#fic snippet meme

[hms-lurking-latinist]

METANARRATIVE AWARENESS FOR SURE!!! I am still so utterly insane about that idea

the people want metanarrative awareness! the people shall have it! five sentences of it at least!

(from this game - although it’s been a minute, I’d still take asks if you are curious about any of these!)

A bit of strategic thinking during Admiral:

He ought to have seen it long ago. How many of the changes in his life had been due to him—older, richer, reluctantly famous—and how many to the changing tastes and abilities of his author? Although he had spent so much of his life under command he hated the subordinate sound of that phrase, “his author.” He tried to imagine the man’s mind, as he would put himself in the shoes of an enemy captain he was preparing to attack, but he suspected the mind of a literary man was far more alien to him than that of any man he had ever fought. Looking back on his own life, Hornblower concluded there was only one thing he could be sure of about the author’s style, one narrative trick he was always falling back on. He must not merely hide his fondness for Spendlove from their captors. He must not feel it. The only safe thing to be was a minor character. Unmemorable. Hornblower was not sure what happened to such people, but he was certain it was better than what happened when a twist was required. He wished, with a sense of irony, that his aide had been called something more like Smith.

[novelconcepts]

96 with newly rescued taivan

96 - POV Outsider

The survivors are all strange. They communicate wordlessly more often than not, their voices low and animal. The way they're looking at the rescue team, you'd think they'd been approached at gunpoint, their peaceful home obliterated by interlopers. The way they're looking at the rescue team, you'd think they didn't want to be rescued at all.

They're all strange, but the strangest of them is the pair near the back. A redhead with horrible scars and a slim Black girl with hunted eyes. They stand shoulder to shoulder, their heads held high. Their hands are clasped, and when one of the team attempts to guide them apart--trying to search for apparent injury--they flinch. The redhead's lip snarls back from her teeth. The Black girl shakes her head, clenching her free hand into a fist.

You'd think they were in immediate danger, not coming out of it. You'd think they were standing at the cusp of some fresh hell, rather than being swaddled in blankets and coaxed onto a helicopter. Of course, maybe it's that last part sparking such fear; the last time any of these kids were in the air, their lives ended.

It's as good an explanation as anything, for how they nestle near to one another, leaving no gaps to be exploited. A scrawny girl with blonde edging the ragged ends of her hair sits at the very middle of the pack. On one side sits the boy with hollow eyes; on the other, the tallest girl, who does not so much as blink when offered a granola bar. She takes it, automatically tearing it into seven pieces. You'd think there weren't plenty more in the supply kit. You'd think she would see as much before dividing and offering up her snack to the others.

The two at the back, the redhead and the Black girl, stare at their pieces. Turn them over in the hands not currently knotted together. They look to each other; the redhead's mouth twists as if in amusement. The Black girl lowers her chin, eyes fluttering shut. They eat slowly, in tandem, never taking their eyes from one another's face. It's strange, how close they sit, practically nested in the same seat. It's strange, how--the food dutifully consumed--they strive to press even closer.

There's something about them. Something that transcends the easy friendship of other girls their age. Something larger, more expansive, obsessive. As if to break skin-to-skin contact is to welcome pain. As if to release the stark-knuckled grip they have on one another is to fall from this helicopter, to plummet into gravity's violent embrace.

You'd think they don't want this. You'd think they were happier where they were, a tiny, unlikely band of children playacting as explorers. You'd think whatever left those scars, hollowed out those eyes, built them into a wary, mistrustful hive was preferable to the strangers offering them salvation.

They are strange, the survivors, and perhaps they have every right to be. Even so, watching them is a haunting affair. The way they cling to one another. The way those two in particular strive to occupy a singular space. The way their hands interlock, interlace, an unbreakable chain.

You'd think they fear, more than anything, what might come next.

[fairandfatalasfair]

"Edwin can help" says Charles.

Crystal raises an eyebrow at him. He smiles sunnily.

"Edwin would sell me to Satan for one corn chip," she says.

Edwin, from his spot at the desk, lowers his book enough to give her a longsuffering look. "This feels like one of your obscure internet references," he says. He still says "internet" like the word doesn't belong in his mouth.

Crystal gives him a bland smile. "The internet isn't obscure," she says. "You just don't know anything about it because you're a million years old."

"One hundred twenty four," he says, because he's a pedantic little shit.

Charles is chuckling in the corner, because he has low tastes and thinks Edwin being a pedantic little shit is hilarious.

"At any rate," says Edwin crisply, "As a fugitive from hell, negotiating with Satan would hardly be in my best interests. Also, as a fugitive from hell, I have no interest in seeing anyone sent there unjustly, much less someone I have grown... attached to."

She feels her smile warm a little at that, and turns her head so that Edwin won't see. Love you too, Edwin.

"Finally," he concludes, "I am dead, with no need to eat, and therefor have no use for corn chips. This accusation does not make sense."

Crystal chokes at the affronted dignity in his voice, but pulls her expression back under control, only turning back to Edwin when she's sure she can look disdainful without her lips twitching. Charles dying of laughter in the corner isn't helping, but she manages.

"It's a meme," she says loftily.

Edwin's longsuffering expression turns pained. "Half the time, I am sure you are making these things up to aggravate me," he informs her.

She isn't, but only because the reality aggravates him plenty without any embellishment.

"Is it working?" she asks, and finally lets herself laugh when he picks up his book again and glares daggers at her over the top of it.

