#a fic snippet or whatever

[codgod]

look at me, actually finishing and posting some writing

anyways. hands u some fluffy slimeriana cuddles and kissies. enjoy Or don’t i’m not your dad

[wispscribbles]

I want to eat your art and writing thank you so much

Haha well I'm always happy to keep you all fed. Here, have some old sketches <33

[altcvnningham]

canis major

adler x bell!reader

summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch. or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it. read on ao3

tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk wc: 2.7k

a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')

Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.

Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.

The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.

Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—

The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.

The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.

But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.

He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.

Not like Arctic air. Not like—

The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.

But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.

The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.

He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.

And you step out of the car.

A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.

Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.

He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.

And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—

Bell.

It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—

—you feel someone watching—

—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—

Open the door, Bell, open the door—

—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.

The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.

There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.

You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.

Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.

The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.

And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.

You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.

You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.

Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.

But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.

And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.

But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.

Maybe, then, he’s a fool.

But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.

(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)

The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.

Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.

[cspcrashing]

☠️: kurosaki. what the hell kinda shirt is this ?

🍓: i only said it would fit you, not that it would be your style. besides, it looks fine on you.

☠️: you— fuckin' whatever doc'.

🍓: you like it, don't you.

☠️: shut it.

[transingthoseformers]

This is why I love Rodimus and he should be in more transformers movies/series

[aliferous-ly]

ranchers au of the story of a woman who'll marry whoever can get the key off her cats neck

except it's tango, who is a magician of sorts so he's highly sought after, so he comes up with this test of whoever can get the key he'll marry. people start setting traps and whatnot. most of them tango avoids with ease, but he gets caught in one. depressed, he waits for the inevitable downfall.

only, the person who finds him isnt the one who set the trap. a man finds him, and, aghast at the sight, let's tango go. later in town as jimmy recounts this happenstance everyone around him angrily tells him off because he's squandered this perfect opportunity, and this is how Jimmy finds out about the contest.

he thinks the contest is rather upsetting, because how could someone set the whole town against a poor cat like that?

jimmy takes it upon himself to take care of the cat. he listens as people brag about traps so he can find them and dismantle them. he leaves food and fresh water out when he can, and sets up a small shelter for when it rains. he can't imagine that the cat will use it, with it looking so obviously like a trap, but he sets it up anyway.

he gets a rather negative reputation in town because of this. but instead of backing down, jimmy instead snaps back about what kind of person tango must be, to pit the whole town against an innocent animal! because of the pushback from the townspeople he gets rather righteous about his position.

his opinion is cemented further as the cat slowly learns to trust him. sometimes Jimmy rants to the cat about his neglectful and cruel owner.

time passes. many people in town give up on their endeavors. they set traps, but can't afford to check them frequently. they're too busy working. jimmy gains the cats trust and the cat hides in the shelter he built it. eventually, the cat even walks into his home.

jimmy all but adopts this cat, at this point. he feeds it, cares for it, makes sure it's safe during storms and warm on cold nights. the cat hangs around him all the time, the key dangling from its neck. it's startling, the first time the cat jumps on his lap, but jimmy rewards this trust with lots of pets and nothing else.

the cat grows bolder. it bumps it's forehead against jimmy's hand, curls up on jimmy's lap, and yowls for food at the crack of dawn. it leaves the house but never for longer than a day, always returning with an expectant gaze.

Jimmy tries to ignore the key but he grows restless. this tango guy hasn't even asked about his cat, and Jimmy's been caring for it for ages! He knows the key is to tangos house and is only for the winning suitor, but after the weather turns cold and jimmy despairs about how the cat would survive in such extreme weather without help, he takes the key and stomps up to tangos house to give him a piece of his mind.

it's a long, winding path. The cat follows him the whole way, which is odd, since the cat usually only follows Jimmy when he's safe at home. jimmy reaches the house and he knocks first, he has manners, but after no answer he unlocks it and storms in.

only, the whole place is empty. it's clean, someone clearly lives here, but there's nobody home. jimmy deflates. the cat jumps on a large cushioned chair and stares at him.

jimmy slumps over to the cat and pets it, mumbling about what to do next. he does one final sweep of the house (in jimmy's opinion, if tango wanted privacy he wouldnt have put his key on a cat!). and when he turns back to the cat, hands on his hips and ready to announce failure, his cat isn't... there. in it's place is a man with fiery red hair and a smirk firmly upon his lips.

