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jimmyandthegiraffes · 8 months

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Fic Writing Review 2023 🌈

Thank you sm @itwoodbeprefect for the tag!!!

I hardly published anything this year so if u wanna skip to 'projects for 2024' that's gonna be the most interesting bit >.<

Words and Fics (on ao3) 📚

words posted: 714 💀 but many more words were written, just not posted lol fics posted: 1 first fic/last fic 😅: King of the Eyesores - Doctor Who (1963)

Ships and Fandoms ⚓

Doctor Who - no ships really but KotE is Mike Yates-centric.

Top 5 Fics by Kudos 🏆

It's KotE again lol which is at 6 kudos. Of all time, tho:

After the Hour(glass) - Night at the Museum (Jedtavius)

Less Than Ideal Circumstances - The Man from UNCLE (TV) (Napollya)

When They Sleep - The Man from UNCLE (TV)

Dismiss Your Fears - Back to the Future

After All, I'm Only Sleeping - Doctor Who (1963)

Top 5 Favorite Fics 💖

KotE......... I do actually rly enjoy KotE I think it has potential in terms of where it's going. But since I only posted one fic in 2023, I'll do my top 5 of fics I've ever posted. Apart from the first one this is in no particular order

tickertape - The A-Team (TV) it's my baby it's all I thought about for months of my life, it's like an iceberg (i.e. most of it is in my WIP doc, and only a tiny fraction is published so far), it got me thru a difficult time, it's an exploration of mental illness and complicated messy relationships expressed in epic format (i.e. it's probably gonna be novel length when it's done)

Bullet Number Six - Starsky & Hutch (TV) it received criticism for being obscure and hard to follow bc it switches pov briefly halfway thru but idc i love it anyway

I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues - The A-Team (TV) it was my first A-Team fic and I still think for a beginner it nailed some p realistic in-character dialogue and addressed an undertone I wished I'd seen addressed in the ep it's a coda to.

When They Sleep - The Man from UNCLE (TV) it's kind of riddled with certain mannerisms of my slightly older writing which I personally find a bit annoying and have worked to iron out for the sake of elegance over the years. but I still think it's a cool little exploration of all my sleep headcanons for the pair of them in one place

King of the Eyesores - Doctor Who (1963) see it made it to the list after all! I kinda like it more for its potential than for what it is right now butttttt who cares.

special mention to Unbereft (Starsky & Hutch) which I really really like but I wrote it in one frenzied sitting and only remembered after I'd posted it that it was very like someone else's fic I'd read several years previously. I don't think it's too much like to be taken down and I've since mentioned the writer of the other fic (it was dawnwind, hello!) in the notes. that's the only reason unbereft isn't in my top 5 because I'm otherwise really proud of how well it's written. Not to tootle on my own trumpet.

Fandom fic events

none RIP but maybe this year!!

Projects for 2024

Okay here we goooooooooooo

priority 1 is to finish the unfinished works that I've already half posted: King of the Eyesores, Every Line A Comedy, OUTATIME, The Windhover, tickertape, The Hanoi Bank Job and Other Misadventures, 38 Hours. Bolded are my top priorities.

other works that I'm writing but which haven't seen the light of day at all yet:

Dear Mike - an epistolary between Jo Grant and Mike Yates following her marriage to Cliff Jones.

The Lark/Behind That Locked Door (working titles) - a 30-chapter 2/Jamie fic about season 6B in which Jamie suffers permanent memory problems after the War Games. It explores grief, social ostracism, feeling abandoned, undirected anger, guilt, and acceptance that healing sometimes is a process that is never complete. I've been working on it since about 2016 lol but I'm lazy I just need to press on.

hell valley au - as yet untitled lol. In which the Hell Valley!Marty (who is never seen in BTTF2 as he is in Switzerland) and Hell Valley!Doc (who has been institutionalized) break out of their respective situations and go on the run together. But there's a problem - they had to leave Einstein behind, and when they get information that Einie is to be used for a dogfight, they make the risky decision to go back to Hill Valley to rescue him. However, going back to the place they just escaped by the skin of their teeth also brings them face to face with the last person they expect to meet.

a changed man (working title) - a Randall & Hopkirk (Deceased) fic from Jeannie's pov. mostly it's about their picnic excursions but it's also about Jeannie wishing Marty wasn't such an elephant in the room

mfu/rahd xover (untitled) - the first chapter of this is almost ready to go tbh. it's what it says on the tin lol, Napoleon and Illya go to London and get help from a rather eccentric private detective who has uncanny powers of solving impossible cases but also they think is probably clinically insane

to see him happy - VERY weird rahd fic. it's smut but its also about grief. might never post it because several of my family members have access to my tumblr and therefore my ao3 lol they dont need to see that

the winter of '62 - a study of jeff and marty's life when they lived together in a grotty bedsit and couldnt afford to put the heating on

star wars (untitled) - set during ROTJ, han pov. han's lost a lot of time and now everyone is one step ahead of him which isn't a sensation he's used to

skyrissian - what it says on the tin lol

the older gen (untitled) - jeeves fic about bertie's aunts and uncles and parents as they were as they variously grew up, got married, had children, died (or didn't), fell prey to alcoholism or insanity or petty crime, went to war, prospered (or didn't)... This is pretty unlikely to be finished this year tbh as it's very detailed but I can dream

a couple of long form fics about starsky & hutch and mfu respectively (the s&h one is set post sweet revenge, the mfu one takes place at various moments throughout the show)

x-files series - canon compliant until paperclip and then gradually diverges into how i think the show should have gone lol. another biggie

and a handful of tintin fics that im protective of and might never post but we'll see - one where tintin and chang go on holiday in london after picaros, one where the gang encounters rajaijah one last time (featuring a letter from didi, chang making a very daring crossing at the songolese border, and tintin taking about ten years to chop up a clove of garlic), and one where tintin gets shitfaced at an embassy ball and accidentally starts an Incident. haddock looks on, appalled.

i knoooooooooooooooowww this is a lot but i'm not realistically hoping to finish it all this year but it's nice to have lots of things to play around with lol.

unfortunately i have the eternal problem of not ever knowing which of my mutuals write fic and which of those havent already been tagged but imma tag @theteaisaddictive and genuinely if u see this and u write fic ur tagged i want to knowwwwwwwwwwwww <333

#tag #doctor who #the a team #starsky and hutch #tintin #tag game #jamie mccrimmon #randall and hopkirk deceased #bttf #mike yates

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liangxinn · 1 year

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untitled fantasy/royalty AU

For someone who supposedly doesn't care much for writing royalty AUs, I sure have a lot of them in my WIPs... including a King's Maker AU which I really really want to see through to the end ><

Anyway, I found this abandoned draft for a different fandom from 2019. Looking back at my writing from 4 years ago sure was an Experience, but I didn't want to immediately throw up at least, so I consulted the oracle (Twitter) and decided to tidy up a little excerpt as a SVT/Minwon fic. Here's the basic gist:

Elven princes Mingyu and Seungcheol are shocked to discover that their late father has named Mingyu his heir instead of Seungcheol, the eldest

Newly appointed captain of the royal guard Wonwoo is assigned to protect Mingyu (spoiler: they do not like each other lol)

To avoid taking the throne, Mingyu pledges himself to the god of the hunt, joins a band of hunters (I'm thinking performance unit), and leaves for six years

He returns to the kingdom when a mysterious affliction sweeps the land, turning the people into demon-like monsters, and has to work with Wonwoo to investigate...

I actually have the entire story plotted out, and I am more than happy to answer any questions if anyone's curious to know more! You can find 3.2k of one of the early chapters, mostly unchanged from the original draft, below the cut ^^

Mingyu's sleep is fitful, leaving him tossing and turning and tormented with snippets of strange dreams.

He walks for an age along the secret corridor, only for it to lead him to his father's room when he exits through the trapdoor. Just the sight of it, unopened since the king's death, stirs up a sick feeling in Mingyu's stomach. He doesn't know what possesses him to press his palm against the wood, only that it feels like fire trying to burn the skin from his hand. Of its own volition, his other hand drifts up as well, and he watches, entranced.

Mingyu pushes lightly against the door, hears the snap of splintering wood. A voice escapes through the cracks like scalding steam, and he pushes harder. His father's sharp words rush back to him from weeks, months, years long past. A heavy ache settles over his body, throbbing dully in the places where he could not be forced into the mould they made for Seungcheol. Pain lances across his cheek, but whether it's from the flames or a blow meant for his brother, he can't tell. The door collapses beneath the pressure, and he disappears into the flames.

