#also thats such a good plot for a fic

[vanillesuiker]

Percy's hand on the Weasley clock just swings to "Sick" every year and Molly doesn't even flinch at it.

Percy gets sick after finals are over from stress

[whollyjoly]

for some reason i can't explain i know saint peter won't call my name

nothing that lives, lives forever - an immortal soldier!alton more au

(1.1k of snippets from my old guard(ish) au where alton more is old, too old, and has been living and fighting far longer than anyone should. full description/other thoughts at the bottom. tw: blood, violence, mentions of death)

Alton clicked the lighter closed, running a thumb over the silver case. The night was warm, sticky in a way that he never could get used to. He sucked in a breath from the cheap cigarette, letting his head fall back against the rough side of the barracks.

It was quiet. Typically, there would be no end to the commotion coming from the small building, one of many that littered Camp Toccoa. The wall of sound was ever-present, no matter if it was shouting or laughing or snoring. But whatever the cause, there was always noise. 

No matter if it was a blanket of noise he knew well, unchanging except for the language and the scenery. Soldiers are soldiers, and some things are a constant. It could almost be comforting, if it didn’t also mean that the need for soldiers was a constant as well.

However, tonight was a Saturday, and it was one of the few weekends that Sobel had allowed Easy the use of their weekend passes. Almost every man in the company had jumped at the chance to get off base, to travel home if they could and spend time with loved ones. The ones with farther-flung hometowns had spirited off to Atlanta, happy to spend their time drinking and dancing and fucking instead of slogging through another run, three miles up, three miles down.

Normally, Alton would have joined them in their carousing - it was easier to pass the time with the effortless camaraderie built during a training camp than bored and alone. 

But today had been a bad day. The sound of swords and the shift of sand beneath his feet followed him out of his nightmares, the humid summer of Georgia morphing itself into the baking, dry heat of the desert. 

His shouts must have been real, because when a hand came to shake him out of his dream, the first face he saw was not that of a grouchy NCO, but of a blood-caked Saracen, eyes alight with righteous fury. 

Alton didn’t think. He had grabbed the knife from under his pillow, an old thing that had been sharpened more times than he could begin to count, and was on the man in less than a breath, pressing the blade into the side of his neck. The familiar thrum of blood beat against his fingertips, the grit of sand scratched his gums. He knew what he had to do, had done it a thousand times, a thousand thousand times, what was a little more bloodshed spilled across his feet-

Alton had blinked, and came to himself in a rush.

Instead of an unnamed Saracen, the ashen face of Johnny Martin stared up at him, eyes wide behind the knife.

Alton drew back his hand, retreating almost as quick as he had lunged earlier. He mumbled a quick curse and apology as he stepped out of arm’s reach from the man. It wasn’t until Martin’s eyes widened even farther that Alton realized his tongue was slipping out Arabic of all things.

Usually, Alton was better about remembering himself, who he was almost as important as where he was. But for whatever reason, his demons had decided to catch up with him that night.

After a quick smile and some quip about the Krauts in his dreams, he managed to wave an only-slightly-mollified Martin off. The shorter man apparently hadn’t forgotten it though, if his watchful eyes during chow that morning were anything to go by.

Alton was just glad that no one else was awake to see it, at least. That was the last thing he needed.

And so, instead of joining in on a weekend of broads and booze, Alton found himself waving away the invitation by an eager Smokey and bemused Alley. When the horde made their way out of the barracks, fantasizing in bawdy terms about their planned misadventures, he felt like he could breathe easy.

Fucking finally.

~~

Alton took another drag from the cigarette. He watched the smoke curl, up and up until it faded into nothing amongst the darkening sky.

The lighter was a welcome weight in his hand, grounding him to this time, this life.

The design was worn by now, details barely visible after a half century of worrying. It still managed to amaze him, sometimes, what people could do with the smallest of canvases. Alton didn’t feel the same wonder however, wasn’t as mesmerized by the beauty man could create as he once was.

But in the quiet moments, he could still appreciate the time some French craftsman took to transform a hunk of metal into a small token carried around by a dead man.

Luz had spied the lighter one weekend, and laughed at him for using something so old-fashioned. Alton just shrugged, not caring to admit that he was still getting used to having a light at his fingertips. It wasn’t all that long ago when he was still lighting a pipe with a flintlock pistol, and not so long before that when he would carry around a flint and steel.

Time was passing all the more quickly these days, technologies changing and advancing, and everyone was obsessed with needing things to be quicker, cheaper, simpler. Alton scoffed. He could hardly find it in him to care.

He glanced down at the lighter in his hand, shifting it back and forth in a practiced motion and watched as the light skittered across the sides. 

It had shown flowers, once. A veritable garden of carnations, daffodils, and lilies of the valley, with leaves spilling across the front panel onto the back. They represent good fortune, he was told. Good fortune, luck, and hope. 

