), walk right up the the Blood God's Champion and halt him in his tracks with mere words. He sees the flames wreathing his lost brother flicker and die, as this crazy woman does the unthinkable and reaches out to gently touch the face of the Daemon Prince.

"What has this universe done to you, dearest brother?" she asks, pressing her forehead to his in a gesture of utter madness, "I have known your hurt in the past, yet it is so much greater now. This is not who you are. It never was. This is only what your masters told you that you must be, but deep down you are still your own man. Buried in hurt, drowning in suffering, lost in anger and sadness. I cannot fix your pain by myself. These wounds are too great even for me -- but if you would help me, brother, we can do it together."

And the Lion sees something happen he never expected: a twinge in Angron's eyes. It's there, only for a moment, but there's no mistaking it: his brother still lives, and begins to fight the devilry of his flesh for control for the first time in 10,000 years. Angron retreats in the face of Ailani's superhuman mercy and kindness, along with her healing touch and soothing aura, all of which has put cracks in Khorne's control of the Twelfth Primarch, something nobody thought possible.

The Lion doesn't know this woman, or her marines. But they know HIM. And she greets him like an old friend, a sibling, even.

There has been much talk of "delivering the Emperor's Mercy" in the past 10 millennia. But when the time came, the Emperor's Mercy delivered Herself back to the galaxy, and many reintroductions have been far too long overdue.

[jmflowers]

3, 15, 17 for the fanfic ask 😊

3. Do you prefer canonverse or AUs?

I think for reading, I always lean more towards canonverse. I like those fill-in scene fics and being some place in a story that is ultimately really familiar. Canon fics are the ones I most often go back to and read again.

As for writing, I find myself much more drawn to AUs. I was always very, very driven by character development when in school and required to write my own creations, but I never really felt like I got good at world-building or plot lines. I started writing fanfiction specifically because it gave me established characters and, as such, forced me to get better at the other stuff.

15. Post the last line you wrote without context.

A lighthouse, guiding Charity home to safe harbour.

17. Describe a fic that is still in the ‘ideas’ stage.

I wish this one was more than just an idea because I love the concept so much and it was so cathartic to write the first two parts, but I’ve been stuck on it for months and I’m not sure where to go with it next.

It’s called Hell & Back, inspired by the song of the same name by Maren Morris. I wanted to write something in second person that had an actual plot, as opposed to the usual character analysis style I typically do in second person POV. So far, I have written two interactions: the first and second times Vanessa meets Charity.

I don’t know how to talk about this one without giving it all away… I’m just gonna post part one here and we’ll see what happens...

               You meet Charity on a Thursday, when the sun has finally given way to the storm clouds that have been creeping closer all morning. The rain pelts down in cold, hard slaps as you bend over a sheep that looks about as miserable as you’re starting to feel, examining its hooves for what you’re certain might be the start of foot rot in the herd. Moira won’t be pleased, not in the slightest.

               “Shouldn’t you be ducking for cover?” someone calls over the sound of the rain, their voice slicing through the rising crescendo to reach your ears.

               You twist, startled, looking up quickly to find the source. It’s a woman, stood about four yards away, watching you with her arms crossed atop the fence. There’s a fog that seems to hover around her, rising slowly like the steam above a hot cup of tea. It’s something you should look at closer, you’ll realize later, but in the moment, it flits away from conscious thought in the passing breeze.

               You shiver, the rain well and truly soaked into your coveralls now, bits of hair plastered to your forehead in such a way that you’re sure isn’t flattering. Not like in those movies Tracy keeps making you watch. 

               “Shouldn’t you?” you retort, already turning your attention back to the sheep struggling in your hands. Fickle creatures, them; smart enough to recognize each other but not to see that you’re only there to help. You pull it harder onto its hindquarters, rendering it unable to escape and earning a pathetic bleat in response.

               “Really rather be torturing sheep than cuddled up warm and dry?” It’s the woman again, her voice suddenly closer than it’d been before. You look up just in time to see her leaning over the side of the pen you’re in, pulling a face at the animal in your arms. Your eyes flick to the gate she’d been stood beside before, the chain still wrapped securely around the fence post just as you’d left it.