[velvetrambles]

I'm so sorry for this

[dapper-lil-arts]

i for one fucking adore the pony posting. keep doing your thing 👍

i got you. enjoy the finest cuisine ~

[meadowziplines]

ohh for the wip game - 😭 (i love angst)

one i've been reliably informed is destroying people's souls (not posted yet, but will have a hopeful ending). the google doc is titled "this time tomorrow || the rovers they sing"

The beginning of what might be the end starts when Hob tells Dream about Laika.  "She was just a stray they picked up off the streets and – she didn't know, Dream. She didn't know they weren't going to bring her home." Dream's eyes are starry, as they often are. A comet flashes by, appearing in first one eye, then the other. Hob doesn't know what he wants Dream to say. His otherworldly friend closes his eyes, then opens them. "The technicians preparing her for launch in the Sputnik 2 spacecraft kissed her goodbye."  [...] And here, at the National Air and Space Museum, Hob stands in front of an exhibit on Laika the dog, with Dream, lamenting the lost dog. Where Dream tells him about the technicians kissing Laika good-bye. The leaving. The good-byes in airports. "Is there something you want to tell me, duck?"  "Her name was also Kudryavka, Zhuchka, and Limonchik. One dog of many names."

ty for the ask c:

ask game post here

[birbleafs]

For Liz, because she enables all my Kavetham brainrot ideas lol 🔥 We were keysmashing on twitter 2 days ago about a True Love's Kiss AU, with my spin on unconventional love declarations/proposals + Kaveh's propensity for intrusive bad thoughts... and this edit happened. Dialogues here are all written by me this conversation sounded funnier in my head, sorry not sorry lol.

Copy-pasted details about our ramblings under cut for posterity:

True Love's Kiss AU, wherein Kaveh would rather travel the world, braving all the dangers of the wild and fighting monsters to search for Alhaitham's "true love/soul mate" than to face and accept his own real feelings for Alhaitham lol. Kaveh searches all corners of the world for weeks, all while reflecting over his complicated relationship with Alhaitham. But being no closer to finding an answer, he finally brings home someone he deems an ideal mate for Alhaitham—only to realise how he still simmers with the pain of envy, internal conflict, and a strange sense of loss when he sees the chosen mate getting along fairly well with Alhaitham over time. There and then at the altar, when Nahida begins reciting the marital rites, Kaveh suddenly comes to the realisation that Alhaitham has not looked at said chosen mate even once the moment the ceremony began. Instead, Alhaitham’s piercing teal gaze is fixed upon Kaveh’s the entire time—impassive, unreadable nearly to all present; but to Kaveh, the barely imperceptible tenderness, affection and deep yearning is mirrored and burning tenfold then in Alhaitham's expression, akin to that very same ache that's pulsing within Kaveh’s own heart. Unable to bear the weight of Alhaitham's unguarded gaze, Kaveh finally, finally realises that Alhaitham is his true love. He raises his hand and voice to halt the ceremony, already midway through apologizing to all present for his awful behaviour and the disruption when he suddenly realises that Alhaitham had also raised his hand at the same time as Kaveh to voice his own objection. Tl;dr they finally both accept their soulmateism, share true love's kiss and got married. The End.

[cerenemuxse]

God, i hate her so much smh /s

[sinvulkt]

Ce que l’Abbé ne savait pas, c’est qu’il y a une raison pour laquelle les templiers n’ont jamais dépensé leur argent. Une malédiction de l’ancienne magie repose sur cette ile : quiconque hérite du trésor en devient son gardien.

Edmond n’en savait rien non plus. Il vit, toutefois, un immense squelette reposant sur la fortune cachée. Quelques baleines purent avoir été déposées là par ses prédécesseurs, peut-être.

Au début, ce ne fut que quelques écailles parsemant sa peau. Rien du tout. Edmond les pris pour une quelconque maladie de peau. 

Puis, ce fut une obsession. Un besoin fréquent de retourner sur l'île. La brise était bonne, là- bas. Et sans doute pouvait-il allonger son passage vers l'Italie par un petit détour? S'arrêter vers le trésor n’était qu’une question de prudence, de vérifier que quelques voleurs ne s’étaient pas accaparé ses biens.

L’obsession tourna vite en avarice, comme les ongles d’Edmond s’allongeaient et ses doigts se recourbaient. Chaque sous dépensé pour sa vengeance était légèrement plus dur à donner. Chaque pièce mise a bien pour la machine bien huilé de son plan semblait comme une goutte de sang versé sur l’autel du sacrifice, et lui brisait le cœur.

Quelque beau jour de février, il passa, par chance, près d’un chaman, qui eut tôt fait de le mettre au courant de la malédiction. En effet, le destin de tout héritier de la fortune de Monte-Cristo était de se transformer en dragon, et sous cette apparence draconique, de garder pour toujours le trésor.

Le chaman lui donna force d’amulettes et de concoctions, mais le prévint: tant que le trésor existait, il ne pouvait que ralentir le mal.

La vengeance d’Edmond était désormais une course contre la montre.

Quand ses mains deviennent griffes, il se met à porter des gants. Quand ses pupilles se fendent, il prend l’habitude de lentilles. Dès qu’il peut, malgré la douleur qui lui en déchire la poitrine, il dilapide le trésor; dans le vain espoir d’en affaiblir la malédiction. Plus d’une fois, la providence se joue de lui, et Edmond se retrouve enrichi par les mêmes investissements qu’il avait fait pour perdre sa fortune. 

André et Haydé ont beau avoir été ignorants, ils sont loin d’etre stupide. Il ne leur faut que quelques années avant de finalement découvrir le secret du comte; bien qu’ils se gardent de le dire à ce dernier. Comment ne pas remarquer la chose, quand deux ailes immenses déchire le dos du comte, le stoppant en plein milieu de l’accomplissement de sa vengeance à Paris?

C’est l'inquiétude pour son mentor qui pousse André à reporter sa vengeance. Après tout, en prison, son père biologique forme une proie facile.

Au final, seule force de maquillage permet au comte de cacher les écailles recouvrant son visage, et d'apparaître humain pour le chapitre final de sa vengeance. Les jambes courbées du comte, camouflé sous son pantalon, rendent la marche difficile sans sa fidèle canne. Ses dents, aiguisées comme un carnivore, sont ce qui lui remporte la victoire contre Fernand.

Après cela, il sait que c’est la fin. Un cœur qui n’est pas vraiment le sien bas dans sa poitrine, et lui ordonne sans cesse et sans cesse de retourner sur l'île. Pour chaque seconde passée loin d’elle, sa raison le quitte.

