#I’ve had this in my WIP file for far too long

[its-wabby-stuff]

Mikey Goes To Oz

<Time spent: 49 hours 17 minutes>

When Mikey takes some time away from a loud family squabble he accidentally ends up getting “flushed” down the sewers. This winds up sending him to the colorful land of Oz where he meets a good witch, a wicked witch, a brainless scarecrow, a heartless Tinman, a cowardess lion, and a powerful wizard, all disguised behind very familiar faces.

A canon adjacent spin off set before the season one finale but after they discover Splinter is Lou Jitsu

I wanted to fit each of the boys into their “you’ve had this all along” category. Leo isn’t brainless, in fact he’s pretty clever with a street smart, people reading ability on par with Donnie’s intelligence. Donnie isn’t heartless, he just has a tough time expressing his feelings. They are complex and unalgorithic but he can get just as excited or sad or angry as anyone, as much as he may deny it. Raph isn’t a coward, but being brave sometimes means admitting you’re scared and that you maybe don’t have all the answers. You dont have to be strong all the time and you don’t have to do it by yourself.

In the movie Dorothy’s journey home is also a representation of her running away. The important thing was to remember there were people who cared about her. Mikey is experiencing a similar phenomenon, wanting the escape the bad vibes in the lair. His “you’ve had it all along” is interesting because it is an object, since the Ruby kneepads could’ve taken him home the whole time. And sometimes getting home means going on a journey only to realize you never left.

I put April as Glinda because Glinda appears as a defender of the weak, and I see April in a similar light. Always willing to help and beat someone up if it is so required. Splinter as The Wizard of Oz represents Splinters own willingness to hide behind different personas, his running from the past and the pulling back of the curtain for Mikey in timeline. The Wizard grows through the movie, albeit quickly, and ends up leaving Oz to go home leaving his legacy with the scarecrow, the Tinman, and the lion. In this case the passing of the baton to his sons.

Meanwhile Draxum as the wicked witch felt much more how Mikey sees Draxum at this time in the show, mostly just an antagonistic force who wants something from them. Fun fact: I imagine throughout this dream, Draxum is uninterested in being the wicked witch but is pressed into it via plot. Hence his disinterest in being “melted.”

Additional characters not pictured: Big Mama as the Wicked Witch of the East (those were her Ruby kneepads!!) and Todd as the Mayor of Munchkin Land. If you can think of more, feel free to leave them in the comments or tags.

[melanchol1cs]

FRUITS OF THE FLESH.

widow!reader x priest!leon

word count: 3.4k summary: a man reaps what he sows. masterlist | taglist | wips

18+ MDNI. catholicism, religious connotations, no specific time frame but i’d like to say victorian era-ish, alot of allusions to the lord or god, reader’s dead husband idk, inner conflict, denial, guilt, leon asking for forgiveness like a hundred times, kissing, oral(r!receiving), fingering, unprotected sex.

a/n: started this like two months ago, just had the motivation to finally finish. i don’t really know how i feel about my writing on this one… i feel like i’ve lost all my skills after not writing for a few weeks

grief is truly a horrible thing. an all-consuming force that threatens to eat you from the inside out.

it’s a shadow that lingers, a specter that moves silently but persistently, weaving itself into the fabric of every moment. it does not announce its presence with fanfare, nor does it depart when you will it to. instead, it creeps, slow and steady, like the cold wind before a storm, pressing against your chest until breathing feels like a sin.

grief is not a feeling; it is a presence. it is a weight, heavy and suffocating, as if drowning in a dark, endless sea. the surface is so far above, unreachable, and the water presses in from all sides, choking the breath from your lungs. there’s simply no escaping it. eve when you close your eyes, hoping for a moment of peace, it finds you there too.

grief is a thief that takes more than just what you’ve lost—it takes time, peace, and clarity. it takes pieces of you.

and ever since your husband’s death, you’ve been trying to pick those pieces back up. but they slip through your fingers like sand, scattering in the wind, impossible to gather in their entirety. every attempt to rebuild feels futile, as though you’re trying to piece together a puzzle with missing parts, the picture never quite forming the way it once did.

the room is relatively empty, save for a few devout attenders who are spread out in their pews. the priest stands on the altar, the candlelight casting a soft glow on his features as he continues the mass. it’s a somewhat traditional ceremony, filled with prayers and rituals that you’d grown accustomed to.

the priest stands before the small congregation, the words of the mass flowing effortlessly from his lips.

you sit near the back, hands folded tightly in your lap. the rhythmic cadence of the priest’s voice, the latin prayers echoing in the cavernous space, should bring you some semblance of peace, but it doesn’t. it feels distant, as though you’re watching the service through a veil, separated from the others.

the priest's voice drones on, a familiar melody that fails to soothe the ragged edges of your heart. you feel like an outsider, a stranger among the devoted faithful. even the rituals that once brought comfort now seem hollow, the prayers falling flat against the weight of your sorrow.

as the mass draws to a close, the priest's eyes meet yours, his gaze piercing and knowing. for a moment, you feel like an animal trapped in his sights, vulnerable and exposed.

the priest's gaze lingers on you a moment longer than necessary as he processes the end of the mass. the small congregation begins to file out of the pew, murmuring gentle blessings and well-wishes to one another. he watches them go, his eyes lingering on each face, before turning to face you once more.

the nave slowly empties, leaving only a handful of devotees behind, including yourself. he remains at the altar, hands folded in quiet contemplation. the soft rustle of the evening breeze carries the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves, a melancholy reminder of the passing seasons.

"you stayed behind," leon observes, his voice a gentle whisper.

"is there something on your mind, my child?" he approaches you slowly, his large frame casting a long shadow across the stone floor.

“no, father, everything’s fine," you lie through your teeth, your voice barely a whisper.

"is all well?" there's a pause, and in it, you sense an invitation to share your burdens, to unburden yourself to this man of the cloth. but the words stick in your throat, tangled around the aching void your husband left.

what could you possibly say? what good would it do? the priest's eyes search yours, his face etched with compassion. then, he nods, as if he understands the futility of words.

he accepts your silence, his gaze softening with understanding. in this sacred space, he knows better than to pry, to force confessions or unburdenings. instead, he allows you the solitude you crave, the quiet contemplation you so desperately need.

the silence between you stretches on, a fragile truce that exists solely in this sacred space. it's a comfort, of sorts, to have this shared quiet, a reminder that even in the depths of your grief, there are still moments of solace to be found.

"i'll leave you be for now," leon says eventually, his voice a gentle murmur that breaks the spell.

"thank you, father." he nods, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips as he takes his leave, the soft rustle of his robes the only sound in the hallowed space.

eventually, you rise, stretching your stiff limbs. the cool stone beneath your feet is a jarring contrast to the warmth of the pew. making your way to the front of the church, you light a candle, your fingers brushing against the smooth glass as you set it upon the altar. the flame flickers to life, casting a warm, golden glow over the surrounding statues.

you linger a moment longer, savoring the peaceful atmosphere, before making your way out.

the church is bathed in an eerie, moonlit glow when you return late that night. the candle you lit earlier still burns, its flame a slowly dying down.

you move with a quiet reverence, your footsteps muffled by the soft carpeting as you make your way to the front row of pews. you've come seeking answers, but none present themselves as you approach the altar. the statue of the crucified christ looms above, his suffering face a poignant reminder of the pain that accompanies loss.

the shadows cast by the statues seem to deepen and twist, taking on a life of their own in the dim light. a shiver runs down your spine, the fine hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. something feels off, a discordant note that you can't quite place.

you pray, hoping it’ll all go away, but unease persists.

it's subtle at first, a whispered thought on the edge of your consciousness. but the longer you have your back turned, the more you feel as if someone is behind you. but you don’t dare look.

not until it speaks.

“what are you doing here, my child?," you hear him say softly, his voice carrying a note of gentle warning. "you shouldn't be here this late."

his words send a chill down your spine, the softness of his tone at odds with the tension emanating from him. you slowly turn around, your heart pounding in your chest. leon stands just behind your seat, his silhouette large and imposing against the blackness outside. his eyes glint in the candlelight, a predatory keenness that makes your blood run cold.

"father," you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady. "i... i just felt the need to pray," he takes a step closer, his footsteps deliberate and heavy.

"at this hour? prayers can wait till morning. you shouldn't be here, not alone, not now.”

“but, why?” you ask, a hint of fear creeping into your voice. “does the church not allow visitors at any time?”

guilt pricks at his heart, a sharp pang of conscience that he's not entirely sure he wants to acknowledge. “no, of course not. the church doors are always open. but this is late, and you're alone... it's just not safe,” his tone is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of something else - a hunger he's trying his damnedest to suppress.

“is that really the reason, father?”

guilt gnaws at him, a growing sense of unease that he can't quite shake. "of course, that's the only reason," he lies, his voice wavering slightly. but the truth lingers in the air, a palpable tension that he can't seem to dissipate.

he takes a step closer, drawn to you like a moth to flame despite his better judgment. "perhaps... perhaps i misjudged. the church's doors are always open, for the faithful and the lost alike," his eyes roam over your face, drinking in the curves of your features, the softness of your skin in the candlelight. “especially to you.”

a low groan escapes him, half-desire, half-anguish. "forgive me, child. i should not be saying these things,”

“no, wait—“ you softly reach for his arm.

he freezes at the touch, his breath catching in his throat as your fingers make contact with his arm. the sensation sends a jolt of electricity through him, his resolve crumbling like sand beneath the tide.

"don't," he whispers, his voice rough with strain. "please, don't." but even as the words leave his lips, he can't bring himself to pull away, to sever the connection between you.

“but i haven’t done anything, father,”

"you've done plenty, my child," he murmurs, his voice thick with a mix of longing and self-loathing. "just by being here, by existing... you've awakened desires i thought long buried." leon's breathing grows ragged, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

he steps closer still, the heat of his body radiating towards you like a physical manifestation of his turmoil. "i am a man, not a saint," his confession hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of his forbidden attraction.

“and…” he shakes his head, a bitter struggle that leaves him weak-kneed and aching. "i should send you home," he murmurs, his hand coming up to cover yours, to hold it in place. "before we both regret this.”

“no, please don’t push me away, father,” you plead.

his eyes flicker closed, as if in supplication to some higher power, as the admission spills from his lips: "i'm sorry, child. so very sorry for what i am about to do.”

his body crowds yours, crushing the air from your lungs with the sheer force of his need. his mouth descends, claiming yours in a bruising kiss that sets your very soul ablaze. the world narrows to the taste of him — smoke, spice, and something uniquely his own.

it's overwhelming, consuming, and yet, somehow, it's the most natural thing in the world.

and when you end up pushed up against his office desk, the wood cold and unforgiving against your back, you know things have gone irrevocably awry. his hands, so recently devoted to guiding prayer, now roam the curves of your body with a reverence bordering on the religious.

your lips part on a gasp, allowing him greater access, and he seizes the invitation with a fervor that leaves you breathless. large hands roam your body, mapping the contours of your frame with a desperation that belies his years of discipline. he breaks the kiss only to trail open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, the rapid beating of your pulse point a siren's call he's powerless to resist.

he's shaking, the tremors starting deep within, spreading outward through his muscles like ripples on a pond's surface.

