#ao3 excerpt

[levelofyoureye]

First up is the triple flip-double axel sequence. Regulus turns into it with ease, tapping his right foot on the ice and drawing himself up into as tight of an air position as he can manage. He lands the jump without difficulty, then steps onto his left foot and kicks up right into a double axel. Yet again, he comes down with ease, and as the applause from the crowd picks up he uses it as motivation. That was nothing, he thinks as he takes his crossovers down the ice. Now, it’s just the triple lutz. One more jump, and you’re set. One more jump. One more jump, and it’s the one he’s landed the least in practice. One more jump, and his success rate is still barely above sixty percent. One more jump, and if he falls, his mother will be furious. Lucius will blame it on him nearly killing himself in the short program yesterday, and Regulus won’t be able to deny it. One more jump, and it’s a clean skate.

chapter 30 of my james potter hockey player/regulus black figure skater AU is up now, we're so back y'all! sorry i fell off the face of the earth for a bit–hope you guys accept this as an apology 🫂

[tenrousei-kuroi]

"Oh Prongs, really...you're doing me a favor."

[nootcatt]

An Excerpt from

Want So Bad

By HalaeNoor on AO3

Nangong Si finds it to be ironically amusing how everything that he files under good in his life somehow ends up related to Ye Wangxi. It is a phenomenon that happens unconsciously and as soon as he realises that it has happened again, he finds himself laughing and mentally smacking himself. He cannot help it. There is a reason Ye Wangxi is his best friend. All the best things in his life are because of him.  When Nangong Si first started thinking about what he wanted in his life, he was seventeen years and one month old. He remembers that night because that was the night Ye Wangxi told him about his gender identity.   It was a quarter moon night, and the stars were just beginning to show in the night sky because all the lights in the estate were finally turned off.  “Finally,” Ye Wangxi had said, wrapping his blanket tighter around himself. “Now maybe we can see the meteor shower.” For some reason, between the two of them, he always got cold sooner. Which is why he was tightly wrapped up while Nangong Si sat on his blanket with his weight on his hands and his legs spread in front of him. They had pushed the chairs to a side because they both preferred the floors to tweed chairs when they did things like this.  “It doesn’t start for another hour,” Nangong Si reminded him.  “Forty five minutes actually,” Ye Wangxi corrected him, “and that doesn’t mean I can’t be grateful for less light pollution.”  Nangong Si hummed and huffed a laugh at that, but he did not say anything against it. There were already so few things that Ye Wangxi enjoyed, why should he interrupt him now that he finally gets the chance.  He just observed his friend from where he was sitting while Ye Wangxi had his eyes already glued to the sky like some stray meteor would pass by way ahead of scheduled activity. His features were softer then, his cheeks were rounded and his body was smaller than it is now. He identified as a girl then. His hair was longer, but he always kept it rolled up or braided away. That night, it was held up with a simple ballpoint pen that he had been using in class. He was a tomboy. Yet his eyes and his smile have always been the same. Nangong Si found himself smiling whenever Ye Wangxi did. Never as wide or bright as his, though. Ye Wangxi’s smile has always been unparalleled. 

“A-Si,” Ye Wangxi said after a little while, “don’t look at me like that.” Nangong Si realised then that he was staring. He didn’t mean to stare, he was just watching how happy Ye Wangxi looked. “Sorry,” he said and sat up. He folded his legs under him and put his chin on his fists, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” “I’m not uncomfortable,” Ye Wangxi shook his head, “just… you weren’t even blinking.” That sounded a little peculiar to Nangong Si. The whole time he was looking at Ye Wangxi, he did not see the boy move his eyes away from the stars. How did he know that Nangong Si did not blink? “I’ll remember to blink next time I stare,” Nangong Si told him, and that earned him an eyeroll. “I didn’t mean that, dummy,” Ye Wangxi told him, “I mean don't stare.” “Ah Xi'er,” Nangong Si chuckled a little at that, “I will not stare. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.” “Don’t be,” Ye Wangxi said, and then they returned to waiting for the meteor shower to start. With nothing to do now that he was told to not watch Ye Wangxi, Nangong Si opened up the bag of chips that they had bought along with the juice boxes that reminded them of when they were little kids. He passed one box to Ye Wangxi and opened one for himself. He was careful not to finish all of it even before the shower started because then there would be no snacks left for after. “A-Si?” Ye Wangxi said when Nangong Si was half way through the box. “Yes?” He asked. “Did you feel bad when I told you not to stare?” That was an unexpected question. Was Ye Wangxi feeling guilty for having done that? Was he afraid of having hurt Nangong Si’s feelings? “Why would I feel bad?” Nangong Si asked, “It’s your right to tell me when you’re uncomfortable with something that I do.” “I was not uncomfortable,” Ye Wangxi told him, “not exactly.” The way he said that, Nangong Si wondered what was going on in his head. Just a little while ago he was so happy to be looking at the sky and now he was saying things like this that didn’t exactly make sense. “Can you tell me what you felt?” Nangong Si asked, and Ye Wangxi remained silent for a while. It made Nangong Si anxious. Even then, when Ye Wangxi did not make his heart beat faster or his breath fall short, Nangong Si cared about his feelings. He cared about when his best friend was feeling upset about something. He cared about his happiness and his smiles. “I…” Ye Wangxi pulled the blanket a little higher over his head, “I don’t know if it will make sense if I try to explain it.”

Nangong Si got up from where he was sitting and sat down on his knees in front of the bundled up Ye Wangxi. Under his blanket, he had his knees pulled up to his chest and half his face hiding behind it. His eyes watched Nangong Si waiting to see how he would react.

“Try me,” Nangong Si told his best friend, “I will tell you if it makes sense or not.”

