#duct tape fic

[knotwerk]

so comfort fic is a thing, but i feel like there is also like. duct tape fic. fic that held you together while Shit Was Going Down

and you never know what that fic is gonna be! rarepair omegaverse hatefuck? sure. bubblegum-sweet General Audiences OTP meetcute? yup. 200k slow burn friends to lovers pining while fucking? let's goooo

sometimes it's the fic that you've had open in a tab forever. sometimes it's the fic that showed up in your email 5 minutes ago because author subscription. sometimes it's the crack fic your gc didn't actually rec so much as mention in a deranged conversation about vore

any fic can be a duct tape fic. including your own

which is to say: thank you for writing! it matters.

[greenfrogartist]

Been a while since I’ve drawn anything but guess what

A fanart! For the fic “Missing”by @zoiaeras !

Honestly it’s more of how I imagine Peter’s design to be rather than a fanart, cause usually when I do a fanart I either draw a scene or as I’ve lately been doing draw what I imagine the cover would look like (to be fair I kinda drew the breakfast scene? )

So this is more like a very small character sheets?? And the design is wrong a bit (his hair is supposed to be a bit longer but I only ingrained the choppy hair part)

Tried to keep the blue and red of his spidey suit in, but darker and paler to show the effects Gotham had on him

Honestly the fic is amazing! and the pacing is a chef kiss, and the comedy is on point for me and what I love the most about this is that it’s doing other stuff rather than just sticking to the norm of peter - Gotham crossover

Other characters are present, there is a plot being made and the characterization makes sense for the life the characters lived, and we’re even out of Gotham and introducing other superheroes to the plot like Superman and the flash and also villains like lex Luther

And what’s fun about this fic is that currently, the strongest thing Peter have is his brain, but he is still stupid outside of building stuff (I love this adorable bean)

My most favorite thing about it is probably the plot point and that things are actually happening with consequences to them that change the status que of the fic

The fic feels like a never stopping train wreck about to happen and I’m so excited to see just how big the crash will be and how sharp the debris left of it are

Honestly I can go on and on about this fic forever but that’s mean more spoiler which is a big no no

Just know that if you want a dc x peter crossover, with more justice league characters in it, this is the fic for you

[hope-was-a-disquieting-thing]

Neil: Wait, you can't kill me! I have a husband!

Kidnapper: And what makes you think I care about that?

Neil: Oh no this isn't a plea for mercy. It's a warning.

Kidnapper: Wha-

Andrew *breaking down the door, knives in hand looking marginally pissed*: Neil.

Neil: Oooh, you're in trouble now.

Andrew: Bold of you to assume I'm here for him. I warned you what would happen if you got kidnapped again junkie.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Resurface 22 - Rescue

What went before

In which 11 year old Scott’s physics and construction methods are put under a little strain…

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“Helmet on, Scotty!”

Scott paused mid-clamber into the kayak and came back to take his his cycle helmet from Virgil, fastening it on before giving a big thumbs up. Virgil tried to tighten the strap under his own chin but his hands were sweaty and clumsy and he was relieved when Scotty’s long nimble fingers appeared and made it just right. Scott knocked gently on the top of the helmet just like Dad always did and they both chanted “Use your head - Use a helmet.”

As his brother climbed into the seat at the front the flying machine wobbled alarmingly. Virgil wondered if it might have been better to have launched from a flatter part of the roof but… well Scott said it had to be high and this was the highest bit. Too late now.

“Ok, can you steady her for me?”

Virgil nodded. Then squeaked a “yes” as he realised Scott was looking elsewhere. He clutched the back edge of the kayak and pushed downwards using his own weight to counter his brother’s. He glanced at the safety line wrapped around the chimney and secured with a tumble hitch knot - luckily that was a knot he did know and so he knew how to quickly release it when Scotty gave him the signal. Not yet though, he’d need to be in the boat first.

A crescendo of whining filled his ears as Scott started the lead drone and the rest of the swarm picked up the signal and followed. Sure enough the nose of the kayak lifted slightly into the air, so instead of pointing straight down the pitch of the roof it now looked off into the distance.

Maybe the math did work after all?

Scott looked back at him, eyes aflame with excitement. Virgil couldn’t help grinning back - they were going to do this! At his brother’s nod he climbed carefully into the back of the kayak, and settled into the seat, bracing his feet against the footrest and his knees against the sides.

