#something left fic

[helena-thessa]

A million years (ten months) later, I posted the next chapter to Something Left to Save. Kind of terrified that this story is nearly 100,000 words and 1,000 kudos but we're not yet to the halfway point. Thank you everyone who's been reading and waiting and commenting. 🖤

In that moment, Sasuke understood. Naruto's sudden surge of guilt had nothing to do with Sakura’s current condition. Maybe he had always understood. Maybe the truth was that Sasuke spent his whole childhood ignoring that he knew and understood Naruto on a fundamental level. Long before they were on these quasi-friendly terms that could be used to describe the last few weeks. Perhaps even before they set themselves up to be rivals in the academy, when there was no reason for Uchiha Sasuke, top of the class, to pit himself against the dead last. Uzumaki Naruto, wild and unruly, the host for all of Konoha’s resentment. An orphan kid. The only other orphan kid. Naruto, who lost more on that one day than what most people lost in a lifetime, had never been told that it wasn’t his fault. “Not everyone is your responsibility,” Sasuke said, choosing to be blunt at the cost of being kind. “Not everything is your fault.”

[aerequets]

trying to erase the trace of...

[keferon]

Okay I’m. Usually. Usually I don’t enjoy human aus and usually I hate drawing transformers as humans because it feels so wrong to my brain.

But then I stumbled upon Dream of something more by Gemma_Inkyboots and aaauuuhh fuck. Here’s the pile of the most vague and unspecific and undetailed fanart. Because I’m being torn between “I can’t drawing human designs” and “If don’t draw something for this fic I die”.

[mothlau]

brain filled with jegulus uni au where james walks into the wrong lecture, all tired and sleep deprived, with baby harry on his chest. cue regulus falling in love with the hot dilf that doesn't belong in his post modernism class and who he knows for a fact is sirius' best friend

first chapter is officially out :) 

[marypsue]

So if you follow me (and aren't just stopping by because you saw one of my funney viralposts), you probably know that I've been writing a bunch of fanfiction for Stranger Things, which is set in rural Indiana in the early- to mid-eighties. I've been working on an AU where (among other things) Robin, a character confirmed queer in canon, gets integrated into a friend group made up of a number of main characters. And I got a comment that has been following me around in the back of my mind for a while. Amidst fairly usual talk about the show and the AU and what happens next, the commenter asked, apparently in genuine confusion, "why wouldn't Robin just come out to the rest of the group yet? They would be okay with it."

I did kind of assume, for a second or two, that this was a classic case of somebody confusing what the character knows with what the author/audience knows. But the more I think about it, the more I feel like it embodies a real generational shift in thinking that I hadn't even managed to fully comprehend until this comment threw it into sharp perspective.

Because, my knee-jerk reaction was to reply to the comment, "She hasn't come out to these people she's only sort-of known for less than a year because it's rural Indiana. In the nineteen-eighties." and let that speak for itself. Because for me and my peers, that would speak for itself. That would be an easy and obvious leap of logic. Because I grew up in a world where you assumed, until proven otherwise, that the general society and everyone around you was homophobic. That it was unsafe to be known to be queer, and to deliberately out yourself required intention and forethought and courage, because you would get negative reactions and you had to be prepared for the fallout. Not from everybody! There were always exceptions! But they were exceptions. And this wasn't something you consciously decided, it wasn't an individual choice, it wasn't an individual response to trauma, it wasn't individual. It was everybody. It was baked in, and you didn't question it because it was so inherently, demonstrably obvious. It was Just The Way The World Is. Everybody can safely be assumed to be homophobic until proven otherwise.

And what this comment really clarified for me, but I've seen in a million tiny clashing assumptions and disconnects and confusions I've run into with The Kids These Days, is that a lot of them have grown up into a world that is...the opposite. There are a lot of queer kids out there who are assuming, by default, that everybody is not homophobic, until proven otherwise. And by and large, the world is not punishing them harshly for making that assumption, the way it once would have.

The whole entire world I knew changed, somehow, very slowly and then all at once. And yes, it does make me feel like a complete space alien just arrived to Earth some days. But also, it makes me feel very hopeful. This is what we wanted for ourselves when we were young and raw and angrily shoving ourselves in everyone's faces to dare them to prove themselves the exception, and this is what I want for The Kids These Days.

(But also please, please, Kids These Days, do try to remember that it has only been this way since extremely recently, and no it is not crazy or pathetic or irrational or whatever to still want to protect yourself and be choosy about who you share important parts of yourself with.)

