#i also made progress on my wip while nursing my son!

[silvrash-797]

Happy kindness day! ☀️ Wishing you plenty of sunshine today!

*cries in it rained all day* However! I had my whole family home for the day, I got to sleep in, and do some shopping ALONE, and we made cookies, and I didn't have to cook dinner! So, although the physical sunshine was lacking, I had plenty of mental and emotional sunshine to make up for it!

[dragonnan]

In-Progress Fics (Multifandom)

These are the stories I’m actively working on.  If there are WIPs not on this list it means they’re on long term hiatus.  I’ve included links (where applicable) and small teasers for each story.  This is a bot long so I’ve included a cut.  Fandoms include: Sherlock, Doctor Strange, Avengers, and Psych

Psych:

Painted Wings and Giant Rings (rape/noncon warning) Current chapter in development: epilogue Words in chapter so far: 309 Teaser: The dragonflies were reluctant to lift off from the sidewalk – even with three pairs of feet headed their way.  A lazy last second hover relocated one of the bright green insects to the bumper of a blue car – though not out of danger. Pudgy fingers reached to grasp it – only to be denied their prize as the child they came with was lifted high out of reach.  “Sorry, Phin, mom said no bugs today.” Squirming, face furious, the baby struggled to get back to the ground – a tiny hard shoe kicking wild and impacting a sensitive belly. “Hey -ow!  C'mon Son, don't be the Snuffleupagus that only Big Bird can see.”  Still wriggling, the toddler grabbed two fistfuls of his father's short beard instead – cackling at the wincing face his actions triggered.  “Snuff-up-gus!” he chortled. Behind them both, Juliet giggled – unable to hold her stern expression towards the wayward child. “Shawn, did you just say c'mon son... to your son?” Twisting out of the clutching fingers – surely leaving behind several pieces of beard – Shawn flipped the youngster upside-down – holding him tight by the waist.  “I am the father of irony, babe.” Further back, protecting his dollar cup of mini donuts, Gus snorted.  “Father of bullsh... uh... baloney, you mean.” “Boney!”  Phin chortled – waving his arms. Gently spinning the tiny terror right-side up, again, Shawn rubbed his beard against a petal soft cheek – nearly losing his hearing at the piercing shriek that followed. “Jesus, Spencer, do I need to write you up for disturbing the peace?” Shawn spun on his heels and pressed a broad hand against Phin's left ear; mashing the right one against his chest as he glared at the approaching detective and his family. “Dude, no bad language in front of the kinder!”

OOMPA LOOMPA DO BA DE DIE - Virtual Season 9, Episode 5 (unpublished) Current chapter in development: 2 (of 4) Words in chapter so far: 7,496 Teaser:  “Alright, everyone!  Are you ready for the first stop?” Shawn gave the room a swift back and forth scan.  “I… thought this was the first stop?” Veronica grinned.  “Haha!  Not exactly, Mr…?” “Spencer, Shawn.  And this is my partner, Fannie May ‘Spanx’ Nicoletti.  I call him ‘Gummi Bear’ for short.” “Bouncin’ here and there and everywhere.”  Gus shared a fist bump with Shawn - toning down his typical come hither leer to a neutral grin.  He was, after all, a taken man. “Uh huh,” addressing the group as a whole, Veronica stepped towards a set of plain gray double doors.  “So then, if you would please follow me, it’s time to see some magic!” A press of the thumb against the green button next to the doors, and they began to swing apart.  Shawn and Gus pushed and wriggled their way to the front - Gus keeping just ahead of his friend with a wicked hip check that sent his buddy plowing into a set of cooling racks.  Metal clattering and a round of grousing followed as Shawn disentangled from the rolling racks - almost wobbling into a blue cabinet on the far wall before he got his bearings again.  “Dude, cheap shot!” Glares all around from the better mannered members of the tour - the small girl leveling a kick to Shawn’s ankle as he shuffled past her and her grandpop.  “Ow!  Hey!” Her tiny nose wrinkled at him - her elderly backup pushing up a sleeve in mild threat. “I’d avoid any geese that lay the golden eggs if I were you.”  He muttered before moving on to rejoin Gus near the front of the group.  But all dreams of technicolor vengeance vanished at the vista that opened before him. Color - like a thousand pixies had just waged battle with a thousand unicorns; their glorious war leaving their brilliant hues across every surface.  Bright blue walls, orange ceiling, green floor, blazing yellow packing crates… even the uniforms of the factory works were splashes of rich lavender vibrance. Veronica was nearby; expounding on the factory and the management of blah blah.  Shawn, however, was locked in on the source of all that was right with the world.  A glorious, gushing masterpiece of culinary and engineering mastery. “Gus!”  His hand latched to the right, gripping with fervor at the same moment that Gus snatched his arm right back.  A hard swallow, and they both spoke with the awed wonder of two supplicants meeting their Master. “The Cocoa Cascade!”

