#amnesty fic Tumblr posts

[asexual-juliet]

duck newton is seventeen in oversized flannel and scuffed-up doc martens and a name that doesn’t quite fit right.

[settsplitt]

WIP amnesty part 1

today's wip: happy charlos! just a little something i started post australia and never really came back to. sorry it ends so abruptly. (but this is wip amnesty after all)

Charles follows him like a puppy, after the podium ceremony. 

He stays close as the team sprays champagne on them both, grabbing at Carlos’ sides as he turns away from the spray, hiding himself behind his body. Carlos doesn’t mind; it's cute, in a way that makes his heart ache when he thinks about it too hard. 

He lets Carlos pour champagne down his throat, eyes meeting his over the bottle, head tipped back and throat exposed, streams of the alcohol escaping his mouth and flowing down his chin. Carlos thinks he looks beautiful. If it weren’t for their team around them, Carlos would fist his hand in Charles’ hair, hold him there as he licked up his throat, as he licked into his mouth, trying to taste as much as he can. 

But he doesn’t. He will get something later, he’s sure, but there is a part of him that just wants it now, in front of everyone, with Charles wet and sticky and a little drunk, and so willing to let him do anything to him.

Carlos can’t have any champagne himself, so he drinks out of his water bottle as he watches everyone else. It’s a shame, but Charles is so warm and sweet and bubbly, that he almost feels like it doesn’t matter. Charles is intoxicating enough, just by himself.

After the team celebration, after the press and the pictures and the cursory cleanup, Charles still follows him up to his hotel room. They are alone in the elevator when he touches Carlos’ bare skin, hand reaching up under his t-shirt, avoiding the bandage on his lower stomach. Carlos feels his lips tease at the back of his neck, feels the warmth of his body against his back.

“Charles,” he says, tone uneasy, a warning. The floor numbers are ticking up on the screen, and the elevator could stop and open at any moment. Charles just hums at his back, pressing his lips harder against his neck, a proper kiss against his skin. It feels good. Carlos can feel himself getting hard. 

“Charles, I am serious, mate,” he says, and Charles drops his hand, backs off of him, just as the elevator dings. The doors slide open, and luckily no one is standing there to see Carlos’ obvious hard-on. Charles snickers as he pulls him out of the elevator, laughing even harder when Carlos glares back at him over his shoulder. 

Carlos takes them to his room, dropping Charles’ hand as he fumbles with the room key, Charles pressing himself into his back, feeling up his sides as he watches over his shoulder. They aren’t exactly being subtle. He just hopes no one walks by, no one who cares enough about racing to tattle that the Ferrari drivers are very obviously all over each other, very obviously about to do something scandalous in this hotel room.

He gets the door unlocked, and pushes through, Charles stumbling after him, giggling and still trying to reach out to grab him.

“You’re drunk, mate,” He says, watching as Charles’ face settles into a smile, eyes shining and soft, searching over Carlos’ face. He looks so good, so happy and pleased.

“Yes, I think I am,” he says, swaying a little. Carlos reaches out to grab him, puts his hands on his hips, squeezes them a little. Charles breathes in sharply, eyes falling closed. Carlos grins. He is so easy when he’s like this.

His hands are reaching for Carlos again, coming up to rest on his chest. Carlos leans forward to kiss him, tasting the sweet champagne still lingering on his lips, licking into him to get more. Charles moans into the kiss, swaying into Carlos’ arms. 

“You are so good, Carlos,” He mumbles the words, slurring them together. “So good,” he continues, and then he adds something in French, something Carlos doesn’t understand. 

Carlos sighs, pressing his forehead into Charles’. He holds him tighter in his arms, feeling his ribs expand as he breathes, feeling his heartbeat against his own chest. It’s nice. Charles is so soft, and he wants Carlos like this, even when he beat him on the track, even when he’s leaving. 

Carlos doesn’t want to think about that, though. Not when Charles is in his arms and wanting. 

Charles is kissing him, again, sloppy and insistent against his lips. He’s whining into the kiss, and Carlos can feel where he’s hard against his hip. Carlos hums into the kiss. “Mmm, what do you want?” he says, pulling Charles back with a hand in his hair. Charles’ pupils are shot, huge and dark, and his lips are shiny with spit. Carlos, again, thinks he’s beautiful. 

It's too much, seeing him like this, sometimes. He wants him in so many ways, so many ways that they can’t have. He wants him for more than just tonight, more than just the rest of this season. He feels stupid for all the time he wastes not doing this.

Charles doesn’t respond to his question. Instead, he drops to his knees, hand palming his own dick. He rubs his face against Carlos’ crotch, eyes closed. He mouths against the head of Carlos’ hard dick, sensation muffled by the thick fabric or his jeans. He opens his eyes, and stares up at Carlos, mouth still open and wet against his crotch.

Carlos fists a hand in his hair, forcing a moan out of Charles’ mouth. He can feel the vibrations against his cock. It feels good.

Carlos is still holding his head steady, tight grip in his hair. Charles’ tries to nudge his face forward, get his mouth back against Carlos. “You are so desperate,” Carlos says, smirking. Charles moans again, sound loud in the room when it's not muffled against Carlos’ jeans.

“I want to make you feel good,” he says, his eyes slowly blinking closed and open again, looking up at Carlos through his thick eyelashes. He looks like a vision, hair wet and sticking to his forehead, mouth red, cheeks flushed and beautiful and eyes shining up at him. 

Carlos wants to cup his face with his hands, to hold him in this position until he has every line of his face memorized, until he can see the image of Charles in the blackness when he closes his eyes.

He doesn’t. He uses his hands to open his jeans, unzipping the opening and shimmying them awkwardly down his body. He feels a stab of pain in his abdomen, and he reaches for the bandage instinctually, dropping his pants with both hands. 

