#technically in my outline I’m a little past the halfway point

[dahldahlbills]

just hit 50k in cryptids wip :’)

[rostovs-lover]

dalí on tuesday

charlie dalton x reader | cursing, smoking, brief mentions of sexual things, charlie (probably) has daddy issues, cameron | she/her pronouns | fluff | wc.2562

i am in love with charlie, this is now a charlie dalton centric blog, also ignore how terrible the title is please

anon : Hi!! I love your blog! can I request a charlie Dalton x reader fluff where reader is an artist and he visits them while they're painting? (maybe they end up wiping paint on his face?) I don't know, something really sweet at cute <33333

Charlie Dalton had been resigned to relish in small pleasures to keep himself sane at school, never did he think the library would be one of those. More specifically, the painter tucked into the basement of the library. 

                            ───☮︎───

     Charlie Dalton was a connoisseur of many things. Pretty girls, expensive wine, shitty poetry, and hand rolled cigarettes - to name a few. His imprisonment at Wellington made only one of those things readily available. So he settled - boxes of cheap smokes bought through upperclassmen, bottles of grocery store wine someone would sneak in from a party, and the two girls that occasionally came with Knox. The shitty poetry was always on deck, he had that at least. It was a tragedy to be resigned to such a bland life, there was absolutely no carpe diem-ing happening in a school that held adolescent boys to uniforms.

      It was miserable, truly, but Charlie scrapped by on the thought that soon enough there would be no more stuffy Catholic school and he could finally have a taste of freedom. In the meantime, he would have what little fun he could. The meets in the cave were always the highlight of the week. A place where he could talk and people would listen, and not because they had to but because they enjoyed it. They enjoyed his words and thoughts and presence. No one else had ever really seemed to enjoy Charlie’s presence. They could tolerate it, handle it, but they always had more pressing matters. A business meeting to attend, a bill to pay, a dinner to go to. Always something just a little bit more important and never quite enough time for Charlie. But the other Dead Poets, they valued him. He wasn’t just a kid, a college tuition to pay and a life to layout. He was a person, with interests and hobbies.

      It had been there, in the safe haven of the cave, that the idea for the library first came up. Meeks had already talked Pitts into coming, Neil didn’t take much convincing at all, Todd was also easy to lure, Cameron groaned about leaving school grounds but refused to be left out, and Knox agreed to go but only if Nuwanda came too. Charlie had already started to cover what there was to do at a library, read?

      Meeks dove into the technical manuals and Pitts followed tentatively, cradling their science project in his arms. Todd had followed Neil to the S authors, Cameron was trying to chat up the woman at the register, and God only knew what Knox was doing. He had been stranded with few options. He could find the geniuses and be talked over for the next hour or third wheel Neil but that guaranteed intruding on something he probably shouldn’t. The polite thing to do would be to rescue Cameron from making a complete fool of himself, throwing bad pick up lines at a clearly uninterested college student, but it was amusing to watch.

      Charlie settled on trying to find Knox, at least then he could have some company. Said company was absolutely nowhere to be found. The rows of shelves wound in a confusing maze and Charlie was lost before he could even begin to look. Weaving around he did come face-to-face with a rather large picture of Charles Dickens that made him recoil. It was perched just at eye level above a short staircase and it seemed to judge his every movement. Charlie followed the carpeted stairs down to escape Mister Dickens’ strange little beard and beady black eyes.

      The further down the steps Charlie descended the brighter it appeared. The lower level was the children’s section. Considerably more fun than science books or Shakespeare. The big oak counter was abandoned but the lights were still on. He was alone, still.

      Charlie sighed, sitting down in one of the bright red wooden chairs. He was much too big for it but it held well under his weight. A sad stuffed bear stared dully into him from the green glossy table.

      “Well hello,” He mumbled, picking it up under the arms, “And you must be?” He cleared his throat to take on a gruff baritone, “Mister... Bearington,” Charlie sighed, that was bad. He dropped the bear into his lap, “This is so stupid,”

      “Bearington?”

      Charlie shot around in the chair, tipping himself off center and stumbling to his feet, bear still clutched in his arms, “Where the hell did you come from?”

      “A few blocks over, walked here actually.” You turned back to your work. A painting. Not just a painting, Charlie realized, a mural. It stretched the length of the wall, roughly sketched in pencil and waiting to be finished.

      He blinked, “That’s good. The wall I mean,”

      “Thank you,” Your face flustered and Charlie took notice, “It’s not much of anything yet, just an outline. It’ll look better painted.”

      He took a few steps closer, sidling up to you, “What’s it supposed to be?”

      “A forest,” You pointed to a rotund blob perched on a long line, “That’s an owl, and there’s going to be a fox somewhere down in the grass,”

      Charlie grinned, “That’s an owl?”

      “That-” you tapped the blob, “Is a shape, objectively. Subjectively, it’s an owl.”

      His brow creased, “Subjectively it’s an owl? That's like saying Mister Bearington is a rabbit, subjectively,”

      You stared at him, baffled. It was almost irritating that he could so casually come down to your domain and invade your creative bubble. And it was even worse that he talked to himself as a stuffed bear but now he was challenging your judgment on what was and was not subjectively an owl. But he had a wonderful smile and it lessened the intrusion. Plus, you had never seen a teenage boy develop an attachment to a stuffed bear as quickly as he had, “What’s your name?”

      “Nuwanda,” He grinned, setting his chin atop his bear’s plush head.

      “Nuwanda?” You blinked at him, “That’s… neat. I’ve never heard that before.”

      “What can I say? The only Nuwanda this side of Vermont. What’s your name?”

      As you opened your mouth to answer several sets of footsteps thundered down the stairs. Knox spun around the corner first, closely followed by Pitts and Meeks.

      “Charlie!” Knox called, “We gotta go before Cameron proposes to the clerk.”

      You looked at the boy in front of you, “Is Charlie short for Nuwanda, or just a nickname?”

      He shrugged, “I’m Nuwanda, subjectively. It was truly a pleasure meeting you. Can’t wait to see your thing DaVinci!” He set the stuffed bear back on the table as he made his way out of the room. With Charlie’s energy gone it became much quieter and you were plunged back into the impressionistic outline of your artwork.

      The next time a library trip was suggested Charlie didn’t completely dread it. Yes, it was still numbingly boring because it was a library and he didn’t have clerks to fall in love with, people to write love letters to, anyone to kiss in the aisles, or a spaceship to build, but he did have his own personal Van Gough to torment.

      The lower level was the first place he went, not even hanging his coat on the rack inside the big double doors. He made his way past Cameron’s preoccupied receptionist and under Dickens’ hard glower. Halfway down the steps, the smell hit Charlie. Wet paint.

      You had just picked out a brush when he pulled one of the wooden chairs next to your station. He sat in it backwards, holding Mister Bearington out in front of him, “Never got your name Monet,”

      “Well, it's not that. Or Da Vinci.” You stroked the brush up the grassy outline.

      “Do you want me to guess?”

      You had yet to look at him, “Nope,”

      “Are you gonna tell me?”

      “Should I?”

      “Obviously, I told you my name.”

      You set the brush down and turned to face him, “(Name).”

      “Pretty,”

      Charlie Dalton liked many things and the musty old library uptown had never been one of them. It had ancient red carpets and gaudy gold ceilings and it was trying too hard to look regal. So it was a sheer shock when he began to leap at the suggestion of going and even more so when he chose to go by himself one afternoon. Naturally, the other poets followed him, they had to.

      Charlie didn’t dally upstairs, waving hi to the clerk and rushing down to the children’s section. A sign was posted outside the entrance warning of wet paint but he stepped around it.

      “You��re making progress Picasso!” He set his hands on his hips and took in the wall.

      You turned back to look at him, “Did you not see the caution: wet paint, do not enter sign?”

      “Oh no I saw it,” He pushed his sunglasses up on top of his head, “It's bright orange, hard to miss, really,”

      “So you just chose to ignore it?”

      He nodded, making his way over to sit by you on the ground, “I choose to ignore lots of things, it really makes life easier,”

      You shook your head, “Are you just going to sit here and bother me?”

      “Yes, that's actually the whole reason I came today, believe it or not.”

      You blubbered in vague disbelief, “Please tell me you’re not serious,”

      “Dead serious,” Charlie grinned, leaning closer, “I had to see how your weird owl was going. And also make sure you hadn’t gone mad and cut your own ear off yet,”

      “You’ve already used the Van Gogh joke, Charles,”

      “Maybe I want your ear,”

      You paused, “You… what?”

      Charlie’s confidence cracked, “That was bad. Shit, that wasn’t supposed to sound that way. It was like, a bad pickup line? Because Van Gogh cut his ear off to send to his girlfriend,” He sighed, shaking his head, “Sorry,”

      “I mean if I had to pick someone to give my ear too I guess you would be my first choice?”

      Charlie looked at you, eyebrows pinched together, “Why?”

      You shrugged, “No one else has asked, first come first serve.” You dipped your brush back into the blue paint and went to work on a patch of flowers.

      “Huh, well I do appreciate it,” Charlie scooted closer, leaning over your shoulder. He was close, very close. When you took a breath you could smell his cologne and whatever it was he used in his hair and you could feel the edge of his sunglasses brush your ear. He brought an arm around to dip his finger into the soft sky colour on your palette. And then he wiped it on your nose.

      You gasped sharply at the foreign feeling, snapping your head to the side to glare at him, “Why?!”

      Charlie snickered, leaning back, “The opportunity presented itself, how could I just let that pass?”

      You reached back, squirting a touch of purple paint over the palm of your hand, “That was truly a horrible idea,”

      Charlie shot up just as you did, stumbling backwards, “I’m sorry-” He stuck his hands up in surrender, “I regret my actions and if I could take them back I would,”

      “Hmm, but you can’t” You took a step closer, “Surrender now and it doesn’t have to get any messier than this,”

      He pointed towards your paint coated hand, “Do not,”

      You grinned, “I might,”

      “I’m begging,”

      “Fine-” You offered him your other hand, “Truce?”

      Charlie mulled it over for a moment, “Fine, truce,” He grabbed your clean hand and you used it to pull him towards you.

          “Why on earth would you trust me?” You tugged him even closer as he shrieked and smeared your hand down his cheek, “There, now we’re even,”

      Getting distracted by your triumph gave Charlie the upper hand. He pulled you to him the same you had done to him and pressed his cheek flush to yours. The paint was cold against your skin and you jolted back, away from him.

      “Vile,” You hissed, “You are vile and evil. That's so cold. You will pay, I hope you know that.”

      Charlie snorted, “Oh please, what’re you gonna do?”

      “You underestimate me, you ass, I’ll figure something out,”

      “Will you?” Charlie grinned, “I will be waiting in anticipation,”

      “You better be,”

      Meeks elbowed back into Cameron’s ribs, “You’re going to knock me over,”

      Cameron craned his neck further to peek around the corner into the children’s section, “I just want to see, let me look,”

      “Nothing is happening-” Meeks snipped, “They’re just talking now and I might be able to hear if you could can it!”

