#ficbit

[fanfic-collection]

The strands of timelines whirled around you. Step by precarious step.

Loki straightened up in his chair, a small smile forming on his face. “You made it.”

“I will always come for you, my love.” You replied, reaching his side.

Loki gripped tight the strands, tilting his head to the side as he studied you. He scrunched his eyes shut and a double appeared beside you, a perfect duplicate of himself.

Tears welled in the original’s eyes as he studied you. “I cannot… let go…” He murmured, glancing at the many strands tangled around him. Bursts of green magic occasionally emanating from his hands.

The double looked at you and held out its hand. You took it and smiled, though continued to address the original Loki, the one sitting on his throne. “My love.” You murmured, squeezing the double’s hand before pushing past it and kneeling before Loki. You wrapped your arms around his legs and rested your chin on his lap. “Then here I will stay.”

A small smile quirked at the corner of Loki’s mouth and he nodded, the duplicate slowly vanishing.

[halfbaked00q]

aaand here are the ficbits I started coalescing based on my previous concept post -- as a reminder: 00Q are together, Q takes Bond for granted/accidentally hurts his feelings slash breaks his heart by being unintentionally hurtful and also unthinkingly dismissive of the thing they have going on between them. there is more to it but these are the parts that coalesced

(as it says in the tin these are more so like the... vibes-based pre-alpha demo drafts of a fic, as opposed to anything so respectable as an actual drabble or ficlet. and, as such, some parts may perhaps be a bit overworked, tenses are all over the place probably, punctuation is more abt the vibes than actual grammar tbh- but anyway please enjoy our featured program, hot off my notes app presses-)

///

===

They're walking and talking, and then suddenly, it's just him walking and them not talking. Too late, he realizes that the growing silence from beyond his elbow had gone quite still rather than companionable. Too late, he glances back around, just barely catching the tail end of…

…..

The thing is, even in hindsight, he’d be hard pressed to pinpoint what exactly he saw cross Bond's face… only that he was suddenly left feeling rather as if a door he hadn't even known was there had unceremoniously and quite ignominiously shuttered sharply in his face. /// [[only that he was suddenly rather left feeling as if he'd blithely walked into a door that materialized just to shutter quite ignominiously in his face.]?]

As it stands — and unfortunately far too late— as he desperately rolls back the last few moments to try to find- as it slowly, far to slowly, begins to dawn on him-

“007- Bond- wait, I,” was about all he managed to stammer out before Bond somehow manages to evaporate from sight, leaving him blinking at the afterimage of crisp suiting and unbreachable impassiveness.

Oh. Oh shit.

—

Eve took one look at him and immediately swept herself up from her desk and him away to - he paused to gather his bearings - what appeared to be an empty conference room.

“Well,” she said without preamble. “Out with it then.”

Q wrung his hands. “It's Bond,” he finally manages to get out. When is it not.

(maybe sth about a moment too long passed, then another, then another- and he admits. It's me, really, but it is also to do with Bond. / Eve is either not surprised or is waiting him out- no visible reactions one way or another yet)

////

I think he must have said something about anniversaries, and I joked back- or thought I was joking back- something about how he surely wouldn't be expected to keep track of all of his anniversaries like this, or else his rolodex would be fit to bursting. And then when I saw the expression on his face I hastened to reassure him that I certainly had no expectations on that front, ta very much. But it was entirely the wrong thing to say.

What he didn't - couldn't - confess to Eve was the way Bond had — oh, earnestly, seriously — brought up the subject of their upcoming anniversary, and how — yes, unintentional though it might have been, but nonetheless— absurdedly callous his casual dismissive burst of laughter must have been.

//

“…and speaking of, our anniversary is coming up too, you know.”

That accursed involuntary, misplaced, mocking peal of mirth. Then, worse- carelessly, unthinkingly- “Oh don't injure yourself on my account, I'm hardly expecting you to keep track of all of your little anniversaries from your various escapades, let alone ‘ours.’ Goodness, your little black book would be fit to bursting - well, even more so than it is now - if we're expecting you to note down anniversaries and nonesuch as well now.”