Charles’ hands come up to meet his, softly petting over his skin, caressing his wrists. His face is concerned, eyebrows knit together and mouth open slightly. “Are you ok?”

Carlos sighs, nodding. “Yes,” he pets Charles’ face, skin prickling where it brushes over his rough facial hair. “I just need to sit down, I think,” Charles’ eyes follow him as steps out of his jeans, as he walks over to the bed and sits on the edge. Charles is still on his knees, sitting back now, with his hands clasped in front of him. He’s looking down, worrying his lip between his teeth. Carlos can see he’s hard in his pants.

“Well, come here,” he says, motioning Charles over with his hands. He looks at him, soft from under his eyelashes, and then he’s crawling over, on all fours. Carlos doesn’t expect it, and the sight sends a wave of pleasure through his whole body. 

“I wanted to still be on my knees,” he says, when he reaches Carlos, nuzzling his face into his hand. “For you,” he adds, closing his eyes. Carlos brushes his thumb across his cheek, and he shivers, closing his eyes. 

“So beautiful,” he says, soft, a whisper meant more for himself than anything else. Charles must hear, though, because his eyes open wide and his mouth opens on a quiet moan. 

Carlos slips the tip of his thumb into his open mouth, pressing against his wet tongue, feeling the line of his teeth. Charles takes it beautifully, with his eyes still open and fixed on Carlos.

“You want my cock?” He asks, and Charles’ eyes light up. His tongue flexes against his thumb, and he feels him sucking on it, hollowing his cheeks against it, as he nods his head. 

“Mmm, good boy,” Carlos slips his thumb out of his mouth, reaching his hand to his crotch to pull his dick out of his boxers. 

Charles wastes no time in enveloping him in his mouth. Carlos watches as he settles himself down onto his cock, as his throat bobs around the intrusion. The warmth makes him want to drive his hips forward but he holds himself back. 

He cups Charles’ head in his hands instead, brushing his thumb over his cheeks. Charles blinks up at him and his eyes are dark and desperate. Carlos grins. 

“I know you can do better than that, baby,” he says, and it's true, but he says it because he knows Charles likes it. He’ll like the praise Carlos gives him when he does even more.

(just imagine they have whatever kind of sex you fancy after this) (they also fuck nasty after monaco fyi)

[hidey-writes]

6k | Shen Wei-centric | Dixing Powers, YOHE War, Coming of Age

On the edge of the battlefield, Da Qing is trapped against a fall of boulders by a rebel fighter with a spear. Da Qing is giving ground with every blow. There’s blood streaked across his cheek. He’s flagging. They’re more than a li away. Shen Wei won’t get there in time. Or, something had to happen for Shen Wei to start thinking of himself as a weapon.

my fill for @guardianbingo bonus round 1: pride.

there's something that really compels me about trying to fit together the pieces of pre-canon shen wei to understand why he's the way he is when we meet him in canon. for this fic, i was particularly curious about what might have happened during the war to contribute to that sense of self-sacrifice he has. i also wanted to explore shen wei's reaction when he first started developing additional powers, and what he might have been afraid of before he understood what was happening. and, tbh, i wanted fu you to get a little more attention than she tends to in fic.

read To Become of Use | 成材 on ao3

[writer-or-whatever]

Training Montage

Wrote a little TAZ Amnesty piece featuring my beloved Aubrey & Duck friendship. Read under the cut or on AO3

Summary: Aubrey decides she wants to expand her skillset and asks Duck for help. Set between Season 1 and Season 2.

Rating: G | Word Count: 1.3k | Fluff & Humor

Duck opened his apartment door at 12:15—Aubrey was only 15 minutes late, which was a personal best for her—to find her holding two paper grocery bags. He didn’t manage to get a word out before she shouldered her way past him into his apartment, making a beeline for his kitchen.

“Nice to see you too, Aubrey. Why don’t you come in?” He muttered to himself as he shut the door.

“Yeah, yeah, niceties. Get in here so we can get down to business, Duck!” Aubrey called back to him. When he walked into the kitchen, she was in the process of up-ending her grocery bags onto the counter.

“What the hell could you possibly need that many frozen burritos for?”

“Training,” Aubrey said without even turning to look at him.

“Training for what?”

Aubrey turned to him with her giant stage-worthy smile and flourished her arms about. “You are looking at the future title-holder of the record for the fastest time to eat a single burrito.”

Duck just looked at her dumbly for a moment before speaking. “This is ridiculous.”

It was clear that the short minutes of Minerva’s visit last night that they’d spent coming up with a training plan for Aubrey were wasted. Which disappointed him a bit. Minerva had sounded so proud of him for ‘Taking initiative. This will aid you well on your journey, Duck Newton!’ Not that he particularly cared about that. At all. But it was a nice change of pace from her usual scolding.

“Well, it’s not like we get any recognition for the whole pine guard thing,” Aubrey said with a shrug. She quickly continued before Duck could remind her that they were supposed to keep that a secret for a reason, “Which is fine. But Mama also said I can’t do any gigs until I get my powers under control better. So, you know, gotta get a little recognition somewhere.”

“And so you chose to become the Joey Chestnut of burritos?”

“Well, his whole thing is eating a lot of things really fast, and I just want to eat one thing really fast. But yeah basically.”

“And you need me for this because…”

“Well, you’ve been training every day and I thought ‘hey, if there’s anyone who knows about discipline and determination, it’s Duck Newton,’” She said, still smiling winningly at him, though he could see little sparks from where she was fidgeting and snapping her fingers.

“And?” He asked, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

“And you have a microwave,” Aubrey admitted sheepishly.

“Well, at least you’re honest,” He said with a laugh. “Go ahead and heat one of those up and we can see what you’re working with, I guess.”

“Yes!” She said, pumping a fist. She unwrapped the first of her many vegetarian burritos while he questioned his own sanity for agreeing.

