#now write your gun toting fics. or else.

[themournwatcher]

“If rook had a gun” “veilguard if rook had a gun” “we should give a rook a gun”

ROOK HAS A GUN. in the saboteur rogue ultimate :)

[literatecowboy]

The Rattlesnake County War

Following a botched cattle rustling job, a lone surviving outlaw finds herself thrust into a conflict between ranchers bigger than any she'd been embroiled in before. A Sheriff!Price x Outlaw!Reader fic; MDNI please; reader is AFAB and she/her pronouns are used but should otherwise be ambiguous (if I can be more inclusive/there is somewhere where I can improve on making her more "friendly" to readers let me know pls!) Warnings: hanging, angst, death, stabbings, references to guns and shootings, execution, etc. Eventual smut. I intend to write 2 versions of this fic - more information can be found in the masterlist.

1. Hanging Offense

1869, Somewhere on the Colorado River

“Cattle rustlin’ is a hangin’ offense, miss. You know that?”

You sat straight-backed in the back of the prison wagon, hands shackled, as it bumped down the dusty dirt road.

“So’s horse rustling,” you shouted over the rattling of the wagon, looking pointedly at the sheriff’s deputy as he walked beside the wagon, leading your horse. He was a young Black man who wore his hat low over his eyes and showed respectful deference to the muttonchop-toting Sheriff who drove the wagon.

“One horse - which mind you, we’re taking along for safekeeping, in comparison to one thousand head of cattle. Does that strike you as being equivalent?” the sheriff asked, turning back to look at you. You fixed him with a stony glare.

“You took the lives of my men and the rancher got his cattle back, so yes, I’d say this is unfair. I’d like my horse back so I might go on my way,” you said. “My guns should be returned to me as well.”

“You put a shot in between my legs, miss. Not sure if arming you would be beneficial to my health.” the deputy piped up, tugging on the reins as he walked and making your horse, Whiskey, balk.

“Learn to control a horse, asshole.”

“That’s Deputy Garrick to you, miss.”

As the prison wagon rattled into town, the dirt of the road became mud. Men lining the wood plank sidewalks gawked as you were paraded by. You noticed few women, and those that you did paused to gawk. The sheriff laughed.

“With how few decent women there are around these parts, half of these men might ask you to marry them yet. Welcome to Rattlesnake Point, miss!”

—

Hours later, you sat in your cell on the threadbare cot, watching the sun go down through the windows. The door opened and the sheriff looked up from his desk, a smile crossing his lips.

“Ah, Mr. Riley. To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?” he asked, rising from the desk and extending his hand. The two shook hands and Mr. Riley produced a wound measuring tape before stepping toward your cell.

“Good evening, Sheriff Price. If you would permit me, I would like to measure this women for the coffin I expect will need to be constructed for her, given her charges.” Mr. Riley said, offering you his hand.

“Miss. Would you mind standing for me?” he asked, unwinding the measuring tape. It uncoiled like a snake waiting to strike, its end brushing back and forth against the brick floor.

“Go fuck yourself.” you spat, your heart thumping in your chest at the thought of death so close.

“Now, miss, that’s no way to speak to Mr. Riley. He’s a fine undertaker, the finest this town has ever seen. Find it in your heart to make his job easier, or else I may have to enter your cell and measure you myself.” Sheriff Price said.

“Come in here and it’ll be your coffin Mr. Riley constructs.” you hissed. Mr. Riley smiled and rewound the tape, slipping it into his pocket.

“You seem to have imprisoned a wildcat in place of a woman, Sheriff. It is of no consequence - we can bury your body wrapped in canvas.” he said, turning to leave with a tip of his hat.

“My apologies, Mr. Riley. If I might ask a favor - if you see Deputy Garrick, would you ask him to return to me? I’ve no doubt he’s at Mr. MacTavish’s watering hole, but our work is not yet done. I would like an extra guard on watch tonight - I suspect this one to be a flight risk.” the sheriff said.

“Of course.”

—

The night passed, but not without event. The walls of the jailhouse were brick, as was the floor, and try as you you did you could not dislodge them. The bars in the window were sturdy and did not budge when you tugged. The ceiling was too high for you to reach, even standing on the flimsy cot.

The Sheriff merely sat and watched you, not lifting a finger to stop you as you searched out every avenue of escape you could. He had bested you. Your men were dead - not a soul could come to your rescue.

You slept for a few hours before being awoken at dawn by the cell door opening. The Sheriff was gone. Deputy Garrick stood in his place.

“Miss, it’s time. Please, come quietly so that you might die with your dignity.” he said softly, almost gently, reaching out his gloved hand. You stood slowly and stepped cautiously from the cell, your gaze finding the window in the wall near the front of the room. Sheriff Price stood leaned against the prison wagon outside, and his gaze met yours. He offered you a pitying smile as if you were some hapless little woman who needed to be disciplined.

With a growl, you turned and launched yourself at the deputy.

—

It took the combined might of Sheriff Price, Deputy Garrick, and Mr. Riley to wrestle you into the back of the secure wagon, kicking and screaming and spitting and biting and clawing. By the end of it they looked thoroughly unkempt and to your chagrin, thoroughly amused.

“A wildcat indeed. It’ll be interesting to see if she can fight a rope,” Mr. Riley mused.

The ride to the hanging tree was over quickly. A crowd had assembled to watch, despite the early morning, and you glared silently at them all, having been muzzled following the earlier scrap. You were not given the chance to walk - Sheriff Price hefted you over his shoulder and marched you beneath the noose, standing you on the flimsy chair before slipping the rope over your head. The Deputy was entrusted to watch you as he climbed onto a barrel and fished a paper from his pocket to read your charges.

“While unfortunate that such a beautiful member of the fairer sex feels the desire to engage in criminal behavior unbecoming of Christianity, it is imperative that she be punished for her crimes as any other…”

As the Sheriff droned on, dust was kicked up in the distance and the sound of hooves on the dirt road pounded closer. Before you could fully make out the figure riding hard in your direction, a hood was pulled over your head and all you could see was black.

“…and may God have mercy on her soul.” the sheriff finished. Your heart tightened, as did the noose around your neck. The noise of approaching horses was drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in your ears. This was the end.

“Stop! Stop this execution, now!” a voice shouted out. “Those were my steers she stole, and I am commanding this to stop!”

You tensed, awaiting weightlessness. The deputy behind you froze - you could feel his hands tighten on your arms. Sheriff Price called out to the figure.

“Mr. Marshall, what is the meaning of this?” he called out. You could hear him jump down from the barrel he stood on and pass by you, leaves crunching as he approached the man.

“I don’t wish for her to be executed. Her men are dead, her gang has been eradicated. My steers are safe. There is no need for this - and I have many things to ask her.” the voice, who you assumed to be Mr. Marshall, said.

“You would ask me to set free a livestock rustler - why?” Sheriff Price asked. Their voices quieted - you could no longer hear what they were discussing. The bag was lifted from your head, then the rope pulled from your neck. You sucked in a deep breath, stumbling down from the chair and falling to your knees in the grass.

You caught sight of a young, attractive man standing before you. He offered you his hand, but you ignored it and stood on your own. Your boots left indents in the dirt.

The deputy cut your hands free and you stretched your wrists, looking around. The crowd had largely dispersed, heading back to town and grumbling about missing out on the promised entertainment. Your knees wobbled.

“I’ve been told that you might be the solution to a…problem Mr. Marshall and I are afflicted by,” the Sheriff said, folding his arms across his chest as he eyed you, obviously unconvinced.

“So you delay my execution? So I can be a tool for you to use and then discard? Hang me now and get it over with,” you demanded. Price sighed.

“As much as it pains me to say it, this…opportunity would earn you a full pardon,” he said. “I’ve been around long enough to know that if you want to bring the Lord’s justice to sinners, you don’t call upon a saint.”

—

You passed back through town sitting proud on your own horse this time. Whiskey, your large, strawberry roan mustang, was a mean mare. She had given the Sheriff and each of his men trouble as they brought her to you, only calming when you offered her some sugar from your pocket. Deputy Garrick had earned his first bruises from her after she had thrown him the previous day when he tried to ride her out of your sight.

Mr. Marshall and Sheriff Price rode on either side of you. As you passed the jail, you slowed Whiskey to a stop and gave the sheriff a pointed look.

“My guns?” you asked. Mr. Marshall seemed to be about to speak but the Sheriff shook his head.

“You’re lucky that you’re even on horseback, miss. You get your guns back, there’s nothing stopping you from putting lead in between my eyes and running off again,” he said. You sighed.

“I’m a woman of my word, sheriff. Mind that I might not be able to assist you as efficiently without my guns at my side,” you said, urging Whiskey on once more and riding in front of the men, who glanced at each other warily.

—

Mr. Marshall had lead you to a saloon.

Sheriff Price looked hesitant as you hitched your horses out front but did not leave your side regardless. As Mr. Marshall was about to pass through the swinging doors, he grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Here? Are you sure?” he asked, glancing around. You watched curiously, leaning against the saloon wall, arms folded across your chest.

“Where do you think I’ve been getting my information? Men from the Old Kingdom come here all the time, but the owner’s got no love for loyalists like them,” Mr. Marshall said. “Feeds me info from time to time.”

Pulling free from Price’s grasp, he shoved his way into the saloon. You followed without sparing the Sheriff a glance.

It was rowdy in the saloon for the mid afternoon. That morning’s work was done unusually early for the cattlemen and they sought to pass the rest of the day with drink. The piano sang from the corner as men stumbled about, finding their places at the bar or at gambling tables. Women of ill repute lined the railing overlooking the first floor from the second level, fanning themselves or smoking as they sought their marks.

The presence of Mr. Marshall had caused a mild stir, and you quickly realized that the men of this bar were no friends of his, though Sheriff Price’s presence seemed to dissuade the clientele from approaching him. You observed as a table of men, upon catching sight of Mr. Marshall, stood and exited the saloon. They mounted their horses outside and rode away rather quickly, which raised the hairs on the back of your neck. Something didn’t feel right.

“Barkeep! Where’s Mr. MacTavish?” Mr. Marshall called out as he approached the bar, tossing the bartender a coin.

“Cellar, sir. Does this have to do with the spirits you requested for your dinner party?” the barkeep asked. Mr. Marshall nodded. The barkeep eyed you up and then Sheriff Price, his brow furrowing.

“Very well. Head on downstairs,” he said, turning to fetch another drink.

—

The cellar was large which only slightly surprised you. A town containing as many cowboys as it did needed to be well-stocked with drink. As you followed Mr. Marshall deeper into the cool, lantern-lit depths, the sound of a thick Scottish accent boomed off of the kegs.

“James Marshall! It’s good tae see–” Mr. MacTavish froze when he caught sight of Sheriff Price. “You brought the Sheriff? And a lass? What’s going on?” he asked, how brow furrowing and his head cocking.

“I think she’s the perfect solution to our problem, Johnny. I let John here in on it too, and he agrees with me. There are others counting on us - we’ve never had an opportunity like this before.” James Marshall said, gesturing to you as you stood with your hands on your hips.

“Hold on, now, I still haven’t been told what exactly this problem you keep mentioning is,” you said, your brow creasing. John shook his head at the other two men.

“Not here, too many ears. Later tonight, let’s meet at my office. The others will be there too. In the meantime, I’ll explain to our…asset…what’s been going on here,” he said, turning to leave the cellar again.

“I’ll be there. See ya later, gentlemen. Lass,” Johnny said, tipping his hat to you. This made the Sheriff scoff, but he said nothing as you climbed the stairs back up to the saloon. You were the first to push through the swinging doors, and as you fiddled with your saddle, a shout sounded from down the street.

“Marshall! Get over here, boy!”

Sheriff Price’s head jerked up at the same time as yours. You watched as a big, burly man, one of the men who had hurried out of the bar earlier, stormed up to Mr. Marshall. Two other large men flanked at him.

With one punch from the burly man, Mr. Marshall was sent to the ground, hollering and clutching his nose. The man wasn’t done, though, and aimed a hard kick at his ribs. The other two flanking him were quick to join in.

You were quick to the defense of the man who’d saved your life, rolling up your sleeves as you stomped over toward Mr. Marshall’s attackers. You aimed a punch at the big one, clocking him hard in the chin and sending him stumbling back a few steps as you flexed your fingers, eyeing the others.

“You vagabonds! Stop, now!” Sheriff Price roared, surprising you with his speed. He pulled you away from the fight, shoved you to the side, and stood over Mr. Marshall, glaring down the attackers. One of them laughed, making the others chuckle too.

“You ain’t got no authority here!” he laughed, shoving Price in the chest. He staggered back a step, his chest heaving as his hands balled into fists.

“One more step and I’ll put you in the ground,” you growled, surging forward and putting yourself in front of Price and Marshall. The big one grabbed for you, but you took a step forward and swung at him, landing a strong punch and stepping up to land another. This set them off again, and someone swung at you, connecting with your nose and sending you falling onto your ass beside Mr. Marshall as he groaned, blood gushing from his nose.

The three turned on Price then, aiming punches at him and trying to grab him to force him to the ground. As you scrambled up to rejoin the fight, Mr. Marshall grabbed your hand and shoved a hard, leather-bound handle into it - a knife that had fallen during the crisis.

“Should’ve sold your land, Marshall! Should’ve left before you died in the fucking dirt!” someone yelled, making someone else laugh. You were on your feet in an instant and plunged the knife into the back of the neck of one of the men who was getting the better of Price. He gurgled, dropping to the ground as blood gushed from the wound.

This made another one of the attackers whirl around in surprise, but this time, you were ready. You yanked the knife from the dead man as he toppled to the ground and plunged it into the man’s throat with a scream as you tackled him.

The Sheriff and the remaining man were stunned still now, but the third attacker regained his composure before the Sheriff and bolted for his horse. As you tried to yank the knife free from your victim’s neck unsuccessfully, he mounted up and tore off leaving only dust in his wake.

You stood up slowly, your chest heaving. Before you could recover, Sheriff Price grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you fiercely, the blood of your victims rubbing off onto his hands.

“What the fuck have you done? You just started a war! You killed them!” he roared, shoving you back into the dirt and drawing his pistol. You scrambled away from him as he aimed at you. James was in front of you before you could blink, his hands up.

“Lower the gun, sheriff! They would have killed me. This woman saved my life!” he yelled. Sheriff Price, looking disgusted, shoved his gun back into his holster.

“And she’s just doomed countless others.”

---

@sprout-fics

[julie-and-the-himbo-ghosts]

Sometimes You Gotta Lean on Someone Else

Aahh I can’t believe this is my 5th fic in just a month (and a multichap too)!! I usually don’t write multichaps bc I just get really stressed that I’m not going to finish it but @saltpigsblog​ sent me this ask and I kinda went off when I answered it and then I got really inspired by my 2am ramblings and suddenly I’d written 1k words after not writing in weeks lmao. Salt I’m sorry this is so off from your prompt ajfshhfghdgj but take this fic as payment? (Fic title from Edge of Great and chapter title from Bright of course)

Summary: Willie is a part-time waiter in an LA club and part-time vigilante known as the Highland Park Vigilante. Alex is his roommate he has a total unrequited (or so he thinks) crush on, and when Alex gets into danger, he runs headfirst into danger - something that usually works out for him, but with Alex involved things get a little more complicated.

