#but trying to answer your ask about my old wips but those will took a little time

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Follow You Anywhere 12

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, controlling behavoiour, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You’re online existence threatens to leak into your real life.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Note: yuhhhhhh.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

Gulls flap across the cornflower sky. Thin wisps of cloud crest beneath the gemlike sun, shining at you with a blinding gleam. You shield your eyes with your hands as Sy steers along the crooked backroad around the cliffs the face the coast.

Aika pokes her head out between the seats as she sits in the back. She is your only comfort on the long journey to a beach you’ve never been before. 

You don’t ask where you’re going. You wouldn’t know the difference, you only know that most people head to West Cove. You jostle with the truck. The sun reaches its apex. It’s a bit late to just be getting to the beach then. 

Yet, he doesn’t stop. He keeps driving. Around the rocky crags and cliffside, on and on, through the scatter of trees, and past that. You can still see the water but the clock ticks on. 

You sit up, more rigid than ever. You haven’t been able to relax but you’re on edge as you realise how far you’ve gone. How long he’s been at the wheel. 

“Everything okay, sweetie?” He asks. 

“Y-yeah. Um... does Aika need to go?” 

“She’ll let us know, don’t ya worry,” he chuckles. “Pretty, ain’t it? The water?” 

You peer around him as the water now stands at his shoulder. 

“Shouldn’t we be going towards the coast?” You ask. 

“We’ll get there, sweetie,” he assures you. “Just a little further. Didn’t I mention I got a surprise?” 

“Erm, no. A surprise?” 

“Don’t wanna spoil it,” he smiles and runs his hand over his beard.  

You shrink down and go silent. You don’t want to push him. You can’t help but hear the echo of his booming voice and the crack of plaster around his head. No, you won’t do that again. 

You come in sight of a house. The siding is beaten wood, the blue paint chipping away, and there’s a crooked shed around one side. The pillars of the porch are dusted with dirt and the old windows boarded up. A tickle creeps up your spine as Sy steers toward it. 

“Surprise,” he blusters excitedly. 

“Surprise?” You squeak and stare at the house. 

“It’s a beach house,” he proclaims proudly. You don’t have the heart or the courage to extinguish his excitement. Does he not see how decrepit it is? 

“A beach house?” 

“Oh yeah,” he shuts off the engine. “Just us.” 

“Wow,” you breathe. 

He laughs so loud it makes you flinch. He slaps his hand down on your thigh and squeezes, “don’t be so nervous. We’re gonna get it all cleaned up. Won’t take much.” 

“Mhm,” you hum as you look down at his large hand. You gulp and he lets you go. 

He gets out and you look at Aika. Her wet nose touches your cheek. Sy whistles and she hops between the seats and follows him out the open door. You climb out on your side and peer up at the house in dread. 

“Sy, it’s... it’s gonna be dark in a few hours though.” 

“Well, we won’t be driving back now,” he scoffs. “We’re gon’ be here a while. Just you and me. Like a honeymoon or such.” 

Your heart sinks. This man took over your life barely two days ago and he’s talking like you’re married. Worse, you let him bring you out to who knows where. Why hadn’t you been paying attention? 

“I’ll just get it opened up and air it out,” he says as he marches up to the porch. 

You watch him. Stunned. You really can’t believe this. It can’t be real. You scratch your scalp as panic razes through your skin. Aika sits on the steps and you turn back to the truck. You don’t understand... 

You go around the bed of the truck. It’s covered. And locked. You can’t pull it open. 

You hear him stomping before he appears. You quickly move away from the truck and pretend that you’re admiring the wooden bench amid the patchy grass. He calls your name and you turn to him, swallowing your fear down deep. 

“Wanna come see? Got a flashlight.” 

He wiggles the yellow plastic and clicks the button. He hits it to make it turn on. You blow out a breath and nod. You go to him, choked of your voice. 

He waves you ahead of him. You enter as he shines the flashlight around you. There’s furniture draped in sheets and an old cross stitch hung over a chest of drawers. There’s a fire stove that could be a century old and a carpet with fraying edges. You don’t know if this place is forgotten or condemned. 

“Get the boards down, get the dust out, and it’s perfect. Isn’t it?” He purrs as he comes up and puts his arm across your shoulders. 

You wince and nod. He guides you along as he aims the light into the kitchen and the stove that looks right out of a mid-century advert, well maybe if it got a fresh coat of paint. He squeezes you closer and stops. 

“You alright, sweetie? You quiet?” 

“Yes,” you sniff, “y-yeah. Like you said. It’s a surprise.” 

“Now I know you wee probably looking forward to the beach today but we’ll get this place nice and cleaned up and have a good fire. I brought stuff for smores. Heh, another surprise. Then tomorrow, we’ll have the whole day in the sun.” He waves the flashlight around, “you know, it’s not ten minutes walk to the shore. I know a shortcut.” 

“That’s... great,” you eke out. How does he know this place? 

“I’ll get the windows open. How about you pull them sheets off the furniture?” He suggests. 

“Okay,” you agree softly. 

You turn and go back down the hall. Aika watches through the door. You’re trapped here with this mad man and his trained dog. There’s no way out, even if you did know where you are. 

All you can do is distract yourself for as long as you can. Take your time, stay busy. It’s once you have nothing to do that he’ll be able to do anything he wants. 

You work at uncovering all the furniture. Then you find a cloth to dust the surface. Sy tosses the boards from the windows in the yard and you take the straw broom form the corner to sweep the floor. The sky ripples as the sun sets and you work in the dimming haze. 

Sy lights an old lantern, struggling to catch the wick. He leaves it with you as he takes the flashlight. He mutters something and continues into the shadows the hallway. There’s a clatter and Aika taps through the open door with breeze. She stops as her snout points after her owner. 

Thump, thump, thump, thump... the noise whittles off and you look down as you hear noise beneath you. There’s a basement? You wait as Aika keeps vigil, unmoving. You scratch the floor with the bristles as you try to get up as much dirt as you can. 

There’s a crackle and some more creaking. Sy thunders back up the stairs and you look up as he searches the wall. He twists a switch and shuts off the flashlight. The tinted bulbs on the wall light up.  

“Found the generator,” he says. “Look at you. Looks good in here.” 

“Um, yeah,” you continue to brush the floorboards. 

“Should I make up the bed?” He asks coyly. 

You put your head down as you move with the broom, “well, I am getting tired.” 

“Tired...” he mutters. “Mm, sure, but we’re still gonna have a fire, huh? It’s a nice night.” 

You nod, “if that’s what you want.” 

He sighs, “hm, I’ll... I’ll go fix up the bed then.” 

You know he’s disappointed. You’re trying to play along but you’re terrified. As the crickets buzz louder and you hear the forest cracking and swaying, the desolation sets in. Your hopelessness cannot be staved off much longer. 

Mistake after mistake, you can’t help but blame yourself for this. He might be the villain, but you set yourself up. You started that Instagram, you didn’t pay enough attention to security, you spoke to him at the grocery store, and you let him take you home. You let him invade your life and when you finally tried to get him out, it was already too late. 

It is too late. 

You still the broom and squeeze it. You stare at the window. You're lost. Entirely. 

He comes back out and you flinch. You try to shake off your despair. It clings but you make yourself smile. You lean the broom against the wall. 

“Can I help?” You ask. 

“Help, er, sure.” He accepts, “I got some fresh stuff in the truck.” 

He ushers you ahead of him. You go outside and he’s close behind. The keys jangle as he comes up next to you and you walk with him to the bed of the truck. He unlocks it and you nearly collapse. He drags out a large plastic bin. What is all this? It’s like he’s moving... 

How long has he been planning this? 

You step back and blink. You’re woozy with horror. All this stuff, you don’t think he’s planning on leaving. 

“Ah, this one,” he drags out another container. “Got the sheets in there.” 

He lifts the big blue bin and you take another step back. You shake your head as you stagger around dumbly. He doesn’t notice as he hauls the container in his arms toward the porch. 

“Be a sweetie and get the door,” he says. 

“No,” you wisp and clear your throat. “No,” you say loud as you stumble back. “No, no!” 

You shake your head as he turns to you, his face contorted in confusion. You spin and nearly trip over your own feet. You burst into a sprint. You’re not thinking. It’s purely your body moving on fear alone. 

You pump your arms and lift your knees, heading for the spatter of trees. They aren’t thick enough to hide you completely but you might be able to weave around fast enough to lose him. And then... 

Then... 

You don’t know. All you know is that you have to keep going. You can hear him. His footsteps crush through the twigs as he hollers, “Aika.” 

He whistles as you puff shallowly through the pain in your chest. Go, go, go. It isn’t fair. It’s two against one. 

You get past the first few trees as you hear his next order but don’t understand it. It’s in that other language. You’re hit from behind, a toppling force that sends you onto your stomach. You land painfully in the dirt as Aika stands on your back and growls in your ear. 

“Aika, please. You’re a good girl,” you plead, “Aika, off! Aika--” 

“She don’t know English,” Sy snarls as stomps up behind you and kicks your foot.  

You whimper and drop your head down. Your stomach, knees, arms, hands, legs, even your cheeks are scraped from your fall to earth. And fall you did. Back to reality. 

“Please,” you snivel. “Please, Sy. Take me home. I’m scared.” 

He sighs and snaps his fingers. Aika quiets and hops off of you. She turns as she stands by your head and Sy approaches you from behind. He pulls you up and turns you to face him. 

“You are home, sweetie,” he grits through his teeth. 

You pout and shake your head, “no, Sy. Why? Why are you doing this to me?” 

“Doing what?” His forehead wrinkles and his eyes dull. “I’m takin’ care of ya. What do ya mean?” 

“But... we can’t stay out here.” 

“Why not?” 

You stare up into his eyes. They’re empty. Like before. Like when he went rabid. You squirm and grab at his thick fingers. 

“Because,” you exclaim. “I don’t know you.” 

He winces and blinks. His throat bobs as his head tilts back and forth. He squeezes your shoulders and huffs, “no, no, you know me.” 

“I don’t,” you whine. “I don’t know you.” 

“You do. You do.” He insists. “You spoke to me. You smiled at me. Every night.” 

Your lip quivers and your tears overflow, “Sy,” you sniffle, “Sy, you... you... you’re not a bad guy, you’re just confused. Please, I know you don’t want to hurt me so take me home.” 

He closes his eyes and sucks in through his nose. His chest rumbles and he his breath out slow. His lashes lift. His pupils swallow up his irises. You shiver at the pools of black. 

“Captain,” he snarls. “I am your Captain.” 

[halfmoth-halfman]

Leaving this blog.

With my mini-series finishing up soon, I've decided to leave this blog as well as my AO3 account once it’s finished. This is not a decision I've made lightly, but circumstances have left this a place where I no longer feel safe.

As of now, I won't be deactivating this blog and will be leaving my fics up for anyone who'd still like to read them. I can't say this decision won't change later, but right now I feel that I've put too much work into this blog to simple delete it.

Below the cut is an explanation of why I'm making this decision, and what has been happening on this blog since the end of last year. It's not required to read or anything to understand the gist of this post; it's simply for my own peace of mind knowing that I spoke up about it. There will be topics that are possibly triggering such as harassment, threats, and racism so please mind the warnings and tags.

The mini-series is queued to finish next week, but there will be no more fic polls or wip wednesdays. I'll still be on here to make sure the queue does its job, and maybe post some stuff from my old drafts as a last bit of fun.

I'll have dms tentatively open for the next two-ish weeks for those who'd like to follow my new account, however I will not be answering anything from empty blogs. After that, asks and dms will be turned off, and I won't be coming back to this blog very often, if at all.

I cannot say thank you enough to the wonderful readers I've had and the amazing people I've met. I don't think I would've ever continued writing without your support and friendship. There's nothing I can do to show my appreciation for all of you.