"forgive me, lord," he whispers to himself, as if seeking divine absolution from the sin that he’s about to commit. but even as the plea leaves his lips, he doesn't let go. instead, he raises your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your knuckles.

then he's on his knees in front of you, hands grasping at the hem of your dress. the fabric rustles as he pushes it upward, baring your thighs to his hungry gaze. his breath is heavy, face mere inches from your center.

"tell me to stop," he pleads, his voice a ragged whisper. "command me to sin no more, and i will obey.”

for a moment, he teeters on the brink, the line between devotion and lust blurring until it's nearly indistinguishable. "please," leon's eyes lock onto yours, searching for the strength to resist, to obey his vows. but what he finds there is surrender, a silent plea that sends his resolve crumbling like the weakest brick.

"father," you breathe, his name a prayer on your lips.

he closes his eyes, a silent, anguished prayer issuing forth from his lips. his hands tremble as they part your legs wider, stealing a breath from your chest. slowly, reverently, he leans in, finally dragging you underwear down, exposing you to his gaze.

"you are so beautiful,"

his voice cracks on the words, a mixture of awe, reverence, and raw, animal desire. he can't tear his eyes away from your unveiled flesh, drinking in the sight like a man dying of thirst.

"pray with me," he murmurs, his breath hot against your slick folds. "ask for forgiveness, for the sins we are about to commit." even as he speaks, he's dragging his tongue along your inner thigh, the sensation making you gasp and shudder.

"our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,”

his hands roam your hips, gripping the soft flesh as if to steady himself against the waves of his own depravity.

“thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven,"

each curve of your body yields to his touch as his fingertips traced a path of fire across your skin. desperation and control tangled within his gestures, gripping onto the softness beneath his hands as he strives to anchor himself against the tumultuous waves of desire and decadence that threaten to crash over him.

“glory be to the father, and to the son, and to the holy spirit…”

the words are a broken whisper, a plea for mercy that's drowned out by the urgent throb of his own need.

“amen.”

he brings his mouth to you at last, and with a groan of surrender, he begins to eat you out with a hunger that knows no bounds.

he laves at your clit with a fervor that leaves you panting and weak-kneed. you're a mess of whimpers and moans, your hands fisting in his hair as he works you over. leon's grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into the flesh as he eats you out with a single-minded determination.

"yes, yes, just like that," you babble, your voice a desperate chant, even as your vision starts to blur at the edges.

one of his hands drifts lower, his fingers seeking out the entrance to your womb. he teases the delicate skin, tracing the outline of your slit before slipping a finger inside. a low groan rumbles in his chest at the slick heat that envelops him, urging him on.he works two fingers in and out of you in a steady rhythm, the lewd squelch of your juices only further fueling his own desire.

"please, father, i need—" the words die on your lips as a particularly intense thrust of his fingers sends you plummeting over the brink.

his eyes blaze with an unholy light as he takes in your ravished expression, his own need reaching a fever pitch. he surges to his feet, shedding his robe and shoving his pants down with a desperate haste. he reaches for you, pulling you forward effortlessly, as if you weigh nothing at all.

he wraps a hand around himself, stroking himself in time with the frantic beat of his heart. "i'm sorry," he whispers, his voice raw with anguish and guilt. "so very sorry."

he hovers over you, his thick length prodding, seeking entrance to the very core of your being. you help guide him in, a hand slowly pushing back on the back if his neck as the thick head of his cock breaching your entrance with a slight burning sensation. he groans, his hips bucking forward as he sheathes himself fully within you.

for a moment, you're both still, letting the intensity of it all wash over you.

and he starts to move forward, inch by inch, the wooden desk creaks in protest beneath you. his eyes squeeze shut as he buries himself to the hilt, your slick walls clenching around him like a vice.

"oh, my lord, forgive me," he breathes, his forehead coming to rest against yours as he struggles to still the tremors that rack his frame. "i am a man undone.”

he starts to move, slowly at first, each thrust a testament to the effort it takes him to resist the primal urge to rut into you like an animal in heat. his hips rise and fall in a deliberate rhythm, each stroke drawing a gasp from your lips.

"you feel so good," he rasps, his breath hot against your skin. he pulls nearly all the way out before plunging back in, the slick glide of his thick length a pleasure unlike anything you've ever known.

sweat drips from his brow as he pounds into you with a fervor that borders on religious ecstasy. each thrust is a prayer, a confession, a plea for absolution. his eyes never leave yours, searching for some glimmer of forgiveness in their depths.

"i'm— i’m close," he warns, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

your head rolls back, a silent moan escaping your lips as the pleasure mounts. his hands fly to your face, cradling your cheeks as he forces your gaze to meet his.

"please, please, don't look away." he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a chaste kiss. "i need to see you," he murmurs, his hips stuttering in their relentless rhythm as he fights for control.

he can feel the pressure building, coiling tighter and tighter within him until he's teetering on the precipice. his hands roam your body, kneading and squeezing as if trying to imprint every curve and valley onto his very being.

he's a hairsbreadth from the edge, the tension coiled so tightly within him that he's not sure he can contain it much longer. but for you, he'll try.

he'll endure the sweet agony of restraint. he leans in, his breath mingling with yours as he whispers a final plea.

"dear god, i'm so very sorry." the words are a prayer, a plea for forgiveness not just from the divine, but from you. he knows that what he's doing is wrong, that he's violating the sacred trust that he's been entrusted with as a man of the cloth. but in this moment, caught up in the maelstrom of his own desire, he can't bring himself to care.

he hooks an arm beneath your knees, pulling you higher up on the desk. the new angle allows him to drive even deeper, the head of his cock brushing against that spongy spot that has you seeing stars.

your body responds, arching up to meet him as a keening wail tears from your throat. he watches, entranced, as ecstasy washes over you in waves, your face a mask of rapturous bliss.

you finally feel his heat as it floods your innermost depths just moments later.

he collapses onto you, his weight crushing in its intimacy as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. his heart pounds against your ribcage, a frantic with regret and release.

he stays there, draped over you, his breathing ragged and uneven as he tries to regain some semblance of control. his body is slick with sweat, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks. slowly, he pulls back, his hands still cradling your face as he looks deep into your eyes.

his breath comes in ragged gasps as he struggles to regain some semblance of control, to quiet the chaos that rages within him.

"forgive me," he whispers, the plea hanging heavy in the air between you.

he knows it's not enough. he's broken the trust, violated the sacred vows he's taken. there's no going back from this, no easy path to redemption. the knowledge that he's failed, that he's fallen so very far from the path of righteousness, fills him with a deep, abiding shame. but for now, in this moment, he can only cling to the thin thread of your forgiveness and hope that it's enough.

tags: @crowleyco @withonly-sweetheart @fanilkychae

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt behind the cut; "Tim's free cloning lab". (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Red Robin’s commitment issues are his own problem, not mine. I’ve got a schedule to keep,” Luthor replies dismissively, then knocks back the last of his hopefully-actually-a-protein-shake-and-not-Bane-venom-or-something and gets to his feet, picking up his tablet again as he does. He does not seem concerned to be alone in a lab full of sharp objects and computers with two only negligibly-restrained Bats. Admittedly Luthor doesn’t tend to seem concerned during literal multiversal apocalypses, but Tim is vaguely insulted on principle. A multiversal apocalypse couldn’t do any worse than uncreate Luthor and everything he’s ever done in his life, after all. He could tank his stock prices and drive up all his insurance rates, and then make him have to live with it. 

A little respect isn’t that much to ask, is it? 

“Wow, called out by the supervillain,” Steph mutters to him under her breath. “The Metropolis supervillain, even.” 

“I do not have commitment issues,” Tim mutters back to her. 

“Yes you do, the issue is you commit yourself to somebody and then become an insane person about them but never actually mention the existence of said commitment to them,” she retorts frankly. 

“I do not–” 

“When did you go for the red and black suit again and how long did you stick with it?” 

“. . . we’re in a supervillain lair in Connecticut, I don’t have to answer that right now.” 

“Oh, so you will later?” 

“So anyway, new supervillain trap, how’s that going for you?” Tim asks Luthor. Steph snorts at him; he ignores her and all her baseless, ridiculous, baseless accusations that are definitely not currently reading him for absolute filth. “All coming together nicely, no tech issues? Because we could troubleshoot those for you while we’re waiting for extraction, no charge.” 

“The chemical breakdown of the necessary stabilizer you missed when you were cleaning out my old labs is laid out in file B-2.13, speaking of ‘troubleshooting’,” Luthor mentions, and Tim . . . pauses. 

“‘Stabilizer’,” he echoes carefully, and then glances around the sunroom lab. The sunroom cloning lab. 

The sunroom. 

Ah. 

That is probably a connection he should've made, like . . . literally instantly, yeah. 

“Oh my god, do you think you can actually convince Red Robin to make you another–wait, why do you even want Red Robin to make you another Superman or whatever, you did it better than he ever did,” Steph says, squinting in bewilderment at Luthor through her mask. Tim’s much more insulted this time, even if it’s objectively true that Kon is objectively–never mind. Luthor just looks dubious. 

“I don’t want another Superman, there are already far too many of those running around and being an issue as it is,” he snorts dismissively, waving her off. “And I’m willing to provide a useful little resource or two, of course, but it’s hardly traditional to have to make my own grandchildren, now is it. Besides, Supernova won’t be as annoyed about it if they come from you. Though I did include some potential design notes for your consideration in the C folder, of course. Streamlined the tactile telekinesis a bit, for starters. It really didn’t come out as effective as intended, unfortunately.” 

“Of course,” Tim echoes, perfectly aware of that one time that Kon took apart every single gun inside the exact city limits of Los Angeles and nothing else without even meaning to, and also that one time last week when he very much did mean to disassemble a bomb immediately after its trigger mechanism had been tripped, and did it so fast that it didn't detonate. 

So as politely as possible, that makes Luthor’s use of the word “effective” slipped in there a little mind-numbingly terrifying to consider. 

More than anything else, though, Tim really hopes that he’s just gone insane and hallucinated all this, because otherwise he’s going to have to write all this down in a report, and Steph will not lie for him about this one. 

Case in point: she is currently laughing her fucking ass off at him.

[distant--shadow]

wip preview of chapter 7 of the witch and the widow

Focus and observation becomes a little too much (that’s probably been the issue all along).