Scott looked back and gave him a nearly-actual-wink “Ready First Officer Virgie?”

“Ready Captain Scott!”

Scott twisted back to face the front and stuck three fingers in the air, then two, one… he swooshed his hand downwards and Virgil pulled on the working end of the knot and it unravelled, smooth as anything.

The flying machine jolted forwards and downwards and Virgil’s stomach jumped into his neck but then the front wobbled back up again as the drones increased their intensity to fight the sudden pull of gravity. He could feel the part of the kayak immediately under his bottom go thud-thud-thudthudthudthud down the ridges of the tiles until it stopped halfway. The drones strained as Scott increased the power and pushed them forward as well as up and there was a tugging feeing which made Virgil wonder whether the flying machine was trying to escape from the claws of a monster.

Then there was a crack which made him jump and then a tearing noise and the machine slid forwards suddenly, but one of the wings stayed behind and everything tilted sideways. The drones were swaying wildly, all terrifying spinning blades and their pitch raised up another notch to frantic and it filled Virgil’s head with stinging fuzz. He couldn’t help squealing in fear but that was nothing compared to the howl of pain and horror from in front of him.

Without even thinking he dived forward and wrapped his arms around Scott’s waist just as the kayak flipped over and dumped Virgil on the roof tiles. His legs were trapped beneath it. His arms and neck and back and every muscle in him screamed at the sudden strain and he couldn’t work out why but just squeezed his eyes shut and held on tight because as long as they were together it would be alright.

The outer edge of the gutter was pressing into his cheek and Virgil fought against the relentless monster that was trying to pull Scott away from him.

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[dipplinduo]

Yet another hilarious interaction between Kieran and Sourdough made by Farfetch'd. Yes.... I'm going to need you to make it so that Kieran uses a fire extinguisher on ol' Sourdough. And, consider this, afterwards Juliana walks in and sees that the whole room is covered in foam.

(Context: @kekstala's fanart)

Okay but no you don't understand the macho match/Applin dynamic fanarts always give me so much life and inspiration LOOOOOL I am always open to suggestions about any of them (in any dynamic between Kieran, Juliana, & Sweet & Sour Applin). And as usual, Kekstala kills it xD

[spinobsessed]

I watched the first episode of The Owl House when it was uploaded on YouTube. I remember when the only fanart was deviant art kink kind of stuff. I remember when the only fanfics were on deviant art and ff.net. I remember when everyone started shipping Lumity and making theories as the first season ended. I remember when the Golden Guard became a thing and how he took the fandom by storm. My greatest pride was that I was there to witness a fandom rise and slowly fall

[goldeneyedgirl]

TwiFicmas23 Day 12: Jar of Hearts (All or Nothing)

Happy Christmas Eve!

Today, despite my best-laid plans, is a section from Jar of Hearts as a preview for the upcoming chapter. Yes, it should be the whole chapter, but recent developments have had me contemplating things and making some adjustments to how JoH ends; plus this chapter might need some scenes from Seth and Alice to mix things up. I'm undecided.

Honestly, it was either a JoH snippet or some deleted VS scenes tonight, and Anon made the decision for me ;)

So I hope you enjoy this - another year of Ficmas over, and I have no idea how we made it this far! Happy Holidays everyone!

eight. all or nothing

The truth is that Emmett never saw any kind of war.

He was born right before America joined World War One and was a vampire before World War Two. There had been the shadow of the Great War over his childhood, from what he remembered, but it had always been something tucked away to the side. It hadn’t touched his family specifically; they had been simple people, focused on working hard, putting food on their table, and keeping a roof over their heads.

And then he was gone before World War Two was a worry his parents would talk about in hushed voices (that memory is solid; the hum of his parents’ voices in the next room talking over the big things, the scary things that might actually come for the McCarty boys, as he drifted off to sleep next to his brothers.)

It was one of the few things that he had in common with Carlisle - and even then, Carlisle had seen battles as a medic. Edward had been dazzled by the glamour of World War One before his death, and Jasper… well, it was Jasper. His brother had been fighting one war or another his entire life - and death. 

The closest Emmett ever come to war? That had been the debacle with Victoria. And he wasn’t so arrogant that he believed that it came anywhere near what an actual war was. He remembers the news stories through World War 2, through Korea and Vietnam. He remembers seeing Carlisle’s grim expression, watching Jasper leave the room before the remote landed on the couch next to him, before the news pages settled. He’s never envied his brother his role on the front lines, never really examined how that missing piece separates him from his brothers and Carlisle. It was just one of those things that weren’t part of his human life, and that couldn’t ever really be recaptured.