Il leur laisse une lettre. Elle ne dit pas un mot de sa transformation, mais elle formule une requête. Elle demande a Haydé et André de se rendre sur l'île de Monte-Cristo, avec une armée s’il le faut, et d’y subjuguer un monstre. Elle leur demande, également, de jeter le reste du trésor à la mer, où il sera enfin oublié par l’Histoire.

Haydé et André ne font rien de cela. 

La créature, ils subjuguent, car il ne reste à Edmond que très peu de raison. Mais c’était suffisamment de raison pour les épargner, aussi, quand bien même il demande la mort, les jeunes gens l'épargnent à son tour. Ils ne peuvent le laisser aux prises de la malédiction, aussi, ils l’enferme, mais ce n’est que le temps d’affaiblir cette dernière.

L’or maudit, ils parsèment au quatre vents. Une bonne partie finit dans l’océan, sans doute, mais dans tous les océans du monde, suite aux dangers du milieu marin qui font si souvent couler les bateaux. Le reste, ils échangent, ils négocient, ils jettent. Ils finissent ce qu’Edmond avait commencé, et échangent la fortune tant et si bien que la malédiction peine à les suivre. Elle ne peut s’installer dans ces étranges papiers, qui fait la mode de la monnaie de Paris. Elle ne peut s’installer dans les fermes, les forêts, les montagnes, qui soudainement sont inscrites sous le nom de ‘Monte-Cristo’. Elle ne peut rester dans les quelques artefactes qu’on entrepose en chine, en amérique, ni dans les quelques pépites données aux africains. C’est trop grand, trop large, trop de choses différentes à trop d’endroits.

Tirée à quatre épingle, la malédiction se brise.

Il est trop tard pour Edmond, dont le large corp écailleux ne pourra jamais retrouver forme humaine. Mais son esprit est clair. Il reconnaît ses enfants, ses amis. Il reconnaît le ciel, l’océan, et leurs odeurs qui chatouillent ses narines. Il se souvient avec une douloureuse nostalgie du berceau des vagues, du sel qui prend à la bouche, de l'aventure qui guidait sa vie avant qu’elle ne s'écroule.

Il est libre, désormais. Libre de l’héritage du passé.

Et c’est libre qu’Edmond Dantès, comte de Monte Cristo, se perd dans l’immensité bleu qui l’appelle.

[naffeclipse]

Y/N:

Vanessa, if she was, in fact, there:

[junemermaid]

last line meme

I was tagged by the ever delightful @ripeteeth

rules: share the last line you wrote, tag some people and have fun

(I'm cheating a little, but also, I like these lines and I missed sentences Sunday yesterday.)

"I'm here." Most of him is, anyway. The part that matters. The part that, Di Feisheng is increasingly sure, wants to belong to these two. Little by little, it grows, as he passes more of himself into their hands—as he wonders, in the back of his mind, when they'll drop the pieces or hurl them away, or worse, bend under their weight. He strokes a thumb over Fang Duobing's throat, feels the pulse leaping at the base of his neck. The way they're sitting, he has to look up at Fang Duobing. It feels good, though, the same way as Li Lianhua's grip of his hand as he came. Like an anchor's knot, drawn steady against the tide. "What do you want of me, Xiaobao?" That name, too, still new in his mouth. He keeps at it for the gleam of delight it always lights in Fang Duobing's eye. This time, there is that answering glimmer, but Fang Duobing cradles his face, bites his lip, and seems to stall.

no-pressure tagging @electricshoebox @theotherjax @momosandlemonsoda @lynne-monstr @sleepsonclouds and whoever else would like to do this!

[hms-lurking-latinist]

Literally any of these but Hornblower deserting from the Justinian intrigues me....

(context, more or less)

This is, well, more than five sentences. Lol. Enjoy!

Things get worse first:

"Shame we can't have a game," said Simpson. "But we would have to let Hornblower play. Now that there's only four of us." It was the latest of a thousand little digs. The allusion pricked Hornblower's conscience and might have set him brooding once again, had Simpson not added with a nasty smile, "And since he won't defend his honor, well..." He would later remember what came over him only as a blind fury. Kennedy had to tell him--nobody else would speak to him by then--that he was shouting "I'll defend it now, sir, here and now, sir, draw and defend yourself!" *** Mr Hether's interruption of the wardroom's dinner was at first greeted with stony stares from his superiors. But he was breathless and clearly distressed, and Chadd assumed an enemy sail had been sighted until Hether gasped, "Hornblower and Simpson are murdering each other. In our berth. You've got to stop them. Sir," he added, an afterthought. Chadd looked to his superior and received a nod. He caught the surgeon's eye, said "I'll pass the word for you if you're needed," and went to knock the midshipmen's heads together. He had expected wrestling, perhaps fisticuffs, boyish horseplay gone out of control. But Hether had not exaggerated: both young men had drawn their dirks, in something that would have approximated exercises in swordplay if it weren't for Simpson's snarl and the killing light in Hornblower's eye. Cleveland was making ineffectual attempts to get between them, and young Kennedy was repeating, "Horatio, please, he'll kill you, he'll kill you." A shout from Chadd separated the combatants at last, and they stood there staring. Simpson pressed a hand to the meat of his arm and brought it away bloody. Hornblower seemed uninjured but was shaking violently. "What happened?" Chadd demanded. He eyed them all, the two combatants, the bystanders--Kennedy's face beginning to subside into its usual half-dazed expression--without receiving an answer. "Mr Simpson, get to sickbay; get that bandaged," he said eventually. "I shall ask the surgeon when you're well enough to be punished." If they hadn't already met the French before then. As Simpson departed, Chadd added, "Mr Hornblower, you on the other hand can be punished tomorrow. Beaten certainly. If it were up to me I should disrate you." Hornblower did not seem to have remembered yet that Chadd was his superior--not judging from the look he gave him. "I could not endure what he said of me, sir," he said tightly. Chadd couldn't stand the situation any longer. The manners and morals of the midshipmen's berth were by no means his concern, but he recalled a general impression of Hornblower as a troublemaker. No doubt he had provoked the whole affair. "It is of no concern to me what he called your mother," he said. "Does none of you have the slightest understanding that we are at war? Do you suppose we have come out on a pleasure cruise, or to let you settle your matters of honor in privacy? Learn respect for your superiors," he said, "and learn a little self-control, if you can, before we encounter the enemy." He turned on his heel and left, hoping there was any pudding left.

