#is this too long to be a snippet? idk

[solitaire-sol]

Sunday Snippet

Thanks to @groundzero-v for the tag! This is a bit from one of two Victorian Prongsfoot AUs in my WIP folder (well, the other might end up Regency, we'll see). This WIP, unlike the other one, is also a Muggle AU.

Sirius paged idly through the letters, the once-pristine stationary yellowed by the passage of time; the flickering firelight hardly made for the clearest illumination, but no matter. He had read those lines often enough to know them by heart, memorizing each stroke of ink, charting the way that the letters began as a neat but childish scrawl and slowly straightened, loops and whorls coming to stand at attention like a line of soldiers. They had started out as nothing more than a child's ramblings, little stories about the woods and the fields around Welspryng Grange and crooked sketches of the view from James' windows, and over time the content of the letters had shifted, easing into open words of fondness and veiled words of love. The last few letters, postmarked after Sirius' departure from England, were pleading and furious and remorseful by turns, until the last letter of them all, which contained only a handful of lines and a final farewell. 'I should have burned them,' Sirius thought, knowing even as he thought it that he could never bring himself to do so. 'I should have let that be the end.' It had been his intention, at the time, overflowing as he'd been with heartache and the righteous outrage of betrayal; Sirius had enough money that he could permanently set up house on the Continent, if he cared to do so, and never set food on England's gloomy shores again. Yes, he should have burned the letters and he should have stayed away, and yet, he had done neither. Perhaps it was some lingering sentiment from the boy who had devoured those silly little stories about chasing rabbits and splashing in brooks, from the youth who had eagerly awaited the end of the holidays and the return to school and to James, from the young man who had pressed those lines to his lips and longed for the chance to bestow such kisses on the hand that had written them. Perhaps it was cruelty, a malice born of a soul-deep wound, that had driven Sirius' return to England and his violent intrusion into James' proper little life. If the latter, then the embers of that bitter fire now burned low, for Sirius could no longer find it within him to take pleasure in his manipulations, and James had changed as well. He no longer resisted Sirius' provocations, but that impossibly honest gaze was no longer clouded with conflicting emotions: The violence of their coupling had diminished, though the vigor had not, and there were times when those clear hazel eyes were laden with such unspoken tenderness that Sirius was forced to look away. Sirius could lie to anyone, except to himself, and Sirius knew that it had never been about revenge, about the petty amusements with which he could so offhandedly ruin other peoples' lives. It had always been about James, about James and Sirius and the innocence that they had lost when the world had intruded into their humble London apartments, when Sirius had believed that the return of the luxuries lost when his family disinherited him would ease their life together, not bring it to an end.

I once again have no idea who to tag it always makes me feel like I'd be bothering people??? so an open invitation, I guess!

[arsenicflame]

It's a time-honoured tradition- every time Sam comes across Izzy (and Ed) in their travels, he asks Izzy to marry him. And every time, Izzy turns him down.

At this point, Sam is asking more for the sake of it than any belief Izzy will ever say yes, a remnant of childhood dedication touched with 30 years of heartbreak and regret- though even now, a small part of him still holds out hope. Sam's promises have only got more extravagant over the years, from a job as his first mate, to a captaincy, a fleet at his command, a whole fucking island if that's what Izzy wants- but he knows it isn't though, not really. If Izzy was ever going to agree to marry him, to leave his life and go with Sam, it wouldn't be for anything Sam could offer him. Izzy never did care for flashy shows of wealth, for a ship or to be captain. The only thing that ever mattered to him was loyalty given, and loyalty shown in return. 

It all comes to a head after Stede left and came back, after Izzy lost a toe, lost his leg. Sam hasn't seen him since before things with Ed started to really slide off the rails, before stress permanently set into the lines of Izzy’s face. So, when he sees a dishevelled man with a hoof for a leg in a no-name port, he doesn't even consider the idea that he might know him. It's only when he turns towards him, and Sam catches a glance at those oh too familiar tattoos, he realises this is Izzy, his Izzy, that stands before him.

Knowing Izzy's discomfort with pity, he doesn't treat him any differently than he would in years gone by, positioning himself in Izzy's line of sight before approaching and sweeping him up into a bone crushing hug. 