Words: 1,054

Content Warnings: I do swear a bit because I felt like it fit the characters and fic, but there's also mentions of gunshots in the middle and a vague reference towards guns at the end, so if those are things that are harmful to your mental health, please take care of yourself first <3 If you want more content warnings for the rest of the fic, feel free to just dm me here for a more detailed (and spoilery) list

Read on ao3

Chapter 1: I Wanna Cry (I’m Calling Out)

Willie was relaxing on his couch when he got the call. Really, he was enjoying one of his few days off - he wasn’t scheduled to work at the club, and all had been quiet on the streets. But, almost as if the universe was flipping one big middle finger at him, his phone rang just minutes after he sat down on the couch.

If it’s important, they’ll call again, he thought. After a minute, his phone stopped ringing, and he relaxed again. The quiet only lasted for a moment, though; his phone started ringing again practically the second it stopped.

He groaned and sat up to grab his phone. Illuminating the screen was one of his favourite pictures - Alex standing wobbly on his skateboard, a big grin on his face, from the time when he gave Alex his first (and last) skateboarding lesson. All traces of annoyance disappeared from his mind just like that; Alex just had that effect on him. Well, sure, he could go from pissed to happy within seconds, he was just like that, but Alex was different. He was just—

The phone gave another desperate ring, as if begging him to just pick it up already.

“Shit,” He muttered quietly, quickly swiping to answer the call before it stopped ringing. “Hey, Alex! What’s up?”

“Willie! Shit, I thought you weren’t going to pick up.” His voice immediately struck a different chord in Willie’s brain - instead of his normal light, sarcastic tone, his voice was hushed and sounded absolutely panicked. A little jolt of terror struck through his chest.

���Alex, what’s wrong?”

The voice on the other end of the line was quiet; the only way he knew Alex was still there were his long, heavy breaths. “I’m at the bank and there’s some people here. At least, I think there’s more than one. I was just in the bathroom and I heard some yelling, so I walked out to see what was going on and then there were these noises that sounded like gunshots so I ran back into the bathroom and now I’m perched on a bank toilet and I think people are robbing my bank, Willie.” The words came out all in one big breath and it felt like his brain short-circuited because Alex was in danger.

“Willie?” Alex’s voice was small and terrified, and it jump-started his brain again. Like he got a shot of adrenaline to his chest, he jumped up and rushed into his room. Alex is in danger, he thought, and his brain just repeated it over and over and over until the words blended together into one in his head. Alex is in danger, Alex is in danger, Alex is in danger, AlexisindangerAlexisindangerAlexisindanger.

“I’m still here, ‘Lex. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

The answering sigh from the other side said more than anything Alex could say.

“Okay. Can you call 911 for me?” A short pause. “And if something happens, will you—” Willie cut him off before he could finish his sentence.

“No. I won’t. Because nothing’s going to happen, okay? I’m going to call 911 and haul ass to get over there, and you’re going to be all right. Got it?”

“You don’t know that.”

“I have the combined chaos of being gay and having ADHD, do you really want to bet against me?” Thankfully, that seemed to rip Alex out of his anxiety spiral and he laughed a little.

“No, you’re right.” A small pause. “Thank you, Willie.”

He located his duffel bag in his closet and slung it over his shoulder along with his helmet before rushing back out of his room and towards the door. “I’ve told you, Alex, I’d do anything for you.”

There was another small, comfortable silence as he made his way down the hall. “Willie, I need to tell you—” Before Alex could finish whatever he was about to say, something banged open and he could hear a loud, harsh voice.

“You check in there, and I’ll go down the hall.”

He could hear Alex’s breaths stop; his did, too. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t think. The line was dead silent except for the bangs that penetrated the silence - the robber checking the stall, he assumed. Every time he heard a bang, it was closer and louder than the previous one. The next one sounded like it was right there, and the noise broke him out of his frozen state. Alex is in danger.

He sprinted down his hall, moving the fastest he’d ever run, rushing towards the street where he parked his motorcycle. On the phone, there was another thump, one quieter and more muted than the robber’s, as if Alex dropped his phone behind something. Good. The image of some gun-toting bank robber finding Alex in the bathroom and on the phone was enough to make him want to curl up in a ball on the floor in the dark of his closet. But he couldn’t, because Alex was in danger.

The bang he’d been dreading finally came, and he could hear the toilet shift as Alex flinched back onto the toilet.

Then Alex’s voice, muffled and quiet but obviously terrified. “Hey, dude, don’t you know to knock before you kick a guy’s stall in?”

“Get up,” A voice barked.

“Okay. You really don’t need to point that in my face, though.”

There were more thumps he was scared to imagine what they meant before heavy footsteps, and the closing slam of the bathroom door.

And then silence.

He cursed and skidded to a stop in front of his bike, hanging up the phone and dialling 911 with his shaking fingers. The call was short, he just gave them the info they needed and the address before hanging up and nearly slamming his helmet on his head.

Only when he was on his bike, blasting down the side street that took him directly to the bank, did he realize he was going in completely blind and alone, without even a hint of a plan. It was monumentally stupid, he knew, but his chronically low impulse control plus Alex in danger made for a very dumb Willie. Or, as he was more popularly known, the Highland Park Vigilante.

Honestly, a bit bland of a name, if he did say so himself.

[iphoenixrising]

Eyy, yo, thought it would be a swell idea to make myself cry so I reread Broken Trust and I DID. Also remembered before part 2 came out I was convinced it would either be the Titans preparing the funeral intercut with tearing the Bats a new one or the Titans caring for a severely brain damaged Timmy and trying to protect him when the Bats show up. There's something wrong with me. Gonna go play with my bird and cheer up now, tootles <3

Babe <3

I love you, and there is nothing wrong with you. At times, I do this too. I read fics that intentionally break me open wide. I need the pain so I can cry in real life for whatever fucking reason goes along with it. Maybe it's shit that was over and done with a decade ago, but I never got the emotional backlash out of my system. Read a crazy fanfic and weep about it, pull some small similarity to my own life and I feel a fuck ton better after I've let it go.

You know and I know I've written the post-mortem thing in which Tim dies in line of duty and the JL offer him an award for his heroism. After someone in my life died, I felt better about the Bats being absolutely destroyed by his death.

...I've written several iterations of Tim with a gun to his head. Not for any heroic purposes like that time with his future gun-toting Batman self. Nope, because life fucked him over enough that he literally doesn't think he has anything or anyone else to live for, that there was no where else for him to run. Broken Trust wasn't my first time at it, but this was as close to success for Tim as I've come so far.

(one day, one day when some of my old traumas swim up from the back of my brain pan, I'll write the ending we all want to read and weep for.)

So, it's okay to hit the rock bottom in a fic when you feel like it helps you through the rock bottom(s) you might be feeling or have felt in your own life. Or if something like this just gives you the space to feel fucking something. I promise you, babe. It's really okay.

I love you.

[fanfic-scribbles]

Life of the Party

Fandom: MCU Captain America/Avengers

Summary: Hiding from the latest threat to New York isn’t exactly how you wanted to meet your soulmate, but it will be a funny story to tell later. Much later.

Quick facts: Romance – Bucky Barnes/Reader – Nondescript Reader

Warnings: Soulmate trope where the first words you say to your soulmate are written on their skin, gun-related peril that is glossed over and doesn’t result in anyone getting hurt, Reader and Bucky are awkward dorks

Soulmate words: “Don’t relax; we’re not safe yet.” and “Boy, you’re a real party, huh?”

Words: 1510

A/N: Everything sorta fell apart this week, writing-wise, but all is not lost– I have a little collection of random sentences I made into soulmate prompts and I’m finding them in the strangest places as I search for something else. I might post more of them as one-shots if this block continues, hard to say. For now please enjoy this little fic starring Bucky and Reader, featuring Steve Rogers as Excited And Supportive Mom Friend.

 ~

Living in New York was never supposed to be this dangerous.

And yet, here you are, squatting in a shot-up store that is empty save for you and this one guy who looks like he could possibly be one of the laser-gun-toting militia if he a) hadn’t saved you from getting shot in the head and b) hadn’t been hanging out with Captain America before excessive gunfire had forced the three of you to separate. Naturally, instead of being stuck with star-spangled eye candy, you’re crouching behind a man decked in all-black clothes with countless pockets that look like they’re all filled with weapons of some sort.

Admittedly, the guy is just as built as Captain America, but your brief interaction with the captain had made you feel reassured even while being stuck on the wrong side of a firefight– this guy is silent and sullen and keeps glancing back at you and huffing in frustration, like you’re an annoyance.

Today sucks.

You suck in a breath when footsteps come by you but the guy– Winter-something– somehow pivots silently in steel-toed boots and grabs both your hands with one of his. You flinch in surprise, but his grip is reassuring, and he puts his other index finger to this lips. You give him a look you hope communicates the ‘no shit’ you’re currently feeling, and one side of his mouth quirks into a small smile. Okay…intimidating, maybe, but he is certainly attractive– perhaps even more so than the captain. So sue you; all black is a good look.

He drops the straight line of his shoulders and peeks out, and you realize it’s completely silent outside. You allow yourself to slump and sigh.

“Don’t relax; we’re not safe yet.”

You don’t even realize it at first; you’re so fucking done with the whole damn day you just roll your eyes and say, “Boy, you’re a real party, huh?”

He freezes in the middle of loading a gun and you gasp when you realize when he just said. Well shit.

“You know,” you chuckle, because what is your life right now, “–I thought we’d be in the middle of pulling off a prank or something. Not, you know, a war zone.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t…think of it,” he says, then flinches and looks at you, brows creased in worry. Or is that aggravation? No, that looks like worry.

“Cool,” you say and smile at your soulmate. “I have no expectations to live up to. That’s nice.”

The lines in his face soften. He raises one eyebrow. “What expectations do I have to live up to?”

You run your hand over your arm absently, though the words are covered by a jacket. His eyes flick there and linger. “Well, I always thought you were a troublemaker,” you say lightly. “But here you are, saving my life.”

As if remembering that you’re not just playing ‘hide from the gunmen’ for fun, he looks out of the broken window, eyes scanning the street. “We gotta find Steve,” he says and takes your hand. You follow as quickly as you can while trying to remain as small as possible. “He’ll get you out of here.”

“And you?”

“I’ll cover you.” He squeezes your hand and stops at a corner. He turns his head to look at you. “I’m…James Barnes. But call me Bucky.”

You tell him your name and you take a few seconds to revel in the surreal reality of finding your soulmate now. From the looks of it he does the same, and then reluctantly turns to peer around the corner. You hear distant noise coming all too close again, sounds of a battle you wished would stay in whatever sci-fi dystopia it came out of.

Somebody grabs your shoulder from behind and you launch yourself against Bucky, wrapping your arms around his middle. He spins around and moves so fast that you don’t know how it happens, but in the end you’re held tight against his front by one of his arms and with the other hand he’s pointing a gun in the face of Captain America. Captain Rogers, in turn, looks far too relaxed for someone literally staring down the barrel of a gun.

“Jesus Christ Steve,” Bucky says and lowers the gun, but he lets go of you very reluctantly.

“Did I miss something?” the captain asks curiously, his brow furrowing as his eyes dart between you and Bucky.

“Words,” Bucky grunts and turns back to look out. It’s stupid, but you miss his hold already.

It takes a moment, but then Captain America gets as soft as a suburban mom hearing that her teenage son has his first date tonight. “Really?”

A bullet hits the wall nearby, close enough that you feel shards of something bounce off of you. “Not the time!” you and Bucky snap in unison. You can’t help but look at him, only to find he’s already smiling at you.

But shouting from behind the slapdash blockade makes your heart speed up in the not-fun way. “You better come out of this okay,” you say, trying for a warning tone but your voice shakes too much for that. “You owe me a drink at least.”

“I’ll buy you two,” Bucky says and moves in suddenly, like he’s going to kiss you, only to come to a nearly-as-sudden stop. You both hesitate, but you lean forward and Bucky takes the opportunity to give you a light kiss. Even while looking at you he says, “Steve,” and Captain America takes your hand and pulls you away. You look back for as long as you can, until you turn a corner and can no longer see your soulmate.

~

A week goes by, then another, and you’re sitting at a bar in misery, idly pretending to scroll through your phone while staring at the phone number Captain Rogers (“Steve, please, you’re my best friend’s soulmate, I can’t believe he finally found–”) gave you for Bucky. You…haven’t called it. You have about a thousand different excuses that all boil down to two fears: reaching him…and not reaching him.

Someone clears their throat right next to you and you jerk hard enough that some of your drink splashes out of the cup and onto the bar. “Shit,” you curse and quickly wipe it up with the tiny napkin before you turn to see what this guy wants from you. And freeze.

Because it’s…Bucky. Wearing jeans, a soft-looking shirt, and a leather jacket with gloves that match. He shuffles awkwardly, drink in hand, and asks, “This seat taken?”

“No, uh– of course not,” you say and even pat the empty stool next to you.

He sits down and, before you can navigate away, he looks at your phone. You cringe but he smiles at you. “Just about to call me?”

You can barely look at him. “I, uh…wasn’t sure if it was okay. If you were okay.”

His eyes soften. “I’m fine.”

“Good,” you say. The two of you are silent and you take a sip of your drink so you don’t feel so bad about it. Bucky glares at something behind you and you want to turn around but…you have an idea of who’s there.

“Did Captain Rogers give you my number like he promised?” you ask.

Bucky ducks his head. “Yeah,” he mumbles and then straightens up. “Sorry, I…I was scared too,” he admits. He stops looking behind you and squints at you. “You don’t have to call him ‘Captain’ you know.”

“I know, but it bothers him, and from the looks of you he’s eavesdropping, so he can get fucked,” you say and hear a vague choking sound from somewhere behind you. Not right behind, thankfully, but you hear the loud laughter of a different man, and that makes you wince. “Not just him, I guess.”

“It’s okay; they’re all getting lost now,” Bucky says, grinning. He leans in and you can smell sweet-spiced cologne. It makes you want to get closer, bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhale everything he is (because he’s yours), lick and nibble at that soft ski–

You swallow hard and take your mind off that track before it gets too far away from you. Bucky swirls his drink and if he noticed you lusting after him he’s polite enough not to mention it. “So,” he says. “We’re both too chicken-shit to call each other. How are we going to do this?”

It’s said in jest, but he isn’t completely wrong– although you’ve taken care of yourself so far, and so has he, so it’s not so daunting to think about. “Well we know we’re both disasters.” You hold up your drink and smile. “What else might we have in common?”

Bucky looks at your drink, slowly smiles, and clinks his own glass against it. His other hand– gentle, warm even through the glove– slides over yours and lightly grips around your fingers. “I can’t wait to find out.”

[pinkiepiebones]

2 Zsasz related questions for ya:

Do you prefer Zsasz with or without hair? Do you like the OG serial killer or the modern hitman take? Personally I like the hair cause Batman doesn't have a lot of blonde villains and it looks nice! And the serial killer is way better for Zsasz as it makes him this terrifying shadow stalker man that just picks whoever and goes after them. Just crafts a more unique villain for Batman to face me thinks.

Loving the Zsasz content you're making btw, it's all solid stuff and I look forward to seeing what else you got up your sleeve with that tally loving stabby man!

Oh goodness, thank you SO MUCH for the compliments!! 🥰 I’ve been writing about Zsasz for maybe a decade now? Christ, that feels weird to type... The two Arkham games really sank their hooks in to me (dang Danny Jacobs and his incredible voice acting!) and I RPed as that incarnation of Zsasz for a bit... I try to tag most of my Zsasz posts so feel free to root around the archieves!!