Maybe it’s the way Ms Laudna’s hands seem unable to keep still in her lap as she waits maybe not so patiently as Imogen shucks the shells, deciding it presents as less of a ceremony if she deals with them all at once, laying them back down in a freshly-opened row on the embroidered cloth rather than waiting on the Lady one by one and having to observe piously as she tilts her head back to receive the flesh in communion.

The point of Imogen’s dagger nicks her first finger, managing to pierce through the leather of her glove.

“Shit.”

Maybe it is more of a slice than a nick.

She had, at least, made it to the last oyster before being given the opportunity to bleed all over her Lady’s lunch.

(She definitely could count it as meat then.)

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I apologise-” Imogen stands, reacting to the blood bubbling between the cut in the glove as if it were a second skin before Ms Laudna can reach for her hand.

“There is certainly no need to do as such, may I have a look?”

Imogen feels the oyster wish to return up her oesophagus, blinks the image of Ms Laudna’s cheeks hollowed around her bloodied finger as she sucks on it from out of her mind.

“That won’t be necessary - I’ve got it, thank you.”

It’s bleeding quite a lot actually. She should really look at it proper.

Fuckin-

Shit.

Idiot.

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind, I know quite a bit about nursing injuries-”

“Honestly I’m gettin’ cuts all of the time - saltwater’s meant t’be good for ‘em, right?” she asks, not waiting for reply and glancing at the Lady over her shoulder as she turns towards the ocean.

“It is. It will sting.”

“Oh it’s doin’ a good job of that on its own - but if y’all are aware of any gators or sharks round here, please tell me before I damage m’self any more; I think that might be a bit past what either of us can handle.”

It’s meant as a joke, but Ms Laudna gives it more consideration than it is worth.

“Only jellyfish as far as I’m aware, so long as you are not planning to go too far out.”

“Jellyfish?”  

“Indeed. They sting, rather like the anemones. There is hearsay that there is a common antidote for such an ailment though.”

Imogen scrunches up her face in scrutiny of the expression that occupies the Lady’s.

“Why d’ya say it like that?”

She airily chuckles.

“This would be my turn to apologise; it conjures up quite the image…”

“Well go on, spill, less I believe you really are findin’ enjoyment in my distress.”

“Only a pardonable amount.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

The Lady smirks as she levels her attention.

“Someone else can urinate on the area of the sting; they argue that the natural presence of ammonia neutralises it, although I am certain any substances of use would be far too diluted from such a source.”

“Where do you read this stuff? Who told’ya about that?”

“The urinating part? One of Andrew’s old navy friends - not that that makes it a reliable source - I believe they would take any opportunity to see to another man’s jellyfish sting, if you understand what I am implying…”

Huh. Maybe that’s explanation for part of Ms Laudna’s casual nature towards queer folk like herself, something to file for later.

“Well, long as the jellyfish ain’t gettin’ too distressed in the process then let them have their fun, I guess.”

The lady’s eyes fix on the horizon; the look on her face now a bit bewilderingly distant considering the piss-based-banter.

Imogen clears her throat after she feels she let the moment awkwardly stretch out - paws-pointed and cat’s-belly-in-the-sun - in the silence for a little too long; notably less comfortable than that, enough for its skin to catch a burn.

“Alright, I’m goin’ down to the ocean. I’ll be right back.”

Just as quickly the Lady is present to her again, a polite smile gracing her features.

“I will stay here, be careful not to get stung!” maybe more cheeky than polite, maybe worn just as much to placate.

“Good. That’s - that’s good” Imogen’s finger thrums. The distance will be good. “- and I won’t, thank you.”

It would be a lot of layers of fabric to wrestle with.

It wasn’t really Imogen's intention for when she reached where the waves perpetually break, but her body starts to move on instinct; pulling off her work-worn shoes without undoing the laces, shrugging  the suspenders from over her shoulders and undoing the buttons of her trousers, letting them fall around her ankles.

It’s the summer, knee-length drawers should be plenty. There’s no one else about on the beach (save the Lady); no one else to scorn her or report her to the local authorities for exposing herself (and in men’s drawers at that. They had to be men’s; she needed them to be closed and to fit under her trousers without all of the frills and pleats in the lacing showing through the linen-)

And the Lady is far enough away - Imogen reminds herself as she pulls her shirt over her head, chest bare to the sea air and immediately transmuting her skin into gooseflesh - the Lady is far enough away that she surely can’t really see anything; sat in the long shadow of the cliff, her pale skin remaining fresh-milk white despite the season – Imogen almost thinks that it’s a shame that she is not sitting closer on the sand, with a black lace parasol to match. She ain’t ashamed of her body – didn’t need the courtesies her mistress offered; leaving Imogen alone in her stately bedroom so that she could get changed into her dead husband’s clothes – she should have looked through her dressers or desk drawer when she had the opportunity – maybe she could create another?  Focus and observation is hard. Imogen reminds herself that; reminds herself that she ain’t ashamed of her body as she unbuttons the gloves on her hands at the wrist, mindful to keep them in front of herself once they are revealed, the skin underneath where it isn’t blemished and mangled almost as pale as Ms Laudna’s.

From a distance it might still look like she has the gloves on anyway – it certainly ain’t easy to tell the blood and the cut and the clotting from the scar tissue.

At least it wasn’t her tongue.

It was just the end of her finger, so naturally Imogen had scuttled away and stripped herself nearly naked in order to submerge herself underwater.

This time she planned for the pull, saving her clothes from getting soaked, saving herself from the Lady’s gentilities.

Silk on her chest, soup in her stomach, the knots of flora untied from her hair-

She wonders again if hornwort can be found out in the ocean - what its closest seaweed relative would be.

The water is already well above her ankles and midway up her calf when she thinks to register the temperature of it.

Warm enough, at this depth at least. Welcoming with each collapse that laps at her knees, cat nuzzling into her palm and licking at the skin, whiskers of seagrasses.

She wades in further, until her fingertips meet the surface, the tendril of blood diluting in the water only momentarily visible like cleaning off a quill, a space she could write messages and no one else would find them, despite what careless talk the rivers carried to the estuaries to be laid to rest here.  

She steps in further still, to her hips, her waist, her chest, her shoulders - her hair splaying out all around her on the surface.

She wonders how deep the ocean is,

how long she can hold her breath-

Imogen learned to swim in a flooded quarry. The water was an unusually bright light turquoise from all of the minerals.

It was terribly deep;

she was never able to reach the bottom.

(previous chapters hereeeee)

[insert-witty-user-name-here]

WIP Wednesday (sorta)

No WIPs on the horizon for me but I’ve been tagged in an assortment of writing posts (thank you all 🥰❤️❤️) so thought I’d use the opportunity to share a (very angsty) scene from my cutting room floor that I like but never quite went anywhere.

O.B. and Casey ask Mobius for his opinion on a new statue dedicated to Loki at the TVA, angst ensues.

***

Mobius blinks, pulled from his memories by the sound of chairs scraping against the linoleum floor. The meeting is over. His coworkers gather their things and meander out of the conference room—laughing, gossiping, planning follow-up meetings—but Mobius stays seated and stares at his notepad. It's empty. He slumps, running a weary hand through his hair. He hadn’t paid any attention to Judge Gamble’s briefing on this cycle’s latest threats to the multiverse. Again.

He’ll need to get the notes from Bea. Mobius gets up, trying to ignore the churning in his stomach as he searches for Bea amongst the crowd. There’s no way she hasn’t noticed Mobius slipping—the way he’s constantly asking for her notes, the decreasing numbers of files he’s completing, how patterns that used to seem so obvious elude him lately. She’s looked the other way thus far but eventually she’ll need to take disciplinary action, whatever that means in their new TVA. Mobius can handle it and honestly, she’s already given him more leeway than she should as their new Director.

It doesn’t take long for him to find her. Bea’s standing at the end of the hallway, embroiled in what appears to be a hushed argument with Casey and O.B. Despite the anxiety pounding through his system, Mobius’ curiosity spikes.

“Hey guys.”

Bea jumps slightly at his approach—odd—and turns around with a forced smile. “Oh, hey Mobius,”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she answers too quickly. She shifts when O.B. tries to get around her, file in hand. It's a futile attempt to hide the technician from Mobius’ view.

“Right,” Mobius chuckles, stepping around Bea to take the file from O.B.’s outstretched hands. He might be losing his edge but he’s not useless yet. He can detect a lie when he sees one. “You know, Bea, I might have believed you if not for…”

The words die in Mobius’ throat as soon as he opens the file.

They’re plans. Plans for a new statue in the atrium; a statue dedicated to the person who made everything they do now possible, the holder of all the timelines, their savior, the person whose absence is felt like a dagger to Mobius’ chest with every heartbeat.

He looks gorgeous, just like always. Whoever designed the statue did a great job. They almost captured Loki’s likeness. His hair curls loosely about his shoulders, his jaw set and determined, his expression regal—though his eyes are missing that familiar, mischievous twinkle. He’s dressed in emerald robes and wearing those magnificent horns Mobius had last seen him in. In all his years studying Loki variants, Mobius had never seen a Loki with a larger set. They’re a testament to the power he wielded that day. After centuries, it seemed Loki finally found his glorious purpose. Mobius wishes the sight filled him with pride. Instead, he’s taken straight back to his nightmares.

“We wanted to honor him,” Casey begins in a soft voice, “but we weren’t sure if it’s what he would want so we thought we’d ask…” Casey trails off.

They thought they’d ask the Loki expert, Mobius finishes, gulping past the lump forming in his throat. Smart plan. If anyone knew how Loki would want to be remembered, it would be Mobius. Except…

He doesn’t know.

The thought strikes Mobius with harrowing realization. In another time, this statue would be exactly what Loki would want. Mobius’ mouth quirks up into a smile as he recalls the statue Loki had arranged for himself on the Sacred Timeline following his fake death on Svartalfheim. It had been a grandiose, expensive thing. Another prank pulled by the God of Mischief.

Mobius’ smile is gone as soon as it appears because that Loki isn’t his Loki. This time, it isn’t a trick. It isn’t part of some grand plan. Or, at least, not one that Mobius can understand.

He has so many questions about that day. How long had Loki been timeslipping? How many other options had he tried before he settled on that final decision? What led him there? Had he spoken with someone beforehand; had they led Loki to this conclusion?

Mobius shuts his eyes in an effort to clear the now familiar tears building behind them. Why hadn’t Loki talked to him? What hadn’t he asked for help? Mobius is sure he could have convinced Loki to try something else. They could have figured out a solution if only they’d worked together. Why did Loki think this was the only option? Why did this sacrifice fall to him and him alone? Why didn’t he say goodbye? Why? Why? Why? Why? The questions circle around and around in Mobius’ head. Forever unanswered.

“Mobius?” O.B. prompts. “Do you know if Loki would be okay with this? We don’t want to move forward until we know.”