“Israel-goddamn-Hands!” he exclaims, as Izzy grumbles back a begrudging “Samuel-fucking-Bellamy”, a tradition almost as old as their friendship itself. Izzy might not hug him back, but he can’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching, just for a second.

(If Sam holds Izzy a little tighter and a little longer than usual, well. That's his business)

By the time Sam lets go, most of the crew has appeared in the town square, drawn in by the commotion. They may have given Izzy his leg and welcomed him as one of them, but still there’s an underlying tension, with nobody quite ready to set aside everything that happened before the Kraken. Seeing him cosying up to an unknown man sets everyone on edge, unsure whether to come to their first mate’s aid, or to assume that they've been betrayed once again.

When Ed sees that the yelling was Sam, his hand goes tense where it's held in Stede's. He knows the routine, has seen it more times than he can count, but as he watches them part he realises that this is the first time in a long time he's unsure of what Izzy's response will be.

Knowing that something’s different, knowing that Izzy's feeling vulnerable already, Sam doesn't go for the same flashy proposal he’s been giving for years. He doesn't promise Izzy the world, he doesn't cause a scene (or, any more of a scene than he already has, anyway). He looks at the fractured man in front of him, takes his face in his hands, and says the exact same thing to him he said when they were little more than boys. “Israel, I have to ask you. I know what you'll say, but I have to try. Come with me. Marry me and sail away with me. I'll keep you safe”

And Izzy… hesitates. He glances over at Ed, at Stede, and says to Sam “...We’re staying in port for a week. Ask me again then”

That's the moment Sam knows there is something deeply, horribly, wrong. He's not just looking at an Izzy who got seriously injured in a fight and is struggling to cope, this is something so much bigger than that- and that Ed has something to do with it. Izzy wouldn't even be considering leaving if he didn't. Whether it was negligence or something more sinister, Sam doesn't yet know, but he intends to find out.

[betweenblackberrybranches]

Fuck it! Funky Sun design dunno what i will do with him but the tape recorder is important!

This Sun is a little fucked up actually

[wikiangela]

seven sentence sunday

thank you to everyone who's been tagging me, I've been slacking on posting here and keeping up with my notifs lmao but I appreciate y'all <3

sooo... did someone say post-bucktommy-break-up saltommy? 👀 (btw they're just friends here, no romantic feelings, just an unhealthy way to deal with shit for both of them lmao)

___

“You okay?” He asks quietly, his grip firm, genuine concern in his face. Tommy must look like hell. 

“No.” Tommy admits, managing a crooked smile. “Not at all.” He turns fully towards Sal, his arm falling out of his grasp. Tommy takes a step forward, into Sal’s space. “Why do you think I’m here at this hour?” 

“Tommy.” Sal says, a hint of warning in his voice when Tommy takes another step into Sal’s personal space. “You know how it goes. It won’t make you feel any better.”

“I don’t care. Just- just shut up and kiss me.” Tommy gets so close their lips almost touch, his hands landing on Sal’s hips. “Please, Sal. If you- if you really don’t want to, don’t want me, just say a word and I’ll leave.” Tommy promises, though he doesn’t think he could handle a rejection well right now, when he’s already at his lowest. “But I need- I need you. Please.” He knows he sounds desperate, that’s because he really fucking is. He needs to feel something that’s not pain and heartache and sadness and so much self-hatred he could drown in it. For just a moment, he needs to feel good, at least physically. And it’s a guarantee with Sal.

@dr-shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @watchyourbuck @diazpatcher @monsterrae1 @pirrusstuff @rogerzsteven @honestlydarkprincess @steadfastsaturnsrings @diazheartsbuckley @giddyupbuck @thewolvesof1998 @underwaterninja13 @your-catfish-friend @louisferrignojr @beyourownanchor6 @weewootruck @kirkaut @jewishbuckley @doctorkinney @bucktommyscones @bucked-it-up @theotherbuckley @drcloyd @girlwonder-writes @dadbodbuck @loullaby @aringofsalt @actuallyitsellie @hippolotamus @diazsdimples @hyperfocusthusly @talktonytome @teenmaximoff @cornerofspace @tommybuckleys @kinard-buckley @perfectlysunny02