Maybe we'll see each other again. If not, I hope your inspiration is always flowing, and 2024 treats you kindly.

Mothie 💜

Again, TW: rape/death threats, violent racism, repeated harassment, and mental health.

Back in November, I started getting rude, mean-spirited anons. It wasn't anything I was too bothered with because it didn't happen often and, honestly, my inbox gets flooded for a week or so anytime I post about certain topics. I blocked, deleted, reported and moved on thinking whoever it was would get bored and leave.

However, what started as a few rude anons calling me a bitch or stupid turned into a lot of anons being vile and racist which only worsened over the next few months.

I spoke about it in this post (link) near the end of November. In that post, I mentioned that those were the nicer asks and that was not an exaggeration. I have gotten my fair share of shitty anons as seen here (link) when I had to take a break from my blog because of said anons, but I have never gotten the amount of vitriol that I saw in these asks.

When I turned anon off, I started getting even worse messages from empty blogs that would either be blocked or deactivate within a week. When I turned my askbox off, I started getting hateful DMs. When I turned DMs off, it jumped from Tumblr to my other social medias which I had to private, completely avoid, or outright delete.

I got messages attacking my writing, calling me slurs, threatening to find me and rape or kill me, sending me explicit porn and rape videos while insulting my sexuality, and going into gross detail about how much people I interacted with hated me or how I would never be as good as them. I tried to power through it, pretending everything was fine while I pulled away from this blog, from writing, from friends that I loved and talked to every day. Everything about this blog, the fandoms I enjoyed, the people I talked to, made me so anxious because of these constant messages.

I took several breaks while dealing with this in therapy, repeatedly trying to come back and get comfortable on this blog, but within a few days of coming back the messages would start up again, either here or on any of my social medias I tried to unprivate, and I couldn't deal with it.

Only in the last week or two has it started to slow down and stop on a few of my other socials, which is the only reason I even feel comfortable making this post. However, in regards to this blog and my feelings toward it, the damage is done.

I don't think I can ever truly convey how isolating this has been. So many of these messages were about how I've spoken about my struggles as a black woman in fandom, how much of a burden it puts on the people who interact with me, how inferior I am to them and that I am everything that's wrong with fandom.

I felt scared and anxious to talk to anyone about this, especially people mentioned in those messages, out of fear that this harassment would jump to them. There are friendships that I stepped away from that I will never get back because of that. There are friends that I've felt like I was betraying by never telling them about what was happening because I felt too ashamed about letting this get to me.

I constantly worried that making a post like this would feel like, "Oh, Mothie's whining and trauma-dumping into the void about fandom racism again", that those messages would be right and it would force people to feel like they had to support me. Or worse, that people would agree and it would only make things worse. I've wrestled with so much guilt trying to decide to make this post and figure out what to do to make me trust myself again.

Ultimately, I don't think I was wrong for talking about my issues in fandom, and I don't think anything I've said has warranted this kind of harassment. I don’t know the who’s or why’s behind of this, but I've come to terms with the fact that I'll never really know. Truthfully, I'm not sure it even matters at this point. In the end, I think moving on from this blog entirely would be the best thing for me right now.

But, man, does it fucking suck.

This was the blog where I felt comfortable enough to start writing again, to start posting my fics. It's the blog where I met so many friends, got the courage to join new communities, found new hobbies, new music, new things to enjoy in life. It feels silly to say about a blog, but this was a place where I felt like I was able to carve out a space for myself. I put so much work into making it my own, and now the only thing I feel about it is anxious.

Hate messages and threats and racism have always been a part of fandom, and the internet as a whole. I’ve known since I started participating in fandom spaces that it was going to and continue to happen. I've known that I had to have a tough skin, especially if I ever spoke up about problems I faced because no one was going to have my back if I didn't have my own. I thought I had learned how to deal with it, and how to make a safe space for myself. But this goes beyond that. I did not deserve this. No one deserves this.

In some ways, it feels like admitting defeat, like I'm weak or hypocritical for not being as strong as I pretended I was and leaving. In other ways, it feels freeing to start over, and I'm choosing to view look at this optimistically even if it bittersweet. I don't want to let this scare me away from writing or from speaking about things that are important to me. All I can do now is say I'm so incredibly sorry to those I've hurt by stepping away or keeping this secret, and make sure I'm able to at least leave this blog on as happy a note as I can have.

[stabbyfoxandrew]

Hellooo

As per usual, I'd like to ask for some arsonist Neil/firefighter Andrew, I'm still stuck on Neil's whole ass gay panic to Andrew calling him cute. Also, the firemen light structure thingy was very funny because the pic totally looks like it could be Neil's

Anyways, thank you and have a good week : )

WIP Wednesday (9/25) | Arsonist Neil / Firefighter Andrew AU (Part 238)

The call ends and Andrew rolls onto his side to get snuggly-warm in his nest of blankets and pillows. His best adult purchase, he thinks, is this bedding. He smushes his face into one of his pillows and lies there in the dark on the verge of slumber. But, just as he's about to fall asleep, his brain suddenly comes to life and he replays the call in his mind. Did he call 10 cute? Andrew thinks for a moment. Yes. He fucking did. What the hell's the matter with him? Andrew isn't the type to call anyone cute.

He lets out a sigh. Evidently, half-asleep Andrew is the type.

10 didn't call him on it. He must not have noticed. Good, good. Andrew wriggles a bit deeper into his cocoon and goes to sleep.

-

Andrew spends much of the next afternoon pondering a possible gift he could get for 10. He knows it's not needed, but he'll be damned if 10 gives him two presents before Andrew's gotten him one. (The gift basket full of chocolate was the first, of course. Andrew misses those stupid little cookies.)

But it's hard to pick out a present for someone he barely knows. Actually, he knows 10 quite well. He knows about his terrible past and his night terrors and love of fire. He'd guess he knows 10 better than anyone. However, the arsonist hasn't got any (non-arson) hobbies or interests.

Andrew likes to think himself a good gift-giver. Sure, they're usually practical ones. But they're good. The problem is, as far as he knows, 10 doesn't need anything.

See, last year Andrew bought Renee a new backpack. Hers was falling apart, so Andrew scoured the internet and found a duplicate. She loved it.

And for the station's Secret Santa, he drew Wymack's name. So he bought him a nice cushion for his chair. (The old man was constantly complaining of back and hip pain. Andrew fixed it.)

Last Christmas, he and Aaron hadn't exactly been close enough for gifts. Andrew had considered buying him a new remote for his Xbox, because he'd been complaining about it during their calls with Nicky. But he didn't want to shell out that much for a man who hated his guts. So he didn't.

The only other gift he bought last year was a pair of noise-canceling headphones for Kevin, who'd been struggling with the nosiness of planes and team buses. Until Andrew fixed it. (He likes fixing things.) Oh. Speaking of Kevin, Andrew really should thank him for the sweater. He won't. But he should. The asshole. How dare he know Andrew looks good in green before Andrew did. Bastard.

In lieu of a thank you, Andrew sends Kevin the photo he took of last night's outfit. Less than a minute later, his phone nearly vibrates off the table. Renee looks up at him, concerned.

"Everything okay?"

"It's just Kevin."

"Ah." Renee nods and looks back down at her crossword book. From the look of it, she's only got a few left. Maybe he should get a new one and leave it laying around the station. Andrew makes a mental note to do just that and picks up his phone.

Kevin Damn. See, I told you. I fucking told you that would look good on you. Is this the first time you've worn it? I think you could try it with jeans too. And a smile. For fuck's sake, Andrew. You look like the most bored person alive. But good. Really good. I love being right. It's a hobby of mine. Are you not going to answer? Asshole. Andrew Excuse me for taking thirty seconds to reply. Some of us have actual jobs, Day. Kevin Exy is my job. Andrew Exy is your disease. Kevin Which I get paid for. Do you like the sweater? Does this mean I get to buy you clothes now? Andrew Do whatever you want. If you buy me something, I might wear it in three years. Kevin You suck. But you really do look good in that, Andrew. It suits you well. Andrew Stop flirting with me. Kevin I'm not flirting with you, idiot. By the way, Jeremy also says you look nice. Jean thinks you should get those pants hemmed. Andrew Are you going to get opinions from all your teammates? Kevin No, just the ones I live with. Where are you going? Have a date? Andrew It was last night. Went over to Aaron's to 'meet' his girlfriend. Kevin Oh. Do I need to post bail or...?

[insert-witty-user-name-here]

WIP Wednesday

Hello, it’s me- the angst fairy- back again with something needlessly angsty. I was reminded recently about a scene I’d deleted from an old fic of mine. No regrets about deleting, it was the right decision, but I was sad to cut it. B-15 deserves more character analysis. So sharing it now.

Tagging just a few folks who I don’t think will mind the angst but anyone else who sees this and wants to participate in sharing their art or writing- please do! 💚 (And please tag me in your posts so I don’t miss it) @loki-is-my-kink-awakening @lgwilt @dewdropreader

Deleted scene from a fic where Mobius is trying to ignore his trauma but the memories of those he’s pruned keep on coming. B-15 helps him through it. (I noticed on B-15’s Funko Pop that she tracked her kills on her helmet and decided, as I do, there’s an angsty story there.)

Verity stopped and opened a small door to their left, pulling Mobius inside an empty room.

“I thought you said we were running late to another meeting?”

“There’s no meeting,” she said. “Just looked like you needed a break from the briefing. Take a minute.”

Mobius nodded and let his head fall against the door behind him, relishing the feeling of cool metal against his skin. It was quiet. There were no glaring lights, no beeping machines, no questions he didn’t know the answer to. Mobius took a few steady breaths until the headache pounding in his head subsided. He opened his eyes to find Verity watching him closely.

“Thanks,” Mobius said, pushing himself from the door and straightening his tie. “I feel better. Don’t tell Loki he was right. He warned me that a meeting on numerical code methodology for new timelines would put me to sleep.”

He turned to share a laugh with Verity but her face didn’t show any amusement. Instead, she looked concerned.

“I don’t think this was as simple as you falling asleep in a meeting,” she said carefully.

Mobius stilled. He had hoped his episodes weren’t noticeable but he should have known he wouldn’t be able to keep them from Verity. She was smart. It’s why he named her Deputy Director.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asked after a few moments of silence.

Flashes of a park on a sunny day, a couple laughing, a timestick in his hand, a scream of terror, and a case file— variants eliminated— sped through Mobius’ mind before they were gone.

“No… I don’t remember what I was thinking about,” Mobius answered honestly. It was probably for the best he didn’t remember.

Verity frowned. “You shouldn’t repress your memories.”

Mobius slumped back against the door with a groan. She was right. While they still didn’t quite understand what the TVA had done to them, they were beginning to understand how they could heal their broken minds. Mobius knew the steps a TVA worker should take when they felt their memories resurface —he’d help write the protocol— but it was time consuming. For an organization that existed outside time, Mobius sure felt they were constantly running out of it. He didn’t have time to practice the techniques he’d taught others.

“There are too many cases that need my attention right now,” Mobius said.

“You need to offload some of those. I keep telling you-”

“I know, I know. I will. I just need to get through this Mandarin case first.”

“And then?” Verity pressed.

“And then I’ll take a few days off and sort through some of this… stuff.

Verity gave a disbelieving huff.

“I will.”

A heavy silence fell between the two agents and Mobius looked at the room around them. They were in one of the storage rooms that used to hold confiscated variants’ possessions. Without the stolen artifacts filling the shelves, the room seemed hollow. Purposeless. Mobius didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it in the reallocation.

“You’re not the only one who’s struggling,” Verity whispered. Her voice was soft, so soft that even in the silence of the abandoned room Mobius hardly heard her. At first, he wasn’t sure she intended to speak the words out loud.