Mobius opens his mouth in an attempt to answer but nothing comes out. He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know if this is what Loki would want because that Loki, the Loki who sacrificed himself for all of them, is a stranger to Mobius. That Loki had spent who knows how long traveling through time, attempting to find a solution, alone. There are no reels for what happens within the TVA, no reels for Mobius to analyze.

Sometimes, when he dreams, Mobius swears he can remember moments with Loki that never happened. Arguments, laughter, philosophical conversations over pie, even… There’s one night in particular Mobius returns to often in his dreams. He flushes at the memory before shaking it away. It all feels so real when he’s asleep but when he’s awake his memories jumble together until he can’t determine what happened and what didn’t. It makes him feel untethered, these half-forgotten memories, these dreams, these fantasies. Mobius settles on that last word: fantasies. That's all they are. Something his mind has manufactured in a desperate attempt to make sense of what Loki did.

“Mobius?” O. B. tries again. “Is this what Loki would want?”

Would want. Past tense. Because Loki isn’t coming back. Not this time. Mobius takes a breath but it doesn't reach his lungs.

“I—” he stutters. The papers shake in his hands, that image of Loki holding the timelines grows larger on the page until it consumes the world around him and Mobius feels himself slipping back into his memories. “Um, I don’t…”

Suddenly, it’s too bright and the ringing in his ears has returned. It’s the alarm from the observation deck blaring a warning that they’re running out of time until the loom breaks. Mobius’ wipes sweat from his brow. It’s excruciatingly hot; he wonders if he should be worried about the temporal radiation leaking through the glass window before him but he can’t focus on anything except Loki. Loki walking out onto the gangway. Loki raising his arms to break the loom. Loki grabbing hold of the timelines and breathing life into them with that brilliant, beautiful green magic of his. Loki turning back, one last time, to give him a smile before he-

“Mobius?” Bea puts a grounding hand on Mobius’ arm and Mobius forces himself to the present. He can’t allow himself to be overtaken by that particular memory again. He can’t.

“I’m fine,” Mobius says after a moment. “Just a headache. Really,” he adds at Bea’s unconvinced stare before turning to O.B. and Casey. “To answer your question, O.B., I don’t know. I don’t know what Lo-“ Mobius’ voice catches on the name. “I don’t know what he’d want. Not anymore. Maybe he’d like a statue. Maybe not. I just… I don’t…”

“It’s okay,” Bea cuts in, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll put the plans on hold and revisit them later.” Her last words are unmistakably a stern warning to O.B. and Casey to drop the subject.

“But-” O.B. starts.

“We get it,” Casey nods. “We’ll come back later. Feel better, Mobius.”

With a pitying glance that Mobius begrudges but can’t say he doesn’t deserve, Casey takes the file from his hands and guides O.B. back down the hallway, leaving Bea and Mobius alone.

Mobius half expects Bea to follow, he can’t imagine her to do list, but she doesn’t. He can feel her eyes boring down at him while he scuffs at the TVA emblem on the floor below. For all time. Always. Mobius snorts. Yeah, right.

He knows what he has to do. He can’t be here anymore. The memories are too loud, too painful. And more importantly, the new TVA deserves better than an old, washed-up analyst broken beyond repair.

Mobius takes a shuddering breath. “Look, Bea, I’ve been thinking…”

“Can we get some lunch,” Bea interrupts.

Mobius meets her gaze confused. He knows they need to have this conversation. He knows that she knows that they need to have this conversation and yet…

Neither of them are ready. He can see it in her eyes. Somehow she knows what he’s about to say and she doesn’t want to have this conversation any more than he does.

“I’ve been implementing some changes,” Bea starts. “Trying to get something better than wilted salad and stale pizza in the cafeteria,” she adds with an awkward laugh. Then, she pauses, uncharacteristically hesitant “I’d love to get your thoughts if you’ve got time. If anyone knows how to make this place better, it’s you and …I could really use your help, Mobius.”

Mobius sighs. It’s an easily delegatable task, a distraction technique. Bea doesn’t need his help picking the food in the cafeteria. But—Mobius meets Bea’s gaze—she’s scared. There’s no script for them now; the future is unknown. There’s no guarantee that anything they do will make a difference or if it’s even the right thing to do. Amidst all the changes, she needs the reassurance. And in a way Mobius does too. The TVA might be haunted for him now but it’s the only home he can remember. He doesn’t know where to begin out on the Timelines. He isn’t sure if he’s ready to leave. Yet.

“Sure,” Mobius says. “Let’s grab some lunch and we can talk through your plans for the place. I’m sure they’re great.”

Bea smiles in relief and they make their way to the cafeteria. Mobius half-listens as she chatters away, outlining her plans to improve life at the TVA. He won’t be here to see them through. It’s only a matter of time before he leaves but that conversation can wait a little longer.

***

The finale was sad but lemme tell you the tears didn’t come for me until that conversation with B-15 and Mobius. 😭💔

Anyway, sorry to leave it here with hurt/no comfort but if you need some comfort, recommend Tell Me Some Things Last - a lovely story by @loki-is-my-kink-awakening about Sylvie & Mobius healing that I’ve fully adopted into my own headcanon. Also shamelessly plugging my own Lokius S2 reunion fic (which is where this scene was going to drive towards eventually anyway).

No pressure tagging my fellow creatives back for a “last line” “seven sentence Sunday” or “WIP Wednesday” whatever floats your boat. I want to hear what you’re working on and absolutely love reading your writing updates as they come in!

Happy writing! 💖

@loki-is-my-kink-awakening @lgwilt @kcscribbler @blackbirdofasgard @queen-of-meows @dewdropreader @mirilyawrites @wolfpup026

[biowaredisasterbisexual]

20 Questions for Fanfiction Writers

Thanks so much for the tag, @bygonesigh!

Honestly, any of you all who want to do this should! It’s fun! Tag me so I can come read. 😁

I’ll also give low-pressure tags to: @mageofquandrix, @thedissonantverses, @ofcrowsanddragons, @basedonconjecture, @hyperions-light, @neve-gallus-girl-detective, @flowersforthemachines, and @mythals-whore.

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

Eleven! So far. Muahahahahahahaha.

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

24,360. Somehow all one-shots.

3) What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

After the Battle leads off, followed by: Don’t Talk About After; Fifth Date; I’m Fine; and last, but not least, Best Mistake.

That last one is rated Explicit, so use caution if clicking.

4) What fandoms do you write for?

On AO3? Only Dragon Age, though I am very slowly cowriting an X-Men fic with a friend as well.

5) Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Absolutely! If someone is taking the time to comment on my fic, I will for sure take the time to respond. Besides, if I never converse with people, how will I make new friends?

6) What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably Don’t Talk About After, though I haven’t written much angst in general.

Yet. 😈

7) What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

That’s completed and posted? After the Battle, I think.

8) Do you get hate on fics?

Not so far. /knocks on wood

9) Do you write smut?

I do, though I’ve only posted one of them so far. (There are more.). I have more nerves than usual with smut than with other stuff, so I don’t write it as often.

10) Do you write crossovers?

I haven’t. I’ve toyed with a DA/ME idea for a long while, but I’m pretty sure that’s not happening. 🤣

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Uh….not to my knowledge? So if I have, they’ve gotten away with it so far.

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Also not to my knowledge, though I wouldn’t be opposed.

13) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

Yes, but that was over a decade ago and isn’t on AO3. And I’m working on one now, too, that will eventually end up there.

14) What’s your all-time favorite ship?

I…I only get one? 🥺

Mulder/Scully from the X-Files. A fandom in which I’ve never written.

15) What’s the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I have this fear about anything I write with more than one chapter, to be honest. 😅

So TVJ and the Modern AU (tm), I guess. Though that is part of why neither of them have been posted on AO3.

16) What are your writing strengths?

I am a poor assessor of my own writing skills, but if pressed I’d say that one of my strengths is likely dialogue. Another is probably consistent (within my own universe of stuffs) character voicing.

17) What are your writing weaknesses?

I’d actually go with organization, as my biggest weakness, which is why multi-chapter stuff tends to be a struggle. Beyond that, in no particular order: description, action sequences, addiction to convoluted sentences.

18) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in a fic?

I actually enjoy it, if it makes sense for the character, though it is my preference it be in italics.

19) First fandom you wrote for?

Oh jeez. Uh…Inu-Yasha, I think. Yeah, it’s been awhile. 😆

20) Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

I love them all. My precious word children.

But if I had to pick one, and assuming it can’t be one I haven’t posted yet, I think it’s probably The Lightbringer.

Which was kind of a surprise to me, as I pondered the question.

[prettyflyshyguy]

It's wip wednesday and for once, I actually have something legitimately Cool(tm) to share

Shit's had me on the end of my tether lately but I've been able to channel a little energy into Virtual Ground's pilot rewrite and I genuinely think this is gonna be the one. This is a small excerpt of a re-written conversation but I'm pretty pleased with the vibe.

OB: You’re back early.

S: I cut the trip short.

S: In fact I just got off the phone with the police.

S: Mr. Tan has given his statement and the cops are considering pressing charges against you.

OB: For what??

S: Aggravated assault.

OB: Are you kidding me? I saved his life!

S: That’s not how he sees it.

S: O’Byrne did you do something to him?

OB: What kind of a stupid fucking question is that, Sam?

He stares at her for a moment before holding up the paper, reading from it.

S: The assailant was described as a tall caucasian woman with long brunette hair–

OB: Yeah that really narrows it down–

S: And she had a hole in her neck with a cord coming out of it.

Obyrne reaches up to touch the side of her neck, where the patch is as she stares at Sam now, slightly scared

S: Sound like anyone you know?

She’s silent in response.

S: He also filed an official complaint against your conduct when you approached him, against his wishes, at the hospital. The words ‘derranged’ and ‘sick joke’ keep coming up. So do you waste your time telling everyone who’s ever experienced something weird and strange that they’ve somehow crossed through into an alternate plane of reality, and they’re the new man from Taured?

OB: He deserved to know what's going on.

S: Jesus he *just* got out of surgery, for christs sake O’Byrne would it kill you to take things a little big seriously for once?

OB: Ok look I’ll admit, its a working theory, but I’ve got evidence–

S: Oh right, yeah of course, the autopsy that never happened.

OB: … What?

S: You know I even called the place and they said there was nothing scheduled that day and as far as I can tell, Roy Tan is very much alive and well. I never received a fax, and I spent far too long chasing up yet another thing you put me onto that in the end, doesn’t exist – So do me a favour. Quit wasting his and my time, and get me a report that I can actually send back to Canberra that won’t get me fired. 

S: It’s hard enough cleaning up after you as it is.

Sam goes to leave, moving past O’Byrne. She looks disgruntled, still touching her neck.

S: And you never answered my question.

She drops her lit cigarette on the ground, crushing it under her foot to extinguish it.