But this…

This is a war. This is being right in the middle of the trenches with fucking lizard people and aliens charging at him with no sense of self-preservation.  This is not knowing if the movement behind him is friend or foe or someone dying in the mud. This is having foreign blood dry wet and ice cold against his face and sometimes it smells good and other times it smells like rot and death; in not being able to see Alice or Seth in the blur of bodies and movement.

It’s watching a woman in a leather jacket beat the ever loving shit out of an alien for crushing her flask underfoot, and a broad black guy take a bone-shattering punch to the jaw and not even flinch. It’s realising that this is not the time to pull punches or worry about hiding what he is - these people are like them. It’s a weird feeling made weirder by how isolated the last five years have been.

(It’s killing the first alien in two moves and not feeling anything except disgust and impatience because this battle is the only thing standing between him and Rose.) 

//

It feels wrong to admit it, but it’s fucking exhilarating to throw a punch and shatter these monster-alien things. To not hold anything back, to move exactly how he was designed to. More than one hero is caught unaware by his speed; he saves two Wakandan warriors simply by being faster than they are - a crude but effective solution. 

//

It’s hard enough to get across the mud-slick the battlefield has become without running into another alien, another fighter. He hardly recognises half of these people, but more than one he saves from a killing blow - a big-eyed alien girl whose face lights up as he snaps the spine of the alien looming over her. She reminds him of Alice, when she first arrived back in the 50s. But he doesn’t pause, his eyes sliding over the battlefield looking for Alice or Seth, and mentally cursing himself out for not realising that all-black outfits would not be helpful in a battle situation. He should have insisted on reflective racing stripes or something. 

Next time.

(Wait, no. There would never be a next time, a need for fighting ensembles and funny little vests for Seth with reflective panels because they would never find themselves in a fight like this again. That was a promise he was making to himself - for himself.)

And that’s when he finally spots Seth, mud-slicked but alive. 

“No, no, no,” he’s already moving when understands what he’s seeing. wolf Seth, who is no small opponent (last summer, when they’d been bored… well, the short story is that in his wolf-form, Seth weighed double of what Alice did) - is somehow tangling with three aliens, with Thanos looming behind like the shadow of death, his eyes firmly on Seth.

There was no fucking way that the giant purple asshole was laying one goddamn hand on Seth whilst Emmett still had venom in his veins and his head. 

He sees Alice lunging across the battlefield from the opposite direction, her eyes focused fully on the potentially disastrous scene before them. 

“HE’S A FUCKING KID,” Emmett hollers pointlessly, but Seth surprises both him and Alice as he takes the arm clean off an alien, the limb cracking into pieces under the force of Seth’s jaws, before darting with a swiftness that wasn’t expected heading towards Alice before Thanos could move against him. And Alice is there, giving Seth cover to run into the crowd, Thanos giving her a dark look. 

“Watch out, man!” someone yells from above, and he looks up but makes the mistake. A snake-like alien strikes, a blow that shakes him to his bones and before he can use his momentum against the monster, he’s hauled across the battle field to land flat on his back in the mud, his left arm torn off and venom pouring from the wound. The pain is sharp and alive as he reorientates himself - it’s been decades since he lost anything more significant than a finger, and it always makes his head spin (he has no idea how Jasper managed to survive entire campaigns in the south, because he can’t even sit up). 

The alien is laughing at him, mocking him, as his broken arm is discarded in a pile of rubble (still twitching, ugh. No matter how many times he does loose fingers, toes, entire limbs, the twitching never stops being messed up). Thanos smirks but has already turned away from them, to venture deeper into the battlefield. 

Leave Alice and Seth alone. Fuck, Alice, keep Seth out of trouble, please. 

Two horrified superheroes that he doesn’t recognise are staring at him in complete horror, probably expecting him to bleed out - this should be a death sentence, and there’s no way to do triage in this mess. He’s seen a lot of bodies on their side drop in the mud with wounds that could be treated in any other circumstance, but here and now, they get to die in the mud because no one has the time or the supplies or the place to save them. The entire world outweighs saving one bleeding warrior. It’s unfair, but it’s how this has to happen. 