He wakes, gasping, and sleep claims him again.

At a coronation, a crown is placed upon Mingyu's head, so heavy that it threatens to crush him. Hundreds of eyes bore into his flesh, picking like crows at every part of him they can reach, ripping him apart with their scrutiny. His own eyes dart around frantically and land upon Queen Consort Hyeyoung only to find a cold, insincere smile. Seungcheol is somewhere among them, flashing in and out of sight.

Mingyu tears the crown away in repulsion. When he hurls it to the ground at his feet, it shatters as if it were made of glass instead of precious metals. A moment passes, then the crowd erupts into raucous sound. He has displeased them. They surge upwards from their seats in a writhing, screaming mass. They call for his head. They call for his blood to be spilled.

He wakes, feels the prickle of those eyes on him, and shudders.

By now, the sun has begun to rise, throwing weak light into the room. Mingyu had gotten just a couple hours of sleep at the most. His body struggles against him, forcing his eyelids to droop and demanding more time to rest. Just as he's about to succumb, a sharp rap on the door seizes his attention.

Mingyu knows exactly who it is when the person enters before he even has the chance to respond. His brother slips into the room with those distinctive footsteps of his, dark eyes alight with excitement and the corner of his mouth curled upwards in amusement. He perches on the edge of the bed, yanking the covers away when Mingyu tries to bury himself underneath.

"You got caught last night," Seungcheol says, mirth laced in his tone. Mingyu rolls over to throw a glare in his direction.

"Good morning to you, too."

"Was it him? That Captain Jeon?"

Mingyu scowls at the mention of Wonwoo, having forgotten his existence momentarily. Seungcheol takes his stubborn silence as confirmation. In a more serious voice, he asks if Wonwoo found out about the passageway. Mingyu mulls it over for a moment before deciding that Wonwoo shouldn't have been able to figure out how he left castle grounds. He must've traced his path by some other means.

"I have a guard, too," Seungcheol sighs, flopping back onto the bed and across Mingyu's legs, ignoring his squawk of protest. "His name is Vernon. He's quiet, but he seems like a good kid. Must be capable if he became a guard at his age. He thinks quite highly of Captain Jeon."

"Good for them," Mingyu remarks sarcastically before he can bite it back. He shoves his face into a pillow to avoid the intrigued look Seungcheol sends his way.

"What, don't you like him? He was pleasant enough when I met him. Surely you've heard that he's the youngest captain in the history of the royal guard."

Mingyu refuses to answer. There is silence for a long moment, which borders on suspicious, then Seungcheol says in a sage-like, all-knowing tone, "Oh, I see. You fucked him."

Mingyu's expression cycles between outrage and disbelief before deciding to settle on embarrassment, to his dismay.

"Hyung!" he hisses, springing upright to hurl a pillow at his brother's head and shoot a look at the door as if Wonwoo could hear them from outside. Seungcheol blocks the pillow with ease, the sound of his delighted cackling quelling Mingyu's outburst. There hasn't been very much to laugh at as of late.

"There's no need to be embarrassed, Gyu-yah. Come to think of it, he's exactly your type-"

"I did nothing of the sort and I have no desire to!" Mingyu fumes, even as a giggle of his own threatens to escape him. He's painfully aware of the incriminating heat rising to his cheeks and ears, but he can't help the smile that tugs at his mouth. The roguish grin he receives in return is more than worth it.

Seungcheol has been run so thin lately, what with the burden of kingship dumped upon him in such an abrupt manner. And now, it may turn out that all of his efforts over the years were for naught. Mingyu reflects on what the queen consort told him last night, and dread fills his stomach at the very thought of having to take the crown. The vision of the coronation from his dreams flits to the front of his mind.

"How have you been, Mingyu?" Seungcheol asks softly as he pulls the pillow onto his lap and rests his hands atop it.

"Hyung," Mingyu begins with a heavy sigh, "did you know about the will?"

Seungcheol's gaze slides away. "Yes. I saw it the day before it was posted in the city centre."

"I don't blame you for keeping it from me, but how are you... alright with this?"

"The king's will is law, Mingyu-yah. I know this, and so do you."

"It doesn't make sense! Why would he name me his successor over you? He barely acknowledged my existence for twenty years and yet he left the entire kingdom to me? I don't believe it. I cannot believe it."

"Father took his reasons with him to the grave," Seungcheol says with grim resignation. "The only thing that we can do is follow his wishes."

"It should be you, hyung. It was always meant to be you. I'm not worthy," Mingyu finishes with a miserable sigh.

"I thought you would say something like that. But honestly speaking, I think you're just as capable of being a leader. Don't be so quick to undermine your skills."

Though Mingyu knows that Seungcheol is trying to be reassuring, he can't help but think that his brother sounds just like Queen Consort Hyeyoung. A product of her teachings, he supposes.

At Mingyu's skeptical raised eyebrow, Seungcheol gives his shoulder a light squeeze as a comforting gesture. "We'll figure something out. I'll still be here to help as much as I can."

Regardless of Mingyu's faith in his ability to lead the entirety of the kingdom, it simply isn't right for him to take the crown. Not when Seungcheol is the eldest, not when he has spent much of his life preparing for the inevitable day of their father's death. Despite having no choice but to take up the role of heir, Seungcheol has a true interest in the responsibilities of kingship. The life of a king has never appealed to Mingyu in the same way.

Seungcheol rises to his feet, tossing his pillow lightly at Mingyu's face and startling him from his thoughts. "Get dressed. Let's go to breakfast."

"Don't want to," Mingyu whines in response. "Can't we stay in here?"

It's definitely not because he doesn't want to face Wonwoo and be reminded of his wounded pride. Not at all. He's simply too tired to go all the way down to the dining hall and he'd much rather have breakfast in his room without having to take a single step outside, where Wonwoo is standing right now-

Mingyu yelps as the pillow makes contact with his face for a second time, more forcefully than the last. In his serious, all-business voice, Seungcheol insists that he comes down to have breakfast with Queen Consort Hyeyoung, so Mingyu acquiesces with a grumble.

"Choi Seungcheol, you are the rudest elf I have ever had the misfortune of meeting."

"I know you love me, dearest brother."

Mingyu's exaggerated eye roll threatens to earn him a third smack with the pillow, so he leaps out of bed under the pretence of getting dressed and shoos Seungcheol out of his room. After he's cleaned himself up and made an attempt at taming the bird's nest that is his hair, Mingyu scrutinises his reflection with a critical eye.

He's visibly tired, his under eyes stamped with dark half-moons. His mouth is set in a displeased line, his shoulders are hunched, and his eyes are too full of worries. The image staring back at him doesn't look at all like a king, not even when he tries to picture a crown on his head. Its phantom weight pushes his head down, forcing him to break his gaze from his tired reflection.

Seungcheol always resembled their father more, anyway.

Breakfast is doomed to be a sombre affair as soon as Mingyu and Seungcheol enter the hall, followed closely by Wonwoo and Vernon. They slide into their seats across from Queen Consort Hyeyoung under the sympathetic eyes of the staff present, and Mingyu resists the urge to steal a sideways glance at his father's empty place at the head of the table. He almost prefers it this way.

The last time they all had breakfast together must've been at least four years ago, when Mingyu and Seungcheol were only sixteen. He barely remembers what it was like, though it isn't a particularly fond memory to begin with. It was around that time Mingyu took to having his morning meal alone in his room or the gardens. Immersed in his studies, Seungcheol wouldn't even come to eat sometimes either.

When Queen Consort Hyeyoung greets them, her slight smile doesn't quite reach her tired eyes. Mingyu meets her gaze, and the knowing look he finds there is enough to make him break eye contact to stare at his plate. A welcome distraction comes in the form of food brought out by the kitchen staff, who he thanks courteously.

Queen Consort Hyeyoung and Seungcheol begin to discuss an upcoming trade meeting with one of the western nations, so Mingyu helps himself to a roll still warm from the oven. After a liberal application of butter and honey scented like the local flowers, he bites into the soft bread, relishing the satisfying sweetness. Honey spills over his fingers and threatens to turn into a sticky mess. Perhaps he was a little too generous.

"Prince Mingyu," Queen Consort Hyeyoung calls to him. "What do you plan to do today?"