Ye Wangxi closed his eyes then and pulled the blanket up until all of him was just a bundled up person in front of him. Then his muffled voice sounded from the depths, low and quiet.

“I don’t want anyone to look at me in a body that I don’t associate with.”

“Don’t associate with?” Nangong Si was confused. He hadn’t thought that Ye Wangxi was going through something like that.

“Let me explain,” Ye Wangxi peeked out from under the blanket, “think of it like… Like if you have a uniform. It’s pink and frilly, and it twirls when you spin it too. It's cute. Everyone says you look pretty in it.”

Nangong Si did as he was told, imagining a person in a uniform like that.

“Now,” Ye Wangxi continued, “Everyone else likes it. And it looks really good on other girls. But you hate the frills, and the pink is so bright it makes you want to squint each time you look in the mirror.”

“That was me when dad made me wear that brown frilly suit with the bonnet.” Nangong Si remembered, and Ye Wangxi pulled his head out. It was still hidden behind his knees, but his eyes were very bright and visible.

“That’s how I feel in my body,” Ye Wangxi told him then, “like it is good looking, but I don’t like being in it. I don’t like looking at myself in it.”

“Is that why you’re hiding?” Nangong Si asked, and Ye Wangxi nodded.

“Do you not like to be seen like you are?” Nangong Si asked and Ye Wangxi shook his head.

That could mean two things. Nangong Si decided to confirm.

“What would make you feel better?” he asked, “Would you like to be… curvier? Or…”

“Not curvy,” Ye Wangxi shook his head, “not curvy at all.”

“Then?” He asked.

“I don't know,” Ye Wangxi told him, “I just… I would change things if I could. I just… I just don’t like the way I look. I don’t want you to look at me like this either.”

“I will not look at you,” Nangong Si promised.

“Forever?” Ye Wangxi sounded so innocent when he asked that.

“Well not forever,” Nangong Si did his best to not laugh, “let's see if there's a way to make you feel easier in your body. Or maybe we just swap it for a different one and see if you feel okay being seen like that. You know, like in video games?”

“Like changing avatars?” Ye Wangxi found that thought funny too.

“Yes,” Nangong Si settled down there. Ye Wangxi crosses his legs as well, emerging from the blanket to copy his posture.

“Can I be taller?” He asked.

“Can I be taller?” He asked. “Not taller than me,” Nangong Si specified, “if you get taller than me, I'll have to call you jiejie.” “Don't call me jiejie.” Ye Wangxi shook his head, “you don't even call me meimei.” “What do I call you then?” Nangong Si asked. Ye Wangxi frowned as he thought that over. Then he came to the simplest solution. “Ye Wangxi.” “Ye Wangxi it is then.” He nodded. “But a taller Ye Wangxi,” came another specification. “Less… girly. Less frill, less frocks, no dresses— no makeup.” “Hmm,” Nangong Si hummed, “manly man Ye Wangxi. Big, strong and handsome.” Ye Wangxi blushed at that. He fumbled with his blanket and then a few days later, he told Nangong Si that he really liked the idea of Man Ye Wangxi, even though they missed the first few meteors. Nangong Si did not see any meteors at all though, so he could only chuckle. The only thing he saw was Ye Wangxi watching the stars with a possibility of a future that feels like a fantasy. Then he found himself wondering what would be in his fantasy future.

Read the rest of the fic here (x)

[thedaselcor]

Love Arthur as gay, love Arthur as bi/pansexual, but may I present... Arthur as fundamentally Merlinsexual: His whole life, Arthur had thought that he would marry for his kingdom. He’d never been especially interested in women, but he assumed that it was normal and, since he had to marry for Camelot anyway, that it really didn’t matter. Then Merlin kissed him, and he kissed Merlin back. And the kiss was passionate and feverish, and it spent several minutes getting more passionate and feverish before he’d been able to pull himself away. And something about it ignited the bond he’d shared with Merlin since the day he’d had Merlin imprisoned and he’d refused to back down. That spark… 

[inkyrainstorms]

The Martian Stan AU - The Apology - Excerpt

Ford was working as he always was nowadays, half listening to the radio behind him and trying to stop his heart from jumping in his throat every time that Stan stopped speaking for more than 10 minutes and nothing but static filled the room again. Ford wasn’t sure what exactly his brother was talking about anymore, as he welded a set of support bolts into place, but he nearly dropped the welding gun on his foot when Stan suddenly spoke after a long stretch of silence.

“Ford?”

Ford fumbled for a moment before shoving a stack of loose paper aside and  setting the welding gun down on the table beside him. He put his hands on either side of the radio on the same cluttered table and took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart.

“Yes, Stanley?” He asked softly.

Stan, of course, didn’t hear him, but had paused as if waiting for a response before continuing anyway.

“I know, I know damn well you’re probably never gonna hear this, but I need to say it anyway before… Well. I don’t need to eat as often and shit and I know you’d love to figure out why but… I’m not sure how long I’m gonna last out here either way.”

Ford didn’t say anything, staring down at the wooden grain of the table like he could burn a hole clean through it with his thoughts alone. His palms ached from where he’d dug in his fingernails, and his shoulders mangled to hunch even further.

Stan laughed. It was a bitter, ugly sound.

“Ah, damnit. This isn’t about me. Can’t even do this right, you idiot” His brother took a deep breath. “ But Ford… I think I need to apologize.”

Some old, fossilized hurt in Ford’s heart snarked ‘you think?’, but Ford nearly gagged as he suffocated the thought before it could take root anew. He felt sick.

Oblivious to Ford’s turmoil —and of course he was, because he didn’t know Ford was right here, that Ford wasn’t going to let one of the last things he ever said to Stan be that he thought Stan was worthless— Stan continued.

“I don’t think I ever got to, back when… you know. What I said that night is a bit of a blur to me to be honest, but I know I was spouting nonsense and saying all the wrong shit and… Moses, Ford. I know it’s too late now but I’m sorry. I really am.”