Somewhere else, (tw for slightly more than Even Chance-typical discussion of suicide):

Kennedy came to himself amid a chorus of midshipmen cursing the noise he was making, and his watch due to be called in half an hour. Perhaps in the dark and comparative quiet he would be able to feel a little better first; he stumbled down to the orlop deck only to find Hornblower sitting just by the cable tiers. Kennedy was somehow cheered to know that Hornblower hadn't been among those angry with him--since he hadn't been in the berth at all. But his greeting was cut short when he realized Hornblower hadn't seen him; he was staring at a clasp knife open in his hand. Before Kennedy could say anything Hornblower saw him and hurriedly folded the knife. He made as if to slip it into his pocket but he must have realized he had been detected. "Don't tell me you were carving a spoon for your sweetheart," Kennedy said. "I swear I didn't mean to let Clayton go in my place," he said. It didn't seem he was talking to Kennedy, not really; more as if he were continuing some dialogue within himself. "I swear I didn't. I may be a coward but--" "You're not a coward," Kennedy said. He sank down beside Hornblower and tried to collect his thoughts. "But you can't be cutting your throat in the cable tiers." "I wasn't going to," said Hornblower, and, in a small hollow voice, "I hadn't the nerve." "Good. Leave that for the French." "Do you think we'll have a battle?" "It's war, isn't it?" And very cavalierly he said it too, he thought, for a man who'd come down here in search of peace and quiet. Precious little of that in a battle. Hornblower was speaking at that unbearable pitch of tension again. "They're right. I'm frightened of fighting. I don't want to be killed." "Of course you don't. Nor do I. Who would? But you went after Jack like a devil." "That's different. I hate him. And I thought he would kill me." "Make up your mind, Horatio. Do you want to be killed or don't you?" A barely audible breath. "I just want to be away from here." If there was a right thing to say, Kennedy wasn't in a state to think of it. He stood up and offered a hand to Hornblower. "Let's be going, see if we can have a drink of water before our watch is called." It was something, at least, that Hornblower followed.

And at some other point, cos I know this fic was meant to be about them actually deserting:

Hornblower had expected, somehow, that the first battle would settle it. He would be killed, or Jack would be killed, or he would prove his courage in front of the whole ship's company, or (much more usual imagining) he would disgrace himself just as publicly. But it was nothing but a mess, an inconclusive mess on every level; blood, fire, orders, one of the men of his division cut down in front of him, but over almost before he could convince himself it was real, and he still didn't know if he was fit to serve. He was still not being spoken to in the mess, with the exception of Kennedy who had very little to lose. In fact the only obvious effect of the battle was that they meant to put in for repairs at the first friendly or neutral port they could reach. I can't bear it any longer, he thought. He was climbing the rigging--sometimes the solitude made up for the vertigo, and besides the officers liked to see it if they noticed you--and imagined just falling off. But that kind of thought was one of the things he couldn't bear any longer. I don't want to die, he said to himself, trying how the words sounded in his mind. I want to live and get away.

And one more snippet because apparently I have one more. It would help if I decided which foreign port they desert in but that would require Research:

It hadn't been difficult either to get shore leave at the same time as Kennedy or to peel the two of them off from the rest of Justinian's personnel. He had considered whether it was really wise to tell him, but something in him revolted against the idea of leaving his fellow-sufferer--perhaps the closest thing he had to a friend--without even a word. And if you could say one thing for Kennedy, even when he was most under Jack's thumb, he was never a tale-bearer. So Hornblower bought the first round of drinks and scanned the crowd in the tavern. No telltale blue uniforms except their own; none of the Justinian's seamen either, as far as he could recognize. It was safe to lean close to Kennedy and whisper, "I'm sorry, Archie, but I'm not going back." "To... to England?" "Keep your voice down. To Justinian." "Horatio, what are you doing?" "Very well, make me use the word if you must. It's a filthy one but I suppose I mean to earn it. I'm deserting. I'm not going back." "What will you do? How will you live?" As if he hadn't asked himself! "I'm strong enough, I can work. I'll do anything rather than go back." "I'm not asking you to. Horatio... when you said that... I thought for a moment you meant to ask me to come with you." Hornblower closed his eyes. "I suppose you feel you must report me then." "No, for heaven's sake won't you let me finish? I've been thinking of it too. If we go together--we might be more recognizable but we can keep watch for each other..." Hornblower could hardly believe his ears. "You'd come? With me?" Kennedy smiled without much humor. "Who else?" Hornblower drained his glass. "If we go toward the countryside, we can find somewhere to stay, the lowest inn will do--they'll look in the sailors' taverns, they'll never look there..." "We must get rid of our uniforms first. Can we sell them?" Hornblower frowned. "Can you sham drunk? We'd be selling the clothes off our backs... that would be the most plausible reason. Or we could swap them somehow..." There was a world outside Justinian, once more. And--what he'd never dared to hope for--that world contained another person who cared whether he lived or died.

I didn't mean for this to be about like... weird ways back from the edge of suicide? I don't think I'm processing anything; I truly don't have anything worrying going on in my life right now; but apparently Hornblower does! As per usual.

I know I said they have a bad time after they desert, and they do, but I will have a bad time, in my life, if I stay up any longer to write it. Send me more asks and perhaps I will later.

[novelconcepts]

36, taivan.

36 Banter/Flirting/Inside Jokes

"I'm sorry." Van cups a hand around her ear. "You want to give that to me again?"

"It's not that I don't think your job is hard," Taissa says smoothly. "It's just, y'know, pretty sedentary."

"Sedentary," Van repeats.