Before he even has the chance to open his mouth to respond, Mingyu feels a shift in the air, something odd that makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. And before he even has the chance to even furrow his brow in suspicion, it happens.

The sound of shattering glass pierces the air, followed by a soft thud. The razor sharp tip of an arrow impales an orange perched precariously at the top of the fruit bowl, sending it flying off the edge of the table. Mingyu tracks it with his eyes as it rolls in a wobbly line to stop at Wonwoo's feet. A note written in black ink is tied to the shaft of the arrow like a mockery of a white flag.

A violent chill races down Mingyu's spine when he realises that the arrow had flown straight through the space between his and Seungcheol's heads. There had barely been a beat between the moment that he'd felt it twist the palace magic and the point of impact. He would've been dead before his mind even processed the window shattering.

After the last shards of glass have settled, the dining hall is silent. No one dares to move an inch, all eyes glued to the arrow which interrupted their morning meal. Slowly, carefully, with tension lining his body, Wonwoo leans down to pluck the arrow free and straighten out the message. Mingyu can see that his jaw is clenched, his knuckles pale with the intensity of his grip.

"I will come for what I am owed," Wonwoo reads out in a grim tone. His eyes flicker to Mingyu, then Seungcheol.

A murmur erupts throughout the room, pulsing in waves of concern. To their credit, none of the staff panic or dissolve into hysterics, though the palpable tension sits heavily on Mingyu's shoulders. He shares a sideways glance with Seungcheol as Queen Consort Hyeyoung says in a dangerously calm and even tone, "A perimeter search, if you will, Captain Jeon."

Wonwoo strides out of the room with a curt nod, still clutching the arrow in his hand. The remaining guards band closer towards the three of them left sitting frozen at the table. It makes Mingyu's chest constrict with snake-like fear, the kind that suffocates hope. Such a blatant threat, a direct attack. Mingyu and Seungcheol aren't the only ones left of the royal bloodline but they're certainly aware now of the bright red targets stamped upon their backs.

Queen Consort Hyeyoung clears her throat pointedly, and the maids, startled into action, bustle about using spells to gather the broken glass shards and dispose of them safely. A shield is put up across the empty frame in the meantime. The arrow must've been enchanted to break the protection on the window, powerful magic to counter the intensive safety measures woven into every single brick of the palace. It will take some time before a replacement is ready.

"Who would dare do something as bold as this?" Seungcheol asks in a low voice as Queen Consort Hyeyoung speaks to the guards. There's something almost like incredulity in his tone.

"I don't think they were acting alone," Mingyu murmurs back.

"Sounds like it has something to do with Father."

All this talk of an assassination plot has sapped Mingyu of his good mood, filling him with anxiety instead. But still he wonders, why? Whoever it was had both the resources and the opportunity to kill either of them in that moment, perhaps even both. So why go to the trouble of revealing themselves and their intentions in such a brazen manner?

Mingyu casts his gaze down at his half-eaten roll, regretful now that his appetite has entirely vanished. The honey has soaked into the bread and formed a golden sheen, but not even that enticing colour is enough to assuage the sick feeling in his stomach. He nudges the plate away with some reluctance.

"As I was saying," Queen Consort Hyeyoung begins in a slightly tense tone. "Prince Mingyu, what are your plans for the day?"

"I was... actually hoping to visit the city centre."

"Absolutely not."

Mingyu cannot say he wasn't expecting to get shot down immediately, but it does nothing to quell his disappointment. His dismay only deepens when Queen Consort Hyeyoung contemplates a total lockdown of the palace until the threat has been eliminated. If there's one thing he hates, it's being confined. The urge to protest is too compelling to push aside.

"My lady, we're playing right into their hands. Whoever was behind his, they want to create fear-"

"Prince Mingyu. Your safety is no trivial matter."

"I refuse to be afraid," Mingyu insists, all too aware of how stubborn he sounds, how he's playing a dangerous game with the line that marks defiance. "I will not stay shut up in the palace and wait for someone to kill me."

The warning Seungcheol gives him in the form of a kick under the table reminds him to keep his tongue in check, though he doesn't pay it much mind after that. He's not ready to back down on this just yet. Queen Consort Hyeyoung shows no indication of her thoughts except for a slight, almost imperceptible, flaring of her nostrils.

"Very well," she begins in a steely tone. "I don't doubt that you can take care of yourself, Prince Mingyu. But Captain Jeon will accompany you at all times, and I want a tracking spell bound to you."

Dissatisfied with these conditions, Mingyu clenches his jaw. He loathes the thought of being monitored at every step, but he recognises the immense leniency Queen Consort Hyeyoung is showing in allowing him out of the palace in the first place.

"Of course, my lady," Mingyu concedes quietly as he bows his head in respect. He's given a sunset curfew which he agrees to without any resistance; the idea of being out at night with a potential assassin in their midst is none too appealing. At that moment, Wonwoo returns with a steely expression.

"We weren't able to find anyone, Your Majesty," he reports, his deep voice tinged with frustration. "But we did catch a faint trace of magic. I've got someone looking into it."

"Thank you, Captain Jeon. I trust you will keep me informed. In the meantime, please accompany Prince Mingyu during his visit to the city centre."

The incredulous look that crosses over Wonwoo's face would be amusing if not for the tension still throttling the room.

"I'm beginning to get the impression that you are quite stubborn, Prince Mingyu," Wonwoo remarks dryly, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. "Foolishly so, one might even say."

Mingyu raises an eyebrow, but otherwise remains unaffected by the obvious bait.

"Think what you like about me, Captain Jeon," he shrugs even as the urge to retort does a tantalising dance at the forefront of his thoughts. He shoulders his satchel and sets off down the corridor without waiting for Wonwoo. The way that Wonwoo falls smoothly into step right beside him is something Mingyu will have to get used to.

"All I'm saying is that I don't think it's very wise for future King Mingyu to be so insistent on leaving the palace, especially when someone wants you dead."

"There won't be a problem as long as you do your job," Mingyu replies airily, shooting a sly sideways glance at Wonwoo. "Are you implying that you're incompetent, Captain Jeon?"

The sight of Wonwoo's face scrunching into a scowl might be the most satisfying thing Mingyu's seen all morning.

"Let me make this clear, I am your guard, not your mother-" Wonwoo begins in an irritated tone, but Mingyu stops walking and effectively cuts him off.

With narrowed eyes, Mingyu says, "I'd watch my tongue if I were you, Captain Jeon. I may tolerate the less than appropriate way you speak to me, but others certainly will not."

There is a moment in which Wonwoo holds his gaze firmly, expression unreadable. It's rather tense, and Mingyu finds himself unable to look away from those sharp eyes. Then, Wonwoo seems to relax a little.

"My apologies, Your Highness. I misspoke," he murmurs, and though Mingyu doubts its sincerity, it's better than nothing.

#yan writes #snippets #long post #minwon #seventeen fic

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sugoi-and-spice · 1 year

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Hey Friendos, you can probably tell from my occasional reblogging that I'm not dead, but I'm sure you're also wondering what's up with the lack of updates lately. Don't fret or anything, Play Nice and all my WIPs are far from abandoned, it's just that May through now has been a really fucking tough couple of months for me.

Aside from the usual work craziness and AnimeExpo prep - I've been dealing with a lot of family issues. My Mom and I are practically no contact now, we've gotten in so many screaming matches, and my Dad has recently gone off the grid and we think that he's relapsed into drugs (after I lent him $2,000 no less).

It's just been a lot to deal with after I get out of my full-time job and I've gotten sick twice in that time, so I just really haven't had the mental strength to work on fanfiction as of late. I know I need to just push myself and fucking do it -- writing typically helps me feel better, especially when I'm able to process my own personal experiences through my AU's like Play Nice and Burnt Bridges -- but god, it can be really hard to rip that band-aid off and sit still in front of the computer when I'm worrying about where my Dad is sleeping right now and trying to figure out where he might've gone next.

So again, very sorry. I'll probably delete this in a couple of days since I don't love to post vent posts like this, but I have been getting a few "where's the new chapter" messages lately, and figured I owed you guys a bit of an explanation.

Lots of love.

-Spice

#spice chats #tw drugs

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sapphirehazardous · 1 year

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This is a short story that I put in my school’s literary magazine, titled “Kira’s Dream”, and I figured I’d dump it here. It’s a snippet from one of my WIPs, working title Hiraeth. It’s about a hardened woman in a post-Apocalyptic world becoming the caretaker to an eleven-year-old girl with amnesia— whose only remaining memories are scarily reminiscent of a time long, long before her own.