Sherlock:

The Tiger and the Shark (rape/noncon warning) Current chapter in development: 21 Words in chapter so far: 2,349 Teaser:  While Sherlock was settling, once more, John pressed the button on the control pad, next to Sherlock's bed, to alert the nursing staff.  With Sherlock awake they'd want to do a vitals check now rather than have to wake him later. “Any pain?”   Sherlock opened his mouth and John lifted his chin.  “Don't lie.” Grimacing, the detective pushed out his lower lip.  “Some.  Shoulder, mostly.” “How about the arm?” Sherlock rotated his right hand and jerked with a hard flinch.  “Tender.” “Yeah, I'll bet. Maybe try not to move it next time, ta.”  Another touch to Sherlock's brow; concern when Sherlock didn't so much as roll his eyes this time.  The numbers on the monitor hadn't changed in the last ten minutes and John rubbed his fingers across his lips. “Is it bad?” His eyes may be glazed over but Sherlock's perception was still sharp. John dropped his hand back to his lap where he rolled a loose thread from his jumper. “Well, it's not good.  Fever hasn't gone down, yet.  We can change out your ice packs, however, and your nurse should be...” The smart knock finished his sentence as a young man eased open the door and popped his head in. “Oh, hey, look who's awake, then.”  He smiled through his thick Welsh.  “Now then, Mr. Holmes, I understand you'll be needing a top off.” Clearly less than thrilled by the affable man, Sherlock pulled his right arm towards himself, in spite of the wince it caused.  “Go away.”  

Unpublished Molly-centric story fill set between TRF and TFP - eventual Sherlolly (domestic violence warning) Teaser:  “I just wanted to let you know that... well, Dennis is scheduled to be released this afternoon.  I didn't find out myself until twenty minutes ago.  I know he was meant to be in longer but... well we both know the justice system is a joke.  Listen... call me, alright?  Let me know... well, I'm here if you need me, yeah.  Christ.  Just, look after yourself, Molly.  I'll talk to you soon.” Molly hung over her sink long after Greg's message had ended.

MCU:

Avengers: New Beginnings (not Avengers Endgame compliant) Current chapter in development: 3 Words in chapter so far: 1,415 Teaser: His head was throbbing.  Anxiety wasn't new to him.  Since The Bite he'd felt various degrees of nervous energy plucking at the back of his skull.  Those first weeks, while trying to make sense of sticking to everything and breaking way too many glasses in a suddenly astounding grip, he'd also been trying to get a grip on the flood of adrenalin surging through his blood on a regular basis.  But this... since coming back from the Dusting, he couldn't stop the feeling like... like his senses were going crazy. Like, at first he'd just thought it was because he'd come back in time to see Mr. Stark collapse; arm charred and body starting to seize.  He'd thought Thanos had been terrifying but to stand there and helplessly watch Tony just... dying... But then Doctor Strange had opened one of his spin-y portals and Mr. Stark had been carried through and Peter had raced after them and then he was in a hospital and everything had gotten blurry in his memory but he remembered sitting next to Happy and eating Kettle chips until he'd suddenly had to throw up and then he couldn't stop throwing up and for some reason Happy had been holding his head and then Peter had been crying... But Mr. Stark had survived.  They'd had to cut off his arm but he'd survived.  And Peter had... well he'd smiled at him, when he'd started to wake up and was all groggy and Tony had made a joke and Peter had smiled.  But then... but then he'd... cried.  Just cried and rubbed his eyes and it wouldn't stop and Mr. Stark and grabbed his sleeve with one hand and pulled him across his chest... It had been nice.  Weird and sad and happy but... nice.

“What Did You Do?” Stephen Strange 2019 Bingo Prompt (unpublished) Teaser: “I groveled.  I groveled my ass off. And then I made sure that I followed through on every single promise that I made to her.”  Was the answer to the question that Stephen had never, actually, asked.  Was there something on his face that screamed “single guy in desperate need of dating advice”? “What?” Tony smirked.  “You have been ogling the pretty lady doctor for five minutes.  Either you are more of a creeper than I'd pegged you for or there's a history with you two that resulted in the lost puppy face you've been sporting.” Stephen crossed his arms.  “I'm not ogling Doctor Palmer.  I'm making sure she doesn't just pass me off to; shit...” Tony lifted an eyebrow as a slender young man, pushing at least seventeen, toyed with his Harry Potter rims before angling their way through the soup of damaged, disgruntled, and one seriously put out Doctor.