"Comparatively. Yeah. You're in a--" Tai motions with her hands: parallel vertical lines squared in by parallel horizontal ones. "Little box."

Van stares at her. Her cheeks are growing pink, her eyes wide. "Little. Box."

Taissa grins. "Come on. I'm out there sprinting my tits off, and you're--"

"Little. Box." Van is slowly shaking her head. She reaches out, grabbing Taissa's arm. "Okay, come on, get up."

Taissa's more than a little drunk. They both are, having wandered away from Homecoming to loiter on the field with a filched bottle of Jack between them. It's the flavor equivalent of getting karate-chopped in the throat, but so long as Van keeps nipping from the bottle, Taissa has no choice but to keep up.

No choice, too, but to totter to her feet and let Van haul her into goal.

"Not exactly dressed for it, am I?" Taissa twirls in place, letting her dress fan out around her legs. Van looks at her for a long time--eyes rooted to the sleek muscle of her thighs, Tai notices--before blinking rapidly. In trousers and a now much-wrinkled button down, Van at least can pretend she prepared for this turn of events.

And Tai can pretend she isn't appreciative of how well Van cleans up, how appealing she is with her collar open and her sleeves rolled above the elbows.

"Right," Van says. "Don't move from your little box."

She darts off into the dark. She's gone just long enough for Taissa to weigh the possibility that she has been abandoned, and then she's back, preceded by a clean soccer ball.

"Heads up!" is all the warning Tai gets before Van reels back and punts. The ball sails over Taissa's shoulder, thwapping into the net.

"That proves nothing!" Taissa calls back. She's glad she already kicked off her heels. Glad, too, for the bars of the goal, which she reaches for to ward off a wave of vertigo. Drunk. Yes. Very.

Still capable of grabbing the ball and tossing it over her head, though, watching it bounce a good measure down the field. Van gives chase, granting Taissa a convenient--and less than furtive--look at her ass in very nice pants as she sprints away.

"Okay, hotshot. Go again!" Van calls. Her ball-handling skills aren't quite up to Taissa's personal standards, but she isn't half-bad, either. For a drunk goalie, she's actually pretty--

The ball sails by again. Taissa lets out a sharp breath.

"What are we doing here?"

"Well," says Van cheerfully, "you're failing to protect your little box. And I'm kicking your ass."

Fuck it. "Switch," Taissa commands, and before Van can protest, dribbles the ball expertly out of the net. Van charges in, making as if to steal possession, and Taissa twists around her.

Van backpedals into goal. "Give it to me, Turner."

"In your dreams, Palmer." In her dreams, too, but Van doesn't ever need to know that. Doesn't need to know how much time Taissa's dedicated to watching her tend goal.

Doesn't need to know how the fluid grace with which she moves sits with Tai long after the game is over, her mind replaying the dexterity of Van's hands on an endless loop.

Van makes a come-on gesture with one of those hands now, grinning ear to ear. Taissa hitches her dress in one hand, freeing up her legs, and tears forward. She holds nothing back, caring little for the slide of her bare feet on the grass, and when she aims, it's for the high-left corner.

Van dives. Taissa's still moving, unable to stop her own drunken momentum. She crashes into the net, laughing hysterically, bowling Van into the grass.

"Cheating!" Van proclaims around giddy peals of her own amusement. "Fucking red card, ref! She's attacked the goalie!"

"The goalie deserved it!" Taissa cackles. The ball is nowhere to be found; she truly has no idea if she just scored on Van or not. All she knows is the dew-damp grass under her shins, and Van's body underneath her own. Van's braided hair over one shoulder, and Van's hand lighting on Taissa's hip.

"You're in my little box," Van says--not quite as sardonically as Taissa expects. Her eyes are flitting from Tai's eyes to her mouth, her smile achingly charming.

"You put me here," Taissa informs her. Van purses her lips thoughtfully.

"A prime-time goalie, you are not, lady."

Taissa can't argue that point. Nor can she bring herself to stand up. The world is still spinning around her, the only points of stability Van's sprawled legs and the heat of that one firm hand.

"I don't usually play drunk," Taissa tells her.

"Soccer?" Van asks. "Or...?"

She's leaning up, off her elbows. Taissa's breath catches, her body sinking down against her better judgment. Van's lips graze hers, and she finds herself bracing both hands against a soft jawline just to stay upright.

"Okay." Her lips move gently against Van's with every word. Her thumbs trace Van's cheekbones. The world is spinning, and Van's eyes gleam under the brilliant field lights. "Show me how a real goalie does it."

"It's not," Van says, grinning, hands bracketing Taissa's waist, "fucking sedentary."

[dandelion-wings]

💘 dealer's choice on ship 👀

Thank you for the ask! <3 I accidentally significantly more than a snippet, whoops. >> But I'd been reminded of this pet pairing of mine while looking at Eula's voicelines earlier today, and while I don't always manage it I do like to hit all the elements in these prompts, and then the moment I looked at this one the idea for fitting this pairing into it sprang into my head and demanded its chance.

---

This isn't what Sucrose had expected when Ms. Eula said that she would protect Sucrose personally on the way to Liyue Harbor. Some bandit gang has been kidnapping doctors, alchemists, and similar such people on the roads through the Guili Plains, and while Sucrose is strong enough to protect herself while gathering materials, she *is* grateful for extra protection from the kind of threat posed by a large, organized band. Still, she'd just assumed it meant she would ride along with the merchant caravan Eula is already protecting.

Instead, the first night they camp, someone had asked Sucrose what she was going to Liyue Harbor to do, since she certainly wasn't a merchant she didn't seem to be a knight. She'd just opened her mouth to explain that she was an alchemist, and that she was going to confer on certain herbs with a healer there, when Ms Eula spoke over her.

"She's here as my personal companion," Ms. Eula said haughtily, giving the merchant a glare so fierce that she quickly mumbled an excuse and scooted over to talk to one of her companions instead. When Sucrose finished dinner and went looking for her tent, she found that Ms. Eula had put Sucrose's bedroll in the command tent, side-by-side with her own.

