#blindside fic

[muffinlance]

Wan Shi Tong, like the former Admiral Zhao, looked entirely ready to throw down with a teenager.

- Line I almost certainly won't use, so HERE IT IS

[sarcasticassian]

first meeting bucktommy au

when Maddie and Chimney moved they actually ended up quite close to Tommy and it's Jee's first year trick or treating and Maddie had to cover a shift last minute and Chim caught a bug and can't trust himself to leave the 5m radius around his bathroom so obviously Uncle Buck jumps in to take Jee instead and promises to take so many videos the two of them will feel like they were right there with them

so they're going door to door and they get to Tommy's house and Jee seems to recognise the place (Chim and Tommy have had a few hang outs since realising they were now so close to each other and reconnected a bit) because she speeds up to get to the door and when this really handsome man opens it she bypasses the candy bowl in his hand to throw her small arms around his legs

Buck rushes up and apologises whilst Jee is just giggling as she gazes up at Tommy (he gave her a full sized candy bar the first time they met and she's liked him ever since) and quick introductions are made and before he knows it Buck has been stood in Tommy's doorway for 15 minutes just talking to him and somehow conning his way into a tour of Harbour

when they get back Chim is still curled over the toilet but he perks up slightly when Buck brings up Tommy ("that Tommy is so cool, I've been meaning to pass his number along to Eddie" "Eddie?! why Eddie?" "I just thought they had a lot in common" and Buck doesn't get why his stomach sinks) and he mentions that Tommy talked about a basketball thing and that he'd invite Eddie along so Buck finagles an invite too and we know the story from here (rip to Eddie's ankle)

[whimsylueur]

I’ve never drawn so mutherfuckin quick

[delineate-creates]

I may have missed Father’s Day by a mile, but it’s never too late to appreciate @metalomagnetic’s Voldemort and his questionable parenting skills!

[romance-rambles]

godheim ayn | in which he sticks to the letter, not the spirit

Years after New Godheim is established, your daughter attempts to help you solve a mystery you hadn't thought too hard about before her. Ayn gets ambushed, Roxana gets chocolate, and you get no answers.

0.8k, domestic fluff, children of characters, post-ayn route, reader is mc, series: an eventful first meeting

AYN HAS JUST WALKED IN the front door when he's met with an ambush. Instinctively, he reaches out his free hand, steadying the small bundle of joy holding his legs hostage.

She looks up at him, and he sees eyes the color of his own shining determinedly back at him. As his hand lowers from the back of her head to her shoulder, her small hands tighten their grip on his legs, leaving a pattern of creases to crawl down the length of his pants.

"I'm home," he says, crouching down to her level. It takes all his willpower to not smile or look when he hears you laugh softly from somewhere in the back. "Isn't there something you should say to me?"

Letting go of him, Roxanna blinks owlishly. Then, as she cups her chin thoughtfully, some realization dawns on her—though Ayn doubts it's the correct one.

"Papa," she says urgently. "Did you get my chocolate?"

He snorts, offering her his latest purchases to peruse through. "Why don't you take a look?"

Easily swayed by the promise of more sweets, she buries her head into the basket and begins sorting through. Ayn watches over her fondly, until a slight movement from behind one of the sofas catches his eye. Soon, you poke your head out properly, a wry grin on your face—as if to commiserate over her blatant disregard for everything when chocolate is involved.

He raises an eyebrow at you. You hang your head in response, a fake tearful expression on your face. Ever the dutiful husband, Ayn sighs.

"Are you sure there's nothing else you want to ask me?"

There's chocolate on her hands now. A smear on her lips, and another on her cheek. She glances over to where you're hiding, then at him, her lips forming an 'O'. Taking off his glove, he gently wipes away the mess and gets awarded for his helpfulness by the sight of her stomping her feet angrily.

"That was my chocolate!" Roxanna pouts, crossing her arms. "I'm taking yours!"

Nothing good comes of spoiling a kid rotten. But a little bit, he thinks, is deserved. Scooping both his daughter and his recent goodies up, he presses a kiss to her forehead. She huffs, resting her head against his chest when she hears him chuckle.

"That's okay. I'll just take them from Mama," he says, keenly aware of his wife's furious glare as he walks past the living room—into the kitchen, where he sets her down on the countertop. "Are you sure there's nothing else?"

"Hmm?" Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, at first. Then, bobbing her head confidently, she asks, "Papa, how'd you meet Mama?"

By now, you've migrated to a different hiding spot. The still tearful look on your face tells him that this isn't the question you coached her on. Ayn bites back a smirk.