[wttcsms]

horribly short summary of what im trying to accomplish here, but if you were to read a fic featuring character, a soldier honorably discharged and is officially off the battlefield and yet he can’t seem to shake off the war from clinging to his body, and he’s basically a bit of a mess and feels incapable of returning to ordinary life and there’s you, the sweetest thing in the whole world, and he keeps trying to tell you he’s no good and you’re there to help him with everything (and it kills him a bit, to see you wasting your time to help him, and it kills him because he feels like he shouldn’t be the type of person who needs help) and !! just slowburn and falling in love and just read the tags for the vibe ok, who would it be for

[starmocha]

MC: I'd tell him to rest more often.

Zayne: It would be better if you told him to keep it up.

[the-broken-pen]

A sapphic detective who gets too close to the truth of a case and gets confronted by her girlfriend for being too obsessed?

“You need to stop.”

The detective didn’t jerk up at the sound of her voice—just quietly stirred, rustling papers as she shifted upright to meet her eyes.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” the detective said slowly, eyes scanning over her. She watched her gaze catch on the water dripping from the ends of her hair, the mascara smudging itself down her cheeks.

“It’s date night,” she said, and even to her own ears her voice sounded tired. Dead. Rotting roses and dirty dishes in the sink.

The detective blinked once, then shifted through her papers until she found a scribbled in calendar. It was stuck on the wrong month.

“I forgot,” the detective murmured. It wasn’t an apology, and neither of them were pretending that it was. She could tell, even now, with her girlfriend pathetic and dripping water onto the hardwood floor in front of her, that the detective wanted nothing more than to go back to her evidence.

“Yeah,” she croaked. “Funny how it’s never the case you forget.”

The detective jerked, slightly, like she hadn’t expected the barbs in her girlfriend’s voice.

In the hallway, there was a drooping bouquet of flowers she hadn’t been able to bear bringing into the apartment.

“You know how important this is,” the detective implored, and it made her want to break things. Burn the papers, shatter the fancy glasses in the cabinet, spill wine across the carpets.

What about me, she wanted to scream. Am I not important to you anymore?

Instead, she said again, “You need to stop.”

“Stop?”

“The case. You need to stop.”

“I can’t just stop,” the detective laughed slightly, as if she thought it would convey how inconceivable the idea of stopping was.

“Yes, you can. Give it to someone else. There’s a whole precinct just waiting for you to put this file into their hands.”

At the thought of it, the thought of giving up this case, the hunt, the chase, pain flashed across the detective’s face.

“You don’t understand.”

“I do,” she replied. She had to shift her gaze to the dead plant on the corner of her partner’s desk, dirt dry and leaves brittle. “How could I not?”

“So then how could you ask me to do that? To give it all up? Why now?”

She had so many answers to that. So many moments that cut into her hands like a mosaic of memories. The bed empty beside her through the entire night. Cancelled reservations, one seat alone at the dinner table, laughs that died in her ribs. Friends, well meaning, who asked where the detective was, and the painful smiles she forced through the explanations. Work, and work, and work. Crime scene photos on the coffee table. The loneliness that seemed to care about her more than her girlfriend did.

There were so many times when she almost said something. Almost said enough. But she hadn’t, and now they were here, as she dripped a puddle onto the floor, and the detective looked at her like she had never seen her before.

When she tried to say that, any of that, it caught in her throat.

The detective took her silence for an inability to answer. A lack of evidence. Like she was throwing this tantrum for no reason, a little kid in the toy aisle of the store.

The detective sighed, rubbing a hand over her forehead. The other was already fanning through the papers once more. Her voice turned into something that begged to be understood.

“I’m so close—“

“To losing me.” She swallowed, painfully. “You’re losing me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“This isn’t fair,” her voice broke as she gestured between the two of them. “What you’re doing to me isn’t fair.”

“I’m not doing anything—“

“Exactly.” It was louder than she meant it to be. They both flinched.

“I’ll have it solved in a week, I promise.” She wasn’t sure who the detective was promising to.

“No.”

The detective blinked.