“Whump” Stephen Strange 2019 Bingo Prompt (unpublished) Teaser: The corded straps tightened over his wrists with every turn of the of the bar; corkscrewing the restraints until the joints in his wrists popped under the pressure.  Stephen grunted through his teeth and rocked his head back against the wooden headrest.  Muscles twitched in his cheek from the grinding movement of his molars.  Zings of pain lanced through his fingers in a steady heartbeat; sharp and electric.  The turning bar was locked into place; his hands purpling under the crushing pressure.  Too much longer and he'd start to experience tissue death.  He couldn't even appreciate the spreading numb as circulation was pinched off – the pain of crushed tissues firing a throbbing ache all the way to his elbows. “There, now.  Lovely, yes?  You have such beautiful hands, Doctor.  A shame about the scars.”  A touch traced across the back of his fingers; feather light across darkened scar tissue and Stephen locked his arms around the impulse to flinch. A backlog of remarks sat, wasted, on the back of his tongue – locked behind his teeth with a wad of blue silk.  The fabric carried the traces of expensive cologne and sweat; a nauseating blend of sour and bitter that caught in his sinuses.  His eyes, alone, remained free to observe; though what there was to see was limited in the darkened space.  A bedroom; that much was clear; a large bed layered in heavy quilts, several lamps; all dark save for the one with the shade tilted towards his face.  The floor, however, was bare wood; though it wasn't too dark to note the rust dark stains overlapping and soaked into the grain. A simple grocery run.  No other worldly battles, no inter-dimensional carnivorous slugs, no maniacal purple aliens, not so much as a flerken in a tree.  In fact, his purchases currently resided in a corner of the room – milk warm, by now, the deli meat likely a total loss.  No robes, no cloak, no Eye of Agamotto.  His sling ring was currently worn by his unwelcome companion – though it was a tight fit on his thick fingers.  The ring, along with the rest of his possessions, had been pocketed sometime after the heavy blow had stolen his consciousness.  His skull still throbbed and he could feel the tickle of blood on the back of his neck.  Unclear how long he'd been out but concussion was almost a certainty.   The larger figure circled the modified chair to which he was bound – much like a heavy-duty school desk with restraints bolted at every joint as well as his waist and throat.  He could curl his toes and roll his eyes but even his head was held face forward by a clamp surrounding his skull – preventing him from following the movement of his captor as he moved out of sight.  He could hear him, however; a gait marred by the drag of his disfigured right foot; an impediment that had certainly not hindered him in abducting the Master of the New York Sanctum.  Yes, the thought carried all of the sarcastic weight he'd been prevented from expressing. “I've watched you.  Oh, for years, now.”  The drag-step moved to his left side and this time Stephen did flinch as heavy fingers brushed across his cheekbone; mortified at the muffled grunt that pushed against the mouthful of smooth fabric.  The hand dropped away and then the man was before him, once again. “They never truly, appreciated you, did they; your peers.  All of those miracles... all of those lives saved... only to throw you away when they no longer thought they could use you.”  The touch returned to his scars and Stephen swallowed – hand jerking against his manacles.  “All because of an accident.”

Untitled Irondad and Spiderson fic (unethical medical experimentation and torture warning) (unpublished) Teaser: Tony had, by now, moved from the roof to the sidewalk and it was, pun regretfully employed, child's play to enter – alarms disabled with a flick of his AI.  His last visit, an hour earlier, had been a more restrained affair due to the warehouse being in operation.  In fact, he hadn't even entered – keeping his surveillance covert (in spite of Nat's assertions otherwise, yes, he could do subtle).  The first red flag had arisen upon noting the level of security wrapping the building like a Christmas present.  On paper, the place was a manufacturing plant for the military.  Nothing weaponizable; more along the lines of meal trays, pop up buildings, carabiners, and the like.  The second red flag was location.  Why would the military have a contract with a small manufacturing warehouse in the middle of the suburbs?     “Interior scan.” The recording had continued to play as he walked; mostly the sound of idle chatting as Peter explored the warehouse.   “... I mean it isn't like she can't grow things; she raised me, right?  Maybe we just need better fertaliz... what was that?” “I am not detecting anything.” “No – no there was... it wasn't a sound it...” A piercing throb blasted through the speakers; though not as ear-splitting as his first time hearing it.   “...en?  Karen!  Shit!  What was...  Oh crap, oh crap!  Karen!  Karen – Mr. Stark!  I, ow!  Mr. Stark I don't... I don't know if you're still getting this but... but...  No!” A flurry of sounds – clangs and what sounded like an electrical hum followed by Peter giving a sharp cry and, most disturbing, a damp CRACK and a scream.  There were several seconds of silence.  Then...           “It's coded to the suit!  Mr. Stark, it's code-” And that was it.