////

“Q,” Eve called after him. He paused and turned, saw her regarding him. “Be careful with him,” she finally said.

“You're the one who warned me off him in the first place!”

“Be that as it may, but., well. clearly James Bond deserves for you to take some care with him.” with his heart, goes unspoken, but certainly not unsaid

[contentment-of-cats]

Fun and Games

This has been kicking around in drafts for a few months. I was cleaning it out and...

With thanks to @shards-of-silver for getting me off my ass.

Upon promotion to senior lieutenants, there are perks.

Ensigns sleep a dozen to a barracks, junior lieutenants share a four-rack of bunks around a common area and share sanitary facilities. Senior officers of lieutenant commander or higher have their own private quarters increasing in size and amenities, and at flag rank a suite of rooms. But nothing beats the heady rush of getting your own room with a door that closes. Despite what the contractors say, those bunk partitions don't do squat to stop you from hearing every snore, fart, or wet dream from your fellow juniors. There's a corresponding increase in cubic storage along with the bigger room and one may trust the newly-minted senior loots to go a little crazy.

Thrawn as a new commodore aboard rearranged officers' quarters by duty station, so now all bridge officers are housed a literal thirty second run to the bridge or assigned six-man lifepod. Faro has always run a looser ship in terms of culture, and there are times when bridge officers' country is decorated for various holidays and observances. For example, observances of Longnight see small dishes of food and lanterns set out to guide and appease the spirits of those lost in the vastness of space. But today there is something new outside of Agral and Pyro's twofer.

A sign-up.

It's a datapad on a sticky at reading level with a stylus on a cord.

"Sign up for tabletop games night - Quests & Quarries, Pirates & Privateers, Hyperspace Hellscape, Ancient Lands Archaic Warfare, and other RP games coming to a horizontal surface near you!"

The list is growing fast.

A note above the hatch control says, "Game in progress. ENTER QUIETLY."

"Already the social hub," Faro mutters and then jumps out of her skin when Thrawn agrees with her. Even in boots, he moves almost silently. "Let a lass know, sir! You almost scared it out of me!"

Thrawn's shadow - Vanto - is not here or otherwise she'd have stood a better chance of hearing the approach. He is looking at the sign-up sheet and then at the door sign, then turns to her.

"These are not like Scrabble?"

Pyro's love of table games is legend. She even collects them.

"No, Commodore. These are, well, a kind of strategy game." Thrawn visibly brightens. His skin changes color, his pupils disappear as the nictitating membrane crosses them in a three-part blink. "Players create characters and ascend levels in different scenarios called dungeons. It's kind of like academy war-gaming, but more flexible and personalized."

"They will not mind if we enter and observe?"

"They'll snap to attention for a flag officer on deck or I'll have them cleaning the stormtroopers' urinals with ear swabs, but I do not think they'll object."

Faro taps the hatch open and as they step in Vanto barks, "Commodore on deck!"

The response is satisfyingly swift.

"Officers, as you were," Thrawn nods. "I do not wish to disturb the game in progress, only to observe."

Of course, the furniture is bolted to the deck, but there are an additional folding couch and two additional folding chairs added to the room and-

"Pyrondi, where did you get the holotop?" Karyn hasn't seen one in probably twenty years. This one replaces the low table normally issued to this accommodation, bolted down as per regs. "It's got to be a month's pay."

"I bought it at an antiquities shop on Coruscant. Lomar did the new innards, and then all of us wrote code." Us being - apparently - herself, Lomar, Hammerly, Barlin, Agral, Yve, and Carvia.

"Major Carvia, what is your part in this madhouse?" The man budges loots up the couch to make room for their captain and commodore in the armchairs. "Surely you're not a player?"

"I helped Pyro carry this up here and did the coding for groundpounder dungeons. No offense, but this bunch is all Navy." The major wags his finger at Pyro. "I will thank you, youngster, not to refer to items as 'antiquities' that I am old enough to have owned brand new."