jimmy has his moments of foolishness but he's not dense. he makes the connection. he realizes, and gapes at the man -- at tango, who's been the cat all along.

tango teases him about marriage and jimmy flusters. the two of them finally get to know each other outside of the contest and tango is firm in his reward, announcing it to the townspeople (many of which are furious at Jimmy, loudest anti-tango spokesman around, being the winner).

and jimmy and tango fall in love and live happily ever after the end.

and yes, jimmy is incredibly embarrassed about unknowingly insulting tango to his face. tango, for his part, found it hilarious and it actually endeared him to jimmy, since jimmy was so furious on the cat's behalf.

[nemaliwrites]

have a snippet from the lil kwami swap thing i'm working on!

High above the streets of Paris, Mister Bug and Lady Noire talk about love.

It's a dangerous topic, to be sure; one that has to be tiptoed around with utmost care. A balancing act for Mister Bug. For Lady Noire too, perhaps, but she never seems like it affects her quite as much. Maybe that's why she's the one who brings it up.

"Are you in love, Mister Bug?"

His feet, from where they'd been kicking back and forth rhythmically, come to a stop. "Huh?"

"I'm just curious," says Lady Noire. On the rooftop they sit, there's more than a few centimeters of space between them. A gap that they're both waiting for Mister Bug to bridge. He only wishes he could. "Are you?"

Mister Bug tries to catch her eye. "Are you sure you want to talk about this? We... we don't have to--"

She waves a clawed hand in the air dismissively. "It's fine," she says, even though he knows it's not. He wonders what it is that's fine: talking about love, or talking about love when they both know he won't -- he can't -- reciprocate her feelings? "I wanna know. Is there anyone you love?"

There is. 

[wikiangela]

tease tidbit tuesday

tagged by @diazsdimples @tizniz @daffi-990 @disasterbuckdiaz 💖

a little more of the cheating fic and finally an eddie and buck scene lol I feel like I haven't posted them together in this fic in a while haha but I just finished chapter 3 last night (so about halfway done, maybe even more!), and I think I'm mostly happy with it, so here's a lil snippet

prev snippet

___

“Chris has been asking about you.” Eddie says, and out of all things, somehow this is not what Buck expected him to say. “You haven’t come over in a while.”

“I-” Buck pauses, forcing himself not to say the first thing at the tip of his tongue, which is something along the lines of ‘oh, so we’re talking again?’, but he doesn’t want to ruin it, not when Eddie’s actually talking to him after way too long. And it’s not like it wasn’t Buck’s fault he stopped. “I didn’t think you’d want me to.” he says instead, quietly and shyly.

“Buck.” Eddie sighs heavily, reaching into his locker for his jacket, still not looking at Buck. “No matter what happened, or is or isn’t gonna happen, you’ll always be our family, you’ll always be important to us, and you’ll always be welcome in our house. Always.” he emphasizes, glances at Buck with those sad eyes, then looks away again. “I don’t wanna ruin that.���

“Oh. Well, I don’t, either. You and Chris are so important to me, Eddie, you have no idea-” he rushes to say, but cuts himself off before he says something he doesn’t mean. Or worse, something he does mean, but can’t take back. “And I- I’m so, so so sorry for risking it all-”

“It wasn’t just you.” Eddie shakes his head, puts his jacket on. Then, finally turns and looks Buck in the eye. “We both made some pretty stupid, shitty decisions, and I’m sorry, too. That wasn’t how this should’ve happened. If at all.” he adds quickly, blushing. Shit. Eddie wanted that, he still does, and he- what if he loves Buck? What if Buck’s being a dumbass and refusing what could be the best thing in his life? “Listen,” Eddie says after a second, with a heavy sigh, “take all the time you need to figure shit out, but just tell me whenever you decide what you want, like I said. I’ll always be here, Buck. And I’ll always-” he stops, shakes his head again. “But now, can we just…?” he trails off, waving his hand between them, gesturing vaguely. Buck chuckles, always understanding Eddie even without words.