[izzystizzys]

The war doesn’t end with a bang, strictly speaking. It doesn’t even end with a political forum, or peace talks, or a slow, wheezing death of the Banking Clan’s pockets running dry, even though all of those are valid possibilities. Some more than others, Cody has to admit.

No, the war ends with an article in the Galaxy’s least reputable news source, Coruscant Rotational. Splashed on the front page for all to see is Cody’s little brother, next to the Chancellor.

CLONE MEWS CHANCELLOR TO DEATH IN MOGGING MOVE FOR THE AGES - LOOKSMAXXING TAKEN TOO FAR?

“What”, says Obi-Wan, eye twitching, fingers massaging over the bridge of his nose at double their usual speed, a real sign of an impending nervous breakdown if Cody’s ever seen one, “the kriff does that even mean?!”

Rex shrugs helplessly with one shoulder, other arm raised aimlessly. “No idea, General. I only understand about half those words. Maybe we’re all having a collective stroke? Maybe Fox is having a stroke? Whatever he’s doing with his jaw in that picture can’t be healthy.”

“Well, not for the late Chancellor, anyways”, says Cody flatly, in the long-suffering tone of one who’s seen too much Jedi banthashit in too little time. He screws his eyes tightly shut, scrubbing the backs of his knuckles in hard enough to see galaxies explode. Nope, still the same words on that datapad.

“It can’t be true”, says Skywalker, who’d gone white as a shitty military-issue sheet and has been steadily pacing the room ever since the equivalent of a sonic bomb hit the room. “I mean - think about it, this could just as well be a Separatist ploy, it would play right into their hands, and Coruscant Rotational isn’t exactly the most reputable source -“

“True enough”, says Obi-Wan, thoughtfully. “They do like getting their facts mixed up. In fact, I’ve seen about six articles just this month proclaiming our dear friend Senator Amidala’s super secret pregnancy. They even falsified hospital records, can you imagine?!”

Somehow, Skywalker loses another shade of colour, gulping soundlessly, and resumes his pacing more frenetically than before. Weird guy, that.

It’s Rex who breaks the awkward stillness of the room, perking up suddenly. “Oh, I know! Why don’t we call in Commander Tano?! She’s about the right age to understand some of this dribble, right?”

“I was going to suggest calling Corrie HQ, but sure, let’s ask the teenage soldier from the space monk order who spends all her spare time hunting your legion for sport”, says Cody, dryly. Rex deflates, and Thorn’s tinny voice sounds through Cody’s comm before he can make his reply. “Marshall Commander, I assume this is about the News.” Ominous capitalisation, ooooh, mouths Rex, and receives the nearest datapad Cody can reach to the face for his troubles with a squawk. The fact that he can read that sentence off his lips means their legions have spent far too much time together, and also that Cody’s grown soft in his old age.

“Good to hear you too, Thorn, and yes, we do have some questions concerning why the kriff my vod’ika is accused of murdering the chancellor through what I can only assume is some secret Sith magic?!”

“Oh, you mean when he defeated the actual Sith on the Senate through the power of his superior mog and made the kriffer explode in a thousand wrinkly pieces? You’re welcome, by the way”, says Thorn, instead of literally anything sane.

“Commander”, begs Cody’s General, with something glistening that might actually be tears in his eyes. “Commander, please. I do not understand any of those words. I am begging you to put me out of my misery.”

PALPATINE??? SITH?????!!!, screams Skywalker in battlesign, somehow spelling out each individual question and exclamation mark.

“It’s a game we’ve started playing in the Guard, sir, to pass time on patrol”, says Thorn, sheepishly, cowed by nearly driving the High General Kenobi to tears. “We’d do stupid faces we found the holonet, and, uh - well Fox is so high on black-market morphine most of the time cause we don’t get bacta that he sleepwalks on assignment sometimes, and, uh, he started making them at the Chancellor during a holocall meeting with Count Dooku and then the Chancellor tried to electrocute him again but accidentally blew himself up-“

“Breathe, Commander”, says Obi-Wan, and then - “That is SO much information I don’t know what to do with, Force preserve me. Why is Commander Fox on black-market morphine, or sleepwalking, or making faces at-“

“He signs reports in his sleep too, sometimes”, Thorn interrupts the General. “It’s actually kind of impressive if, y’know, it didn’t make Stabby bust another capillary in pure rage.”

“Who’s Stabby?”, asks Obi-Wan, confused.

“Meeting with Count Dooku?!”, bursts out Skywalker.