“That’s how I knew you were having an episode,” she continued, twiddling with the cufflinks on her new suit in an uncharacteristic show of nerves. “I get these… headaches sometimes. Everything blurs together and I can’t remember where or when I am. It’s like I’m lost in my memories or, no, it’s like I’m trapped… trapped by him again… like we never escaped.”

Verity clenched her eyes shut with a sharp inhale of breath as if she were trapped inside a memory right now and Mobius reached out, taking her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. He knew how terrifying it was to be stuck in your memories, to feel like you were back under his control. They may have defeated He Who Remains but he was still here. He always would be. There was no amount of running they could do to escape him entirely. It made Mobius feel weak. He hated thinking Verity felt the same.

“Did you know I used to track kills on my helmet?” Verity asked.

Mobius nodded. He remembered. His memories might be splintered but he remembered enough. He remembered what they were a part of.

“I hated that thing,” she scowled. “I hated that number printed on the side. The paint was fresh when I started but sometimes I swore I could see the etchings of another number. The number of whoever I replaced when they were deemed ineffective. I wondered how long it would be before they replaced me.

“I thought if I marked my helmet as my own, if I made it look different, I would feel better. They wouldn’t paint over it so easy. I thought if I pruned more than anyone else, I could prove to the Timekeepers that I was better than everyone else in my unit. That I would feel useful, good, like what I was doing mattered but-” Verity’s voice cracked and Mobius squeezed her hand tighter. “I only ever felt more angry. So, I pruned more hoping that feeling would go away. It never did. It just kept getting worse and worse and worse until…” Verity trailed off.

“Until Sylvie,” Mobius finished.

“Until Sylvie,” Verity agreed, wiping her eyes and pulling back with a soft smile on her face. “Sylvie showed me everything I lost and suddenly it all made sense. I knew why I hated that number. I knew why I woke up furious at the world, looking to punish anyone who got in my way. It’s because that number wasn’t my name. Who they made me wasn’t me.

“They took everything from us and while we can’t travel back in time and change what was done, we can change our future. We have the opportunity to fight for something we believe in now. Sylvie and Loki gave us that.”

Warmth spread through Mobius as the mention of Loki’s name. He looked down at the ring on his left hand and smiled, running his finger along the band again. He would never understand how he’d gotten so lucky; he would do everything in his power to be the man Loki believed him to be.

“You gave us this opportunity too,” Verity added. “When we burnt down our old TVA, you built a new one and you didn’t dictate a new purpose but rather showed us what a new purpose could be. We chose to follow you. We choose this life. And…” Mobius felt Verity give his hands a gentle squeeze. “You don’t need to carry it alone. We want to help you.”

Mobius carefully untangled his hands from Verity’s and took a step backwards. “I know.”

“Good,” Verity nodded with an air of finality. “At least let Loki help you. I don’t know what’s going on between you two but he’s started helping me with my cases.”

Mobius snorted. He could only imagine how that was going.

“It’s not funny, Mobius. He’s driving me nuts. You need to let him return to smothering you otherwise I might just send him to the Void without his TemPad.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Mobius chuckled at Verity’s hollow threat. “I’ll talk to him. Now, come on. I think we both deserve a little treat after all this. Let’s see what Processing confiscated today.”

Verity hesitated. “Mobius, I don’t care how many different variations you force me to try, I’m not going to like any timeline’s Josta.”

“What?? After all that talk about hope and change. One day I am going to find you a Josta you like. But no, I actually wasn’t talking about Josta this time. I heard Processing just got back with a case full of strawberry margarita mix. If that interests you.”

Verity’s face lit up in a brilliant smile. “Now, you’re speaking my language. Lead the way, Director. Josta aside, I’ll follow you anywhere.”

I’ll follow you anywhere.

Mobius’ steps faltered as he swallowed over the lump of fear in his throat at the words. Verity and the entire TVA would follow him. They were depending on him to show them the way, to fix things and Mobius couldn’t let them down. He wouldn’t.

Okay, I’ll write something fluffy and cute for next time. I promise I do know how to write sweet things 😅

[emtb319]

Pumpkin Patch

The lovely @lenle-g made some art for my story.

Scott paced back and forth behind his father’s desk.  Colonel Casey had called him on his personal cell and left a simple message.  “Please call me, it’s important.”  At the time, he was on a callout.  Now, hours later, he had to call her back.  She never called him on his personal cell.  

While he waited for her to pick up, he mumbled to himself,  ‘why didn’t she just call John?  She knew I was on a call out…she never calls my cell.”  She heard the last bit of what he said as the call connected and took one look at his face.  She got straight to the point.

“Scott your father is home and doing well,” she started.  “You deserve time off, you all do.  Since you brought him home, you’ve barely taken half a day for yourself.  And before you try to rebuke me, I checked.”  Scott scoffed.  “Ideally, I’d like you all to take a month.  Don’t give me that look.”

“What look?”

“I said ideally.”  He would not change the subject.  “Listen Scott, burnout is a very real thing, and you’re on the edge.”

“A month is too long.”

“Virgil’s and Cass’s have been a great help for local authorities…new skills, practicing old skills, teaching outside of the box stuff that’s not in the books…Did you know that you can open an oxygen bottle with a seat belt?”

“It depends on the kind of seat belt, but yes actually.  I’m the one that showed Virgil that trick after he lost his 5th oxygen key, but Colonel…”

“Take the weekend,” she interrupted.  “I hear it’s pumpkin festival time in New England.  Make sure you bring some of those apple cider donuts back for me.”  There was no room for debate here.  Either he took her up on the offer, or she pulled her pink card.

“Colonel…”

“No Scott.  Downtime for all of you.  You deserve it and can use the rest.”  Scott’s shoulders slumped.  She was right, and he hated it.

“You’re as bad as Penny.”  He said, defeated.  Colonel Casey smiled.

“Worse, where do you think she learned?”  She rubbed her chin.  “Let’s make a deal.  Take Thunderbird 2 with you.  We will call you only…and I mean only…if there’s no other option.”  Scott ran his fingers through his hair, sighed, and conceded defeat.

“Do you have a favorite farm out there?”  She smiled wider.  She knew that he’d come around.

“Yes actually, and I know right where you can park Virgil’s bird.  I’ll send you the details.”

–

2 days later, Thunderbird 2 touched down on a small farm in New York state.  As soon as they touched down, Gordon and Alan took off for the biggest pumpkins in the patch.  Jeff called out to them from his hover chair.  He hated that he needed it, but it was for the best. 

“Remember boys, you have to be able to carry them out.  No strapping them to my chair.”  It was a silly rule that Lucy made when Alan was a baby.  Gordon was barely able to toddle through the patch, but he wanted big pumpkins like his big brothers.  Unfortunately, Lucy didn’t have enough arms for that, thus the rule.  Jeff smiled at the memory.

“Ok Dad.  I'll just borrow Virgil’s exosuit.  I’m sure he won’t mind,” Gordon hollered back.

“Hey, not fair,” Alan whined.

“Just try it, fish,” Virgil replied, barely looking up from his easel.  “And don’t even think about grabbing yours.  It’s back home with 4.”

“Don’t get any ideas Alan.  Mine’s up on 5,” John added in.  Both boys pouted and returned to their hut.  Scott smiled.  This was nice.

“Scott and I are going to the shop.  Is there anything either of you want?”  John asked.

“You have Val’s donuts on your list, right?”  Jeff asked.

“We won’t forget them,” Scott answered.  “I don’t think that I would hear the end of it if I did.  I’ll make sure to grab some extra.”

“Yes son, they freeze pretty well.  Grab some ice cream to take home.”

“Will do.”  They took off for the general store with their list.

It was a really nice day for this.  No worries, not too hot or cold, a few clouds in the sky, and almost the entire farm to themselves.  Jeff suspected that Colonel Casey and Penelope had something to do with that.  He sat back in his chair and enjoyed the mountain air.  It was a perfect day to just relax and play.  His boys deserved this.  It was time to make up for 8 lost years.

“Looks great son,” he said to Virgil.

“Thanks Dad.  It’s just a rough sketch for now, but I couldn’t resist.  It’s really nice out here today.”  Jeff smiled and nodded his head in agreement.  He looked out at his boys.

Gordon and Alan found their pumpkin.  It was as big as both of them and would take all of their strength to carry it.  Jeff chucked to himself.  Lucy’s rule didn’t say that they couldn’t help each other.  

“Yes it is.”  Jeff and Virgil sat together in comfortable silence while Virgil continued to work on his sketch.  After a short while, Scott and John returned.

“Everything’s stored in 2.  We even found some nice apples.”

“Grandma will like that.  She really likes making her pies with Max.”  Gordon and Alan started to make their way back.  “Did they really lift weights for this?”

“Yes Dad, just like when they were little,” Scott answered.  “Ever since Gordon decided that Mom’s rule wasn’t ‘fair’”.  Jeff shook his head.  It was a silly rule, but every time they’d come out to the pumpkin patch, he would smile and chuckle.  Scott patted Virgil’s and John’s shoulders.

“Whatcha say fellas, let’s find some real pumpkins and show them how pumpkin carving is really done.”  Jeff didn’t think he could smile any wider.  It really was a perfect day.

[theticklishpear]

Five Lines Tag

Shout out to @roselinbooks-official for the tag! Thank you — it's so nice to reconnect with you on the EmberWrite community. I'll be responding with lines from Murder in Saint Salma Parish, as that's currently what I'm focused on in near-final edits (a murder most curious, a pet shop trafficking mythical creatures, local gods in danger, and a painting of bigfoot that cannot be trusted not to tell the most devastating of dad jokes, oh my!).

your most recent line

Aphiruuk climbed into the passenger seat of Mary Ann’s car, asking for the window open as soon as he settled. Mary Ann obliged. How could she not? There was every possibility that Aphiruuk could breath fire, or acid, or something, and she didn’t have the first idea about how to clean that out of her car’s floor mats.

a line you're proud of

“Do you know why you are doing this?” Sylvie’s slow, measured question seeped into her, a soft question that didn’t demand an answer now but expected one with time. That felt right for this place, a place that understood so well the roles that patience and time played—that life and light and growth needed both—a place that knew that all came to pass with enough of those.

a line that makes you laugh or smile

“I’ve got books upon books of regular, boring paper and one that’s just a whopper of a mystery. Whatever you are, answer at least one fucking question.” She yanked on the old handle. The shed opened into void. The vastness of stars stretched out from the threshold with a cloud of cosmic dust, the scent of burning, and a sucking gasp. “Sure,” Mary Ann said. “Y’know, when I told Ron it couldn’t get weirder, I didn’t mean you should try.”

a line you hope makes readers cry

"Gods, Mark, we wanted it to be you. We strained our ears…just waiting, hoping, praying. But you weren’t there.” She squeezed Abe’s hand. “Someone else needed you more.”

a line that summarizes your WIP

In her silence, Sylvie prompted, “Speak, child. You need not be formal with me.” An easy statement from a god, but all the same, she felt the tension in her shoulders ease. “It’s strange. Ron offered to take the ring the first time I met him. I said no then because there were so many questions that needed answers. So many whys still hanging around. I know more now. There’s this whole world of magic that I only ever thought was story but turns out to be not only real, but part of my family’s inheritance. Learning what Valda did, I’ve felt responsible.” “It was not you who let a lich into the paths of the dead to feast upon the foundations of the world.”

Tagging: @luwianskies, @writer-on-time, @agwitow, @gingerly-writing, @beezarre — as is tradition, no pressure, but I'd love to see:

a line with a scream

a line you fell in love with

a line with a whisper

a line you almost took out

a line that's got ✨your vibe✨

[illiana-mystery]

WIP Wednesday

I'm back! It's been a long time since I've done one of these, so let's make up for lost time.