He and Minerva made a plan for Aubrey’s training and improvement, which he could probably modify for this, and he already set aside his afternoon, so he may as well go along for the ride.

Once Aubrey had her burrito (and let it cool for a few minutes—she already had enough burns, she didn’t need to add the roof of her mouth to the list), she pulled a stopwatch from one of the pockets on her vest and handed it to Duck. “Just tell me when to start, coach.”

Duck nodded. Step one: establish a baseline for performance. “Alright. Ready? Set? Go!”

The next 2 minutes and 38 seconds was one of the strangest moments in his life—he spent the time looking between her and the stopwatch and tried to ignore the sound of Aubrey chewing. He’d never be able to watch ASMR with mouth sounds again.

“2 minutes, 38.2 seconds,” He said as she swallowed her last bite. “That’s not bad? I think. What’s the record anyway?”

“31 seconds,” Aubrey burped out.

“Okay, gross. I draw the line at talking while burping. It’s just bad manners, Aubrey,” He said sternly.

“Aye, aye, captain,” she said with a salute as she stood up to make another burrito.

It was time to move on to Minerva’s Step 2: make small changes towards a goal and measure Aubrey’s progress.

“Try taking bigger bites this time,” Duck suggested when Aubrey returned with burrito number two.

“Alright. Just tell me when,” Aubrey said as she wiggled her fingers and leaned over her plate.

“Ready? Go.”

It was just as gross the second time. But Duck was starting to get invested in Aubrey’s ridiculous goal, despite himself.

“2 minutes, 29.4 seconds,” He said when she was done. “Maybe try smaller, faster bites?”

Aubrey gave a thumbs up as she headed back to the kitchen.

The third attempt clocked in at 2 minutes, 45 seconds, so clearly big bites were the way to go.

Aubrey continued to work her way through her burrito supplies and experimented with the technique. She tried varying sized bites. She tried chugging water just before she started—”For maximum lubrication, Duck.” “Gross.”—and in-between huge bites as well. After 7 burritos, her time was hovering around 1 minute and 40 seconds and she was starting to look pretty green.

“Duck?” Aubrey said as she slumped over and rested her head against the table.

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Duck reached down for the little trash can from his bathroom, complete with a fresh bag, which he’d gotten while she was heating up burrito number four. “Here.”

“Thanks,” She said, sitting up and clutching the small bin to her chest.

“Let’s get you to the couch to lay down,” he said gently as he took hold of her arms and helped her up and guided her to the living room. Once she was settled on her side on the couch—laying with her legs stretched over Duck’s lap so he had a place to sit in the small living room other than the floor—he switched on the TV and let Golden Girls reruns fill the silence.

After 2 and a half episodes, they were startled from their stupor by the sound of Duck’s landline ringing from the kitchen.

“Let me up,” Duck said, patting her legs gently.

Aubrey moved her legs with a groan and said, “If that’s Mama with a pine guard emergency, kindly inform her that I’ve passed on.”

“You got it,” Duck said with a laugh.

A few moments after he answered the phone, he yelled back to Aubrey, “It’s Ned. He wants to know if we want to go to dinner at the new Mexican place.”

Aubrey groaned again. “Tell him I’m never eating again! And that I hate him for even asking!” She yelled back.

Duck relayed the message to Ned, who started laughing so hard he sounded like he could barely breathe.

“You knew about her world record aspirations then, I take it,” Duck said once Ned’s guffawing eased off.

“She might have mentioned it.”

“You’re evil,” Duck said with a laugh of his own.

“Perhaps,” Ned conceded. “I also wanted to check that she’s still alive.”

“Well, she is for now, but I better get back before she decides to keel over,” Duck said before saying a quick goodbye and returning to his spot on the couch.

A few hours later, when Minerva made her nightly appearance, Aubrey had fallen asleep on top of him.

“How was training today, Duck Newton?” Minerva said quietly, clearly trying not to disturb Aubrey, which made Duck smile.

“It really took it out of her,” Duck answered with a soft laugh.

Minerva nodded her approval. “And did she acquire any new skills today?”

“Oh, I think she learned a lesson or two.”

“Very good work, Duck Newton. I will see you tomorrow,” Minerva said with a smile before she flickered out of view.

[vivitalks]

amnesty lodge interlude. aubrey is teaching her fellow sylvan lodgers a card game from earth. she is also definitely, definitely cheating.

moira is holding her own, but only because she is also cheating. barclay is cheating by pretending he's never played this game even though he's been playing it against mama for years, but he keeps getting distracted making eye contact with agent stern and losing his focus at critical moments.

jake coolice is still struggling to understand the rules.

dani is somehow wiping the floor with everyone, even though she has never played this game before and is definitely not cheating because "i have principles, aubrey." her winning streak is six games long, and aubrey's cards are starting to smoke. at which point jake gives up, barclay taps out to go make some dinner, moira retires to the piano, and aubrey has no choice but to declare dani the reigning card game champion of amnesty lodge.

"that comes with both a medal AND a crown, right?" dani says cheekily, and aubrey very maturely sticks her tongue out.