Fluorescent lights, white walls, brunette woman with big, round glasses.

Running. I was running through the spotless white halls, the tile floor squeaking under my feet. The florescent light was almost blinding, the light flickering. At the end of the hallway, stood the brunette woman with big, circular glasses. I ran into her arms.

I woke up.

Dang it.

I tried, desperately, to hold onto the dream. I couldn't let it slip away. Not something like this. I repeated the details over and over again in my head, as to not let them fade away.

Fluorescent lights, white walls, brunette woman with big, round glasses.

Florescent lights, white walls, woman with round glasses.

Florescent lights, white walls, woman... what did the woman look like again? Was her hair blonde, ginger, black? What shape were her glasses? I could have sworn they were square...

...

Who was I running to?

I smacked my head. The dream was gone. I had forgotten it. Again.

Forgetting. It seemed it was all I was good at. Some days ago, Artemis (or Art, as I called her) found me encased in some sort of vessel. I had no recollection of my past, nor who my parents were, nor where I came from. Art helped, albeit reluctantly; she clothed me, fed me, taught me the ways of the world I had awoken into. But she couldn’t help me get my memories back.

I sat up, scrubbed my face. The sun was just rising over the horizon, bathing the landscape in a dusty yellow hue. It poured through the large, broken window of the abandoned building we had taken shelter in. I looked over at Art, who was sprawled out on the open floor, her tanned, scarred skin slowly illuminating under the early morning light. She only had one sleeping bag in her possession, which she had given to me, so she had to use her backpack as a pillow and her jacket a blanket. It didn’t look all that comfortable, but she was snoring, so she must have been in a deep sleep regardless.

Art treated me kindly, but I think she really only tolerated me. Perhaps because she pitied me, or felt some sense of responsibility after having found me. But that would soon change. Yesterday, she told me she was bringing me to a commune (one of the few semblances of civilization there was left in this world), so that they could take care of me instead. Then she could leave me there, go back to her solitary life as normal. Free of me.

I shook my head and laid back down, drawing the blanket up to my chin. Maybe I could get in another hour or so of shut eye before Art uprooted my (albeit, very brief) life. I stared at the ceiling, studying every crack and dent and skittering bug. There was a rectangular slab of glass on the ceiling, surrounded by ivy. Inside of it was a long, thick white tube. It was a light. Or rather, what was left of a light, now busted and defunct.

Wait.

Light.

Fluorescent light.

That was the exact light from my dream.

I shot upright and looked around, the desecrated room starting to become all-too familiar. Memories of the dream came flooding back. Fluorescent lights. White walls.

Unable to contain my growing curiosity, I got up to examine the room further. Plants grew through the cracks in the floor, the ceiling, the walls, everywhere. Nature had surely reclaimed the building since it fell. The walls weren’t white anymore, instead a faded, yellow-ish cream. I ripped off a strip of peeling paint, revealing a bone-white layer underneath.

For the last piece of damning evidence, I crept further toward the back of the room, finding an archway with a staircase. They didn't even creak as I climbed up, but they looked to be made of a marble-like compound, so that made sense. When I reached the top, I saw it.

The long corridor I had been running through in my dream.

It didn’t come as that much of a surprise; dreaming about the place one fell asleep in was probably normal. But why was everything perfectly pristine in my dream? Why were the lights working as if this place wasn’t abandoned? Why weren’t the walls cracked, filthy, dilapidated, as they were now?

And who was that woman, not standing at the other end of the corridor now?

Perhaps my dream took place before the city fell, but if so, how did I know what anything looked like back then?

Was it… a memory?

“Up already?” I heard from behind me. I whipped around and saw Art, just now waking up. She sat up and stretched.

"Couldn't fall back asleep.”

“Mmm.” Art grumbled in response, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She was not a morning person.

“Hey, Art. I think I finally remembered something.”

That woke her up. Her ears practically perked up like a dog. “Really? What?”

“Well, it’s not really a memory. It was a dream. A dream about a memory, I think. But it doesn’t make much sense.”

“Do tell.”

“It was about this place. That hallway,"I pointed. "But it was different in my dream. It was nice and clean, like how it probably looked before it fell, I think. The lights were on and everything. And there was this woman, I can’t remember what she looked like, but I feel like she was important.”

Art looked as if she were listening to the ranting of a madman, but she didn’t interrupt me.

“Do you think maybe I lived here before the city fell? Maybe that’s why you found me here. What caused it to fall, anyway? Was there Earthquake or something?”

“Those are a lot of questions I do not know the answer to.” Art stood up, shrugging on her jacket. “But I do know that this city has been in ruins for over a hundred years. No way you could have seen it in its glory days in your lifetime. Sorry, kid. It was just a dream.”

Just a dream. My heart sank at the thought, but I knew she was right. It was just a dream. Perhaps I just had an overactive imagination– it’s not like I would know. Ever since I woke up, I wasn’t sure who I was, nor who I was supposed to be.

Well, I was back to square one again. No memories, no leads, no nothing.

“Yes, you’re right. It was... just a dream. Sorry for getting both our hopes up.”

“Don’t apologize, kid. The people at the commune can probably help you get your memories back. Better than I ever could, anyway.” Art rummaged through her bag, then abruptly threw a jacket at my face. “Speaking of, put this on. We should get ready to leave.”

“Leave? Already?” I shucked the jacket on, finding it way too big for me. It must have been one of hers.

“Yeah, already. The journey’s gonna take a few days. Best to leave soon as possible.”

She wants to get rid of me as soon as possible. The thought invaded my mind before I could stop it. I couldn’t help but look hurt.

Art’s face softened just a little.

“Listen, kid. I’d keep you with me if I could. I’m just…” Art faltered, a sudden, pained expression on her face. She swallowed, and turned away. “I’m not cut out for this sort of thing. You will be better taken care of there. It’s for your own good. Okay?”

“Okay,” I muttered.

Art cuffed my sleeves for me and put my purple hair into a ponytail. She gave me a bandanna to wear over my face in case we came across somewhere particularly polluted, which, according to her, was most places on this land. After gathering all of her belongings into her singular backpack, she slung it over her shoulder and turned to me.

“Ready to go?” She asked, extending out a gloved hand.

“I guess.” I took her hand and let her lead me out of the threshold. I took one last look at the room, the memory of the strange dream fading away by the minute.

“Goodbye,” I whispered to the building. And with that, we left.

#short story #writeblr #original wip #original writing #original chatacter #found family #grumpy guardian and plucky young protagonist trope #it’s my fav I can’t resist

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catflowerqueen · 2 years

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Among my various other WIPs (and actual papers I have to write for finals), I am now seriously considering doing a “Moon’s consciousness gets lost among the security cams” fic. I even spent most of my downtime at work today outlining exactly how Moon would have gotten to that state and where and when the others would have found his body, as well as some of the early hints he’d start getting as to the fact that he was more than just a camera.

Some of those (spoilery) thoughts include:

-Moon can sort of inhabit two cameras at once, but one of those “cameras” is actually his body—he was designed to be able to split his consciousness like that so that he could retain awareness of his surroundings if he was in pursuit of an invader and having to follow their own movements with the other cameras while he was en route—meaning that he would start to wonder about why he had such a connection to this specific animatronic, especially when he can’t access the “cameras” (i.e, eyes) of any of the other ones.

-Moon would actually be watching the moment where the others found his body (which he’d stashed in one of the ill-used service tunnels, along with a charger), and while they—unaware he was watching—were discussing quietly among themselves about what they should do, he would be idly wondering whether they came to collect the "abandoned, moon-themed animatronic” for scrap, or perhaps for spare parts for the sun-themed one that came down with them, since they look like they could be similar models. Perhaps even some form of sibling AI. And it’s anyone’s guess if these morbid thoughts are due simply to the fact that Moon is rather divorced from a lot of his emotions at this point in time, or if it is some remnant of self-loathing poking through. Not that anyone else is actually aware of this.