I have two WIPs to share since it's been a minute since an update. Those two WIPs being the upcoming Chapter 4 of Faulty Spark Plugs and Chapter 4 of Yolked!

Hope you enjoy!

Taglist: @ghnaim24 , @dontwanttobeanamericanidiot @iobsessoverfictionalmen ​, @emily-ella-nightshade89 ​, @writingkitten

---

Faulty Spark Plugs

“That's incredible. Are you trying to make me like you more?"

He laughed.

“Is it working?”

“A little,” you admitted, blushing even harder.

You took a sip of orange juice after, before telling him,

“Mmm, this is the best orange juice I've ever had.”

“Thanks. It's fresh squeezed,” he bragged. “I keep it in the garage fridge next to my water jug. Orange juice and water are all I really drink when I'm in the garage.”

“Oh, I see. I was wondering where the juice came from. I didn't see it last night,” you said before you heard a loud click.

“Oh, that's your clothes,” he told you, before he got up. “I'll go put them in the dryer for you.”

“Okay,” you chirped, before you pinched his butt as he walked past. He jumped and just looked at you, before you laughed.

“I'll get you back,” he remarked, trying not to blush more.

You knew he liked it though, by the silly look on his face he was trying to hide.

So you just laughed again before returning back to your almost done plate.

You had just finished the rest of your eggs when he came back into the room. You greeted him with a smile which he returned, before he passed by you and slapped your ass.

You jumped like he did and looked at him, as he smirked like a little mischievous child.

“I pinched your butt.”

“I know. I didn't want to copy you,” he teased as he took another sip of his orange juice.

“Clever boy. Clever,” you groaned, making him snicker.

“It'll be twenty minutes until your clothes are dry,” he announced. “But I am starting to consider letting you keep the clothes you have on now.”

“Oh no. I couldn't,” you responded.

“It's fine,” he laughed. “I haven't worn those pants in years. Besides, like I said before, they look better on you.”

“If you say so,” you remarked. “But thank you.”

“You're quite welcome,” he said before he took your hand and kissed it.

He looked you deep in your eyes after you glanced at him. Then he said,

“I almost don’t want to fix your car. I almost want you to have to stay with me.”

“As much as I want to do that, I do have to get back to my old life. I mean I do have to cut my ex off before I can truly start anew with you. You agreed earlier.”

“I know,” he moaned. “Sorry, I'm just in my feelings. You're not like the other women I've been with. There's just something special about you.”

“Aww, Gas,” you cooed, before you punched his arm. “Ditto. I've never met a man as wonderful as you.”

---

Yolked!

“So,” he started as he paused the ending to his Skittish episode, “What did you think of the episode? And of my performance?”

He looked so nervous when he asked me, especially since I noticed small beads of sweat falling down his brow.

His hand still clutching the remote also shook, so I moved the remote from his grip and gathered it in my own.

I held the new cup of coffee he poured me in my other, and took a deep sip while keeping eye contact with him.

I didn’t say a word until I got a good taste of this bomb ass coffee again, my only communication being the gentle squeeze of assurance I gave his hand.

“Well, are you gonna answer me, honey?” he asked, his puppy dog eyes intensifying.

“I wanted to get another sip of your delicious coffee in first, Wolfie,” I replied, as I put the cup down on the coffee table. “But now that I'm caffeined up a little more, I can honestly say that…”

“Oh, spit it out, woman!” he outburst, before he blushed and covered his mouth with his free hand.

“Patience, Wolfie,” I softly said before I squeezed his hand again. “I was gonna say that I loved your episode and I really enjoyed your performance. Couldn't you tell? I was laughing so hard. I especially loved the Spice and Virgil the Virgin skit. You could tell he was about to break, especially after you kissed him.”

He sighed a breath of relief.

“So you did like it? Oh, I thought you just laughed to make me feel good.”

“What? Wolfie, no. That was genuine laughter. You were great. And your comedic timing was perfect. 10/10 would watch again.”

He just smiled at me after I clarified, then put his head on my shoulder before he freed his hand from mine and put it on my chest.

“Thanks, honey. You always know what to say to make me feel better about myself as an actor and undead man.”

“You're welcome, Wolfie. You're a great actor, even though I'm starting to learn that now.”

“It's okay. I'm glad you avoid me like the plague when all you knew about me was what Agnes was spewing. You would have hated me,” he assured. “And besides, it's more fun reminiscing and watching these movies with yours truly anyway, huh?”

I giggled.

“Yeah, way more fun,” I agreed.

[olives-and-lilies]

Fic Writer 20 Questions

@blirzy Thanks for including me! Sorry it took a minute, I was out of town.

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

22, but a lot of them are art for other writers (big bangs mostly). I think only 8 of them are fics… so I am still pretty new.

2. What’s your AO3 word count?

15,763! Not bad!

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Almost strictly Star Wars, though in years prior (many, many years) I used to write Hetalia and Naruto before falling out of the world of fanfic writing. Y’all can thank a rigorous scholastic career for that one.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

In general, it’s all art for other writers that get kudos, of my own written work its:

1. The Rations of Memory (13 Kudos)

2. I Thought I Was Alone (11 Kudos)

3. Manhunt (4 Kudos)

The rest of my very few works have 2 or 1 Kudo, this is okay, I am still getting back into writing again.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes! I try to always respond, even if it’s just a line or two! You took the time to leave me feedback, even if it’s just an emoji, and I appreciate it so much!

6. What’s the fic your wrote with the angstiest ending?

I find I have been writing a lot of angst endings, if not just heartwrenching pieces in general. I think it would have to be Gala Gone Wrong, cause while it doesn’t hurt the whole time or strike hard like Manhunt or How Did You Reach Me?, GGW shows you what could have been, and then takes it away.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

I guess that depends on how you define happy ending? Probably I Thought I Was Alone, it’s such a hurt/comfort.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

God no, thankfully. I hear about it but have never had to suffer that particular fate.

9. Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I used to, in like, middle school. I wasn’t very good and I definitely cringe when I come across those old files. I might pick it up again one day.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I do not, I have a big enough sandbox in star wars as it is, I feel like trying to mix things would just confuse me. Or I’d fixate on something, trying to get the mechanics all mashed together right.

11. Have you had a fic stolen?

Most likely not, I am very tiny.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Again, am smol.

13. Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

No but that sounds dope? Like a brainstorm session but we each have scenes/sections/characters that we do?

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

Brutal mate. Like, just in the sandboxes I play in now? Top Five maybe? I have different faves for different wants. If I want fluff its gonna be a different go to than angst or kink.

After talking to some folks who have suffered my existence for many years, the answer is Zuko/Katara, and apparently any Red/Blue coded ships, or Yellow/Purple if I’m “in a mood”

(it’s my partner, my long suffering partner who is “folks”)

15. What’s a WIP you’d like to finish, but doubt you ever will?

The Scopes Hanahaki fic, How Did You Reach Me?. I had big dreams for that one, showing him and the distance he puts between himself and everyone else, how he doesnt realize Sprays is the only one who has slipped under his guard. I wanted to have them team up with the 212th, to watch Cody handing a trooper a lozenge to help with the worst of the hanahaki (an idea that was in the Heavy Off A Golden Hue series by catboydogma, which I got to work on). To ask, to realize. I never decided if it would kill him, or if Sprays would find out.

16. What are your writing strengths?

I’m going to go with Framing. I set the frame and I set the tone of the fic really well. You can come in and pretty readily know what kinda mess you’re signing up for. While I love getting to play with interpersonal relationships, the push and pull of characters and situations and growth, it is the tone I use and the frame I set up that let’s people come in and see what I am about, ya know?

(shoutout to my partner for what was essentially both a call-out and a hype up with this)

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

First, it’s almost all OCs, and that’s really not how you get traction, ya know?

Second, so much of my self slips in. I have to stop and think and really remember if what the characters reaction is would be mine or theirs. If I think that the course is just, if it’s what I would want to say I would do, or was capable of, that’s not always what the character would do and I need to remember that.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I love this, it’s such a welcome challenge. I often have to find others with more knowledge than me and its a great time. I’ve gone to folks for Mando’a the most, but I’ve got unpublished pieces with Spanish, Gaelic, and even Arabic mixed into the stories because it was appropriate to the characters.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Naruto, it’s not published ANYWHERE, but I’ve a whole handwritten book of them. I was a big Kiba/Hinata shipper, among many other ships, and did a lot of OC work even back then. Hetalia too, on a long dead deviantart account that should, hopefully be well buried or properly terminated due to inactivity after all these years. I thought I was hot shit, I assure you I was not.

20. Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

Building a HUD that Works, because it has so much subtle imagery and connection. It’s a push and pull of characters. I wrote it as a character study and a bingo fill, of all things, but I really do love it. The first delicate interlude from boss/employee to equals and partners. The first acts of compassion, of watching out for each other. The first learnings of each other. Ugh, I just love it. I love that it came out the way it did.

No Pressure Tags: @prowlingthunder @catboydogma

[nulfaga]

got tagged for a 20 questions for writers meme by @jiubilant! tagging @bloodofthepen who i suspect would very much enjoy this meme

How many works do you have on AO3?

17 according to my dashboard. 28 to the connoisseur (various orphaned nonsenses over the years). 29 if you're nasty

What's your total AO3 word count?

second verse, same as the first: dashboard says 227k. the real figure is ~450k. gog save me

What fandoms do you write for?

by volume (apparently), mostly tes: oblivion and mass effect. highlights from the full list include dragon's dogma, pillars of eternity and pentiment

What are your top five fics by kudos?

this, this, this, this; and in tragic 5th place true gold. my oopy schmoopy apple of my eye

Do you respond to comments?

[almost] always, even if it's just "thank you" or a heart! makes me happy that people took the time out to drop me a line so i always feel like it's the least i can do

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

eeeeehhhh i think i almost always go with an open ending. and happy and sad are subjective. lol. probably this one; dead brothers go back, after a brief reprieve, to being dead

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

THIS ONE. teeth rot out of your damn head. i wouldn't make it quite so cloying if i wrote it today

Do you get hate on fics?

not to my knowledge <3

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

often and w/ gusto i'm afraid. i need it to be character-focused ie if it doesn't further the characters' relationship in the eyes of the reader then it's basically dead weight. i have stretched this rule exactly once (for "once", read: with exactly one work. of a modest 170k. i get one bodice-ripper as a treat.)

Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

n/a baby. unless you count my dragonfable fic vampirizing the narrative structure of season 2 of russian doll but that's not strictly a crossover is it

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not to my knowledge. i have had people gank certain bits of worldbuilding or plot beats, but not maliciously (i think). so i just look on with. how you say. benevolent mirth

Have you ever had a fic translated?

not to my knowledge!

Have you ever co-written a fic?

as a tween. about anime. but i will part with that story only after being bought dinner

What's your all-time favorite ship?

aww man. ask me tomorrow and get a different answer but i really like andreas and werner in the pentiment longfic i'm plugging away at. what if it was that deep yknow.

What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

not touching this one with a 39-and-a-half foot pole. the evil eye is out there. (real answer: writing is a long con. i have to start every project believing i'm going to finish it to the last dotted i and crossed t)

What are your writing strengths?

no one can be objective abt their own shit but what i enjoy reading back in my writing (in the brief beautiful period before the Cringe encroaches) is the subtext in character interactions. no one EVER says wtf they mean due to shame or pride or the demands of diplomacy or emotional stuntedness or what have you. that old saw about your readers see the tip of the iceberg but you've got to have the whole ehm.. glacier... fjord.. stalagmite... in your head

What are your writing weaknesses?

pacing!! at least in my own view. esp with the [REDACTED] i'm working on now it's like...fuck me i'm trying to cover a long time period without embroidering every single day that passes, but when and where and how often do i switch from brisk narration to blow-by-blow dialogue. only when i want to? only when it's necessary in order for the plot to make sense? are those two criteria different in practice? aughghgh

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language?

absolutely fucking love it. it has to be a language i feel reasonably confident about (unless it's a fictional conlang, but even then i have a constant fear of getting strung up by lorebeards for conjugating a dunmeris verb the wrong way lol)... that being the case i love love love it. because you get to do subtext 2: electric boogaloo. and what languages do the characters share? and what languages can they use to dissimulate or to speak freely w/o the risk of being heard and understood??? and what does each character's command of a given language say about their social status????? and do they think differently from one language to the other??????? LOVE it. love it to pieces.