As for the questions- I like the “it’s been a while since I got to shave my head,” “I had a m*litary cut but let it grow out” kinda fuzzy look for him, mostly. As of late it’s become kinda fun for me to picture him with this weird anachronistic yuppie corporate sleazeball persona, dressed all Casual Friday and with one of those, you know, OFFICE GUY haircuts. It’s interesting that you point out the lack of blonde villains... Shit, I should have used that in my Dichotomy fic, what with him and Harley being blonde!

I 1000000000000% prefer him as a lone serial killer. His dads Alan Grant and Norm Breyfogle created him to be Gotham’s answer to Hannibal Lecter, and no one ever looks as Hannibal and goes “you know what this guy is? An underling! A mook! A killer for hire, a guy with no driving madness and principles!” But for some asinine reason, writers look at Zsasz and go “yeah, he’s a lunkhead who uses guns and kills for money, I don’t need to research or create a new fucking character.” Zsasz is and works better as a lone madman who operates on his own morality system. He canonically stalks and chooses victims he deems “worthy” of his gift, and he canonically hates guns (loud and smelly!), only ever using them when there is no other option. Like, I get it, the canon for Zsasz is lean pickings, but- g-d DAMN IT HE IS NOT A GUN-TOTING GOON! I’m sorry Anthony Carrigan but your character in Gotham was NOT Zsasz. Chris Messina’s character in Birds of Prey at LEAST had the metal teeth (good nod to the fourth issue of Zsasz’s first story) and mentioned freeing people but he still WAS NOT ZSASZ. I mean, I know I’m asking for the fucking Moon here by asking for a wiry lithe professorial live action Zsasz who has orderly tally marks and uses knives or whatever strikes his fancy (the fucker canonically paralysed an Arkham orderly with a plastic fork) but he is such a compelling and insidious character and he DESERVES a decent live action portrayal.

I’d end this with “sorry for rambling“ but no! More of us need to ramble about this very good character with so much potential!

[sapphicscholar]

Pride Month Prompts Day 7: Underground (SuperLane)

From this Pride Month Prompts post! I’m taking the opportunity to write some short fics for a variety of pairings that I haven’t written for as much, maybe at all. They won’t be going on AO3, so I’ll be sure to tag them all with #pride month prompts so you can find them later if you want. 

Day 7: Underground

Pairing: SuperLane (Kara/Lucy) - another new one! (Set after Manhunter)

Perhaps taking off the helmets had been a bad idea. Scratch that: it was definitely a bad idea. But Kara had wanted to see Alex, had wanted Alex to know that she would always come for her, even if it meant stealing DEO property, shooting down a truck owned by the U.S. government, and freeing two supposed criminals being hauled away for treason. And seeing Alex’s reaction when she realized that Lucy had switched sides for them was pretty great too.

For a while, it seemed as if everything had gone fine. J’onn and Alex took off on the bikes, Kara flew Lucy back to the base, and they both acted surprised by the news of the escape (and were genuinely surprised by the news of Lucy’s promotion).

Neither of them took into account the fact that a vehicle headed for Cadmus would likely be equipped with multiple cameras sending live feed footage back to the military.

The following morning, a heavily armed squad showed up to arrest them both, and it was only Kara’s super hearing that gave her the extra few seconds she needed to swoop Lucy up in her arms and fly them both far away from the DEO and the military officials toting guns loaded with kryptonite-laced bullets.

Within a day, they’d gone completely underground. Kara was opposed to stealing, but she’d swept through stores faster than anyone could see, throwing money onto the counter in her wake. That was how they’d acquired a stockpile of food, new clothing, wigs for going out, and two burner phones that were being saved for an emergency. She’d also grabbed a few bottles of wine for Lucy, who had only recently reconciled herself to the idea of breaking the law and was looking a bit pale as the realization that she was a now a wanted fugitive with her own father hot on her heels sunk in.

On day 5, Kara finally got up the courage to apologize. “If I hadn’t...I should’ve made sure that we stayed covered, checked for any cameras.”

“It’s Cadmus, Kara. I’m sure they were livestreaming the footage.”

“Still. I could have kept them from knowing you were the person under the other helmet.”

But Lucy shook her head, rubbing at her temples before draining the rest of her plastic cup of wine. “Long term, this is the decision I’m proud of. I’ve pushed down a lot over the years, but I don’t think even a lifetime of practice at repressing shit would have been enough to keep away the guilt if I’d sent your sister and J’onn off to be tortured at Cadmus.”  She refilled her cup, frowning when the rest of the bottle only brought it up to two-thirds full. “So really, I’m the one that should be apologizing. You just pulled my head out of my ass long enough to see that I wasn’t living the kind of life I could be proud of.”

“Hey, no, I’m sure you’ve done some amazing things.”

Lucy snorted, something dark flashing across her features as her face twisted in disgust. “Like what? Break my ex’s heart because I’d rather hurt her...hurt us both, than risk a dishonorable discharge? Side with my father even as he got more and more bigoted just because every so often he’d pat me on the shoulder and tell me I made him proud? Come flying across the country to restart things with a guy only to break up with him all over again?”

“We’ve all done things we regretted. I’m pretty sure the whole world saw some of my worst choices splashed across newspapers and broadcast internationally just a few weeks ago.” She really wished wine did anything for her; it’d be nice to have something to dull the pain of the too fresh memories. “I also know a little bit about not wanting to believe that a parent could be so wrong about something, about waiting too late to realize there are two sides to every story.” She swallowed the tears that threatened to fall. “But Lucy? You’ve done a lot of things to be proud of.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s hard to believe it these days.”

In a split second, Kara decided to start listing things, as many as she could think of, anything to make that look of sadness, of self-loathing disappear. “You’re a freakin’ major in the Army, which means, like, a lot of people have recognized what a badass you are. And you have grad degrees from Harvard. And you’re super great at Taboo and Charades and Pictionary. And you were willing to put everything on the line once you’d realized you’d made a mistake, which is almost better than just never making mistakes. Because you care, you cared enough to fix it.” She took a deep breath in. “Also you offer great legal advice. And those cookies you made for game night were so good; I ate half of them when you weren’t looking. And you won over Cat Grant in, like, two seconds flat, which, let me tell you, isn’t easy! And you always smell really nice, even at the end of the day, and you’ve got such great hair, like seriously great hair.”

Lucy looked over at her, some emotion swirling in her eyes that Kara didn’t recognize. “You know that the things you did while drugged don’t magically undo all the good you’ve done for the world, right?”

“Oh please, weren’t you the one saying Supergirl didn’t exactly measure up to expectations?”

Lucy ducked her head. “Might have had a bit more to do with jealousy than anything else.”

Kara’s eyebrows shot up at that. “Jealousy?” Lucy had the guy and the job and Cat’s attention. What could she have been jealous of?

“Seriously? You have superpowers, Kara. And a sister who would do anything for you, and this whole group of friends who adore you. Even when James was talking about finding apartments with me to really make things work, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. And, to make it all worse, I couldn’t even blame him because you’re fucking gorgeous!” With a huff of bitter laughter, Lucy pulled herself to her feet, swaying slightly—the first sign that the bottle of wine might have affected her. “I should… Night, Kara.”

---

After that night, things seemed easier between them. The guilt and apologies and bad memories had been excised, leaving room for something new to grow between them. Slowly but surely, they began opening up, sharing stories of growing up and years in school and awkward dates. Kara talked about the things she’d had the hardest time getting used to on Earth, and Lucy admitted that she hadn’t thought about how difficult it must be for aliens. She’d moved a lot as an Army brat, having to switch schools constantly, but even during the awkwardness of middle school, at least she’d always known how to speak the language, had a vague sense of what social life would be like, knew what would be taught in her classes and the kinds of clubs that would be offered.

One night, after a glass or two of wine, Lucy opened up to Kara about coming out, not that she’d had too many people in her life she’d been able to tell. Kara admitted that she hadn’t realized it was such a big deal on Earth until she’d asked Alex if she was courting her best friend Vicki and been swiftly and promptly kicked out of their shared bedroom for hours, not let back in until Eliza had demanded that Alex unlock the door for bedtime.

---

On day 18, they woke up to news that all of National City’s residents had been turned into automatons with the exception of Max Lord, who’d published statements about alien threats and how proud he was to be a human who had prepared for this, who had known from the beginning not to trust them, and Cat Grant, who’d posted a very public call for Supergirl to return from hiding and a plea that the government grant her amnesty.

“You’re going, aren’t you?” Lucy asked.

“I have to. National City...no matter what happened or how many people have decided I belong in prison, it’s still my city. They’re still the people I’ve sworn to protect.”

“Be safe.”

“I will.”

“I mean it. I”—Lucy swallowed heavily as she reached out a hand, grabbing one of Kara’s and holding it tight enough for her to feel it—“I want you to come back to me alive.”

And there it was again, that frisson of something that had been crackling between them for so many days now. Only this time Kara didn’t mumble a quick “goodnight” and speed off to her corner of the decrepit old cabin they’d moved into after the first week. Instead, she held Lucy’s gaze and raised a hand to Lucy’s face, sweeping her thumb across Lucy’s cheekbone. “I promise.”

Lucy was the one to lean forward, but Kara wasn’t sure who it was that actually started the kiss. All she knew was that there were soft, warm lips pressed against her own, and if she’d thought she wanted to date Lucy before because she smelled amazing, well, now she knew she wanted to date Lucy and for so many more reasons. But eventually, the reality of everything happening in National City, the hurried phone calls to J’onn and Alex, the continued broadcasts being sent out by Cat, all caught up to them.

“If you can find a way for me to come back within city limits, you’ll call?” Lucy gestured at their one safe burner phone left, and Kara nodded.

A few moments later, they heard the soft thud outside the door that signalled J’onn and Alex’s arrival.

“I should be fighting by your side,” Alex was already arguing as she and J’onn made their way inside.

“I won’t be able to stay focused if I’m shielding your mind.”

“I swear, if we can get into the DEO and get our hands on your prototypes, we’ll be back in an instant, okay?” Kara promised.

“Fine. In the meantime, I’m trying to see if I can’t bypass some DEO security protocols while everyone there is out of commission. I can only imagine that Non is going to want some of our prisoners back, so I’ll try to secure the system from external interference.”

While J’onn was busy talking to Alex, Lucy squeezed Kara’s hand again. “Come back, alright? We’ve got a kiss to finish.”

Kara grinned. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

[yourknightingale]

Special Discount

I didn’t get satisfied yesterday so here. A little Bechloe fic. Enjoy!

It may seem like Beca is complaining but in reality, she really is complaining.

This is so stupid.

If she wants, she can just really pay for the food full price. Even if that means her allowance for the next two weeks. They don’t need the special discount.

“It’s not that bad, Beca. We do look like a couple sometimes. You’ve heard what the girls are saying.” Chloe is still trying to convince her that eating out on Feb 14 is the best idea ever because one, they get to have great food on such a college budget, and two, they only get to pay $2 for a whole course meal.

Beca glares at the other girl. They’re seated on a very fancy table for two at a fancy restaurant and the whole place is decoratively full of hearts and roses and gross, couples everywhere.

“I just think it’s sketchy. We sat down here and you told our server we’re a couple and instantly, just $2 for a whole course meal? There’s a catch, isn’t there?” Beca prepares herself.

Chloe flashes her a big smile. “Oh, I didn’t tell you? They’re just gonna ask us a couple of questions. About us as a couple. Then we’ll get the discount!” Beca lets out a ‘yikes’. “I’m not worried. I’m sure it’s just like the girlfriend tag or something.”

“We should practice then, Beale. We don’t want to give different answers.”

“Okay. Here are important details. We dated on December 20 at the Winter Walk park. We had our first kiss on that same night, too. We’ve never met each other’s parents yet but we will over vacation. Uhm, what else? Oh, we call each other ‘babe’.”

“Got it.” Beca responds. “I hope we’re convincing enough.”

At that moment, two servers wearing Cupid hats come at their table.

“Hello, hi. So we’ve been told you’re a couple, a cute one for the matter, so thank you for choosing us to celebrate this special day! We’d like you to have our special $2 promo and to make it fun, you just have to answer a few of our questions.” Cupid 1 ends this with a smile.

“We’re ready.” Chloe chimes in.

Cupid 2 adds, “It’s like the girlfriend tag except it’s more personal.” He hands Chloe a toy dry erase board and stands beside her. Right across from them, Beca raises an eyebrow.

“We’ll just ask you five questions about your girlfriend and you have to answer them all right. Pretty easy, right?” Cupid 1 stands beside Beca and reads from his index cards.

Chloe and Beca feels the tension suddenly surround them. This isn’t what they practiced. Chloe feels even more tensed because Beca is the one answering the questions. About her! And she’s the one who dragged her into this. Maybe she can answer questions about Beca because she actually harbours strong romantic feelings for the girl. But Beca?

The brunette, however, confidently says, “Hit me with those questions.”

Cupid 1 asks, “So what is your girlfriend’s favourite song right now?”

Cupid 2 motions for Chloe to write the answer on the board and nods to the other guy to notify him that she’s done.

Beca looks firmly into Chloe’s eyes, “Right now, it has to be Adele’s When We Were Young.”

Cupid 2 nods.

Chloe exhales. Okay, that might have been an easy one.

“Question 2. What book is she reading lately?”

Even Chloe is confused if she should or should consider this title but she scribbles it down anyway. This is it. Only the second question and they’re already going to be busted!

“Uhm, my girl here is trying to pass her Russian Lit this year so I don’t know if this counts, but she’s definitely reading A Hero Of Our Time. By some guy with a hard-to-pronounce name.”

If she hadn’t known any better, Chloe would think Beca is actually noticing – like, really noticing – her. She’s been on that book for two weeks but she didn’t think the DJ would know, considering she’s not really parading it around the Bellas house. She does read it in the common room or the kitchen at times. She only did once go up to Beca’s room with that book because they were working on a set. One time. Cupid 2 gives an affirmation that Beca is right.

“Doing great so far, ladies. Now, third question. How does your girlfriend take her coffee?”

Before even Chloe finishes writing, the other girl is already talking.

“Haha, you guys. That’s a trick question. Chlo prefers tea. But, BUT, if she were to really drink coffee, it’s just regular.”

The two Cupids look at each other. Chloe flips her little board and let Beca read it. “I prefer tea but if I have to, I take regular coffee.”

The brunette clicks her tongue at the dudes, with matching finger gun, “I told ya. C’mon, are we getting this $2 meal yet?”

“Ma’am, there’s two more. Okay, number 4, does your girlfriend have a tattoo? If yes, what kind?”

They were naked in front of each other one time. One time! There’s no way Beca will know.

“She has a ladybug tattoo right down the side of her left thigh. It’s small enough, easy to miss, but it’s there.”

The redhead takes note of this. She’s definitely going to bring this up on their way home.

“You are correct.” Cupid 2 does a little happy clap. “Ladies, so far you’re the only couple in here who made it to question 4. All the other couples lost it at 3. So are you ready for the last question?”

Beca winks at Chloe. “We totes got this, babe.”

Both of them blush but it’s probably just because there’s color red everywhere.

“Last question. When did you first kiss?”

Chloe hesitates and Beca can see her not writing anything. Are they going for the date they agreed upon?

“Excuse us, Cupids.” The brunette stands up and leans forward to the other girl, puts a finger under her chin, and plants a soft kiss on her mouth. They will remember it as quick and sweet. When Beca sits back down, she says, “Does that answer your question? It’s today, if you didn’t get that.”

The servers hand them their receipt. “Congratulations! And because we enjoyed this so much, we’ll throw in a take-out chocolate slice for you both for free! Enjoy the rest of your night.”