Something in Ford simultaneously healed and broke in his chest at Stan’s words, but he didn’t get the chance to process it because Stan wasn’t quite done yet.

“And I need you to know it wasn’t on purpose. I’d never do that to you. Never. Why would I ever want to hurt you like that, poindexter? I just… I was scared and I didn’t want to be alone in Glass Shard Beach scraping barnacles off the Taffy shop for the rest of my miserable life and I wasn’t. Thinking.” Stanley’s voice had been rising in a steady crescendo, but suddenly got so quiet that Ford had to strain to catch the words in the buzzing static. “I’d… I shouldn’t have gone into the gym. I shouldn’t have even gone near your friggin project. I didn’t go there to break it, I would never—“ his voice broke. “I thought you knew that. I’m your brother, you dingbat, why would I ever want to hurt you?When did I ever not support you, man?”

“Then why did you do it?” Ford whispered back, just as quiet. That old anger he’d tried to push down rose up again, simmering. Stan knew he’d poured months of his life into the perpetual motion machine, that he’s shed more than a few tears and more than a little blood and sweat over it. And then he’d thrown it all away?

“I’d only hit the table, ya know. Didn’t think the grate’d pop off or anything like that. I tried to fix it. I know I should’ve told you, I know and I’m sorry, just…” I was scared, goes unspoken. Ford’s legs were shaking, and he tried to steadily himself by leaning further on the table. “I know I should’ve told you. I know. I messed up fuckin’ good, Sixer.” Ford flinched.

“I’m. I know you’re never gonna get the apology you deserve cause I was too much of a coward to actually call you and say something.” Stan’s voice was shaking. And I’m sorry for that too. And I’m sorry for not listening to you about your stupid book, and I’m sorry— ugh. We’ll be here all day trying to name my fuckups. That’s the last sorry you’ll ever hear from me you nerdy, uh, nerd.”

Stan sighed loud enough for the radio to crackle and screech. “Good going, Stan,” he muttered, his voice getting quieter as he evidently walked away, done.

And all that was left was static.

Ford pushed himself away from the table and sank into the rolling chair nearby, putting his face in his hands and trying to breathe as the chair was pushed back several feet from his momentum.

“He’s lying,” Ford tried to say, but it tasted like ash in his mouth. “He’s trying to make it so… so.” He faltered. “He’s obviously trying to deceive me.”

Trust no one.

But he had trusted Stan. And Stan got hurled into a Dimension of Nightmares for it.

Stan has no reason to lie, Fords mind whispered, because it was always against him no matter what stance he took. He doesn’t think you’re coming to save him. Why wouldn’t he try to explain the worst mistake of his life in a fit of guilt and complete loss of hope?

“Shut up,” Ford said intelligently, and he didn’t dare pry his face away from his hands, heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets and pushing up his glasses to his hairline

Stan had no reason to lie.

Stan came to help him at the drop of a hat after ten years of being too afraid to even call him. 

Stan… Stan didn’t mean to break his project. It was a stupid accident, done by a stupid teenager too afraid to admit his own failings. Stan didn’t betray Ford. Not like he thought his twin had, for all these years.

Ford was wrong. About everything. He was wrong about Stan and Bill and Fiddleford and, Moses, had he ever done anything right in his entire, miserable life? Ford didn’t know. 

The empty bunk bed beneath his own  for those last few fateful months before Backupsmore, the tears and screaming at a boat that never even left the shore, the years of resentment and refusing to believe he missed his own twin, what was it all for? Because Ford suddenly felt the sharp sting of grief all over again, throbbing with a ferocity he’d refused to acknowledge for the past few weeks. Years. 

It was like he was 17 years old again, mourning for all the wrong reasons and all the right ones too. For his brother. For his chance to become someone worthy of recognition, of love. For pushing away the ones who’d already loved him.

For the first time since the day Stan fell into the portal all those weeks ago, Ford pulled his knees up to his chest on the seat and, in the safety of his own arms, he wept.

The static crackled on, steady and unchanging. Unforgiving.

———————

@aroace-get-out-of-my-face @littlelilliana15 (if anyone else wants to be tagged pls let me know! I’m going to probably be posting more for this au sometime this week)

I have ideas for a mini comic and a whole animatic using Space Oddity so I’ll just have to see how far I get, really

[dss1101]

"Jason is smart, okay? Though that may not exactly be the first word that comes to mind when most people think of the Red Hood. Words like brute, violent, and crazy, sure, those are words he expects. It’s not like they’re untrue, and he worked hard to cultivate that image of himself, thank you very much. But being Robin’s a tough gig, you don’t survive being Robin if you aren’t smart. 

Huh, maybe he’s not as smart as he thinks."

I love writing Jason because he's an overflowing container of a backstory worthy of dark humor. Ugh he's the best

[gothamite-rambler]

Stephanie is a booktok spicy girlie

*this is a real excerpt from the book*

Stephanie (reading from the book): “Such a pretty pussy, Anastasia,” I praise, running my COCK between her FOLDS, watching the goose bumps spread across her back when the TIP nudges her. “Hurry up and FUCK it then.” She sighs when I line myself up. “Please-

Jason: Stop reading the book out loud!

Barbara (having read this book five times before): Until I get comfortable. Oh this is getting spicy.

Barbara gracefully slid out of her wheelchair and rested her arms behind her head. Dick and Jason stared down at her then sighed.

Barbara: Read on.

Stephanie (continuing to read and emphasizing certain words): “So impatient,” I coo, holding onto her hips tightly as I PLUNGE into her, gasping at how WET she is.

Dick: Okay, why are you reading it like that?

Stephanie: To emphasize the words. God, this is one of the few times I use curse words, either leave or keep listening to the spicy romance!