      Cameron rolled his eyes, “Of course, whatever you say,”

      “Will you shut up?” Knox batted at Cameron’s shoulder, “They’ll see us, we’re not super well hidden,”

      “If you don’t stop talking they’ll realize we’re here,” Pitts mumbled, rolling his eyes. Cameron started to rebuttal, turning to look at Gerard but the motion knocked Meeks out of place and he gasped, stumbling forwards. This did indeed draw Charlie’s attention.

      “Meeks, what the hell?” Charlie snapped. He was in a state, sunglasses askew in his hair, paint smeared from his cheekbone down to the corner of his mouth, and his shirt was wrinkled away from his collarbone.

      Meeks stared, “Hi Charlie. Are there any textbooks down here, uh… the science ones?”

      Knox groaned, stepping out from behind the wall as well, “We wanted to see why you came here on a Tuesday afternoon by yourself,”

      Charlie blubbered, “Did you all come? Is Keating there too?”

      “He could be,” Meeks shrugged.

      Charlie rolled his eyes, “Will you leave, I’ll be upstairs in a second,” The other poets nodded, scampering up the steps to the first level.

      “Assholes, should have known they’d come,” Charlie sighed, adjusting the sunglasses atop his head, “I need to go before they decide to intrude again. I’ll see you soon though, anxiously anticipating payback,”

      He was almost out the door when you bucked up the courage to call out to him, “Charlie, wait.” You let him turn back to you before continuing, “Could I have your phone number?”

      He clicked his teeth, “Don’t have one, private school. But I’ll find the library number in the books and try to shoot you a call sometime,” He winked and started back up to his friends.

      Knox was waiting at the landing with a handful of tissues, which he shoved into Charlie’s hands, “So you’re gonna read your stupid poem about tits at a Dead Poets meet and then not tell us you’ve got a girlfriend?”

      Charlie grabbed the tissues, “Not my girlfriend, I meet her like two weeks ago,”

      “Didn’t stop Knox,” Neil elbowed him.

      Charlie wiped at his face, “Well I’m not Knox. I like her painting, she's good.”

      “It looks like she was painting you,” Cameron slapped at Charlie’s chest and he threw the tissues at him in retaliation.

      “Shut up, at least my library worker actually talks to me,”

      Cameron fumbled with the dirty material, batting it away from his chest, “You dick!”

      Charlie grinned, pulling his glasses down and starting towards the door. Something about it was thrilling, having this to himself. A little secret that he and you shared. His personal Salvador Dalí, something to look forwards to besides bad tobacco and Keating’s eccentric lectures. It was bright and exciting and he felt seen. He felt important. The blue paint he had stolen from your tray was still on the tip of his pointer finger and he wondered how long it would be until he could see you again.

 ( @interwebseriesfan24 )

[whywishesarehorses]

Inside the Famous—and Deadly—Omak Stampede

This article was written by Allison Williams, published in the August 2017 issue of Seattle Met, and reformatted here for your enjoyment.

This one is text heavy and long, so it is hidden under a read more.

Thursday

Eighteen horses form an imperfect line on a hot August night, their 18 jockeys clad in jeans. Here on a sandy bluff in the small town of Omak, four hours east of Seattle and several worlds away, riders and spectators alike move with nervous energy, anxious for the race to start. One jockey wears a helmet topped with a pink mohawk, another with a GoPro camera. One horse, sponsored by a local marijuana dispensary, sports painted pot leaves on its rump. Wispy white eagle feathers hang from others, emblems of the Native American heritage the men share.

A summer carnival glows below, neon outlines of rides called the Orbiter and the Fireball, metal towers that came into town on tractor trailers. Farther into the Okanogan Highlands, a casino twinkles alone on Indian Reservation land. It’s August 11, 2016, and even an hour past sunset the air holds onto most of the heat from the 90-degree day.

A “whoooop!” erupts from the gathered crowd as the animals sidestep and bob their heads behind the chalk starting line. His race number bright across his chest, 18-year-old Scott Abrahamson eyes the sandy dirt in front of the line, groomed like a golf course sand trap. His long bubblegum-pink sleeves mean he’s easy to spot even in the shadows where floodlights don’t reach, and his helmet blinks with battery-operated toy devil horns. He’s surrounded by both champions—Loren Marchand with seven titles, Tyler Peasley with three—and nervous high schoolers in their first race.

At the crack of a gun, the horses charge. Their riders lean forward as hooves pound the sandy flat, at least for the first hundred feet. The crowd cheers as soon as the pistol sounds, cries and hoots blossoming into the dark.

Then 18 horses go off a cliff.

The riders shift in their saddles as their mounts fly down an incline steeper than a ski jump. The best jockeys, the veterans, barely lean back coming off the hill, reins clasped in the left hand and riding crops in the right. Others grasp a bar they’ve rigged on the back of their saddles they call the “oh shit handle.”

The spectators’ cries reach full pitch when the pack is halfway to the waterway at the base of the hill, a thick ribbon of black that flows left to right. The horses plunge into the inky Okanogan River en masse, hooves hitting the shallow bottom, and all but one charge across to the opposite bank. The stadium on the far side is lit up like a Friday-night football game, floodlights bright atop red, white, and blue bleachers, and Scott and his hot-pink sleeves emerge first in the dirt oval, just 45 seconds into the race. As they cross the finish line, Peasley is right on his tail.

Fifteen horses follow, minus the one that tumbled in the river. A crew attends to the downed horse from the deck of a small drift boat; while the stadium roars, a veterinarian surveys the animal and notes that it’s already gone, likely drowned.

Back atop the hill, Colville tribal elders watch through binoculars before one spots something in the sandy dirt, an eagle feather dislodged by the chaos. They circle the downed quill, addressing the spirit it represents, the eagle that travels in both worlds, before one of the elders lifts the feather to return it to its owner.

This is the World Famous Suicide Race.

There will be four races total during Omak Stampede, always the second weekend in August. Each race awards five points to the first-place finisher, four to the second, and so on; the overall winner clinches the King of the Hill title on Sunday, and $40,000 in prize money is distributed. It’s the highlight of this Central Washington town’s year, a tradition that draws thousands of spectators—and animal-rights protesters.

Omak straddles the border of the Colville Reservation, home of almost every racer, horse owner, and trainer. The contest is a rite of passage, they say, a proving ground for men—and even a few women—coming of age more than a century after actual horseback warfare. Beyond the turgid flow of the Okanogan River through town, the reservation sprawls over 1.4 million acres of highlands, brittle with brown grass in late summer. There the Native American communities are plagued by poverty and unemployment.

If the Suicide Race was a small-town Friday-night football game, teenaged Scott Abrahamson would be its star quarterback. He’s an ace student, focused and polite, with technical internships and honor rolls to his name, but this weekend he’s a jockey with a King of the Hill title to defend. All eyes are on him.

Friday

He gets sick before every big race. “Everything hits me and my body,” Scott says. “I can barely walk.” His cousin calls it good luck; Scotty puking means they’re going to do well.

In the hours before Friday’s race, the second of four, Scott’s prepping in the triangular Owners and Jockey’s paddock in the middle of the fairgrounds. By 5pm, Omak veterinarian Jai Tuttle holds court at one end of the dusty enclosure, near standing fans that muster a little manufactured breeze. As they wait to parade their horses for Doc Tuttle, owners angle water hoses over the animals’ backs.

Everyone older than Scott calls him Scotty. This year’s printed program, in the roster of winners dating back to 1935, calls him that. After he won in 2015, he became small-town famous, no longer just the good kid who excelled at basketball and wrestling. People holler, “Go Scotty” at him all weekend.

His father was famous too. That’s what happens when you win the Suicide Race; Leroy Abrahamson took the title in 2002, but was best known for his prowess in the Indian Relay, a more widespread style of racing where one jockey hops from horse to horse. Leroy, Scott has heard, would flit from one mount to the next with only a single foot brushing the ground.

Scott doesn’t remember his first time in a saddle but assumes it was before he could walk, though he largely gave it up in elementary school, when his parents split. His father was the horse guy; his mother was all about school. So he became a standout student in Coulee Dam, a reservation town in the shadow of the 50-story hydroelectric giant. When his father died in 2009, he was drawn back to horses.

“I’m sorta doing all this for him,” Scott says, hesitant. His mother wasn’t wild about the racing, but he didn’t falter at school, scoring an engineering internship with the Bureau of Reclamation. Slight and muscular, his five-foot-nine stature is too tall for a throughbred jockey but about average for this race. His hair is short and straight, spiking around his head like a halo, and he likes to hide his eyes behind sunglasses.

The summer he was 16, after his sophomore year of high school, Scott entered his first Suicide Race. Atop a small gelding named Kinky, he fell as they crested the top of the hill on the Thursday race, flipping over the horse’s shoulder. On Friday the pair wrecked in the water.

“I flipped over and everybody ran me over,” he says. “Everyone says it happens so fast, but when I was in it, it was like slow motion.” Finally, on Saturday, they made it through the entire race, galloping past the finish line in the stadium. Then Sunday the pair wrecked again.

A new horse was in order. His trainer, George Marchand, is a giant within the Suicide Race world and holder of three titles. He’d lost his own father at 14 and rode against Leroy Abrahamson 15 years ago, so he guided Scott, this time to a nighttime ride on a quarter horse–thoroughbred mix named Eagle Boy. The butterscotch-colored gelding was only about five years younger than the rider.

“It was pitch black and dusty,” remembers Scott. The hills of the reservation are dotted with brush and ponderosa pine, but he could make out little from his saddle. They were on top of a hill, he knew that, and that George had taken off.

He gave Eagle Boy his head as they sped over the uneven terrain. “We were jumping trees and dodging trees,” recalls Scott, but they moved as a unit. “I was like dang—he trusts me.” Matching horse to rider is alchemy.

In 2015, in his second year racing and only 17 years old, Scott on Eagle Boy tied for first overall with six-time victor Loren Marchand, George’s nephew. With a wide grin stretched across his face, the rising high school senior played rock-paper-scissors with his cochamp for a King of the Hill prize bridle.

The name World Famous Suicide Race might be a bit of hyperbole, but the race is nothing if not infamous. It emerged in scrappy Omak where a Great Depression population boom—all the way to 2,500 souls—launched an annual rodeo in 1933. As publicity chairman, furniture store owner Claire Pentz proposed a dramatic steeplechase to draw spectators, inspired by mountain races across the reservation at Keller, where riders charged a dry channel in the Sanpoil River. He knew how to sell it: He gave his 1935 creation a catchy name.

The World Famous Suicide Race ran every summer, the marquee event at the four-day Omak Stampede rodeo. Dynasties were born when the inaugural race’s third-place finisher, Alex Dick, won regularly through 1965. There have been seven Marchand riders over the years, six Abrahamsons, nearly a dozen named Pakootas. The unofficial motto, one that appears on winners’ belt buckles, is “Wimps Need Not Apply.”