“Sed Diabolus” (unpublished - massive multi-chaptered story conceived with the brilliant assistance of @kitcat992) There is very little actual story text at this point - the current development stage is outlining this beast.  However, I can share a smidgen of what this fic will entail.  This is yet another “fix-it” for endgame.  Without giving too much away it involves a a villain from Stephen Strange’s past along with a terrifying and malevolent being from the comics.  There will be crossing between universe’s, threats of world domination, death and destruction, fire, explosions...

I have just a small little teaser below but I promise more once the story goes into full production!

Stephen gaped as the floor peeled away from the massive form; pointed ears and red skin; cliché devil it may be the utter horror it projected swallowed any quip he may have conjured.  Searing heat baked from its flesh and reddened through his own ghostly form in a way that should have been impossible!  

“Sorcerer...”  The voice rattled from its throat like a plague of locusts and it grinned with bladed teeth.  Without further comment it thrust a clawed hand through Stephen's form... and he screamed as he was engulfed in fire.

[stormears]

Post-apocalypse AU, based on a fanart.

A fic I hope to finish, inspired by a fanart and an unrelated fanfic and my rekindled liking for this show. I hope I can finish it, and it’ll be a sort of writing practice for other WIPs I have right now where I feel like my writing “muscle” isn’t putting out the best words or ideas for the story. 

**This fic would feature Izuku and Bakugou traveling through the somewhat deserted remains of civilization while also sorting through the desolate remains of their relationship and cleaning that up, and sorting through their respective pain from all areas of life. It’d also have a little bit of Omegaverse in it, haha. Here’s a sample. It’s about 1700 words.**

(A few sentences have ////// in them randomly because those remind me to double-check my word choice/explanation and use a better one when I can think of one.) 

-

Izuku lived in one place for most of his life. He hid in his bedroom many times and suffered heartbreak without romance. Heartbreak of disappointment, of shame, of a young man who saw nothing in the future. He did not grow up entirely alone, but once he was alone, his hide was slow to toughen. He was frail and soft when he was young, and when he decided to grow out of these stages, his first steps were weak. But they were taking him somewhere.

He had taken only formative steps when great and unseen changes began to appear on covers of his magazines and announcements on his mother’s television. He was just old enough to rightly worry about it and how it would affect his life. He would divide his time between studying and shivering and comforting his mother, his only anchor.

They were a quiet and gentle family pair, constantly aware of the other’s burden. They shared a knowing acceptance of their warm and silent household and the total lack of visitors, for years. They held each other up. Izuku removed the knife from his mother’s hand when she wielded it on herself. Inko soothed the bruises and broken skin when her son returned home late from school and cried and would not speak of what was done to him. When a cloud formed over the capitol city across the sea and a black snow fell, and the folk with flying and jumping quirks dropped dead from the air, Izuku had been wrung and bled and cracked open enough times that he had finally been spurred from mewling fear into action. He had planned; he was prepared. He had a plan to take his mother and himself to the opposite side of the country. Unmissed, unnoticed, they moved to Yokohama. It was about as far east as they could conceivably go. With the paychecks of one nurse and one teenage clerk, they paid the rent and occasionally saved money.  They remained unnoticed in the new place and the new community; the new apartment was as quiet as the old.

The assaults went on around the world at random and reached its fingers into their lives through the papers and the internet exclusively, because televisions were going quiet. Now the two of them did not feel as alone as before; now huge swaths of the populace were forced into the sort of quiet suffering and burying their heads that this mother and son had done for many years.

They trudged on through the daily trials—pain fatherless loveless poor pathetic lonely ugly spiteful sobbing numb—while pursing their lips at the events in Europe and China and the changing maps and the big stores, theaters, and clothing outlets closing as the employees fled. The American ocean-taming heroes Songbird and Stingray were lost in a flood, and two weeks later Izuku graduated from high school a year early: taller than his mother, prepped for college, close to being a grown man. His mother took him out for ice cream. Then they went home and watched a movie they had recorded some days before. Nothing else to do.