“Yeah, we can.” he can’t help a relieved sigh. It’s all getting back on track.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gaydiaz @thebravebitch @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck @eowon @loserdiaz @evanbegins @ladydorian05 @wildlife4life @diazpatcher @lover-of-mine @monsterrae1 @thewolvesof1998 @puppyboybuckley @weewootruck @loveyouanyway @spagheddiediaz @rainbow-nerdss @epicbuddieficrecs @pirrusstuff @spotsandsocks @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @hoodie-buck @nmcggg @rogerzsteven @hippolotamus @giddyupbuck @sunshinediaz @honestlydarkprincess @underwater-ninja-13 @exhuastedpigeon @fortheloveofbuddie @911-on-abc @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @theotherbuckley @buddieswhvre @dangerpronebuddie

[wolfsbanesparks]

Trick or Treat!

*Throws 2 candys at you and steals the bowl of candy*

Happy Halloween!

I hope you're not squeamish! This one includes descriptions of a dead body (obviously from Pretty Little Thing)

Blood dripped down his face, slipping down from his nose and mouth, leaving dark red trails down his cheeks, almost like tear tracks. His head lolled to the side, his unseeing eyes boring into Billy’s, silently begging for help, silently damning him for not saving him. He almost wished they would come back, that they would go back to torturing him, anything not to be left alone with the body, the reminder of how badly he had failed, the promise of what his future would hold.

[raikirikiri]

missing-nin kakashi who leaves the village on his own accord. he’s pushed to the edge, and despite all the anbu missions he’s taken to get himself killed, it just doesn’t work. so he leaves and becomes a mercenary and thinks he might have some luck dying that way. he thinks part of him is still loyal to konoha but it doesn’t feel like home anymore. plus the constant needling of his ex-classmates insisting their his friends when he knows he doesn’t deserve friends, he barely deserves comrades.

so he leaves. and he does the jobs he takes well and yes, he’s still hoping he dies but he’s too good at being a shinobi so he keeps living. no matter how accidental.

he has a good fortune by the start of canon time but id like to believe he lives in a cave with a ratty futon and a few shabby changes of clothes. he lives an extremely solitary life but he’s…healed. a little. he’s never forgiven himself, he probably never will, but he’s made some sort of peace with himself and his actions.

meanwhile. the akatsuki is forming. itachi, kisame, sasori, kakazu, pain, konan, zetsu, obito (still in the shadows). almost the whole crew is there, they just need to round out their numbers a little. and who better to approach than missing-nin copy ninja kakashi? pain brings it up first one rainy day in ame. obito, or madara, is meeting with pain, konan, and zetsu and pain brings up kakashi first.

obito chokes out a no, barely hanging onto his madara act. no, he denies vehemently. the mean thought enrages something in him and the thought of having to see kakashi’s beautiful ugly mug more than he already does (because yes, he may be a missing-nin but obito wouldn’t be a stalker if he couldn’t find his prey over and over again) is brain melting and heart stopping in a very very negative way.

of course pain has to ask why, madara has never had such a visceral reaction to suggestion for a recruit.

his pants around his ankles, obito has to scramble for an excuse and it’s a little more elegant than “he’s not evil enough”. obito shuts the conversation down then and there, deciding to come back to it at a later date when he can be prepared for his ex-teammate’s name to be brought up again.

for the next three years, any time they’re low on numbers, kakashi’s name comes up and obito always struggles to react normally and his answer is always some iteration of “he’s not evil enough”. so hidan comes up with the brilliant idea to force him to be evil, similar to how they forced deidara to join the akatsuki.

obito, failing to come up with counter arguments and running out of excuses, concedes. pain, during their monthly meetings where tobi is madara, is pleased. he suggests sending itachi to fetch him, since they were once anbu together and seeing a familiar face may help. obito vetoes this and decides he’ll go get kakashi himself. he’s, of course, seen how being away from the village has affected him. and while he’s entirely competent, he’s almost too competent. and doesn’t do well with surprises.

without further preamble, he kamuis into kakashi’s cave, startling him and causing him to spill his soup everywhere. now, kakashi is very much attack first, talk second at this point in his life. having been away from society for so long has allowed his hatake genes to really take over and he’s become much more uhhh instinct driven.

so once he gets over his initial shock and his initial reaction of ‘kill kill kill’, he freezes. he’s always had a sharp sense of smell but it’s on a different level now and there’s something familiar about this strange ghost man. for someone so ghoulish, he has a scent and it lights a lamp in kakashi’s subconscious.

‘i know you’ kakashi accuses, a snarl rising in his throat. this ghoul man is in his cave, his private space, he wants answers.