Jason (while leaving): This isn't spicy, which is a stupid word, it's porn! You are reading porn!

Stephanie: We call it spicy!

[ledesaid]

And this is your little one…

MorningStar: "...Mace! Bring William."

The doors opened.

Constantine: Let him go, Luci. This isn't your style.

MorningStar: And what is, Jonny? Huh?

The words choked in the Englishman's mouth. What came out of the door was a body held in the arms of a demon close to the fallen angel. But he was as white as a sheet of paper.

MorningStar: We bet, he lost. Now his soul will guard the gates of hell. Have a good afternoon, Jonny. You know the way out. Mace, make sure to dispatch him properly.

Constantine: What do you think of double or nothing?

He threw a photo at MorningStar.

Constantine: My son for your daughter. Tic Toc, Luci. Who supports hell more, she or he?

[erinwantstowrite]

WIP Game

Rules: You will be given a word. Share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that start with each letter of that word.

Tagged by @cerealboxlore

My Word: Marvel

I decided to use chapter 16 of LoF for this because I've been working on it today teehee

M- "Maybe because it was because Peter was introducing Loki and Dick for the first time, and he remembered what the Bats thought about the God."

A- "Also, it would make Thor sad, so I’d ask that you not kill Loki. Because you totally could, I believe you.”

R- Resurrection?

V (I don't have a V sentence 😔💔)

E- "Everyone needs backup at some point, fighting alone doesn’t help anyone. But especially someone Peter’s age. He’s done a great job at taking care of himself and this situation, but that doesn’t mean he has to. We’re more than happy to take some of the burden. And this is how we operate. If you don’t like it, or if your Avengers don’t like it, then they can take it up with me.”

L- Loki got a kick out of that part of the story. At one point, he created an illusion of little action-figure sized Batman, Robin, Nightwing, and Spider-Man on the dashboard, and had them re-enact the scene as best as Peter could tell it. “For the visuals.” Loki had smirked. And he had asked Dick, “What do you think? They look just like the real thing, no?” To which Dick had replied “Why did you make my head so big?” and Loki had sworn that his head just looks that big normally and he ‘Didn’t do anything to the illusion, really, Grayson, do you think so little of me?’ Which made Dick’s eye twitch.

I'm tagging @mockingjaylad !!! :3 your word is "BIRD"

[clegfly]

Hi. Throws small self indulgent “mari actually IS something and after the true ending is able to get with hero via cleg logic I can’t be bothered to explain in a short funny description and oh god this is too long” au at you and runs into the woods

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

VI. “dinner”

read on AO3 🦇

parts: previous / next

plot: after a sour interview attempt, you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, brief mention of sa (which did not transpire), anger, arguing, feeling helpless

words: 2.2k

You quickly remembered how furiously he beat up the man in the alley. Maybe the truth was more transparent than you'd realized; you saw the Batman edge to him so clearly now. Batman was in the way his jaw set, his stature as he walked closer to someone. The staccato of his pointed words and how they flowed so securely past his lips. You could see it in every flex of his muscles, the intensity of his gaze. You never wanted to be on the receiving end of his vitriol. For now, all you had was his frustration and annoyance. Better than being prey.

"Forcing your dick into a stranger isn't exactly getting anything meaningful, is it?" You bit back, running over the pattering in your chest. Bitterness stung your tongue as you watched him pull back and pace between the desk again. "I'm talking money. Assets. Opportunities. If people had everything they needed, they wouldn't pillage the streets trying to find a means of self-preservation—"

He cut you off as rage seeped into your voice. "You talk like you know from experience."

"I know I'm far closer to them than an out of touch rich kid." You turned the recorder to OFF. He looked at you with suspicion.

"What are you doing?"

"This is pointless." You clenched fingers around the recorder and grabbed your phone from where it sat on the table. Anger was starting to overtake you listening to someone who had everything in life handed to him look down on those who had less lucky circumstances. "I'm not dealing with you. I'm leaving."

Quick, heavy footsteps came up behind you and he grabbed your elbow. You ripped it away from him and kept on down toward the iron door. "I'm leaving." As you walked you remembered you'd left your heels; you wanted to turn around, but kept forward. Heat flushed your cheeks when you reached the door that wouldn't open. Panic. Would he even let you out? Is this when the torturing began?

"Master Wayne?" A British man's voice filled the basement. A clank, the sound of metal, and then a stutter. "Who—”

You spun around to face a grey-haired, well-dressed man peering out from an open-plan elevator. He had a pair of spectacles in hand and a worried expression. Opening your mouth to speak proved futile when Bruce Wayne was always so ready and willing to answer. "She knows, Alfred." His tone was flat and to the point, if a bit terse. Worry melted to curiosity as he nodded at you. Was that a statement or a signal?

You did a small, annoyed wave. "I'm Y/N. Wanted to interview Gotham's elusive billionaire." You covered the words in as much sarcasm as humanly possible to mask your deepening anxiety. Did he know how to fight too?

"Pleasure to meet you, Y/N. How about staying for dinner?" You felt softer with the presence of this man in the room. Was this his godfather? They didn't look particularly alike... His parents had pretty famously died when he was a kid, right? You recalled vague memories of hearing a breaking news story on the living room television from a town you had never heard of before. Maybe he was a caretaker of sorts? A cook? Maybe it was too naive, it was likely so supremely naive as to be moronic, but you felt the mood shift when this 'Alfred' walked in. A positive one.

Bruce Wayne started to answer the dinner invite with a resounding hell no, which plastered a smile to your face. "I'd love to!" You scurried over to retrieve your heels and sidled beside ‘Alfred’ in the elevator. Your heels ached and you wanted nothing more than to crash in your own bed. However, pissing off this asshole? And getting free food? You felt it the utmost priority to get under Bruce Wayne’s skin as much as possible. Maybe you could get more information for your paper while you were at it.