-This actually is probably not the first time Moon has gotten lost in the cameras, because I can see a similar thing happening when he was first learning how to use them. This would lead to Sun having a lot more optimism about what is going on, since he and Freddy know how to fix this, having done it last time. It won’t be until later on, when he’s pieced more of the clues together about what led Moon to this state—as well as found out that Freddy legitimately doesn’t remember having helped Moon out that way before—where he starts to dip into the same worry and thoughts that the others had from the beginning that maybe Moon is just staying away deliberately, and that if he truly was lost, then it was by choice. (Which is not entirely true, but also not entirely false? He was staying in the cameras deliberately, yes, but he didn’t actually intend to lose himself in them to the extent that he did)

-Moon is actually really good at sewing—its something he could do during the day to fix toys and things and help keep the daycare running while Sun was in charge of the main area, and it was a quiet enough activity that he could continue doing it during naptime while the kids were sleeping. This means Sun would go to him a lot to fix his own well-loved toys and plushies. And that’s actually why Sun would go looking for Moon in the first place—one of his favorite plushies mysteriously had its head ripped off, and all his attempts to fix it (and then to find a temporary replacement) failed, so he was seeking Moon for help with that. And then happened upon a few disturbing clues that lead to the realization no one had seen Moon in person for quite some time, even though the security reports were still getting done…

-Probably would call it something like “I (Don’t) See the Moon, and the Moon Sees Me.” Unless I wanted to be more vague about what was going on.

#i (don't) see the moon #fnaf security breach #fanfiction #writing #my wriitng

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zu-is-here · 2 years

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Me: Is now imagining both Nightmare & Shattered Dream in pirate outfits (bonus if they're wearing high heel boots) Me: 😳😩👌

(that type of rivals who prefer a verbal combat to a real fight... until a critical hit—)

#zu art #pirates au #shattered dream #dream!sans #nightmare!sans #passive!nightmare #choose your fighter aye xp #look what you've done to me anon LOOK AT EM #I already have the whole story in my head just because of one drawing #watch me ripping it off my heart and abandoning it for my wips #(thank you for the opportunity and inspiration <3)#*looks at another pirate au respectfully*#ok time to sleep :D #undertale #undertale au #utmv

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shidoukanae · 3 years

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This is from a Volo-centric WIP I abandoned because I realized I don’t know enough about Volo’s character from the two scenes we see of him to write anything that is remotely cohesive.

Regardless, I like how this reads even if it’s clunky so here is a WIP Volo-centric fanfic chock full of ideas I doubt are in the actual game lol:

~~ ~~ ~~

There is a void in his mind. It is dark and empty, like a rotting abyss of things better left unsaid. There is no light to this place, nor is there truly any darkness. Instead there is only a knowing, one that burrows deep into his bones as he travels through this lonely place, arms cradling his body and a chill permeating his skin.

Volo has visited this place many times before. Has felt its strangeness in a way he’s felt nothing else. He is welcome here, but also an intruder. Though he knows himself as a guest to this place, one brought here by his own mind’s eye, he also realizes that the place he treads is sacred, like the stomping grounds for Noble Pokemon.

It is hard to explain this place. There is nothing to explain, and yet it exists all at once: a plane of emptiness that exists on the cusp of nowhere yet somewhere still. All he knows is that he must keep walking forward. If he doesn’t, he’ll feel those eyes upon him. He’ll feel the phantom breath of a ghost on his neck, see the glistening of a shadow just out of view, and then he’ll be wrapped in inky blackness, dragged into misery and torment long before he can awaken.

Step, step, step. He continues moving forward, approaching an end that is never coming. As he does so, a curious sight begins to manifest. Shapes formed from misty light emerge from the nothingness, screaming with a cry that goes beyond anything he’s ever heard before. Step, step, step. The beings move in a way that is incomprehensible, tossing and turning, contorting and writhing, and all he can think to do is keep his head down as he moves forward, knowing better than to look directly at them. Something glistens in front of him. He hears the echo of footsteps beside him, feels the touch of skin upon his own, as if he is accompanied by more than just himself. However, he cannot see them, nor can he dare to look at them. They are just mirages in this place, mere figments of his imagination meant to taunt him. He must not look at them. For, if he does, he’ll be dragged down with them, caught in the turmoil of the beasts shrieking before him. Blue and pink and yellow blink in his vision, swirling with desperation, as if calling to him. Some part of him yearns to heed the call of the colors, to turn his gaze up and to witness the spectacle taking place before him. But he keeps his head turned to the floor of this nothingness, expecting nothing more than to keep trekking forward. Step, step, ste- ~~~ Volo is tired of waking up fatigued as hell and tormented by incomprehension. It’s been five years since he’s immigrated to Hisui from his own region back home and five years still he’s found no answers to his problems. The dreams that haunt him continue to do so, plaguing his every dreaming moment to the point he’s certain it’s only a matter of time before he goes insane. Ginter doesn’t seem to appreciate his pouting, however. The man has already entered his tent without permission, staring down at the man with arms crossed and an expression that says he’s not ready to take any excuse Volo gives him. “You’re supposed to be guarding the camp today,” Ginter tells him. “Why are you still sleeping?” He rubs his eyes. Yawns. And then nestles back into his covers, Ginter be damned. “I don’t think you can consider my dreams sleep.” Ginter gives an aggravated sigh and Volo is not in the least surprised by the way the older man rips off his blankets and practically shoves him out of bed. It’s expected by now, but it doesn’t mean he hast to like it. He grumbles loudly, reluctantly coming to a stand as he dusts off his night clothes and gives the man a tired stare. “Oh come on now. You know what it’s like for me.” “With that attitude, you’ll never get an audience with Lady Cresselia,” Ginter tells him firmly. “You know she only-” “Appears before those who are good in heart and deed,” he finishes with a sigh, fingers combing through his already messy hair. “Yeah, yeah. We all know the legend. I don’t need reminding for how unfit I am for her, thank you very much.” The older man shakes his head, pats Volo’s shoulder, and then clutches it firmly. “Darkrai’s curse will stay with you for as long as Cresselia deems it. Unless you earn her mercy, she will not spread her wings for you.” He nods. He’s heard this talk so many times before and yet even still Ginter tells him about it. Volo knows the man he knows as his leader means well. But, that doesn’t mean he wants to be reminded of his own inadequacies in being unfit to meet the deity who can cure him of his troubles. “We’re heading to Jubilife Village tomorrow,” Ginter tells him. “When we get there, maybe we can ask the locals if they’ve sighted Her.” “You say that like we have a lead. We never have a lead.” “Cresselia is a flighty goddess. You never know where she might visit yet.” Volo once again nods, not wanting to argue any further. He’s tired and he’s got a patrol to do, he doesn’t need this nonsense. Ginter frowns at him, as if sensing his argumentative spirit, before the older man simply beckons him to the world outside. Volo obliges, leaving the tent. Jubilife Village, he thinks with a puff of misty air leaving his mouth. A shiver wracks his body: it’s much colder outside the tent. “There’s no way I’ll learn anything about her there,” he muses, knowing it to be the truth. After all, the goddess hasn’t been sighted for ten years now, not since Ginter last laid eyes on her in the glory of the golden plains of Eastern Hisui. He’s not likely to learn anything new about her now. ~~~ Well, as it turns out, Volo is completely and utterly wrong. According to Akari, one of the researchers under the control of the Galaxy Team, there’s been reports of a mysterious creature who fits Cresselia’s description. The reports are flimsy and vague, mostly suggesting that the goddess appears on nights of the full moon bathing in the waters of the nearby shores, and Volo knows he has to see her for himself. At first, he plans to approach the place of the hauntings by himself, calling upon his Rapidash to carry him to the destination. However, when he finds himself blocked by the advances of a herd of Wydeer, he finds himself helped by Rei, Akari’s traveling companion. The two of them approach the lake in question, curious to sight the legendary Pokemon for themselves. However, what Volo sees is something else entirely. From the waters of the shore they tread upon, a small creature the size of a Hisuian Growlithe emerges. It is a strange gray creature with a red gemstone glowing from its forehead. Twin tails fluttering behind it while eyes that seem to be snapped shut gaze upon them in a way that should be impossible. The creature looks upon Volo and he looks upon it. It’s beautiful yellow feathers glisten with water, glittering under the light of the moon, before it vanishes back into the water, melting into it like a Vaporeon as its disappearance leaves nary a ripple on the lake’s surface. Rei is impressed and beyond excited at their find. A new Pokemon, a new friend to capture. Volo, on the other hand, is stung by the disappointment of his high expectations. Lady Cresselia is not here and nor is his hope at a panacea for all his miseries. ~~~ The Pearl and Diamond Clans are fighting again. Somehow, his guild is caught up in this. The Ginkgo Guild is taking sides, sympathizing with one clan over the other and drawing the ire of their peers. While most of the guild is made of immigrants, a few have come from the snowy city of the Pearl Clan and others from the balmy seaside of the Diamond Clan. And each are stubbornly true to the ideals from their homeland, as argumentative as starving Starly’s every day and every night. Frankly, Volo doesn’t get the whole dispute. Each clan has territory of their own to lord over. Each clan has ideals that stick to that territory. Unlike his guild, who cares for little else but the information they can buy and the wares they can sell, the clans are confined to their arbitrary ideals, stuck in the lore of their land and people in a fit of desperation. Rei and Akari, the two trainers with whom he seems to cross paths with often (and whom he teases with the doting adoration of his own fervent curiosity), have been pulled into this fighting, picking sides of their own. Rei believes firmly in the ideals of the Diamond Clan, valuing the time he has left to live after a close encounter with Lord Kleavor. Akari, on the other hand, believes in the respecting of the land that has given her the blessing to savor the sights of a world that has yet to change any further. And Volo, who is fond of them both, can do nothing but nod his head to their ambitions, careless to their beliefs but respecting of their decisions.