               “I’m not torturing it,” you murmur, eyes dragging back to her face. Did you miss the sound of her hopping the fence? Are you so tuned out that you wouldn’t be aware of someone approaching like that?

               She laughs, the green of her eyes almost sparkling as she tips her chin up into the air. “Don’t know that he’d agree with that statement, babe.” She’s near enough now that you can count the freckles trailing down her neck, guiding your eyes to the dip at the top of her jacket.

               “She,” you say without thinking, always just a breath from correcting. Like your mother, that; a habit you’d always hated when you were on the receiving end.

               But she doesn’t scrunch up her nose like Tracy does when you do the same to her, voicing annoyance louder than her words ever could. No, Charity just tilts her head and hums out one of those noises that sounds like a question, as though she’d rather you explain further than shut right up.

               “This is a ewe, not a ram,” you offer, trying to pull back that prim and proper tone that seems to appear whenever you’re clarifying something. It’s like a flashback to being sat in the front row at school, pretending you didn’t hear the girls snickering behind you. “Male sheep have horns, females don’t.” Even Rhona’s teased you for it, mimicking after she’d overheard you giving directions to a client.

               “Huh,” Charity says, dropping her gaze to the animal once more, “Guess that’s why everyone always assumes the devil’s a man.”

               It’s a funny thing to say, odd enough that you freeze for a moment before you manage to come up with a response. Later, you’ll understand why she did, when you know her well enough to grasp the twists and turns of her mind. But not right now. No, the first time you meet her, you just think she’s a strange one.

               “Male and female goats both have horns,” you sputter when the quiet between you has stretched on for too long. You want to kick yourself the second her eyes flick back to you, her gaze so clearly telling that it is you – not her – whom she thinks is odd.

               “Is that right?” she asks with a smirk, “Always did like them better.”

               You, too, though you don’t say. Not normal conversation, is it, to tell a stranger that you’ve always preferred that gentle knowingness hidden behind a goat’s eye? Be a vet, Vanessa, if you must, your mother had said, But, don’t be one of those people who only speaks of animals.

               The prim and proper comes from her, you know, all the things you’d been poked and teased for stemming from the ideal daughter she’d tried to craft you into. Not like your father, who laughs when he shouldn’t and smiles when it’s impolite and says the sorts of things you’d never dare to. You wonder, often, how they ever got together long enough to have you.

               “So, what are you doing then?” she asks, lurching her body further over the pen until you can feel her breath beside your head. It’s hot, much hotter than you’re prepared for when the cold is so busy burrowing into your bones. She keeps her eyes trained on your hands, trying to get a good look at the hoof you’re clutching – not a pretty one, either, not the sort you’d ever show anyone other than Paddy or Rhona. You tuck it a little lower, trying to hide the swelling beneath some wool.

               “They’re sick,” you mutter, your brain spiralling backwards to the game plan you’d been formulating before she’d interrupted. You’ll need one, before you head up to the house to tell Moira what’s going on. It’s likely the field, you think, all this low-lying ground and the abundance of rain in the past few weeks has surely not helped the situation.

               “With what?” Charity presses. Her breath feels like fire where it meets your neck, scalding the gooseflesh beneath your ponytail as she speaks.

              You lean away, lowering your arm enough that the sheep squirms hard in your grasp, knocking you off balance. You fall back against the fence, hands grappling behind yourself to grab onto something sturdy. The sheep takes its opportunity, tipping to the side before scrambling to its feet and taking off towards the others. They bleat at the new arrival, corralling themselves into a bunch beneath the only tree at the far edge of the pen.

              You huff, frustrated instantly and unsure where to lay the blame. You can feel your brow furrowing when you turn to meet her eye, catching the twinkle and the smirk that you assume are present at your expense. “Foot rot,” you mutter, pushing away from the fence angrily. Won’t be easy to catch that one again, now that it’s had a taste, especially not when the field’s gone slick with mud.

               “Sounds gross,” she says, dropping down off the fence to follow as you stalk across the pen to your bag. The rain has sent splatters of mud up the side of it, a match to the boots on your feet. “You a farmer, then?” she asks.

               The laugh comes before you can decide whether you mean to or not, a breath bursting across your lips at the notion of you in Moira’s shoes, depending on animals for your livelihood in a different sort of way than you already do. No, you’ve never quite managed to imagine a clean picture of yourself with a farm, always something just slightly off that made you shy away.