First fandom you wrote for?

minecraft i think. i am a child of my era

Favorite fic you've written?

to date... posted it up a day or 2 ago. the canny observer will be able to sniff it out. but i'm not prepared to own it just yet god bless <3

runner-up goes to this one, 'the bridge of details'. i think it strikes the right balance of "warm & hopeful w/o being cloying"

[klcthebookworm]

WIP Wednesday

So Chuck volunteered to go get Milly so he could crawl through the ventilation shafts.

One of the pairs of legs jerked under the blanket and then moved to the side as it sounded like someone sitting up on the mattress. “What’s wrong?” Milly-ma’am’s sleepy voice asked.

“Heard something,” a male answered her with a rough voice. “What the hell are those freaks up to?”

“At this time of night?” Milly-ma’am sounded a little more awake.

“They’re getting antsy and Knives hasn’t done anything to you yet.” A human man wearing just a pair of pajama pants left the bed and stalked to the room’s door. “I’ll just remind them to save it for daylight.”

Chuck held his breath. Had Hannah figured out this chance and that’s why she was so grouchy about the priest?

The black-haired man pressed buttons next to the door. The door didn’t open. He tried again. It didn’t open. “What the hell? It’s locked?”

Fish sticks. Now he had to deal with a guard. Hopefully Hannah wasn’t having problems.

“Let’s rock,” flashed up on his faceshield.

“And ride,” he whispered. He shoved forward. The grill gave way and he curled up in the air so he landed on his feet. He bounced on the mattress. Milly-ma’am squealed and scrambled back toward the wall. Chuck pressed his tail against the mattress to steady himself and pulled the blaster out. He had it out and leveled with both hands like he saw Dad and Vash do by the time the priest whirled around.

“Chuck!” Milly-ma’am exclaimed behind him.

Chuck didn’t twitch. Dad never did and neither did Vash. Wolfwood lifted his hands open wide up by his head. “You are a wrenchhead. I have been kidnapped or captured once a week starting when I was a few hours old and I know only wrenchheads have the keys after you’re locked up.” Chuck smirked. “Only you don’t because we changed the key, we changed the key.” He sang the last bit. Greasepit always hated when he and Hannah sang songs.

“Chuck, how did you get here?” Milly-ma’am asked.

“Rode the bike. Hannah had her look for plant power not on the map so we could get all of you out.”

“Does Hannah know where you are? Does she know you have that gun?”

Chuck jerked and looked over his shoulder at Milly-ma’am. She was frowning. “She gave the blaster to me; I didn’t steal it!”

“And where is Hannah?”

“She went after Vash and Meryl-ma’am.” Chuck turned back to watching Wolfwood. He hadn’t moved.

“So we’re all supposed to meet up and?” Milly-ma’am asked.

Chuck sighed. “Mom’s way. Mom’s way is sneaky. There’s too many of Vash’s sisters here to go boom.”

“Okay, no going boom,” Milly-ma’am said. “And no shooting Mr. Wolfwood.”

“What?”

“If you shoot him, it will make me sad. And it will make Vash sad.”

“He’s a wrenchhead!” Chuck looked over his shoulder at Milly-ma’am. “He had the key; he’s working for Knives!”

Milly-ma’am took a deep breath. “Knives threatened his children. So he has worked for Knives and trying to help Vash. Have your parents or uncles ever pretended to help Limburger to actually stop him?”

Chuck looked back at Wolfwood but he was thinking hard. “I think Uncle Modo had to be a duplicate agent but that was before Hannah so a really long time ago. Limburger doesn’t fall for that now.”

“Wolfwood has been doing the same thing,” Milly-ma’am said. “He has kept me safe from the other Gung-Ho Guns, and he got my stun gun back.”

“Vash needs help to defeat Knives and keep everyone alive,” Wolfwood said.

Chuck snorted. “Good luck getting him to listen to a teamwork lecture. Bro has ignored Hannah about it and you all got kidnapped.” He put the blaster into its holster.

Milly-ma’am sighed and climbed out of the bed. “Okay, I’m not escaping in my pajamas. Nicholas, go change in the bathroom.”

He lowered his hands. “Are you sure about that?”

Chuck rolled his eyes. “I have an older sister. I give her clothes privacy or she’s gonna tie my tail into a knot.” He climbed off the bed and went to the table.

“Fair enough,” Wolfwood said. He gathered his clothes and went through another door next to the bed.

“Knives let you have your stuff?” Chuck asked.

Milly-ma’am dug into her suitcase. “I don’t think Mr. Knives cares since he has Vash. At least, the weird box monster brought back my clothes that it stole.”

“Wow, he really is bad at kidnapping. Limburger’s goons know to shake us for stuff Hannah can use to blow up everything.”

“They’ve had practice. Now face the wall.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stared at the wall behind the table and stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets so he didn’t press the buttons over there.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Blurred Lines 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, power imbalance, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your relationship with your boss takes an unpredictable turn.

Characters: Nick Fowler

Note: some more Nicky for the girlies.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Back to usual. 

You say goodbye to Joey with an especially clingy hug. She’ll be gone back to campus by the time you get home. Her short visits always leave you a bit sad.

You arrive at Nick’s place and let yourself in. The remnants of the prior day’s get together are still littered over the dining room table and throughout the front room. There’s more in the kitchen.

You gather the empty glasses and a few bottles with varying amounts of liquid still inside. You scrape plates into the pin and sweep napkins in after them. You fill the sink with warm soapy water to wash it all when you hear the soft but clumsy pad of feet on the stairs. They’re too light to be Nick.

You have the coffee brewing in anticipation of your boss’ hangover. The aroma wafts into the air as the machine clicks. A figure appears in the doorway and you turn to greet the woman in her sleek but wrinkled dress. This isn’t unexpected either.

“Good morning,” you greet her stunned eyes as she blanches.

“Um, I’m sorry, I was only–”

“Coffee?” You offer her as you open the cupboard, “look like you need it.”

“N-no, I… should go. Is there a Starbucks around here?” She croaks.

“No need, I can do lattes,” you offer, “he’s got this ridiculously expensive machine.”

“Er,” she looks down at the heels dangling from her hand then back to you, “sorry, are you… do you live…”

“I work for Mr. Fowler. Just the maid,” you assure her. Her assumption fills your chest with an unspent laugh. You’re far too old for Nick. Besides, the concept is ridiculous.

“Oh…” her single syllable dangles.

You pour her a cup and turn to offer it to her. Her mouth slants in a guilty smile. She shambles forward and accepts the mug.

“You take sugar, cream? Maybe some Advil?” You suggest.

“Oat milk? And yes please, my head is pounding.”

“Right, he has almond milk,” you open another cupboard and pluck out the ibuprofen, “or whole milk.”

“Almond is fine,” she accepts as you rattle the bottle.

“One or two, hon,” you ask as you approach her again.

“Two, please,” she inhales the scent of the coffee and sighs, rubbing her eye socket before extending her hand to take the tablet, “the whole bottle if I could.”

“Ugh, yeah, I don’t miss those days,” you hum and cap the bottle.

You put it away and go into the large fridge, taking out the carton of almond milk for the woman. You take it to her as she approaches the island to clink down the coffee. You watch as she adds the milk and takes a slender spoon from you to stir it in. She takes her first sip and moans before tossing back the pills.

“Coffee good?” You prompt proudly.

“Oh, yeah,” she looks up at you, “yeah, it’s great.”

“Took me a while to master the beast,” you point to the machine. “I finally got my ristretto down, too.”

She gives a nervous laugh and gulps again, wiping her lips with the back of her hand, “you’re nice… really nice. Why?”

You blink at her question. It makes you wonder, was Nick not nice? That’s not really any of your concern.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You shrug and turn to the full sink, “you’re a guest.” You plunge your hands in and scrub the porcelain, “plus, you kinda remind me of my daughter. I’d like someone to treat her nicely too.”

“Ah,” she accepts, “that’s really sweet.”

“It’s human, I hope,” you open up the dishwasher to slide in each plate.

“You really… didn’t have to make me coffee,” she murmurs.

You peek over at her as she stares into the depths. She seems sad but that might just be the hangover. You continue your work as you reply.

“It was already on. If you’re hungry–”

“Please, no, that’s okay,” she declines with a wave, “I think… I think I’ll just finish this and get an uber. Maybe go call my mom.”

“Well, you let me know if you need anything before you go,” you chime as you hook glasses into the top rack of the dishwasher.

You finish the dishes and grab a damp cloth to go wipe the table down. You stop by a few other surfaces to clear away rings from the finish and return to the kitchen. As you enter from the dining room, Nick appears in the other.

The woman faces him as she grabs her shoes, “hi.”

He growls and lumbers over to the coffee machine. He sees the mug waiting for him and peers into its empty body. You clutch the cloth in your hand as you watch his naked back tense. He wears nothing more than a pair of briefs. At most, you’ve seen him shirtless when he needs some stitches.

“More coffee?” You offer the woman.

“No, I should go,” she peeks at him nervously.

“Alright, well, you take care,” you bid her and take her cup.

“Thanks,” she says and skulks to the door, “bye, Nick.”

“Mmm,” he flicks his fingers at her as he pours himself a cup.

You narrow your eyes at his shoulder blades. That wasn’t very polite. Well, it isn’t your job to be his mother, even if it feels like it sometimes.

You put the almond milk away as he turns to lean in the corner of the counter. He presses the porcelain to his forehead and groans. You shake out the cloth over the sink and rinse it out.

“You have a daughter,” he states plainly. A question but not really.

“I do,” you answer evenly.

“I didn’t know that,” he says.

You shrug, “guess it never came up.”

"You’ve worked for me for three years…” he mutters.

“You never asked,” you say lightly, “it’s fine.”

He lowers the cup and slurps loudly. He swishes the coffee around before he swallows thickly.

“Your husband okay with you working twelves?”

You chuckle, “sir, really, it’s fine.”

His curiosity is not usual. You stick to the expected, the manageable. You don’t stray outside the lines. You’re friendly but you’re not overfamiliar. He always seemed to prefer that. He enjoyed talking about himself far more.

“You were busy yesterday,” he shifts his weight to one foot, his muscled chest rippling.

“I suppose as busy as you,” you roll in the racks of the dishwasher and add soap before closing it up.

“I… interrupted your plans?”

“Sir, it’s fine, I had a good day off and now I’m back,” you insist, “are there any other messes I need to worry about?”

He tilts his head and exhales deeply. His cheek dimples as he considers you. The cut on his head is exposed but not as bad as it was, though the bruise under his eyes has only gotten darker.

He scoffs as a smirk slants his lips, “sure. You could change my bed sheets.”

“Sure,” you accept breezily, repressing the glimmer of concern at the base of your skull. 

Something about his response seems trite, as if he means to insult you. You’re an adult, you’re less than shocked at his after hours play. By now, you’re quite used to it. He’s in his prime, he’s well off, and he’s handsome by anyone’s measure.

“You could try some witch hazel,” you touch your cheek then point at his, “for the bruising.”

“I can handle it,” he retorts and pushes himself away from the counter, “enough chattering. Get to work.”