OB: I think I know who did.

[the-sparrohawk]

WIP Word Game

“Rules: you will be given a word. Then you share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word.”

Well! I have been tagged fully THREE times for the WIP word game and haven’t had time until this morning to cobble up a post. Thank you so much for the tags, @jouskaroo, @hyperions-light, @mythals-whore. It always makes me so happy when folks think of me.

I’ve got only one WIP to speak of -- the as-yet-to-be-titled Lucanis/Emmrich slow burn how-did-it-get-so-long story I'm co-writing with @sharpest-tongue

My words were LUCID, VIPER, and RECONCILE. I am following the rules stringently -- one sentence only, though I'm counting Spite outbursts as one sentence despite unorthodox punctuation. The results were amusing, at least to me. I’ve kept formatting intact for the most part. If you’re curious, the italicized bits are from letters.

~~~~~~~~

Lucanis blinked, feeling as if he’d stepped off a cliff he hadn’t known was there.

Use it to cover lodgings and other expenses for the young Crows while training.

Corpses littered the floor and his heart thumped in his chest before he caught sight of movement at the far end.

“It wasn’t all burned,” Davrin said, glancing at Rook.

Do we need to have another talk about the filing system?

Viago -- I had an idea for an interesting loophole in the Nevarran royalty contracts.

I leave at dawn and even the First Talon must sleep for a few hours.

Prepare the pastry (we suggest the recipe on page 496) and chill for at least 8 hours.

“Even I can tell a guilty conscience when I see one, and she is much better at it than I am.”

Rook looked like a kicked dog.

Rook slapped his hand playfully and Davrin grinned.

Each one must cut a little deeper, like a river wearing a channel through stone.

Curiosity! Is. HERE!

“One of the griffons looks a little peaky and I’ve got to go check him out.”

Neve’s handwriting scrawled across the page, all angles and bold strokes and only slightly more legible than a collection of bird tracks.

Caterina named you First Talon, cousin, so the contract is your responsibility.

It was not quite perfect, he thought a few moments later as he was dragging in the body he’d left in the hall.

Lucanis’s face shifted through at least three distinct microexpressions too quickly for Emmrich to read before finally settling on bland.

Even when he’d drifted off, sagging like an overburdened clothesline against the wall of the carriage, the bag never slipped.

~~~~~~~~

Whew! This was a workout :D. I'll (kindly, gently, with no expectations) tag @sharpest-tongue, @monabee-draws, @antivanlights, and, because I saw a post on my dash saying they would love to be tagged, @nyx-de-riva!

Your word is WHISPER.

[inoankin]

Strangers (scrapped)

i need tumblr to revert back to its old layout right this second because this twitter-esque layout is making me so fucking upset

anyways this has been in my wips long enough for me to know it's probably never getting finished soooo. you can have it.

can you tell that i really connect emotionally with music? cuz i reaalllyy connect emotionally with music

_______________

It starts with the picking.

Vincent is checking around the second floor for anything useful when he hears it. The untuned, experimental picking of the old banjo’s strings. The sound floats up the stairs and right to Vincent, as if magnetised. After a moment the playing starts. It’s unrefined and far from pleasant. But it’s almost familiar.

Then, the humming.

That. Well.

Vincent’s feet carry him to the top of the staircase, just listening. The voice is rough like the strings, and yet. There’s something about it. 

He steps down. Magnetised. Before he knows it, he’s at the landing, watching Leo Caruso sit with bowed head as he hums alongside the makeshift tune. Light spills over his shoulders. Vincent thinks he spots a hint of a smile. He’s happy. The song is on the tip of his tongue.

Then…

“Mm-mm, mm-mm, I don’t mind. If I live too long, I’m afraid I’ll die…”

Oh.

The stagnant air carries the Davies’ words and they taste like cinnamon from Leo’s lips. As he sings, Vincent makes his way down the steps, enraptured by this impossible moment.

“So I will follow you wherever you go, If you offered hand’s still open to me.”

Leo doesn’t notice him when he reaches the bottom. It doesn’t seem real. This vulgar, cocky criminal, picking a banjo and singing the Kinks like he’s got nowhere better to be than here, flipping every one of Vincent’s notions on their heads. He’s been doing that a lot lately.

“Strangers on this road we are on, Oh, we are not two, we are one.”

Something in his voice beckons him forward; but when he walks into the open space, Leo’s head snaps up.  

Silence.

He looks nervous, guilty. Like he’s been caught in the middle of something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. Vincent’s pinned by his gaze before he convinces his body to move again, making it the rest of the way to the piano resting quietly against the wall. He lifts the lid and tests the keys. Still well-tuned. He takes a second to remember the chords. And then…

“So you’ve been where I’ve just come, From the land that brings losers on...”

He doesn’t look at Leo, instead focusing on the keys. Similarly, it’s unrefined. He learned to play this song a while ago, and it’s not like he’s had much free time lately. He shouldn’t have any now.

Leo picks back up his half, the banjo a fitting supplement for guitar. His smile is small. Vincent’s is as well.

“So we will share this road we walk, And mind our mouths and beware our talk.”

It shouldn't come as a surprise that Leo can play; his file mentioned an upbringing in Virginia. And anyway, he’s missing a third of the chords he picks. Still, Vincent finds himself entranced by his fingers on the strings, calloused and confident despite his mistakes. Like the result doesn’t matter, because he’s enjoying himself. The simplicity is infectious.

“‘Till peace we find, tell you what I’ll do, All the things I own, I will share with you.”

Their voices meld into one. Leo meets his eyes and he gets the feeling that the song choice was intentional. His eyes glitter with warmth, with trust. Vincent ignores the flighty feeling in his chest.

“And if I feel tomorrow like I feel today, We’ll take what we want and give the rest away. Strangers on this road we are on, Oh, we are not two, we are one.”

They play together and it feels fucking right. Like everything they do. Slotting together perfectly, like companions, like friends, like… 

Vincent fumbles a few beats as he dismisses the rest of that thought. Leo eyes him, but he keeps on.

He can accept the fact that Leo is attractive. It’s not anything subjective, it’s just a fact. With a hard, lean body and the skills to match, he’s not losing anything by admitting it. Leo’s attractive. That doesn’t mean Vincent has feelings for him. He’s not even… he’s never thought about a man that way. It would be a stupid choice, anyways, considering his circumstances—he’d be better off shooting Leo now. He tries to ignore how that idea makes him vaguely nauseous.

But he can’t spare it any more thought once the next verse catches them. He forgets the next lyrics, but Leo supplies.

“Holy man and holy priest, This love of life makes me weak at my knees.”

Vincent might have jumped in were he not suddenly captured by the sound. It’s not smooth, but it is good. Like a low fire, crackling with warmth and smoke, licking at the roof of his mouth. Vincent’s goes dry.

“And when we get there, make your play, ‘Cause soon, I feel, you’re gonna carry us — come on, man!”

Vincent swallows and pulls his eyes back to the piano. It shouldn’t be so hard to look away. But Leo is so earnest in his joy, glowing in the soft light of the afternoon. So he sings.

“In a promised lie you made us believe, For many men, there is so much grief. And my mind is proud, but it aches with rage, And if I live too long, I’m afraid I’ll die. Strangers on this road we are on, Oh, we are not two, we are one…”

Vincent watches his own fingers play. Badly bruised and webbed with cuts from day and night spent navigating the wilderness with Leo at his side. 

couplet? maybe

Leo doesn’t know who he is, and maybe the irony of it is what hits the hardest. He’s extended this proverbial olive branch and he doesn’t even know what it means, wholly trusting that Vincent is who he claims to be. That’s always been Leo’s greatest vice. Trust. He gave his trust to Harvey, who threw it back in his face. And now, despite his wounds, he’s given it to Vincent. Who plans to do the very same.

fin.

[theshotsheardacrossworlds]

WIP...Wednesday

I mentioned my hibernation fic the other day, so I decided to share a bit of it for WIP Wednesday. :D

He smiled as he bent to kiss her. She is perfect. She fills my heart with such joy. “I was feeling tired.”

“Again?” Her voice was tinged with worry.

Pulling up his chair next to hers, he sighed. “Yes, but I think I know what it is.” She offered an encouraging nod, and he continued. “Every so often, the bear needs to hibernate. It’s getting to be that time.” He watched as she put a slip of paper inside her book and closed it.

“How long?”

“It can range from a week to three months. It’s never the same, and I won’t know for long I’ve been hibernating until I wake.” She’s going to ask if she can come with me. Oh Annie, please…

As she serious as he had ever seen her, she asked, “Can I come with you?”

He sandwiched one of her hands in his as he shook his head. “No. It’s far too dangerous. Best to stay here and—” Please don’t fight me on this. It’s too dangerous. Far, far too dangerous.

Anais smiled sadly. “Carry on as best I can.”

The two sat in silence for a few moments before he spoke again. “I will write to your mother, Nadia, and Astarion to see if any of them would like to be with you while I’m gone. Or perhaps Gale could make the trip from Waterdeep. Or Shadowheart and her parents?” I would also suggest Wyll and Karlach, but alas, they cannot return from Avernus, and gods know where Lae’zel is.

Her other hand now rested on the top of his. “Oh no, please. I don’t want to be a bother. Besides, I’m not alone when I have Scratch, Horace, and Obie here. And there’s also everyone in town. I’ll be okay.” She reassured him with a kiss on his cheek.

Their foreheads touched as he closed his eyes. I don’t want you to feel alone. I want you to be surrounded by love and care while I hibernate. It will make my sleep much more peaceful. “Since we have coupled, we have not spent one night apart. I worry if my hibernation lasts more than a week or two you will be lonely, my heart.” And it breaks my heart to see you sad.

She wrinkled her nose and gave him a quick peck. “Oh, I’ll be alright. Don’t worry about me.” Impossible, dearest one. “Is there anything else we need to do before you, I assume, go into a cave and sleep?”

Halsin chuckled heartily. “Yes! I’ll start scouting for one tomorrow. There is something else, Annie. I need to put on some weight.”

Anais raised an eyebrow. “How much?”

“Usually between forty to sixty pounds. Though,” he remembered a specific hibernation, soon after the Shadow Curse took hold. “There was one time I barely put on forty pounds, and it was…erm, not a pleasant experience. So please forgive me if I eat us out of house and home for the next several weeks.” Upon hearing her laugh, he shook his head. “You’re taking this remarkably well, my heart.”

She waved a dismissive hand with a grin. “To be honest, when you pass a certain point, some things are just filed under ‘strange but interesting druid things.’ This happens to be one of them.”

[buckrogers]

WIPs word search

Tagged by the gorgeous @bromcommie!

I’m not sure if this is cheating or not but since a large part of my writing recently is stemming from RP, I decided to include a few of my personal favorite snippets as well as a bonus I just liked for how it came out after I had to wrestle with it for a while. These are from all kinds of interactions Steve has had and I’ve included with whom (two guesses who most are with).