“Congratulations on Amidala’s pregnancy, General Skywalker”, says Thorn, like a man who wants to see the world burn.

[gossippool]

so i do think it's very interesting how, at least from what i've observed, people see/depict worst logan as kind of different from the x men logan in terms of their propensity for violence, or rather how this violence is released. i think it has to do with a couple of things:

as many have pointed out, wade is the only one who has ever been able to match him in a fight. so it makes sense that people would headcanon their relationship as involving fights on the regular. but also;

most of what we see from him in the movie is him fighting, and so we assume that he has a tendency towards it, especially since the past he's trying to escape from is exactly that: him being violent towards others, including those who don't deserve it. i think this has definitely subconsciously shaped some people's perception of him in some way.

but i think it's good to remember that what we are shown isn't proportionate to who he is, because the movie necessarily can't develop his character much outside of the plot. i don't think worst logan and x-men logan are different at all in the sense of x-men logan being "gentler", because not only have we just not had the chance to see worst logan act otherwise, but x-men logan also has this same animalistic violence in him. we can see how quickly he unleashes himself in the movies when the situation calls for it, and even when he's doing it to protect, there's still that rage underneath it all.

worst logan is violent towards wade because 1. he's projecting, and 2. wade can take it. but also it's a symptom of something else that he hasn't worked through, possibly decades of trauma he hasn't worked through. i'm working on a fic that explores this rn, but my headcanon is that his post-x-men rampage was a sort of addiction for him because of the release it gave him, which he then replaced with getting shitfaced, and finding someone who could take him in a fight (wade) could be a reversion to the former addiction if he doesn't work on it. (i think that especially with superhero movies, it's so easy to brush off violence as just another normal thing, but realistically, a failure to unpack all that baggage could escalate his problems into something way worse.)

so imo i think worst logan is practically the same, if not very similar, to x-men logan, just that he's a variant that was dealt the worst card, but we interpret his character differently because all we're shown is what he became because of it. we all know logan is gentle with his lovers, and i think that unless wade shows that he enjoys it, logan would not be violent towards him just because wade can take it. just because you can doesn't mean you should, and i think he of all people would understand that

[slushfaerie]

slight nsfw mentions. this was supposed to be more of a fun fucking around with stoner!art thing but then i started thinking about how art probably looked into pat’s eyes as he took a hits off his bong and how patrick would insist on lighting it for him and the way they’d let their lips linger on the joints they shared. canon artrick has its claws in my heart

art donaldson was no stranger to weed. in the college tennis off-season, he'd alternate between smoking pre-rolls and flower that he’d grind up in his little black grinder with a mustache on it. it'd come as a freebie with the ounce he had bought from the dispensary and he'd smoke it in his shitty bong.

the bong that was patrick's first. just like everything else.

the piece of glass that had become a pillar of art and patrick’s time at the mark rebellato tennis academy - windows cracked open, shower cap over the fire alarm, wet paper towels stuffed under the door. they kneeled on their twin beds, pushed together, blowing the smoke out to where it wouldn't be smelled (they thought, anyway. it always was.)

patrick had always offered to light it for art when he'd make him hit it, a smirk on his face, eyes playful, saying, "you're not even clearing it - focus on sucking it". always returning it to the top right corner of his desk, like a decorative vase.

it withstood the rhythmic movement of patrick's wooden bedframe against the desk as he had kayla - no - katie pinned beneath him, huge hand covering her mouth. it had bore witness to lingering glances, overhearing as patrick had spoken to art in dulcet tones, the sounds of the friction of fabric and hands as he taught him how to jack off.

it had been art's sole company in the many nights following the Junior US Open finals. it limited his mental bandwidth to fixate on where patrick was, what patrick was doing those nights he spent with tashi after he'd gotten her number. what they were doing with each other - to each other - without him. instead he turned on sufjan stevens, seeing the little grey hexagons on the back of his eyelids as his thoughts melted into something plush.

patrick had given the bong to him. a parting gift as their chapter as roommates came to an close.

art brings it to stanford with him. one semester, you and art were were paired up together to work on a project for your general education class on greek mythology. as a student athlete, he had access to tutors who would all but give him the answers to the tests, but instead, art insisted he'd rather study with you.

even in the weeks after the project ends, you two get close enough for him to invite you to the parties his frat was throwing. the last time you had studied, you'd mentioned you'd never gotten high before, and art gave you a crooked smile and sweet crinkled eyes, joking that he'd love to be your first. told you to find him at thursday’s party.

eyes hazy, art spots you in the crowd. he takes you to his room, walking over and reaching for a vase-like object perched on the corner of his desk. he said because of water vapor or something, a hit from his bong was a much nicer to the throat compared to a joint or dry pipe.

he could even light it for you.