🥃

You knock on the office door and wait for an answer. The little device you keep clipped to your belt is still buzzing with Nick’s demand. He calls to you from within and you enter.

“Sir?” You greet him.

“What took you so long?” He growls.

He’s in a foul mood. He has been all day. He can be gruff, you’re used to that, but today, he just seems prickly. His romp must not have been much fun. Come to think of it, his partner had been all too eager to flee.

You shake away the intrusive thoughts and clear your throat, “I was in the laundry room. Sorry.”

“My head is pounding,” he rubs his temples.

“Right, sir, I’ll bring you Advil and some water–”

“Don’t treat me like a child,” he snarls.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m sure I’m a lot older than your daughter, so cut it out.”

“I wasn’t– sir, I’m sorry.”

“Go, get the pills,” he shoos you, “and call Rhonda.”

You nod and leave him. Wow. You don’t think he’s ever spoken to you like that. The mention of Joey also puts you off. Why is he so concerned? Most people could look at you and assume you have a kid or too. At your age, with your hips…

You go downstairs to retrieve the Advil and a tall glass of water. You climb back upstairs and follow the airy hall down to your office. As you enter, he sits with his head in his hands, his elbows on the desk. You don’t say a word as you set down the glass and pills.

He doesn’t move. You back away slowly and pull out your cell phone. You’ll call the masseuse, she should be able to work out the tension.

As you get to the door, he growls and his chair squeaks.

“You said something, about witch hazel,” he snarls.

“Uh, yes,” you face him, “it’ll take down the bruising.”

He narrows his eyes, the gesture tweaking his swollen cheek. Even battered, he isn’t unattractive. And the woman in his kitchen was just as gorgeous. So you find it hard to fathom why he’s in such a mood.

“Would you like me to get it for you, sir?” You ask, trying not to sound too pandering.

“Sure, whatever.”

You sweep away and go down the hall to the cabinet. You keep everything stocked well. Part of your job is inventory. You’ll have to go through the liquor bottles later and see what needs replenishing too.

You return to him with the witch hazel and a bag of cotton balls. You place them on his desk as he leans his head against the chairback, his eyes closed. You step back on your heel and his eyes pop open.

“Would you mind?��� He motions to his face.

“Sure,” you take the cotton balls and pull one out.

You uncap the dark bottle and dampen the cotton with the liquid. His eyes close again as you sidle closer and you dab gently along his cheek. He flinches, just once, then stills. It must be cold. 

His eyes flick open again and startle you as you retract your touch. Awkwardly, you move away and gather up the bottle and bag of cotton balls. He’s quiet as he leans forward to grab the bottle of pills.

“I should’ve guessed,” he says as he shakes two tablets out, “that’s what I do. I read people. You’re a mother, for sure. She’s older, isn’t she? College? You had her young–”

“Sir,” you sniff, uncomfortable.

“Just the one. And you didn’t answer me when I talked about your husband so he must be out of the picture. Divorced. About the time you came around here, huh? You need the job after the messy break up,” he suggests as he wags his finger with a knowing grin, “probably another woman, huh?”

You blink. You’ll let him think what he wants. His opinion of your marriage isn’t important. It won’t do to correct him anyway. He doesn’t really seem to care, he just wants to wound. You just can’t figure out what you’ve done to deserve it.

[essayofthoughts]

7, 11, 13 & 17 for the writers asks!

7. What is your deepest joy about writing?

Hm so. Two parts. Part 1. When, when writing something, I manage to solve a tangle of problems in a way which feels satisfying and ties up enough loose threads without seeming unreasonable and unrealistic. And Part 2. When I manage to write something that people connect to? Some of the comments on Ripley's Assistant and That Balance May Return and that people have sent me privately give me strong emotions.

11. Do you believe in the old advice to “kill your darlings?” Are you a ruthless darling assassin? What happens to the darlings you murder? Do you have a darling graveyard? Do you grieve?

I hate killing my darlings, hate it, hate it, hate it. I've got better in recent years about deleting lines, but I still loathe it and prefer to rework things and rewrite it than just delete. And the problem is, my memory is terrible, so either 1. I delete it and forget it forever or 2. I remove it to a doc of notes and then forget I have a doc of notes. So generally, when I can, I try to move a line immediately to the relevant doc, or I rework it. I know sometimes it's necessary to delete things but I will never stop hating it and it's probably a good thing for me that I tend to get ideas of whole scenes. That way I can edit a great deal of it, but as long as the overarching scene is the same, I don't mind. (If I have to delete the scene... noooooooo 😰)

13. What is a subject matter that is incredibly difficult for you write about? What is easy?

There is a very solid answer to the first part of that question but it's also complicated so I'd rather give you that answer in private, Mike, if you want to hear it. For another answer of something that's difficult for me to write - torture. I usually get around this by writing indirectly, letting the reader's mind fill in the gaps, because rather as with horror that's often the more effective way, but yeah. Not for me.

I also struggle to write the POV of outright malicious bastards just because I don't see the point of that kind of perspective? I don't see what is gained by being like that. I see it as deeply self-defeating and struggle to write it when I can't make out the goals of it or how it connects to other people.

As for easy - I mean, you've seen my fics. Manipulation, trauma, healing from violation. Angst and Hurt/Comfort in general, tbh. I struggle to write pure fluff, it feels deeply substanceless to me, but angst and hut/comfort have texture and I can always write those.

17. Talk to me about the minutiae of your current WIP. Tell me about the lore, the history, the detail, the things that won’t make it in the text.

Mrrm. I don't know that there is much that won't make it in? Like, someone once commented about Ghost Cass something along the lines of how it can be kind of slow paced and... yeah. It's my self-indulgent "Take as much time as you like" fic in some respects, and while I do want to keep the plot moving it's also that... it took me ages to get from writing ficlets and oneshots to writing big fics! I am relishing it now. But also, because of this, a lot of the ideas for lore and history and details and stuff going on off-camera... we'll get bits of it anyway? Characters will inform others of lore, details of what happened elsewhere can be backfilled with other POVs, and for example with the Briarwood Arc part of Ghost Cass there's gonna be a downtime fic, and that's gonna cover Vox Machina, sure, but also some NPCs that are relevant, both within Whitestone and elsewhere, and help to provide some of that additional detail.

Idk. I don't like it going to waste? This is why I used to have such an issue of infodumping worldbuilding into a story. It's the whole reason I made monsterblog way back when, so I could infodump things in one place and redirect to it instead of infodump again in a fic. Instead I kind of work in background worldbuilding as information which a character has due to their background and it provides both worldbuilding and character information.

But I guess like, if I had to pick one piece of random background worldbuilding, lets go with my fave:

In my headcanon (shared with @blorbologist) - it starts with how Whitestone keeps bees. Snow Mead is a locally made Whitestone alcohol, and for mead you need honey. However, if you're making it in reasonable quantities you're probably taking quite a bit of honey, (not to mention honey just to sell as honey, and beeswax) and this is Whitestone, where it's cold and there's a shorter summer, so there's fewer flowers, so there's less for the bees to feed on. Mead was valued by the Norse because it used honey and honey wasn't cheap! It was a rarity, a treat.

But Whitestone makes Snow Mead enough that not all that long after the Briarwoods' occupation is ended Percy is able to obtain some Snow Mead amongst other local alcohols, which means the business has likely been continuing even during this occupation - an occupation which prevented trade between Whitestone and the rest of Tal'Dorei, I would note.

So the beekeepers need a way to sustain their hives, right? And IRL the way that's done is with sugar water. But sugar hasn't been cheap, historically, because it's kind of a pain to grow and refine and it was usually imported and made from sugar cane. We know trade was cut off for five years, so how are these beekeepers getting sugar for their bees? Given Whitestone climate, it can't be sugar cane imported or home grown, so most likely it's sugar beet, as grown in some of the fields near where I live.

And, if they've got hardy sugar beet growing, then they might well even have a surplus of sugar. Which would explain how, even as Tal'Dorei was rebuilding after the dragons, Vox Machina were able to set up a very prolific and successful bakery/pastry shop in Whitestone. Importing sugar, even with their money and connections would be tricky, and Vex doesn't like to waste money - if there's sugar locally they can get and use that at reduced cost.

And, further, it would be a source of income for the whole city even aside from the whitestone and refined residuum from the mountain quarries, which would help to explain why, despite it's small size, it hasn't just been subsumed into Tal'Dorei. Between it's isolated location and it's local sources of wealth, it's able to stay independent where other areas might find benefits in joining Tal'Dorei.

And... yes, that's a headcanon I came up with purely from Whitestone's climate and the fact they make mead.

[oflights]

20 questions for fic writers

thanks for the tag, @teledild0nix; your post was great! also @phoebe-delia tagged me on this post a bit ago; i loved reading these so much! at this point, i'm not sure who has or hasn't done this yet, so i'm tagging anyone who sees this and wants to try it!

How many works do you have on ao3?

54 across 3 fandoms!

2. what's your total ao3 word count?

1,382,065 😵‍💫

3. What fandoms do you write for?

right now it's just drarry; i have also written for hockey RPF and before that, The Social Network, but a lot of that fic is locked on livejournal. before TSN i wrote drarry 😬 which is also locked lol i'm sorry

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1. up the arbor to your door (and more) - Hockey RPF (2,889) 2. all the western stars - Drarry (2,819) 3. Bloom - Hockey RPF (2,759) 4. Brand New Colony - Hockey RPF (2,558) 5. Morning to Wake You - Hockey RPF (2,056) my sid/geno hockey RPF era from 2012-2014 was pretty consistent! i do think all the western stars is about to overtake the top spot though, which is insane when you realize those fics are 9 years vs. barely 18 months old 😧

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

yes!! i make every effort to, though sometimes i get overwhelmed (i've fallen off a bit with The Star Splitter and it makes me super guilty!!! i need more hours in the day lol)

6. What is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

i am a happy ending aficionado!! i guess if you ignore the fix-it epilogue, the answer is we hid in catacombs, which is probably the best sid/geno fic i wrote. it was a breakup fic, of course, i remain obsessed with those!

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

i really cannot think of any standout happy ending hockey fics so for this one i will say along each garden wall. sugary sweet ending after what was a genuinely sad narrative; i think i took to heart the people who were like "Close Behind was so angsty we needed more happiness to wash it down!!" and while i felt like that didn't really fit Close Behind, it worked for this one.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

ha. yes! people were Not Happy about Close Behind. someone told me that i should tag it as the main pairing being Draco/Astoria and add an Ambiguous/Open Ending tag, which was very interesting and wrong. some comments i get are just odd, though. like someone got mad at me in The Star Splitter comments for naming a stuffed dragon Orion, who i guess was Sirius' abusive (?) dad?? i had no canon memory of that (and why would Draco care about that???). another person just objected to the entire premise of the fic, which i suppose is fair play if the premise of the fic is an actual philosophical argument, but yeah. it takes all sorts!

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

i do! i like writing smut! happily, yes smut! i don't go too deep into it in every fic, though, and with drarry i've often let myself get more into plot than figuring out the best smut places. i'm in a spot mentally where i really want the smut to contribute to the plot in a significant way, which i think is a result of taking a two year fanfic break and reading nothing but literary/historical fiction in those years? idk i need to write more, it's a total shift from when i wrote hockey.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

yeah, no, not for me!

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

i've had some plagiarism incidents, and i guess i ask for this as a serial fic deleter, but some of my fics are on wattpad and i'd prefer they weren't lol.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

yes! a good few.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

nope

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

lol i cannot answer this question truthfully. my all-time favorite ship is just whatever i'm hyperfixated on at the moment! drarry is probably a contender just because i circled back to it after years away. (am i in a getting back together fic with drarry??)

15. What's a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

i finish all my wips 🙂 honestly this is not a flex, i am terrible at abandoning projects and my brain will not let me off the hook ever.