When they walk out of the restaurant, Chloe takes Beca’s hand. As she always does.

“So, that was great, wasn’t it?” She starts.

“Perfect. We should do that again.” Beca sure isn’t complaining anymore.

Chloe can’t stop herself from asking. “Which one?”

She can feel Beca lacing their fingers together. “The last one.”

The two ladies walk hand in hand, in peace, in silence, with love beating off their chests. It’s a night to remember for future reference.

[pidgelings]

I'm sorry to bother but would you mind explaining why the Plance angst in the Sven's universe? Also, I actually have a Voltron long distance squad AU written in one of my notebooks!!!! I feel so happy someone else have a similar idea because I thought no one would find it as interesting as I do omg!!! (You should totes write a fic). Also I have two dear AUs I created and I just want to share them: Plance Pokémon AU and OTGW AU. Please have a beautiful, beautiful day!!!!’u`

Ah! Thank you for dropping this in!

I’m glad I’m not the only one with a Long Distance AU idea too! Honestly, the idea seems bland at first thought but when you actually look into the chaos of having friends all over the place, it can be hella fun!

Also, if you ever want to message me off anon with those two AU ideas of your own, I’d love to learn more about them! :D

So, the Plangst is a bit of a background plot in Sven’s Verse but has enough plot to it that it could totally run as its own story. So, here’s how that goes:

Sven’s Verse AU (Plangst Story)

Pidge

A member of the Guns of Gamora but not a soldier in it (at first)

Basically in charge of creating weapons and ships for the soldiers

When Slav isn’t out on duty, he works alongside her

(I know in GoLion Pidge is a guy named Hiroshi but I don’t feel like working with that. Hiroshi really bugs me)

Even though she isn’t a soldier, she does train in combat and has learned to use her small stature to take down big guys like Sven

She is known to be snappy and have a tad bit of a temper when bothered but it’s clear she’s on the rebel’s side through and through

It’s after she meets Lance that her connection to the rebels grows stronger.

Lance

Lance is also a member of the Guns of Gamora but is a soldier

Known for being one of the most deadly snipers

He’s a bit full of himself because of this and will gladly brag about his kill streak

He’s also known to be a tad bit of a jerk and rather entitled

He thinks for being a rebel hero he deserves a lot more than he has right now (think Voltron Lance’s desire for glory cracked up to 11 with an expectation that it’ll happen)

(He’s pretty much Isamu from GoLion and goes by said name (but Imma keep calling him Lance to keep things simple). Unlike Pidge’s other version, I like Lance’s so I’ll work with it)

He has a tendency to wander around any base he’s stationed at so you’ll either find him right away or it’ll take you a million years to find him unless you com him

Things go crazy after he meets Pidge.

[More Under the Cut]

Their Meeting

They first meet when Pidge is training in one of the many training rooms

Lance didn’t recognize her as a soldier so when he asked her if she was one and confirmed that she wasn’t, he asked what the hell she was doing there

“What? You think that I can’t fight just because I’m not a soldier?”

“I didn’t say that! I just said that maybe you shouldn’t use the training rooms that us soldiers use.”

“How the hell am I supposed to train then?”

“You’re not supposed to!”

“So if we get attacked right now I’m not supposed to know how to defend myself?!”

“Like you could defend yourself anyway! You’re so tiny!”

She made Lance eat his words

Remember how I said Pidge could take down guys as big as Sven?

Well, Lance isn’t as big as him so knocking the wind out of him was easy as easy could be

Let’s just say that was a wake-up call for Lance

Pidge leaves him soon after since she was wrapping up her training anyways

Now Lance wants to know who she is and how he can meet her again

The Relationship Grows

Not long after their first meeting, Pidge finds herself running into Lance way more than she likes

Turns out, Lance got the information about who she was and what she does from one of his superior officers

She’s the first girl who wouldn’t deal with his shit so he’s definitely intrigued by her

Things are still rather snappy between them as Pidge accuses him of stalking her, which isn’t exactly a lie but there’s no way he’ll admit it

Eventually, she gets used to him stopping by her lab in his free time and just deals with his presence

He actually kinda becomes good company after she knocks him down a few pegs

He thought that the soldiers, the ones going out to fight against the Alteans were the only heroes in this battle but after seeing all the things Pidge makes for the rebellion, he can see everyone there is a hero of some kind

Turns out when he’s not being a smug jerk he can actually be a really nice guy

I’m talking being that guy who puts a blanket over Pidge’s shoulders after she passes out from working so hard

He’s also pretty sure he’s fallen for her because she’s one hell of a ride for him

She makes him question a lot of things he didn’t before

The nickname “Shorty” he gave her to mock her also becomes a bit more endearing

Of course, Pidge’s feelings are growing for the more sensitive and caring Lance as they learn more about each other

It was after a particularly bad brush with the Alteans that left Lance in the medbay that ended bringing the two together romantically

Even though they are a couple now, they’re routine doesn’t change much

There might be a few kisses and hugs and sweet words tossed into it now though

The two are rather happy for a good amount of time... then shit hits the fan

The Incident

It was supposed to be a simple mission

A strike against a small Altean base, nothing big at all

But when the team returned extremely battered and down a member, everyone knew the strike was a mistake

Most of all Pidge as it was Lance who was missing

According to the members of the mission, Lance cleared their exit but when they were able to try to get him, the Alteans captured him and took him who knows where

Pidge was quick to lash out and had to be held back Slav

She demanded that they send out a team to go rescue him but she knew they wouldn’t

It would be too risky

Pidge refused to work for a good while after Lance’s disappearance

Sadly, his return didn’t make anything better

Altean Slave Lance

During a small scouting mission consisting of Sven, Akira (Keith), and Slav, Lance is found

Much to their disappointment but not to their surprise, Lance has a hoktril attached to his head

He has no free will and is basically a slave with no hope of rescue

...That is until Slav ignores Sven’s orders to leave him alone and captures the slave

Slav explains that he thinks this is one of the few realities where bringing back Lance will benefit the Guns as they’ll learn more about Altean technology

So, the team brings him back

When Pidge sees him, she’s overjoyed at first and hugs him

When he doesn’t hug back, she knows something is wrong

Sven, Slav, and Akira are scolded for bringing back an Altean Slave while Pidge questions if she’ll ever really be getting Lance back

She overhears Slav’s reasoning for bringing him back and decides to do two things

She’s going to not only learn how the hoktril works but she’s also going to learn how to free someone from it

But in order to do that, she’s going to have to see Altean tech first hand

She needs to become an active soldier

Soldier Pidge

Despite Slav’s protests, Pidge starts heading out on missions

Her first missions are rather rocky but they only fuel her desire to take down the Alteans for what they’ve done

Lance remains confined to Pidge’s Lab and every time she returns from a mission, she’s back to trying to figure out how to free him

It really starts to eat away at her until she becomes a cold, determined shell of who she used to be

It pains the others to see her like this but they know there’s nothing they can do

So, that’s the mission she’ll always be on until she learns how to free Lance

There is no happy ending to this yet, just an ongoing struggle

So, that’s basically what’s going on with the Plance angst in Sven’s Verse! Thanks for asking!

[icecubelotr44]

To Every Thing a Season (15/16)

Summary:   After witnessing the tragic murder of his brother Liam, Killian Jones is more determined than ever to discover the secrets of time travel. Fast-tracking his education at Storybrooke University, Killian is assigned a lab assistant, one Emma Swan. Together, they find a way to break through the veil of time so Killian can set things right. But what will be the price for changing the past, and is it one they’re willing to pay?

Rated:  T, for violence, some dark themes, angst, and whump

Art credit/link: The totally awesome @optomisticgirl made imagesets for all the chapters and @ab-normality made a video and a gifset for this fic.  You can find the imageset for this chapter above and here on @optomisticgirl‘s blog.  The video is linked here and on @ab-normality‘s blog here and the gifset is posted here!

Beta readers: The as-always wonderful @nothingimpossibleonlyimprobable, thanks so much for all of your help and cajoling and reassuring!  And a huge thank you to the spectacular @spartanguard who stepped in to help beta read as well!

A/N:  Written as part of the 2017 Captain Swan Big Bang Challenge.  You can catch up with all the other fics that are complete by following @captainswanbigbang and/or subscribing to the Group Collection on AO3 and/or the C2 on FFN. This is complete in 16 parts and will be posted every Thursday from now until its completion. And yes, there is a happy ending after all this… just so you know.

Word count:  ~ 5,600 (80K+ Total in 16 chapters)

From the beginning: ao3 | ffn  

Current Chapter: AO3 | FFN

Chapter 15: And a Time to Every Purpose

Killian wasn’t sure how long he sat at the controls, staring brokenly at the coordinates flashing on the screen.  He hurt all over from the journey, but didn’t seem to be missing any important bits, so he supposed Emma had been right about that, after all.  The harness dug into his chest painfully, highlighting the ache he felt at Emma’s betrayal.  He was sorely tempted to find where she’d stashed the second key, input the coordinates for home, and never look back.

But the key fell out of its slot and a note fluttered down to his lap after it.

Believe in yourself, Killian, and in us.  I do.

Love, Emma

He shut his eyes tightly.  It was morning in Ireland, just hours before his brother would be shot down in the street and Killian’s life would be irreparably changed.  He could fix it.  He could save Liam.  And then he’d spend the rest of his life trying to find Emma again.  He tucked the note in his pocket as a reminder of what he was working to save.

Killian finally unbuckled himself, struggling with the clasp at his chest, and unsealed the hatch.  Bright sunlight assaulted his eyes, making him blink rapidly in the early morning light.  He’d just left a stormy evening in Maine, so it was a bit of a shock to his system.

It was cold.  He’d forgotten how cold it was that morning - he’d spent half the day huddled in Liam’s jacket as they’d wandered around the city.  It was only when they’d gone back to the dingy motel room to change for the lecture that he’d given it back.

And now it was on his shoulders again, worn with age and no longer smelling like his brother, but a comfort all the same.

He locked the machine and threw a camouflage net over it as best he could.  With a determined set to his shoulders, Killian stalked towards the city.  He’d only taken a few steps when everything hit him suddenly - he had no idea how to keep his stubborn as Hell older brother from walking down that street and getting himself killed.

The trek into civilization tested Killian’s patience as he argued with himself over what he was going to do and how loudly he was going to yell at Swan when he found her again.  Granted, that version of his Emma would no longer exist and the version he would find didn’t deserve his anger, but that didn’t seem to matter at the moment.  He was angry and he was chagrined and he wasn’t going to just let that lie.

Right after he kissed the daylights out of her…

And likely got smacked for his troubles if she had no idea who he was.

Despite his current mood, Killian found himself smirking at his future self’s pain.  His Emma was a spitfire and she’d make him pay for it.

Killian's hands fell naturally to his pockets as he trudged away from the machine.  His fingers closed protectively around the catalyst key, clutching his only lifeline back to the present - he refused to even think the phrase "Back to the Future" - as he walked.  He didn't really pay attention, at first, to what else cluttered his pocket.  Emma was constantly complaining that for how neat he was everywhere else, his pockets were always a mess of detritus when it came time for laundry day.

And then the crinkle of paper caught his attention.  He fished around for a moment, not remembering stashing any of his class notes in his pocket, and pulled out a crumpled mess of printer paper.  Smoothing it out against his leg, Killian saw that it was a black and white photo of a young man - perhaps a few years younger than he and Emma - and a name scrawled in Emma's familiar penmanship.

Malcolm Pan.

And a note underneath the name in someone else's writing.

Best guess, initiation ??gang or IRA?? payment of Jones' debt.

At least now he knew who he was looking for.

And then he hit the city limits.

The sights, the sounds, the smells, they all bowled over him and sent him stumbling to the nearest wall for support.  He’d left Ireland behind the day Liam had been killed and he’d never been back.  Until today.

Which, he supposed, meant that he still hadn’t been back to Ireland since Liam’s death.  Time travel made his brain hurt sometimes.

Killian stalked through the streets of the city, glaring at everyone he passed and retracing his steps until he knew the path from the motel to where Liam had taken his last breaths in Killian’s arms by heart.  Every rock, every piece of trash, even the crack in the sidewalk he’d tripped over that day.

He knew every inch of where they would walk on the path towards Liam’s death, not knowing it was their last minutes together.

But it wouldn’t be.  Not if he could help it.

He had a face, a name, a target to hunt.  Part of Killian wished that he hadn’t spent so much time in his room and then in a lab as he’d grown.  That he knew people well enough to understand where and why this Malcolm Pan would be coming after his brother.

He didn’t, and what he did know would have to be enough - what Emma had found for him would have to be enough.

Killian stalked the street again, his eyes peeled for the boy, his brother, or himself.  He had no idea what to do when he found any of them, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

There.

The boy, Malcolm, came around the corner looking around shiftily as he fiddled with the hem of his jumper.  Killian would bet his key to the machine that there was a gun tucked into the boy’s waistband.

What the hell was he going to do?  Walk up to the boy dead out and ask him nicely to please not shoot his brother?  Not only would the boy still kill Liam, Killian would likely end up with a bullet of his own for the trouble.

Should he rush Malcolm and hope that the sight of someone charging him would scare him off?  No, that wouldn’t end any better.

Call the police?  They likely wouldn’t get there in time.  And what would he even tell them?  The boy hadn’t done anything yet.

Try to find Liam and stop him?  Killian laughed out loud.  Liam was far more stubborn than Killian and Emma combined - especially when it came to his little brother.  No, trying to talk Liam out of bringing the younger version of himself to the lecture wouldn’t accomplish anything.

So what could he do?

Maybe if Emma were here, she would know how to…

No! he chastised himself.  If there was one thing Killian knew for certain, it was that he absolutely didn’t want Emma anywhere near the gun-toting maniac across the street from him.  If she were to get hurt… Killian couldn’t even imagine it, his heart already clutching in terror at the thought.  He looked wildly around, as if thinking about it would make her magically appear.

She didn’t.

But Liam did.

Killian was out of time.

Instinct drove Killian towards the familiar mop of curly brown hair, his brother looking startlingly young now that Killian was older than Liam.  He gave a moment’s glance back towards Malcolm, the glint of metal shining in the sun tearing the first shout from Killian’s throat.

“Look out!” he screamed, his voice shrill as it echoed down the street.

Liam looked up - alarm crossing his features - but he didn’t run, only glanced back over his shoulder and froze.

Killian knew exactly who Liam was looking for.  But trying to protect the younger Killian wasn’t going to keep Liam from getting killed - noble though the sacrifice may be.

“Liam!  Run!” he tried again.

Liam turned slowly to face him, shock written plainly across his features.

But he didn’t run.

“Gun!” Killian shouted, pointing across the street to where an equally shocked Pan was aiming at Liam.

“Malcolm Pan!” Killian screamed, abandoning the thought of getting Liam to safety and directing his murderer’s attention to himself, Killian took off sprinting across the street.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

He heard the loud retort of the weapon, spinning mid-stride to see if Malcolm had hit Liam or if the idiot had finally realized that Killian was trying to save his bloody life.

The idiot in question was running towards Killian and Malcolm.

“What the bloody hell are you…” Killian trailed off as he stumbled.  Liam was shouting something, but the buzzing in Killian’s ears drowned it out.  When did it get so cold? he wondered, a moment before the hollow thunk of his knees hitting the pavement reverberated through him.

Liam caught him as he fell, the warmth of his brother’s embrace such a foreign comfort after all these years that it shocked Killian out of his daze.  He automatically tried to curl into his brother - Liam was here, everything would be all right now.

Only it wouldn’t be all right.  Because Liam was still in danger.