He’s oddly pissed off about the arm, honestly - it fucking hurts. He’d been less mad about the time that Peter took his right leg, honestly. This felt like a matter of honour. 

“Pay attention Emmett!” Alice says as she tears past - her jacket is long gone, and her arms are luminous white in the dull light - and offering no help; she’s clearly got a target in mind as she ducks and weaves out of sight. He scowls at her departing back as he scrambles back to his feet, eyes locked on the alien. 

“Nice move,” he says conversationally as he approaches the alien, who is beyond irritated he’s still moving. “Unluckily for you, this isn’t my first rodeo.”

(Jasper would be proud, he likes to think. Will be proud. More than sixty years of wrestling, play-fighting, and training, and he’s ready. This might not be the Southern Wars - down in Monterrey, they don’t go down as easy as these hydrostatic skeleton bug aliens - but Emmett was trained by the goddamn best.)

It takes three moves - punch, trip, stomp - to have the alien crushed at his feet, eyes dull and dead, and he has to stop himself from shredding the corpse  to burn out of habit. It’s an efficient kill, and then he’s moving quickly towards his discarded arm - ugh, still twitching. 

“Hey, you need to sit down, we’ll get you out of here.”

The man in front of him isn’t recognisable at first. Shaggy brown hair hangs in his face, and he’s swathed in Kevlar. It’s the arm, the once-silver left arm that allows Emmett to identity the man - Bucky Barnes. Cap’s best friend. The legendary marksman. 

“It looks worse than it is, Sergeant Barnes,” Emmett manages as he reaches out for his broken arm. “Just need it to reconnect fast.”

Sergeant Barnes isn’t expecting Emmett to be lucid, or for his arm to line up roughly in the joint; he covers Emmett’s back for the precious moments it takes for his body to recognise and reattach the join sending a shower of warmth and sparks down to his fingers. 

“Fuck, I hate that feeling,” Emmett mutters, flexing his fingers. 

//

Alice is with the Scarlet Witch, and that oddly makes him tense up in worry. But the Witch has Thanos trapped good, so he shouldn’t worry. Just keep taking out aliens, just keep everyone busy whilst smarter people deal with the goddamn glove. 

Alice looks positively hateful in that moment, glaring at Thanos as the Witch restrains him and maybe... maybe they've got him...

And then the Witch and Alice go flying as the world churns up in fire and smoke and Emmett needs to know his sister is okay.

[sombreset]

:3

[gay-jesus-probably]

true suffering is working on outlining a fic and having a sudden flash of inspiration for something that is incredibly mean for the readers but works perfectly in the plot and then you realize that you can't just tell someone about your incredible idea with no context, you've got to actually write the whole damn fic for that one part to have any emotional impact.

anyways earlier today I had to scramble out of the shower to grab my phone and make a note (i have ADHD so speed is of the essence when it comes to recording these ideas), and the only thing that note said was, and i quote, "im killing that fucking horse". don't worry about what the fic is, or what fandom its for. just know that of my many WIPs, in at least one of them. i'm killing that fucking horse.

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan tries to set the Commander up with Lady Samient.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,893. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 15: Lady Samient's Gambit

Dorian was all too eager to assist with the plan.

Trevelyan had assumed she might owe him some great debt afterwards. No. He agreed to it, no questions asked. He would tell the Commander to meet for a chess match in the morning, and was quite glad to not actually have to show up.

His only request? “I want to know what happens.”

Well, at least he was entertained.

With his guarantee of the Commander’s presence, Trevelyan sought out the Ladies. She interrupted morning tea to tell them, “Our scheme can commence!”

Together, they headed for the garden, to lay their scene out perfectly. Lady Erridge would sit at the little tea table, an eager hopeful introduced to the wondrous world of chess. Lady Samient would be opposite, passing the time by instructing Erridge—and thereby showcasing her own talents. Lady Trevelyan would act as scout, and scour their surroundings for any sign of a fur-caped man.

But as the Commander was nowhere to be seen as of yet—for they had made certain to be early—she had time to watch the Ladies’ game.

“Knights-Templar move like this,” Samient taught Erridge, who apparently did not even know how the pieces could behave. Indeed, she had confessed that when she played with her Lady Orroat, the pieces had moved ‘simply as they wished’.

“They can jump?” Erridge asked.

“Over cavalry. Not over anything of higher authority.”