When the merchant described it to him, eyes ablaze with a passion known only to those with wares to sell, Alton didn’t try to hide the snort that escaped his throat. 

Fortune and Luck had abandoned him long ago, and hadn’t returned since waking up in a battlefield abandoned by all but the dead, sword in his chest and blood in his mouth. 

And what the fuck was Alton supposed to do with hope?

It was the quote on the back that had caught his eye, all those years ago in a street market in Reims. The beveled edges had faded with time, the familiar letters Alton traced were more memory by now than any physical mark. Une vie honorable est une vie éternelle.

An honorable life is an eternal life.

Alton couldn’t help but stare at the message, both then and now. He hated that goddamn word. Immortal. Unending. Eternal. 

They were such flowery words, used by people who craved what they couldn’t have, what they shouldn’t. The romanticized idea of the everlasting, the fountain of youth, the gift of life! Alton was sick of it.

This wasn’t life. He was a fucking dead man walking. And he sure as hell didn’t do anything honorable to deserve it.

months ago, while thinking about the absolute insanity of the almost...cavalier? attitude we see alton more have over the course of the series, an idea hit my brain: what if there was a reason nothing seemed to phase him - not panzers, not being a breath away from a car wreck, not bastogne, not speirs? what if this wasn't his first war? that thought spiraled me into a minor insanity that is this: my immortal soldier!alton more au, loosely inspired by the movie the old guard (2020). the idea is that, once upon a time, there was a soldier in a land many centuries ago. one day, he died in battle. and then, he woke up. and then he died. and then he woke up. over, and over. drawn to countless battles, conflicts, and wars, each one etching itself into the core of his soul. a never-ending cycle...until one sweltering summer, where he found himself at a training camp at the foot of a mountain. anyways. at some point, i plan on writing this as a full story, but that is admittedly a long ways away. however, in celebration of alton more's birthday today, i wanted to post my favorite scene that i've written for this au! it's set sometime at the beginning of the story, in the early days of camp toccoa. mostly, it's just a character study of this version of alton more. hope you enjoyed! and of course - happy birthday alton more!

(song insp.)

taglist: @sweetxvanixlla @coco-bean-1218 @bucky32557038ww2 @georgieluz @samwinchesterslostshoe @xxluckystrike @next-autopsy @ronald-speirs @land-sh @ronsparky @panzershrike-pretz @theredrenard @kyellin

[midnightsnaq]

Accidentally found myself working on two mp100 fics at the same time

[turtlespancake]

me when i write a character who is prone to dooming themself and then they run off and doom themself. core traits are stubbornness and a willingness to disregard their own humanity gET BACK HERE IM NOT DONE WITH YOU

[iangallagherisadeadman]

something something a fanfic in which Ian is best friends with Yevgeny and then he timetravel and falls in love with his best friend's father.

I like to think that in this version he was raised by Clayton cause Monica obviously couldn't, and canonlike she wasn't in the picture much. He then lives with his father, stepmother and siblings but doesn't quite fit with them. Yev was raised by Svetlana and never knew his father cause he left when Yev was a baby.

When Ian travels back he is saved by Mandy. He says he's a Gallagher and she's like "I know the Gallaghers but I never saw you!". He's introduced to his "cousins" who immediately take he in like a brother? Who he is cause of Monica.

Then because of Mandy he gets to know Mickey and younger Svetlana and baby Yev and it is extremely fucked but... my dick's in your dad mouth, sorry Yev!

Gallavich: they start as friends cause Ian quickly hits off with Mandy, and soon Ian gets to understand the difficult situation that led to Yevgeny's conception and why Mickey probably left them when Yev was still a baby. Then, feelings come along and Mickey's deep in the closet but Ian's nothing if open-minded so with time it works out. Ian doesn't lose interest even though Mickey has a wife and baby, he isn't scared off easily, and Yev Svet and Mandy all like him so that's a turn on. Ian likes older guys so the fact that Mickey's an old soul in a hot young body who listens to dad music and is grumpy is what attracts Ian.

The future is forever altered. Ian now actually has a family of Gallagher's he actually likes and fits. Ian came along so Mickey never left the picture and now Yev was raised with his father around. Which changed the way Yev grew up to be, so he's not the version Ian knew, but that's alright cause then Ian gets to meet him again. And yes, they end up being best friends all the same, after all, Yevgeny watch the type of cartoons and listens to the kind of music and plays the same videogames Ian grew up with so they're very close.

[altruistic-meme]

why do i always end up in the position where i get pissed off about fandoms villainizing specific characters. why do i set myself up like this.