16. What are your writing strengths?

hmm. i think characters, especially large casts of characters! i love to write big ensembles and flesh out characters even in big or small roles, plus their relationships with each other. i also think that i'm much better at giving my worlds/stories a sort of aesthetic now, if that's a writing talent? this is def a new thing to drarry for me, since i took that long fanfic break and wrote/read a bunch of original stuff.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

i work at it, but i still don't know that i'm the best at describing things. i'm better at describing settings than people, that's for sure. i get bored with endless descriptions of someone's eye color and i find myself needing to justify character description with narrative relevance, which is silly.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

i'm a big proponent of '"[English words]," he says in French.' Or like, 'He says something in French', if the POV character wouldn't understand it. i feel like it's less immersion-breaking and more fluid. i write in several languages but wouldn't expect readers to, and i normally write such a close third person perspective that i don't necessarily want the readers to have a translation of a phrase that the POV character wouldn't have, you know?

19. First fandom you wrote for?

i think officially it was veronica mars?

20. Favorite fic you've written?

i'll do one for each AO3 fandom! for TSN, it was Mulligan. for Hockey RPF, Contrapositive. and for Drarry, no surprise, Close Behind.

[leedee013]

WIP Wednesday

I'll be once again participating in @kedreeva 's game this week! Let's see how this goes.

It’s WIP Wednesday, time for a little accountability, sharing your work, and getting a kick in the pants.

Here’s how it works:

In a reblog of this post (so people can find you in the notes) or new thread (w/ rules attached) if you want to play on your own, post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs; not titles, file names.

Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to play!

After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can't share from (for example, an event or gift fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

That’s it! You can invite others to join in, or just post. I’ll be searching the reblogs to find people to send asks to!

If you’re reading this, you’re invited!

If you see someone posting a WIP Wednesday Game snippet, send them an ask! Make them write.

Here is what I have to offer:

1. Silly Little Jean Moreau Fic 2. Etienne 3. Baby Jean 4. Needle AU

Feel free to send multiple asks btw!

Snippet from Chapter 6 of Silly Little Jean Moreau Fic below the cut:

“I’m scared.”

“Jean, there’s nothing to be scared of! It’s just mac’n’cheese, I make it all the time for the team and they've said nothing but good things.”

Jeremy had insisted on cooking for Jean that night, and although it had gone better than he’d expected based on the fact that the kitchen hadn't started on fire. “Why is it that color?”

“Jean, just try it!”

“How do I even eat it?”

“It doesn’t matter, just scoop up a few noodles and try it!”

Jean frowned at the gooey, brightly colored pasta abomination on the plate in front of him. He was pretty sure that saying that there was cheese in the dish that was in front of him was one of the most egregious lies he’d heard in his life. Was there a cheese shortage he hadn’t heard about that made access to real cheese unattainable? How could anyone look at something so aggressively orangey-yellow and think that it was real cheese? Still, Jeremy’s bright blue eyes were trained on him, making escape impossible by pinning him in place. 

With a sigh, Jean picked up his fork, stabbed a few of the poor noodles, and popped the helping into his mouth before he could overthink it. The flavor was less intense than the coloring implied, mostly coming across as a mixture of salty and creamy. He hated that he didn't mind it at all, or that he actually enjoyed it. 

Jeremy smirked across the table at Jean as he scooped his own forkful of the mac’n’cheese into his mouth. “Told you it's good,” he said after swallowing. 

Jean shrugged. “It’s alright.” 

Jeremy grinned, a lopsided, toothy grin that dimpled just one of Jeremy’s cheeks. “I knew you’d like it.” 

“So this is what you ate when you were a kid?” Jean said before scooping up another mouthful of mac’n’cheese. 

Jeremy nodded. “At least, this is what we ate when Daniel used to make dinner for us, when we were all little.”

“Daniel’s your older brother, right?”

“Yeah. Our parents worked weird shifts back then, so my grandparents took care of us when neither of my parents could make it home in time for dinner. Daniel kept asking them if he could help though. So once he was old enough, grandma let him help cook dinner every now and then. Mac’n’cheese was his go-to those days. He taught me to always make it with a few tablespoons of sour cream, actually.”

“What do your parents do for work?”

Jeremy ate a few forkfuls of the noodles before answering. “Well, back then my dad worked as a lab technician at a hospital while my mom was doing meteorology work for a local news channel. Nowadays they pretty much do the same thing, but now they have seniority and positions higher up. What about you? Any siblings?”

Jean was grateful that he’d eaten the last of his plate of mac'n'cheese before Jeremy spoke, or else his last bites would have felt and tasted like cardboard. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, trying to force himself to take a deep breath.

[jazzmckay]

tagged by @broodsys for this writer questionnaire uvu ty, i got really into this one. the deep jazz lore incoming <3

tagging @lyriumlullaby-ao3, @inscrutable-shadow, and @skadizzleross

copy and paste-able question list at the bottom of the post!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

says 88, but one is anonymous lol 89 babey

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

824,682

3. What fandoms do you write for?

dragon age currently, prior to that, detroit: become human. some witcher and RWBY mixed in. teen wolf, dishonored, red vs blue, homestuck back in the day, a couple other things.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Truth in Melody (witcher, geraskier)

The World Upside Down (dbh gen)

left an impression on my heart (teen wolf, scott/stiles. its over a decade old i am not linking this lol)

Variable Outcome (dbh, connor & gavin gen)

Winter Chill and Summer Bloom (dbh, connor/gavin)

5. Do you respond to comments?

absolutely! if i don't, it's only because the person is being a jerk or just uncomfortable. give me a heart emoji, you're getting a heart emoji right back. boop

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

i generally write happy endings, no matter how hellish the road to that happy endings is. i do, however, have a Bad End dbh oneshot. Fair Compensation. it's straight up non-con, and from aggressor pov, so viewer discretion is advised

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

gosh idk how i could pick. as i said in the previous answer, i try to leave off on a high note. Truth in Melody or perhaps Promises to Keep. wouldn't say they're happier than others, but they're among my longest fics, which means the characters had to go through some bullshit to get those happy endings lmfao

8. Do you get hate on fics?

a couple times. more often, i get weird / uncomfortable comments that i just ignore

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

i do! well, i'd say "kinky" tends to be a general theme ahahaha and feelsy! smut in my chaptered fics are more basic, the oneshots can be wild though. and then there's from the depths, an ancient song, where i wrote a foursome involving a LOT of tentacles. like a lot. so take that how you will.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

ive dabbled in ideas, but rarely get around to actually writing them. i do like the concept of smashing my favourite universes together, though. my dbh vampire series is basically just the lore of vampire: the masquerade, but i wouldn't consider it a full crossover

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i know of

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

i have! and a couple additional requests, one that i denied, and another that i agreed to but no result yet! still hoping <3

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

yes, for events. shout out to any of my buddies from the homestuck shipping olympics who see this :p can you BELIEVE how long it has been

roleplaying is also kinda like co-writing fics sometimes honestly. i've got some threads that have been ongoing for years and took a lot of plotting and planning together uvu

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

how dare u ask me this. this is nearly impossible aughh but i'm going to say corvo/daud from dishonored

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

basically anything from my favourite games and such that are nonetheless overshadowed by current hyperfixation. i'm forever sad that most of my many, many dishonored fic ideas were from a time when i chronically could not finish anything

16. What are your writing strengths?

i don't know, i'm bad at acknowledging good things about myself lol characterization, i suppose, that tends to be what i get the most lovely comments about <3

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

fluff, unless it's the resolution to angst lmfao i need to build up to it. drop me straight into a nothing scenario of fluff and i don't know what to DO. technical-wise, idk, descriptions i think

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

it certainly has its place and can be done well! but it's easy to mess it up, too. you need to make sure it's accurate and fitting for the scene, you need to avoid racist stereotyping, you need the story to still make sense and flow well. if the message isn't clear because most readers don't know the language, or have to keep looking it up / reading author notes, that's immersion-breaking imo. with fictional languages where much of the fanbase is familiar with the common words, though, no big deal i'd say

19. First fandom you wrote for?

honestly i think it was the cartoon, angry beavers lol i didn't know what's what i was doing, at the time. as far as serious, intentional stories, maybe firefly? or xmen?

20. Favorite fic you've written?

i cannot pick just one lol 4 is as low as ill go

previously linked Winter Chill and Summer Bloom: this is very hurt/comfort, my favourite thing, with a bunch of my other favourite things tossed in. touch-starvation, non-verbal character, characters getting away from the location of their suffering to heal in a better place, both physically and mentally, sweet slice of life stuff etc.

take these broken wings and learn to fly: more h/c! this one starts off heavy as hell and involves a lot of Process of Healing (to no ones surprise, at this point). healing has gotta be one of my favourite genders. also it's femslash.

Sight & Shadows: it's both plot- and character-driven, i'm happy with how i balanced both simultaneously. it's my vampire au, and other than the v:tm lore borrowing, it feels almost original to me. it's a rarepair, in an au--as niche as it gets, shaped a lot by the universe and story i put together for the whole series. it was a joy to create, because i truly did write this for ME. i wouldn't say any of my fics were written for others, per se, but i guess this one just felt different from the start. i wasn't anticipating an audience, i was just telling the story these characters needed, the way i like to do it. i had great friends supporting me through it, so i wasn't alone in the process or anything, it just felt the most like writing an original story than any of my other fics have

into the light of the dark black night: first of all, yes, 2/4 fics listed here are titled with lyrics from blackbird by the beatles. blackbird lyrics means intense feelings, that's just how it is. i've done it twice, and ill DO IT AGAIN. anyway, this one takes place in one of dbh's grimmest possible endings--the nuclear blast ending. i did a lot of research for this one, and also put a lot of thought into handling it with as much care as i think a concept like this requires. it's weighty, but hopeful. it has apocalypse elements, which i love. i got to do cyberpunky stuff as well. i added some of the elements i think dbh would have included if d@vid cage weren't a coward. i projected multiplicity onto some of the characters. i got to write north as the steadfast and successful leader of the revolution, as she deserves. blackbird fly <3

if you made it through all of that... thank you :>

and the template:

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

3. What fandoms do you write for?

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

5. Do you respond to comments?

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

8. Do you get hate on fics?

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

14. What's your all time favorite ship?

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

16. What are your writing strengths?

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

19. First fandom you wrote for?

20. Favorite fic you've written?

[subzeroparade]

💌 📡🕯️for the ask game please!

Also might I just say that I love your designs for the Byrgenwerth crew and Laurence, Ludwig, and Micolash in particular??? Your drawing style is absolutely fantastic :D

Thanks for the ask!

🕯️how do you think engaging with each other through tumblr, twitter, comments, kudos, creates healthy fandom experiences? How do you deal with that if you're not a social person/experience social anxiety?

So turns out there’s two candle emojis on this list??? I’m going to choose this one because the answer to the other one is just no and no because I love writing and I’m a meticulous planner lmao. 

I’m pretty low-key irl so engaging with folks over art and writing in fandom in ideal for me. I’m not the type to be vocal on a discord server but I love the time consecrated to looking at other people’s works, indulging in their headcanons, etc. I’m also old enough to know how to curate my own internet experience, and so have never had to deal with any unpleasant fandom drama (10/10 would recommend).

I would like to be better at leaving comments, especially on AO3, where there are some excellent works that are just woefully under-appreciated (probably because of AO3’s more general audience). I’d like to be better at engaging with those works to show my appreciation. 

📡why is writing and sharing your writing important for fandom?

I think it can double as dialogue and creative exchange - so more than just a healthy indulgence. Everyone is chasing that feeling of “ugh this piece of art makes me feel all the things” and I want to try give as much as I get in return.  