“Get your bloody arse out of… argh!” Killian’s tirade dissolved into an agonized howl as Liam pushed down on his stomach - hard.

Fire.  Burning pain worse than when the machine had taken his hand erupted from his abdomen and raced outwards until it consumed him.  His body started to shiver uncontrollably and a tiny whimper pushed past his lips.

He’d been shot.

Killian didn’t know why that hadn’t registered before, but it didn’t matter at the moment.

Liam did.

“You have to get out of here,” Killian managed.  “He’s after you.”

Liam looked down at him, dumbstruck.

“Killi-” Liam cut himself off, shaking his head violently.  “Never mind, it can’t-”

But Killian was already nodding, caught up in the thought that he didn’t want to die a stranger in the wrong time with his big brother right there.  “You have to get out of here, brother,” he mumbled around the blood bubbling up his throat.

“You did it,” Liam whispered reverently instead of running.  “You figured out how to travel time.  Oh, Killian…”

It was the awe and the pride that broke Killian’s defenses.  Tears coursed down his cheeks as Liam hugged him more tightly, pressing down harder on the gunshot wounds and eliciting a strangled cry from Killian.

“I did it to save you.  Please, Liam, I don’t want to grow up without you,” he begged.  “Go.  Please!”

Liam looked pale, his gaze automatically searching out the corner where the younger Killian still hadn’t appeared from.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he whispered.

“And you won’t,” Killian assured him.  “Not if you leave now, before Malcolm tries again.”

They both looked up to see the boy across the street standing stock still, his line of sight partially blocked by the throng of people running past in a panic.

Liam still hesitated.  “But you shouldn’t have to die alone, little brother.”

“I think you mean younger brother.”

Liam scoffed out a laugh.  “Looks like you’re always going to be the little brother, Killian.  You’re pretty scrawny.”

Killian shook his head ruefully.  A bolt of pain shot through him and the world started to fade away.  Emma, he thought of her for the first time.  “Promise me something, Liam,” he pleaded.

“Anything,” Liam avowed.  “Anything, Killian.  You know that.”

Killian nodded his head.  He did know that.  “Not Oxford.”

“What?” Liam sounded scandalized.

“Not Oxford,” he repeated, Emma’s face dancing through his thoughts and making him smile softly.  “If this is going to work, you need to take me to Maine.  There’s a little Universi-”

“Storybrooke?” Liam questioned, and explained further at Killian’s confused glance.  “There’s a Dr. Hopper there who has been asking after you.  Is that where you mean?”

Killian nodded, the edges of his vision starting to go fuzzy.  “There’s a… a girl,” he mumbled, his eyes beginning to close.

“You mean to tell me that after all these years, my little brother has finally learned about girls?”

Killian’s face lit up as he imagined Emma smiling gently down at him.  His eyes began to close, everything fading away and leaving him floating.

“Only if you go, Liam.  You’ve got to get out of here,” he managed.

“I love you, little brother,” Killian heard Liam whisper before he felt himself being lowered to the ground.  “I promise, I’ll help you fix this.”

It was cold outside his brother’s embrace, but the quick footsteps hurrying away from him let Killian finally relax, his mission finally accomplished.

I’m sorry, Emma, he thought sadly.  I didn’t mean to leave you behind like everyone else.

A cold burst of air made him shudder, his breath hitching in his chest.  I will find you again, luv.  We’ll get a second chance, I know it.

Everything seemed to drop away as his heart rate slowed and the air in his lungs seemed to liquify.  He was dying and there was nothing he could do about it.  It wouldn’t matter now, though, not now that Liam was safe.  The timeline would change and he would never again have to come back to this accursed place.  Never again would he have to remember the way Liam had died - just like this, drowning in his own blood.

Because Liam was safe now.  Killian had succeeded.  Liam was-

BANG! BANG! BANG!

No!

One last burst of adrenaline allowed Killian to open his eyes.  He found Liam’s shocked gaze, saw the blood as it began to stain his shirt, his pants, the leather jacket that was - against all laws of physics - in two places at one time.  One last burst of adrenaline that allowed him to watch Liam fall to his knees and then his back, blood pooling on the ground beneath him.

Killian watched in horror as the younger version of himself finally came barreling around the corner, pushing through the crowd of panicked city dwellers.

He’d failed.

Hot tears of shame and grief streamed down his face, matching the panicked ones that coursed down the cheeks of the teenager that knelt at Liam’s side.  Killian could hear himself pleading with his older brother, begging him to stay, not to leave him behind.  He heard Liam’s attempts to be strong for the younger Killian, heard the dumb jokes about Sherlock Ohms and then the sounds of sirens that were too late to save either of them.

“Think like a proton, right?”

How was he supposed to save his brother now, if Liam were to die here, alone, on this filthy street?

And how would he ever find Emma?

Killian watched, detached, as the paramedics loaded Liam into the back of the ambulance, ignored the men at his side, trying to save his life.  Killian wanted to rail at them for wasting their time when it was Liam who needed to be saved.  He couldn’t muster the energy around the pervasive cold and the utter failure that stole the last of his life from him.

The world faded to black as Killian’s breaths petered out, his heart stuttering to a stop as the image of a textbook - battered and all covered in his big brother’s blood - was the last thing he saw.

Pain.

Burning.

Numbness.

Cold.

Had he just died?

Killian’s eyes opened as he gasped in air.  His hand clutched at his stomach and he expected to feel the warm stickiness of his blood flowing steadily out of him.

His shirt was pristine.

Hadn’t he just been bleeding?  Liam’s voice, sad and resigned as he promised to fix this, echoed in his ears.  “I love you, little brother,” filling him with a sense of dread. What was wrong with him? What was going on? As he tried to remember, pain and chilling terror forced him to forget. The chill that permeated his entire body still made him shiver.

He’d died trying to save Liam.

And Liam had still been gunned down in the street.  Killian hadn’t fixed anything.

But Killian had died.

Hadn’t he?

No.  Of course not.  That was…

Hadn’t he?

How many times had he died and reset the timeline?  How many times had he - or rather a version of him since he clearly could only die once - failed?

No, he hadn’t died, that was absurd.  He had just been arguing with Emma.

Hadn’t he?

Killian stared at the computer in front of him, the time coordinates flashing on the screen proving to him that he was sitting in the machine just hours before Liam’s death.  The memory… dream?... of him dying began to fade.

But watching Liam collapse in the street and seeing the younger version of himself sprinting around the corner stayed firmly in his mind.

He had to save Liam.

Killian reached for the small compartment, looking for the key that would return him to Emma after he completed his goal.  A note fluttered out.

Believe in yourself, Killian, and in us.  I do.

Love, Emma

Killian unbuckled himself, struggling with the clasp at his chest, and unsealed the hatch.  He stepped out in the morning light, surprised when it didn’t take long to adjust.  He thought he’d just left a stormy evening in Maine, so it should have been a shock to his system.

It wasn’t.

The crinkle of paper in his pocket caught his attention and he pulled it out.  There was a name scrawled in Emma's familiar penmanship.

Malcolm Pan.

At least now he knew who he was looking for.

And then he hit the city limits.

The sights, the sounds, the smells, they all bowled over him and sent him stumbling to the nearest wall for support.  He’d left Ireland behind the day Liam had been killed and he’d never been back.  Until today.

But hadn’t he just been… no, that was stupid.  He hadn’t been here since Liam had been killed.  Which, he supposed, meant that he still hadn’t been back to Ireland since Liam’s death.  Time travel made his brain hurt sometimes.

Killian wandered the streets for a while, reacquainting himself with the layout and trying to ignore the grumbling need for dinner in his stomach in spite of the smells of breakfast wafting out of the restaurants he'd passed.  He was too antsy to sit down and eat, but he couldn't concentrate on anything until he did.  He finally stopped in a little family-run cafe and sat down with a good cup of tea and a breakfast sandwich, contemplating his next move.  It had been almost seven years since he'd been here, he couldn't remember exactly where Liam had taken him around the city before they'd headed towards the lec-

Liam walked in the front door, the younger version of Killian, himself, trailing along behind.

The leather jacket was falling off his shoulders, the sleeves clenched in his hands.  But it was him.  And bloody hell, had he really been that small?

Killian watched with sad nostalgia as Liam placed their order and shepherded the younger him to a table.  His nose was already buried in a book.  The teenage version of himself had idolized his older brother - still did, if he were being truthful with himself - and had taken for granted that Liam would always be there for him.  Killian just wanted to march over to the table and shake himself, beg him to stop reading and just revel in the fact that his older brother was right there.

But he didn't want to terrify himself, or worse - have Liam panic and run off before Killian could figure out how to save him.

So he sat, sipping his tea and watching the two of them interact.

"-your breakfast, little brother?"

"Younger brother, Liam," he mumbled under his breath, parroting his younger self as he whined.

He watched Liam shake his head jovially, smacking his younger brother on the back and laughing at the way the boy glared over the rims of his glasses.  "Maybe someday, Killian, but not yet."

Killian looked down at his own slight frame and grimaced.  Liam would never let him live down that he'd never grown out of 'little brother' size.

He grinned like an idiot, thinking of how often Liam would take the mickey out of him for still being littler than him.

But first, he had to save the idiot.  Killian finished up his own breakfast, watching them carefully over the rim of his mug lest he lose them in the shuffle of the crowd.  For such an out of the way cafe, it was surprisingly popular, but his brother's curly hair stood out amidst the throng of people bustling about.  He waited until Liam had guided his younger self from the restaurant, stalking them around a corner and down the road.

In retrospect, he should have remembered the long moments after breakfast that morning when Liam had seemingly disappeared without a word, coming back angry and overprotective.

As it was, he didn't remember until Liam had him shoved up against an alley wall, his forearm choking off Killian's air supply.

It hit him all at once: his brother was standing right there.  Killian could reach out and touch him, wanted to wrap his arms around the solid, flesh and blood, man he hadn’t seen outside of his nightmares in seven years.  Even with Liam looking at him like a dangerous stranger, even with his older brother choking the life out of him, even with the looming deadline just hours away, Killian wanted to take a moment for himself just to relish in the fact that his brother was right there.

But they didn’t have time for that.  There was a deadline to this visit, a timeline to alter, and his brother to save.

"Who the bloody hell are you and why are you following us?” Liam asked through clenched teeth.  “Did Midas send you?"

Who?

Killian shook his head frantically, scrabbling to get a hold on Liam's arm.  His brother was strong - well-built and muscular.  He’d forgotten that as well.  More importantly, however, he had no idea what Liam was talking about.  Who was Midas and was he related to this Malcolm Pan who had supposedly murdered… would murder Liam?

Did Liam know all along that there was a threat?  Was this more than just a random shooting?

What had Emma found that she thought he wasn’t going to like?

"I'm..." he gasped, pushing those questions aside for later, "trying to protect... you and your... brother."

If he knew one thing, he knew that Liam would take him seriously if he mentioned the younger Killian.

Liam's arm dropped away from his throat abruptly, leaving Killian floundering for support as his diaphragm spasmed and then finally allowed him a stuttered breath.

"From who?" Liam asked suspiciously, looking over his shoulder - for him, Killian realized.

Killian shook his head.  "You're in dan-"

"Who are you?" Liam cut Killian off, turning back to him and looking at him curiously.

Killian blanched.  "N-no one.  Nobody important.  Just, you need to be careful today.  Keep your brother and yourself out of sight."

As he expected, Liam shook his head vigorously.  "I can't.  My little brother needs-"

"Needs you!" Killian couldn't help interrupting loudly, cringing when his brother started looking more defensive.  This was not how he wanted this to go.

Liam was backing away, still staring at him as if he couldn't quite place him.  Killian knew the feeling.  He'd seen an older version of himself months ago in the corridor, and he had felt the vague sense of familiarity while being utterly lost as to how he knew the man.  He imagined Liam felt similar now.

"Your little brother needs you," he tried to explain again.  "I can't explain how I know, but I know that if you take him to his lecture today, you're going to be... he's going to lose you.  Can't yo-"

He was cut off again, this time by Liam's fist plowing into the side of his face.  Killian hit the ground hard, hand automatically coming up to cradle his cheek.  The skin was already warm to the touch and starting to feel tight with inflammation.

"If you ever come near me or my brother again, I'll end you," Liam seethed, standing over him and practically radiating danger.  It was a side of Liam he had never seen before and never wanted to see again.

"You don't understand," he pleaded, trying to rise to his feet by aborting the movement swiftly when Liam's fists clenched again.  "I'm trying to save your life!"

Liam growled, taking a step closer and speaking in a whisper that was no less terrifying than the unbridled anger he'd just spoken with.  "You can tell Midas that despite my father's debts and his faults, his sons aren't on the table and never were.  He has a problem with Brennan, he can take it up with him."

Before Killian could get a word around the shock that paralyzed him, Liam stalked out of the alley, leaving Killian feeling bereft.

And reeling.

Liam had known so much more than he had ever let on to Killian.  Killian could read between the lines, and when he got back to his timeline, he was going to eviscerate the man who had sired him.  Brennan was the reason Liam was dead, was the reason that Killian's life had been so effortlessly shattered.  And he had the nerve to go and name his do-over son after the one whose death had been on his hands.

Killian wanted Emma.  More than anything right now, he wanted her solid and steadying presence.  But he didn't have time for wants and wishes.  He had to get back on track and follow Liam - save the idiot's life for him, if he wouldn't do it himself.

Killian picked himself up off the ground, dusted himself off, and gingerly fingered his cheek.  There would definitely be a bruise there, the swelling already beginning to impede his vision.  Liam had just barely managed to miss his glasses, although they were askew on his nose.  Regardless, he needed to get off the street and regroup, figure out the best vantage point on the street Liam had died on to get the jump on Pan.  He needed to have a better plan than jump in the bastard's line of sight and hope for the best.

Killian had no idea what to do and no time to plan for contingencies and backups.

He was the only one around who could save Liam, and damn if he wouldn't succeed or die trying.

Bound and determined to figure it out as he went, Killian walked the familiar streets and tried not to let the memories overwhelm him.  The smell of Liam's blood, the feel of his skin cooling and his grip slackening, the sight of Liam's eyes closing forever.  They were all in the back of his mind as he walked, and he didn't realize he was standing on the exact spot Liam had fallen... would fall… wouldn’t fall until he tripped over a catch in the sidewalk that he remembered from that day.  Though the concrete was fairly clean, all Killian could see was a pool of blood, his textbook covered in it and abandoned.  He didn't have much time before Liam would be there, he still needed to figure out where the shots would come from, find Pan, and stop him.

Liam had fallen that way, he decided a moment later, meaning the shooter was likely hiding behind the mailbox and tree over there.

Killian took off running, wanting to get there before...

Malcolm Pan turned the corner and aborted Killian's movements before he could get there.  He'd have to figure out something else.

Killian ducked down an alley, looking at his watch and trying to figure out how much time he had left.  Liam would be coming around the corner in just a few minutes, not long enough to do anything other than charge Pan and hope he could distract him long enough for his brother to get out of the line of fire.  He crossed the street at a run, straight at the younger man who was already sighting down his weapon.  

BANG! BANG! BANG!

He heard the first set of shots, his heart in his throat.  He remembered trying to rationalize those shots as a boy, but knew if he didn’t make it to Pan before the second set...

"Hey!" he screamed, desperate now for anything that would stop the inevitable.

To his surprise - and utter relief - Pan looked at him, startled, and dropped his weapon.  He looked as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Wha... who are you?"  It was the second time he'd been asked that today.