[crows-of-buckets]

I need to draw my rook bc I actually do have some ideas for them I just. Have NOT been in a creating mood idk I'm so tired... Aoughgggh

[courfee]

just went through all my ao3 fics and edited all the tags because i feel like i overtag a lot and it always bothered me. tbf the most overtagging happens in my relationship/character tags but i find it super difficult to judge who/which relationship is important. like friendships are So Important in my fics i dont feel like i cant tag less there? especially my longer fics. amtc james&sirius and black brothers are in my mind at least if not more important than literally amtc jegulus. i know its a jegulus fic but also jegulus is just the catalyst for other relationship dynamics. how do you tag that stuff

[fissions-chips]

is that the hand of judgement or the hand of mercy?

(evil polycule au- tw for blood, violence, and gun violence, as well as suicide-ish themes (vaguely implied in dialogue, not by POV character))

   Get off.

   Get away.

   Valentine’s voice was a sickening smear of noise in Jon’s ears, hard to be heard over the rising static- above him, the man could just barely make out the bright gleam of too-white teeth bared in a snarl, a smile. Was he being taunted? Mocked? It was too hard to tell. 

   The fingers around his throat twisted tighter, lifting him up and slamming him down. Jon’s head knocked back into the wall and his vision filled with a bright burst of red light. A choked shout tore its way from his throat and Valentine sneered, one hand moving to fumble for his face and stifle the sound at the root. 

   “-ou said you’d make this easy!”

   The other man’s snarl met him just as he did, fingers sliding over mouth and nose, and Jon balked away- pinned between the wall and Valentine himself, there was nowhere to go, and he found himself crushed to the floor again, back bent sharply by the space where it joined the wall. He couldn’t breathe. Weight settled heavy across his chest and Valentine leaned down, until Jon felt his own ribs creak- he tried to heave himself away, arms shaking, only to have his head slammed into the wall once more. I did, he thought. I did. 

   And yet, despite his words and despite Valentine’s fury, Jon scrambled blindly for something, anything that would get the other man off of him. His hands found nothing and fingers curled beneath his jaw once more, squeezing. 

   “Stupid son of a bitch-“ Valentine cursed as Jon clawed at his wrists, eyes stretched wide in terror- there was a darkness etched beneath them, carved by illness and misery. Jon’s breath rattled beneath his palms, ribcage sharp and stark below the white of his suit. He could feel the edge of Jon’s hipbone against his knee, the man somehow thinned further than even the last time he had seen him- Valentine knew that, truly, it was his own fault, and a savage little spark of victory crowed in the back of his mind.

   One hand rose from Jon’s throat to dig into his scalp, fingers dragging the man forward by the hair as he let out a strangled shout- other hand fumbling at the pistol tucked into his waistband, Valentine wrenched his head back. “Shut up.” He sneered, forcing Jon to meet his gaze. The man flinched at the venom he saw there, at the sight of his own wide, frightened eyes staring back at him in the pink-tinged mirror of tinted lenses. 

   Pathetic, he found himself thinking, and he shrank down further. He hardly recognized himself- thinned, trembling, all of the gold and gilt long gone from him. It had drawn too much attention, after everything- his hands shook too badly to put in his piercings now, too unsteady to fasten the narrow chains of gold around his neck. Look at you. A fucking joke.

   “Who…” Valentine panted, a quiet click echoing in the air as he pulled the gun from his belt. Jon froze. “Who are you even trying to call? No one’s here, Jon- it’s just you and me.” 

   Jon felt the press of cold metal against his stomach, the other man’s eyes narrowing slightly as he drank in the way Jon was shaking beneath him. “Everyone’s gone home… and who would come if they heard you now, anyways?” His sneer shifted, melted into an award-winning facade of smiling kindness- Jon knew that look, the malice behind it clear in the way the bruising barrel of the gun lifted, shoving itself against his sternum. 

   “Go on- tell me.”

   Jon’s mouth opened- he tried to force out some answer, tried to pull a name or face to his mind. There were none. Face falling from fright into one of dismay, he glanced left and right, thinking. 

   Valentine snickered. “Your poor secretary- your poor staff, to put up with the madman Jon Spiro and all his… delusion.” He shook his head. “I really do pity your board, having to clean up the mess you left at my headquarters that night- do you even attend their meetings anymore?” 

   No. Not anymore.

   “They finally gave you the boot, eh? At every party, you’re all alone, poor thing-“ The words were hissed, venomous. “I never see your face on television anymore, unless it’s news of you being a fucking asshole… or pitiful. Good riddance. You know, Carla called you a fucking alcoholic the other day, spat it out like something rotten- if only she knew!” 

   Stop it.

   “Broken, beaten, a fucking shell-“ Valentine punctuated each word with a sudden jab against Jon’s ribcage, the edge of the gun’s barrel sharp enough to bruise. “Where’d your supposed friends go, Jonny? That pretty blue-eyed fellow you whispered all your little secrets too, and that hulking pet of his… said they’d help you take me down, did they? Scare me away and make me leave you alone?” 