#volo pokemon #volo #pokemon #pokemon legends arceus #Ginter #fanfic #i am very tired #when the game comes out and if Volo is Very Important to the story I will def write a better piece about him lol #but until then i've realizes any speculative fic I write sounds like it's coming from nowhere so fghjgfhj rip to my dreams of writing PLA #speculative fanfic centered around best boi Volo #*realized godammit

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thepartyresponsible · 3 years

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For the wip ask (they all sound very interesting ngl it was hard to pick just one!) LostSteve

lost steve! yeah, so. what if shield defrosted captain america, and he broke out and just...kept running? what if they lost him? what if he ended up hiding out in tony’s tower, away from the fight for long enough to get his feet underneath him?

this fic is mostly about steve and tony finding each other first, so they can form the heart of the avengers, instead of the fault line that splits the team in half. here’s the first part of it.

—

There’s an alert from Nick Fury that Tony chooses to ignore, for the sake of his convenience and Fury’s ongoing character growth. JARVIS announces its arrival and then diligently reminds Tony about the message twice before Tony tells him to mute it until morning.

“If it’s really that important,” he says, “they’ll just send someone to break in anyway.”

Which is why, on some level, he’s not at all surprised to find a man sitting on a couch in his penthouse twenty-seven hours later. He will admit to being caught somewhat off-guard by the specifics of the situation, though, because Steve Rogers has been dead for longer than Tony’s been alive.

“Zombie?” Tony asks. “Hallucination? Oh, clone? Are you a clone?”

Steve Rogers looks at him the way people look at wax sculptures. Like he’s interested in the details of the creation in front of him, but doesn’t believe for a second that what he’s looking at is real. “Mr. Stark,” he says, politely. His voice is deeper than Tony would’ve guessed.

“Robot,” Tony theorizes. “Sexbot? Updated Trojan Horse? If I let you inside me, are you gonna--”

The man’s brow furrows, and his mouth twists down, and his eyes are too sad for circuitry. No one would code that kind of grief.

Tony pauses for a moment, rocks forward onto the balls of his feet and then back onto his heels. He studies this intruder carefully. Someone sent him a Steve Rogers lookalike in a white t-shirt and stained khakis. He’s hale and healthy, built like a god, but his feet are bare and dirty.

Bloody, too. There are bloody footprints on the carpet.

“Wait,” Tony says. “Wait. Who the hell are you?”

There’s a long beat of silence. The man on his couch just stares at him, eyes tracing over Tony’s face, his shoulders, looking at him like he’s starving for something. He’s quiet and small, somehow, in a way that doesn’t relate at all to the amount of space his body takes up.

And then he stands, light and graceful on his bloody feet. His jaw tightens, and his shoulders pull up, and he’s an American Hero, suddenly and decisively, like he’s made some kind of choice about it.

“Mr. Stark,” he says, again, “I’m Captain America.”

And he is, Tony thinks. The same way that he’s Iron Man. Because once you put on that kind of armor, whatever else you used to be is irrelevant.

—

He’s Captain America, and he’s back from the dead. SHIELD had him and lost him, and Nick Fury wants Tony to go looking for him. That’s the message he left with JARVIS over a day ago. And Tony can’t imagine he was the first name on their list, which means Steve Rogers has been alone in the wrong century for an unknown but considerable amount of time.

“Hey,” he says, calling out from where he’s slouched against the kitchen island, watching Captain America dutifully eat through every scrap of leftovers Tony had in the fridge. “How long have you been here?”

“I was born here,” he says, through a mouthful of fried rice that he hides behind a napkin. He chews, swallows, and jabs his fork over Tony’s shoulder. “In Brooklyn.”

Tony knew that. Of course he knew that. He memorized everything about Steve Rogers back when he thought he could become enough like him to make Howard consider him worthwhile. “No, I mean,” he says, waving his hands, “in this century. How long have you been--- Jesus. I dunno. Awake? Aware? Unfrosted flakes?”

Steve blinks at him. He stares for a second and then ducks his head, stirs his fork through the open takeout box in front of him. “Spent a couple days,” he says. “Looking around.”

Looking around. Steve Rogers, unwitting time-traveler, barefoot in New York. What had he been looking for? Why did he come here?

“Why didn’t you get any shoes?” Tony asks, instead of any of the more complicated questions.

Steve tucks his feet under his chair. He washed them half an hour or so back, walking uneasily into the bathroom Tony showed him and then locking the door behind him, like he thought Tony was some kind of pervert who would bodyslam through the door to catch a glimpse of him sudsing up his bare ankles.

“Didn’t have any money,” he says, surprisingly mulish about it.

“You couldn’t smash and grab a pair of Sketchers?” Tony shakes his head. “If you get lockjaw, you’re gonna have to tell Fury you caught it from somewhere else. Fuck’s sake, when was your last tetanus booster? 1943?”

He shrugs. He doesn’t seem concerned. He’s busy eating his way through enough calories to keep your average winter-starved grizzly happy.

It’s hungry work, coming back from the dead. Tony remembers the unholy things he would’ve done for a cheeseburger.

“Didn’t have any money,” he repeats, scraping his fork around the sides of the takeout box, diligent and serious, like it’s the very last scrap of food he’ll ever get.

Tony clears his throat, hip-checks the counter to heave himself to standing. “I’ll get you some cash.”

—

There’s a weird moment, when Tony gives him the money. It’s just a few hundred dollars. He’s not Tony’s problem, not his project raised from the dead, but he still doesn’t want to give Steve Rogers the means to get himself truly lost in a world he doesn’t know.

Five hundred dollars will get him some food and somewhere to sleep for a few days, but it won’t get him far enough out of SHIELD’s orbit to get himself in trouble.

He looks up when Tony gets close. There’s a well-worn wariness in his eyes. He watches him the way a dog from a bad home might watch him through the bars of the shelter’s kennel. Resigned instead of hopeful, like he knows how this goes, like he knows he can survive it.

“Here,” Tony says. He leaves the money two chairs away from him, within easy grabbing distance. “And I have shoes your size, if you want to borrow them.”

“I don’t need that,” Rogers says, pointing at the money.

Tony lets his mouth tip up sideways, smirks like this is the part of the whole situation he finds truly unbelievable. “You’re going to come into my house,” he says, “uninvited, unannounced, and then you’re going to refuse to accept my hospitality? Rogers, what would your mother think?”

There’s a stall point in Roger’s stare, like watching a bird fly into a window. There’s a moment, right around the word mother, when those blue eyes blank out, and Tony’s just staring into empty space.

“She didn’t,” he says, and it’s fascinating. He’s stitching himself up right here at Tony’s dining table. Tony can practically see it happening, vertebrae stacking up, pulling him taunt like a needle tugging on a thread. “She never liked charity.”

Tony is familiar with pride. He has something of an overabundance himself, although he comes by it honestly. He knows hurt pride hates an audience, so he looks away.

“I imagine she hated the idea of you starving, too,” Tony says. “Probably worked very hard to make sure that didn’t happen. Going to waste all her work now, Rogers? Seems ungrateful.”