"So, that's what you wanted to ask?" he asks, his smile widening when he spies you shaking your head—hoping that your silent gesturing for her to cease her attempts get across. "I thought I already told you that story."

"No, you told me how you got married!" she says. "How'd you meet?"

"We were at a ball," Ayn recounts, closing his eyes. His smile fades a bit at the memories directly following that encounter, only for it to flare back to life when he remembers the way you panicked over maple syrup. "Your mother…she was engaged to someone else back then. So we were celebrating for her."

Roxanna frowns. "What happened to him then?"

Opening his eyes, he raises an eyebrow at her. "I thought you wanted to know about us?"

"Continue…" she grumbles.

"There was only one slice left of my favorite cake," he continues, recalling the smile on your painted lips as you offered it to him. "Your mom gave it to me when she realized I wanted it."

Years have passed since that day, and they have taken bits of his memory with them. Most of the nobles who attended alongside him are a sea of faceless men and women, depicted in indistinct shapes and clashing colors. Even Lars has become a distant memory—but you alone remain preserved under the bright lights, as beautiful then as you are now.

"Really? That's it?" As though she'd been hoping for something more romantic, she scrunches up her nose. "I'd never do that."

He smiles softly, well aware his daughter won't understand his hidden meaning. "And I hope you never have to."

"Okay," Roxanna says, tilting her head. She's grabbed another chocolate, and this time, her mouth is full when she asks her next question. "Oh! Then, when did you know you liked her?"

"You shouldn't eat with your mouth full," he chides.

His softened gaze naturally wanders over to you—at the same time that you happen to be celebrating your good fortune. It seems this is the question you wanted her to ask. Ayn disguises his laugh as a cough, and a lovely shade of red blooms across your cheeks.

As he ruffles his daughter's dark hair—to which she protests loudly, and is mollified only when he fixes the muted red of her bangs back into place—he flashes a mischievous grin at his wife.

"Hmm, well, I wonder…maybe I'll remember if I talk to your mother."

[burinazar]

happy mother’s day

[bitterseaproduction]

Some days you want to work hard on your little fanfic epics, spending hours detangling the lore and timeline and plans for stories crying in the night for an update, and some days you're sick off your rocker and just hacking a lung out while haze-blinking into the horizon as you halt reading someone else's fic summary mid-first sentence to hard left turn into a very blurry but detailed daydream about the dwarves thinking Bilbo died in the Battle of the Five Armies while Bilbo--unaware of a king and his company upending their own mountain in a fit of grief as he heals among the Men or Elves--ends up in an awkward Race to Mordor with a Sauron he is barely aware of alongside his own ironic Nine, made up of himself, Gandalf, Bard, Legolas, Tauriel, and a trio of dwarves (Dís, Gimli, Gimli's mom) plus an unexpected favorite cousin (Falco Chubb-Baggins) who all broke off from the first convoy of Blue Mountain immigrants to Erebor to go along and protect Bilbo.

Place bets now on how Thorin & Company hear of their burglar's survival and latest insanity (highest bids placed on the remaining Blue Mountain travelers passing along word vs a smarmy message from Thranduil), how quickly they shake off their shrouds of mourning and royal pseudo-widowhood, and where exactly on the path between Erebor and Mount Doom they manage to catch up to and dog pile an unwitting Hobbit.

[fancyhandsbakery]

I think a core memory of mine was when I was 13 and reading a Marvel fic. The tags and the description had me thinking, 'Tony looks at Steve's sketch book and realizes Steve is gay.' Great premise, right. Wrong. That is not what happened because the drawing was of a little girl, and Steve was a pedophile.

[silverskye13]

“I think I’d rather die than see you hurt”

this feels like foreshadowing somehow lol

Foreshadowing? Never met her. She seems nice though :)

Nah, these ficlets are,,,,, we're gonna say "canon adjacent". What-ifs and character studies influenced by the main plot. I'm trying really hard not to make them intersect with the current timeline too much.

[allastoredeer]

Thanks for the fic recs and also for a warning about in which there's top Alastor from a person who can't stand top Alastor at all in any way no matter the ship

Of course <3 I prefer bottom!Al in my ships too. Depending on the ship (and how its written) I can read top!Al, but its rare, so I totally get that squick.