“That makes sense, I suppose. You would not wish Templars to be leaping over empresses!”

Speaking of which—Trevelyan glanced up, and checked their surroundings.

No sign of the Commander yet.

“How did you learn to play, Lady Samient?” Erridge asked, as they reset the board. “You had the best tutors, I expect.”

Samient scoffed. “My tutors were fools—both in manner and education. My father sent them away and taught me most of what I know himself. Except chess. That I was taught only a year or so ago, by one of our staff. He was better at the game than every tutor I ever had.”

Trevelyan noted the barest hint of a smile on Lady Samient’s face—though it was unlike her usual smirk of amusement. It was quite genuine.

“‘Was’?” repeated Trevelyan.

Samient’s smile dropped, and then morphed into a noblewoman’s laugh, all within a second. “He’s alive, I believe. But no longer working in our stables.”

Oh. “Oh.”

“Anyway. Lady Erridge, I shall teach you some opening moves.”

First, it seemed, was the ‘forward march’. Trevelyan had learnt that one herself in the Circle. Basic start, good for children, easy to memorise—though it was even easier to counter.

Erridge might have learnt just how, were she paying any attention to the board. But her eyes were off in another direction entirely.

“Ladies,” she whispered excitedly, “he’s here!”

Trevelyan had made a terrible scout. For she looked up on Erridge’s exclamation, and saw the Commander heading towards them.

Not entirely purposefully, of course. Had he actually seen them there, then he would have likely turned tail and run already. No, quite fortunately, the Commander was not one to waste a second of time he could be working, and spent his walk with his face buried in a report.

Trevelyan gestured for the Ladies to continue their game, and straightened herself. Though she had failed her responsibility to spot him, she would not fail in her responsibility to keep him there.

The Commander finally looked up. Poor thing, he was like a deer caught in a hunter’s sights. His look of surprise and confusion had Trevelyan feeling a little guilty, that she had allowed the Ladies to breach what seemed to be one of his few (or only) recreations—but she quashed it down, for now.

“Commander!” she called, beckoning him the last few steps. “What brings you here?”

His face resolved a little when she spoke. “I, ah, had come to play with Dorian… but, if he’s not here, and you’re using…”

Lady Erridge cut him off: “Oh, we can move if you like, Commander! It would be no trouble.”

“Of course,” Trevelyan agreed. “Do forgive me, Commander. Now I know the board is here, I thought the Ladies and I might play.”

“You are welcome to use it,” the Commander told her. Trevelyan laughed.

“I was not asking your permission, Commander.”

He smiled. “Naturally. You do work with Dagna, after all. Not asking permission is a preqrequisite for the position, I expect.”

She chuckled, and almost forgot herself. But, no—he was ripe for the picking. Their conversation had settled him considerably, now was the moment to ask him to stay.

Yet his eyes slipped away before she could, to glance at the other two Ladies nearby. His comfort evaporated.

“Well”—he cleared his throat—“if Dorian isn’t here, then I should be on my way. I have things to do.”

Trevelyan opened her mouth to object, but Lady Samient spoke first:

“Stay, Commander. Perhaps you could be of assistance.” She finished her move, and met his gaze. “I am teaching Lady Erridge, and Lady Trevelyan spoke very highly of your skill yesterday evening. You have some valuable input, no doubt.”

“Oh.” The Commander rubbed at the back of his neck. “I see. I suppose I could stay a few minutes.”

Lady Samient’s praise was inspired. He stepped willingly towards the table, to watch over the board. Trevelyan stood opposite.

“Where were we?” said Samient. “Ah, yes. Block my advance on the left.”

Erridge’s eyes widened. “What advance?”

Samient pointed to her chanter, which was angled to pass right through Lady Erridge’s cavalry line—to where her empress waited.

Lady Erridge gasped, and scrambled to action. Yet as soon her piece was selected, and hoisted above its fellows, some crisis of confidence shattered her. In hope of assistance, she glanced at Samient—whose impassive face lent her no aid. Erridge’s gaze fled back to the board, but must have caught sight of the Commander’s presence in her periphery. Meek, she looked to him.

Though he did not meet her eye, he nodded. Erridge moved the cavalry. Samient withdrew her chanter.

Trevelyan felt in the air a collective sigh from the soldiers of West Coldon, as their heir apparent gained her first knowledge of military strategy. The advance was halted, and all without conceding a single greater piece.