   Jon paled. Tim. The sharp-eyed, sinister man with the scar-marked face and a voice that didn’t match, too soft and creaking- the man who’d asked him for a smoke. A smoke, then a secret, some man in the North and what he knew of him- a man murdered and dumped in the Kola Bay, snow blowing around their feet as the boat dipped and rocked beneath them. Jon had told him because he was desperate, yes, for relief, and the way Tim had held his shaking hands between his own to warm them had been so gentle. He had just wanted… his attention. Anyone’s attention, without intent to mock or harm. Before Tim, Jon couldn’t recall a hand that had been reached out to him without beating him bloody, unless it had been across an office table. No one talked to him anymore, and he couldn’t find it in him to blame them.

   And Tim… Tim, despite his kindness, had proven to be one of the most fearsome men Jon had ever met. In his mind, he still saw the face of that Mafiya man as Tim had carved the flesh from his fingers, warmed metal until it had crackled and glowed only to douse it on any skin he could reach. Messy work. Grudge work. 

   Tim had set his sights on Chicago’s criminal underbelly, after that- and Jon had helped him. God, he was stupid. Something nauseous bubbled up in his stomach, beneath his fear and the pounding of his heart and skull. I’m such an idiot, he thought, because he knew it was a foolish thing to do- and because he knew if Tim asked him again, for names or numbers or where this man could be found, he’d tell him. He’d tell him anything at all. 

   Anything to be held in those hands again. 

   “Well,” Valentine continued, lifting his hand from Jon’s hair to sweep it back across his own, tidying the strands that were beginning to come loose- it didn’t disguise the near-manic glint in his eyes, the way his teeth bared as he spoke. “I’m almost tempted, to let you rot up here in your pretty penthouse all by yourself- but you just can’t take a hint, can you?” 

   Jon shrank back against the wall, the gun cold against his heaving chest- his heart was pounding so hard in his ears that he could barely hear the other. The width of his vision had narrowed, Valentine’s face a blurred smear of glinting teeth and glasses above his own. “Wh…what?” He choked out, wincing as Valentine leaned close and sneered. 

   “I told you, once, that I wasn’t going to kill you until you begged me for it.” 

   Despite the hatred glittering in his odd eyes, Valentine’s voice was airy, conversational- as if he was recalling a memory of poor weather, or a previous performance. Jon stilled. He remembered, too, hazy as it was. He hadn’t been clear-headed for a long time now.

   Shaking hands curled around the balcony railing, frost stinging beneath his fingers as Valentine had held him there, hand on the back of his head and forcing him to look down, down, down at the dizzying lights of the city far below. Threatening to throw him off. His feet lifted off the ground ever-so-slightly, vertigo snatching his breath away as the other had hissed into his ear. 

   “They wouldn’t think you fell.” 

   Valentine had tossed him away then, leaving him slumped against the glass door of the balcony as he’d strutted back inside, cool as could be.  Jon hadn’t moved for hours after that, sitting there shaking with his head in his hands, fighting a feeling he didn’t know how to name. Despair, yes, and terror. Blind, mind-numbing terror- and a little bit of something else too, something that had left him reeling in a haze. He had only moved to go inside when he realized that night had fallen.

   He felt that same feeling now, coiling like a snake in the pit of his stomach. Something hollow, sickening- his mind blanked, hands curling into fists until they ached. Something that pulled at him.

   “And I have tried,” Valentine continued, dragging Jon’s attention back to him with a hand slammed into the wall beside his head. “-to be patient, and just… nudge you in the right direction.” That same hand slid down in the edge of Jon’s vision, the man kept from further retreat by the touch of cold metal to his throat. There was a quiet tap against the plastic box clipped to his belt, pills rattling. 

   Suddenly, with a furious snarl, Valentine ripped it free and tossed it across the floor, Jon’s medicine scattering across the pale tile and carpeting with a clatter. Jon stared after them, shocked. A shiver ran down him at the sight of the little white tablets- the image blurred and Jon realized there were tears welling in his eyes.

   Oh.

   Lip curling, Valentine grabbed his jaw and wrenched in forward, Jon’s yelp of pain drowned by the other man’s voice, trembling with rage and much, much louder. “But… there is some stupid little part of you, Jon, that’s fucking- fucking stubborn! You stupid fuck! Don’t you get it?” He shook him like a rag doll. “We’d all be happier if you’d have just taken the fucking hint years ago and died already!”

   Jon’s eyes screwed shut as the other man’s teeth snapped, only inches from his face. The fury emanating from Valentine was overwhelming, and a strangled sob slipped from his mouth as Jon frantically clawed at the fingers digging into his jawbone. Pain splintered beneath his teeth, following the fault lines of decades-old injury, and even the gun rammed beneath his throat couldn’t stop his tears from falling. 

   “Do you like living like this?” The other man snarled. “Reduced to being some old-money upstart’s lackey, high and hooked on pills in a company building you don’t own anymore? The laughingstock of your peers and board, so utterly alone that you couldn’t name one person who will give a shit when I pull this trigger?”