Space (and also home w/Bucky):

Home but not quite home. Home looked at through a cracked mirror. Looking around, even as close as it gets in places, it isn't a hard push to see why it isn't the place Steve draws in that sketchbook of his. Why it's other places, warmer ones, that he prefers spending his time in. The apartment. Wakanda. He never had talked much about the way his body had its own memories for it. Being in the ice, being cold that way, down to his bones. Maybe because it had seemed such a touchy subject to begin with, maybe because it would have seemed like he was comparing somehow, what Bucky had endured all those years to his subconscious physical recall. For all his hesitations, about diving into bodies of water (he never had learned how to swim before the serum and it took time after to muster the courage to learn and overcome his first body’s hesitations), about confined spaces that felt a little too similar to the groaning fuselage of a plane as it sank, it hadn't come close to the things he'd read in those files, pressed into his hands by Natasha years ago. (you're going after him aren't you)

Sharp (w/Tony):

He'd had hope, when Tony hadn't fought him on staying behind to help with the clean up. Hope for what, he wasn't entirely sure, but there had been enough give in Stark's expression for Steve to recognize it as something. A step forward. The potential for some kind of meaningful conversation, when they weren't both in dire need of sleep and a hot shower. This, though, right here, wasn't a version of Tony ready to make any kind of peace. Judging from the brittle smile he was wearing, he was about as far from it as Steve had known him. Listing a little too heavily for comfort on the side that had forced him into bodily intervention to stop his pursuit of Bucky. Guilt curled inside him all over again. Steve's mouth pinched on one side. His jaw clenching beneath the beard he'd been sorely neglecting to shave for months now, long before he'd been recruited as an exile. "They aren't," he agrees, quiet. "I assigned myself." He was looking at Tony with the same face he used to make when they were trading verbal barbs on the helicarrier, eyes sharp. Brow furrowed. Concerned, despite everything, with the way his eyes dragged up and down his body, mentally cataloging any sign of obvious distress in the other man.

Sweet (w/Bucky):

Getting to set his hands gently on Bucky's hips, to use this new body of his, for something tender and sweet and the right side of aggressive. The good kind of pent up and wanting. There were so many landmines buried in their bodies, trigger words and old memories and the ghosts of other lovers that navigating the terrain was an act of belief, itself, the trust to be put somewhere, on a bed, against a wall, rolled over and on top of - it was knowing where that line was.

Home (w/Bucky):

It was all Steve wanted for the longest time. That idea of - that memory of - two sets of dishes in the sink. A life that rose and fell; that breathed to the rhythm the two of them set. It was what he'd longed for, once, to be impossibly closer; to somehow climb inside Bucky's chest and find his home there; snug against his heart. Cradled by the cage of his ribs. Safety had always been that muscle, beating steadily against his knobby spine at night; had been those arms curled around him. The funny part was - the funniest thing still was - that dream hadn't changed much, for the ways they had. Gotten bigger, grown older. Sometimes he'd look at Steve, part his lips and flash his teeth just like he was now and it was all he could do to breathe properly. He very nearly forgot how the way he would back then, stutter on a breath and erupt into a coughing fit, turn a watery eye on him accusingly as if somehow it was all his fault, the fact Steve's body had never quite worked right. That dream of having something real, that belonged only to the two of them that the rest of the world didn't get to touch - yeah, it was still there. It still kept time somewhere in his chest. His old, creaking heart still remembered how that beat went.

+ Bonus

Burden (w/Peggy):

He's been in rooms hushed by death, before. None of this is new, none of it should feel any different to the times that have come before it, the steps he's climbed; the doors he's walked through, the glass he's stood on one side of and stared past his own grim reflection into, to bodies, covered in sheets. It's been a hospital, it's been laid out on a stretcher, it's been suspended above a city. Steve Rogers isn't any stranger to loss, he's known it. Fought it, battled with it, inside a tenement in Brooklyn; for himself. For his mother. Even, once, not so long ago, for the woman in this room. The version he'd known the longest, who gave him comfort when by rights she should have kept her strength for herself; should have been beyond reaching for his hand; squeezing his fingers and hoarsely, gently, chastising him for keeping things to himself. (not every burden is yours to carry alone, my darling) The way he misses her is profound; longing seeped in acceptance. It's an old wound, one that's long since healed but still easily knocked, bruised; pressed on hard enough til it reinstates itself. It still flares like a struck match, when he stands in that doorway for a long moment before announcing himself. His hands empty of anything that seems remotely useful in a moment like this.

I'm not sure who hasn't done this one or would be interested, so if you're intrigued, here are some prompt words and go forth and write, my loves: ache, lost, belief, taste.

[shut-upjohn]

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

72.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

245,015.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Really on L&O. I have other fandoms but thus far my writing muse is picky and doesn’t run with a lot of other universes.

4. What are you top five fics by kudos?

Unmarked File, Reassurance, Taken?, When the Lights Go Down in the City, and The Last Thing I’ll See, in that order.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try my absolute best but I do have this bad habit of reading comments via email and then thinking I’ll respond later when I’m on AO3, and then completely forgetting to do that. But I do see and appreciate them all <3

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Uuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh…

Jury’s out? I think “In Love With The Night” is the only fic I ever stuck to killing EO off in, but it was a very considerate death. I personally think “falling in between the lines” is one of the worst. It’s bittersweet but unapologetically about unresolved grief/love.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Cheesy happy or earned happy? There are a lot of little random ones that make me happy (Baby Blue) but then there are more climatic ones I love (Lights).

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Occasionally.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Published? No. I wrote one make out scene and was pretty uncomfortable writing it. I’ve experimented with writing some but I’m taking that to my grave.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Only in my head, I can never quite find the proper context to actually write the random connections my brain makes.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don’t think.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

I don’t know how I would begin checking for that, it took me a full two years to realize I could bookmark stuff.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, “From The Depths”. I woke up to @rgrdsalxndra and @maggells tagging me in a violently angsty drabble on Twitter that was like “here, we need Death, your turn” and everybody hated us for like a full 24 hours. It was glorious. We should do it again sometime.

14. What’s your all-time favorite ship?

Ooh. Desmond and Peggy, EO, Outlaw Queen are up there for sure but how can I pick??

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Legacy. It just requires a lot of effort to move forward and I haven’t touched it in a while. I usually get stuck on WIPs when I’m scared I’ll miss out on adding an important piece if I rush myself (that happens when plots live in your head too long) but that one I’m stuck because getting from point A to point B is very complicated.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I’m supposed to have writing strengths??

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

If I feel like something’s getting too cheesy or doesn’t feel like it’s grounded in the characters (which happens often), I slam my laptop shut and don’t open the doc for several months because if I look at it, I’ll delete it.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

No. I would make a fool of myself. But @somuchwhatever you could write in French?!?

19. First fandom you wrote for?

L&O.

20. Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

I feel like you have to break down what you mean by “favorite” because I will likely have a different answer for each “aspect” of a fic if that makes sense. That said, my favorite written things are fics I had an experience writing. Like clearly envisioned each moment and couldn’t stop writing until it was out. To me that will always be my best writing, and I think I got that most in “Lights” and “Unmarked File”. “In Love with the Night” was a close second, but I also ripped my own heart out with that one so it’s a little bit less pleasant to remember.

I don’t know anyone’s tags on here😂but whoever wants to, feel free to do one.

20 Questions for Fic Writers

Got tagged by @somewhereapart, and I figured y'all may be sick of seeing me just post fic so here ya go.

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

88

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

305,612

3. What fandoms do you write for?

AO3 tells me I've written for Battlestar Galactica, Buffy, General Hospital, Law & Order: SVU, Law & Order: OC, Lie To Me, Stargate: Atlantis, Stargate SG-1, and The West Wing. And I honestly can't think of any others outside of just ficlets I've tossed into the wild over the years.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Flinktober 2022 (EO, SVU/OC)

i remember skies (EO, SVU/OC)

gala (EO, SVU/OC)

bizarre love triangle (EO, SVU/OC)

Chautauqua (EO, SVU/OC)

I did not include one that was cowritten with a bunch of other people because I will always assume the kudos are for them.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

As often as possible. If someone takes the time to comment, I want them to know that i care enough to acknowledge and thank them for that kindness and effort. Especially when I write mostly for a fandom where I've seen people specifically state that they will read works but NOT comment on them as some sort of punishment for whatever random/imaginary fandom sins the writer whose free content they are enjoying has committed. That's just dumb and unkind, so I make the effort to let people know their comments are appreciated, even if it takes weeks to circle back.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Hmmm. There are several chapters in the first flink posting that would qualify, but I'm going to go with my largest Sam/Jack (SG-1) fic, Gravity Sings. It's hard to pretend it's not angsty when you've literally killed off half the planet.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Hmm. Not really sure. I'm a sucker for fluffy endings, so I tend to write them quite a bit. Maybe waltz or Chautauqua?

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Occasionally, but I shut it down quickly. If you come up in someone's space where someone is providing you free entertainment and be rude? Don't expect a pass from me about it. The scroll bar isn't difficult to use, and neither is the back button. I use it frequently on poorly-written works or things that may be well-written but just aren't my thing. What I don't do is sling entitlement issues around demanding things be written to my satisfaction (unless you employ my beta services, in which case, you asked for it!). :D

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I never really did prior to the first flink experiment, and I created that experiment purely to practice writing smut. Well, I take that back. @rgrdsalxndra would be the first to remind me I'd often cockblock Elliot and Olivia by having them dream-smutting without real-life release. But I started that project with the express purpose of getting better and more comfortable with writing smut, so I'm making that the hinge point.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Because SVU and OC are different shows, I write them regularly. But if you mean out-of-universe crossovers, I've only really written one, R.E.M. (SGA, BSG, Buffy). It was based on a prompt from an LJ friend, "Elizabeth Weir, Kara Thrace, and Buffy Summers walk into a bar..."

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware. There are much better people out there to steal from. Also, I always assume if something is similar to what I've written, it's because fandom truly does become a hivemind at some point. Nothing new under the sun and all.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I'm aware. If I had to guess, I'd say Gravity Sings would be the most likely candidate since SG-1 fandom is probably the most global and that fic has been around much longer than any other likely candidates.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Wrote Wet Dream with much better smut writers than myself in a group chat, and a bunch of us in SG-1 fandom way back in the day once built an SG-1 AU loosely based on The Big Bang Theory called The House That Jack Built, and I have several entries in that little universe.

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

How does anyone pick this??? I love them all for different reasons. I will say EO has a grip on me nobody else ever has, but then they have that 25 year slow burn that is just absolutely and sickly delicious.