Lady Samient, of course, still won the game, but it wasn’t there for Erridge to win. Lessons sometimes required losses.

They reset the board, all the same. The Commander straightened.

“It seems you will do well enough without me,” he said. “Lady Samient, you teach well. Though, if you wish to win the next match, Lady Erridge, you ought to attack her castles early. She over-relies on them.”

Lady Samient placed down the piece she held, and looked—slowly—to the Commander. “Excuse me?”

“You asked my input.”

“For Lady Erridge, not myself. I over-relied on my castles for the sake of the lesson. Were I to play someone of your fabled calibre, Commander”—she leant toward him, eyes sharpening—“I should play quite differently.”

Lady Erridge applauded. “That sounds like a challenge to me!”

But the Commander shied away. “No, no,” he said, beginning to withdraw, “I need to return to work.”

Trevelyan stopped him with four words:

“Afraid you’ll lose, Commander?”

He halted. His shoulders rose as bravado filled and puffed out his chest; a hint of a smirk pulled at his mouth, no matter how he suppressed it. “Hardly.”

“But what could have sent you into such a retreat, except the fear that your sweet little winning streak would quite easily be annihilated? For I have seen both you and Lady Samient play, and I know whom I would expect to win.”

He did not reply, not with words. He instead returned to the table, and took the seat that Lady Erridge hurriedly vacated. His hand gestured towards the board.

“Play.”

Lady Samient smiled, all too glad to oblige.

The displaced Lady Erridge pressed herself against Trevelyan’s side, gripping her arm. “Oh, this is to be spectacular!” she whispered. “Will you tell me what is happening, so I don’t get lost?”

Trevelyan nodded. “Of course.”

The game began. As if taunting him, Lady Samient made her opening salvo the first step of the ‘forward march’. The Commander ignored it, and set up a play across the hexes.

“He is not countering her opening gambit,” Trevelyan murmured to Erridge.

“Why not?” asked Erridge.

“I am unsure. But let us be generous, and assume it is purposeful.”

Trevelyan did not know whether or not the Commander heard the comment—though he certainly did lean into the board when she said it.

Their next few turns passed by with little thrill. Lady Samient switched to a different tactic that Trevelyan did not quite recognise, and the Commander continued to prepare his own. Cavalry were taken, where they got in the others’ way. But the greatest thing of note was the capture of the Commander’s chanter.

“One down,” commented Samient.

“Yes,” replied the Commander, preparing his next advance, “one.”

Ah, witty badinage! Exactly what Trevelyan had hoped would spring forth from this encounter. The Commander had seemed to appreciate that sort of thing with her; it would make an excellent building block for the other Ladies’ relationships with him, too.

And yet the match, so struck, went out again in a flash. They returned to playing in near-silence, with the most spoken being Samient’s occasional, “Hm”. Trevelyan could quite understand silence for the sake of concentration, but concentration was not the point of this exercise.

“Interesting,” muttered Lady Samient, observing the Commander’s latest play.

He replied, at least: “So you say.”

But that was it! That was it? Maker, should another minute of this pass, Trevelyan (reluctant) resolved herself to intervene.

A minute later, she asked, “How do you find the Commander’s technique, Lady Samient?”

“Stuffy,” Samient replied. And then, instead of speaking to the Commander, she said to Trevelyan: “How do you find it, Lady Trevelyan, from where you stand?”

She huffed. “Well, I think… he relies too heavily on his castles.”

This evoked a little laugh from Samient, and a smile cracked in the concentrated exterior of the Commander. Yet it did not generate the discussion she had hoped.

Back to silence it was, then! Trevelyan described what she could to Lady Erridge, quietly, so as not to disturb the lack of conversation. Samient sacrificed a Knight-Templar to take the Commander’s other chanter. Got one of his castles, too. And from what Trevelyan could tell, she was driving his empress towards ambush.

Lady Erridge whispered, “Who is winning?”

“Lady Samient,” Trevelyan answered.

“Not yet,” the Commander replied.

Trevelyan glanced at him, and found his stare upon her; challenging her. She responded, “Is it not the mark of a good commander to know when to retreat?”

“Yes,” said he, flexing against the frame of his chair, “and when it is time for Lady Samient to do so, I will inform her.”