"Everyone do a stretch, get some snacks, and we'll come back into it in fifteen?" Pyro asks and everyone agrees, getting up a little stiffly after hours gaming. "Sync and go."

Thrawn looks over the table, at first studying the current dungeon, but then with more interest at the leather-bound manuals of flimsi, and beautifully made sets of dice and other paraphernalia.

"Please, Lieutenant, explain." Thrawn settles in one of the armchairs, accepting one of Pyro's fruit teas and a packet of sweets.

"Well, first these are the handbooks for players and dungeon masters. These others are for aspects - beings, arms, character classes." Pyrondi takes a small bag and empties it into her hand. "These are my dice."

"Is a gambling chip counted as dice?" Thrawn looks intently. "These are thystine and aurum leaf, correct?"

"If a binary decision is needed, yes, it counts. They are thystine, but as you can see, every player has their set and aside from the chip they can have sets of seven to fifteen, it depends what games they play."

Vanto's set is doonium, which makes Thrawn smile fleetingly. Carvia's is some kind of bone or ivory. Agral's is synthetic fireopal. All sets are as individual as the player.

Oh, no. ART.

"And what about the crystal ball?" Karyn asks. It's a perfect sphere set on an elaborate base.

"Oh, that's a toy I picked up from a junk dealer. He said it didn't work, but when you ask it a yes-or-no question it gives you a nonsensical answer. Watch. Is the mess going to serve hash for firstmeal again?"

The sphere roils with smoke and then shows a wavering answer in its center.

Better not tell you now.

"See? It gives positive, negative, or non-committal answers. To be fair, I don't want to know if we're having hash again."

The players filter back in and take their places as Thrawn is given a rough crash course in play. Pyrondi looks around, sets up a triptych screen to hide her materials and plans, and then asks if everyone is ready. Snacks and drinks to hand, all affirm and the game resumes. Karyn watches her superior as he watches the game with eyes bright. Pyro is a force of chaos and order, handling players firmly but also throwing wild situations at them. The dice can't be rigged or fooled on a dice pad, holding them firm.

Thrawn reminds his officers that night phase is coming, and they have watch coming up. The party breaks up with others putting the room back to order and bidding good rest.

"If you do not mind, Lieutenant, Captain Faro and I will join for the next game."

"Please do, sir. The more the merrier."

Karyn almost groans but holds it in.

"As I remember, you said the same thing before you wiped the walls with me at Scrabble."

Pyro only grins. "Good rest, sirs."

[confusedguytoo]

Lot’s of people talk about the Scoobies not digging up Buffy in Bargaining.  I had a thought why that could be.  Imagine Dawn and Spike questioning the Scoobies about Buffy having to dig herself up.

“Why didn’t you dig her up?” Dawn asked.  “You didn’t have to open the coffin

“The way the ritual was set up, it said not to disturb the body and that the resurrected person would be strong enough to join the casters on their own.  I think if the spell hadn’t been interrupted she’d have either been teleported up, or maybe her body would have animated and dug itself up and then she’d have fully resurrected on the surface.”

“Oh, you lot are even bigger morons than I thought.  Buffy had to dig herself up, because you’re not smart enough to remember that Egyptians buried their dead in tombs, not under six foot of dirt!.  It’s only the most famous thing about that whole bleeding country!”

[words-into-worlds]

As Julian stared at Garak, who'd composed himself somewhat and was now sitting semi-calmly at the table, hands folded neatly, he felt it didn't seem nearly long enough. Then again, Garak was glaring at him. Seventeen minutes with an angry, defensive Garak might just feel like forever.

And still, even through everything— Hello! Hello, I see you, I love you, and he was almost stupid enough to open his mouth—

Garak blinked, exhaled, and said conversationally, "She's actually quite a pleasant person."

Ah. Okay. He gulped down the romance, hoping he wouldn't get heartburn. Let’s fence, then.

"Nuril, you mean?”

“The one and only.”

“Ah. Well, we've mostly only communicated by letter. Perhaps she's different in real life.”

“Perhaps,” said Garak. "She's almost unflappable, you know. But you do seem to leave quite the impression on her. ”

Hmm. “That’s nice to hear.” Probably not.