Alfred gave a come here motion for him to join you, and after a heavy scoff and eye-roll he slumped his way over. With a press of a button the doors closed and elevator shot up. To your right wafted a gentle scent of fresh musk; whoever he was, he even smelled fancy. To your right the smell of old clothes.

Your eyes wandered to the stiffness of Bruce Wayne's suit; it looked like it hadn't ever been worn, and the musty scent lent that credibility. Clustered together in this small space with Alfred too, you got a bit more brave. Tested the waters. Wanted to see if your anxiety could be alleviated. You picked off a piece of lint that was on his shoulder; as soon as you touched him his head whipped toward yours, expression accosted. You suppressed a laugh. "Just some lint, Jesus."

The elevator stopped suddenly, forcing you to grab the bars as you stumbled forward. Him and Alfred walked easily as you stumbled behind them. You looked up to the massive staircase across the way, and noticed this elevator was placed adjacent to the kitchen in a dark hallway. The ceilings were impossibly tall with gothic arches and swirls in excess.

"I'm changing." Bruce Wayne walked unceremoniously out of the room and off somewhere in the gargantuan mansion at the first opportunity. Alfred showed you around the kitchen, handing you a heavy ceramic plate. Knowing them it could even be diamond. The house wasn't particularly well-lit; surprisingly for a wealthy family. Your mind immediately went to rich celebrities and their glistening homes. Gotham was so fucking weird.

Alfred winked at you as he got out two more plates. "Master Wayne can dish up himself, being how grumpy he's acted."

You let out a small chuckle when the man himself silently appeared beside you, empty plate in-hand. He was suspiciously quick, and it looked weird outside of the suit. He smelled a bit better now, like a woody oak tree... and detergent. "Sorry, the prince has to dish himself." You crooned, handing him the ladle to the crockpot.

The sound of scraping dishes brought you back to meals with your mom and dad at the living room table. Homesickness enveloped you. How were they doing? They seemed excited to go to graduation; you hadn't seen them in nearly two years.

The scraping stopped. You watched carefully for the first fork to touch a tongue that wasn't yours. You made pleasant conversation until Bruce grew suspicious. He gestured to you. "Didn't you want to eat?"

Goosebumps riddled your thighs and you did your best to will them away from your arms and prying eyes. The house was so dark, but he was fucking Batman. Part of you wondered if he had x-ray vision. You stumbled over some dumb excuse. "I always let the hosts eat first." It went over about as well as you thought it would with him.

"You think my butler poisoned you?"

Shame did wheelies in your mind, so much so you didn’t notice his butler glare at the brooding man. It seemed a bit storybookish; come to the secret lair, have a final dinner before inevitable demise. The arches, the long table... it was all very reminiscent of something underground, something akin to holiness but more sinister. He stared at you when Alfred took a scoop from Bruce's bowl, and swallowed. You took a bite and instantly settled at how delicious it was. "Alfred, is this, uh, mulli—"

"Oh, yes! How did you know?" He was chipper, likely making up for his less kindly dinner partner. You told him how you'd asked what sort of cuisines Bruce was into—to which he shot another glare your way and the old man grinned.

You made sure to draw out the length of the dinner in spite of Bruce Wayne. He picked at his food, not eating, as you and Alfred prattled on about this, that, and oh, this other thing! It wasn't all a ruse, however; you thoroughly enjoyed Alfred as he seemed exceptionally kind and competent. Looking into his weathered face and hearing his posh accent took the burning sting of Bruce's presence away—which was another thing: he always had people refer to him with formalities, so you resigned to calling him Bruce.

"I'd like to leave, Alfred." Bruce spoke through grit teeth and pushed his plate toward the center of the table in protest. If he had been a bit more animated, it might have looked like he was throwing a tantrum. You didn't bother to hide the grin twitching your lips because you knew he'd hate that, too. It was as if nothing mattered more than getting under his skin. The bickering was peaceful, really.

Alfred wasn't having it. As far as he could tell you were being a perfectly pleasant guest, and it befuddled him why Bruce was behaving that way. He’d put a few pieces together down in the basement, given Bruce’s unceremonious announcement that you knew about Batman, but why would he be so cold? He had always told the boy it would happen eventually, and you didn’t seem to be a particularly malignant presence.

You'd notice a glare being shot from him to Bruce after he made a snide comment or a face to something you had said, which only made you add another cherry to the pile. It wasn't like Bruce was completely in the right; in fact, he had poked at you equally as much. His transgressions were more passive, less perceptible. A judging twitch of the eyebrow, a squint, an eye-roll. It was his house and he knew he wouldn't be kicked out for acting up, so he didn't bother watching himself.

You frustrated him. Your voice was grating, your chipper demeanor nearly making him gag. But. There was something more. He truly could have gotten up at any time, as Alfred was still under his payroll. Alfred had little say in how Bruce behaved at the end of the day, and he knew he could have stormed off to his bedroom without (much) consequence.

You felt like an itch he couldn't scratch. You weren't dismissible, no, but that was due to how uniquely you frustrated him. It made him feel like bees swarming in his mind, thoughts scattered, body constantly teetering off the edge. A thorn he couldn't get out of his side. The very fact that he could not pin down a sure reason sent his frustration past manageability. You knew he was Batman and you were blackmailing him for it, but that was what anyone else would have done in that situation. Why was your personality so infuriating? Like a knife slipping under his fingernails?

ZZZ ZZ. ZZZ ZZ. ZZZ ZZ. Your phone buzzed and Alfred took his cell out of his breast pocket. You opened your phone to an emergency alert. FLASH FLOOD WARNING FOR GOTHAM METRO AREA. SEVERITY: MODERATE THREAT TO LIFE AND PROPERTY. STAY INDOORS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Bruce's brows knit together again, much as they did at city hall. "What? What's the alert?"