   Please stop- just stop talking. It was too much, all of it was too much- Valentine’s fury and the gun pressed to his jaw and the horrible, horrible knowledge of what, exactly, had finally driven the other man over the edge. Jon’s pill box bumped the side of his hip and the rattle of it forced another sob from him. 

   When did you start to hate me this much? The other man had never loved him, Jon knew that much- even if he had chased after it regardless. He had never quite known how to stop. But certainly, at one point, they had passed for friends, passed for lovers- had all of this come from the break-in? Before? 

   “-‘m done waiting.” Valentine’s voice cut through his racing thoughts, the pistol lifting from his throat to suddenly, jarringly, press to his teeth. Jon’s heart froze in his chest, his balk of alarm halted by Valentine’s nails sinking into the flesh of his jaw. The other man’s eyes were cruel, near-manic with fury- and yet, his hands remained steady as he leaned forward and hissed. 

   “Now- open your fucking mouth, so I can do us both a favor.”

   Jon didn’t move. Jon couldn’t move. He couldn’t see the other man in front of him, could barely make out the words he spoke. Sight and sense and sound dissolved completely, and all Jon could make out was the cold steel pressed against his mouth, hard enough to hurt. It clicked, Valentine continuing to hiss something venomous and cruel into his ear- Jon stared down at the gleam of the metal. 

   His vision blurred, eyes stinging. 

   Please be quick. It was all he could think to beg for, in the moment. Please, please be painless. 

   Clk-

   “Enough.”

   Without warning, Jon found himself dragged forward as Valentine shrieked, wrenched away from the other man by an unseen force. The gun clattered to the floor, skittering out of reach as Jon froze against the ground, blinking down at the white tile between his fingers. Muffled curses and a heavy thump could be heard, followed by a sharp hiss of pain- the sound trickled into silence, drowned out by quiet, uneven footsteps, drawing nearer for a moment before they paused.

   A shadow was across him. A dark figure loomed in the corner of his blurring vision, one hand reaching out. Jon kept his eyes down to the floor, trembling. 

   There was a small nudge against his shoulder- the tip of an Oxford shoe, smudging the white fabric of his suit.

   “-on.” 

   He knew that voice, too-soft and creaking- Jon swallowed, trying to will himself to sink back on his knees and look up, rise to his feet, something. Something other than staring down at his own shaking hands with tears in his eyes. He couldn’t find the effort, however- the panicked, rabbit-fast racing of his heart was building in his chest, his breath beginning to catch in his throat as blind terror (and hurt, a hurt he couldn’t quite name and didn’t care to) threatened to overwhelm him completely. 

   “Jon?” 

   Tim’s voice was in his ear now, the man crouched at his side- head tilting slightly, his eyes narrowed further as Jon shuddered violently, sinking forward to huddle against the ground with a thin, hiccuping sound. For a moment, the newcomer said nothing, only watching as Jon began to sob again, frantic hands curling over his head to tangle into his hair, nails digging into his scalp as he lost the battle to pull himself back together. 

   Then, he turned his head. Ice-white eyes took in the scattered pills and upturned furniture, the mark against the wall where Jon’s head had been smacked into it. For the briefest of moments, something flickered in the edges of his otherwise-impassive face, a glimpse of some sinister emotion- then, the man stood, hands settling into his pockets as he turned on his heel, away from the other. 

   “You know,” he rasped, voice taking on a conversational note. His footsteps echoed eerily around the near-silent room. “I must applaud your deceptive nature- you really are a natural, aren’t you?” 

   “Oh, fuck you!” 

   Valentine’s voice cracked sharply as he spit the words out, struggling against the massive man currently pinning him to the ivory floor- blood was spurting from his nose, the tile smudged with red from where Butler, Tim’s bodyguard, had slammed him into it. It looked out-of-sorts, smearing down his handsome face to stain his teeth red. 

    Tim pondered this as he slowed to a stop in front of the two. “I like to believe I’m a perceptive man- very perceptive. And though I knew in an instant upon meeting you that you, like me, or like Jon, was nothing less than a wicked, wicked man… I must say, I never took you for such a…” He paused, head tilting slightly as he seemed to search for the word. 

   “A… bully. Yes, that’s it.” 

   Ghost-pale eyes narrowed as Tim quietly pulled a cigarette case from his pocket, taking one and lighting it. “Isn’t it beneath you?“ He muttered, taking a deep drag of smoke before blowing it in a fine jet towards the ceiling. His voice took on the slightest note of tension, a wire pulled taut. 

   “I told you, quite kindly, to leave Jon alone- that your games with him were over… and yet, here we are.” 