Killian glared, putting himself firmly in front of the boy, trying his best to look intimidating.  "You're not going to do this," he threatened.

"I have to,” Pan said, and Killian could hear the fear.

He stepped in front of the boy again when Pan tried to weasel his way around him, warring with himself about what to do.  “What do you have to do?”

“I… the little one.  I’m supposed to take the little one as payment.  He was the collateral his father put up as payment.  And Midas always collects on his debts.”  Pan wouldn’t meet his eyes, toeing the gun at their feet, but his words sent Killian reeling.

The little one?  Him?

Killian didn’t have time to process that before the boy was scrambling for the gun.

“Where is he?” Pan hissed, shoving at Killian to get the weapon he was standing on.  “The little one is supposed to be with him!”

Killian gulped.  He knew exactly where the little one was - around the corner, sitting on a step, engrossed in his book.

Pan finally shoved him away from the gun, reaching for it and muttering, “Midas will take the older one.  He won’t be happy, but he’ll take it.”

He aimed the weapon again, and Killian barely had time to grab the barrel and redirect it before one, two, three shots rang out.  His hand burned, but he didn’t let go.  Screams and pounding feet echoed down the street, but Killian ignored it all.

He looked around wildly, making sure that the bullets hadn’t found their mark.  Liam’s terrified gaze locked on his from across the street, and his older brother’s jaw dropped.

Thank you, Liam said tearfully, though Killian couldn’t hear the words.

Go, he mouthed urgently, and Liam didn’t hesitate, melting back into the crowd.

He was just about to turn back to the problem at hand, scrambling to find away to protect Liam permanently, when he saw Liam again - knelt down next to the first man Pan had shot - the one who looked terrifyingly like himself.

Had he…?  Was that him lying there?

He had to think of something, some way to - “What if I can give you Brennan instead?” -  Killian wasn’t sure who was more startled, Malcolm or himself.

“What?”

“I know where Jones is hiding, I know exactly what tavern he’ll be in tonight.  All you have to do is leave his sons alone.”  He felt sick, but he’d always known there was a little bit of darkness in him.

Pan nodded reluctantly, lowering the gun until Killian let go and stuffing it into the waistband of his jeans.  A few minutes later and it was all over.  He watched as Liam sprinted around the corner back to where the younger version of him would be waiting.  All Killian had to do now was go home to find Emma.

He only hoped he’d be able to find her when he got there.

Killian felt light as he raced back to the woods where he’d left the machine.  Liam was alive.  Liam was alive and he hadn’t died and whatever else had happened in the moments before Liam didn’t die didn’t matter any more.  Because his brother was alive and would be at his side once he got back and would help him find Emma.

The feeling that wrapped him in a warm blanket lasted right up until he had buckled himself into the machine.  All of a sudden, it was as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice cold water over his head.  His entire left arm erupted in agony, the only thing keeping him in his seat was the harness over his shoulders as he tried to curl in on himself.  The catalyst key clattered to the floor, forgotten in the haze of pain that shrouded him.  

He was terrified to go back.

Terrified of what else it would cost him if Emma had been wrong - if time travel exacted a sacrifice from its manipulator.  He’d already lost a hand in his pursuit to save Liam, what else could he stand to lose and still face Emma, pretending to be a whole man.

Believe in yourself, Killian, and in us.  I do.

Love, Emma

He laughed at himself, the absurdity of his thoughts breaking through the fog and sending the phantom pains scurrying to the back of his mind once more.  Emma loved him; he loved Emma.  That was all there was to it.

Killian picked up the key and inserted it in the lock.

  Tagging: @gusenitsaa, @katie-dub, @kiwistreetswan, @lenfazreads, @xhookswenchx, @killian-whump, @eala-captian, @kmomof4, @onceuponaprincessworld, @couldnthandleit

[cinnamonskull]

Noticed that you haven't been posting a lot of fanfic recently (not complaining or judging because LIFE), but just lettin' you know that I love your fics and can't wait for more!

This made me very happy, anon! You’re right, life has been eating away at my soul as of late, and I haven’t been able to really write much (including missing out jaytimweek WAH). 

I debated even sharing this, but since you inquired, here’s the opening of a fic I was working on for jaytimweek:

last chance to lose your keyssum: Tim loses his memory. Jason runs out of excuses.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Tim commented quietly from his corner of the room. He watched Jason drop his leather duffle on the ugly, floral bedspread, abused springs protesting loudly under its weight. It sounded dirty, the kind of sleazy noise a person would expect to hear at a pay-by-the-hour motel.

And then Jason unzipped the bag with steady hands to pull out a shiny black handgun.

Tim’s mouth went dry.

Green-blue eyes flicked his way for only a moment before Jason scoffed, his fingers deft and skillful as they twisted in a silencer at the tip of his gun. “Yes, I did.”

The events of the past two days were still an anxious blur in Tim’s mind. He remembered few concrete details on how he ended up in Las Vegas with Jason, a gun-toting, snarky asshole with the kind of face that made Tim want to bite the back of his hand.

At least, he said his name was Jason. Tim couldn’t remember if that were true or not.

He did know some things. He knew his name was Timothy Drake-Wayne. He knew he worked at Wayne Enterprises for bleak stretches of time, attending stuffy, drawn out meetings, the Millennial mouthpiece for one playboy billionaire Bruce Wayne.

But he also knew Bruce’s secret, and he worked alongside him and others to fight crime in Gotham City as Red Robin. He could picture Dick’s sleek, acrobatic fighting style, knew the exact shade of Steph’s blonde hair, could feel the silence that followed Cass around like armour, hear the impatient tone of Damian’s voice.

But this Jason? Tim had no memory of him at all.

“You think I’m a flight risk?”

Jason ignored him, checking for ammo before snapping the clip back into place and cocking the gun with an ominous slide of metal springs. He turned away from his duffel to stalk the length of their room, which was only big enough to fit two full beds and a bulky TV from the ‘90s. When he got to the window, Jason eased back thin, ugly curtains with his gun.

“We’re more than an hour from the next town, and there’s nothing but desert and darkness between the mile markers,” Tim tried again. He already knew there was no point in arguing, but old habits made him try.

Jason laughed again, low and derisive, and flicked the curtains back into place. “Got it all figured out, huh?” He tucked the gun into the holster beneath his jacket, twisting slightly so Tim could see the strong curve of his back. “We got a regular Wonder Boy on our hands.”

The reference irked Tim, made his skin crawl thinking about the things Jason knew about him – and all the things he didn’t know about Jason. The first thing he’d done when he’d come to, soaking wet on the tiled bathroom floor in some swanky hotel room, was call Bruce.

“I’ll tell you more when you’re home,” Bruce had said, his voice placating. There was a long pause before he’d added, “You can trust him.”

“But–,” Tim had tried to argue.

“Leave it,” Bruce said, his voice more clipped than before. “You don’t need to know anything else right now.” He promised to check in on them in the morning, and then promptly hung up.

Clearly, Bruce had chose his words carefully. The reason why felt important.

“I’m just saying the probability of me trying to escape is low. I don’t think…,” he trailed off as Jason double backed toward his side of the room.

He paused at the foot of Tim’s bed and smirked. “You have a history of not thinking things through.”

There was a memory scratching at the back of Tim’s mind, the shadowy presence of Jason occupying a similar space, in another time. How many hotel rooms, how many nights spent together working some case?

The way Jason moved unnerved Tim, made him feel raw and wrong. Tim had no doubt Jason knew exactly what he was doing; he clearly had the training and experience to handle automatic weapons with precision; he knew how to lean over the front desk with hooded eyes and a low voice and to ask for a room with a view of the highway; he knew how to count the number of missing keys hanging behind the hungry-eyed clerk, how to count the steps from the manager’s office to the their room, how to keep his back to the wall and his eyes on the door at all times.

Tim’s unease went beyond Jason’s obvious confidence. There was the familiarity in which he moved around Tim that felt significant. The way Jason’s body seemed to unconsciously bend toward Tim, their bodies two blades of grass in a high wind.

How well did they really know each other?

It was noticeable when Jason hesitated, the way his jaw ticked as he studied Tim sprawled out on the bed beneath him. His eyes flicked up and over, catching on the curve of Tim’s shoulder before settling somewhere just to the left of his ear. He didn’t say anything as he moved closer, his thigh heavy against the edge of the mattress.

Tim forced himself to lie perfectly still, tilting his neck up so he could meet Jason with defiant, untrusting eyes.  

In response, Jason rolled his eyes and reached behind Tim’s head quickly, flickering off the only source of light in the room. And Tim was glad for the swift darkness, the way it swept through the room like a current, hiding sudden burn on his cheeks.

“There you go again. Not thinking.”

Jason sounded far away again and Tim squinted. When his eyes adjusted, he saw that Jason had retreated back to the window without making a sound. A purple, neon glow outlined his profile as he peeled back the curtain again.

“Well, if it bothers you so much, I could keep not thinking in another room.”

Jason clicked his tongue. “Nice try, Bird Boy.”

“Just trying to figure out why you’re so intent on babysitting, is all.”

“Ohh,” Jason snorted to himself, annoyed. “Yeah, that’s me. Babysitter-for-hire with a bolo in my bag and personal penchant for leather jackets. Mommy bloggers really go for that shit.”

“Then what?” Tim grit out with a huff of frustration.

“I don’t know.” Jason’s eyes remained focused outside the window as he spoke. “Maybe it’s because we just pissed all over the cartel’s ivory carpet in Vegas not even 24 hours ago, and this motel is full of lowlife criminals just looking for someone to sell out for some quick cash or a cheap fuck.”

There was a pause, and Tim heard a car roll through the parking lot, tires crunching gravel. The red and purple neon lights cut against the sharp angles of Jason’s face.

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking I don’t know you, Tim.”

Jason kept his eyes trained on the road and smiled.

[mrsmarymorstan]

Middle Earth Modern AU Recs

My full Fic Rec Post was getting kind of crowded, so I thought I’d make a special one for all those Modern AUs I do so love ^___^

Sports

Try a Little Teamwork by MagicMarker Explicit 6188

Olympics AU    Fíli/Sigrid

Being an Olympic athlete is no walk in the park. All the cameras and crowds can be overwhelming, and no one ever mentions the excruciating amount of just sitting there waiting.Here for his second Olympic appearance, Fíli just won the gold in Synchronized Platform Diving with his brother Kíli. However despite his experience he finds it difficult to focus on the singles event he has coming up later that week. Sigrid makes her Olympic debut competing in Kayaking and is yet to have her first race. So what are two people to do when it all starts to be a bit too much? Well, they try a little teamwork.

High School

Two Peas in Pod by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse) Teen and Up 2307

(Part 1: Durin’s Autobody)

Kíli/Tauriel, Legolas/Gimli, High School AU

Answer to tumblr prompt from emmazapdos: Kili/Tauriel with an extremely self-conscious Kili who cannot believe that Tauriel could actually be attracted to him so he keeps ignoring her attempts to court him (or whatever she does). Of course, eventually Tauriel straight up asks him what his problem is and it all comes out.

College/University 

Games We Didn’t Play by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse) Mature 4420

(Part 4: Durin’s Autobody)

Gimli/Legolas, Kíli/Tauriel

After breaking up with Gimli and heading off to College, it takes Legolas 4 years to get back to where he was and getting his life back on tracks, thanks to his best friend in all the world and (partly) her evil goblin of a fiancé.

Run In by Gingehfish General Audiences 1515

Éowyn/Faramir, 

Biker!Éowyn, Nerd!Faramir

Faramir gets into some trouble on the way to class.

A Moveable Feast by Cortue Explicit 4995 F/F

Kíli/Tauriel, Fem!Kíli, 

The music is loud enough it could almost push Tauriel outside of her body between one pounding heartbeat and the next if it weren’t for the hand tangled in the hair at the back of her neck, anchoring her here.

Small Business 

A Sensible Romance by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse) Mature 4707

(Part 2: Durin’s Autobody)

Fíli/Sigrid, Past Fíli/Ori, Kíli/Tauriel

Fíli first meets Sigrid when her family’s car breaks down and he offers to repair it for them there and then. As a thank you, she gives him a meal on the house at the café she works at and things go from there.

Featuring infuriating Brothers and their surprisingly awesome wives.  

A Cabal of Scones and Wine by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse) Mature 4262

(Part 5: Durin’s Autobody)

Fíli/Sigrid, Kíli/Tauriel, Ori/Thorin 

The partners of the Durin Boys have their own bond of sibling-hood, as anyone would need to be able to cope with two codependent brothers and their mess of a family. Featuring Wine, Discussion of Sex Lives, Scones, Babies and a whole lot of love and fluff.

Light Through the Shadows by arwens_light Teen and Up 6317

Fíli/Sigrid   Kíli/Tauriel  Bilbo/Thorin  

The Title is also inspired from two Tolkien quotes:

"You can only come to the morning through the shadows"

&

“No half-heartedness and no worldly fear must turn us aside from following the light unflinchingly"

I've been talking with a couple of you about writing a Modern AU for Fili/Sigrid... and this is what I came up with. I truly hope that you enjoy.

Musicians 

You’re Beautiful by Mont_Girl_of_Lumatere General Audiences 1646

Fíli/Sigrid

After the The Durin Brothers suffer a technical mishap at a gig followed by Lead Singer Kíli loosing his voice, it’s time for Fíli to take center stage and play them out with an acoustic cover of everyone’s favourite James Blunt song.

Gratuitous

Unrealistic Fluff.

Duet by Lindoreda, Teen and Up, 7543

Bilbo/Thorin

Composing classical music has always been Bilbo's dream, but it's never worked out the way he intended. Now, middle-aged and desperate, he's beginning to wonder if he'll ever make his mark on the music world. Enter Gandalf, with a grumpy harpist in tow, and the task of writing a piece for him. It might just be what he needs to get through his writer's block... if he doesn't kill Thorin first.

Mafia 

Paper Stars by Follius Mature 54192

Fíli/Sigrid (Minor Kíli/Ori)

He may be from a family of drug-dealing, gang-banging criminals with the biggest piece of turf between the Iron Hills and the Sea of Rhûn, but Fili is a good person. He's clean. He's gone straight. He works hard. He hasn't even seen or spoken to the family in years, and, god willing, he never will.

But then, his brother goes missing and nobody knows where he is. Back home for the first time in years, Fili has to piece together the story of Kili's disappearance and dive right back into the criminal underbelly of a town in ruins in order to find his brother. And, after years of silence, he has to confront a 'Family' more terrifying and dangerous than any gun-toting gang of bikers and crooks - his own.

Contains Graphic Depictions of Violence, Mentions of Miscarriage, Mentions of Drug Use and more angst than you can shake a stick at.

The world building is beautiful and amazing, as it is simply set in Modern Day Middle Earth, where all the races are the same just with Smart Phones. I cannot recommend this fic enough.  

Modern Royalty 

You Have a Raven by flandersmare Teen and Up 10743

Being 22 and starting to shoulder some of the responsibilities of a Crown Princess of Dale and Lake Town, Her Royal Highness, Princess Sigrid, has a way of coping. And another name - LadyoftheLake.

Or.

I'd like to think international representatives didn't do this sort of thing at summits, but to be honest I wouldn't put it past them.

With Hearts More Proof Than Shields by Flandersmare Teen and Up 23024

Modern Royalty  Fíli/Sigrid, Kíli/Tauriel, Bilbo/Thorin

Fili ran. He wasn’t exactly sure where he was heading, but he’d grown up in these halls. He’d lived his whole life within these walls. But he was in flight mode and he’d been gone a fair few years. Things had changed and moved and he was still relearning. And they had CCTV and blueprints.