Alfred spoke first. "It seems there's a... flash flood warning for our area. It says to stay indoors until further notice." You hadn't noticed the sound of the torrential rainpour until you really focused in on it. There were light pattering sounds far above with the terrifically high ceilings, though very steady and consistent. If it were in your apartment you wouldn't have been able to sleep in that damn cube. Wait. Sleep. You started typing into your phone the Gotham City website, and there was a red banner posted 12 seconds ago scrolling through bolded words in white. You read them aloud.

"It says on the city website to... expect delays for up to 72 hours?!" You couldn't hide the shock in your voice.

Alfred immediately turned to Bruce who got up and slammed himself out of the chair. "Great. Just great." His annoyance ricocheted off the entryway walls, his hands fists at his side.

Shit. Shit shit. Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head. "Wait, my paper! It's,"

"It's alright dear. I'll make you a bed in a spare room down the hall from me. I have a laptop too, if your professor still expects you to turn it in during a monsoon." Alfred tried to laugh but you weren't in the mood, your heart pounding against its cage as you sobered at the thought of having to be around Bruce for more than another hour.

"Master Wayne, you'll give a tour to Miss Y/N while I draw up a room."

"Are you kidding me?" You couldn't see him but the frustration in his tone was different now. It felt... inescapable, which made the terror more palpable. You had just blackmailed the most infamous vigilante in the world. And now you were stuck in his house. Fuck. Karma.

[tenrousei-kuroi]

Can you remember?

Regulus shook his head, the alcohol working its way through his system at an alarmingly fast pace. His memories of the days prior to waking up in this house were a jumbled mess of fear, research and planning. Unclear. Fuzzy. Blocked as though an iron door had shut on his mind. “I...I wouldn’t have,” he insisted in a voice barely above a whisper. “Sirius, you have to tell me everything, why...what did you find?”

But Sirius wasn’t listening to him. He’d sauntered to his feet and over to the window, staring pensively out towards the ocean, one hand loose in his pocket, the other cradling his glass. “I picked this house out especially for you,” he said wistfully, talking on as though Regulus had never spoken. “Because you’ve always loved the ocean.”

Regulus frowned. “I’ve only been to the seaside once. Before Hogwarts. I...I nearly drowned.” Regulus could almost feel the pulsating waves against his skin as the ocean from his childhood memories crept up on him.

“Oh, I remember,” Sirius said with a small grin. “Mother and Father were drunk off brandy back at the pier and you went under. Damn near dusk, the water black...but I saw you.”

Sirius was back standing next to Regulus in what felt like an instant. Regulus blinked nervously, setting down his glass and putting a hand over his heart, which was racing faster...faster…

“And I pulled you back up.”

it’s an old, rushed piece and at least once a week my brain screams to rewrite the entire thing

“Pull it back up”, if you will

[cakes-are-great]

They're brothers your honor

[inkyrainstorms]

The Martian Stan AU - The Beginning

“Is that it?” Stan asked, his voice burning and rising like the coming tide, vicious and overwhelming and inevitable. Ford’s shoulders tightened involuntarily, and he threw his brother as scathing of a glare as he could manage. Couldn’t Stan see that this, Ford’s problems, were important? “You call me all the way here after ten years, just to tell me to get as far away from you as possible?!”

If Ford was any less exhausted, if the hole in his left hand and the hole in his heart  were any less gaping, and the fresh scrapes and cracked fingernails ached any less, he might’ve taken a step back to apologize. To explain that it wasn’t about what Ford wanted, or what Stan wanted. It was about stopping Bill, and saving the world.

If Ford were a different man, he’d reconsider his approach and find a way to fix the chasm that seemed to yawn wider with every word that came out of each of their mouths. But as it was, Ford was not a different man. He couldn’t even fix himself.

So Ford instead felt indignation sting like hot coals in his gut and urge him to step forward, closer to Stanley. His brother took an involuntary half-step back. “Stanley, you don’t understand what I’ve been through!”

“What you’ve been through!” Stan kept talking even as Ford pushed past him, fury etched onto every word like a brand. “No, no, you don’t understand what I’ve been through! I’ve been to prison in three countries, and I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car!”

He got up in Fords face when Ford turned back, his brows drawn low and finger jabbing into Ford’s abdomen. He didn’t realize it, because of course he didn’t, but he’d pressed right into one of the bruises on Fords ribcage from his trip down the stairs earlier that day. Ford grit his teeth and glared back.

“You think you’ve got problems? I’ve got a mullet Stanford!”

Why couldn’t Stan take Fords problems seriously? Was he really cracking jokes at a time like this? 

Ford couldn’t take it anymore. 

Oblivious to the dangerous precipice Fords stability had drawn close to,  Stan got bitterly sarcastic. “Meanwhile where have you been? Holed up in your fancy house in the woods and living it up, selfishly hoarding all—“

Ford went still. If he’d been a slightly different man, a slightly more composed man, perhaps, he’d have fired back another jab at his twin, because how could the man that ruined Fords life and betrayed his complete and total trust call him selfish?

There was a different voice, at a different time altogether too recent and a lifetime ago. His monstrous Muse, his most trusted friend, taking his body on a fucking joyride and then having the gall to look him in the eyes and say “YOU’RE PRETTY SELFISH IQ”. 

Ford had just kept on weeping blood. 

As it was, Stan didn’t get a chance to finish his rant. He was much too busy receiving a solid punch to the face and staggering back against the force of it. For a moment, all was quiet. Ford was shaking, he realized distantly, staring blankly at his brother. His knuckles stung from the impact.