   “Oh, shut it, you pompous-ass bi-“ 

   There was the slightest twitch in the way Tim held his cigarette, a minute nod of his head, and Valentine’s voice cut off with a shriek as the air shook with a wet snap. The man thrashed, head knocking against the ground and teeth gritted in pain as Butler twisted his wrist further still, the crunch of bone evident as his fingers tightened. 

   Tim took another puff of smoke, letting it linger on his tongue for a moment as he dusted his cigarette over the other man’s head. Valentine hissed, muttering pained and muffled curses against the floor. His glasses had cracked, the lenses splintering further as Tim crouched down, plucking them from the other’s nose without a moment’s hesitation. Blood had flecked the pale-pink glass, and Tim idly began to clean them. 

   “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” 

  For a moment, Valentine only breathed against the floor, swallowing thickly as his lip twisted in a sneer. “Go… go fuck yourself, Timmy.” He spat, glaring up at the other with eyes full of hate. He blinked, eyes flickering to a point past Tim- the man watched as Valentine’s snarl faltered, before it sharpened into a bitter, mocking smile. 

   “Have fun fixing that fucking mess-“ 

   Another wordless gesture, another muffled screech as Tim’s shoe slammed into the other man’s skull, grinding it beneath his heel as a flicker of frightening, violent rage ghosted over his face. Then, just like that, it was gone, and his features fell back into the same impassive expression as before, the man jamming his cigarette between his teeth as he stepped away, turning his head. Behind him, the glasses clattered to the ground, lenses shattering completely as they met the tile.

   Jon was pressed against the wall, shivering violently. His hands were still fisted in his hair, head hidden behind his knees as his shoulders shook with hiccuping sobs. As Tim’s shadow fell across him, he flinched, huddling further upon himself as he shrank away from the hand offered to him. 

   “Jon?” Tim tried again- his tone was still sharpened, and Jon shuddered as his fingers brushed the white fabric of his suit. They drifted upwards, curling beneath the man’s jaw even as he forced his voice to soften, low and soothing. 

   “Oh, Jon…” Forcing Jon to meet his eye, Tim was relieved to see a flicker of recognition there, the man stilling under his hand as he pulled him closer. Gently, Tim ran his thumb along the edge of his cheek, wiping the tears away. “No, no, none of that now. There’s no need for such an unsightly thing, my dear. You’re safe.” 

    Trembling, the man blinked up at him with wide, bloodshot eyes, hands fumbling to find purchase, clinging to him with shaking fingers. It had been weeks since they had last been able to meet properly, Tim too busy with preparations to arrange it- fury bubbled up in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Jon so ragged, and he forced himself to swallow it down for fear of frightening Jon further. He had always been a skittish man, worn thin and stressed- now, he seemed to be sick with it. 

   “He… I-“ Jon’s voice broke off into a choked sound as the edge of Tim’s thumb brushed a soon-to-be-bruise along his cheekbone. He didn’t flinch away, under the touch, but Tim saw a flicker of fright in his eyes, there and then gone. Swallowing, the man’s mouth opened, closed- Jon’s eyes drifted past Tim’s shoulder, only to widen at the sight of Valentine, wrist twisted at a sickening angle and with the man struggling violently beneath Butler’s hands. 

   He paled. 

   “Tim… Tim, wait-“ Jon’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening against the fabric of Tim’s jacket as he clung to him, heedless to the way the other’s eyes widened in shock at the sudden panic in his voice. “Val, he…” 

   After everything he’s done to you, you still call him by a nickname? It was saddening, really, to see a former criminal behave in such a manner. Tim’s brow furrowed. 

   Enough of this. 

   The hand around his jaw shook him slightly, Jon’s mouth snapping shut as he found himself forced to meet Tim’s eyes once again. They were stony, cold- nonetheless, his voice was still soft and his touch still gentle as he murmured. 

   “It’s out of your hands now, Jon.”  

   The fingers curled into his jacket slipped, and Tim caught Jon’s hand with his own, the other keeping his gaze fixed on the man in front of him, not the one struggling far behind. “But-“ Jon cut himself off just as Tim spoke again- this time, there was a note of command somewhere in his voice, soft as it was. He was a man used to being obeyed. 

   “Jon, my dear,” he repeated. “It’s not up to you anymore.”

   The man blinked. He was still trembling under Tim’s hands- idly, the man gave the fingers intertwined with his own a small squeeze, in as comforting a gesture as he could manage. Slowly, Jon’s mouth closed- he looked back at Valentine. Back to Tim. 

   Then, without a word, he turned his eyes to the floor. 

   For a moment, neither moved- then, with a sigh, Tim forced himself upright, unsteady on his bad leg after crouching for so long. Automatically, Jon’s hands moved to steady him as he went- a small gesture, but one Tim appreciated nonetheless. He pulled the other up after him, Jon staggering as his feet met the floor. Pills clattered away from them across the tile, and Tim’s lip curled slightly. What a mess, all of this. 