The 210-foot hill, most say, is a 62-degree slope. Or it’s 54.7 degrees, as measured by a race official in 1993. Others say it’s more like 30. Regardless, it’s terrifying. From the top, the hill feels as steep as a hard ski run; a black diamond, but not a double black. Scrambling up on foot, you might use your hands.

The stampede and race remain intertwined, but in 1999 the Colville Tribes boycotted to protest a change to their camping space on the fairgrounds. The Stampede lost attendance and revenue, and the following year a deal was struck: The tribes got more control over the race organization, and the encampment got its park space.

Family ties bind many of the owners, trainers, and jockeys, and while a few aren’t Native American at all, they’re the exception. This is the biggest sporting event in the region, the Super Bowl of north-central Washington. “This is the only time we get to play cowboys and Indians,” jokes one organizer, Ernie Williams.

Doc Tuttle is fairly new to the race gig, but between her ease with fidgety horses and no-nonsense demeanor, the veterinarian exudes authority. One by one she clears the horses for Friday’s race, directing owners to walk each thousand-pound animal in a figure eight as her eyes stay trained on forelegs and haunches, scrutinizing for swollen tendons or joints.

No one can pretend the Suicide Race isn’t controversial. As early as 1939, the protests started; Humane Society president Glen McLeod succeeded in canceling a mountain race in nearby Hunters, then traveled to Omak and Keller hoping to do the same. “Why, even the riders call it a ‘suicide race,’ ” McLeod told The Seattle Daily Times before a similar trip in 1941.

Animal rights groups started keeping a tally of dead horses in 1983, with one count now at 22. “The reality is that the race is viewed as part of the Omak Stampede rodeo, and rodeos are protected under state law,” says Seattle Humane Society spokesman Dan Paul, but points out that rapid shifts in public sentiment swiftly made SeaWorld orca shows and circus elephant acts extinct.

People for Ethical Treatment of Animals has run letter-writing campaigns. In 1993, the Northwest’s PAWS, or Progressive Animal Welfare Society, tried a more robust tactic, filing a lawsuit that alleged organizers harm horses for profit, but a Superior Court judge threw out the case. In 1996, a PAWS member sued the Okanogan County Sheriff’s Office and the rodeo for roughing him up when he videotaped a horse being euthanized; the suit settled for $64,500.

For the organizers, the response is simple: The race is merely an extension of their horse-infused culture. Every rider points out that they ride similar hills during wild-horse roundups and cattle work.

Horses have to pass three checks before they’re allowed entry into the race: the vet examination, a swim test, and what’s called a hill test, where horses must round the top of Suicide Hill without hesitation.

Tuttle isn’t from the reservation; she isn’t originally from Omak. But even as an outsider, the one who has to put horses down if they’re hurt, she doesn’t think it’s inhumane.

“These guys use horses that love it,” she says; the horses are bred to it and run steep hills regularly on the remote corners of the reservation. She rarely has to disqualify a horse because owners who spot lameness usually scratch. “It does hold a real special place in the Native culture. It does.” And that horse Thursday night that likely drowned? She considers it. “He was doing what he loved and he had a quick and honorable death.”

Friday night’s race is classic and clean; no bad wrecks. As always, the riders reach the starting line by crossing the river on the Highway 97 bridge, closed to traffic. Hooves clomp on the asphalt as the parade passes a road sign that reads, “Tribal Code Laws Apply.” There are no rules to apply in the Suicide Race once the gun is fired; riders can whip each other, pull each other’s reins. No helmets required. No wimps.

The results echo the previous night: Scott Abrahamson and Eagle Boy come in first, Tyler Peasley on Spade in second. When Scott wins, he raises his right hand above his head, palm out, fingers outstretched. His father’s gesture.

Scott was only four when Leroy won the Suicide Race. “Everyone said he was one of the greats,” he says. “It’s kinda hard to fill his shoes.” Instead he fills his horns. He wears Leroy’s blinking red devil headpiece, the kind of bauble most 18-year-olds would don at a Halloween party.

Scott’s idols were the riders who won in the late 2000s, including the 30-year-old three-time champion who came in second to him during this weekend’s first two races. As a kid he’d run down hills playing at Suicide Race, imaginary whip flying, yelling, “I’m Tyler Peasley!” After his 2015 win, Scott noticed something: “The kids run around saying they’re me.”

It’s after 10pm when the racehorses have completed their cooldown laps and have been loaded into trailers for the ride home. Scott accompanies George Marchand to Omak Lake, 15 miles out of town, to let Eagle Boy soak before bed.

Saturday

Saturday night’s Suicide Race is the biggest. The 7,700-seat arena is packed, and lines form at every fun house and stomach-destroying ride in the carnival outside. Booths hawk curly fries, cotton candy, and foot-longs, though the longest lines are reliably at a taco truck.

But that’s not the whole Omak Stampede. On the east side of the arena, a mirror festival, maybe even larger: the Indian Encampment. Rows of teepees surround a round pavilion for dancing and drum performances, with RVs and tents beyond that. Spectators bring their own camp chairs to supplement the few bleachers. Booths sell jewelry, T-shirts, and dream catchers, and while some of the food is the same—nothing is as universal as curly fries—more signs are handwritten, and many vend Indian tacos and huckleberry lemonade.

Before the rodeo begins, the arena’s industrial speakers blast pop country songs over every acre. The festivities begin with a series of anthems and processions, recognizing the neighboring nations of Canada and the Colville Tribes. During the ride-in, dozens of rodeo queens from around the West shoot into the center oval on horseback, one by one, decked in every shade of sparkle.

The announcer introduces each event, then banters with the rodeo clown when things get slow or a bull rider needs a moment to limp off the dirt. The Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association produces the classic rodeo events, ones with more white riders than Native: bull riding, steer wrestling, team roping, barrel racing. Specialty acts bridge the competitive sports: trick riders and one blonde woman who does a kind of partner dance with an unbridled palomino horse to the blaring sounds of a country song called “Free.” It ends with the horse placing its blond head in her lap.

The Suicide Race is the final blockbuster event. Spectators wade up to their knees into the Okanogan River just upstream of the race crossing, bare feet on slimy rocks. Signs still note that video recording is prohibited, but they’re roundly ignored in the age of cell phones.

Despite the shocking name, the only rider death since anyone’s kept close records was one who drowned on his way to the starting line—though there are plenty of close calls. In 2002, the year Leroy Abrahamson took home the title, racer Naomie Peasley took a tumble so bad she fractured her skull. She recovered, but not before flatlining twice in the medic helicopter.

In its anti–Suicide Race materials, PAWS airs a common criticism of the race: its authenticity. “Organizers currently contend that the Suicide Race has roots in Native American tradition but, in fact, an Anglo conceived the race as a publicity stunt,” reads its statement. Detractors hang on that detail, its origins with furniture salesman Claire Pentz.

To riders and trainers, though, Pentz is irrelevant, and they point to the deep roots of horse culture. For Scott, the point of the race is clear: “Showing that a young man is becoming a warrior, becoming a man.”

The race, the encampment—it’s the tribes’ biggest invitation into their world. “There’s more that people don’t see behind these walls, about Indian life...sweat lodges, medicine,” adds Aaron Carden, a retired racer who now teaches Native language on the reservation. Of the borders around that world, he says, “It’s not our fence to keep people out. It’s the fence white men built to keep us out of the area they took.”

The race wasn’t the only thing “created” by a white man; the very invention of a Colville Tribes unit is recent. Long before that, before statehood, before Manifest Destiny, before Lewis and Clark white-privileged their way across the American West, the Okanogan Highlands tribes lived nomadic lives, picking berries and drawing salmon from the massive Columbia River. And racing horses.

First came the incorporation of Washington Territory, then a series of executive orders begun by president Ulysses S. Grant that roped several tribes into three million acres between the Methow Valley and the Columbia River. Others were elbowed into the reservation, linking bands that once stretched from the dusty plains of Washington to the mountains of British Columbia. One chief invited a famous Indian leader, Chief Joseph, and his Nez Perce followers in 1885. With his band, the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation—a patchwork assembly that had no single language or traditional commonality—reached their current 12-tribe size.

Over 125 years the tribes faced what so many other American Indians did—children forced into boarding schools, languages squashed. The federal government forced a cheap buyback of 1.5 million acres, lands still lamented as the lost “North Half.” The Grand Coulee Dam, erected in 1942, blocked spawning salmon with its 550-foot concrete walls; Colville tribal members mourned the loss of Kettle Falls, a historic fishing spot, with a Ceremony of Tears before it was submerged by the dam’s backup.

In the 1960s, the tribes toyed with termination, dissolving the reservation altogether and splitting the lands among its 5,000 members. Reservations had been terminated by the government before, but the Colvilles were the only ones to dare seriously consider it themselves, an unprecedented move of self-governance. Congressional hearings were held but the measure never passed, so the Colville Reservation endured.

The Suicide Race is a separate world from suicide itself, a public health crisis for the Colvilles. Whether spurred by pervasive poverty—reservation unemployment topped 50 percent in 2010—or rampant substance abuse, the suicide rate ballooned to 20 times the national average in 2006. “After that we were in a panic on what we need to do and could do,” says tribal staffer Olivia Wynecoop. Tribal leadership declared a state of emergency, and Wynecoop helped secure grants for education and designating “natural helpers” to be on call for suicide emergencies.

Scott positions Eagle Boy at the western end of the starting line for the Saturday-night race. This isn’t like the starting gate at the Kentucky Derby; horses pace and turn, and the antsy palomino next to him does a sideways prance before the starter pistol goes off. Scott is angry, though later he says he can’t remember why. Trash talk and psych-outs are regular along the starting line, older jockeys trying to ruffle the young ones still gathering their courage.

But three years and one win into the Suicide Race, Scott can ignore the chatter. He and Eagle Boy are still until the gun sounds, then fast to the crest of the hill. Aaron Carden still remembers the feeling 25 years after his first win: “You’re actually flying in the sky. Nobody can take that away from you.”

There’s a commotion, a cloud of dust to Scott’s left, but he’s well in front of the pack as they hit the water. Two strides into the dark water, Eagle Boy stumbles, flinging Scott into the river. His blinking red devil horns disappear under the white churn created by horses on either side. They’re both okay but don’t log a finish.

What Scott couldn’t see was what happened on the top of the hill, to the very first rider off the break. Tyler Peasley, whom Scott idolized as a kid, and who’d placed at Scott’s heels the past two nights, darted off the top of the hill like a raptor after its prey. Peasley’s a little taller than Scott, broader shouldered, and he rides to win. His mount, Spade, got so much air he tucked his back legs underneath him and simply sailed for the first 30 feet of the downward slope.

They were serene in that moment, flying, until Spade’s hooves finally hit the tilted ground again; Peasley pitched over Spade’s front left shoulder before the horse executed a tight somersault. The jockey disappeared under the hooves of the horses behind him and the crowd made a collective, guttural gasp. Peasley’s body didn’t come to a stop until he reached the bottom of the hill.

Sunday

The final race is also the only daytime race of the weekend; for the first time since the trials and runoff races held before the stampede, they’ll be rushing the hill in full daylight.