"Um... you don't have to do that," she said. "I brought my own tent."

"I swore to Master Jean and Captain Albedo that I would take personal responsibility for your safety," Ms. Eula said, just as haughtily. "That includes protecting you from any spies that may be in the caravan. If you're with me, they have fewer chances to ask you questions you can't formulate a dishonest answer to."

"Oh," Sucrose said, her face hot with the realization that she'd almost made Ms. Eula's job harder by giving herself away, and that was how Ms. Eula had arranged their sleeping arrangement ever since.

Their sleeping arrangements aren't the only way in which Ms. Eula has backed up her assertion that Sucrose is her *'personal companion.'* She insists that Sucrose walk with her when she's pacing alongside the wagon, and with Mika when she's gone ahead to scout. She puts her hand on Sucrose's shoulder, or takes her arm, or even takes her hand once, when Sucrose slips and nearly falls in her mud, and keeps her fingers laced with Sucrose's for nearly a mile after she pulls her out. And Sucrose is only making it harder for her by getting more and more flustered with every gesture that makes it clear what 'personal companion' is supposed to *mean*.

The problem is... well, there are several, but they all have the same central root. Sucrose wouldn't get so flustered as to nearly bely the pretense, nor pull jerkily away from Ms. Eula when she finds herself too aware of her touch, nor drive herself deeper and deeper into sleep debt by lying stiffly awake all night long with Ms. Eula's back against her own, if she didn't enjoy Ms. Eula's attention so much. The logical knowledge that her affection is false doesn't change the emotional or physical effects. Ms. Eula is a very beautiful woman, and her dedication to keeping Sucrose safe makes clear the kindness that lies behind her intimidating exterior. Sucrose is experiencing a very natural reaction that would be fascinating to observe, if it was happening to anyone else.

Instead she's been observing Ms. Eula, which only makes it worse. Sometimes she nearly thinks that she catches evidence that her feelings are returned--Ms. Eula's hand lingering a little too long, her anecdotes when they walk together becoming a little too personally vulnerable, her strong back pressed against Sucrose's own a little too firmly to be an accident in her sleep. But then Ms. Eula sees Sucrose jump at her touch and makes an excuse for another patrol, or hears Sucrose stammer an inadequate response to their conversation and abruptly changes the subject, or notices her embarrassment in the dark and carefully rolls away to the far edge of her bedroll, and Sucrose doubts her observations after all.

Besides, that Eula might harbor the same feelings is a highly unlikely hypothesis. It's not one that Sucrose is confident enough in to test, not when the results of that experiment might be so disastrous.

It should be a relief to get to Wangshu Inn, where bandits wouldn't dare to operate and Sucrose can safely get her own room. That she finds herself fantasizing about sharing one of the Inn's famously comfortable beds with Ms. Eula is all the more reason that she should get her own. This may not be a subject for experiments, but she can surely run a few small-scale personal trials to determine exactly how far her reactions to the situation have progressed.

There are a few other folks from Mondstadt there already, a smaller group on the way back from Liyue Harbor that have hired their own protection. Some of them know some of the merchants Ms. Eula's company is escorting, and they cluster together at dinner, laughing and talking, while Ms. Eula and Sucrose and Mika join the rest of the Reconnaissance Company at a table of their own. Drink flows steadily, until Sucrose is light-headed and half the knights are flushed. The laughter from the merchants grow louder, as well as their looser and looser talk.

"Wonder what the Lawrence has over her?" one of the merchants on their way back says, far too loudly, and gives a braying laugh. "She might look good, but I wouldn't kiss a fish that cold if you paid me a million Mora to do it, and I can't imagine a hoity-toity Lawrence is anything but a selfish tyrant in bed."

Every back at the knights' table stiffens at the insult. Sucrose draws herself up, too, and turns about in her chair, flushed red and with no idea what she's going to say but still certain that Ms. Eula deserves some defense.

"Leave them be," Ms. Eula said, just as loudly, her chin high and her hand cool on Sucrose's arm. The touch sends a shiver through Sucrose that isn't just from the chill. "Such insults from drunken idiots aren't worthy of a response, even proper vengeance."

Given Ms. Eula's own attitude, that seems hypocritical. Sucrose goes even redder when she sees the faint concern in Eula's scowl and realizes that this dismissal is for her sake--that she's protecting Sucrose from embarrassing herself in an argument she hasn't the least idea of how to make.

The braying merchant, though, has already noticed Sucrose turning towards him, and he grins maliciously at her. "Come on, don't try to lie to us. You wouldn't be cuddling up with a Lawrence if she wasn't making it worth your while."

Ms. Eula's hand tightens on her arm, as if to hold her back. But Sucrose isn't the sort of knight who rushes in with sword or spear. Anger bubbling up, as well as an impulsive desire that some analytical part of her notes is undoubtedly due to the alcohol, she rises to her feet.

"Her time and attention is worth the time and attention I give to her. It's a mutually beneficial relationship," she tells him, and deliberately turns her back, which brings her directly face-to-face with Ms. Eula.

Who is just as red in the face as Sucrose herself. Certainly that's the alcohol, but Sucrose looks at her widened eyes, her slightly parted lips, the way her breath is caught, and decides, impulsively, that maybe her unlikely and overly-optimistic hypothesis is worth testing after all. Surely she can get away with attributing any experimental failures to the alcohol. Leaning in, she presses their lips together.

For a moment Ms. Eula is stiff and frozen, lips unmoving against Sucrose's own. Then she responds, tilting her head back and to the side to better fit them together, with nothing but warmth in her answering kiss. She lets go of Sucrose's arm only to catch her hips and pull Sucrose into her lap; Sucrose clambers eagerly into it, pressing up against her, running her hands over the muscles of her shoulders and the curve of her sides. Eula shivers and gasps into Sucrose's mouth.

She should have touched Eula back ages ago, instead of freezing up at every contact. If she had, she wouldn't have been so worried about testing her hypothesis. Right now the results are *extremely* promising. Though, Sucrose reflects as Eula adjusts her grip to hold her up as she rises and marches into the inn, she should certainly repeat the experiment multiple times. Just to verify the results.