“No?”

“You heard me the first time.”

“I heard you, but I’m not sure what you’re saying ‘no’ to.”

If she had the energy to be slightly meaner, she would have told her to figure it out. Told her that she was a detective, this should be easy for her.

“I’m not giving you a week.” She took a deep breath. “And you’re not going to solve it.”

The detective’s looked at her like she didn’t recognize the person on the other side of the desk.

Finally, she understood what it felt like to face her girlfriend from the other side of an interrogation table.

Her girlfriend’s face was cold, and closed off. Her jaw was grinding into itself. She was staring at her like she couldn’t decide whether or not to consider her a suspect. As if the only reason she could fathom her girlfriend saying something like that was if she was actively sabotaging her.

She was cold, and her coat was wet, and this place no longer felt like home.

“You won’t solve this case.”

She was pretty sure there wasn’t anything crueler she could have said.

“You don’t know anything.” It was dripping with venom, and fear, and frustration. The fear the detective really wouldn’t solve it. The frustration that it still wasn’t solved.

“Do you really think you’re that special?” By now, it was too far gone for her to stop. There was no pretty way out of this. “You aren’t. This isn’t a TV show. You aren’t the main character who swoops in where no one else has before. It’s been decades of the same bullshit—taunting and evidence trails, and nobody has solved it. Don’t you think if it was solvable, it would have been by now?”

“There’s new evidence, and I’m not them—“

“What part of ‘you aren’t special’ don’t you understand,” she hissed, and the detective shifted away from her. “You aren’t the miracle detective who solves this. They’re going to keep on killing, and driving the people who try and find them crazy, and you’re letting them do it to you.”

“I’m not letting them do anything.”

“But you are,” she countered. “You have been for months. They’re messing with you. They’re everything to you, and you’re a game to them, and I’m nothing on the sidelines.”

“Babe, that’s not true,” The detective tried, voice softening. As if she had just realized something between them was wrong. That her girlfriend was hurting—had been, for a while.

She swallowed the tears rising in her throat.

“Do I need to become a crime scene for you to finally care about me again?” She slammed her hand down on the papers. Pretended the wince on the detectives face was concern for her, and not the papers she crumpled. “Will you look at me, love me again, if I’m a bloody photograph in this folder?”

“I do love you.”

“When someone loves someone else, they don’t leave them alone in the rain, waiting to be picked up. They don’t cancel to go dig through old archives on their loved one’s birthday. They don’t leave them in the middle of the night and let the blankets beside them get cold. People who love someone don’t live their life without a concern for the person they’re putting below everything else.”

“You’re making this really hard.”

“Good,” she snapped. “Because you’ve been making it hard to love you for months, and I’m glad you finally know how it feels.”

The detective paused, at that. Swallowed, eyes flitting around the room as if she would find the perfect thing to say in the remnants of the life they had built together.

“I love you,” The detective managed. Somehow, it was the worst thing she could have said.

“Good. Prove it.” She thought maybe dying would have hurt less than this.

“Prove it?”

“Prove it. Me, or the case.”

The detective froze.

“You don’t mean that,” she said, and it sounded like a plea. Don’t make me choose.

“Look at me and try and tell me I’m joking.” When the detective said nothing, she pushed further. “Go on. Do it. Choose.”

“I can’t do that—“ the detective choked. “This isn’t fair, you know that. I’m so close.”

Somehow, she had expected it to hurt less.

“Don’t make me choose,” the detective, her girlfriend, the love of her life finally said, voice breaking.

She had thought it would feel like dying.

It felt like nothing.

“You just did,” she said. The tears refused to be held, this time. The pain ran rampant through every word.

She knew her girlfriend could hear it.

“I love you,” the detective whispered. A final, desperate prayer for her to stay. But she was no god, and her girlfriend was no believer. And it would never be enough.

She let the door slam on the way out.

The detective never did solve that case.

[bosspigeon]

so due to money issues and also the fact that i have kind of a Big Project in the works i'm trying to figure out kofi and hfdjshg lord help me

[vigilskeep]

hey do you guys ever think about how justice’s inexperience with people and anders’ reliance on laughing over his trauma would’ve made justice wholly unprepared for the kind of shame and hurt and fear that was now suddenly a part of him. i think abt it!