The mood in the O&J paddock is subdued, but word is going around that Peasley is stable at a nearby hospital. News will later spread that his injuries included a broken pelvis, hip, and ribs, and the racing community fundraises to support his care and gas money for his family to visit him.

Remarkably, Tyler’s horse, Spade, is unhurt from the tumble, ready to race again. His owner lights a bundle of sage and says a few words over the horse before a new jockey takes the saddle.

For the final time in 2016, Scott follows the parade to the top of Suicide Hill. His jeans have a gaping hole in the knee—real wear from hard riding, not a fashion statement—and his wraparound sunglasses are ’80s big. No devil horns for the daytime race, but, as ever, his name is the one most shouted by the crowds: “Come on Scotty,” over and over.

With 10 points already earned, Scott only needs to place to secure the title. Owner and trainer Marchand tells him not to go all out, and when the gun fires, he doesn’t. He holds back his whip, lets Eagle Boy run the race without extra urging. It’s the smart move, the calculated move, no doubt informed by the disastrous night before. But Scott comes to regret holding back.

Not because it doesn’t work. Scott and Eagle Boy place second, netting four more points and easily clinching his first solo all-around title. But for Scott, the kind of driven athlete who hates to give a single inch, playing it safe feels wrong. Now with two titles to his name, only three years in, he says he’ll ride “until I get broken down and can’t do it no more.”

Three days later, Scott will depart his Coulee Dam home and drive five hours to start his freshman year at Washington State University. As an engineering student he will pull a 3.8 GPA his first semester and a 3.9 the second; he’s lined up two years of scholarships so far and hopes he’ll be able to extend to the full undergrad four.

Scott won’t brag about his Suicide win at college, but he’ll drive home every fall weekend for Indian Relay races, another sport that mixes horsemanship with a touch of anarchy. Around the reservation, he doesn’t have to brag about being King of the Hill; everyone already knows. “He’s the Steph Curry of the Suicide Race,” one tribal member says. “Loren and Tyler are the Lebrons.”

The second weekend of August 2017 is already on everyone’s calendar. Scott will be back on Eagle Boy, who he now half owns with George Marchand—a 49 percent share. He now has a streak to defend. By early June, high winter snows have melted to fill the Okanogan River, and ecologists are warning of water flows two or three times normal. Scott guesses that, with the river this high, it’ll be too deep for the horses to simply wade across during the Suicide Race; they’ll have to swim for the first time since, he believes, 2002. The year his father won it all.

But on Sunday night in August 2016, after the King of the Hill awards and the pictures, he’s just a high school kid again. He wanders the Indian Encampment with friends, waits in line for fry bread.

Under the pavilion, dancers spin and step, decked in elaborate feathered headdresses and beaded robes. Some have numbers pinned to their costumes, like marathon runners, to compete. In a drum tent, the songs are a steady thrum of chants and cries, indecipherable to the visitors who stand awkwardly outside the rows of seated tribal members who are at once both audience and participant.

Picture this: a quiet mountain lake, bordered by rocky hills dotted with ponderosa pine. In daytime Omak Lake is seven miles of brilliant turquoise, but now, at night, it’s a black mirror. Two men drive a horse trailer to its shore, unloading an unsaddled Eagle Boy.

It’s one of George Marchand’s secrets to success; the lake minerals soothe the bumps and scrapes along the horse’s legs. In the midst of the annual Perseid meteor shower, the uncloudy Okanogan skies are perfect for spotting streaks of celestial light, but the men don’t look up as they dissect the day’s race.

Scott holds Eagle Boy’s halter from a dock while the horse wades into the water, breaking the lake’s calm. The water hasn’t yet cooled from baking under another 90-plus degree day, and the hills that round the lake keep the night air still. They’ve survived another madcap contest together, earned another W. They’re back on the reservation, back home. In the silence the only sound is the lapping of the lake water against a horse.

[theassofwonder]

Oh!! 1, 2, 3 of the Fun meta asks for writers. I would love to know the answers to these questions

Fun meta asks for writers!

1. Tell us about your current project(s)

* ACOTS, obviously- I swear to fuck I’m almost done with part 6! I know I keep saying that but I really do mean it!! I broke 2k last night (this morning?) and I’m in the homestretch! I can see the end in sight (literally, since I wrote the end of the chapter before I wrote most of the middle)!! And then after part 6 there’s only like three more chapters. I started writing  ACOTS only a little over a year ago and I’m more than halfway through? Fuckin mindblowing.

* I started writing more of the we’re sick (like animals) verse because I love it and technically the beginning of what is published was supposed to be in the middle? But then it was going to be waaay too long so I cut the ‘beginning’ (but still have it in a google doc that I check in on)

(more under the cut bc I actually have a fair bit of wip babies)

* not hockey rpf but I started writing a Teen Wolf fanfic? Despite never watching the show? So my only reference for the fic has been other fanfics. lol. It’s called Scotty Doesn’t Know based on the song by the same name and it’s just a mess of half-written snippets that I’m going to have to glue together at some point

* I want to eventually get around to rewriting (and then finishing? maybe?) my two destiel fics Midnight Blue and Holy Ground. Fun fact- I started writing both of those on Wattpad before I found out about ao3 and every chapter title of HG is a taylor swift song. But they’re both currently up on ao3 if anyone wants to give em a look!

* I have several OG fiction novels I’m trying to write as well. the first one has the working title of Messier 30 (it’s a star cluster near the Capricorn constellation) and it’s supposed to be book 1 in a trilogy. The main character used to be named Charlene-call-me-Charlie Elizabeth Roman but I suddenly had a stroke of ACOTS-fueled need to make her half-russian and changed her name to Anastasyia Viktoriya. Her name/ethnicity change shouldn’t change the plotline itself but I guess we’ll see. the second work is set during a zombie apocalypse with flashbacks to the B.Z. (Before Zombies) era and the early days of the apocalypse. the main character’s mom accidentally created the virus and was Patient Zero so MC carries a fuckton of guilt and also she’s gay and her wife was one of the first ones to go since she was Mom’s second on the project

2. Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing

ACOTS: copied straight from the outline :) {The Russian word for uncle is ‘дядя’. It sounds almost identical to ‘dada’. Nikita calls him ‘дядя Sid’ one day and Sid just starts bawling, and then Nikita’s bawling because Sid is bawling and there’s so much tears and snot it’s so gross. Nikita is two years old and therefore has no idea that Sid is crying because he doesn’t just want to be Nikita’s “uncle” he wants to be his dad. It’s a good thing both Geno and Anna are old enough to understand. And reassure him that of course he’s also going to be Nikita’s father, what’s the point of him being with Geno and Anna if he’s not?? Sid admits that while he and Kathy didn’t officially break up in 2010 like the rumors said, they did take a break. Because Sid told Kathy that he was starting to have feelings for Geno. Even though he said it didn’t mean anything because he was with Kathy and he loved her and would never do anything to hurt her} and then everyone basically confesses their love for each other and there’s still a lot of crying but this time it’s happy!!

ALSO APPARENTLY I HAVE NINE CHAPTERS OUTLINED?? NOT TEN?? SO AFTER PART 6 IS DONE I’LL BE TWO-THIRDS DONE

WSLA: Sid and Geno getting together and sneaking around and not being subtle at all but everyone humors them anyway

SDK: this scene where Stiles’ dad tells him he knows he and Derek have been dating, which i made up for the specific context for this line: {“Look,” his dad says. “Scott may not have the sense God gave an ant but I haven’t been Sheriff this long just because of my dashing good looks.”}

MB: there’s a scene near the end where a character from Cas’ past comes in and shoots Cas and Mary knocks the shooter out with a cast iron frying pan and John has mega heart eyes and that’s where the reveal that Dean and Cas are married was supposed to happen

HG: I was kinda into crackfic when i started writing this so that’s why it’s like that in the beginning, but the scene i can’t wait for is heartbreaking and not in the fun way. I joke a lot about being super emotional but seriously. i cried during the outline for this scene. I love it so much.

3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need?

well I guess the good thing is I almost always write The Scene first and then I have to write the setup and context. which still kinda sucks, but at least it’s more motivation to write all the other nonsense- and then sometimes I write something in the middle of all the nonsense that almost rivals The Scene?? and that’s my favorite part about writing. 

[introvert-celeste]

Do you have an issues going on with jasper and why it seems like she's getting shafted despite being talked about a bunch of times by RS in the past and the fact that they are possibly not going to address the lapis and bismuth situation and it's possibly resolved off screen in the time skip and it's going to be a barn situation (peridot and lapis becoming friends quickly despite lapis really hated her) which is probably why some people are turned off by seeing peridot, lapis and bismuth togeth?

Oh, anon, anon, anon...you brought this upon yourself. Now you have to listen to my long ass theory about how jasper, Lapis, and Bismuth are all connected and that connection lies in Beta. I don’t feel like linking to all the other posts I’ve done on it, simply because I don’t feel like digging them up, so you’re about to get the long explanation.

Now, do I have a problem how the show is currently treating Jasper? No, not really. Not anymore. I’ve become jaded by her absence and I can stand to wait a little longer if I have to. I would love to see her as soon as possible, but I don’t think her presence...fits with the movie. I mean, she’s still technically an antagonist. Nothing has been resolved with her.

Do I have a problem with Lapis and Bismuth’s miraculously friendly relationship, despite the fact that Bismuth poofed Lapis, which inadvertently led to her being trapped in the mirror for thousands of years? No, because Rebecca confirmed today at SDCC that Lapis doesn’t know that our Bismuth was the one who poofed her (it also confirms that that was our Bismuth, which was never explicitly stated previously).

With that out of the way, I begin.

It all starts 5750 years ago, when Blue Diamond showed up with her entourage to deal with Rose Quartz and her “small but persistent” rebellion, which was basically just her and Pearl wrecking shit. Among her entourage is a gem that looks like Lapis, same gem placement, hair shape, everything.

Lapis claims in Same Old World that “we” (suggesting she was a part of group) “were only supposed to visit for a short time” (meaning Blue Diamond expected to capture Rose Quartz quickly), so it fits in with the previous assumption. She goes on to say “but we got caught in the middle of the war.”

Keep in mind that the rebellion prior to the events in The Answer consisted only of Rose/Pink and Pearl, the only gem she could trust. Pink was fight solely for the Earth and it’s organic inhabitants against gemkind. After she met Garnet, she realized that gems like her are also worth fighting for, so she would have likely started accepting more gems into her group, starting with Garnet. More gems means stronger forces, and stronger forces of gems who have been abused by Homeworld in ways Pink probably wasn’t even aware of meant a bad time for Homeworld. Rose’s little rebellion grew into an all out war.

Peridot says in Beta that “halfway through the rebellion, Homeworld scrambled to generate extra soldiers on the ground.” The rebellion began ~6000 years ago and ended a thousand years later, so halfway would have been ~5500 years ago, which is when Jasper was born. Well, that’s when she started fighting against the Crystal Gems, according to the Guide to the Crystal Gems, but considering Eyeball said that Jasper “came out with [her] helmet on and shattered 80 Crystal Gems before the sun went down!” I think we can reasonably assume Jasper was born in the middle of a battle.