He’s half-taunting by the end of it. He’s not sure why. He finds weak points like a magnet finds iron. Sometimes he doesn’t even know what he’s pulling on until after he’s accidentally ripped out someone’s heart. It’s not one of the traits he’s proud of, but, like his pride, he knows where it came from.

Rogers glares at him, but he hooks the next takeout container over anyway.

“I’ll get those shoes,” Tony says. JARVIS has already measured; Rhodey left some boots that should fit.

Steve doesn’t say anything, but, when Tony comes back, the money is gone, and so is he.

—

Tony doesn’t tell Fury a damn thing. If Fury lost a national icon, that’s his problem. And anyway, Tony’s still not completely convinced that the blonde who materialized in his penthouse was actually Steve Rogers and not some kind of really confused, really well-built homeless man. Or a stripper.

Tony’s never actually met a stripper who showed up in khakis, refused to disrobe, and then ate ten pounds of takeout before silently disappearing, but he’d be willing to pay another five hundred dollars for a repeat performance.

He figures out how the maybe-Steve got into his penthouse. He upgrades the security, but he tells JARVIS to let him in if he ever comes back. He’s not sure what he’s hoping for, but he’s too curious to lock him out.

—

There’s a bit of nothing that kicks off in New York, some Hammer tech that goes haywire. Tony puts it down like the cheap knockoff that it is, but he gets stuck in debrief with Phil Coulson afterwards, because he’s not quite quick enough to abandon the scene after the fight’s over. In his defense, he was holding a car above a partially-trapped bicyclist, and Coulson caught him before the EMTs could finish disentangling her.

He makes it back to the Tower after an hour of mostly-wasted time. Steve Rogers is sitting at his dining table. Tony bites back the ludicrous urge to “honey, I’m home!” him.

“Hey,” he says instead, as he steps in from the balcony, stripped down to the skintight suit he wears under the armor. He didn’t expect company. “You get something to eat?”

Steve seems somehow offended by the question. “I didn’t break in here and steal anything,” he says.

“Okay,” Tony says, moving past him. “Well, that’s a gold star and an empty stomach for you, Rogers. We’re all very proud.”

“It’s not my food,” Steve tells him. If he had hackles, they’d be raised. Tony wants to pat him on the head, but only because he’s always had a sort of neurotic tendency to see how hard people bite before he decides whether to trust them.

“Yeah, and a twenty-dollar grocery bill is really gonna break me,” Tony says. He takes a smoothie out of the freezer. “You want pizza? I’m gonna order pizza.”

Steve stares at him for a long moment before he shrugs. “I could eat,” he says.

“Great,” Tony says. He has JARVIS order three pizzas, because he wants at least half of one for himself, and Steve Rogers is a human garbage disposal.

Steve takes a shower while they’re waiting. He asks first, which Tony supposes is the polite thing to do, and he takes his backpack with him, like he’s worried Tony’s going to steal his wallet.

“You know,” Tony says, when Steve remerges, wearing another knockout set of some grandpa’s Goodwill khakis and button-down shirt, “you keep showing up like this, and it’s gonna get harder for me to lie to Fury about having no idea where you are.”

Steve flips open a pizza box and carefully selects a slice. His hair is wet and neatly combed back from his face. He’s handsome from a distance but damn near devastating at close range. Tony takes another bite of pizza, hopes it’ll help swallow back the urge to sink a few grand into war bonds.

“Fury’s the guy with the eyepatch?” Steve doesn’t settle into a seat. He takes his pizza and wanders over to the window, stares out at the skyline.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Tony says.

Steve makes a face. Tony can see it, dulled and faded, in the reflection on the glass. “He’s persistent,” he says, slowly. Not like it’s a compliment.

“Yeah,” Tony says, again, “that’s him.”

Steve doesn’t say anything else. Tony finishes his slice of pizza, eats another one. There’s an ache in his right shoulder from being wrenched around by Hammer’s ridiculous creation, and he should be icing it, but he doesn’t want to. Not with Steve Rogers here.

He’s never liked looking human in front of an audience. His problem has always been that he couldn’t figure out how to stop. At least, not until he built his armor.

Steve comes back when he’s out of pizza. He’s catlike in his wariness, in the way he seems pissed at Tony for daring to exist in his proximity.

“That fight,” he says, apropos of approximately nothing at all. “Earlier.”

“Oh,” Tony says, rising out of his chair and moving toward the bar, giving Steve the room to loom over the pizza like he’s defending his kill. “You see that on the news?”

“Saw it on the street,” Steve says. “Heard the screams.”

Heard the screams and came running. So he’s still in the hero business. Fury will be happy to hear it.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” Steve tells him. He sounds angry about it. At Tony, not the situation. “Where’s your backup?”

“Backup,” Tony repeats. “Cap, c’mon. Read a newspaper. I work alone.”

Steve Rogers looks up from his pizza perusal just long enough to roll his eyes. It should feel like a slap across the face, and maybe it does. However it feels, Tony likes it. Wants more of it. There’s always been something grounding in being dismissed, like Tony’s never known where he stands until someone shows him how he doesn’t measure up.

“Is that supposed to be impressive?” Steve asks. “Men who work alone die alone, Stark. And they’re not very effective when they do.”

Tony knows he’s meant to be offended. He is, probably. But he couldn’t bite back his smile for anything. “I think I liked you better when you called me ‘Mr. Stark.’”

“Seems to me,” Steve says, “you want everyone to call you Iron Man these days.”

“Oh Captain, my Captain,” Tony says, “surely they had that line about glass houses in the ‘40’s?”

Steve frowns at him. “I never asked anyone to call me Captain America.”

“And yet,” Tony says, tipping a bottle of whiskey his direction, “that’s how to introduced yourself to me.”

Steve gives him a look like he thinks Tony’s being deliberately obtuse. “That’s who I am,” he says.

Tony rolls his eyes and flips a tumbler right side up. “But when I start using a stage name,” he says, “suddenly I’m a narcissistic asshole who doesn’t--”

“Do you think,” Steve says, looming up suddenly, shifting gears like something mechanical, going battle-ready with more decisiveness than a faceplate clicking down, “that anybody spent years, spent—I don’t know. Millions of dollars? Do you think anybody did that for Steve Rogers?”

Tony’s caught wrong-footed. He did it again. Drilled until he found the nerve, cut until he broke the skin.

“I think you don’t get one without the other,” Tony says, trying now to soothe. But he’s not very good at it. His instincts don’t run this direction. His whole life, the only things he could ever repair were machines.

Steve shakes his head. He steps away from the pizza. He looks around, eyes zeroing in on his backpack.

“Stay here,” Tony says, sidling out from behind the bar, whiskey now in hand.

Steve straightens up like a cobra, like he’s going to spit venom in Tony’s face. Tony wants to put his mouth on him, which is probably only half because he’s always been hellbent on his own destruction. The other half is that Steve Rogers is beautiful like something made in a lab for aesthetics alone, carefully designed for universal appeal. Tony likes to tell himself he has a taste for the exclusive, but the reality has always been he wants exactly what everyone else does.

“You don’t want SHIELD to find you,” Tony says, “then stay here. Trust me, this is the last place they’d think to look.”

He’s not standing between Steve and the exit. He was careful about that. Whatever SHIELD might think about him, he doesn’t have a death wish. And also, when he’s thinking about it, he’s not usually deliberately an asshole. It’s just that, most of the time, he’s not thinking about it.

“Why should I trust you?” Steve asks.

Tony shrugs. Hell, he has no idea. “Why’d you come here? The first time. When SHIELD lost you, you came here. Why?”

“I went home,” Steve says, argumentative, all squared shoulders and tight jaw. “I went to Brooklyn. But it wasn’t there anymore. None of it was—I couldn’t find…”

He trails off, shakes his head, sharp and agitated, a horse bothered by a fly. It’s hard to look in his eyes. There’s something in them that Tony doesn’t want to see. It’s like watching a statue bleed.

“I heard there was still a Stark in New York,” Steve says. “I read about you. I thought maybe you’d--”

“You thought I’d be like Howard,” Tony finishes for him. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“I thought you’d be like me,” Steve says, which doesn’t make any sense at all.

“You,” Tony says. And then, a little helplessly, “What?”

Steve looks away. He shrugs, looks back. “I saw the suit,” he says. “On the news. I saw what it can do. I didn’t think--- things have advanced a lot. I didn’t understand. I thought Howard had…”

Tony squints at him. “You thought Howard did a Rebirth redux and tested it on his kid?”