Lady Erridge’s grip on Trevelyan’s arm tightened. Trevelyan tore her eyes away from the Commander, to check for swooning. But Erridge’s fluttery heart appeared to be surviving. For now.

Lady Samient, meanwhile, laughed. “Worry not, Commander,” she purred, “we may play as long as you like.”

And like a fly into her web, he took that invitation.

Which was foolish, frankly. Really, Trevelyan was quite unsure that this arrogant streak was good for the Commander. Perhaps there was some possibility of salvaging this game—but with the skill of Lady Samient taken into consideration, what laid out ahead of him was a long road of attrition, leading only to defeat. He was surely competent enough to realise that. Yet some bloody-mindedness within him had him clinging on to this crumbling cliff edge with an errant kind of hope that he would pull himself back up.

Of course, Lady Samient’s trap soon sprung, and the Commander’s empress was taken. Samient’s, now free to move as it pleased, began its hunt of his other pieces. She wasn’t even going for his emperor—she was prolonging this.

And perhaps he was, too.

“What’s happening?” asked Erridge. “You look concerned.”

It was then that Trevelyan realised she was so invested, she had lapsed in her description of the match. “Oh, well—the Commander is… attempting to outpace death, I would say.”

“Oh my!”

And he yet continued—took Lady Samient’s last Knight-Templar with his own. The gambit put his in direct danger, but also in contention with Samient’s emperor, which allowed him to say:

“Check.”

“You are dogged, Commander,” Lady Samient responded, unfazed. She captured the Knight-Templar, barely looking at the board as she did. “Trying to impress?”

“No,” he replied, “trying to win.”

“You are?”

The Commander ignored this comment, for the sake of contemplating his strategy. Trevelyan did much the same. Perhaps Lady Samient had the right of it. Perhaps this determination of his was not folly, but intentional. Perhaps he did not wish to admit it, but he really was attempting to impress.

And that was why it had been a game of so few words, for the Commander communicated through action. He was not truly seeking victory; he knew this road led only to loss. But in continuing to play, he put on quite the show. This resolve, this perseverance—Trevelyan could see how one might find it quite… attractive. Especially in the relation to the pursuit of oneself.

How lovely for Lady Samient.

Movement caught her eye. The Commander had selected his champion. A steady hand slid this piece across the hexes—but the tip of his finger brushed past another. His emperor.

The feather-touch was enough to make it tremble. But it did not fall. Fortunate. Such would have been a... humiliating mode of defeat, for a man already clinging to the last shreds of his dominance. But his hand withdrew, and tensed into a fist by his side. The leather of his glove groaned.

“Check,” said Lady Samient.

The faded ambience of the garden returned, full-volume, to Trevelyan; Samient’s voice had roused her from whatever trance she had suddenly been afflicted by. Her eyes took note of the battlefield before her, and saw that Samient’s empress had indeed marched in that lost time, and was staring down the Commander’s emperor.

He had it make its escape. But Samient chased it down.

“Check,” she repeated.

The Commander moved again; a cavalryman became fodder for his defence.

Samient took it. “Check,” she told him. “How long would you like to do this for, Commander?”

He advanced, and she had her answer. Lady Samient chased him down once more.

“Check.”

“You could have had me there.”

“Yes,” said Samient, her voice turning to taunt: “but I want you to surrender.”

“Very well.”

The Commander laid his emperor down. The game was won. The audience applauded.

His hand reached across the table, to shake Lady Samient’s. “Well played,” he told her. “Lady Trevelyan spoke honestly of you.”

“And she of you. You are indeed a good tutor; I learnt a great deal from our game.”

Trevelyan ignored their compliments of her, to instead be pleased that they were, at least, speaking. And making physical contact!

“Will you stay for another, Commander?” she asked.

“Oh, please do!” seconded Erridge. “That was ever so englightening!”

But the Commander stood. “While I appreciated the game, I should return to work. Especially seeing as Dorian decided not to arrive.”

Long shot—Trevelyan was glad she’d tried regardless. “Very well; thank you for entertaining us. I do believe you played well, Commander—despite my commentary.”

He smiled. “Thank you, your Ladyship. Perhaps one day we will play.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, I suppose I had better… ah…”

He forwent the rest of his words, and chose to bow instead. With their reciprocal curtsies concluding matters, off he went, striding across the garden.

The door shut behind him. The Ladies looked at each other.