               “’Fraid not,” you chuckle, “I’m a vet.”

               She nods knowingly, stepping back out of the way when you open the gate to the outer laneway where she stands. “They’ll be okay, then?” she murmurs, eyes shifting over your shoulder to the herd.

               You shrug, because it’s not a guarantee of course – none of these things ever are – but you’ve caught it early enough that you don’t anticipate too much damage. Some zinc sulfate baths to start, a round of vaccinations if it comes to it, and the sheep will be good as new in no time. “They’ll be fine,” you answer, “Though I might not be, when I tell Moira she’ll have to spend the next few weeks coaxing them into a few feet of solution to stave off the infection.”

               Charity laughs, the sound lighting something low in your belly. The rain feels distant when you’re stood so close to her, the wet of your coveralls barely a blip in your mind though you’ll be desperate for a hot shower the second she’s gone.

               “Well, best be careful, then,” she suggests, the remnants of her smile softening the edges of her words, “Wouldn’t want to miss seeing you again.”

               She turns away before you can formulate an answer, strolling down the laneway toward the open fields at the back of the property. You have half a mind to call after her, to invite her inside for a cuppa and a towel, but she’s over the hill before you can find the courage to shout.

               It’s not until much later, when you’re laid in bed replaying the day in your mind that you realize she hadn’t much seemed like she’d needed a towel. She hadn’t much seemed like the rain had touched her at all.

[veliseraptor]

I did this meme three weeks ago but I feel like I wanna do it again to see if I can corral my brain into cooperating with me. 

Here are my WIPs! Send me a number and I’ll add 150 words to that story or edit for 15 minutes, depending on how complete it is. If I get the same number multiple times, I have to write more for that fic!

Eleven WIPs eligible for this meme (and 11 excerpts) under the read more.

1. And then there was Foster. Jane. There was no question as to what Doom wanted with her - undoubtedly her help using the Tesseract. But she was brave - foolishly brave. Loki would not be surprised if she refused outright. What would Doom do to her then? He couldn’t kill her, not while he needed her. Could he? Would he control her mind as he had tried to do to Loki? Torture her?

Thor would no doubt blame Loki for anything that happened to her. He had threatened her last time they’d seen each other. Loki felt vaguely ill at the reminder, and pushed it hard away. Dr. Foster, he reminded himself, was a detail. Her capture was unfortunate but primarily concerning because of its part in the wider picture.

Take care, Loki, she’d said. I hope you’re wrong. About what Thor might do.

I believe you. Just tell me how I can help.

Forget about her, Loki thought savagely. Focus. (Life in Reverse)

2. Steve wasn’t sure how Sam got everyone to step back and, if not sit down, at least a little further from erupting into violence. He was pretty sure it was some kind of miracle.

Loki placed himself as far from Bucky as possible, still wild-eyed and looking like he was just barely holding together. Bucky stood where he could see the door and the windows as well as Sam, Steve, and Loki, his expression stony. Steve longed to go over to him but planted himself in the middle, equidistant from both Loki and Bucky so if one of them moved he could respond quickly. Hopefully quickly enough.

“Loki,” he said. Loki’s eyes didn’t budge from Bucky, looking like he was about to start vibrating. “Loki,” Steve tried again, “Bucky’s not…part of HYDRA.” Bucky twitched at that name, and Steve wanted to apologize. He held back, for now. After this, when things had calmed down and he could actually talk to Bucky… “He’s a friend.”

Loki looked like he wasn’t sure whether he was going to try to go through the wall behind him or lunge at Bucky. “A friend,” he said, almost spat. “Then why was he there?” (Steve Rogers’ Halfway House for Notorious Supervillains)

3. A group protesting the alien invasion of the Earth (referring, Loki could only assume, to Thor, since the Chitauri were manifestly no longer present) set off a bomb in Cleveland, Ohio that had spewed a toxin that killed in seconds and were threatening to use another. Loki suspected they were not aware that their weaponry was alien in origin. Kree, if he did not miss his guess.

At any rate, naturally the Avengers were there, and he followed.

He meant just to watch. To take the measure of the situation and observe Rogers more closely, so he could be certain his protection could be effective.