💌share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

I have no major working WIPs right now worth sharing tbh, so I took this earlier today as a little prompt/spontaneous writing exercise and extracted a bit from Litanies for 2k words worth of an “extra” scene. 

Title: Foxglove Rating: G Characters: Gehrman & Laurence Wordcount: 2k

Gehrman returns home to find Laurence digging through the dirt.

This will only really make sense for those who've read Litanies. It's extracted from this excerpt, in Gehrman's chapter:

I remember watching from afar, years ago, when he’d been the only soul willing to confirm a theory about the lake at the edge of Byrgenwerth’s grounds. The Prospectors had come across a veritable trove of seals that year, and Willem had begun to wonder if there weren’t perhaps hidden access points to the tombs obscured by the lake itself. No one knew how long the lake had been there or how exactly it had formed. The possibility that flooded passages to burial sites deep in the caves might be discovered and seized upon was suddenly at the forefront of our collective obsession. 

With all the bravado of a modest man with a death wish, he’d volunteered to go below. The scholars had outfitted him head to toe in watertight canvas and rubber, crowned by the diving suit’s great, bobbing head like a primitive carved idol with its single, staring eye. He’d spent twenty minutes walking along the lake bottom, getting as far as the cables allowed. When he re-emerged the scholars had crowded around him excitedly, given him no room to squeeze out of the suit and barely enough room to breathe. Once the glass and steel shell had been pried off his head, he’d only shrugged and told them solemnly that there was, "Nothing but silt, I’m afraid, and bulbous-faced fish with gaping mouths and silly stares, handsomer than the lot of you gawking at me now."

Only one scholar had laughed at that, a glint of copper in the sun. 

I enjoyed the concept so much I ran with a scene from the night before.

Foxglove

Gehrman returns home to find Laurence digging through the dirt.

Home is a generous word for what it is: four walls, some wood and some stone. A hearth in need of sweeping. A table with three working legs and a dubious fourth one. A bed, soft enough for his needs, softer than the hard stone floors of the labyrinths below Byrgenwerth. Outside, a sad little square of soil that doubles as a vegetable patch, where desperate, hardy things occasionally grow. Pails hung by the windows to collect rainwater. A stream for bathing, cluttered by cattails and hidden by high rushes and, past it, the path to the workshops, hard floors he’s made his bed on plenty of nights before. He’d like to sleep in his own bed, tonight. But first he needs to tend to the scholar rooting through his makeshift garden.

He walks up to the door and unlatches it. An old habit, the latch - useless here, deep in the forested paths of the academy grounds. It opens with a groan of protest.  

“I’ll be done in a moment,” comes the voice from the soil patch. Low, distracted, the sound travelling from a face that hasn’t looked up. 

Gehrman lays his overcoat across the back of one of two wooden chairs, pulled close to the hearth. He lights it, slowly, feeding it thin, dry logs at first; then any other detritus still lingering in his four square walls that he can afford to give up. Bones, most often, or scraps of parchment. A garment too worn to repair, or the nettle that grows insistently over the back windows of the little homestead. It reeks of something sharp and brackish when it burns. 

The floors are covered in the pelts of things he’s hunted on the outskirts of the grounds - beavers, mostly, though a fox or two and even a sable marten, which he’d used to make trimmings on Maria’s gloves and hat late last winter. A single wolf pelt is lain out by the fire - a beast separated from its pack, driven mad as much by starvation as by solitude. On an amber autumn night it had tried to take a student, and met its end in the muzzle of Gehrman’s pistol. He’d managed to save everything but its head. He does the tanning in the workshops to avoid the overwhelming stink from settling in his cottage for good.

Instead, the claustrophobic space smells like his little assortment of vices - poppy resin and tobacco, mainly; with notes of a bright, floral gin, which he’d been told was odourless but was certainly not. It tastes like red peppercorns and berries, with a hint of copper, laced with regret. 

He takes his pipe and tobacco pouch and steps outside into the fading light. Rounding the side of the cottage he treads across verdant, mossy things that release fragrant evidence of their decay. A few mushrooms pop their smooth, capped heads alluringly from the soil, a flash of white like bare flesh against black robes. Not edible, Maria had told him once. Not if you want to see tomorrow. He’d laughed, and she’d looked at him strangely. Gallows humour, he came to learn, made little sense to her.

Sidling up beside Laurence, he watches the last of the afternoon’s fading light travel down the scholar’s back. The anatomist’s knees are planted squarely in the dirt, legs folded under him. His sleeves are rolled up, white cuffs stained around the edges, and his suspenders hanging loosely in the dirt around his waist. He’s left his robes hanging by the door, in the same place where Gehrman hangs the nets of nettle and flax for catching fish in the generous stream nearby. He’s long since ceased trying to weave or patch them himself; not since Laurence began to do it for him with the quick, deft fingers of a surgeon used to sewing more than just plant fibres.

Laurence cuts and gathers the leaves and stems with the kind of methodical boredom of a practised hand. Not for the first time Gehrman wants to chase off the other man, to berate him for laying claim to what isn’t his, a clever little wild animal always rooting around for something more. Always taking, this creature of appetite.

Instead he knocks old cinders from his pipe and pats down the fresh mixture before charring the top. The tobacco is sweet, the quality fair - a rare indulgence he’s allowed himself. He doesn’t mind the telltale bitterness of poppy resin laced through it, the way it settles in his mouth after each breath. The hiss of the match fills the silence between them. He takes a few sips before speaking. 

“Does Maria know you’re here?”

He watches Laurence place the leaves meticulously in the square of his neckerchief, laid out in the dirt beside him. The red silk, wet at the edges, gleams like a pomegranate.

“No. I’ll thank her for these later.”

Gehrman does little for the soil patch himself. Maria cultivates it, when she comes around: her own private garden, her own little research supply. When Laurence comes he only takes from it, as he does with everything else around him. And Gehrman, patient as the white cliffs whittled away by the sea over aeons, does not stop him. 

He tamps the tobacco and relights the pipe. When he exhales, the smoke curls invitingly into the darkening air. “I’ve decided I’ll do it.”

Laurence stops and looks up at him. The soil under his fingernails hides the ever-present ink stains.

“The suit looks steady enough,” Gehrman continues, under the weight of his gaze.“Watertight, the scholars told me, and reinforced with canvas. The helmet can withstand pressure much greater than the lake’s bottom.” 

“I know,” Laurence replies, turning back to the dirt. He lays marigold across the silk neckerchief. “I checked with the scholars myself.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Because I don’t trust it.” He tucks a strand of hair behind his ears with dirty fingers. “It’s a thing made by men. It’s fallible.”

Gehrman coughs through a smile. “But you trust the blades I sharpen in the workshop to keep you alive.”

Laurence brushes soil from a long, spindly valerian root. “A blade can kill a monster. It can’t defend against a lake.”

“No one else will go below.”

The scholar shrugs. “I’m sure they can find another fool with a death wish.”

 “Would you go?” Gehrman allows himself to press, chewing absentmindedly on the end of his pipe. “You want to know, don’t you? If there are more passages down there. Hidden ways into the tombs.”

Laurence opens his mouth, then closes it. Gehrman studies his expression, familiar enough after so many years of companionship. There’s something watchful about it - not animal wariness, but a sort of jaded watchfulness that speaks to a hurried, instinctive rush to action, held in check by the burden of consequence. He gathers some chickweed leaves gently in both hands and places them to the side before leaning back on his heels.

“I tried to talk Willem out of it, you know. But he wouldn’t hear me.” Something drifts languidly between them, long and iridescent, like a dragonfly. “Truthfully, I can’t understand why he still searches for seals. It’s been years. Eventually we will need to do something with the labyrinth relics. We’ve a cabinet of curiosities from the depths and very little practical research to show for it.”

“This will double my wages for the month,” Gehrman blurts. 

“A great consolation when you’re dead, I’m sure.”

Keep the garden in my absence, he wants to retort, but he doesn’t have the stomach for it now. The tombs took his father, and the tombs will take him. What use in pretending otherwise?

Laurence shifts on his knees, looks up at him through the last muted rays of daylight. Silently Gehrman refills the oil in the lantern that hangs from the roof’s shallow awning. The warm light ignites the copper in the scholar’s hair. 

Laurence plunges his hands back into the dirt, gaze focused on the vivid, bell-like blossoms of foxglove. “Who’s to accompany me on labyrinth expeditions, if you’re gone? Maria? She would push me down a well if no one were looking.”

“She would,” Gehrman concedes, his smile weary at the edges. “But you handled yourself well enough with a torch last time, if memory serves.”

Laurence scoffs at that, a disgruntled sound that matches his expression. They’d been separated for the first time, Gehrman remembers; someone had failed to leave the proper markers and they’d circled back, lost in the gloom, torches burning low. Gehrman had heard the scholars cry out in the same heartbeat he heard the bell - that malign silver sound he dreads on every descent. When he’d finally found them in the blackness they were at the mercy of a rat, all teeth and sinew and madness in its mouth - and Laurence, waving a torch with the kind of dogged indignation of a man who rebukes the reaper because he’s otherwise occupied.  

“Well enough that I almost set fire to the lot of us.” Laurence grabs a fistful of his own hair as if to make his point, cut just below his jaw, shorter than Gehrman ever remembers seeing it. 

“Aye.” The nauseating reek of burnt hair had made the rest of the blackened tunnels smell almost agreeable. 

He inhales deeply, tries to keep the taste of resin on his tongue. The foxglove blossoms look soft and inviting enough to caress in the pleasant glow. Laurence begins to fold the scarlet neckerchief on itself, carefully making sure not to crush the little trove of leaves and stems, delicate as vellum. Then, like an afterthought, he plucks a few leaves of mint and slips them into his sleeve.  

“Twenty minutes,” Gehrman says into the quiet hum of twilight. “Enough time to see what’s down there. No more.” 

Laurence looks at him with all the frankness of a fist to the face. “More than enough time to drown.”

Gehrman ignores this. “He’s looking for a Great One, isn’t he? Willem, I mean. Weren’t you the one to tell me water is a channel through which to commune?”

“It’s only a theory.” Laurence pulls his suspenders back over his shoulders and gathers the little bundle of silk in one hand. He extends the other to Gehrman. “And I sincerely doubt you’ll find a Great One waiting for you at the bottom of the lake.” 

Gehrman takes his hand and pulls the smaller man to his feet. “What if I do? I’ve heard it said the gods are merciful, if you can get their attention. Sympathetic, or suchlike, to our dull little existence.”

“Gods help me, Gehrman, do you believe every fanciful thing scholars tell you?” 

Gehrman’s chuckle rolls from his throat in thick puffs of smoke. “Only the ones I hear from you.” He lets go of Laurence and removes his hat, brushes the wild tufts of hair back from his cheeks and forehead, then puts the hat back on. “Will you come in and have a drink to my last night on earth?”

He watches Laurence chew the edge of a mint leaf thoughtfully. He turns away to spit the leftovers, then wipes the flecks of green from his mouth. His fingers linger over his lips. 

“Can I talk you out of it?”

“No, silver tongue. You can let me smoke my pipe in blessed silence." Laurence flashes a smile. The tight one, the one that shows his chagrin at the corners. Then he reaches into his trouser pockets and pulls out two coins. Gehrman catches their surface only faintly in the dim firelight. Old Yharnam silvers, from the looks of them. 

Without a word, Laurence takes Gehrman’s hand, lays the coins in his palm and closes his fingers. His expression doesn’t change. 

“If something happens, I won’t be the one to bury you.”

Gehrman makes his own face very still so that Laurence will not see the bitterness there. But Laurence only ever sees what he wants to see.

“And if you don’t drown, you can use them to buy something other than that vile gin you insist on serving me.” 

Gehrman dims the lantern and lets the night air chase the spectre of death from his face. 

“Come inside.”