5500 years ago also lines up with the Lapis’ claim that she was “caught in the middle of the war,” a quote that corresponds with the lower image of the two above. 5500 years ago is 250 years after the events of The Answer. To spare you any more unnecessary elaboration, my theory is that the Crystal Gems grew rapidly after Rose met Garnet, and Blue Diamond employed her own entourage to help create more Homeworld soldiers on Earth. The Beta kindergarten strongly resembles Antelope Canyon, which is shaped by yearly flooding, so I’d say Lapis is pretty qualified to help cut this kindergarten.

As you can see, the top image shows Lapis in a green landscape, corresponding with her first assertion that she was “only supposed to visit for a short time.” The second image, meant to be the same location, it rocky and barren, telltale signs of a kindergarten that has sucked the life from the surrounding area. There is also the outline of what appears to be an injector in the bottom right corner and, most obviously,a group of Jaspers running in the background. Immediately after this image, a couple of the Jaspers actually explode into shards. Not poofed, because there is no orange smoke. Only a bright flash of light and bits of rock, whether from the gem or from the ground, flying up into the air.

Here’s when Jasper was poofed for reference.

So, it wasn’t just a battle...it was massacre. Sure, Jasper “took out” more than her fair share of Crystal Gems, and I’m sure her fellow Betas had few scruples over shattering the gems that were attacking them fresh out of the ground, but from how Peridot was trashing it, saying it was “too small” and “obviously a total rush job,” I doubt it would have been hard to shatter them. The way she criticizes the shape and locations of the exit holes suggests that the vast majority of the Betas were defective, with Jasper being the overly perfect exception. We also have to consider who else was present.

As I mentioned before, Rebecca confirmed that this was our Bismuth. As we know, Bismuth isn’t opposed to shattering, not like Rose. While I don’t think she’s a ruthless murderer--after all, she didn’t damage Lapis’ gem here--she’s far from a passive fighter. Bismuth has led a life of hardship, and she was among gems who also led lives of hardship, and Beta was Homeworld’s newest military tactic. To quote Greg, “there’s no such thing as a good war.” That’s only bolstered by the fact that the first time Beta was even mentioned was in It Could Have Been Great, when Peridot pointed it out as the Cluster’s insertion point. You know, THE CLUSTER, as in the gigantic ball of gem shards deep in the Earth’s mantle? That Cluster. Beta is where it was inserted into the ground, which implies that there was such an excess of gem shards that, combined, they could eventually create an entity that would destroy the planet just by forming. I’m sorry, that just...it’s truly upsetting.

That being said, I believe that this is one of the reasons Beta hasn’t been talked about in the show yet, besides via Peridot’s third-party perspective. She didn’t even exist then. It isn’t something anyone wants to talk about, whether out of shame or grief. Many, many gems on both sides were likely shattered there.

SO, what does all of this mean?

It means that no, I don’t think Jasper is being shafted, although I do with they would have addressed all of this earlier, at least some of it. I think the right time hasn’t happened yet, and that nothing has been resolved. Lapis doesn’t know who Bismuth really is, so there really isn’t anything to resolve until they start talking about what happened at Beta which, as I mentioned, doesn’t seem like the sort of thing the gems who experienced it would bring up in casual conversation. It would be a heavy topic.

And as I’ve speculated, I seriously doubt Jasper took the news about Pink Diamond well. She has a history of running off on her own, and Beta is the only logical location for her to go at this point. It was where she was made, and it’s not a place where anyone else is bound to go, given it’s history. I believe this is where the Beta discussion will begin: when they specifically go out looking for Jasper and she reveals the awful truth of the place. That will lead to discussion of Lapis and Bismuth’s involvement, as well as Bismuth’s inadvertent responsibility for Lapis’ suffering.

Unlike before, we’re now in a position where we can hear all three sides of the story. Bismuth is unbubbled, is on friendly terms with everyone, and has made peace with what happened with Rose. Lapis no longer has an incentive to run away, now that the Diamonds aren’t threats, and has time to settle into the family dynamic. Jasper is uncorrupted, but otherwise at her most vulnerable, now that she knows that Rose Quartz, the gem that basically ruined her life, was also the gem jasper has wanted to avenge since she was “shattered.” She won’t do anything to hurt Steven, now that she knows who he really is, and he’s more likely to get an honest answer out of her. Think of all the backstory that was necessary to get to this point and you will find that they really couldn’t have done this any earlier without taking away from it.

So, while I am dying to see Jasper again, I don’t want her to be in the movie. I want them to save her for season 6, when we can have a proper arc for her, like she deserves, and I want Bismuth and Lapis to be a part of this arc. I want them to shed some light on Beta.

[bi-bi-richie]

A Little Deadlight Never Killed Anyone ( 3 / 3 )

Richie is about to leave Derry, he's about to leave for the last time and move on. He's about to leave Eddie. But, first, he's got to carve something back into the kissing bridge he left in 1989. Little does he know that a short trip to find closure will give him everything he's ever wanted and more.

...

“Dunno why you’re gonna start writing your own material now,” Eddie mentioned as they ate in his car during their drive. “You still have the sense of humor of a thirteen-year-old.”

“Yowza!” Richie chuckled, “Eds! Think of my fragile ego!” then he winced when Eddie flicked him in the side of the head.

“That’s not the only thing that’s fragile, I see.”

“Gee, Eds,” he rubbed at the spot on his head but smiled nonetheless, “maybe you should write my material from now on!”

“Hm!” Eddie placed his burger on his lap then threw his hands up in the air like he was presenting something, “I can see it now! Richie Trashmouth Tozier’s comedy special, How I Killed a Literal Demon Clown Twice, written by his fellow repressed gay man.”

“Fellow repressed gay man, eh? Is that what they call boyfriends now?” Richie barked out a laugh at the thought of it, “my name is Richie Tozier and this is my fellow repressed gay man, Eddie Kaspbrak!”

Eddie cackled right next to him and nodded his head, “if anyone else in the audience has a fellow repressed gay man, please stand up! We want to give you a round of applause!”

...

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Ao3

“Hello, this is Eddie Kaspbrak, I was an old friend of your husband’s, Stanley Uris.”

It’s a hard call to make, Mike would probably argue otherwise but to Eddie, it was the hardest. Probably because he’s about to sound crazy, like he’s some insane prank caller, but Eddie has a rough outline of a plan. He knew about the letters that Stan sent to everyone, he figures it’d be easier to just say he read the message in the letter rather than tell her he’s been to heaven and saw her dead husband as a thirteen-year-old boy again.

“Oh,” Patty said over the phone, a slight shudder in her voice. “I’m so sorry, I’m not sure if you got a letter or not, but my husband-” she pauses, Eddie hears the whimper in her voice and for a moment he’s scared he might cry as well. “He’s passed on.”

Eddie pauses, he hears her let out a muffled sob and he finally has to let himself take a deep breath. He has to get through this. “I… I’m actually calling about the letter I was given. He gave me specific instructions at the end to call this number and- and read out the message he wrote.”

Eddie wished he had a script then, but Stan didn’t exactly give him much to go off of. Maybe it wasn’t Eddie’s place to try and give his wife closure like this, but it breaks his heart to think that she’ll have to keep living without another word from him, that she probably won’t see him even after she dies.

“He wanted me to tell you that he’s sorry. He’s sorry that it doesn’t all make sense and that he can’t explain it, but he’s sorry. He wants you to know that he’s happy now, he’s probably somewhere where the grass is green and the sun never stops shining. He’s safe, he’s safe in a way he was never safe before, in a way he wishes he could help you understand. He’s okay. He’s okay and he loves you. He loves you so much and he hopes he’ll see you again one day.”

It’s completely silent over the other line, Eddie desperately hopes that what he said was good, that it’s what Stan would’ve wanted. Eddie looks over to Richie who’s sitting in a chair at the other side of the room with a worried look. Richie has a soft smile for him and Eddie feels himself relax just a little bit.

There’s some sniffling on the other side of the phone then a voice that sounds a little taller than it had a few seconds ago. “Thank you so much.” And when she hangs up, Eddie doesn’t blame her at all.

…

It had been a lot for the entire losers club to handle in the past week. On top of Eddie, who they had already mourned over, being alive and not even injured, the news he had was beyond comprehensible. Most of them didn’t believe him at first, Bill had laughed out loud when Eddie explained that he went to what looked like heaven, he claimed there was no such thing and even if there was, he couldn’t imagine Pennywise’s victims actually getting there. Mike agreed that there could’ve been a force of magic stopping them from actually going to heaven and Eddie supposed he had to sort of agree, but what he saw was heaven and he stood by that. Granted, he wasn’t actually sure what limitations the heaven had. Stan said every Pennywise victim, surely that had to include the horrible people like the Bowers gang, would they be allowed in heaven? Do innocent people go to this heaven? Do bad people find themselves in their own personal hell? Eddie didn’t know.

Eddie mekely talked about Georgie then. He didn’t know much but he knew that, according to Stan, he had to of been in that heaven with multiple other kids for years, he wasn’t alone. And now he was definitely not alone because Stan was there with him. Bill got quiet then and it made Eddie feel like he had said something wrong. He was really trying to be as sensitive with the topic as possible but maybe, with all the years of struggling for closure, this could be too much.

That thought left his mind when Bill looked up at all of them with tears in his eyes but a smile on his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered.

…

Richie had never felt so depressed yet relieved to be walking back into the commons of Derry, specifically the Derry Town House. Depressed because he was supposed to already be halfway back home at that point but relieved because he was beside the man he loves. He could stand another night in the old building if it meant walking out the next morning hand in hand with Eddie.

When they walked back into their room, Richie was quick to throw himself onto the bed and snuggle into the Derry smelling covers and almost drifted off into sleep right then and there. “Jesus, Eds, I haven’t felt this exhausted since the first time I fucked your mom!”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Eddie grumbled. When Richie didn’t feel his warmth near him, he slowly picked his head up and looked over to the chair. Eddie looked anxious where he sat, fiddling with his fingers, similar to how he looked the night they got in Derry.

“Hey,” Richie said warmly. He picked himself up from his position on the bed and walked over to Eddie. He crouched down to eye level with his friend (boyfriend? Lover? He doesn’t know now) and tried to give him a comforting smile. “We killed It, okay? Nothing’s gonna get you.”

Eddie sighed and shook his head. “No, Rich, it’s not that…”

They stayed silent for a moment longer, Richie was really waiting to see if he had more to say but when the silence dragged on he decided to prompt him with a hand on his knee and a nod of his head.

“It’s just,” Eddie groaned, “I know what I have to do, I know what the next step is, I just don’t know what to do afterward.”

Richie rocked himself on the balls of his feet then let his body fall back and sit there. “What do you have to do?”

Eddie shrugged but he knew the answer, “I have to leave Myra. It’s long overdue and, honestly, I’ve been wanting to do it ever since I signed that damn marriage license.”