[hana-bobo-finch]

I had to cut this brief interaction out of a fic because it didn’t fit well but I was sad to see it go soooo

“Let’s not argue, team,” Kabbu interjected. He pulled Vi to the side.

“You must be more understanding of Leif, Vi,” he said. Vi scoffed, but didn’t counteract his words. “He does not always understand what you mean. He is neurodivergent.”

“Oh,” Vi muttered.

“What the fuck is a neurodivergent?” Leif interrupted, seemingly materializing out of thin air next to them.

[rainboneish]

the most relatable tweet i’ve seen today

[ichthyorelationships]

frankly them & honestly they

[helena-thessa]

we are all museums of fear

An exploration of Tenzō's background and how the trauma of being abducted, experimented on, and brainwashed by Root shaped him and his relationships with Team Seven. Title, chapter titles, and tie-in themes credited to POEM FOR NOBODY by Charles Bukowski. The strings have been cut, Kinoe is no longer the pale man’s puppet. He’ll never again be bound by serpentine wires. He’s free to wield kunai and throw shuriken, to run alongside comrades, to travel far and wide during their assignments. To draw blood from others, instead of watching it drawn from himself. 

Read on Ao3

(Yes, like a sane person, I've used my day off to post a WIP for a rare pair that's been sitting in my drafts for months. It's a companion story to Something Left to Save that could also work as a stand-alone piece centered on Tenzō/Yamato and his relationship with Kakashi.)

[captainfairygodmother]

You know what I really love that should be explored in even more Merlin fanfics?

Immortal Leon. Like, you've just got Merlin over there sulking about while he waits for Arthur to return. Then there's just Leon, living his best immortal life, doing the most randomest shit known to mankind

[kori-senpai]

Fanart for @honeydots Fire Emblem fanfic. I've been using it as a reason to fluke out of social interactions for the last two weeks and boy oh boy I will continue to do so >:)

[calmlb]

Domestic skk where Dazai gets home later than usual from the agency. It’s not uncommon for him to arrive home after Chuuya when he was working a case, but it definitely wasn’t the norm.

As Dazai slipped off his shoes and coat, he listened for any sounds that may indicate where Chuuya was.

Even though he was pretty sure he already knew.

He padded towards their bedroom and stopped with his hand on the knob. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for familiar, soft snores, but not hearing any.

He quietly slipped into the room, unsurprised to see that the lamp was still on, but not expecting to see Chuuya’s eyes closed.

The redhead was sitting up against the headboard, arms crossed and eyes closed. There was a poetry book on his lap, still open to where he’d been reading.

Dazai felt that fond smile he could never seem to mask play at his lips, and walked closer.

The light of the lamp cast shadows that accentuated the sharp angles of Chuuya’s face. His brown lashes brushed against his strong cheekbones, and a sun-kissed bronze was spread across his upturned nose.

Chuuya was all sharp edges with an unrefined personality. And that’s just how Dazai liked him.

That crudeness that had so grated on his nerves when they first met. That crassness that couldn’t be dulled by nice clothes or Ane-san’s influence.

Chuuya was unapologetically Chuuya— untamable.

Dazai watched as his partner’s brows pinched, and his bow-shaped lips twitched downward before parting.

“What’re you staring at, shitty Dazai?”

Dazai’s smile widened. “Just wondering how long you’re going to keep feigning sleep,” he hummed as he turned away to change into his pajamas.

“Wasn’t sleeping,” Chuuya grumbled, one eye peeking open as Dazai slipped into bed and curled up next to his leg.

Dazai nuzzled into Chuuya’s toned thigh, releasing a contented hum as Chuuya’s hand started carding through his hair.

He felt the rhythmic shift of Chuuya’s body in time with his breathing, and let himself relax knowing he was safe. Secure. Cared for.

Because Chuuya wasn’t all sharp edges. Deep down, there was a layer of kindness to him. Deep enough that it wasn’t immediately apparent.

Deep because it’s part of the foundation of who Chuuya is.

Dazai considers himself one of the lucky ones, getting to witness this kindness firsthand.

Chuuya always waited up for him, no matter how tired he was, or how long of a day he’d had. Some instinct to make sure every member of his pack was accounted for— probably leftover from the sheep.