[thirtysixsavefiles]

A little wip amnesty for wip Wednesday Thursday: I still think Zoro and Sanji and sex pollen is a winning combination, but I am focusing on other things at the moment and so I’m releasing this intro into the wild :D

~~~

Sanji draws a cigarette out with shaking fingers. The box is crushed and half full of sandy dirt but the cigarettes inside are still intact, thank fuck. He reaches for his crumpled jacket, fishing around for his lighter, but it’s not in the breast pocket, or either of the sides, or —

“Here.” A snick and a flame pops up in front of him, courtesy of his own lighter held in Zoro’s outstretched hand. Sanji lets his eyes travel up Zoro’s arm to his face — he’s put his shirt back on but there’s a blue-brown mark blooming just above his collar, and Sanji feels his stomach flutter.

“Stealing my lighter now?” Sanji mumbles, but he leans forward and lights up.

“Hardly.” Zoro snaps the lighter closed and tosses it to Sanji. “It fell out when your jacket came off, when you —”

“All right, all right,” Sanji interrupts, grabbing the lighter out of the air. “Don’t remind me.”

Zoro shifts on his feet for a moment, the dirt of the clearing sliding beneath his boots. Then he steps back, settling himself a few feet away — out of arm’s reach, Sanji notes — on the rock formation Sanji is propping himself up with. Zoro leans against the rough side of the formation, crossing his arms.

“What are we going to tell the others?” he says in a neutral, expressionless tone, but Sanji can still hear the uncertainty in it. If Zoro’s asking, he hasn’t made up his own mind yet. He can still be swayed.

Sanji takes a deep drag on his cigarette, considering. He has to plot this course carefully.

“The truth,” he decides, exhaling a thin plume of smoke toward the sky.

“The truth?” Zoro says. It doesn’t sound as if this option had occurred to him.

“Yeah.” Sanji taps the ash from his cigarette onto the dirt beneath his feet. “We went on a scouting run for fresh water. We didn’t find any. We returned to the ship. End of story.”

“How are you going to explain your —” Zoro gestures vaguely up and down toward Sanji.

Sanji looks down. His jacket had mostly been spared; it will cover the damage done to his shirt, but there’s dirt streaking his trousers, especially the knees. He sighs.

“I tripped.” Sanji leans down to brush the worst of it off. “So did you, for that matter. We both tripped.” He straightens with a wince.

Zoro’s mouth is a flat line. “You really think anyone’s going to buy that?”

Sanji takes a drag and blows a smoke ring at him. “You want to go into more detail? You want me to tell them how you begged to —”

“All right.” Zoro scowls, waving the smoke away. “Fine. We’ll go with your story.”

“It’s not a story,” Sanji reminds him, looking back up at the sky and lifting the cigarette to his mouth. “It’s the truth. Just not…all of it.”

[colorsofcthulhu]

I drew a scene from @thiswasinevitableid ‘s fic “Amnesty Records” ages ago and never posted it, so now here’s the redraw and the original at the same time! These are about a year and a half apart, and its cool to see how my style changed :)

[noodyl-blasstal]

Hey, hey you! There's a delicious fic and you should try it. Sternclay, Barclay back story, tension in the best ways

They write real good and more people should comment and tell them that.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/59050777/chapters/150548575

[child-of-hurin]

7,5k words, Mature Relationships: Irene/Eugenides Additional Tags: Alternate universe - canon divergence, Abrupt ending, Fic Amnesty, Kidnapping Summary:

Night is falling around them, but the sun was not yet in the middle of the sky when the Thief stole into Attolia's palace—into her own chambers, like gods know how many times before—and spirited the queen away on her wedding day. AU where Eugenides does not let a Medean wedding take place.

This is one of the earliest fics I started writing for this fandom, but I ended up reworking parts of it into my other canon divergent AU, [With imperious hand...]. Since then, I kept trying to work on this one and failing to bring it anywhere conclusive, nor even to work out the characterization kinks... But I've become too fond of it to just scrap it. So I'm taking advantage of the Weird The Tag event to finally amnesty what I have and let it go...

Chapter 1 works well as an open-ended stand alone; chapter 2 was my attempt at an epilogue that truly ran away from me and became a sprawling problem. If you decide to read this, I hope you have fun despite the roughness of the work! The working title of this fic was "Runaway bride".

[valdomarx]

There’s this scent that Geralt can’t stop noticing. It’s something like cardamon and cloves, and it hangs in the air around Jaskier no matter the season.

Sometimes, when they’re bedded down by the fire and there’s a crisp chill in the air, Geralt will get a whiff of it and he’ll feel this almost overwhelming urge to pull Jaskier close to him and breathe it in.

He doesn’t, obviously.

But he does shuffle himself a little closer, quiet and subtle, and waits to see if Jaskier will roll back a fraction until they’re almost touching. When that happens, Geralt allows himself to put an arm around Jaskier and inch closer and bury his face in the nape of Jaskier’s neck where the clove scent is strongest, and he’ll inhale deeply and feel a distinct kind of calm descend.

–

Jaskier gestures wildly as he talks, throwing his arms around expressively, and Geralt doesn’t follow his words but he does follow his movements, the way Jaskier flicks his wrist dismissively when he describes someone’s stupidity and brings a hand to his chest when describing something heartfelt.

When he moves, the scent shimmers like heat in the air around him, vibrant and almost tangible.

–

Emotions have their own scents, like the hot sparking scent of fear or the cosy sweetgrass smell of comfort. When Jaskier is in a bad mood his scent is overlaid with an acrid odor like burnt bread and when he’s preening in front of an audience it gets spicy and spiked with high notes of pepper.

But always, in the background, that cardamon and cloves, the backdrop of their life together.

It’s hard then for Geralt to know whether the emotions are coming from him or from Jaskier. Smelling an emotion is the same as feeling it, isn’t it? It’s often not clear to him who a feeling belongs to and where it originates. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