The other man chuckled a little at that, “what? The vows weren’t what made you realize your mistake?”

“Uh, yeah,” Eddie scratched the back of his neck, “there- well, there- there wasn’t a wedding.”

The silence then was very, very awkward. Richie always sort of wondered if Eddie really put that much effort into a marriage he wasn’t even happy in, but he didn’t realize that Eddie actually didn’t put any effort into the marriage.

“I know, I know-” Eddie groaned again, “ god, I know, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t walk down the aisle to her. To somebody I don’t love. Technically, I didn’t even propose to her either. My mom told her that I was going to, then Myra told me she knew and started trying to plan a wedding. I tried to tell my mom that I wasn’t ready to get married, but since she was dying at the time she guilt-tripped me by claiming that I was trying to tear away the experience of having a daughter-in-law and grandchildren from her.” He let out a bitter laugh at the memory and it made Richie’s heart twist. “Funny enough, she died before we married and I still couldn’t find it in me to call it off.”

Richie watched him for a few more seconds, watched the heartbreak and misery dance in his eyes before he prompted him to keep speaking again. “Why are you afraid of what comes after?”

A selfish piece of Richie was silently aching at the thought of Eddie being afraid because of Richie. It’s no lie that Richie had already been imagining a life with Eddie, he was already planning on leaving Derry with him that next morning but he couldn’t stop his mind from planning the rest. He wanted to take Eddie back to his home, the one he had picked out in a nice neighborhood with a nice park nearby. The home was big and spacious, he picked out comfortable furniture that wasn’t even remotely his type but he always imagined that someone (someone he couldn’t remember) would one day walk in and love it. He had a first-aid kit in almost every room and even though he didn’t really care to actually pull them out if he got hurt, he imagined someone would be proud of him for it. The place was always stocked up with sweets he didn’t even care for, but he always ate them because they always brought back a memory he couldn’t see clearly or place right. Strawberry ice cream was always in his freezer even though his favorite flavor was rocky road. He didn’t know why he did all these over-the-top things for a person he couldn’t even remember the name of but he always did it without a second thought. He didn’t know until he saw Eddie standing next to a fish tank in a Chinese restaurant not even a week ago.

“I don’t know. I mean, I have a vague plan. She’ll probably want… everything, so I’ll probably just take my clothes and end up in a hotel for a few weeks, then I’ll have to start-”

“Wait.” Richie cut him off and put his hand off as if to sign it too. “Why would you be staying in a hotel?”

Eddie looked at him with a puzzled look as if it was obvious why. “I… I won’t have anywhere to live, Rich, I can’t be on the street.”

“Yeah, obviously,” Richie stood up then and walked over to where Eddie sat, “that’s why you’re going to be staying with me? I thought that was obvious.”

The smaller man stared blankly at Richie before his face broke out into a confused, hesitant smile and was followed by an equally confused and hesitant laugh. “What? Richie, there’s no way I could do that to you.”

“You’re not doing anything to me-”

“I can’t just walk into your life like that, that’s not- I can’t.”

“Oh please,” Richie rolled his eyes, though it was in a fond gesture. “You didn’t just ‘walk into my life,’ you’ve always been there, even if I didn’t remember you.”

Eddie still shook his head, “it’s too much, I can’t do that to you.”

“Do what? Hurt me? Trust me, Eds, it’ll hurt way worse if I have to walk out of here without you by my side.”

The older man just sighed and looked down at the floor then. Richie thought he was going to cry, he looked like he was going to cry and that thought broke Richie’s heart. He’s cried so much already and Richie knows he’ll cry even more if he finds himself alone in a hotel room come the following week.

“Eddie,” Richie placed his hands on the latter’s shoulders and leaned down to press a kiss on the top of his head. “I love you, I always have. Even when I didn’t remember you, I always loved you. You were always in the back of my mind, always plaguing my thoughts. No matter what I did, I always had this sexy little gremlin of a man who talks faster than the sound barrier can handle.”

Eddie chuckled at that and looked back up to meet Richie’s magnified, purely love-filled eyes. “I’ve been waiting for you, Kaspbrak, I’ve waited my whole life for you and I’m not going to let you go a second time.”

The two of them smiled and both of them knew the answer then.

…

At 12:36 am the next day, Richie and Eddie were already on the road outside of Derry and on their way to Chicago. There was still a lot to do, not only did Eddie have to tell his (soon to be ex) wife that he was alive and ready to split, but both men had to let their jobs know that they didn’t die and that a few things were going to have to change.

For one, Eddie had to let his company know that he’d be working in a whole other state. Also, he might want to beg not to lose his job considering the fact that he went at least three days without reporting back to them. Oh, and he’s going to actually need to sign up for therapy this time, all the losers will but him and Richie already discussed it and decided to make appointments very, very soon.

Richie will have to make some changes too. He had two shows scheduled for the days he went missing so he’ll have to deal with the refunds and the consequences of losing that money, not to mention the fact that all shows will have to be canceled until further notice due to the fact that he’s recovering from… trauma. On top of all that, he’s going to have to come up with some excuse as to why he was gone out of the blue like that and why he’s suddenly moving in a man they’ve never met before. It sounds like a dumb thing to have to explain but apparently his business is their business. Oh, and he’s going to be writing his own material from now on.

“Dunno why you’re gonna start writing your own material now,” Eddie mentioned as they ate in his car during their drive. “You still have the sense of humor of a thirteen-year-old.”

“Yowza!” Richie chuckled, “Eds! Think of my fragile ego!” then he winced when Eddie flicked him in the side of the head.

“That’s not the only thing that’s fragile, I see.”

“Gee, Eds,” he rubbed at the spot on his head but smiled nonetheless, “maybe you should write my material from now on!”

“Hm!” Eddie placed his burger on his lap then threw his hands up in the air like he was presenting something, “I can see it now! Richie Trashmouth Tozier’s comedy special, How I Killed a Literal Demon Clown Twice, written by his fellow repressed gay man.”

“Fellow repressed gay man, eh? Is that what they call boyfriends now?” Richie barked out a laugh at the thought of it, “my name is Richie Tozier and this is my fellow repressed gay man, Eddie Kaspbrak!”

Eddie cackled right next to him and nodded his head, “if anyone else in the audience has a fellow repressed gay man, please stand up! We want to give you a round of applause!”

Richie knows he hasn’t laughed that hard in years, hell, he knows he hasn’t even been that funny in years and he wasn’t even the funny one.

“Y’know, Eds,” he said as he chucked a ketchup packet at Eddie’s head, “I think I figured out why I couldn’t write my own material before.”

Eddie giggled, “why’s that, Trashmouth?”

“Well, I think I need a special Kaspbrak by my side to truly be funny.”

Eddie stopped laughing and just smiled at him then, it was true that his recorded humor wasn’t the same as the funny shit-talking boy he knew back in Derry. Eddie wondered, as he watched his shows, if that’s just how Richie was now. Words couldn’t express how relieved he felt when he saw the man face-to-face and realized that he hadn’t changed a bit.

“But since I don’t have your mom anymore, I guess I have to settle for you.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

…

They were close to Richie’s home now. Richie knew the way around like the back of his hand at this point, meaning that he got lost a few times because Richie doesn’t know shit about the back of his hand. But when he finally knew where he was going, he started to feel himself get twitchy and anxious. Would Eddie like the house? Shit, would Eddie like living with him? Would he be enough? Is he enough right now? Is this what Eddie really wants?

“Richie, I can hear your thoughts from over here,” Eddie whispered because the silence in the car was to thick for him to break.

“Sorry, Eds, guess I’m just thinking.”

Eddie nodded his head, then he shyly looked down. “I’ve been thinking too.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.”

“Do tell!”

Eddie huffed out a laugh then sat himself up in the car. “Maybe this is a bit forward, but I think me and you are on the same page about this.”

Richie turned his head to look at Eddie then with a confused look, “what do you mean?”

The smaller man sighed and shrugged his shoulders, “I was just thinking… That when we’re settled in together, like with our jobs and my marriage and just living together, that I want to marry you.”

Richie froze then, his thoughts coming to a complete stop and his heart skipped at least three beats. The whole world seemed to stop for just a moment, then it kicked into full gear and Richie couldn’t answer fast enough.

“Yes!” He gasped out.

“Yes? You want to marry me?”

“Yes! Yes, oh my god, yes! Fuck, of course, I want to marry you!” Richie leaned over and pressed his lips against Eddie’s then peppered them all over his freckled face. “Please, yes, fuck! Yes, let’s get married.”

Eddie’s giggles were like music to Richie’s ears and Richie was just soaking it all in. But, really, what’s the rush?

They have forever.

[ghostofviperwrites]

Hotel Surprise

Requested by @lclb13

Pairing:  Sanada/FC/Evil

Category:   Smut

Word Count: 1922

Warnings: threesome, light choking, gagging

63. “We both know that you want it, so stop complaining.”

64. “I’ll make sure you can’t walk tomorrow.”

In the months you had worked for LIJ you had seen many things.  You had sidestepped more propositions than you cared to count.  At some point the guys had seemingly realized you weren’t going to drop your panties for them and moved on.   You had learned to deal with Naito’s casual nudity.   If you hadn’t seen it for yourself you may doubt the man actually owned any clothing given how many times you had walked in on him butt naked.   You had learned not to give him the satisfaction of a response, keeping your face impassive even though internally you were screaming like a hussy. Because Tetsuya Naito naked was a sight to see.  You had managed to keep the obsession you had with Bushi and his bulge under wraps.   Sneaking furtive glances as you imagined just how big his package must be when every pair of pants he owned seemed to outline it prominently.   Hiromu had you wrapped around his little finger and he knew it.  You just couldn’t tell the charming man no and he worked that to his full advantage.  The only place you had any restraint was in rebuffing his propositions.     You admired from a distance, but you didn’t actively lust after them.  Not like the other two.  And what you had just walked in on didn’t help your situation. 

Quietly opening the door to Sanada’s hotel room the last thing you expected to find was three people in his bed.   You were used to escorting women out.  It was a part of your job description.  Get the girl up and out and then wake up the LIJ member.   You didn’t have a lot of practice with Evil or Sanada.  They rarely brought anyone back to their hotel rooms and if they did they had no problem kicking them out as soon as they were finished.   That wasn’t the case this morning.  Instead you were treated to a naked Evil sprawled facedown halfway across the bed, his hand resting on a pert ass connected to a nude female who was draped across an equally naked Sanada, her head on his stomach, hair draped over his groin hiding his cock from view.   Not that you were trying to look.   Of course if you happened to get a good look as you were extricating their guest you really couldn’t be blamed for that could you? 

You stepped further into the room eyes trailing over Evil’s form once again before stopping at the edge of the bed as you tried to figure out how this was going to work.  Luckily you were saved from having to wonder if she was a screamer as her eyes slowly opened, blinking as she looked around the room in confusion.