“Mmm,” said Garak, whose tone confirmed the probably not. “Do you know, I would imagine she's not at all happy with you at the moment. She was three weeks off kobel nut, you know.”

"So she said. Sounds like a nasty habit."

"Oh, it is. Easy to pick up, and very difficult to get rid of," said Garak, tilting his head, dropping the friendly, casual demeanour in an instant: "And now, Doctor, you are going to tell me: What are you doing here?"

And time stretched for Julian as he realized: this was it. This was now. So many months waiting and hoping for now, and it was here, and he could say, I came to find you. He could say, you bastard, where have you been? He could say, please give me one more chance. He could say, I love you, don’t you love me?

All of these would be very wrong things to say to Minister of Accountability Elim Garak, whose vulnerability appeared to be at an all time low.

All right. Drop it all. Start over. Watch me, Tozen!

“Well,” he said, shifting in the too-plush chair, “I’ve wanted to spend more time on Cardassia. My last visit here was so brief.” Garak didn't say anything, so he plowed on: “And I thought I’d start with sight-seeing the capital buildings. The Ministerial Hall is really very lovely, although I didn’t get to spend as much time there as I would have liked either. They took me downstairs before I got to poke around and put me in a cell. At least Cardassian jail wasn't as bad as I thought it might be.” He smiled: please smile. Please laugh. Some inkling that the Garak he’d thought he’d known was in there…

And Garak did laugh, but it wasn't the laugh he’d wanted. It was Garak’s horrible dry-leaf laugh, no humour in it at all: "That was not,” he said, “a Cardassian jail. That was a Cardassian holding cell. A very nice Cardassian holding cell. You see,” and he stood and started to pace the conference room, and Julian watched him as he moved back and forth, back and forth, “no one would dare take you to Cardassian jail. Not you.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, I assure you it is. Not when you’re in some way linked with me.”

“They’re afraid of you?”

“What do you think?”

“That must be nice for you. I’m sure you missed it.” Which wasn’t a nice thing to say, but he wasn’t feeling very nice right now.

Garak took it in stride: “It has its conveniences, certainly. But maintaining the proper respect also has its requirements, one of which is that one can have no liabilities. A person with liabilities is a person who can be manipulated, you see. And here you are, clearly involved with me in some way, shouting loudly in the middle of the Ministerial Hall that you simply must see Secretary Nuril, who is known to work closely with me, and do you see,” as Garak stopped dead and stared at him, coldly and calmly furious, “how you are already a liability to me?”

“Garak, I—“

“You’ve been on this world, what, a day?”

He swallowed. "Three hours.”

“Impressive. And you are already destabilizing my situation.”

Julian narrowed his eyes. “If I can do that in three hours then it isn’t very damned stable, is it.”

“Nothing is stable on a world that is changing this rapidly, Doctor,” said Garak, still furious and still so calm. “Nothing can be taken for granted. I need to establish that I am something that is absolutely stable. That nothing can be slipped by me. That there is no way to have leverage over me. And now your presence here threatens everything I am trying to accomplish.”

Oh, that was hyperbolic even for Garak. “My mere existence on Cardassian soil—“

“Is exactly what I was trying to prevent! Exactly what I wanted to avoid. Sentiment. Exposure. I cannot afford to have secrets, Doctor, and you are far too enticing a secret to conceal for long. There is no way you can be here without compromising—"

"Do you still love me?"

Oh, God. He'd said it. Out loud. He'd shouted it, actually, half-rising from his seat with hands braced on the table, voice sharp enough to cut through Garak's diatribe, and now it was just hanging there between them and anything could happen—

And of all the reactions Julian had imagined over the months of silence - impassioned affirmation, shock, sadness, amusement - Garak, full of surprises, still came up with one that he hadn't expected:

He looked at Julian like he was an absolute idiot.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It—" Damn! "Garak, it has everything to do with everything, I'm only here because—"

"Of course. Of course I do. I'm yours. You know that. There's no world in which I'm not yours, you ridiculous emotionally-driven Federation fool." Garak rubbed his face, looking for all the world as if he was lecturing the slowest child in the class. "I love you, and it doesn't matter. Do you feel better now?"