[astromechs]

how about 💕 kissing somewhere other than lips please and thanks

this takes very non-specifically in my college AU because i missed them; jyn and leia share an apartment and that's all you really need to know for this one :) from this list; also on ao3!

The creak of her bedroom door opening might as well be nails on a fucking chalkboard right now, with the way that the sound absolutely grates on every single one of Jyn’s last nerves. On top of all the congestion in her sinuses causing so much pressure that she can’t think straight and the fact that more trips out of her bed leave her falling to the floor than not, she doesn’t need this. Hadn’t she told Leia to leave her alone? Even if she hadn’t, even if she’d literally fever dreamed saying that, Leia should know better than to barge in here.

She groans, and refuses to open her eyes. Says to the door she’s not looking at, with all the strength she can muster:

"Fuck off —"

"Is that how you say hello to everyone who comes to bring you soup?"

Well, that isn’t exactly the voice she’d been expecting to hear cutting her off.

Jyn cracks one eye open and lifts her head to find Cassian standing on the opposite side of the room, just barely through the doorway, holding a bag that, she can see through the plastic, contains various tupperwares of food. It’s not that she isn’t glad to see him, because there’s always a part of her that is, but there’s: one, the obvious, and two, the fact that the small smile just barely visible on his face is too amused for her liking, which remains even as her scowl deepens.

Still, though, he has the decency to let it drop as she starts the slow process of propping herself into a sitting position. Considering the past few days, she considers it a victory that she manages to get three pillows standing comfortably behind her back while only wanting to flop back down to the mattress once, and the ringing in her ears actually manages to stop after a few seconds.

By the time she’s settled, her head feels clearer than it has in days.

“After I didn’t hear from you for a while, I figured things had to be bad.” He lifts one shoulder in a shrug as he gives his explanation, dropping his eyes to the floor and awkwardly shuffles on his feet. “So I texted Leia. She let me in.”

In that moment, it feels like all the breath has been knocked out of Jyn. Not in a way that means she’s about to start coughing, but — this is such an incredibly kind gesture that she doesn’t know what to do with it. Even her lingering anger at Leia fades. Her mouth opens, once, to let some form of words out that she never finds; she sneezes before she ever gets the chance, and by the time that’s dealt with, she forgets what she’d even been trying to find in the first place.

Eventually, all she manages, in a soft voice, is, "Don't get any closer." She sniffs, emphasizing a point that really shouldn’t have to be emphasized, just looking at her. "I'm a biohazard."

He shrugs again. "I'll take my chances."

"You're a f—" she starts, but then that’s when the coughing attack comes, the fifth one she’s had in the past half an hour, with really shitty timing this time. And fuck, she thinks they’re getting longer and longer every time.

"What was that?" Cassian asks when it finally subsides, a twinge of mischief in his voice that she can also see returns to his smile. "Didn't quite catch it."

"I was going to say —" The last of her coughs sputter out, and she’s forced to reach for the water bottle beside her bed before she can continue. "That you're a fucking idiot. But now I'm adding asshole to that list, too."

Cassian, the asshole, actually laughs at that, and he makes no attempt to hide it. Granted, she must look as pathetic as she sounds, so any threat or otherwise coming out of her mouth has to be hard to take seriously, but that doesn't make him any less of an asshole. That doesn't make her less likely to scrunch her stuffed-up nose and purse her lips into the best approximation of a pout that she can manage right now, which, of course, doesn't make him less likely to just laugh harder.

But she's been stuck in this apartment — this room, specifically — for days now, and the way that she can see his eyes light up from that laugh even when he's still barely through the doorway has her heart skipping a beat and her congested chest suddenly light with a stupid sort of feeling that comes close to something that might be described as giddy.

Ugh, she really is pathetic — for all the obvious, and for reasons that have nothing to do with the collection of empty Kleenex boxes strewn all over her bedroom floor.

That doesn't stop him, though, her patheticness. He does, in fact, take his chances, stubborn fucking idiot that he is, stepping across the room until he's by her bedside, close enough to set the bag of food he's carrying onto the nightstand. Kicking his shoes off of his feet, he sidesteps the Kleenex boxes to climb up onto the bed, settling comfortably just beside her as she shifts, unconsciously, to make room for him; he’s warm and soft, filling every desperate need for comfort that she hasn’t even bothered to acknowledge.

He presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head, and she closes her eyes and rests her head against his chest, too tired to fight anything at all, much less the one thing she wants most in this world.

There's no question that he'll end up sick, too, within the next three days, if that; maybe she’s never been great at biology, but even so, Jyn is positive that she has to still be actively contagious, and cuddling a sick person definitely isn’t going to do him any favors.

But there’s also no question that when he inevitably is, she’ll be returning the favor.

[sssammich]

hello quizno’s! :D

👀 Do you have any WIPs that you would never let see the light of day? If yes, what are they about?

🖊 Post a snippet from a current WIP.

😈 Is there anything you enjoy doing that you think your readers hate?

👩‍🏭 If one of your fics was going to get you arrested, which one and why?

💋 so about this rojascorp you mentioned…….

:D

lmao thank you sidetwang

thanks for copying and pasting for my benefit

👀 Do you have any WIPs that you would never let see the light of day? If yes, what are they about?

hmm idk actually; they're mostly probably wips from fandoms that i have since left or just never knew what to do with. that's kinda boring, but there really aren't, like, secret wips. i try to finish my wips even if it takes weeks/months/years. for example, there's a grief fic i wanna write about for revue starlight that's been sitting in the lazy susan since 2022 and i think i'm only now ready to write it.

but there are also some wips that i think have just passed its time and that i probably won't touch again (but never say never!)

🖊 Post a snippet from a current WIP.

oh very well this is actually for my rosebird (summer rose/raven branwen from rwby) divorce AU that i was thinking about; was able to write out like 2k of it this past weekend. i'll post the snippets after the cut because i am sometimes considerate. and also i just decided to make it a little baby love triangle with vernal because i am so nice

and also because you probably do not give a shit about that, i added a snippet for a supercorp romcom i am thinking about!