‘do you?’ a deep voice asks, sounding surprised and amused.

kakashi weighs his options of arguing with ghost guy or figuring out why the hell ghost guy just…appeared in his cave.

‘i’m here to take you to join the akatsuki’ ghoul man decides for him. kakashi grunts and picks up his overturn bowl.

‘no thanks’ he states, scooping some soup from the pot into his bowl.

‘it’s not an invitation’ the apparition snaps and kakashi pauses. he sniffs towards ghost guy again but he still can’t place the scent to the man.

‘can you please leave? i’m trying to eat my dinner and well…’ kakashi asks (but of course it’s more of demand), pointedly gesturing to his mask.

‘what? no. you’re coming with me,” obito growls, his eye twitching in irritation. after all these years, all his suffering, all he’s learned and how much he’s grown…bakakashi still gets under his fucking skin.

‘i don’t want to’ kakashi pouts, petulance and amusement in his tone.

‘you don’t get a choice’ obito hisses in madara’s voice. it sounds wrong and entirely too much like obito.

‘maa, what do i get out of it?’ hatake drawls, a glint in his eye that tells obito hes enjoying this far too much.

‘nothing. you get nothing except me letting you continue to live your sorry life’ obito snaps back, unable to stop the heat of annoyance racing up his spine.

‘how do you know my life is sorry?’ kakashi taunts loftily, crossing his arms and lifting his nose to the ceiling.

‘for the love of sage’ obito takes kakashi by the arm and warps them into kamui, uncaring if kakashi recognizes the jutsu or not. he just wants him to shut up. he should kill pain for making him do this. he would kill hidan but that fucker can’t fucking die.

‘hey i recognize that foot’ kakashi mutters to himself, eye squinted at the severed foot he warped into the dimension months ago. huh. that’s where the things he disappears go. interesting.

hey wait—

‘i know that look’ obito bites out, letting his facade drop. stupid fucking genius asshole.

kakashi gasps, eyes watering in disbelief. ‘don’t—don’t fucking do that. get it together already. you’re about to meet a bunch of fuckin’ s-ranked missing-nins, you can’t be crying’

obito’s voice is a little awkward this soft, but he’s sincere. he doesn’t know how or why he’s sincere, he hates kakashi. he thinks. he’s not too sure but he hasn’t been…soft…in years. but the sight of kakashi, broken and worn down, has something in him melting just a little.

‘you fucking dickhead’ kakashi croaks, shoving obito’s shoulder. ‘you fucking— fucking asshole! you were dead! you bastard, how could you not come back? how could you not tell me?’

kakashi’s voice is hard and cracking at the edges. it throws obito off entirely. his mouth opens and closes like a limp fish behind tobi’s mask, trying to find the words he should say.

after a few moments of kakashi’s hardened stare, obito finds himself feeling indignant. ‘i never thought you’d care’ he sneers. a lie.

‘you’re not that fucking good at lying still and i’m not dense. you’ve been stalking me. at least since i left the village’ kakashi accuses with a scoff.

‘i run a terrorist organization!’ obito shoots back hotly. ‘excuse me for thinking duty-driven kakashi wouldn’t take his dead sunshine-happy teammate becoming an s-rank criminal well!’ he seethes, finding he isn’t all that angry. this feels familiar.

‘oh please. i’d follow you till the end of the fucking earth’ kakashi spits before his eyes widen in shock, much like obito’s eye does. kakashi drops his full bowl of soup on the floor of kamui and covers his mouth with both hands.

obito makes a noise in the back of his throat, ‘don’t—‘ and then he’s ripping his mask off and pulling kakashi’s hands away from his face and tugging him close. lips to mask, he doesn’t care, he kisses kakashi fervently.

he tastes kakashi through the clothe of his mask, moaning at the way kakashi moans against him, the way kakashi’s fingers find themselves in obito’s hair. when they finally pull away, obito manages a please smile, cheeks bright red and pupil blown, ‘don’t follow me. walk with me.’

kakashi rolls his eyes and pulls him in for another kiss. ‘told you i knew you’ he whispers against obito’s lips, before nuzzling his face into obito’s neck, scenting him, marking him.