That lasted about as long as it took for Rogers to run into an infected building and not come out again. Loki watched for thirty seconds, sixty, ninety…

No one else seemed to have noticed. Or else were just busy enough with their own difficulties not to notice.

Damn it. (Someone to Watch Over You)

4. He continued.

That was the best way Loki could think of to describe it – he did not feel it could be called living. Staring at the ceiling and listening to the quiet drip of the leak in an apartment above him, it occurred to Loki that perhaps that could describe everything he had done since falling from Asgard – since the first time he had decided to die, only to find that death would not accept him. Continuing. Forging doggedly onward because he did not know how to stop.

Apparently he still did not, though he also did not know how to do anything else. He hovered somewhere in between, like a shadow, a ghost. Just substantial enough to feel hunger pangs and thirst, to feel pain and weariness.

That last most of all. He was so tired, and that weight never left him no matter how long he slept. (post svartalfheim au)

5. Thor reached out to grab Loki’s arm and held it fast. “Explain,” he said, his voice vibrating. “Explain to me. Did you – I felt you die. You did not breathe, your heart was still-”

“I know what death is, Thor,” Loki said, trying to shake his hand off. “I lived it. As it were.” Something slipped across his face and was gone in a flash. “Obviously it did not stick, as you can see. That is unimportant right now-”

“Unimportant?” Thor burst out, incredulous. “How can you say – how, Loki, tell me how!”

Loki hissed. “Must you always ask the stupidest questions? How does not matter, nor does why. Do you want to stay here and wait for Her Majesty’s guard to catch us? She may decide to forgo the proper sacrifice and simply kill you prematurely. I am sure that prospect delights you.”

Anger throbbed in Thor’s stomach even as memory of Hela sent a shiver down his spine. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Fine,” he said, through his teeth. “We will do as you say and go. But do not think I will forget this. You will tell me the truth.”

“Ah, yes, the truth,” Loki said, and this time Thor let him yank his arm out of his grip. “Such a simple thing.” (Sword Age, Wolf Age)

6. “I will not go back to Asgard.” Loki’s voice was hard. “And I will not believe – why come now? How did he even learn that I was here?” Loki shook his head. “They want something from me, and that is the only reason Thor has been sent. And when he is refused – he may seem impatient and boorish now, but you have not seen his temper.”

Delightful, Steve thought. Aloud, he said, “you don’t have to go back, Loki. I’ll stand by you on that. He can’t make you do anything without going through me.”

“That is what worries me,” Loki said quietly, but after a moment seemed to shake himself. “You said you knew this…SHIELD. Who are they?”

“A secret organization,” Steve said. “They were…the people who dug me out of the ice, as far as I can tell. At least, they were the people who were there when I woke up. Gave me some resources and turned me loose, though I get the impression that they did it with the implied expectation I’d come when they called.”

Loki glanced toward the front seat, and Steve saw his fingers flick very slightly. “And what do they know about me?” He asked bluntly. Steve shook his head slowly.

“I don’t know. You weren’t...in any of the official histories, but…Peggy was part of the SSR, and the SSR turned into SHIELD. I don’t know what she might’ve said, or to who.”

“Ms. Carter was involved with these people?” Loki said, with a mixture of startlement and disdain. Steve held in the urge to laugh. (Thunderstorms)

7. Natasha found him there maybe an hour later and sat down next to him. “Heard you’re having trouble with your new assignment,” she said.

“You could say that,” Steve said wearily.

“I’d say ‘buyer’s remorse’ but that would probably be tacky,” she said. Steve winced, and she sat down. “Tony looked like he wanted to go on a three day bender when I saw him earlier. Anything you want to talk about?”

“How would you handle this?” Steve asked. Natasha’s eyebrows quirked.

“I wouldn’t have taken the job to begin with,” she said. “In fact, I didn’t. As far as I’m concerned, Asgard should have him back, and good riddance.” Steve grimaced, and she eyed him. “I’m pretty sure they only let Thor saddle us with him because they’re waiting for Loki to kill one of us so they can execute him without Thor getting in the way.”

Steve frowned. “Loki agrees with you.”

“That is…a disconcerting sentence,” Natasha said after a moment. “All right, I’ll humor you. What does Loki agree with me about?”