Or

Someone's going to get fired, providing Dwalin doesn't kill them with his bare hands first.

Nothing Gold Can Stay by perkynurples Teen and Up 296361 (26 Chapters) 

Bilbo/Thorin

Bilbo Baggins led a rather peaceful life, thank you very much, until an old acquaintance decided to turn it upside down, and he found himself agreeing to take a job that’s… let’s say not exactly up his alley, and might eventually cost him a little more than his treasured cozy lifestyle. Who would have thought tutoring a slightly menacing monarch’s more than slightly overbearing nephew could prove to be such an… adventure?

Single Parent 

Alone is a word not meant for you by authoressjean General Audiences 5046

Bilbo/Thorin

The holidays are fast approaching, and Thorin's been dreading them, now that it's just him and his nephews. Harder still given that Fili still barely speaks and hasn't really since Dis died.

So when Kili drags them into the bookstore to look for children's literature author Mr. Baggins' new book, and they find the author himself reading his latest, Thorin isn't expecting anything beyond maybe making his nephews a little happier.

He certainly isn't expecting to find something for himself but he may have done just that.

Artist AU 

Love Rekindled by magicalmagic General Audiences 5280

Bard/Thranduil, Fíli/Sigrid

Even though there were several groups talking around his paintings, there was one man that stood out from everyone else. The man was planted in front of ‘Love Ablaze,’ the crowd parted around him like the sun surrounded by stars. He was wearing a sharp suit, his long blond hair tucked into a low ponytail. His back was ramrod straight, his hands clenched into fists. Bard stepped next to the man, keeping his eyes on the painting the other was studying so intensely.

‘Love Ablaze’ was Bard’s saddest painting. He painted it after Sophia’s death, the grief threatening to drown him as he poured his emotions onto canvas. Despair was etched into every line, and he could almost pinpoint the places where he had to smooth over tear tracks with a fresh layer of paint. It always brought back the bone deep anguish of that time, that at this point was more muted pangs of sadness when he smelled her perfume, or waking up to empty sheets next to him. That was why it was one of the few paintings Bard was actually eager to let go.

Festive Fic 

Home for the Holidays by Khazadqueen General Audiences 2623

Fíli/Ori, Kíli/Tauriel, Dwalin/Thorin, Dís/Canonical Wife, Glón/Canonical Wife

Ori and Fili host their combined family for a very hectic Hanukkah celebration.

Ok, so Tolkien apparently based a lot of Dwarrow culture on Jewish Culture, including their language, so this just had be flailing because, yeah, vaguely obscure canon reference.  

Generic 

Please stand clear of the closing doors by iscatterthemintimeandspace General Audiences 940

Prompt: AU prompt: Person A is thinking sexually graphic or generally odd thoughts and suddenly panics and thinks “If you’re a mind reader, cough right now.”

Person B coughs.

"Hey, gorgeous woman I’d love to do all sorts of naughty things to, cough right now if you can read my mind! "

She coughed.

We were lovers in a Past Life (I can see it in your green eyes) by Plinys General Audiences 4194

Kíli/Tauriel

Eager to get out of his university office, Kili accepts an invitation from an old friend that brings him to the Amazon Rainforest where he very nearly gets himself killed because he "lacks a sense of self-preservation," according to the woman who keeps having to rescue him.

You Raise Me Up by flappergirlsfolly General Audiences 2522

Fíli/Sigrid

A Story about Sigrid’s Blood Pressure

Or

Five times the Durins scared Sigrid and the only time she scared one of them.

Take From Me My Lace by Littleblackdog, Explicit, 130,650 (35/?) F/M

Bilbo/Thorin, Fem!Bilbo, Modern AU

Uncompleted plot but the romance is all neat and tidy IMO.

Bilba Baggins, popular model for a premier lingerie company, isn't always entirely convinced that the perks of the job are worth the hassle. Can't she even go to the shops without being recognized?

But Thorin Oakenshield doesn't seem to recognize her at all, even with her nearly-naked breasts forever plastered across half of London.

That's... a very refreshing change.

Here There Be Dragonairs by thepizzasitter, Teen and Up, 5516

Bard/Thranduil   Background Gimli/Legolas, Fíli/Sigrid and Kíli/Tauriel 

"She focused, her hands balling into little fists. She had less than six minutes, and she was going to win. Ash Ketchum had nothing on her." In which Pokemon Go! brings people together, Thranduil wants Gimli to keep his hands to himself, and Bard likes to train a type of Pokemon that will shock absolutely no one.

[sibilantly]

hi, sib. i just read your fic persistence, and it was so beautifully done that i wanted to drop you a note. your writing has seriously been such an influence on mine, but lately i've been having so much trouble because of my ocd. now i can't read anything without nitpicking the grammar, much less write. it's been this way for months now and i feel like i'm losing my mind. all i ever wanted was to write something good but... well, at least i still get to read something by you. i shall be content.

I’m sorry for the delay in replying, anon. Your message was so thoughtful, but also struck this… almost painfully bittersweet, personal note with me, and I had to take a couple days to reflect.

I’m so happy you enjoyed Persistence - it was a lil 500 word labour of love, but it’s somewhat different from my usual body of work, and I was a bit nervous putting it out there. So I’m delighted you enjoyed it. And it’s quite flattering to hear I’m an influence on your writing, since I feel I’m still learning the craft of writing, in many, many ways. Thank you!

Now, as for the latter half of your message…

Oh, anon.

Nonny non anon, I feel you. I’ve been… well, perhaps not right in your shoes, as I have never had OCD. But I’ve been in the same vicinity, most definitely.

Up until half a year ago, or thereabouts, my writing process was: write out a few paragraphs (if that - sometimes it was barely a paragraph) and then rework them. I would rework them over and over and over, until I felt they were just right. Only then did I feel I could move on. I felt like I was laying the foundations for a house, you know? If I didn’t get the first things laid down just right, then everything that came after would be on shaky ground, might even come tumbling down.

Thing is, writing is more like sculpting. You dig up some clay (your discovery draft or your outline, whatever), you mould it (your first draft), and then you carve and add little bits, over and over (editing. and more editing. and more. fucking editing >.>)

Anyway.

Eventually, I started slowing down, and the threshold of what I could stand before I needed to edit got smaller. It became ‘write a few lines. stop. edit those lines over and over’. And then it became ‘write one line. stop. edit that line over and over’. Rinse, repeat.

It got to the point where I stopped writing completely, for almost half a year, because everything I wrote down was so far from what I envisioned in my head, it was crushing. I had the exact same despairing thought you did: ‘All I want is to write something good’. And if I didn’t write it down, if I kept it in my head, it was good. It was perfect, in fact. Surely that was better (I thought to myself).

I feel you, I feel you, I do.

I wish there was some magic bullet that I could use to erase all those thoughts from you, to divide writing from editing in your mind, because they’re two very different processes. I would… well, I would use it on myself first, because I am human and selfish, but then I would turn it on you, and everyone else who is plagued by this period ;)

But the horrid thing (which I was very, very displeased to realise), is that if you want to write, the only thing you can do in this period is just… push… through it.

D:

It’s the worst fucking epiphany ever. If I got that in a fortune cookie, I’d be fucking pissed. But it’s seriously all there is.

There’s nothing wrong with not wanting to write, if you ultimately decide it’s not for you.

BUT.

If you do want to write, or if there comes a time when you’re not content with reading, and… y'know, you’re willing to indulge me, random fanfic lady on the internet, I want you to do this:

Pick up the pen (or put your fingers to the keyboard, but if you can, I recommend pen because you can’t backspace pen and paper) and eke out some words every day.

It doesn’t have to be a lot. It might just be a sentence.

Whiskyrunner, who we all generally acknowledge to be amazeballs, went through a period where her goal was 10 words a day because she knew she could achieve that.

That’s important. Pick a word count that you know you can achieve, not one you have to push yourself to achieve, because if you fail, you will self-flagellate. Trust me, I have been there. I hated every son of a bitch who recommended ‘write every day’, because for every day I failed to write a page, I’d hate myself a little more, and the joy I found in writing would shrink. (And they’d always recommend a page, or pages, and I’d be like, ‘What, motherfucker? There are some days when I can’t summon up the energy to get out of bed, and you want me to write a page? Pages?’ There should be some script that edits ‘write every day’ to ‘write an amount that’s achievable for you every day, even if it’s one sentence’, I think.)

Write until you hit your word goal or until you’re satisfied, whichever you have the mental energy and fortitude for that day. If there’s a day where you do the latter, don’t fall into the trap of thinking you have to match that the next day. Don’t move the goal posts. Your goal is still (X) words. Everything beyond that is like the stretch goal on a Kickstarter. Nice, but not the main aim.

Next (and this is the hard part - or, at least, it was for me: do nothing.

Don’t tweak them. Don’t delete them. Don’t touch them.

The second you hit your goal, close the doc, close your notebook - whatever you write in. You did it, you achieved the goal, which is ‘(X) number of words’.

Do whatever you need to do to remind yourself of that.

Your goal is not '100 (or 50 or 25 or 10) good words a day’. Your goal is words.

Just words.

To paraphrase Bane: now is not the time for qualitative judgement, only quantitative. Right now, you’re at the 'digging up the clay’ stage of the writing process. You’re just trying to get enough clay to sculpt into some lumpy-looking motherfucker which you will eventually carve down into your nice sculpture.

(Don’t think about the sculpture right now. Think about (X) number of words, and digging up clay.)

There was a point where I did all sorts of objectively bizarre things to remind myself of this, and to outfox my anxiety-ridden brain and its need to edit, including, but not limited to:

- writing on a fresh page each day, even if it meant 90% of the preceding page was still blank

- opening new docs each day to write my daily goal (which I would then have to piece together later, haha)

- using that program - ilys? - that only lets you see the last letter of what you typed

- muttering to myself ‘the goal is (X) words. the goal is (X) words. the goal is (X) words. only the number of words matters. only the number.’

If you’re anything like me (and, hey, I felt your message on a deep level, so I think we’re at least a little alike), you will hate every word you write with this process. You will hate this process, period. You will want to go back and retool the words because holy fuck, what if someone, somehow, gets access to your notes and sees this mess you just eked out? What if you die, and all that’s left to show of yourself as a writer is this half-written piece of shit?

(Okay, maybe that last fear is just me.)

Still. This is normal.

But how you feel about your writing immediately after writing it is not an objective, accurate measure of how good it is. You’ll be tired, you’ll be stressed, you’ll be comparing it to the image you have in your head and thinking about how far apart they are and despairing.

Stop there.

Close the doc (or the notepad, or the notebook, or turn over the post-it note (I did that at one stage, too - writing on post-it notes, haha)). You did it, you wrote the words. You dug up some clay. No one will see them but you, and whoever you choose to show them to. You can edit them later. You can make them better, or throw out whole paragraphs or whole pages if you need to. But later. Only after you finish the draft, however many new pages or new docs (or post-it notes) it takes.

Try to be kind to yourself. It’s so damn hard, I know it is, but try to remind yourself that what you wrote for the day does not define you as a writer. Even the finished, edited work does not define you. It just shows what you were capable of writing in that moment, on that day, at that point in time.

I can’t guarantee this will work for you. But there is something to be said for habit, for retraining one’s brain (to a certain extent). If you do want to try writing again, and you try this, anon, know that I’ll be proud of you, and I’ll salute you for the very act of trying.

Much love,

Sib

(P.S.: Here, I recovered a partial copy of the very first draft I wrote of Persistence. I don’t know where the rest is (on paper, probably), but hopefully it’s enough for you to see the difference between draft and finished work, and to… idk, have a good chuckle, maybe, but hopefully feel reassured, too ;). We all write shitty first drafts. They’re the clay that you mould into something better.)

They’re two levels down, in a sunny, light-filled build meant to evoke the mark’s childhood home and favourite holiday spot, when the windows and the door and the fucking walls blow in, and a SWAT team swarms in like a tide of gun-toting ants.

(DUST, STUFF FLYING EVERYWHERE. YELLING. CHUNK OF PLASTER GOES FLYING TOWARDS EAMES.)

Eames ducks, which means the chunk of plaster misses him, but, unfortunately, takes out Cixin, their extractor, with a wet crunch. They’ll have to work on Cixin’s spatial awareness later, Eames thinks.

The SWAT team levels their guns at the remainder of Eames’ team. Even a few years ago, Eames might’ve considered running. Now, he just raises his hands, gets down on the ground when ordered to.

Everyone else runs.

There’s sporadic gunfire, the sound of running footsteps, truncated screams and cut off swearing as Eames’ team is violently kicked out, one by one.

Eames stays where he is until silence reigns.

(FOOTSTEPS, A GUN MUZZLE AGAINST EAMES’ BACK, BUT NO SHOT COMES.)

Eames peeks upward, just in time to see the leader of the SWAT team yanks his mask off, revealing Arthur’s exasperated, sweaty face.

“I can’t believe you’re working today, of all days,” Arthur says. “I should probably shoot you just for that.”

“But you won’t.” Eames rolls over onto his back, smiles his most charming smile as he gets to his feet. “And you have to admit it’s somewhat fitting, me working today.”

Arthur smiles fondly, diluting the exasperation. “Maybe.” He looks Eames up and down. “You look good.”

“You’re lying, but thank you,” Eames says. He nods at Arthur’s outfit. “That looks good on you.”

Arthur is inspecting his outfit. “You know, this wouldn’t be a bad disguise, if you were working on an opposing team. Make the other team think you’re the mark’s militarisation–”

“Stop right there.”

“What?” Arthur says. “Worried you’ll be tempted away from the side of the angels?”

“Worried I’ll be tempted away from my regular paycheck, anyway,” Eames says, sniffing.

Arthur chuckles, then nods upward. “Are they going to give you the kick soon?”

“Not just yet. They’re probably debating whether or not I’ve gotten to the safe or not.”

“You need to get on top of that,” Arthur says. “You can’t have your team hesitating over what to do next on live jobs.”

[kawaiipsycho101srpblog]

Righteous Side of Hell--Ch.1

(NOTE: I’ll only be posting the first few chapters of this fic, so if you want to read the rest, you’ll have to go to my main blog, my ff.net page, or my AO3 [all have the name KawaiiPsycho101]. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!)

1. That! That!

You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.

It had taken a while, but with Ryuk’s assistance, I’d finally been able to track down the current owner of my notebook to a local mafia faction. The mere idea of these thugs possessing my Death Note, using it, defiling it, made me sick to my stomach.

“You’re all scum, ya know that?” I said to the oblivious men and women. “Worthless, life-sucking scum,” I could see the back of a head with silken blonde hair extending a graceful, well-toned arm. In its gloved-covered hand was my notebook.

A woman, huh? That’s actually rather impressive. Don’t see many godmothers these days.

“I look forward to murdering you all slowly and painfully,” I continued as I began to head towards her. “Your screams will bring me absolute pleasure, and only when you’ve begged for the sweet release of death will I holy shit, you’re a guy.”

Indeed, sitting before me on a tacky zebra-striped sofa was an attractive young man sporting a pair of tight leather pants with a matching vest. Dangling from the corner of his black-lipsticked mouth was a bar of chocolate that bobbed up and down with the movement of his jaw as he chewed, occasionally bumping against the wooden rosary around his neck. I glanced down and blinked at the most-likely loaded gun snugged securely in the front of his trousers. I looked up at his name and found the words Mihael Keehl floating above his head. Mihael was a boy’s name, last time I checked.