[cuteniarose]

thoughts on ming-hua x p'li??

Unfairly attractive OTP rare pair that deserve a lot more love than they get, what else can I say?

[clarabowmp3]

.

[flyingspicerack]

hmm ...

[givesuethemoon]

why did you delete the snippet? :(

Looks like it’s gonna be chaotic, can’t wait to read it.

and next month??? you’re amazing 🫶🫶🫶

anon, hiii

omg. i didn’t think very many people saw it before I deleted 😭 truth is I am an overthinker to the max. like that’s the explanation. LOL

i love you, and YES next month if all goes to plan!!! i literally started writing this the second I submitted my omegarry fic cause I was super inspired and the words just flew out of me so it’s sitting at a nice 30k rn with still more to go! also, the sweetest aria @polaroidlouis has been helping me which is a huge reason why i’ve been making such good progress 😁😁

i will post another snippet soon don’t worry

[ghostly-kal]

behold, the latest piece i spent so long working on am not undecided if i like it or hate it

[wikiangela]

wip wednesday🎄

tagged by @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove

i wasn't gonna post anything but i wrote quite a lot today and need validation lmao (I think I might be about halfway done but who knows, it always gets away from me haha) today some buckley siblings feels, and hopefully soon ill get to the fluffy christmas part haha

prev snippet

___

"(...) I used to make stuff for Maddie, and then when I was older I would save money to buy her something small and mostly symbolic.” he glances at Eddie. There’s a mix of bittersweet nostalgia and sadness on his face. “She made all my Christmases bearable, and after she left-” he stops abruptly and quietly clears his throat. When he speaks again, he doesn’t finish the sentence. Eddie wants to ask, but he figures Buck will share what he’s comfortable sharing, he doesn’t want to push. “But that was the one thing I wanted so badly, more than anything, more than any cool toys or- or anything,” he chuckles again, “and Maddie tried to give it to me, and she got in trouble for it. So after that, I just never asked again.”

“Buck.” Eddie says softly, wishing he could do anything to make it better, to fucking go back in time and give Buck all the Christmases he ever dreamt about.

“But I always wished-” Buck continues, then glances at Eddie nervously. 

“Wished what?” Eddie’s thumb softly swipes along Buck’s neck and jawline, as far as he can reach. He just wants to comfort him somehow, and at the moment this is the only way he knows how, just a comforting touch, being there, listening.

“That one day, when I grew up,” Buck looks down at his lap again, his voice getting even quieter, “I’d have my own family and I’m gonna do matching Christmas sweaters every single year, and take tons of pictures of us all together, and-” he pauses again, and, with a teary laugh, raises his hand to wipe at his eyes. Eddie wants to wrap him in his arms and hold him. (...) “But it doesn’t matter, I don’t-” Buck shakes his head, and leans away from Eddie’s touch. Eddie aches to keep touching him, to reach out and follow, but he respects that clearly that’s not what Buck wants anymore, that’s fine. “I don’t have my own family yet, so it doesn't matter. Let’s just drop it.” he says, tone decisive, face red, eyes glued to the screen again. 

Eddie frowns. What the hell is Buck talking about? He has a family, right here.

___

no pressure tags: @elvensorceress @gaydiaz @diazass @thebravebitch @silentxxsoul @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @arthursdent @911onabc @spagheddiediaz @housewifebuck @rogerzsteven @watchyourbuck @honestlydarkprincess @underwater-ninja-13 @eowon @weewootruck @loserdiaz @evanbegins @steadfastsaturnsrings @ladydorian05 @malewifediaz @pirrusstuff @theotherbuckley @911-on-abc @hoodie-buck @wildlife4life @fortheloveofbuddie @nmcggg @diazpatcher @jesuisici33 @lover-of-mine @giddyupbuck @spotsandsocks @exhuastedpigeon @buckaroosheart @hippolotamus @king-buckley @callmenewbie @jeeyuns @disasterbuckdiaz @monsterrae1 @thewolvesof1998 @jamespearce9-1-1 @daffi-990

[honeyvenommusic]

.