“Come on sweetheart, it’s time for you to go,” You said softly reaching out a hand to guide her as she crawled off the edge of the bed.  You helped her find her clothes, all the while sneaking peaks at the specimens on the bed, getting a very good look at what was between Sanada’s legs now that there was no obstruction.   You froze as Evil grunted rolling over onto his back, his hand falling on his stomach.  You only tore your eyes away as she came into your line of sight regaining your attention.  She looked like the two of them had definitely put her through the wringer.   The strap of her dress was torn and hanging pitifully down her arm.  Makeup was smeared down her face and her hair was a rat’s nest that looked like it had been yanked in every direction.   They had not taken any care with her that was for sure.  You told yourself it was pity and not envy burning in your gut as you guided her towards the door.

“You don’t think I’m a whore do you?”  She asked quietly.  “Cause I’m not.  I’ve never gone home with two guys before.  I just couldn’t resist.” 

“No, I don’t think you’re a whore.”  You reassured her.  “Look at them.  Two gorgeous, sexy, virile men.  Who could resist?”   Closing the hotel door behind her you turned back to the bed only to find yourself staring into the unamused expression of Evil.  A still completely nude Evil you may add.  Fixing your eyes on the wall above the headboard you apologized.

“I’m sorry, I was just escorting your…” You cleared your throat nervously. “Guest, from the room.”  

“So I heard.” Evil said.   “I heard a lot of things.”   You blushed studiously staring at a dot on the wall hoping he would just let it go and you could run like hell out of here.  “A lot of things that make me think you’re a fucking liar.” 

“Who’s a fucking liar?”  Sanada groaned his body arching off the bed as he stretched and there was no way your eyes were not drawn to that, staring until you heard the clearing of a throat reminding you that Evil was watching your every move.  Once again you flushed, looking at the ceiling and biting your lip as your heart raced. 

‘Her.”  Evil said.  Opening his eyes Sanada squinted seeing you there for the first time. 

“I already knew that.”  Sanada said.  “Where’d what’s her face go?  I want my dick sucked.”  He looked around the room, glaring at you when he found no trace of her.

“She kicked her out.”  Evil said helpfully with smirk.  “I think she was jealous.” 

“I was not jealous!”  You snapped.  “My job is to get rid of your little playthings before you wake up.  I was just doing my job.” 

“We’ve never told you to do that” Sanada said, Evil nodding in agreement.   You went to argue but you realized that technically that was correct.  The other three had their instructions, but Evil and Sanada had never implicitly said to get rid of their conquests. They were quite efficient at that themselves. 

You decided it was past time to go.   They were up.  Your duty was done. 

“I’ve got things to do.  I don’t have all day to stand here and argue with the two of you.”  You turned to leave and got as far as you hand on the door handle when Evil’s command stopped you in your tracks. 

“I don’t remember dismissing you.” He said sharply.  “You don’t get to just walk out on us.” 

“Excuse me?” You said turning around with fire in your eyes ready to lay into him, though you were immediately cursing yourself for forgetting they were still naked, lying in that damn bed and looking more tempting than any men had a right to. 

“We weren’t done with you yet.”  Evil responded dragging you from your gaping.  “I believe Sanada wanted his dick sucked, and I wouldn’t mind getting my dick wet either.” 

“And that’s my problem how?” You sneered, arms folding across your chest as you struggled to keep your eyes on Evil’s face.  

“You did chase off the one who was going to do it for us,” Sanada spoke up.  “I think it only fair you resolve the situation yourself.” 

“You are out of your goddamn minds.” You said flatly while trying to ignore that inner voice that was begging you to capitulate.   “I think I’ve made it quite clear I have no interest in any of you boys.” 

“So you’ve said.  Except you’re a liar.”  Evil rebutted.  “I heard quite clearly what you said to that girl.  Pretending you don’t want us isn’t going to fly anymore.” 

“We both know that you want it, so stop complaining and get your ass in this bed.”  Sanada snapped his patience reaching its end.  Throwing common sense and caution to the wind you gave in, stripping out of your clothes and crawling in between them.   Too late to back out know you pushed that inner voice screaming this was a horrible idea to the back of your mind.  Immediately they were on you, Sanada pulling you to his mouth pressing his tongue past your lips as Evil pressed himself to your back his hot mouth landing on your neck and kissing the sensitive flesh.  Evil’s hands cupped your breasts, fingers plucking at your nipples making you moan into Sanada’s mouth.  

Reaching between your legs Sanada’s fingers found your heat, stroking over your folds until they were a slick mess under his movements.  Tearing from the kiss, Sanada guided you with a firm hand on the back of the head down to his cock as Evil shifted behind you to pull you up onto your knees.   Your gasp of surprise was muffled around Sanada’s cock as Evil shoved into you with a hard thrust his hips slapping against your ass.  Evil rested one hand on your hip and reached the other around to rub along your slit making you hum against Sanada’s dick as he continued moving bobbing you on his length.  

A particularly brutal series of thrusts had your eyes watering making you pull yourself free from Sanada’s grip to complain.

“To hard.” You gasped as Sanada grunted in disapproval and pulled you right back onto his dick.

“Shut up.”  Evil retorted.  “I’ll fuck you as hard as I want. I’ll make sure you can’t walk tomorrow.”  He snapped his hips and roughly pinched your clit making you whimper and shudder around his cock at the same time.   Flattening his hand Evil smacked your pussy with his palm while Sanada’s hand knotted in your hair ripping at your scalp.   Sanada kept you firmly on his dick as he maneuvered up onto his knees beginning to thrust down your throat as Evil slammed you forward with every move behind you.   Any semblance of control you had was lost as the two men expertly manhandled you, settling into an easy rhythm that spoke of their experience.  

Another stinging slap was delivered to your pussy, once again your cry muffled around Sanada until you choked as he pressed hard into the back of your throat, his hands lacing together behind your head as he held you in place against your struggles.   Both of Evil’s hands gripped onto your waist, pulling you back against his cock as he slammed forward hitting you deeply inside.  Finally Sanada pulled you clear allowing you to gulp in air as Evil continued to ram into your pussy.  

“Get ready to swallow.”  Sanada directed pushing you back onto his cock.  You sucked around him as he stroked himself with your mouth his hips stuttering as his orgasm approached.  Your eyes were on his face watching as his eyes drifted closed and he froze in your mouth, his cock jerking as cum coated your tongue. 

Pushing you off him Sanada rose from the bed and headed straight for the shower leaving you with Evil.  His hand moved to the back of your neck, pressing your face down into the mattress as he continued pounding into you.  You moaned loudly as he hit hard inside you, muffled by the bedspread as he moved his hand to the back of your head and kept your face pressed into it.  After several more quick deep thrusts Evil pulled from your cunt, stroking his cock and shooting streams of hot cum over your ass and back before collapsing onto the bed and breathing heavily. 

“You know where the door is.”  He said.  “Get the fuck out.” 

[attackofthezee]

STUCKY REC LIST 10/6/18

I realized it’s been a bit since I did a rec list! I link to fics I’ve read and enjoyed over the week in my weekly writing round ups, but I don’t tag those posts as fic recs (it feels a little too self promoting to tag something about my own writing with fic recs, I can’t seem to do it) soooo I feel like it doesn’t count. So here, have a list of fics I highkey recommend right now. They’re all beautiful majestic fics and everyone should read them.

The Heart of a Dying Star by layersofart (layersofsilence), velleities

As ancient legends have it, mighty magical weapons can be forged in the heart of a dying star.

Wanda, driven by her desire to avenge her brother’s death and backed by Hydra and their secret plans, uses ancient magic to knock a star down from the sky.

Halfway across the land, Steve, the Captain of the Avengers Guard, finds a fallen star named Bucky.

Do you want to feel like you’re reading a fairy tale? Because like, this fic feels straight up like reading a fairy tale. It’s wonderful and soft and also like vaguely a Stardust AU while not actually being a Stardust AU and tbh it’s wonderful, just wonderful. Go read it and fall in love with Star!Bucky and total sweetheart Steve Rogers just like I did.

Howitzer by spacebuck

Bucky Barnes, figure skating champion, is forced to switch his skates for hockey ones when he leaves for college. Problem is, he's never played hockey before, and now he has to be good enough to get the scholarship he needs. Enter Steve Rogers, Carter University Men's Hockey player, who's decided that he'd do anything to get this guy on his team.

Cue five am runs, overwhelming classes, new friends, plenty of snow, and a sport that's fast becoming a way of life.

This fic has been on my To-Read List for approximately six thousand years, and part of me regrets not reading it sooner while the other is really glad I waited because I was reading it while having a rough week and guys, it was like the cure to my overdramatic issues that week. I like hockey a decent amount because it’s dudes being mildly homoerotic on ice and I find nothing bad about that, but I don’t really know about hockey, y’know? And after reading this I felt like I knew about hockey, which was a pretty fantastic experience tbh. I haven’t felt that feel since my fave fic back in Bandom days left me super interested in rugby for a while. Also the relationship between Steve and Bucky in this is fucking beautiful, and the descriptions of the games left me feeling incredibly invested in them and the author deserves literally all the love for that.

What's left behind by Niitza

The thing was, after waking up in that new century, that strange future where nothing and no one was the same, not even himself, it had never occurred to Steve to wonder again if the effects of the serum were permanent.

Catch me outside perpetually screaming about this fic. It’s told in chunks of 200 words and while I found myself inevitably wanting more of every chunk it also worked so well for this fic and is also something I admire because while I believe in brevity, I also have absolutely zero self control and if a scene wanted to be 500 words I’d end up writing 500 words. It’s just, it’s SO GOOD, and if you’re like, super bad at focusing like I am the way it’s told is a surefire way of catching attention and sucking in. It’s just really beautiful and wonderful and I recommend that you don’t take my word for it and go read it to find out for yourself.

Keep the Torch Lit by thepartyresponsible

“Logan,” Charles says, delicately. “Do you know the whereabouts of the Winter Soldier?”

“Nope,” Logan lies, easy as anything. “Haven’t heard a damn thing, Chuck.”

“Logan,” Charles says, “have you forgotten I’m a telepath?”

“Well,” Logan says, a little less pleasantly, “I sure forgot you’re a Goddamn nosy son of a bitch.”

Listen, okay, this fic is not Stucky, at least not technically. Technically it’s Logan/Bucky with past Steve/Bucky but like even the Logan/Bucky isn’t really the focus and if you want to (like me) it’s definitely possible to read future Stucky into this fic. also this is my rec list and I do what I want ya’ll. The focus on this isn’t the shipping, and tbh that’s what makes it so glorious. The focus is on the goddamn glorious motherfuckin Wolverine, aka the love of my life since I was a wee lass watching the x-men animated series back in the 90s and falling facefirst into simultaneous crushes on both Logan and Rogue. Biromanticism ya’ll, it started early. This fic is hysterical. Logan’s voice is so spot on and so very LOGAN that every line manages to be grumpy and hysterical and also reveal that hidden layer of just caring too much that I really believe is like, the true hallmark of a well written Logan. He doesn’t want to care, but he does care, and that’s like the crux of all his issues y’know? That’s why he takes in asshole super soldier assassins that half the world is after when they give the shitty reason of ‘war buddies, you gotta.’  