Perhaps it’s enough to be among that scent and to experience it. Perhaps that’s what it is to be with someone else – to make their experiences a part of your own.

[elismor]

last line challenge

rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like). 

Okay. We seem to have reached critical mass here. @aerjnn, @loverboy-havocboy, @cacodaemonia, @hawthornsword, @frostbitebakery and...probably someone else I am missing all tagged me so...here are TWO last lines. Both from [different] drabbles.

Lost it on Abafar, but Rex found another.

He remembers seeing casualty reports come in during latemeal, remembers names and numbers that never made it this far.

May the 6th is Fic Amnesty Day, so I'm not tagging anyone. Even @marbled-polecat gets a pass. ;)

[hidey-writes]

saturday six

The camp cat comes to a stop a few paces from where Shen Wei is, cross-legged on a low rock at the base of a cluster of other rocks. She sits with her tail tucked neatly over her paws, quiet and alert beside him. It’s nice. There’s no need to make conversation with a cat. There’s nothing a cat wants to unburden onto you through language. It’s simpler, with cats.

hehe more cut shen wei and camp cat interactions! i really liked this paragraph but now that i've done my revision read of the down draft of the guardian bingo pride fic and started to re-outline, haha ... none of this will remotely be in there. but ohhhh it's going to be really cool i think ... i'm really excited. i was hoping to get to do a lot of trying to explain what being in the alliance military was like to make shen wei Like This in canon, and ... yummmmmm it sure is happening!!

[boydykedevo]

Day three of @tazsapphicweek, for the prompt "monsters"!

(Heads up this is like. Vaguely horny. so. be aware dfljakfhjhadfsl)

ao3

--

“Do you, like, actually drink blood?” 

Dani’s on the verge of dozing off, curled into Aubrey’s side, when the question jolts her awake. She snaps up, blinking to reorient herself and squinting at Aubrey. “Huh?”

Her face goes warm, realizing how close she got to falling asleep on top of Aubrey in front of everyone. Well, not everyone, she amends, whipping her head around to find the main lobby of the lodge empty save for the two of them cuddled on the couch. Not anyone, actually.  

Still, the other residents could walk in at any time, and Jake would taunt her for weeks if he saw them like this. “Cuddling’s like third base for humans, isn’t it?” he’d say, as if she has any idea. 

Aubrey grins sheepishly. “Is that a rude question? Sorry.”

Dani shifts herself to a sitting position, shaking her head. “No, no, you’re good, I… no. I don’t.”

Aubrey’s face falls. 

Shocked, Dani asks, “did you want me to say yes?”

At that, Aubrey becomes visibly flustered, averting her gaze. Dani resists a laugh. “Well. It would be kinda cool.”

Dani smirks and scoots closer, only succeeding in making Aubrey more nervous. “Uh huh. Cool how?”

“Um.” She plays with her zipper, running it up and down repeatedly. “You’re really… pretty. Like, super fucking pretty. And…” she exhales slowly. Dani’s eyebrows raise so high it feels like they might fly off her face. “So sue me, I like the idea of a pretty girl sucking on my neck.”

Dani can’t help it; she bursts out laughing. Aubrey looks mortified, and at least a little offended. 

“Noooo, don’t worry, it’s totally cool,” Dani assures her once she gets her laughter under control. Impulsively, she leans in to whisper in Aubrey’s ear, “and it’s not like I need vampire powers to do that, babe.” There’s a thrill in her belly to hear the squeak Aubrey lets out, and she double checks the room is empty before pressing her lips to Aubrey’s jaw. 

Aubrey lets out a shaky breath as Dani moves lower on her neck. She clears her throat and points out, voice a little strained, “but vampire powers would make it better.”

Dani hums in vague agreement, slipping off her ring. Aubrey whimpers when she feels Dani’s sharp teeth against her skin. Dani finds she fucking loves that sound. They haven’t gone much further than this, not yet, but she can’t help but wonder…

“Okay,” Aubrey agrees. “That works. Yep. Wow.” There’s a beat of silence, punctuated by Aubrey’s heavy breathing as Dani keeps nipping at her, and then Aubrey pipes up: “How about vampiric hypnosis?” 

Dani laughs, pulling away. “Nope. Sorry, babe.”

Aubrey pouts. “Do you have any sexy vampire stuff? I mean, teeth, obviously, but besides that.” She thinks for a moment, then adds, “I’ll also take sexy alien stuff.”

Dani doesn’t bother to point out that, in her case, it’s the same thing. Instead, she triple checks the room is empty and leans in close to Aubrey’s ear. “Well… how much do you know about slyph reproduction?”

Aubrey’s breath hitches. “Not much,” she admits breathlessly.

“How would you like to learn?” Dani’s kissing her before Aubrey can respond, not that she needs to hear her answer. Aubrey’s ready for her, wrapping her arms around Dani’s shoulders. Dani nips her lip and Aubrey whimpers again and sweet Slyvain that’s hot; she’s kneeling over Aubrey’s lap before she even knows it, pressing right up against her—

Just then, there’s a voice from the doorway. “Mama!” Jake loudly complains. “Dani and Aubrey are banging in the lobby!”

They jump apart, Mama’s laughter echoing from the other room. “I’d say get a room, girls,” she calls back, “but you’ve already got two of ‘em between the both of you. Make it work.”

Aubrey throws her hands over her face, and Dani has to grin, even as she feels her ears turn bright red. “Mine?” she offers.

“Yes,” Aubrey squeaks. “Please.”

[vivitalks]

Aubrey has a Great Regret of her own. Everyone gets one, she figures. Aubrey's is this: after that night, she ran. You run from tragedy. You have to. Aubrey had to, because if she stood still too long, it caught up to her, like she was a stick of dynamite and her trajectory was a never-ending fuse. Wait too long, and the flames would find her. They’d engulf her. She'd be consumed like mom. So she ran. Left her dad behind. She didn't go to the funeral. It's her greatest shame. The biggest question mark punctuating her life. It is not a mistake she intends to make twice.

(some ned-related aubrey-centric angst and turmoil, if that's your jam)

[littlestsnicket]

witcher wip amnesty 2023