My loyal dog.

Dazai hid his smile in the fabric of Chuuya’s pajama pants.

“Oi. I can feel you smirking, bastard.” Chuuya stopped his hand to pull on Dazai’s dark waves.

Dazai whined in protest. “Chuuya’s so mean to me.”

Chuuya scoffed, voice rough with the need for sleep. “Right, so mean that I even made you crab for dinner.” He slid down the headboard to lay on his pillow. This way, he was nose to nose with Dazai— hot, toothpaste-fresh breath fanning Dazai’s face and strawberry-blond curls falling into his face. “How awful.”

Dazai lifted a hand to brush the hair out of Chuuya’s eyes, gently tucking it behind his ear. “How awful,” he agreed. “Makes me want to die.”

Those piercing blue eyes stared back at him. “I’ll be the one to kill you. Shitty Dazai.” Chuuya’s threat was punctuated by a long yawn.

Dazai tutted. “Sleepy Chibi.” He grabbed Chuuya’s hand and started massaging soft circles into his palm. Just the way he knew Chuuya loved.

Sure enough, Chuuya let out a content sigh as the last bit of tension seeped out of his body.

“S’nice,” he mumbled as he started drifting off. Dazai merely hummed.

“Such strong hands that carry so much,” he whispered, bringing Chuuya’s knuckles to his face & pressing his lips against them tenderly. “Let me hold this for you.”

Chuuya’s breath evened out, and soft snores filled the space between them. Night after night, that snoring had been Dazai’s white noise, and he bit his lip to restrain the sudden impulse to pinch his partner’s cheeks in an act of cuteness aggression.

Instead, he snuggled up close to the redhead, burying his face in the crook of Chuuya’s neck.

Dazai reached over and turned off the lamp, feeling his heart swell when Chuuya nuzzled his face into Dazai’s hair. He pressed a kiss to his jugular notch, then let the soothing cadence of Chuuya’s snores lull him to sleep.

Dazai version

[marypsue]

In that vein (hah), I just have to take a moment to gush about the costuming in The Lost Boys because. Have you seen the costuming in The Lost Boys. Like each costume standing on its own without anyone in it still gives you a sense of a whole character, which is important because some of these characters don't get, uh, lines. We have to be able to distinguish them immediately by visuals, and the thing is, we can, because they're not just dressed to look attractive, they're dressed with the purpose of establishing character.

Like, consider Michael. They kept it very simple for him, on purpose, he's a regular everyman kind of guy thrown into a Situation. But also, he's trying too hard. The white t-shirt, jeans, and leather jacket call back to James Dean, Rebel Without A Cause, but the leather jacket's brand new without a scuff or a crack, not broken in, and it sits uncomfortably on his shoulders. The earring doesn't suit him - it belongs to somebody else, a funhouse mirror version of himself that he's tempted by, but also it literally belongs to somebody else. Who gave him that earring? Star's implied to have done the piercing, for him, which also tracks - the earring's a little piece of someone else, someone darker and wilder, that's been dug right down into his flesh by his association with Star. It's tasted his blood.

It's also a little piece of the boys' uniting aesthetic bleeding over onto him. There's a magpie sensibility to all of them, but then each of them are visually distinct as themselves within it.

Star's clothes have 80s cuts but form a 60s hippie silhouette, solidified in time. She's the most colourful of them all, her white tops signifying a flash of innocence, but at the same time as she climbs on David's bike, she pulls on a big black jacket that almost envelops her, a little piece of his shadow falling over her and devouring her light. Again, it doesn't quite fit her, like she's playing dressup as a darker, wilder self just like Michael is.

And speaking of David. That boy is chin to toe wrapped up in black. The coat references batwings, which is a great detail. And those gloves! He doesn't touch Star; he doesn't touch Michael; he doesn't touch the world, except through a layer of darkness. It's real Old West, white-hat-black-hat level symbolism. Except.

The real villain of the piece isn't the dangerous, sharp-edged boy in black - although of course you need to look out for him, they don't call him 'dangerous' for no reason. The real villain of the piece is the most perfectly conventional, middle-class, unassuming, don't-look-twice take-him-home-to-mother normal guy imaginable. Grey and beige. Business casual.

It's the perfect camouflage for a predator.

(And then also like. I can't wax as poetic about it right now because my brain cells are otherwise occupied. But please consider how much character is there in, like, the Frogs' army-surplus duds and Sam's terrible, incredible shirts.)