   Before Jon could look up again, and see what was about to befall his enemy, Tim grabbed his hand tightly and began, slowly, to walk, leading the other out of the room. Jon, to his credit, followed without complaint, his head bowed and eyes wide and empty, staring down at the floor. 

   As they walked through the doorway, Tim paused, lifting a hand. Knowing Butler’s eyes were on him, he gestured again, a snapping sort of motion- then, hurriedly, he pushed Jon through the door and closed it behind him. It wasn’t quite fast enough, however, to miss the undeniable snap of bone, and he felt Jon shudder beneath his hand. 

   Under most circumstances, Tim would not have settled for something so quick, but Jon had been through enough for one evening- Tim would not stain the floors of his home further with blood. 

   Our home, now, he mused.

   “Come.” Pulling Jon past the bedroom and into the bathroom, Tim flicked on the lights and steered Jon to the edge of the tub, waiting until he sat down to pull his hands away. Jon didn’t lift his head- that same shivering persisted, fingertips trembling as they dug into the white fabric of his trousers, the man struggling not to shake himself apart entirely. 

   “Jon?” 

   There was no answer. The other seemed hardly to have heard him, wide eyes fixed to the floor- he flinched violently when Tim’s hand brushed his shoulder, breath hitching in his chest. 

   Tim blinked. “You’ve got blood in your hair.” He spoke, simply- without waiting for permission or comment, he pulled a rag from the nearby counter and dampened it in the sink. “I don’t see any grievous wound, however. You’ll live.” 

   He received no answer for that, either.

   When Jon finally spoke again, it had been almost an hour- Tim had cleaned the blood from his hair with careful hands, had combed and dried it. He, too, had said nothing, content to simply focus on the task at hand- shrugging Jon out of his coat, checking him over for further injury. Save for some nasty bruising, there wasn’t much to find, but he clicked his tongue all the same at the state of the other’s health. 

   “…Are you going to kill me?” 

   Jon’s voice was hoarse, cracking sharply- Tim startled, brow furrowing as he took in what the other had said.

   “Hm? Oh- no, Jon, I don’t plan to kill you.” Initially sharp with shock, his voice softened again, quiet. One hand continuing to run itself through Jon’s hair, he looked in the mirror opposite them- Jon did the same. His face had a hollow cast to it, utterly exhausted- still, he was no longer trembling, and his gaze didn’t waver when it met Tim’s reflection, eyes narrowing slightly. “What makes you think otherwise?” 

   “If you’re here…” Jon muttered. He paused, visibly turning something over in his head. “Then that means you’ve finished whatever it was you were doing- and what you were doing was making arrangements with Fission Chips, or at least attempting to. Putting yourself on top.” When Tim’s eyes widened further in surprise, Jon sniffed. 

   “I’m… tired. I’m tired, and I’m not involved with much anymore, but I’m not blind, Tim.” After pausing again, eyes closing for a moment, Jon continued- his head fell into his hands as he spoke. 

   “Which means you don’t need me anymore, because you know now that I’ve got no say in any of it. I can’t help you.” 

   He didn’t sound particularly upset- he sounded like it was expected, though Tim didn’t miss the note of disappointment there. “I…” He began, before taking a moment to sort out his words himself. 

   “I have no intention of killing you, Jon. Like you said, you have no say in things overall- so what would be the point?” Shaking his head slightly, he resumed working his fingers through Jon’s hair- despite his doubts, the man hadn’t moved to lean away from him. Instead, Tim felt himself press back into the touch. “I’m many things- many, awful things, Jon, but I’m not a liar. I told you I’d help you, and I fully intend to see to it that you’re kept comfortable and content, whatever that may look like. I don’t need your help, it’s true… but I do like your company. You’re a clever man, no matter what that stupid fuck out there was telling you.” 

   Jon stiffened slightly beneath his hands, and Tim sensed that he’d struck a nerve. Sighing, he nodded to their reflections in the mirror- Jon’s head lifted, fixing him once more with that same hollow stare. “Fission Chips needs someone running it,” he continued. “And your board is a incompetent pain in the ass. That will all be dealt with- but don’t assume that your lack of say now means you won’t have any in the future. This isn’t an overthrow- there’s no one to supersede. I’m merely filling an empty seat… that doesn’t mean I’ll ignore your input on matters, if you’re willing to give it- I’ve never run a company such as this before.”

   If he had been expecting some sort of reaction, a flicker of interest or excitement in Jon’s features as he watched himself in the mirror, watched as the other lifted his hands from his hair to settle against his shoulders, thumbs pressing gentle circles between the blades, then Tim would have been disappointed. Tim, however, was unsurprised when Jon merely closed his eyes, exhaustion emanating from him in waves, seeping out from the day he’d had- and at the prospect Tim was offering. 