summary: there was a post going around ages ago about an AU where geralt went to get jaskier before A Grain of Truth, so he's there when geralt refers to nivellen as a friend. and i had a 'oh jaskier would not react like that' moment and started writing fic. and then i thought 'do i really need to rehash why i think large parts of fandom are misinterpreting jaskier and geralt's fight on the mountain?' and i thought 'no' but it turns out i already had.

word count: .8k

[also on ao3]

I know someone nearby, an old friend

“Geralt, it’s fine. It was a joke.”

“It’s not fine,” Geralt growled.

“You don’t need to get all self-flagellate-y. I said it’s fine.”

“I’m not self-flagellate-y. That’s not why it’s not fine.” Geralt deliberately did not comment on Jaskier’s tendency to make up words, he did not want to give Jaskier the opportunity to derail the conversation.

“I said it was fine.” Jaskier’s voice dropped to a lower register. He was actually angry. Geralt wasn’t backing down on this though. 

“You do this to me all the time.”

“Well, I am a bard and you are an emotionally constipated Witcher. I’m allowed and you’re not.”

“Jaskier, shut up and let me finish.”

Jaskier’s face scrunched in exaggerated displeasure, but he sat there studying Geralt with uncomfortable intensity for a very long moment. 

“Geralt.”

“What?”

“I’m trying very hard here, but you’re going to have to actually say something.”

“Fuck,” Geralt sighed and pressed the heels of his hands into his browbone before forcing hmiself to speak. “If you hadn’t had some doubt, if it didn't weigh on you in any way that I kept denying we’re friends, would you have left or would you have squawked at me about being a needlessly cruel Witcher and talked in circles until I was too irritated to be properly mad anymore?”

“Oh, that’s...” Jaskier trailed off looking away.

“You mean more to me than I know how to say.”

Jaskier’s mouth quirked like it always did right before he said something he thought was funny but was actually incredibly irritating. But his expression shifted the moment his gaze settled back on Geralt. Geralt could see the gears in Jaskier’s mind downshifting as he forced himself to properly engage with the conversation they were having. It had taken Geralt a very long time to understand that, for all his fast talking and nearly uncanny observational skills, it sometimes took Jaskier a while to really process and integrate new information. 

“I know. And you’re my best friend.”

Jaskier dropped his gaze to stare at his hands, fidgeting with his fingers. Geralt was privately glad he did, Jaskier’s intensity discomfited him as much as he also craved the attention.

Suddenly, Geralt found himself fixed with Jaskier’s blue eyed stare, “Do you really think that little of me, that I would let you get away with that for decades if it bothered me?” 

Jaskier’s smile went wobbly but sincere. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I guess I shouldn’t claim it wouldn’t have made any difference to have that reassurance of you having said it, but it wasn’t that. I made it pretty clear you were really hurting me and you just kept going. And I—I get it, I’m not mad anymore, but I can’t just let you do that. Yen hurt you, and you—”

“I wasn’t—”

“No. Yennefer reminded you how easy it is to hurt someone who cares about you and you decided to deal the decisive blow first before I could hurt you too. It’s not fine, but I do understand. You haven’t lived this long by ignoring potential threats.”

Geralt sighed. Sometimes Jaskier was impossible, mostly because he was right. 

“Why didn’t you tell her you didn’t wish for that? You didn’t wish for that, did you?”

“No. It wouldn’t have mattered.”

“Exactly,” Jaskier replied, his voice pained. 

Geralt, unsure what else to do, rested his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“Just, you know, do better next time. And for what it’s worth, though I made no secret of how much I hated her, I am truly sorry the two of you won’t get a second chance.”

They were both quiet for a long time, at least by Jaskier’s standards, before Jaskier did the imitation of a hyper-alert squirrel he did when his attention caught on something he was uncertain about. “You know, I don’t like this place. There’s something off about it. It’s... creepy? But not in an oooo spooky old house way. You get used to that. This gets worse the longer I’m here. It’s... whatever is in the ceiling is not a cat.”

Jaskier was right. Geralt refocused all of his senses. Cats did not make subtle clicking noises. He remembered the barefoot prints vanishing suddenly in the snow. “It’s a bruxa. We have to get to Ciri. Now.”

“Tell me what you need me to do,” Jaskier said as he tailed Geralt down the hall.

“Go with Ciri and get to Roach. Watch out for her. She doesn’t trust me yet and might not listen.”

“Ok. Yes, easy. This will be fine,” Jaskier mumbled to himself. Geralt didn’t snap at him to be quiet like he once might have. He was used to Jaskier, his murmuring wasn’t distracting as much as it was a reassuring reminder that he was there.

[veliseraptor]

I have a suggestion/compromise? You mentioned not having the heart to finish those abandoned marvel drafts but if you were willing to share some of the already written bits that you do like, why not just post them as excerpts? You needn't finish them and we get to read your lovely work and stop harassing you for more ❤️

I've been tossing this idea around in my head for the last couple of days and I still don't know where I'm coming down in terms of "actually posting unfinished works to AO3" but I did go back and reread some of these fics I moved into my "MCU Fic Salvage Folder" (aka the wips I feel like would be most worth finishing someday, hypothetically) and once again went "huh you know these are still decent" and it does seem a pity that they're just sitting around languishing unread when people might hypothetically appreciate them, and I'm always in constant need of external validation.

so you know what, since you asked, anon, here, have a 2.3k chunk of an avengers: infinity war canon divergence that I'm fond of notionally but very unlikely to ever finish.

-----

you who turn the wheel and look to windward

Loki watched himself die.

It was necessary, so that he could ensure all the reactions were perfect, the simulacrum as believable as possible, as precisely real as possible. Making a copy of himself was easy - child’s play. Had been for centuries. Making one that was solid to the touch and real enough to fool Thanos--