[c-kiddo]

tgirl caduceus so awesome to me bc everytime i see a tgirl in a summer dress or something im literally filled with joy and appreciation for life idk something about creation and someone choosing to enjoy and embrace femininity and wearing a nice dress . and also . something about a pretty girl . thats that. and now imagine its character i like also . well now how about that

[ereborne]

Song of the Day: August 1

“Take Me Out" by Franz Ferdinand

[liloinkoink]

my day one piece for treebark week is done. needs some heavy edits but it’ll def be up tomorrow

i’m very very excited for it, but also, oh man is tbw gonna get a lot of shit on ao3 from me, christ

[ifyougoillfollow]

as we sink into the open sea

M/F, Gen | QPR MicNight | 1720 words | Selkie AU CW: Depiction of Suicide Attempt (non-graphic)

-

On the eve of his nineteenth birthday, Yamada Hizashi walks into the ocean and comes back with a wife.

Please understand, that wasn't his intention. Yamada Hizashi is not the kind of man to believe in tales of sirens and sea wives, and he is especially not the kind of man with dreams of snaring one for himself. He is, in point of fact, not a man of any dreams at all. Not anymore.

So he walks into the ocean, figuring that if he can't find the will to keep dreaming, then he can at least find some peace at last. He finds a wife, instead.

Or rather, she finds him.

She finds him as his body hits the sea floor, at the very moment the first wave of doubt rolls over him in one fell, unrelenting swoop, much too late for him to do anything about it. He's so overcome with it he doesn't think much of the figure that glides out of the ocean murk and sidles right up to him. Wide, shark-bright eyes peer at him, so close they fill up his entire swimming, pin-pricking vision, and all Hizashi can think about is how soon he's going to die, and how he’s not so sure he wants to die after all, and how little what he wants matters in this final moment, as in all the rest before it, and then the figure places one cold hand on his colder cheek and kisses him. She's all Hizashi can think of, then.

She's dark-haired and beautiful. And strong. And a good swimmer, too, but that's to be expected. She drags him back to shore, lips locked tight over his the whole way, and she doesn't let go until his lungs are clear of ocean brine.

Hizashi lies there, alive and silent on the cold, wet sand for a good while after. Long enough for the first hint of morning blue to blush over the horizon. The sea maiden lies with him, just as alive, just as silent, and infinitely more at ease. Cozied right up to his side, as if she belongs there, seemingly content to remain there for however long Hizashi has left on this Earth now that she's saved him. Try as he might, he can't figure out whether he's grateful or not. He does, however, remember his manners, on occasion, so when he finally finds his voice again, he uses it to thank her.

"You're welcome," the sea maiden replies. There's laughter in her voice. Hizashi doesn't know what there is to laugh about, though he finds himself wishing she'd actually done so, just so he could hear it. He used to love laughter. Impossibly, he still does.

Yamada Hizashi had a knack for making people laugh, once. It was all he knew how to do, really. He doesn't know much of anything now, least of all how to make the sea maiden in his arms laugh, so he says nothing.

The sea maiden in his arms says nothing either, at first, for just long enough Hizashi startles when she does speak: "Is that it?"

"Pardon?"

"Is that all you're going to say?"

"... Is there more I should be saying?"

"There must be." There it is again – the laugh in her voice. "You don't strike me as the quiet type in the least."

That's what it is – she's teasing him. It's much too familiar to do anything but rankle. "Listen, Miss –”

She snorts. "Nemuri."

"Listen –” his face burns as he realizes that's her given name, and he refuses to say it "– listen, I'm grateful to you for saving me and all, but you don't know anything about me."

She peels away from his side. "Liar."

"Pardon?"

"You're not grateful at all," she grunts through an impressive stretch, current-strong arms flung upward and out towards the heavens. She's wearing a sealskin cape and nothing else, and is so unembarrassed by it Hizashi can't muster up any on her behalf. She winks at him. "But you will be," she adds. Then: "Take off your clothes."

"Pardon?"

This time she does laugh – seagull-like – loud and sharp and to the point. "Well, I don't know much about land folk, but it's my understanding you don't handle being wet all that well."

Hizashi wraps his arms around himself, scowling. "I'll be fine."

"Suit yourself."

The sea maiden stands – or at least tries to. She heaves herself upward in a motion that would probably be fluid underwater, then loses her balance, toppling backwards onto the sand, rump first. The sight of her glaring down at her legs is almost enough to pull a laugh out of Hizashi.

"Stupid things," she grumbles, kicking up sand.

Hizashi does laugh, then, which is a mistake. The sea maiden stands, suddenly sure-footed in her indignation, and uses her newfound mastery over her lower appendages to kick sand in his direction.

Hizashi cannot stop laughing. He laughs until his new companion loses interest in burying him under sand. He laughs until the sun finally frees itself from under the weight of the horizon. He laughs until he almost forgets he just tried to kill himself.