———

AHEM ANYWAY:

i think kakashi’s hair would be grown out, similar to how obito’s hair was during cave life with old ass madara. his already long canines would grow, and he’d be super in touch with nature. i think he’d be able to communicate with animals similar to how juugo is. basically, once away from the village and society, he becomes a lot more hatake-ish. just. kakashi growling and snarling snurfing at any akatsuki member that isn’t obito. or itachi. he’ll accept kisame eventually too, but that’s it. everyone else he does not talk to, only growls at.

[jessicas-pi]

Ben has kind of been having the worst day of his life, what with the dying and all.

It’s a marked improvement when he’s tramping through the forests of Takodana and a familiar voice demands, “Would you believe me if I told you Palpatine was my grandfather?”

He turns around.

Stares.

Rey stands ten feet away, her blaster pointed at him, a challenge in her eyes.

“Would you believe me if I told you Han Solo was my father?” he says, answering the question with a question.

“Yes,” she says, lowering the blaster.

“Well, that answers that,” he replies, turning off his lightsaber.

The silence stretches on.

Takodana is unpleasantly hot.

Why did he ever think wearing all-black was a suitable fashion choice?

Rey falters, apparently not having planned what to say if she got this far. “I suppose this is where we save the galaxy.”

“I suppose so,” he agrees. “To Exogol, then?”

“Have you got the Wayfinder already?” she asks, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

“Picked it up on the way here.”

“Ah. That simplifies things.” She holsters her blaster and sets off at a brisk pace, adding as she brushes past him: “And try not to die this time. It was so inconvenient.”

“You died first,” he mutters.

[localcryptic]

tagged for WIP wednesdaythursday by @westealtoys and @autumnfangirler ! and technically @b33tlejules so i’m using that as an excuse to post 3 things lol 😋

it’s sidesteps all the way down. enjoy some tal and ortega chargestep kisses, ripley and hollow ground, and allen egg% speedrun with his puppet that maybe one day i’ll finish <3

i do not know who to tag. if you are reading this 🫵 post your WIPs and tag me

[mean-scarlet-deceiver]

😘

For Valentine's Day, here are shipping... not headcanons so much as scenes that I would like to put into fic form but, let's be for real, I'll only ever get around to writing 1 out of 6 of these. So instead let me just tell you how the scenes go!

(Note: They are all silly but they are not all fluffy.)

Henry x Bear:

Henry bringing Bear to his forest (which is actually a spur off the Peel Godred branch line) for the first time circa 1971-ish and being kind of gruffly shy about this because This Is His Heart and he's trying to sound soooo offhand as he mentions that he just likes to visit here sometimes… get away from it all… for the past fifty years cough… and Bear just looking around and having a heart attack at how some roots are literally driving up the track ahead of them and measuring the four inches between them and the foliage and being like HENRY. HENRY I’M SORRY BUT. HOW. HOW IS THIS LEGAL. HOW HAVE YOU NOT CAUSED A FIRE HERE

I guess this one doesn't end on a very romantic note but it does make me laugh. 

Edward x BoCo:

This one is even more messed-up but it also makes me laugh. I tend to imagine occasionally even work on a way-too-complicated WIP of Edward and BoCo getting to know each other during the three years before “The Diseasel” and also things on the mainland are, like. Bad. Really, really bad. BoCo is way too busy chronically dealing with stress levels set to 9 out of 10 to in any way acknowledge his growing romantic feelings about Edward… 

… until one day when he’s been working further inland for a few days and as he starts returning ‘home’ he hears word that Edward was left in Barrow shed for a day and somehow spent the day out and about on B.R. jobs and BoCo RUSHES back - albeit a quiet, understated sort of way - all but teleports! - he NEEDS to find out RIGHT AWAY if his oh-so-innocent-cinnamon-roll is even still ALIVE :( let alone finding out how bullied he’s been :( only at the end of three hours in a sort of moving heart attack to find Edward at Barrow shed apparently now pals with everyone and swapping tales of Furness past and present with all the worst characters imaginable eating out of his palm and being like oh hello! yes i did get out and about it’s been lovely :) and BoCo trying not to shout in front of everyone I THOUGHT THERE WAS A REAL CHANCE YOU WERE DEAD OR KIDNAPPED AND SENT HALFWAY ACROSS THE COUNTRY BY NOW I CAME PREPARED TO COMMIT MURDER and Edward with an unbroken smile being casually like Oh yes :) Five different diesels tried :) No dw you can see I’m fine haha :) Incidentally at least a few of your brothers would sell you to the Gronk mafia for a corn chip :) yes the ones I’m sharing a chummy laugh with rn :) I had no idea things here were so bad I am putting you under protective custody on Sodor immediately :) 

Mavis x Daisy:

Mavis has been down coz things have been so dull.