My notebook is in the hands of a blonde, leather-wearing, chocolate-munching, gun-toting, possibly-sociopathic, pretty boy?!

I slowly rubbed a hand down my face and sighed.

“Of course. Sure. Why the fuck not?”

After a few more seconds of staring at the oddity, I decided it was time to make contact.

He can’t see me until Snydar touches it. Guess I’ll have to wait...

A few seconds later...

Fuck this shit!

I plucked the notebook out of the blonde’s hands, giggling at the look of pure shock plastered on his face, and slapped it against Snydar’s cheek before dropping it in his lap. 

“The...The notebook just flew.”

“Heh, it’s a notebook that kills people. Hell, nothing surprises me anymore,” said a fellow mobster named Dwhite Gordan, a beefcake who only wore a suit-jacket to hide his chest.

Nothing surprises you, eh? Just wait...

I watched as Snydar turned around and saw me, his eyes growing to the size of dinner plates.

“Ha! You should see your face right now!”

“AAHHH!” He fell out of his seat and pointed at me. “Boss, who is this?! The guy in the freaky costume?! Who the Hell is he?! Who brought him here?!”

“You idiot, don’t you know a shinigami when you see one?”

“A shinigami?” He began to laugh hysterically.

“That’s right. Now if I were you, I’d have the others touch the notebook before the men in white come and take you to the Happy Home.” I pointed at the Death Note. “Go on.”

Snydar picked up the notebook with shaking hands and looked at me, then his cohorts.

“It says you can see it if you touch the notebook! Please, everyone touch it! I swear I’m not crazy!”

Everyone looked at Dwhite, and I realized that he must be their leader, which struck me as strange. I’d been almost certain that Mihael was the one in charge, seeing as he was the one lounging around like he owned the place and examining my notebook like it was a shiny new toy, plus the sense of leadership and authority that practically radiated from him. 

Then again, he’s awfully young...Perhaps he’s a second-in-command...Still though, for someone so young to make it this far in the mafia...

I was snapped out of my thoughts when Dwhite gave an annoyed grunt.

“Fine, whatever. Come on guys, touch the notebook.”

Just as the first person’s hand was inches away from the book, I got a brilliant idea and quickly went through the wall closest to me.

“Well Jack, where is it?”

“It was right there, I swear! Just now!”

“Sure it was.” I heard a mumbled agreement from the other men in the room, figuring that by now they had all touched the notebook, and made my move, sliding through the wall as quickly as I’d left.

“WHAAAAZZZZZUUUUHHHP?”

The screams and gunshots that followed were music to my ears. I hadn’t laughed so hard in years. I was still trying to keep my sides from splitting by the time they calmed down.

“Jack’s right,” Dwhite muttered. “That ain’t no costume. That’s a real-life shinigami.”

“Damn straight,” I snickered.

“What do you want?”

“Oh, nothing really, just my notebook.”

“Your notebook?”

“Yes, my notebook.”

“Why?”

“It’s complicated.”

“How do we know it’s yours?”

“Flip to the inside of the back cover and you’ll find a series of symbols scratched into the material of the lower right-hand corner. Those are my initials, which translated to the English alphabet, would be A.K.A.” The mobsters did as they were told and, sure enough, my initials were there.

“Okay, so it’s your notebook. Doesn’t mean we have to give it back to you.”

“Au contraire, my bald, muscular friend. You see, I don’t have long to live, and if I don’t write down some names in that Death Note soon, I will die. And if I die, that notebook will burst into flames. And if the Death Note is destroyed, you will all die in thirteen days.” The mobster’s faces all paled at my last sentence. If Ryuk hadn’t told me about the fake rules he’d written in my notebook, I wouldn’t have had my bargaining chip. “Tell you what, since I’m such a nice shinigami, I’ll make you a deal. Let me borrow the notebook for a little while so I can write some names down and expand my life-span, then I’ll give it right back as soon as I’m done with it, okay?”

As I spoke, I couldn’t help but notice that the blonde seemed unusually calm considering the situation he was in; not every day could someone talk to a shinigami. But his eyes never left my own, and I could practically see the gears in his head working at break-neck speed.

“How do we know you won’t just run away with the notebook? Or write all of our names down, and then run away?” My attention returned to the head mobster before me.

“A few reasons: one, the human has to willingly surrender the notebook in order for it to be returned to its original owner. Second, I can tell by looking at your lifespans that not that many of you have long to live, so why should I bother killing you if your deaths won’t be that much use to me? And thirdly, do I look like the kind of shinigami that would go back on its word?” I smirked under my scarf and held out my hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll only need it for a few minutes, and I promise I’ll give it back.”

“But-”

“Just give it the notebook, Rod. I think it’s telling the truth.”

There was a brief silence before the mob boss spoke.

“Are you sure, Mello?”

Wait, WHAT?

“Yes.”

“Alright then.” Without another word he handed me my notebook, and I took it from him while doing my best to hide my sudden anxiety.

Did he say...? No...no, it can’t be...I must have misheard.

“Thank you.” I pulled a pen from my belt and flipped to a fresh page in the notebook. “Any preferences?”

“No, thanks. We already took care of that.”

“Ah. Excuse me.” I stepped past him and sat cross-legged on the floor facing a TV. It was a news show; an anchorwoman was posing before a camera with a lot of bystanders standing behind her. “Perfect.”

I picked my victims, and the causes and times of their deaths, at random, while throwing in some criminals for good measure, but not enough for the men watching me to notice. After a couple minutes, I’d written down enough names to last me for a very long time.

“There,” I slapped the notebook shut. “I should be set for the next couple hundred years or so.” I stood up and handed it back to Rod. “I told you I was a shinigami of my word.”

“Right...” he said uncomfortably.

“What’s wrong? Still put off by my appearance?” I cleared my throat and threw my voice around until it was a perfect imitation of his. “Or is it the voice? Does the way I talk upset you?”

The man’s eyes widened.

“How...how are you doing that?”

“It’s a quirk.” I grinned, knowing that my voice trick was putting everyone in a state of unease.

I’ll have these pigs in the palm of my hand in no time.

“Umm...Could you please,” mumbled one of the other mobsters. “Not do that?”

“Well, since you asked nicely...” I reverted back to my normal way of speaking. “Sure.”

“Shinigami.” I looked at the blonde on the couch, and was surprised to find that he was still remarkably composed. The way he looked at me...It felt like he was sizing me up, figuring out various ways I could be of use to him, and then when and how to dispose of me once he was through. This was a man used to getting what he wanted, and anyone who got in his way would most assuredly wind up with a bullet lodged into their skull. Normally I despised people like this, and frankly, he was no exception; and yet, the more I studied him, I realized that unlike other pompous brats, he had the skill to back up his bravado. I hated to admit it, but I was starting to respect him.

Maybe...there’s a chance it might be him...But I have to be certain.

“Yes?”

“What’s your name?”

“You can call me A for now.” I noticed how his brow twitched ever so slightly, as if maybe I’d struck a nerve. “Or ‘Shinigami’, or whatever. I don’t really care.”

“Then tell me...A,” he asked, taking a bite of his chocolate. “Is there anything else we need to know about the Death Note? Any other rules or limitations to who we can kill?”

I got an idea and smirked.

“There are, but I don’t like giving things away without getting something in return. So, how about another deal?” 

“What do you want?”

“That.” I pointed to his chocolate. “Give me some of that, and I’ll answer any questions you have with the utmost sincerity. No lies, no tricks.”

“Done.” He grabbed another chocolate bar off of a table next to him and tossed it to me, which I easily caught. I carefully unwrapped it, the smell instantly making my mouth water. I lowered my scarf and heard quiet mutterings from the others as they saw my razor-sharp teeth. As I bit into the sweetness, letting the taste melt into my tongue, my eyes rolled back into my head and I felt my knees buckle a little. A low moan escaped the back of my throat as I savored every single bite.

Oh, sweet motherfucking Christ, yes.

As I finished it off, I placed my palms together and closed my eyes for a brief second in an almost-reflexive sign of thanks. I didn’t really notice I was doing it until I’d opened my eyes again.

Huh...that’s odd.

I quickly put the thought out of my mind and positioned my scarf back over my mouth with a grin.

“The thirteen-day rule is totally bogus. Also, if I die, the notebook will not be affected; the same would also apply to me if the notebook is destroyed.”

“You mean those rules are fake?!” Rod cried.

“That’s what I said.”

“So earlier,” one of the mobsters grumbled. “When you wanted to borrow the notebook, you were-”

“Playing you for a bunch of chumps? Yes, yes I was.”

“But why? Why would you put in fake rules?” The blonde’s gaze narrowed.

“I didn’t, someone else did.”

“Who?”

“No idea,” I lied. “Most likely another shinigami. Probably did it to mess with a human. Ya know, shits and giggles. Oh, and you’ll probably want to know about the eye-trade.”

“Eye-trade?”

“A shinigami’s eyes can see a person’s real name and lifespan above their heads. In exchange for half of the current owner’s remaining lifespan, I can give him those eyes. And speaking of names, would you mind telling me how to pronounce yours?” His cerulean eyes narrowed as I squinted at the floating letters above his head. “I can read it, but I can’t figure out how you’re supposed to say it. Is it-?”

“That’s enough!” His outburst almost made me flinch. “I go by Mello, understand? Nothing else.”

Ho. Ly. Shit. It is him. It has to be!

“Alright, alright,” I raised my hands in a position of mock-surrender. “No need to get snippy.”

Mello quickly cooled down and resumed his leisurely position on the couch, his body practically draped over the cushions like a model about to be drawn nude.

“Are you serious about this eye-trade?”

“Quite. But I can only make the deal with the current owner of my Death Note,” I turned to Snydar. “That would be you.”

“Make the deal, Jack,” Rod ordered.

“Wh-what?!”

“You heard me. Make the deal for the shinigami eyes.”

“But I’ll lose half of-” It was at this point Snydar noticed the way Rod was reaching into his jacket. “Ya know, on second thought, I’d like to make to the eye-trade.”

“Atta boy.”

“So, uh...” Snydar looked at me. “How does this...umm, happen? What are you going to do?”

“Just close your eyes and hold very still.” He did as instructed and I gently placed my hand on top of his head. “Now, I’ve never done this before, so it may take a few tries,” I didn’t know whether to mock or pity the man as he started to tremble. “But it shouldn’t hurt a bit.” I focused for a second and felt a strange tingling in the hand that was on Snydar’s head which quickly shot up my arm and dissipated. “Annnnnd done. You can open your eyes now.” He did so, revealing bright red irises which quickly faded back to his natural eye color. “Congratulations, you are now that much closer to death.”

And I’m that much closer to getting my Death Note back... 

“What do you see?” Mello asked.

“Names...” Snydar whispered. “And numbers. Are those their lifespans?”

“Yeah, but they’re done in the numeral language of the shinigami. To translate it to human calculations, you’d need a calculator and a great deal of time, depending on how precise you’d want it to be.”

“Excellent.” Rod thumped Snydar on the back. “Now we’re in business.” 

“Thank you, A.” Mello smiled. “You have been very helpful.”

I felt something stir deep inside of me. A quiver just below my stomach that sent tingles up my spine and made my lower extremities throb ever so slightly. The sensation was new, yet faintly familiar. I almost gagged when I realized what it was.

Oh no, nope, nuh-unh, don’t even think about it, don’t you dare feel attracted to him ah shit, too late.

“No problem.” The inside of my mouth felt like sandpaper. “Any other questions?”

“I think we’re good for now.” His smile disappeared, as did the sickening feeling, and I inwardly sighed with relief. “We’ll let you know if we have any more questions, but for now, you can keep watch outside.”

“Excuse me?” I couldn’t quite believe what I’d just heard.

“It’ll be very convenient for us that you can’t be seen by humans. Go outside and keep watch, got it?”

In another time, I would have pissed my pants and ran at the look he gave me then. It was goddamn creepy. But I had changed since then, and had grown used to these kinds of gazes. If anything, I thought it was extremely humorous.

“Heh...heheheh...” His left eye twitched in surprise as my giggles turned into guffaws of laughter. Everyone stared, bewildered, as my voice rose and fell, cracking in its insane cackles.

“What’s so funny?” Mello asked, irked.

“You are!” I chuckled. “You are without a doubt the strangest human being I have ever encountered! Your appearance! Your intelligence! Your chocolate and leather fetishes! And now you’re givin’ me friggin’ orders! Me! A goddamned shinigami! A being that has every single person in this room terrified except for you! The whole thing just strikes me as hilarious!”

I continued to laugh maniacally as the blonde glared at me with the icy daggers that were his eyes. Eventually, I began to calm down.

“Finished?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m good. I’ll give you this though, you’re probably also the bravest human I’ve seen; it takes some serious guts to boss around a death god.”

There was a brief pause as my words sunk in. I had a feeling I had said what everyone else had once thought at one point or another. Mello was a very strange person. Brilliant yes, but strange...and maybe a bit psychotic, but hey, I wasn’t one to judge.

“So, are you going to keep watch, or not?”

My lips clenched into a scowl as my good humor immediately dissolved.

“Okay, let’s make something explicitly, perfectly clear here.” I took a few steps toward him. “The only reason I’m here is because shinigami law requires me to be. That does not make me your servant, alright? You do not get to order me around like one of these shit-for-brains asshats.” I motioned to the group of men surrounding us, stopping once I was right in front of him. He hadn’t moved an inch, his face only expressing the slightest hint of emotion. It was really starting to tick me off. “So, do we have an understanding?”

There was a tense silence, the people in the room waiting with bated breath for Mello’s response, until...

“Do it, and I’ll give you more chocolate.”

-snap!-

Before I knew what I was doing, I’d grabbed the blonde by the throat and yanked him to his feet. He audibly gasped in surprise and pain as I slammed his back against the wall above the couch. I found it immensely pleasing.

“Listen well, Pretty Boy, because I’m only going to say this once,” I leaned in close until we were perfectly eye-level. “Don’t fuck with me. Fuck with me, and you’ll regret it. You have my word on that.”

I dropped him back on the sofa-cushions and he glared up at me with hate-filled eyes.

“You...you...” He was so angry, he couldn’t think of anything to say. I knew that feeling well.

“Maybe when you’re ready to treat with me some respect, we can try this again.” I placed a hand on his shoulder, tightening my grip when he tried to shake it off, and leaned in again, hissing into his ear. “Your tricks won’t work on me. I’ve been dealing with your type for a long time now. I’m used to it.”

  My type?” Mello whispered, caught off-guard again as I released his shoulder and stood up.

“Anyway, if you have any more questions regarding the Death Note, just give me a holler. Later.”

Black, feathery wings popped out of my back, and I flew up and out of the hideout so fast that Mello’s enraged shouts just barely reached my ears as faint whispers. I smiled in content as I settled on a high tree-branch, but it didn’t last long as I began to think about the recklessness of my past actions, and the young man whom was currently handling my notebook.

Hmm...Short-tempered, calculating, a bit on the arrogant side, chocolate addiction, late teens...There’s no doubt about it...It’s the Mello he told me about...

I held up my left arm and pulled down the shirt-sleeve, revealing a single letter carved into the flesh of my wrist and a list of names beneath it. Using the sharp tip of my pen, I began to add the names of the people I’d sentenced to death just a few minutes prior. I hoped that the familiar pain would be enough to distract me from my rapidly growing feeling of dread.

This might change things...

Alternate title for this chapter: HEYKIDSWANNASEEADEADBODY?

And before you ask, yes, Mello wearing black lipstick is totally canon. Don’t believe me? Look it up. Fabulous, no?