“That was brilliant!” Erridge sang. “My, he was handsome when he put on that cocky sort of tone. Lady Trevelyan, this was a most wonderful idea.”

“Thank you, but the credit must go to Lady Samient,” said Trevelyan. “You certainly impressed him with that display, quite understandably. I think he would not object to another invitation.”

“Thank you,” Lady Samient replied, fiddling with the empress in her hand. She placed it on its hex, and began to reset. “Come, Lady Erridge. Our schemes aside, I still want to teach you.”

“Oh, how lovely!” Erridge eagerly took her seat. “I should adore to take on the Commander as you did.”

“And I’m sure you will,” Trevelyan told her. “But I shall sadly have to leave you to it; I have work to do.”

The Ladies quite understood—the Baroness was always seeing to the affairs of Val Misrenne during the day, and Lady Trevelyan’s absences were much similar. As they waved her off, she said in parting: “Oh, and my congratulations on your victory, Lady Samient!”

Lady Erridge echoed the sentiment: “Yes, yes! I was so swept up in the excitement of it, I forgot to congratulate you as well, Lady Samient. You did terribly well; a deserved win!”

“Thank you,” replied Samient, back to toying with that empress. Her mind was elsewhere, contemplating a simple fact:

She had lost.

[alphacrone]

someone just went through one of my old series on ao3 and commented on every single fic 🥺

[cryptocism]

As someone who currently has their sneakers duct taped together I hope Thad has been maintaining that tape can't imagine superspeed makes it wear out any slower

his shoes are doing about as well as he is tbh

[misseffect]

what’s the flashpoints equivalent of this lewis ferrari insanity 😭 😭

phenomenal ask, thank you so much anon

it's a bit like if Shepard announced she was leaving Red Bull Normandy to drive for Ferrari Hierarchy. but thankfully she doesn't

we also have Garrus ditching Hierarchy after one (1) season to drive for Omega but he's just some rookie making a bizarre career move and not like. a seven time world champ

[0509-brainrot]

rattles the bars in my cage we need more 0509 writing we need more fics

[salchat]

“I’m just gonna get some stuff. You stay right there, boy, you hear me? No gettin’ up, and wandering off.”

Bobby’s grumbles retreated and Dean lay on his front on the couch and couldn’t stop shuddering and trembling. The fire was lit. The fireplace was hidden behind Bobby’s desk, but the wavy orange glow reflecting on the rows of books said there were definitely flames. He could go and sit in front of the fire, like he used to do with Sammy when they’d toast marshmallows, or things that Bobby hadn’t exactly authorised for toasting, but they’d do it anyway, just to see what worked. Cheese was okay as long as you didn’t wait too long and it slid off the stick. Pop tarts weren’t okay, and Dean had been convinced they’d be great, but they’d just burst into flames and fallen onto the carpet so that he’d had to stamp on them to put out the fire. The burnt, stained patch was still there.

The old fishing tackle box that Bobby kept his medical kit in was dumped in front of Dean’s face and there was a whoosh of cold air as the blanket lifted. Something warm and sloshy was tucked between him and the back of the couch and then Bobby pressed down on the cushion beneath him and tried to stuff another hot water bottle in the gap. It fell out and landed on the floor.

“Balls. Get in there, you varmint.”

The squishy warmth ended up tucked beneath his shoulder.

“That’ll have to do,” said Bobby.

Dean stopped shivering for a couple of seconds and then started up again. But there was warmth building up beneath the blanket, finally, and maybe it’d get through to Dean soon and his teeth would stop chattering.

Read on AO3

Read on ffn

[wutheringmights]

OH MY GOD gonna read the next chapter ASAP but here’s the question I was gonna ask before I saw the chapter update:

When you’re plotting, how do you decide which parts of the flashback story and present story go together in a chapter? I feel like I’ve been noticing some running themes/threads in the chapters thru-out the flashback and present and was wondering if that’s something u, like, plan to a T or just figure out naturally as u write or ??

I think you're giving me too much credit. I am not that meticulous lol

When planning the story, I picked a major story event in the flashback and present day to be in the same chapter to act as a the "syncing point." From there, I paced out both story lines so that the two storylines sync up where I need them too.

The running themes are a natural by-product of me writing one story line before jumping over to the other. Like, if I bring up the theme of forgiveness in one then it's already on my mind when I go in to write the other.

It also helps that both story lines are about Link/Warriors spiraling, so the vibes are already matching