Stan took more time to recover than Ford would’ve thought, but when he finally did, it was with a new layer of dark fury that Ford hadn’t ever seen from him before. Stan lowered the book from where he’d clenched it to his chest, and pulled out a lighter. “Fine.” He whispered roughly, though it echoed in the cavernous room anyway. Louder, then, “Fine! You want me to get rid of it so bad? I’ll get rid of it right now!”

A challenging fire burned in Stan’s eyes, and with a flick, it burned in his right hand too. Ford’s journal dangled above the hungry, all consuming light. 

Ford couldn’t breathe. Every piece of himself he’d had to let go of, that he’d lost to Bill and all that he was giving up to rectify his own mistakes, all to see Stan get rid of part of his life’s work right before his eyes. 

How dare he.

Ford let out a guttural shout and lunged for the book. Stanley, evidently not expecting this, stumbled back and tried to move the lighter before Ford and him could get burned from it in the tussle.

He only partly succeeded. Ford hissed at the momentary new pain shooting up the underside of his hand as he tried to grab for the book and Stan flat out dropped the lighter in response. His brother faltered for a split second, his brow creasing. 

“Sixer, I—“

Ford didn’t let him finish. The second he heard the nickname, some part of him blanked out entirely, and the buzzing in his ears sounded like an angry hornet in his skull. “Don’t,” he grit out, and he’s sure his voice was much too thick and angry and he wasn’t being��rational but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “Call me that!” 

When Ford lunged for the journal anew, he tackled Stan to the ground as his brother instinctively tightened his own grip on the book. Ford’s book.

“Why not?!” Stan cried out, trying to pry Ford off of him and only succeeding in rolling the two on the ground away from the portal. Ford couldn’t figure out if he sounded more hurt or concerned. The hurricane in his chest kept him from thinking on it too much.

Ford let out a wordless grunt in response, as the two of them, having grappled up to stand, slammed straight through the door and Stan tried to pin him down onto one of the control panels, before Ford managed to gain enough momentum to roll Stan off of him. They were throwing punches and shouting insults they probably didn’t mean, and after a minute long struggle where they surely broke every damn thing in that control room —and good riddance, Ford tried to think but he was too tired to think much at all— Stan had shouted with all the ferocious desperation of a drowning man, “why can’t you listen to me, damnit! You ruined my life!”

Ford had retorted, because of course he did, with “You ruined your own life!” as he finally got a good grip on the book and kicked Stan away with enough force to shove him against the side of one of the control panels. 

Stan’s scream was abrupt and guttural and horrifying. It cut through the haze in Fords mind with all the precision of a scalpel, dropping a rock of dread into his gut. Ford backed away as quickly as he could, and didn’t even register his journal slipping through his slack fingers to land facedown on the ground. He felt sick.

“Stanley! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” 

For a few, horrible, horrible seconds, Stan laid there, slumped and unmoving from where he’d hunched onto the floor. The burn— the brand on his shoulder looked angry and hot against his skin. It had burned clean through his coat and shirt.

Ford took a few hurried steps closer, shaking so hard he could barely walk, when Stan groaned. “Stanley…” he started, but trailed off as Stan pulled himself to his feet. His eyes were darker than Ford had ever seen them before. Stan was shaking too.

“You really want your dumb mysteries that bad?”

And Ford wanted to say, no, no he didn’t, because Stan still held his shoulder stiff as he could and his grip was knuckle-white where he’d used it to brace his arm against his side, because Ford had branded his own twin.

But the words stuck in his throat, because he realized with a start that Stan and him weren’t the ones shaking. The room was. His eyes shot to the portal.

His magnum opus and his curse, his Dadaleus’s Labyrinth, was activating. 

A sudden movement from Stan snapped Fords attention back to his injured, angry brother. Ford took a few cautious steps out of the control room and held up his hands placatingly as Stan advanced. His brother was blocking the doorway, but Ford needed to get in there, he needed to activate the shutdown procedure. “Stan, please,” he said weakly, not sure what exactly he meant. Let me through? Wait? Let me help you?

He didn’t get the chance to find out, though, because Stan continued talking, hefting up the journal he’d evidently picked up from the floor while Ford was distracted. “Well you can have ‘em” Stan said viciously, and Ford could hear the pain in it clear as day as he moved to shove the book into Ford’s hands.

Ford dodged Stan attempt, careful to not touch Stan’s injured shoulder, and weaved around him. “Stan, please, wait.”

Stan laughed, turning around. His grin looked painful. “I’m tired of waiting, Si— Stanford. I really am.”

Ford didn’t have time for this. His heart ached in ways Ford didn’t have the time to decipher as the humming in the room got louder, and he turned to move back to the control room. “Just a moment, Stanley, I just need—“

When Stan latched onto his arm and tried to whirl Ford back around, Ford reacted on pure instinct and deep seated paranoia, that kind that can only be born from aftermath of pure devastation. He followed the momentum and shoved Stan back as hard as he could, turning and sprinting to the control room before Stan could recover and try to stop him again.

“Stanford?”

He never got there. Stan’s voice, suddenly small and scared, ground Ford’s pace to a halt. The humming was louder now, reverberating through his chest. 

“Ford, what’s happening?”

For a terrible moment, Ford didn’t turn around. He just stared at the door of the control room as if he could stop time if he tried hard enough. He didn’t want to see. Seeing made it real. It meant his worst fears had become true, it justified the cold sinking in his chest. 

“Ford!”

Ford whirled around and let out a hoarse cry. There Stanley was, greasy hair floating in a halo around his face, one hand outstretched and the other holding Ford’s journal tight to his chest. Ford had pushed him over the danger line.

The look on his twins face was worse than Ford could’ve ever imagined. 

The anger had drained out of him, the closer he floated to the all consuming blue light of the portal. The was naked terror in his eyes, and he cried out for Ford again.