“That this sentence is a sham. Only he seems to think that the Council is trying to inconvenience me into giving him back.” Steve gave her a weary look. “Slavery would be bad enough, Nat. But this is torture.”

“There’s often not much of a line between the two.” (Tear My Castle Down)

8. “Do you think it’s Ross?” Clint asked, finally. “Seems to me like there’d be more bullet holes involved, if it was him.”

“If not Ross then who,” Bucky snapped, barely pausing in his pacing. “If someone has an idea of an alternative, now’s a good time to speak up, but I’m not sure we shouldn’t just shake Ross and see what falls out anyway.”

“Aliens,” Clint said, simply, and when they looked at him, shrugged. “I’m serious. We know they’re out there. We know a lot of them want Loki’s head on a stick, and they might consider a Earth hero a great bonus. That’d explain how they got in.”

Wanda swayed forward. “I didn’t sense anything,” she said. “Any magic, or…”

“Would you, if you didn’t recognize the type?” Clint asked, his voice going gentler. Pietro scowled at Sam, of all things.

“Aliens,” Bucky said flatly, staring at Clint. “If you think that’s what happened what do you suggest we do about it?”

Clint’s expression flickered. “Do you have a portal lying around somewhere, Barnes? I don’t know. You going to kill me over that?” (we’re not the only ones)

9. “You cannot heal death, Eir,” Loki mumbled. His eyes were still closed, and he did not sound quite conscious, but he clearly listened.

“You are not dead, Loki,” Eir said. “Despite your efforts in that direction.”

“Not yet,” Loki said. “But I am. Halfway. It just needs to finish.”

Eir glanced at Sif, who shook her head. “You need to stop this,” she said.

“No,” Loki said almost dreamily. “I need to end it.” He opened his eyes, an odd expression on his face suddenly, fear and distress. “No,” he said, seemingly to empty air. “Don’t leave me. Please. You have to stay.”

“Loki,” Eir said sternly. “There is no one there.”

A moment later he slumped and let out a shuddering sigh. “Not anymore,” he said, sounding suddenly very sad. “She’s gone.” (We Two)

10. Something faintly familiar about this boy prickled at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t quite pin it down. He looked - maybe ten or twelve, younger than her own sons, but small even for his age. His black hair looked mussed and like it needed a trim; her fingers itched a little for scissors to at least get it out of his eyes.

Wanda shook herself. This was a strange boy who had appeared in her house, and she knew well that few things were exactly what they seemed. “Who are you?” She asked, more firmly. “And what are you doing in my apartment?”

The boy looked a little surprised by the question. “Looking for you, of course,” he said. “You are Lady Wanda Maximoff, right?”

Lady Wanda Maximoff, she thought. That was a new one. “Yes,” she said. “I am, but that doesn’t really answer the question. Either one.”

The boy - squirmed. She studied his face, trying to puzzle out the source of that strange familiarity. “Oh, well,” he said. “You’re arguably the most powerful sorcerer - sorceress - on this - ah, planet, excepting maybe Doctor Strange, but he’s a bit - well, I don’t think we’d get along.” He gave Wanda a hopeful smile, eyes widening a calculated hair. “I’m very curious about magic, and there’s only so much one can get from books.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes. “So you broke into my house?” (untitled Wanda and Kid!Loki fic)

11. “My right,” she said in disgust. “So it’d be justified, because-? Never mind. Don’t answer that.” She made a noise back in her throat. “It bothers me because it disgusts me.” Loki went rigid, and she went on before he could interrupt. “It disgusts me that, no matter what you say about consent, apparently no one ever thought to mention to you that consent still matters when you’re asking someone to hurt you. It disgusts me that I could have – have? – done something you didn’t want and you didn’t tell me to stop because you didn’t think you had the right. And it disgusts me that you can’t tell the difference between torture and sex because apparently for you there isn’t one.”

Loki blinked at her like she was speaking a strange language, and Natasha resisted the urge to strangle him. He’d let her, too. She remembered last time she had. He’d stopped her before it’d gone too far, but she’d tested it because she hadn’t quite believed he would.

She’d known, even then, that she was walking a dangerous line. But she hadn’t thought about what it might mean. Not really. (Privation)