Daisy comes to her beloved's rescue!

... by throwing the world’s fakest mechanical breakdown at Ffarquhar and being like ‘oh DEAR i am ILL I am FALLING APART i NEED my dearest Mavis to HELP ME WITH THIS ONE MILK TANKER or else my SWERVES will IMPLODE’ and literally every human on scene doing a facepalm.

Mavis has a grand time although - when they manage to swing this journey all the way to Tidmouth Harbour - Mavis shows how much more forward she is about striking up conversations whereas Daisy is actually quite socially anxious (much as she tries to hide it) and winds up getting jealous at Mavis talking to everyone but her. 

And then (finally noticing Daisy in a tizzy) Mavis rolls her eyes and kisses her at the same time. 

Most everyone whoops and shouts some good-natured razzing. Cranky, however, is all like ‘OY A LITTLE LESS OF THAT IN MY DOCK’ 

Thomas x Bertie:

Maybe this one is a straight-up headcanon, I dunno. And I think this ship is a QPR. But anyway I like to imagine Bertie swinging all the way out to York to visit Thomas during his stint at the NRM. 

It’s a super lovely surprise. 

Up to and including Bertie responding to “But how?????” with the world’s smarmiest: “Well, I’m allowed to travel on mainland roads, aren’t I? Roads 1,459 Rails 0 :D” 

James x Porter:

This is me, the captain of an empty ship, I know. (It's fun!)

Porter has been screwing with James’s head for fifteen years now by doing Grand Romantic Gestures but with Pokerfaced Watertight Plausible Deniability. 

Like if there’s ever a cargo of flowers to go out, he always makes sure James gets it. 

He always just so happens to be on James’s track when there are fireworks. 

Forever making remarks like “Oh yeah, you go on first, you need your beauty routine” to let James go on and get wash down ahead of him and then bouncing so that James spends the entire time fruitlessly parsing the tone. It’s not biting or mean. It’s not flirtatious or teasing. But it's definitely not quite matter-of-fact. What does he MEAN by it???

No one knows. (Not that James cares!!!!!!!!) Porter, who has intimacy issues, is having way more fun living in James’s head rent-free than he ever would actually making a move on the most difficult and dramatic love interest on the railway (James: Everybody’s Ex™)

… at some point this will get resolved only when James snaps and drags him along on one of his fast freights out of the harbour. For once Porter is flustered (“Whoa! Whoa! James, put me down! I don’t go this fast - ”) and James just laughs, suddenly exhilarated because now he’s finally hauling Porter off and at the end is gonna force him to address all this shit (“C’mon, you’ve played Thomas before, haven’t you? Let’s moooooove -!”)

[psychicthepsychic-daily]

hood is the ceo of “other people have it worse” /HJ

[prince-liest]

Jumping on the “about you wanting to write more lucifer” bandwagon, don’t mind me!

I loved your ‘How to Bag an Angel’ fic so much, I’ve never read an Angel/Lucifer fic like it (and was subsequently very disappointed to find that it wasn’t a popular ship); you totally sold me on that rarepair! Absolutely zero pressure, I totally get prioritising writing for your own enjoyment, but would you ever consider writing a continuation based on Angel’s “maybe you can call me daddy”? Because that line made me go 👀

HAHA, okay, confession: I'm absolutely writing a sequel (banged out 2k words today so far baybeeee, pun intended) but it's absolutely also not going to include any daddy kink because while there are few things out there that I find too personally silly to write in a not-joking context, that is one of them.

Have a snippet as an apology:

[marchtooctober]

"I love you." She finally let out.

What came after, it was something she did without knowing. Tilting her face to him, she tugged his necktie and gave a quick but shocking kiss. Loid was frozen for a moment. Upon realizing what she just did, Yor turned away and started walking.

"Yor!" Loid called out.

Yor stopped in her tracks.

"Please... Face me."

When she did, he also came crashing. Loid held her fast and kissed her. It wasn't aggressive but it was a kiss that showed how much he's been holding back all this time.