[phosphoresccent]

merry christmas from aus! have a sleepy sweater thief xeph <3

[tinsnip]

Phoenix makes the great sacrifice of flipping himself over like a stranded fish, and is rewarded with the sight of Miles in a robe, pouring tea.

"Do you take milk or sugar?"

"Come the fuck back over here."

Miles blinks at him.

"You heard me."

Deliberately, Miles takes a sip of his tea, then puts the cup down. Phoenix opens his arms wide, realizing briefly that he stinks, not caring, and it works out fine because Miles moves straight into them, climbing on to the bed and dropping on Phoenix like a great big cat.

Phoenix hugs him. He hugs him as hard as he can. He squeezes so hard his muscles ache. He splays his fingers around Miles's sides.

Miles lets out a brief huff, then a small amused snort, and then he gives as good as he gets. Ooof: Miles is strong. Stronger than Phoenix had figured. Then again, Phoenix is realizing that Miles has a bit more muscle on him than Phoenix had imagined. He'd never really had time to appreciate that before, has never really had time for things to not be urgent and dramatic. He's never had time for tea and a robe and a hug that feels like it's massaging his soul.

"Hey," says Phoenix, smiling and kind of stupid. "Hey. Hey, there."

"Hello," says Miles, with a hint of a laugh in his voice. "Good morning."

"Yeah? You think so?"

"It's all right so far."

"That's good: don't get your hopes up."

"I would never." And Miles actually kisses him on the side of the head. Hard. Phoenix thinks he may have just emitted actual hearts.

[gretano8]

practicing fuller, more complete scenes

[choicesmc]

Hi!🌹

hihi o/ this was a fiona-centric fic exploring his dynamic with his ethnic identity <33 i was hit in a flash of inspiration and I had to start writing in the middle of a conference 😭

Fiona did not bleed red. His blood was not American red, it was not the same color that flew next to white stripes, blue boxes, and whiter stars. No, Fiona’s blood was clay red.  The type that stained palms brown, that littered the grounds of his family home in Nigeria, that stained white stripes muddy red.

[bedlamsbard]

my next fic probably isn't going to be the Yonderverse "Loki organizes Steve's and Bruce's dual stag party and it goes, uh, well, Things Happen" but it COULD be.

peak comedy: Steve, Bucky, Loki, Thor, Clint, Rocket, Sam, Rhodey, Scott, and Bruce getting into Trouble In Space while Steve and Bruce just want to go home and make out with their respective brides-to-be. (Tony was invited but opted out, saying he had had enough of space and someone had to hold down the fort on Earth.)

[fanfic-collection]

Leaning back in the healing springs, you let out a soft sigh. Among the hard tiled floors of the room, a pool sank into the ground. It was cushioned where you sat, affording extra comfort as you relaxed and unwound in the pool.

As one of the more elite Einharjar, you were allowed such luxuries. Still though, certain circumstances helped.

The corner of your mouth curled into a smile as you heard soft steps behind you.

Opening your eyes, you looked back, head upside down and saw him approaching.

“My king.” You murmured softly.

Loki smiled down at you, towering over you in your current state as you lay in the pool. “My love.” He replied softly.

“Normally you’re much quieter.”

Loki shrugged, still smiling. “I wanted you aware of my presence. No need to put you on guard.”

You smirked up at him, twisting in the water until you could see him better. Folding your arms, you rested your chin on them and gazed up at him. “Are you going to join me?”

Loki crouched down, toying idly with one of your strands of hair. He hummed for a moment as he contemplated your offer. “Tempting as it is…” He trailed off.

You leaned into his touch, reaching for him silently. Only the shifting of the water moved. “Another time then?” You asked.

Loki chuckled, sitting down cross legged and gazed at you. “This will suffice, for now.”