He’d never done it before, and he could feel the strain of it in his chest, but he was strong enough for this. He had to be. 

That didn’t make it any easier to watch his own throat crushed in Thanos’s hand. He could feel himself shaking, his heart beating like it was going to explode, terror squeezing his airways as tightly as Thanos was squeezing his double’s--

Loki knew the pop-crack wasn’t real and he still flinched. The simulacrum went limp, and a muffled sound reminded him of the other reason he’d kept his eyes so determinedly fixed on his own death. 

I’m sorry, he thought frantically. Thor, I’m sorry, I couldn’t think of another way--

Thanos dropped the body - his body, and he had the disorienting, horrifying experience of staring at his own dead eyes - in front of Thor. He was saying something, but Loki couldn’t hear it over the roaring in his ears. 

Leave, he willed Thanos. Leave, damn you, you have what you want, now go--

Thor was sobbing. He could hear that, all too clearly, and oh if he’d ever wanted proof of what Thor had said (I mourned you) he had it now, and it was bitter in the having. 

Thanos turned his back and Loki held perfectly still, quivering like a dog straining at the leash, waiting, waiting. All he needed was a moment, a clean moment where he could get Thor away and run, it didn’t matter where, somewhere, anywhere. He hadn’t managed to save Asgard. Or Frigga, or Heimdall. But he would do this, he had to do this, there was no other choice.

Walk away, he thought. Walk away, there’s nothing here for you, we’re already dead.

Thor was holding his corpse. Clinging to it, and Loki hated himself but he hated Thanos more and he would apologize when they were safe, would let Thor beat him into the ground if it just meant they made it through this.

Let us make it through this. 

Loki felt the flash of power roll through him. Of Power. Felt the remnants of the ship groan as they started to tear apart. 

No, Loki thought. No, no-

He gauged the distance between him and Thor and Thor and Thanos and it didn’t matter, he couldn’t wait any longer. 

He’d already waited too long.

The ship ripped apart as Loki lunged for Thor, mouth open to shout his name before the vacuum of space tore his voice away, tore him away.

Then there was nothing, for a long time.

**

“You’re d’asting shitting me.”

Loki’s mind stirred sluggishly. His thoughts were fragmented, slow to cohere. There was something about that voice and its rough edge that made Loki’s stomach clench anxiously, but he couldn’t put a name to it, or to where he was, or to what-

No, he knew what had happened. The ship had been torn apart. And somehow...he’d survived. 

Again. 

“I should just throw you back out there,” said the vaguely familiar voice. “This is a waste of time.”

Loki fought his way free like a river in spring thaw. Everything was still jumbled, confused, but one thing remained squarely at the forefront of his mind. 

“Thor,” he said weakly. 

Thor, clinging to his body as the ship was ripped apart, and he hadn’t been fast enough to reach him.

He jerked the rest of the way back to life and lunged to his feet, whirling around with a knife in hand, and froze, staring at Thanos’s daughter. She stared back at him, her jaw set. “You,” he snarled, and lunged for her, hopelessly uncoordinated, still weak. She batted his thrust aside easily. 

“Cut it out,” she said. “I’m not here for him.” 

Loki flashed his teeth. “I am supposed to believe that?” 

“Believe it or don’t,” she said. “But don’t try to stab me again after I just dragged you and the other one onto my ship against my better judgment.”

Loki’s heart leapt into his throat, something like hope almost blooming in his chest. “The other one?” 

“Yeah,” she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “She’s over there.” She turned her back and started back toward the cockpit, stride jerky and ever so slightly uneven. “Don’t make me regret this.”

His heart dropped just as quickly. She. But he looked reluctantly over where Thanos’s daughter - he remembered her, if not her name - had indicated. Even one living Asgardian, even one, he told himself, no matter if it was not Thor…

I promise you, brother, the sun will shine on us again.

He walked unsteadily over to the other body lying on the ship’s deck. He recognized the style of the vessel - one of Thanos’s, which suggested that either Thanos’s daughter had stolen it, or she was lying. 

Not just any Asgardian, Loki thought, kneeling down unsteadily next to her. The Valkyrie. She was a survivor. Like him. 

Even as he started to reach out toward her, she gasped in a breath and her eyes snapped open, her knife flashing toward his throat. She stopped it just before it sliced through skin, staring at him, wide-eyed.

“Fuck,” she said. “Loki?”

Loki choked on a hysterical laugh. “The one and only,” he said. 

“The fuck...the fuck happened?” Valkyrie’s voice rasped painfully. Loki wondered if there was water. He should have asked, but he still felt dull, muddled. Thor must have survived. He had to have. But where…

He slumped back away from her. “Thanos,” he said. 

“I knew that,” Valkyrie hissed, already on her feet. There was an ugly rent in her armor, bleeding sluggishly. “But we’re not dead, so obviously-”

She cut off. Loki saw the moment when she put it together. 

“There’s no one else, is there,” she said. 

Loki didn’t want to say it. Couldn’t make himself say it. “I don’t know.” 

Valkyrie let loose with a string of expletives that Loki couldn’t parse. He waited for her to finish shouting. 

“Hulk?” She said, finally. 

“Heimdall sent him to Midgard. To warn them.” And was murdered for it. He didn’t speak that part, but he could tell that Valkyrie heard it nonetheless. 

“And Thor?” She asked, but he could tell by the look on her face that she already knew the answer. She just wanted him to say it. Why? So she could blame him, that he was still here and Thor might be-

He’s not dead. I won’t believe it. He turned his back on her and walked over to the cockpit to stare at the back of Thanos’s daughter’s head. She’d been a Luphomoid, once. He wasn’t sure what to call her now. “What’s your game,” he asked, harshly. 

“Getting to Thanos. Killing Thanos.” 

Loki jerked. “Last I saw you-”

“Last I saw you,” she snapped, “you were dancing on Thanos’s strings. It’s been a while.” 

“You know this person?” Valkyrie said, coming up behind him.