15. What's the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Glazed and Fired (SGA) was originally the first part of a 5 Things fic that got away from me, and I had always intended to go back and finish it but eventually just put it away for good. I fully intend to finish my others (Skies, I'm looking at you).

16. What are your writing strengths?

Grammar. Economy of language (this is also sometimes a weakness). Getting into the head of characters who are typically very closed off.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I feel my writing is way too mechanical. I'm also still not comfortable writing smut. I always walk around with a sense of imposter syndrome with my writing.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I'm literally one class shy of a degree in French, and I had to write many upper level term papers in that language, but let me assure you I have zero plans to ever write in another language. I sincerely applaud those of you who do.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Stargate SG-1

20. Favorite fic you've ever written?

Geez. It probably changes regularly, and I'm hesitant to say because my faves are never anyone else's. all i ever wanted (a rather dark Elliot-centric fic) holds a very dear spot in my heart just because of how my muse just grabbed a keyboard and churned it out. This is not a popular opinion, and hardly anyone read it, but I still love it a lot. And just because it was the first fic I wrote that was widely recc'd, I have a soft spot for Things Not Dreamed (SG-1), a Sam & Jack & Daniel fic written from Daniel's POV.

tagging in a no-pressure way (and sorry for any double tags):

@morethanwords229, @whatbecomesofyou, @samwrites99, @rgrdsalxndra, @shut-upjohn, and anyone else who wants to do it!

[nightwingshero]

WIP Wednesday (Late Again)

I was tagged by the amazing @detectivelokis thank you hun!

Tagging: @jinfromyarikawa @sstewyhosseini @marivenah @river-ward @simonxriley @playstationmademe @chazz-anova @voidika @shegetsburned @aceghosts @glowwormsmith @madparadoxum @ghastlyrider @direwombat @strafethesesinners @vampireninjabunnies-blog @poisonedtruth @ri-a-rose

tw: blood and violence, just Wren being Wren honestly. 

My jaw ticked as I glared down at her, but her face was made of stone—pure marble as she looked back with her cold blue eyes. “So you’re the one that set that fucking thing loose? That fucking monster that ran around the damn police station, the fucking—”

“The T-00 Tyrant, the Nemesis project, yes I’m quite aware of my work, Ms. Blake.” Imogen Edwards didn’t flinch when she spoke of it, nor did she blink as she shifted, crossing her ankles under the table as she carefully interlocked her fingers—her nails perfectly manicured and painted red—and rested them on the metal table. The glass of water remained untouched and ignored. “If you brought me just to go through every little file regarding the work relevant to any project that I’ve had a hand in, we will be here for a long time.”

I couldn’t tell what pissed me off more—her lack of empathy or the fact that even if her hands were covered in blood, she still looked so perfectly put together. A white button up with a black skirt and blazer, she didn’t look detained by Chris, she looked as if she had just stepped out of the office. “People died in that city, only a handful of people actually survived what you and Umbrella did—”

“And as I said to your overly muscled brute of a colleague, I was explicit in my orders to shut down certain projects due to lack of profit and the overconsumption of resources. Dr. Ainsley Spencer and I spoke in length over the phone regarding it. I wonder, when you were offering her sanctuary to correct her ‘sins’, if she perhaps mentioned that.” I froze and stared at the woman sitting at the table. The metal chrome wasn’t complementary by far, but she still sat like a queen, her head high and shoulders back. As if this was a regular meeting—as if she wasn’t the reason so many of us went through hell. The redhead sighed and rolled her eyes, the first show of emotion since I had stormed into the room and continued with a condescending tone. “That means it was costing too much money and—”

“I know what it fucking means.” I snapped. My hands began to shake as the anger, the guilt, the memories came flooding back. We had looked so hard for her; Chris was so set on getting her so that we could get more information—bring her to justice and get her to cooperate. That was the goal. But I seethed as the emotions got the best of me, images that I had tried so hard to forget came right back to the surface. “Innocent people died because of what you did—”

“Innocent people died due to carelessness of the professionals in charge of the subjects—the professionalism was quite lacking in Dr. Birkin himself as he became unstable. However I don’t expect you to understand things that are clearly above you—”

“And the people you experimented on?” I asked, my tone calmly edged as I took a step closer to the table. “The people in the hospitals? The people you took in for experimental treatment—what about them? What were they, huh?” Guilt ripped through me, but that only fueled my anger. Images of the day we had sat in the hospital and signed the papers, only to see him for the last time as something else entirely.

As if reading my thoughts, Imogen leaned forward with a smug glint in her eyes with a ghost of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “No profit, no results, useless. Waste of valuable resources and a damn waste of my time, most of them were dying anyway. They were expendable. It would have been comforting to know that their sacrifice meant something, but nothing came from the information we received from them or the testing we performed on them. I goddamn waste of time—”

It only took a second for my hand to reach out and clutch a fistful of her hair before swiftly, with all my strength, slamming her face against the metal table. A loud crunch sounded with the bang that echoed off the thick walls lined with tile and a one-way mirror. I could almost feel the panic and hear the yelling as they scrambled outside, and it was only another second before Chris burst in the room and grabbed me, pulling me away from her as blood pooled around her. As soon as my grip was released, she raised her head, blood pouring down her nose, dripping onto the table and her shirt, the red spreading quickly through the expensive fabric. She barely flinched, but her eyes blazed.

“Fuck you, fuck you!” I yelled as I fought against Chris, desperate to finish what I started.

“Wren, enough! Let it go!” Chris called, but he just went ignored as Jill and Carlos rushed in, hovering at the door as they watched in shock.

“Do you always treat people like this? So barbaric and unbecoming, what would your father say, Ms. Blake?” I choked as I stared at her, but she just offered a bloodstained smile in return. “Stephen Blake, early to mid-sixties, diagnosed with a disease that was rare even by our standards. I remember his case being quite abnormal.”

Tears fell as I glared at her, hating her and wanting nothing more than to claw her eyes out. “You fucking bitch, you killed him! You turned him into a fucking monster after promising to help him, you—”

“And did you read the fine print, Ms. Blake? When you signed the papers that gave us permission to your father’s dying body, did you or did you not read the contract?” Imogen scoffed, specks of blood spraying over the table. “You signed him over to us, you were told that it was experimental treatment with great risks, and you signed without even reading it, didn’t you? Come now, who really is at fault for the death of your father? The company that attempted to make his last months’ worth something or the daughter that was so tired of him, she shifted responsibility to the first person that offered her a pen?”

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for 🦄; "tactile take it". (( chrono || non-chrono ))

He wants to say Tim’s name, but he doesn’t want Tim to hear someone else’s voice. 

“Just like that,” Tim says, matter-of-fact but still approving, and Kon lets out another shaky breath. “Find your prostate for me, won’t you? I can’t do it myself like this." Kon bites back a strangled noise and–and–

Tim told him where to find it, before they did this. And with his TTK, when he concentrates right–well, there’s a lot he can feel with it. Generally he ignores his organs and whatever, just . . . 

He’s pretty sure he knows where his prostate is, but he’s less sure how he’s supposed to, like . . . touch it, or . . . 

He doesn’t know how to touch himself like this and if he asks Tim’ll hear the question in someone else’s voice and– 

“Start slow,” Tim says, and Kon shudders in relief. “The feeling will build up. Just rub it a little for now, mm? Give yourself a little pressure.” 

Kon swallows roughly, and tentatively unfurls just enough TTK to–do that, he guesses. He . . . rubs inside himself, up against the little–what is it, technically, like a gland or something? fuck if he even knows–the little whatever a prostate is, and . . . Tim’s right, yeah, as he keeps rubbing over and around it, it gets more sensitive and feels–feels–

It feels really good, Kon realizes a little dazedly, which is . . . which is weird, kind of. Opening himself up hasn’t felt good so far, just–overwhelming, he guesses. Overwhelming and so much and . . . 

He rubs himself a little harder, testingly, and his cock twitches in response, swelling up harder. 

And Tim smiles at it, not his face. 

“Knew you’d like that,” Tim says, obviously pleased. “I’ve always wanted to introduce you to it.” 

Kon flushes, biting the inside of his cheek roughly. Just–“always”? 

How long is “always”? 

“Sometimes when I’m having an annoying experience I calm myself down by thinking of things I want to do to you,” Tim mentions. It sounds like he’s recording notes for himself for a case file, even though he’s clearly talking to him. It makes Kon feel–weird, a little, the idea of being something that Tim would take notes on, or of being something he’d ever give half as much attention as he gives a case. “At the Wayne Foundation fundraiser last week I got so bored I spent the whole damn dinner pretending I had you under the table to keep my cock warm.” 

Kon’s cock twitches much harder this time, and Tim’s smile widens a little. 

“You like the talking too, don’t you,” he says. “That’s kinda sweet.” 

Kon’s face burns, but Tim isn’t looking at his face anyway. He just–he tries not to squirm, and tries to keep his thighs spread and his hole spread, and . . . and just . . . 

“You’re doing so good, Kon,” Tim says coaxingly, and Kon bites his lip at the sound of his name. “Especially for your first time. Don’t stop now. You can take a little more, right?” 

Kon’s face burns.

[shadowmaat]

The Paladin

I found this in my WIPs file. I probably won’t finish it, but I did enjoy what I’ve written so far. It’s a Bobadin modern AU based on a prompt from this Weird AU Combos list.

-

The apartment across from Boba never seemed to stay occupied for long. Mostly it was just a “Hollywood thing;” people moved in expecting to make their Big Break and then left again when they realized fame wasn’t instantaneous and rent was expensive. There were also those who made a big show of their BLM flags and rainbow stickers, but got uncomfortable when they realized that “white” and “straight cis” was the minority in the building. Or the ones who wanted to prove they didn’t need Mommy and Daddy’s money, but balked when they realized they had to do their own laundry and dishes.

Boba had long since given up trying for awkward smalltalk with any new neighbors, knowing they wouldn’t last. So when he saw the door open and moving boxes on the floor inside, he didn’t give it much thought beyond wondering how long this one would last.

The elevator doors slid open and let out a middle-aged white man with tousled brown hair and rumpled clothes carrying a box labeled “Kitchen.” Behind him, plodding with exaggerated care, was a young child of indeterminate gender with skin darker than Boba’s, wearing a hat with big floppy ears. They held a box of their own; a shoe box with the letters “GRGO” painted on the top in green paint that matched the smears on the kid’s hands.

The man ducked his head in greeting, but kept one eye on the kid as they started down the hall.

“Come on, mijito,” the man said. “One more trip to go.”

The kid didn’t respond; all their attention was focused on the box.

Grinning, Boba got on the elevator. Kids always meant more noise, but he could stand it for a while. The kid was cute. So was his dad, though that was a moot observation if they weren’t going to stick around.

-

Shand was all fired up when he got to the office. He’d forgotten it was Friday, which meant a new episode of The Paladin had aired, and that meant he was subjected to her theorizing about the Paladin’s identity- both onscreen and off. 