[halfbaked00q]

Q is normally more careful than this but something about James Bond completely bypasses his usual measured caution and settles into a sort of... casual possessiveness that is unbecoming of him, really, and, by all rights, should be unwise with an operative of Bond's callibre.

And yet. the first time he finds himself reaching a proprietary hand towards Bond - catching himself too late, bracing himself belatedly for the worst, already loosening his muscles in anticipation for-- but it never comes. His hand remains attached to his arm, his bones unbroken. The unthinking hand he'd carelessly reached out to grab (cradle) the agent's shoulder so that he could turn him towards himself remains placidly on 007's front, thumb resting butterfly-soft against his clavicle.

If said thumb hazards a gentle stroke before he lets go, well. that's for him to know. (He forces himself not to fixate on the subtle shiver that went through the agent at his gentle touch.)

[undertheopensky]

“Four, when’s the last time you ate something?”

“Uhhhhh-”

Quick, play dumb!

“What’s food?”

Not that dumb!

[confusedguytoo]

So this scene just popped in my head.  A Buffy fanfic where Tara gets resurrected.

We’re right at the beginning of the story and Tara has popped up and everyone knows it’s her even if they’re not sure how and Willow and Tara are just lost in each other.

The Scoobies are looking at the two of them, with the new Slayers also there.  Buffy, Xander and Giles start talking alternate realities as a possibility for how she’s there and the baby Slayers are like “What? Alternate realities are real?”

And so Xander describes Vamp Willow “Imagine Willow in skintight leather pants, platform boots and a bustier.”

Kennedy gets this super pained expression on her face and actually whines.  She hasn’t talked to Willow but she knows they’re done.  And then she says “Why would you put that image in my head now!”

[words-into-worlds]

"Oh, you do love stories, don't you, Doctor. Let me tell you one. A very, very good story, with an instructive moral. Once upon a time there was man, a very, very stupid man, who made a bad decision. He could have stopped there, but instead he made another bad decision. Bad decision piled upon bad decision until he had somehow built himself an entire future out of these bad decisions which— this is the interesting part— looked good. It looked pleasant and rewarding and like something he didn't at all deserve. And this is where he was forcibly reminded that life is not a story, because almost immediately, something else happened to him which made it obvious that the future built of bad decisions would be a waste. He was approached by people who had need of him, who could use him to make something objectively good, rather than the immaterial good he'd thought mattered so much. He saw right away that he had to choose between the concrete good of reality, and the imaginary good of his little dream, and he chose reality." "Are we still talking about the very, very stupid man?" "Oh, he's still very stupid, Doctor, believe me. Truly a pinnacle of idiocy. But not - and this is important - not selfish." "Go on." "He turns away from his dream to find a better one - a true dream, a dream that benefits more than just himself." "And this is the stupid man who realizes life isn't a story that we're talking about here?" Garak flared his nostrils and sighed impatiently, hands opening: go on. "I'm sorry, because it just sounds very much to me like your completely fictional man traded one story for another one, one where he can be the tragic hero just the way he prefers—" "Excuse me—" "—instead of imagining that he could be something different—" "— "—instead of sharing the choice!" "You don't get to share this choice, Doctor!" "I'm sorry? I thought we were talking about fiction." Garak expelled a furious breath and turned away in his chair, and Julian glared at the back of his sleek head and fumed.

[cryptconstellation]

“Alex, why do you have a baby?” Dana asked, blinking in bewilderment and apparently only just noticing PARIAH.

“Bbbbhhhh.” PARIAH contributed, lazily waving a baby arm at her. Dana waved back more on reflex than anything else.

“We ate Greene and too much Redlight, and Blacklight came from PARIAH. And we ate it when we broke it out of the lab, and then it ate us- uh, it’s ours.” Alex hastily simplified at the increasingly incredulous face Dana was making. “Look, it has our eyes?” Void tried, hitching PARIAH up with a flex of biomass so their faces were next to each other. PARIAH obligingly cycled through faces into a squishy, child shaped copy of Alex’s. And sprouted tendrils again, wiggling them at Dana.

“I… see that.” Dana said, entirely at a loss for words.