“Yes,” Loki said flatly. “Not fondly. There were a lot of sophisticated instruments of torture involved.” 

He felt Valkyrie stiffen, and somewhere distant where he was still feeling things was touched. 

“Don’t make me regret pulling you out of vacuum,” she said, her voice, if possible, even harsher than he remembered. “I only did it because-”

She stopped. Her hands twitched on the controls. Loki could see something, suddenly, in her single-minded intensity, the taut coil of her entire body, straining toward a destination she was afraid she wouldn’t reach. 

“Because why,” he said. She clamped her mouth shut and didn’t answer. 

“Would someone explain to me who you are and what’s going on,” Valkyrie said tightly, her voice almost vibrating, and it occurred to Loki that she’d been the sole survivor of her sisterhood, and was now one of a handful of survivors at most, almost immediately after returning to Asgard. Loki stumbled back and sat down on one of the unoccupied seats, his head suddenly spinning again. 

“She’s a daughter of Thanos,” he said. “Not of his flesh - I don’t know that he has any of those. I certainly hope not.” 

“I am not that,” she said, her voice grating. “My name is Nebula. I almost killed Thanos once. This time, I’m going to do it right.” 

“You’ve changed your tune,” Loki said. To Valkyrie, he added, “it seems we both managed to survive being blasted into space when Thanos disintegrated the ship. Which is, I imagine, where she found us.” 

“But not Thor,” she said. 

“There were no other signs of life in the vicinity,” Nebula said, after a brief pause. Loki felt like he’d been punched in the chest. He slumped back into the seat, staring blankly forward. 

It should have been you, whispered a nasty voice in his mind. Not him. Never him.

Valkyrie swore under her breath. “Fuck,” she said. “Shit.” 

Nebula, to his gratitude, said nothing. He was quite certain she knew the name. She’d heard him scream it enough. 

“Fuck!” Valkyrie roared, slamming her foot into the hull of the ship. Loki bowed his head and tried to summon the words: nor shall we mourn, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t. He felt like something had been ripped out of his core. 

“Where are we going,” he said finally, numbly. 

“I told you-”

“Yes, I know. I meant more specifically than that.” 

“Vormir,” Nebula said. Loki frowned. 

“What’s on Vormir?” 

“The Soul Stone.” 

Loki’s heart skipped a beat. “What?” He said, voice a little hoarse. He’d had some slim hope that the thing was lost. That no one knew where to find it, Thanos included, and thus he would not be able to complete his quest. 

Stupid. He should know better by now than to trust to hope. 

Nebula’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know if Thanos is still there. But it’s the last location I know he was heading.” 

“How did he know where to go,” Loki said, his throat closing like he was the double Thanos had strangled. “I thought it was lost-”

“Not lost enough,” Nebula said. She was wound so tight she was almost vibrating. Racing against time. She was afraid. Loki had not thought she was capable. 

That was all the Stones accounted for. Two on Midgard. Two Thanos already possessed (one thanks to you, sentiment, and what was it worth in the end, you still lost). One on Knowhere in the Collector’s care - he was strong enough that he might be able to match Thanos on his own, but with two Infinity Stones already in his possession? Perhaps not. 

And the Soul Stone, on Vormir. 

“How do we kill him,” Valkyrie said, her voice harsh. “This - Thanos. How do we kill him?” 

“Quickly,” Nebula said. “Cutting his throat should do it. I intend to take his whole head just to be sure.” 

“Not if I get to it first,” Loki said. Nebula gave him a sharp, ugly look that Loki ignored. He was very cold, and trying very hard not to think of Thor. Not to think, with childlike desperation, he was alive when you saw him last, Thor is strong, he might have survived. He couldn’t afford to believe that. And it wouldn’t matter if Thanos got what he wanted. 

“How far are we from this Vormir,” Valkyrie said.

“Another few hours.” Nebula’s voice was curt, but not exactly hostile.

“And are there weapons on this ship?” 

She gestured toward the back, and Valkyrie turned on her heel and stalked in that direction. Loki looked down at his hands. He had his knives, of course. Always. 

He kept going over those last few moments on The Statesman. What he could have done differently. What he should have done differently that might have gotten both him and Thor out alive - or at least Thor. 

It should have been a relief that he couldn’t think of anything. It wasn’t. 

“What changed,” he said.

“Are you talking to me,” Nebula said. Her voice was as harsh as he remembered. Thanos must have done something to damage her vocal cords, at some point. Hearing it sent a shiver of revulsion at remembered pain down his spine. 

“Yes,” he said. “I am talking to you. What made you finally turn your back on your father?” 

“None of your business.” 

“I’d like to know why I should believe you aren’t just taking us to Thanos as prisoners.” 

“If I was taking you to Thanos I would have just killed you,” Nebula said. “If I’d known it was you I was pulling onboard I would have.”

“Hey,” Valkyrie said, hefting a sizeable gun in one hand. “Watch it.”

Nebula made a disgusted noise and turned away from them both. Loki glanced at Valkyrie, eyebrows furrowing, and when she looked back at him he read determination and rage and a sort of desperation in her eyes. Like she expected something from him.

Don’t, Loki wanted to scream. I’ll only fail you. As I failed Thor.

“She’s not going to now,” Loki said. “And if you try...you’ll find me much harder to subdue than when I was your father’s captive.” It was largely bravado. He was weak after the fight on the Statesman, after dueling Proxima and Corvus, after crafting a double of himself. Drained by the memory of Thor on his knees, screaming, running toward his brother as the ship disintegrated around them and Thor just lay there sobbing over his seeming corpse, making no move to save himself. 

A knife slid in under Loki’s ribs and slit him open. He staggered, and Valkyrie caught him.

“Lackey,” she said lowly.

“I’m fine,” he said, but she ignored him, depositing him on a seat and standing next to him, glaring at the back of Nebula’s head as she ignored them both.