It was one of the dumbest gimmicks he’d ever heard of, and he’d lived on the fringes of Hollywood for most of his life. Having a protagonist who was always encased in armor was one thing, but the studio had taken extra steps to hide the actor’s identity. The role of the Paladin was listed as being played by “Himself,” and in all the interviews, promo materials, and behind-the-scenes shots he was always in the armor. The helmet even had a built-in mechanism to alter his voice and people were going to ridiculous lengths to analyze recordings to see if they could figure out what he really sounded like. People like Shand.

Boba couldn’t care less. He wished he knew less, too, but Shand insisted on keeping him up-to-date. She’d done a lot of security work for various studios and was impressed by their level of secrecy. She was also irritated that none of her contacts would spill what she wanted to know.

He finally managed to distract her by talking about his encounter with the newest tenant. She lived in the building, too, and had a betting pool with some of the others about Apartment 403.

“He and his kid were lugging in boxes on their own,” he said.

“His name’s Din Djarin,” she said, pulling up something on her phone. “Single dad, works for COTW Stunts; they’re hardcore.” She scrolled. “No family listed, no criminal record, kid’s adopted-”

“The amount of information you dig up on people for no reason is chilling,” Boba interrupted.

“It’s part of the job.” Shand put her phone back in her pocket. “And it isn’t for no reason, it’s important to know who your neighbors are.” She smirked. “Helps figure out the betting, too. I give him four months before he bails.”

Boba frowned. It didn’t make any difference to him, of course, but for the kid’s sake he hoped this Djarin would last a little longer. Kids that young needed stability. Stuntwork could be a tough gig, though, as he knew from experience. It was tough to get good, steady work and tougher still on the body, especially in these days of budget cuts where the studios felt they could skimp on safety.

“I think he’ll last longer,” he said, though he didn’t have any evidence to back up the feeling.

Shand sat up straight, her eyes brightening as she looked at him and he cursed himself for falling into her trap.

“Oh yeah? What makes you say that?” Thumbs tapped at her phone screen.

He shrugged. “He’s got a kid. And an adopted kid at that. CFS tend to frown on families who move around a lot.”

She hummed. “True. Never married under this name. I wonder how he managed to swing that? Single parents aren’t high on Vulture Services’ list.”

Shand had been through the System herself and had escaped to the streets, claiming they were safer. Boba had done his stint, too, and wished he’d done the same; his upbringing had been brutal.

“Dunno,” he said. “Maybe I’ll keep an eye on them. Just for the kid’s sake.”

“Right. The kid.” She smirked. “His headshot isn’t much to look at, but no one ever said you had good taste.”

He flipped her off and then, thankfully, the phone rang and distracted her. Concordia Security had a new potential contract, though it was dependent on a rather thorough background check, first. He tuned her out and settled in to do his own work, briefly lamenting that these days he was mostly confined to a desk.

-

When he got home the hall was filled with the smell of meat and spices. His stomach growled as he unlocked his door and flipped on the lights. At least it meant Djarin was feeding his kid well; it was a good sign. Assuming, of course, that he was feeding the kid and not eating it all himself. There were people like that out there, but Boba chose to hope for the best.

He’d finished his own uninspired dinner of leftovers and was reading in front of the television when he heard his doorknob rattle. He muted the TV and listened. Another rattle accompanied by a weird slithering sound. Checking that his knife was still on his belt he went to the door to investigate.

The fisheye viewer showed an empty hall. The door to 403 was cracked open, but otherwise-

The knob rattled again and he heard a muffled “bah.”

Silently, he undid the bolt, turned the handle, and yanked the door open.

The kid from across the hall wobbled, caught in the act of reaching for the knob again. The remains of a well-chewed tamale were in one hand… and on his face and his shirt and the outside of the door. Large brown eyes stared up at him.

“Kwa?”

Boba’s heart may have melted a bit. He crouched down to eye level, smiling.

“Hey kid, you learning to break and enter?”

“Bu.” The crumbling tamale was thrust at him.

Before he could respond the door across the hall jerked open, revealing a wide-eyed Djarin.

“Gro-” his eyes landed on the kid and all the air whooshed out of him. “Grogu!”

He all but leapt across the hall, sweeping the kid, Grogu, into his arms.

“Grogu, mija, don’t do that to me!”

Grogu giggled, waving the tamale and spilling more filling.

Boba stood as his neighbor looked at him, traces of alarm still evident around his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Djarin said. “I turned my back for a second and-” he huffed.

“No worries.” Boba smiled. “Kids that age are half-magic; they can disappear in a blink and show up in unlikely places.”

“Me di cuenta,” Djarin muttered. “Sorry again.” Smiling, he repositioned Grogu and offered Boba his hand. “I’m Din, and this little troublemaker is Grogu. We just moved in.”

“So I saw.” Boba shook his hand, as well-callused as his own. “I’m Boba. It’s nice to meet you both.” He offered his hand to Grogu, too, who regarded it for a minute before offering a gap-tooth grin and grabbing Boba’s fingers, smearing them with smooshed beans.

“If you ever need anything, I’m right here.”

“Bu,” Grogu said.

Din blushed. “Not Bu,” he said. “I’m Bu. Boba is our very understanding neighbor.”

“Ba?” Grogu looked from Din to Boba.

“I’ll take it.” Boba smiled. “Ba it is.”

The kid was delighted with this development and his dad was smiling in that sappy way some dads got around their kids.

“Thanks for watching out for him,” Din said, stepping back. 

“Any time,” Boba says. “We’ve all gotta watch out for the kids, right?”

“They are the future,” Din agreed, an odd cadence to his voice. He dipped his head, pivoted, and went back into his apartment, closing the door behind him.

It wasn’t until Boba had washed his sticky hands and gotten a cleaning cloth for the door that he realized why Din’s response had sounded familiar: it was a quote from The Paladin. He rolled his eyes. Great, another one.

[pitchblackkoi]

i’ve had this for ages but here is a piece of a wip i’ve had for over a year now. i’ve been working on it again and maybe posting will bully me into finishing it. so here’s some of my shadowgast childhood friends au

When the server has gone and Caleb has a hot coffee sitting in front of him he asks “So, what is it that you do these days?”

Essek perks up at this. “I’m at the Marble Tomes Conservatory. Mostly I teach classes, but I do have some time dedicated to research. I’ve been able to invent a few spells of my own, actually,” he tells Caleb, speaking with an energy that is incredibly familiar.

“I am happy for you, friend,” he says, a genuine smile on his face. “It’s all we ever dreamed of as boys. I assume your area of expertise is dunamancy?”

“Yes, graviturgy specifically,” Essek answers. “When I started school here I got access to so much knowledge about magic and dunamancy, in particular, was fascinating. Using magic to manipulate the workings of the universe. It really was beyond any of our imaginings as children.”

And just like that Essek is off talking about magic theory, enthusiastically gesturing with his hands as he explains complicated concepts that he clearly understands very well. Caleb is listening intently, filing it all away to be examined alongside what else he knows of dunamancy at a later time. Mostly he is focusing on Essek himself, the way his ornate earrings sway as he talks, how bright his eyes look as he talks about his passion, and the way his sleeves are rolled up to show off his forearms. Even when their food arrives (sandwiches with a small bowl of soup that reminds him of meals they ate in his little house as children) he only pauses briefly to take a bite of his food before he’s off again. It’s endlessly endearing and makes him smile.

Caleb realizes the danger of this, of course. It would be so easy to fall back in love with Essek. As far as he can see he is close enough to the boy he knew and loved that it wouldn’t even be difficult. He’s never been good at letting things go. But it would be doomed to failure from the start because he would have to tell Essek about what happened after he left and he would never feel the same way after that.

Essek seems to catch himself after a while. “Ah, but I have gone on for a long time. What have you been doing? I do wonder what landed you in Rosohna.”

He sets his sandwich to the side, trying to decide what to disclose while he finishes chewing. “My friends and I are renting a house on the edge of the Gallimaufry. A lot of us are just doing odd jobs. Jester spends her days working in a bakery, Veth is at a small apothecary, things like that. When money gets tight sometimes we’ll do bounties to make ends meet, whatever we have to.”

“Bounties?” Essek asks, eyes wide.

“Ja, usually someone needs to get rid of a monster for some reason or another, and my friends and I became adept at killing them as we traveled together,” he says with a shrug. “We get by and usually it’s good money. We would rather not if we can help it, but it doesn’t always work out that way.”

“I must say it surprises me to hear that you adventure for money,” Essek confesses. “I always imagined your pursuits would be of the more… academic variety.”

Caleb gives him a wan smile. “Unfortunately it is not always easy to focus on academics and pay the bills. As it is I can only spend some of my time teaching magic to some children in the Coronas.” His smile turns genuine at this. “It doesn’t pay much but I enjoy it too much to stop. If I have to use my magical capabilities to kill monsters so that I can continue to teach, so be it.”

“So what is your specialty? I had always wondered which school you would land on,” the drow asks.

“Transmutation magic is my specialty, though I have some skill in evocation as well,” he answers, feeling much more comfortable discussing magic. It is well-tread ground between the two of them as well as something he feels confident discussing.

This makes Essek give him a fond grin. “I should have known. It is the school with the most flexibility, the most room for creativity and change. It is perfect for you.”

The words send a feeling of relief flowing through him. It’s a confirmation that though he has changed much, maybe some of the boy he once was still lives on in him. His oldest friend recognizes him in even the way he does magic, which is the closest thing to his soul that he has. It’s almost a validation that he chose right when he tried to pick back up the pieces and relearn the art.

“Ah, Danke, Essek. It has done well for me and given me the tools to tinker with spells where I can. All magic is personal, but I find that understanding the intricacies of transmutation lets me make bigger changes than those that come naturally. It just takes a bit of working through,” Caleb begins to explain.

The drow just looks at him with a smile, lunch set to the side as he looks at his friend affectionately. The expression on his face makes Caleb pause in his explanation.

“Ah, sorry. I don’t want to bore you with things that you already know,” he says, blushing a little bit. He can’t believe he’s trying to explain basic magic theory to someone who actually finished their schooling and teaches at a high level, in a lesser-known and complex school of magic no less.

Essek waves away his worries with a hand. “No, that’s not it. It’s just nice getting to watch you get excited about magic once again. I missed it. I missed you.”

Something in Caleb’s chest melts at the words and he smiles warmly. “I missed you, as well. I am glad fate has brought us together once again,” he replies.

This, however, causes Essek to make a sour expression. “I don’t know if I subscribe to the idea of fate,” he admits. “My time in the dynasty especially has put me off of it. Not just because I practice dunamancy, either, but because of how it is talked about as fact here, an absolute.” He pauses, considering. “But if some grand design has brought our paths together again I cannot help but find myself grateful.”