When he's all laughed out, the sea maiden is still there. Sitting across from him, hands and feet planted firmly in the sand, peering at him with a smile so dry it's a wonder she doesn't hail from land herself.

Without a word, she stands again, solid and steady, all remaining traces of sea legs gone, and hauls Hizashi to his own significantly less steady feet. While he's still reeling from... all of it – the strength of her hands around his, the seafoam-salt smell of her filling his impossibly pumping lungs, the laughter still clanging through every hollow part of him – the sea maiden takes her sealskin cape and drapes it over Hizashi's shoulders.

It's soft and musky and so warm it feels more alive than he does, but, most of all, it's heavy.

Hizashi tries to shrug it off. "Thanks," he says stiffly, "but I said I'm fine."

"I heard you," says the sea maiden, rearranging the cape around him.

"I don't need it."

"I know."

She fastens the cape closed around his neck, patting his chest firmly. It's so long it covers Hizashi all the way down to his shins. On her, it must have just brushed over the sand at her feet. The uncanny warmth of it doesn't seep even as the seafront breeze hits it, makes it flap and flutter around him in a heavy, even bump-bump, bump-bump beat. Nothing could ever hope to reach him past that beat and that warmth.

"I don't want it, either," he lies, because he has to, because he's never known what to do in the face of so much want, because he's always wanted too many things, and he's wanted them too much.

"Neither do I," says the sea maiden, breezy as the morning. "Maybe we should leave it here, lying around. I'm sure no one else would find it, if we hid it well enough."

Hizashi blanches at the thought. He may not be the kind of man to believe in tales of sea wives, but he has heard enough of them to be wary of the kind of man who does. He fumbles for the clasp at the base of his throat. "Just take it back. Go home."

"Hm, I don't think so." She sidesteps his attempts to foist the cape back onto her, walking away backwards, hands clasped behind her head. "I think I'll stick around here for awhile. Explore the land realm. It seems exciting."

Hizashi chases after her, cape held out like a net. "It isn't."

She twirls away again. "Liar."

"It's too exciting, then. Dangerous."

"So is the ocean – didn't stop you from walking into it."

"That was –" Hizashi falters, loses his footing "– different," he finishes lamely, hands fisted in the sand-soiled cape caught under his knees.

The sea maiden stands over him. "You're right," she says, "that was different – I'm not going into this trying to die. I'd say that alone makes my odds of survival look pretty swell, don't you think?"

Hizashi stares up at her, looming tall against the dawn sky, so tall she dwarves the rising sun itself, and has no doubt she'd survive even the drying of all seven seas if it meant she got to live.

"You're naked," he says, because he's running out of arguments, and the will to keep making them.

"I wouldn't be if you gave me your clothes,” she shoots back, “I gave you mine, didn't I? It would only be fair."

The cape is velvet-smooth as Hizashi slides it out from under himself, warmer still from the heat of his body and the sun-washed sand, which slides off of it like ocean spray from mossy seaside cliffs. His sea maiden – Nemuri – takes it from him and helps him back to his feet. She folds it over her arm, as if merely holding on to it for the moment, and arches an expectant eyebrow at him.

Sighing, Hizashi shrugs off his coat. "Yes,” he relents, “I suppose it would only be fair."

On the dawn of his nineteenth birthday, Yamada Hizashi walks into town with nothing but a sealskin cape on his back and a wife.

Or so the townsfolk like to tell it, because the townsfolk love a good fairy tale romance almost as much as they love to pity him. In time, they will come to pity him even this moment and his sea-wild wife, as outrageous as she is beautiful, as the very ocean itself, and Yamada Hizashi will do what he has always done in the face of undue pity, which is to laugh in it and continue loving whoever and whatever he loves, in whichever way he sees fit.

But that will come later. For now, in the rosy light of a dawn he never planned to see, Hizashi walks into town beside Nemuri, the sea maiden who saved his life – the woman who will be called his wife and be so much more – and is content enough to have finally figured out he’s grateful, even if he has yet to figure out much else. The rest will follow, he’s sure, in good time and – even better – good company.

[tmmyhug]

this fic has a bunch of random brief ocs that are friends of bruce and one of them is an older indian guy and he called bruce "beta" which is hindi for son (/affectionate) and all of my neurotransmitters lit up like fireworks

[sunflowercider]

after months of quiet from my ao3 notifs, i suddenly got like a bunch of comments??? And one of them wants to write a continuation fic inspired by mine??? 🥺