😈 Is there anything you enjoy doing that you think your readers hate?

god uh idk what do my readers hate? please tell me anonymous is turned on

thinking about this though i guess maybe i enjoy using 'says' or 'said' 98% of the time and maybe my readers hate that honestly im not sure just tell me it's fine yall can be honest

👩‍🏭 If one of your fics was going to get you arrested, which one and why?

lol what does this even mean!!

uh i mean i would say dickfic has some potentially incriminating mail tampering crimes and maybe dolores is not so wholly innocent so who knows

(am i an idiot? please tell me if i did this bit wrong)

💋 so about this rojascorp you mentioned…….

which one? the sad one or the happy one?

sad one: it's based off of a sad song and i am very excited about that. it's a breakup fic, im just gonna be upfront about that

happy one: it's a reunion and a coming back together.

they're modern AUs i think because im incapable of writing any real AUs

oh maybe that's something my readers hate, that i can't write AUs lol but i enjoy them

ANYWAY thanks for sendimg me these questions

fanfic ask game

fic snippets below the cut

rosebird snippet:

She's not immune to cabin fever, so she leaves the wreckage of her house and drives her truck downtown, parking it right in front of one of the three competing bars they have on Main Street.

When she pushes the glass door forward, the bell above it rings. She glances up, looks at the patina of the metal before meeting the bartender's eye.

Without a single word, Raven walks up to the corner of the bar just as the bartender approaches with a rag thrown over her shoulder.

"What're you having?"

"Just a beer for now."

"What kind?"

"Whatever's available."

The bartender studies her, but Raven just scans the room before taking a seat on the empty stool. She watches as the bartender takes a glass and flips it right side up before placing it under the draft spigot, tilted to the side until only a sliver of foam sits at the very top.

"Tab?" the bartender asks just as she places the glass in front of Raven.

Raven nods just before taking a sip of her beer.

The bartender leaves her alone, especially when a gaggle of girls walk in for some type of girls' night out. Her red eyes trail after the giggling movements of the six women sitting around one of the big tables towards the center of the open room. The regulars pay them no mind, even as their volume increases.

She scowls when a group of young guys filter through the bar and multiply the volume when they meet with the young women already there. So much so that she downs her scotch and orders for another.

The bartender quietly places another glass in front of hers, smirking at her, like they're sharing a secret. She just nods, pushes the empty glass from her hands in exchange.

"You new around here?" the bartender asks, leaning forward on her left side, her sleeve tattoo in full display. She's a bit on the younger side for Raven's tastes, but her short pixie cut and pale blue eyes have caught her attention.

"Depends."

"Haven't seen you around here before. I'd notice."

She lets out a small amused chuckle, wonders how much this woman believes this line she's giving Raven. "New enough."

"Where do you live?"

"That's at least a four drink question, and we're only on two."

The bartender plucks two shot glasses from underneath the counter and pours rum into both of them. She then slides one by Raven's hand, nodding towards it when she grabs hold of the one in front of her.

She plays along and grabs the shot glass, holds it up where the bartender clinks it and keeps her eyes steady when they both shoot, their hands dropping at the same time onto the counter.

"Now that's four," the bartender states.

Raven shakes her head at this woman's audacity all while the heat of the rum courses down her stomach. "You don't need to worry about where I live."

The bartender laughs at having been bested. She's just about to say something to Raven when someone calls for her, the name Vernal coming out from one of the regulars at the opposite end of the bar.

"Duty calls," Vernal says before retrieving the shot glasses and placing them in some bin under the counter. Raven doesn't say anything, just watches the woman leave to take care of the other patrons.

For the next ten minutes, she watches Vernal walk the length of the bar to create and serve so many drinks at once. It's impressive, all told. Every now and again, she catches Vernal turning towards her, like making sure she hasn't left yet. She doesn't, not right away, happy to nurse her beer. At one point, Vernal throws her a wink when she sees Raven's eyes dip down to her ass only to come back when their eyes meet. She's only a little bit ashamed, but she doesn't react, just takes a sip of the last dregs of her drink.

When the last drop of her beer passes through her lips, she quietly places her glass on the counter. Slowly, she slips her hand to the pocket of her jeans and pulls out a few folded bills. It's not until she sees Vernal preoccupied with some new customers that she decides to slink away from the bar, tucking her payment and generous tip under her empty glass.

She slips out right behind a couple definitely on a date walks in.

supercorp romcom snippet:

When Lena finds a stack of mail on her desk first thing Monday morning, she doesn’t expect a wedding invitation. Glancing at the K. Danvers at the top corner of the envelope, she frowns when nothing comes to mind with that name. She thinks perhaps it’s one of her employees that she’s just not familiar with. With a smooth swipe of her gold albatross-designed letter opener, she opens the envelope and tugs at the card inside.

She’s surprised to find the invitation reaching her desk, since Jess normally screens these letters for her

Her eyes furrow in confusion when she reads the card.

You are cordially invited to the wedding between Kara Zor-El Danvers and Future Spouse

That gives Lena pause. Future spouse?

She skims through the rest of the wedding details. She then presses the intercom button for her secretary.

“Jess?”

“Yes, Miss Luthor?”

She rolls her eyes at her secretary’s adamant insistence of referring to her by her last name despite her efforts to have Jess call her Lena.

“Can you run the name Kara Danvers through our employee roster?”

“Yes, Miss Luthor. I’ll send it right away.”

When she hangs up, she turns to the smaller card insert with the RSVP request. Her first inclination is to decline, if not altogether just hand the entire thing to Jess to take care of. Yet it’s the term Future Spouse that has her pausing, her curiosity quite piqued at the thought of a mystery spouse. Does this Kara Danvers not really know?

With a thoughtful tap of the card against her chin, she decides there’s no reason to expend energy thinking about it now. She’ll find out soon enough when Jess gets back to her.