“Stanley! Hold on, please!” Ford said, before making another break for the control room.

He needed to shut it off right this instant.

“Hold onto what, brainiac!?”

“I don’t know, Stanley! Anything within reach, just don’t let yourself go through the portal.”

Ford input the shut down code. He input it again. He then realized that they’d knocked the cords out of alignment and frantically began adjusting them from where they were wired into the top of the control panel. Shit, they really broke everything in this room, didn’t they?

The third time he input the code, the light flashed green, and the keys made themselves known on a panel adjacent to Ford’s position by the window.

Three keys. Of course. Why did he have to make it three keys, all turned simultaneously?

Metal screeched in the portal room, and when Ford dared to glance up between trying to maneuver himself to turn all three keys, a jolt of horror swept through him and nearly knocked him off his feet. 

Stan has nearly entirely consumed by the light now, clawing at the edge of the portal he’d managed to reach. Ford cursed himself when he realized that the metal plate Stan was holding, as well as  over a dozen others, were loosening to the point of nearly falling off entirely from the main frame. The other objects he’d scattered across the floor of his lab, everything from basic tools like screwdrivers to bigger machine parts floated through the portal at increasingly high speeds.

Ford wouldn’t need to do anything, he realized, and it wasn’t the comfort he wished it was. The portal was destabilizing. Judging by the erratic pulsing the portal light was doing, it’d be closing soon.

Ford ran out of the control room and stopped short just as Stan locked eyes with him again. 

“Stanley!” he called, another desperate idea beginning to form in his panic addled mind as he scanned the room for spare rope and found none. The spare rope from the first portal test must’ve gotten caught in the portals expanding gravitational pull. His brother was barely a shadow in the light now, but Ford knew Stanley had heard him. “If you toss me the journal, I can—“

“The journal?” Stan gasped out, frenzied. “Is that still all you care about!?”

“No, no, if I just had the instructions, I could fix—“ this, fix everything. 

The screeching of metal and thundering of the portal reached a deafening crescendo, and Ford could see Stan open his mouth to interrupt, to say something, assent or argument or—

But Ford didn’t get to find out what Stan would’ve said. A particularly violent jolt shook the metal frame of the portal, and Stan, with a wide-eyed final look that Ford didn’t know how to decipher, slipped.

His brother disappeared into the light just as the portal collapsed in on itself with enough concussive force to send Ford crashing to the ground. He slammed onto his back hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

Silence fell over the room. It was dark.

Ford stared at the ceiling above him, then dragged his eyes, slowly, painfully, to the portal. 

The deactivated, half missing and half obliterated portal.

For a long, long time, Ford sat in the dark under the full weight of every bruise and scratch and burn he’d sustained, and it was like he was underwater, head swimming with nausea and pain and bewilderment. He was numb. 

A faint plip-plop sound echoed suddenly through the deathly silent basement, and Ford squinted at the sound through his crooked glasses, trying to identify the source. 

A dark substance stained the edge of the portal, right where Stan had been holding on. Ford watched blankly as the liquid slowly rolled along the curve of the portal entrance, before reached a jagged gap in the perfect circle and slipping through. It slid down the jagged and crumpled panels, weaving until it gathered at the tip of a particularly jutting sheet of metal. 

Another drip.

Another.

Ford shifted closer, simply trying to breathe. He pointedly didn’t think about how the other side of the portal had driven Fiddleford to seemingly the brink of madness in moments, he didn’t think about the glimpse into the Nightmare Realm Bill had given him when he first revealed his true hand, and he certainly didn’t think about the final look Stanley had given him, grief and rage and betrayal all rolled into one.

He finally got close enough to see the liquid for what it was. It wasn’t oil, like he’d figured, like he’d hoped and prayed with every inhale and exhale to the gods he didn’t believe in. It was too thick, congealing with familiar splatters on the floor. It was a deep crimson.

Stan must have cut his hand on the metal with how hard he’d been holding it, Ford realized, and the thoughts were the first crack in the dam Ford had buried himself beneath. This was Stan’s blood.

Stan was in the Nightmare Realm, bleeding from one hand and burned on the other shoulder and begging for Ford to do something, asking Ford what was happening because he didn’t know, because Ford didn’t tell him, and—  

It was all Fords fault.

All of it.

Oh Moses.

The dam creaked with warning, a death rattle and a laugh rolled into one, before Ford was swept into the undertow.

Ford had killed his own brother.

All alone in the dark basement with the machine he’d turned into his brother’s grave, Ford buried his burnt, bloody hands in his hair and bowed his head until it hit his knees. All alone, Stanford Pines cried for the first time in years.

Alternate Titles: The Worst Conversation Ever

Or: Ford started disassembling the portal early and everything went to shit accordingly.

Tags! @aroace-get-out-of-my-face @pleasantartisanhottea @empressofsamoyeds @littlelilliana15 @pinefamilycatsau @thejaxindianrizzler (I saw your comment in the og post and it made me laugh cause I was in the middle of working on this when I noticed it) (I hope you don’t mind the tag :))

if I missed anyone I’m sorry about that! The tag is always a fair option to follow too (#martian Stan au)

[deathnguts]

Everything about Regulus screamed that he was already dead. His very being sang of apparition, grief was painted white in his skin. One looked at him and could feel in the cold emanating from him that he was already a ghost.

Everything about Barty screamed: haunt me, haunt me, haunt me…

[boonalina]

Excerpt from Chapter 16 of my LMK Successor AU

(The light the Moon can't reflect)

This AU has shadowpeach and spicynoodles (don't like? Don't read.) Wukong is sort of a yandere in this. Sound intriguing? Then click this Link to go to the first chapter and give it a read!

Macaque raised Mei, Wukong raised Mk, and Nezha raised Redson in this AU.