In their separate internet lives, Inko and Izuku learned around the same time that the areas that had had their landscapes torn up by the bombings were spreading a green, heavy gas and the people remaining nearby were spreading a disease. Warnings about it were posted at Izuku’s college. His calculus professor disappeared and was replaced by one who could both write differentials and whose quirk made his sweat into a cleansing solution the students were forced to use on themselves even though it stung to the touch. One day Izuku came home from the campus gym and his mother said she had a surprise for him and when he’d closed his eyes for her, she jabbed him with a syringe.

Inko was a thief and a smuggler now. She lied to the mailing desk, her boss, the desperate interns and the nurse practitioner and had taken the only three vaccines in the hospital for her child. When Izuku asked if she had injected herself first, she lied. He did not suspect her because her next statement was truth and she shook a little when she said it: she did not think she would be going back to work tomorrow. Izuku reluctantly agreed to stay home from school for a few days as well. He made dinner for the two of them while a crazy person with a loudspeaking quirk yelled somewhere on their street and was silenced by someone else.

It progressed. The two of them stayed indoors. They played board games. He did pushups and wrote things in notebooks, muttering always, and she listened to audiobooks and cleaned the place many times, muttering nonsense. Izuku noticed.

When a neighbor knocked on the door and asked to see Inko, Izuku slammed his fists on the walls and shouted and screeched like he had the disease or had lost his mind. His arms were strong now and the stranger fled from his ferocious false clamor. He never left his mother alone in a room for very long.  

It progressed. It had been three bombs from three places that started it. The blasts had opened up holes in the ground where it congregated, where people fled from. But the disease was moving everywhere, killing spectacularly, randomly. The internet said it was airborne, or blood-borne, or carried by mosquitoes. Small island nations were specially protected and safe, or they were overrun. Quirkless people were immune to the disease, or sometimes it killed them in their sleep, or created cancer, or it killed them fastest of all. All Might was still alive and carrying the sick and injured to quarantine sites in China. Definitely China.

It progressed,  and it must have come in through a window or a vent. Their apartment had been a haven up until then, Izuku’s pepper spray trap at the front door had repulsed one would-be invader, and they saw no green gas anywhere, but Inko fell ill. She was weak and sore one day, stayed in an exhausted sleep most of the next, and had a fever on the third. On that day, she could not move any more. Izuku picked her up in his arms—she had lost some weight and he felt her shivering—and he carried her to her bed in the slow and tender way she deserved. He brushed her hair out of her eyes and mopped sweat from her brow and face until she stopped sweating. He found swift moments when her eyes were shut or her vision drifted to swipe away at his own tears, so she wouldn’t see that he knew.

“I’m so lucky I had you,” Inko said. Her son was holding her left hand in both of his, covering it and keeping it warm. She placed her right hand over both of his so she could cover him instead. Her son let her. “You’re always so good. You give so much. So proud of you for that. So much.”

Izuku returned the squeeze of her hand and did not know what to say now. His head spun with too many thoughts and he was biting his tongue a bit to keep from saying them and in front of her. He had to breathe deeply to keep from stuttering and steady his breath away from the jagged gasps that were coming out now. He asked if she was thirsty, or wanted him to run a bath. She needed fluids, so he would have to go get her some water very soon.

“No. Just wanna lay here. Thank you.” she replied in between her heavy breaths. Izuku nodded and kept hold of her hands. She was staring at him then, an unpleasant, alien flickering in her eyes like the light source within was failing. She was waiting for him to speak to her, or she was staring vacantly at him vacantly at him without comprehending. There was no way to know.

She pushed out of Izuku’s grip, towards his wrist instead, and she stroked a little expanse of his skin and back up the curve of his hand. She just wanted to feel a little more of him and have a little more than just the sweaty, big palms. When the lights came back on in her eyes, Izuku felt an unpleasant shiver in his back and shoulder blades. She was working up energy and the proper words to say something. She wanted to say something important and he knew it by how she used what little grip she had left on him.

Underneath some layers of Izuku’s observations about Inko’s condition, and how much food they had left and vials of chemicals he’d stored and his mask and the equations for the boots and the solar batteries with his precious AM labels on them, was an invasive vision of an empty apartment. This sight of an apartment that didn’t have her in it was so jarring that Izuku flinched hard enough to crack joints in his back to banish the visual. He blinked with some surprise at his mother, who was smiling at him. He knew she wanted to talk about something, or a few things.

He bit his tongue and listened. The realization was thin but sharp and he knew it would press in as time went forward and crush him soon. He had to listen to her. It would be one of the last things he heard, before he went outside.