   He doesn’t believe me, Tim mused. Or he doesn’t much care at the moment. He could hardly blame him- he and Butler had only arrived moments before interrupting the attempted shooting, but he had heard enough to shock him, and spark his fury. A decent night’s rest will do more for him right now than I ever could. 

   Tim wasn’t lying. He did feel some affection for Jon, somewhere deep down inside of himself, where the soft, gentle creature he had almost become still lived. As much as he cared for Butler, Tim had grown too used to having someone at his arm, someone he could look after. Jon was desperate for good attention, and in his moments of rare energy or impulse, his chatterbox nature and the sly, scheming criminal he was once known for came out. Tim wanted to see more of it. 

   Besides- he was useful. He was clever. He had managed to track down a very secretive man in the far north, and helped Tim get his vengeance on that same man, even as he’d stood on the deck of the ship outside, hands over his ears as Britva screamed and screamed. To return to Tim’s side again after witnessing such violence was no small thing.

   Tilting his head, Tim continued. “Regardless of all feelings on the matter, you’re in no state to return to your former position right now, Jon. And I think you know that. In fact, I think it’s not really what you want at all- so perhaps, in the meantime, you could direct your attention to anything else you happen to desire, and I’ll see what I can do.” 

   There was a rap against Jon’s shoulder, the man looking up to find Tim pulling away from him, gesturing towards the door. “Though…” He paused, eyes sharpening slightly as the other man slowly forced himself upright to follow. “I know such words mean little to you right now. It’s late- you should get some rest, if you can. We can discuss further matters in the morning. I won’t be far.” 

   As his hand lingered on the bedroom door, however, he froze. Jon blinked back at him tiredly, one hand reaching up to scrub at his cheek where the tear tracks had dried. Tim saw his lip curl slightly in disgust- disgust with himself or the inconvenience, Tim did not know, and he felt that same fury at the Phonetix CEO spark up again. 

   “And… don’t go into the sitting room. Thank you.”

[sohnric]

23k and counting. who doesn't need a bit of angst in their daily lives am i right !!

[saetoru]

i think im enjoying writing this fic bc i feel like most fics talk about the lore and world building in genshin but very few of the ones i have read have ever rly talked about the actual elements and reactions and the fighting mechanics and its fun in a story setting vs a play setting

[mantisgodsdomain]

Apparently there's a fic reading challenge thing this year, but after doing a quick skim of the goals... we don't think we'll be touching it with a ten-foot stick. Some of these goals put a VERY bad taste in our mouth. The idea of a "diversity checklist" isn't supposed to be... literal, we don't think? No? We're remembering that one quote about "listening to people of color being like eating your vegetables for white activists" and we're feeling like it may actually have been understating whatever the hell is going on here.

[suckishima]

rrrrrrrrr im so frustrated with my writing. its just been weeks of struggle and whyyyy. idk i think i need to rework or rethink what im going for with this one or something, its like i can feel the threads of the themes i wanna do are sooo close to tying together but it just isnt quite reaching yet and so it reads like a stilted bland mess but the more i stare at it the further away it feels aaah

i know it can get there i kNOW it can, the ending and like aha moment is so cleaaaar that i think its almost too solid and thats why my beginning feels so fucked—like i just keep asking myself 'well if hes gonna get there in chapter 5, whats stopping him from getting there now in chapter 2??' i tHOUGHT i had reasons but now that im there i just keep instinctually writing him to have the connecting/realization moment anyway and like. if that's how it is then what even IS the story??? i need a break

[welcometoteyvat]

read baizhu’s stories. he wins for most balanced character of all time

[iimr3]

really don't know how i feel about the bastard son & the devil himself

[paigemathews]

@forlorn-kumquat replied to your post “Writing a Phoebe/Coop fic and like. Can I mention...”:

Did she like him, or did she just like what he represented in her life: safety, stability, normalcy? Cause I think Phoebe's time with Cole has her so messed up that she would have latched onto any reasonably normal guy who wasn't trying to kill her and her family

Okay, so the context (and sneak peak, I guess) is Phoebe and Coop are discussing how she wasn't willing to be with Coop until she finds out about the future. Phoebe brings up how everytime she pursued the love she wasn't "suppose to," aka Cole and Miles, it goes poorly and her family is hurt in the crossfire. It's not- Okay, well, it wasn't intended to be a very in-depth thing bc it's just a oneshot that's gotten out of control on me again, but I realized that parallel between Phoebe's relationships with Cole and Miles and am kinda liking the idea of third time the charm-ing it, tbh. (I also bring up Dex, bc like I said! This is getting out of control on me again!)

She doesn't really delve deep into that relationship, so it's kinda your mileage may vary on that but here's the lines about it:

" I thought that it was just because it was Cole. But then I fell for someone I wasn’t supposed to be with, Miles, and I thought that I could change his fate. I thought I was supposed to change his fate, and instead I hurt my family again."

Idk, did that make sense? Any input is greatly appreciated!!