“I thought a lot of things,” Steve says, snappy. “It was a very confusing couple of days.”

Tony can imagine that it was. “So you thought I was Rebirthed, and you wanted--”

“I didn’t want anything,” Steve says, and there’s that flash of exposed nerve again, that look like a sinkhole in the backs of his eyes. “That’s not the point.”

Tony takes a sip of his whiskey. It settles, warm and sweet, into his stomach.

I didn’t want anything.

I shouldn’t be alive, unless it’s for a reason.

Tony holds the tumbler out. Steve needs the warmth more than he does. “Here,” he says.

Steve takes it, seemingly on reflex. “I can’t get drunk,” he says.

“Well,” Tony says, circling back toward the bar, “not with that attitude.”

#writing #fic

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chickwiththepurpleguitar · 3 years

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hmm I think stella is the one I know the least of, tell me about that one?

another creation of @weneedglitter and @sunsetcurvecuddles's that i kinda glommed onto lmao. Started as an aspen st divergence where the boys run away before graduation and end up at school with Julie. Willie finds them homeless and invites them to live in an abandoned movie theater with him (the stella, named after the abandoned movie theater from the thief lord cause i'm a nerd). soft bobex, wiggie, t4t juke, great vibes. lots more to it, but i started briefly writing a sickfic that eventually leads to Plot. snippet below :)

Ask me about my wips!

Mornings for the residents of the Stella are quick and efficient. Willie slips out before sunrise to nab them some breakfast and comes back with pastries and fruits he may or may not have gotten with legal tender. Bobby tucks his lola’s quilt tighter around Alex before heading to his opening shift at Tim’s Grocery across town, letting Willie force something to eat on him before he goes. Alex wakes up to his discordant alarm and packs their makeshift bed into a corner, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, then wakes Luke and Reggie by pounding on the projector room walls.

They gather in the theater proper, lounging across the few seats they haven’t ripped apart for padding, and partake in Willie’s stolen feast. Luke puts music on and hums while he chews. Reggie balances his school books on the back of a seat and does tomorrow’s homework. Alex texts Bobby reminders to take his lunch break and eat, and to wear the sweater Alex put in his bag because the temperatures are supposed to drop below freezing today, and to stop by the school after work so that Alex can meet him under the bleachers during free period.

They don’t talk much, and by 7am, they’re all out of the house, Willie heading off to the Garden Center and Luke, Alex, and Reggie to school, but it’s nice to have a routine again, after so many months of uncertainty.

Autumn was hard enough, keeping everyone fed and warm through the wet days and cold nights, but winter thus far has been downright brutal. Alex has been putting all his energy into making sure Luke and Bobby don’t get sick, because as hard as it was for all of them the last time, at least then they had real houses and their parents’ health insurance. Luke might not survive pneumonia in the Stella if he gets it again. Bobby almost definitely won’t.

It’s only the 15th of December, and Alex has lost so much sleep worrying about how he’s going to get his friends to March that he almost doesn’t notice when he wakes up feeling a little more run-down than usual.

Although, his distraction could easily be blamed on the fact that he wakes up to Luke and Reggie standing over him like the angels of death.

#jatp #julie and the phantoms #no unfinished business

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pastelsandpining · 3 years

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WIP Wednesday

oops, i haven’t done this in a while but here u go

here’s a snippet of a WIP i sort of abandoned but will pick i up again

Link is his name, or maybe that’s always been his name. It doesn’t matter—not in the grand scheme of things. His dearest friend is a classmate, a girl that encompasses everything good and warm and sweet. She is determined, hard working, strong willed, gentle, kind, and beautiful in every meaning of the word. She holds her ground, she defends him, she makes him happy.

She sleeps at a reasonable time. He’s awake until insomniatic hours, carefully carving and painting a statue of her majestic Loftwing. She fusses at him, but it’s worth it to see her and talk to her and be around her. It’s affectionate when he calls her my Zelda, something playful but understanding all the same, and he knows in his heart, without a shadow of a doubt, that he will one day tell her he loves her.

And then she’s gone, ripped from his hands before he can even work up the courage. He all but throws himself off of Skyloft after her, claws at the air—he’ll never let go of the fact that she slipped right through his fingers.

#zelink #skyward sword zelink #skyward zelink #wip wednesday #wip

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impossible-rat-babies · 4 years

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wip wednesday!

@forestcreatures tagged me thank you willow ;--; i’m gonna tag: @trvelyans, @starrypawz, @juniper-tree, @lilas, @heartbrreak, @bellarxse, @zarnekis, @zarneki, @rosykims, @narrativefoiltrope and anyone else! go for it!

i have 2 (two) things!

Another deep drag in and Mason stares down at his hands, thumbholes in the sleeves and he rubs his thumbnail alongside a threadbare line of cloth. Looking at his chest and there would be a bruise there if he were any different—two bruises, actually.

Couldn’t help himself when Pollux rushed out, following behind him all the way to the ramshackle warehouse above. He rounded on him them, a punch to the stomach, enough to push Mason back a half step. Angry words spilling from his lips, tears stinging his waterline, bleeding from his words as he served him his piece.

Asking him if he knew and Mason couldn’t lie—he didn’t *want* to lie and he punched him again. Asking him why he didn’t tell him, why he kept it a secret.

There’s plenty of reasons now, Mason taking another long drag of his cigarette until it singes his fingers and he pauses to soak in the burning pain until it leaves his ears ringing and he shoves the crumpled butt into the tray.

He didn’t want to be the only one to tell him, he didnt think it was right to tell him, Rebecca had the final say on what happened. Half truths and Mason quickly lights another cigarette as his hands shake.

He was scared.

Terrified, actually. He read the report back before—when they all were required to. The heaviness of Farrah’s little “holy shit” was all that was said.

Permanent—there would be no saving him when it finally happened. A ticking time bomb, Nate had described it. A bomb without any numbers of it, Ava had added solemnly. Mason still remembers her pinching her lower lip, turning the problem over and over again in her head.

The gravity was weak then, the idea of that happening rather fucked up, yes, but thankfully one that would happen when the unit was very far away. A mess the Agency would clean up and yes yes it would all be rather tragic the poor human turned into a flesh eating mindless little shriveled supernatural.

other one below the cut bc it’s long bc page breaks rip

The phone suddenly rings again and Pollux heaves a sigh.

“Pollux, leave it they’ll stop after a while.” He grumbles and Pollux rolls his eyes, chin still resting on his chest and after an agonizing thirty seconds the ringing ends and it’s just silent once more.

“See?”

“You say that now but—“

Again, his phone starts to go off and Pollux turns his head to look at the door, untangling his legs from the sheets and he kicks his feet out of them. This has gone on too long and he’ll get a headache at this rate and he’s not about to let that ruin the possibility of sleeping in.

“Pollux...”

Ortega warns, giving Pollux a look and he’ll have to be quick about it. He knows Ortega is quick, but Pollux has always been quicker.

In a flash, he rolls himself off of Ortega and over to the edge of the bed where he quickly he stands, rushing for the door with a laugh.

“Pollux!”

Ortega’s after him and Pollux rushes down the hallway, feet skidding on the floor and he quickly find their heap of abandoned clothes, scrambling through them for Ortega’s pants. His fingers close around the buzzing phone and he yanks it out, grinning triumphantly.

Suddenly, however, arms grab him and he screams as he’s hoisted up around the waist, the phone snatched from his greedy hands.

“Ricardo Ortega, I swear to god!”

Pollux protests loudly, naked stomach and pointy ribs uncomfortably pressed into Ortega’s shoulder and he whips his head around to glare daggers at him. He ignores the glare, draping an arm over the back of his knees and he quickly silences the phone.

“I told you not to...” Ortega looks over his shoulder at him with a cheeky grin and Pollux groans.

“Shut up, asshole.”

Ortega laughs.

“And put me down.” Pollux adds and it’s rather undignified, being naked and thrown over Ortega’s shoulder in the hallway of his apartment.

#okay to rebloog go wild #oh how the turntables on who gets fluff and who gets the angst oh joyous #owen writes #i take forever to write things bc i get to a stopping point and just gotta wait to find the right transition #that and i have like ten different things im working on all at once #but who knows if that mason fic will get finished i might just make it short and hurty #i mean. it's already short and hurty #this is the mason gets punched fic sadfskaf

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