I could write several paragraphs on my epic love for this fic but I feel like the biggest reason to read it that I can give is that I’ve now read it three times and as a person who barely ever reads things even twice, that’s a huge thing for me. Also it has an appearance of a Charles who’s kinda a dick and tbh that’s how I love my Charles.

ALL OF THAT BEING SAID, if you can stand Bucky being even hinted at being with someone other than Steve, and if you don’t for some strange reason hate Wolverine (which if you do, who hurt you????) then go read this fic. It’s 4400 words of fucking brilliance.

Baby You Should Stick Around by neenya, nephropsis

If somebody had told Steve he and Bucky would end up raising Bucky's clone as their son, he'd probably have- wait, no, he wouldn't have done anything, because nobody would ever have said that.

And yet. Here they are.

Listen, this is one of those fics that I opened up expecting something fun and lighthearted and y’know, just a normal kidfic. What I got was 33k of a seriously beautifully written fic that gave me some seriously intense feelings. It was not what I expected whatsoever and it was all the better for that. I, personally, need to occasionally open up something I don’t expect to make me feel and then experience all the feelings because I am in the words of my former therapist ‘a shaken up soda bottle, building up pressure and just waiting to explode.’ True story. MY PERSONAL ISSUES ASIDE, this is beautiful and sad at times but with like, a really wonderful ending that made me feel A LOT OF THINGS. (The point of this is that this fic made me feel a lot of things. Like just, a lot of things. So many things) And there is this certain quality to the writing, at least to me, that really lets you feel the fact that Steve is having Issues and Steve is not realizing these Issues, and because of that he’s not able to be entirely present in this life that he has with Bucky. It’s wonderfully unique, and wonderfully written, and while not one I can reread super often (because of those aforementioned FEELINGS) it is seriously such a quality piece of work and one I’d somehow never stumbled upon despite it being written four years ago.

Black Dog by leveragehunters (Monkeygreen)

So long ago the details were lost to time, people began creating guardians of the dead. They were made from dogs, dogs who were buried in graveyards before anyone was laid to rest, their spirits arising as black dogs, bound protectors of the human dead.

Steve had always wondered what would happen after he died. He hadn't expected the answer to be 'wake up in the cemetery he'd been buried in', but here he was, some kind of ghost, and he could see the trees through his hands. It wasn't so bad, and he wasn't alone—a sleek black dog, golden eyes glowing bright, was happily waiting to greet him.

Decades later, on what was supposed to be a quiet, peaceful, definitely-not-life-changing walk through the woods, Bucky stumbled across an abandoned cemetery and into the impossible.

(It's a ghost story and a love story and a story about dogs.)

I’ve talked about my love for absolutely everything leveragehunters writes, I know I have, but oh my god, Black Dog hits it out of the goddamn park. There’s A GOOD DOG! AND STEVE IS A GOOD DOG EVEN THOUGH HE’S NOT REALLY A DOG! And Laika! I GENUINELY CRIED OVER LAIKA!  And I DON’T OFTEN CRY OVER FICS!! I just, this was so beautiful and there’s always something so special about leveragehunters’ world building in their urban fantasy and magical realism fics in that it never feels heavy handed, never feels like I’m getting a bunch of info dumped on my head, but I always leave the fic feeling like I’ve seen this brand new world and understood it in the way the characters do even if that world is just a little bit left of the one we’re in now.

Also this is just a really good, nice fic to read while curled up with one’s dogs so y’know, if you’ve got dogs, definitely have them nearby to love on while you read this. It makes the experience like 1000x better.

despite the threatening sky and shuddering earth (they remained) by praximeter (Zimario)

“They really didn’t want the mask to come off.” Hill thumbed through the scans, and pulled out a film that she then handed over to Sam, face mostly expressionless but for the flat line of her pursed lips.

Sam accepted the film and held it up to the light, angling so both he and Steve could see it, squinting at the outline of the Winter Soldier’s skull, and the blips of unnatural white that showed up, God, in his brain, not to mention about half his teeth, plus the mask, with its thin protrusions—

“Those are pins,” Steve realized. He looked over at Hill. “The mask—it’s nailed to his face.”

Hill’s face was as unmoved as ever. “Like I said. They really didn’t want it coming off.”

Picture me screaming like a pterodactyl every time I even think of this fic. I kept seeing this fic, kept seeing it recced everywhere, kept scrolling by, kept seeing it recced by people who’s work I love and read and admire, and KEPT SCROLLING. And then finally, finally I decided to devote myself to 70k of what I assumed would be a lot of emotional pain. I was right. This was painful to read, the parts in Bucky’s pov especially so, but it was also so, so, sooo very good. I found myself clicking to the next chapter as quickly as I could and wanting to sink right back into it if I had to go do something. It’s just, it’s so good, and if by some chance you haven’t read it yet do yourself a favor and don’t be like me and keep scrolling past it.

[lovestruckay]

WIP Game

Talk about the WIPs you’re intending to work on this year.

I was tagged by @crimsonriley and this looks like a good opportunity to taunt all my readers lot of fun!

I’m going to tag @vesperlionheart, @shyyynobi, and @beyondthemoor to join in on the fun. And, because I absolutely count WIPs as including art, I’m going to tag @yomi-gaeru, @byelawliet, and @maybe-please! <3

I have a number of WIPs (over a dozen) but there are only a few that are going to be actively worked on this coming year.

Homeward

MadaSaku, Time Travel AU, Eventually Mature

[FF - AO3]

This is my most popular fic and my main focus as a writer. It’s an AU where Sakura is thrown backwards in time during the battle between Danzo and Sasuke. The majority of the story so far is her amassing a reputation as a miracle healer and as an incredibly powerful kunoichi. I thought it would be more realistic for Sakura to have to survive and eventually thrive in the past before she came across one of the major clans (well, except for the poor Fuma clan). 

The story has already gotten to the point where she meets Madara and Izuna (in a pretty flashy way). This is my pride and joy and it’s a fic I’m very happy to write. I love writing Sakura as this incredibly powerful and indomitable woman who demands respect wherever she goes while simultaneously being this sweet, openhearted healer and friend. And I love writing Madara as being this powerful, intelligent and calculating, yet kind man who people have to work to earn a way into his heart. I always envisioned Madara as being a man who needed a indomitable woman like Sakura to make him happy. A woman who could challenge him yet encourage him at the same time. And this woman would certainly be Sakura.

Snippets

“But you have blood on you,” she pointed out, taking a step towards him and reaching forward to touch a splatter of blood on the neck of his high collared shirt.

He nearly shivered as her fingertips brushed his clothed collar bone, his sharingan flickering on of its own accord. The world around him became sharp and crisp and the sight of her reaching out to touch him embedded in his mind before his sharingan returned to inactivity in the span of a heartbeat.

“It’s not mine,” he muttered in a tone deeper than normal as he stared at her concerned expression.

...

He turned his head to face her and could feel heat rising to his cheeks as he noticed how close they were, their noses nearly touching. All he could see of her was her half lidded eyes and her dilated pupils, the black heavily encroaching on the sea green of her irises. She stared right back into his lazily spinning sharingan, her own cheeks taking a red hue.

Uchiha MC

MadaSaku, Outlaw Biker AU, Mature

[FF - AO3]

This fic was actually the beginning of me rejoining the fanfiction world. I had written a couple fics but this was the first one I actually went out and posted. It started as a oneshot but I combined it with a couple other WIPs I had and created this awesome story that I was just giddy to write. It has turned out a long longer than I had anticipated although it has been so much fun to write.

It has just begun to rapidly escalate. The story is a little more than halfway done but there is going to be a lot of incredibly intense and “holy shit” moments coming up that are going to keep everyone on their toes! The story is really at a pivotal moment right now so any snippets will give away what’s going to happen. Sorry!

Untitled ObiSaku

[FF - AO3]

ObiSaku, AU where Obito comes back to the village, non-massacre, Mature

EDIT: I posted this fic while I was doing Sakura Week 2018. It didn’t turn out as absolutely filthy as I had previously planned as another fic (a MadaSaku fic - FF, AO3) I wrote decided to take the whole choking kink. While this fic is still smut, it’s not as dirty as I had originally planned.

This fic is one purely written out of spite. Some random user on AO3 was talking poorly about one of my MadaSaku fics and asked if I was going to do an ObiSaku fic too (because that’s soooooo ridiculous). So I replied with a “you better fucking believe it” and put together an outline for this pure filth with a heaping of fluff and plot.

Some aspects of this fic: Rin will be alive but her, Obito, and Kakashi will be non-romantic best friends. How Kushina and Minato will live and how Minato be Obito’s mentor as he trains him to take over as Hokage. Kakashi will still become the sensei for Team 7 and how Team 7 will split up to train individually, Sakura and Naruto going on journey’s with Tsunade and Jiraiya respectively and Sasuke going with Shisui to train with the Military Police. There will be a lot of self hate, kink self-shame, angst, and a wide age difference.

Nesting

MadaSaku, alpha omega beta AU, founders era, Mature

This fic was entirely inspired by the “nesting” phenomenon in ABO fics. And the fact I very much wanted to write a MadaSaku ABO fic.

Sakura is the leader of the famous clan of healers, the Haruno clan. The Harunos are close allies of the Uzumaki clan, hailing from the same region, and Sakura and Mito are such close friends they consider each other sisters. It is because of Sakura’s influence that Hashirama puts fourth a peace treaty in exchange for him healing Izuna (much to Tobirama’s horror). When the village if finally founded, there is a meeting where all of the clan leaders that are allies of the Hidden Leaf join together to discuss the future. And this is where Madara and Sakura finally meet and everyone makes the catastrophic (at least for a city block) decision of trying to drag them apart.

There will of course be ABO smut with mating bites, pupping, womb sex, etc. But a huge aspect of it will be Sakura and her “nesting” behavior as she chooses a place to make her nest and have her pup. Very sweet and fluffy.

Nonsensical

[FF - AO3]

ShisuiSaku, soulmarks AU, Mature

A cute and kind of funny little one shot made because there is a drastic shortage of ShisuiSakura fics. Depending on how long it turns out being I might break it up into smaller bites. It’ll be a non massacre fic with a healthy amount of angst, some super bad first impressions, some happy endings, Sakura being a badass, Team 7 being bffs, and Hokage Itachi.

Here are a coupe snippets although they are very rough because they are part of the outline and not actual written material.

Snippets:

Shisui didn’t get his soul mark until March 28th when he was eight years old.

He had gone to bed that night with clear skin and woke up that morning with his soul mark written across his left pectoral in a flowing, feminine script. He was excited to learn that he did in fact have a soulmate but the fact that the phrase now inked across his chest was the most random, nonsensical bullshit he had ever read in his short life dampened the feeling. Was his red string connecting him to a psychopath?

He couldn’t think of any other reason as to why someone’s first words to him would be “Pants are not ripe water grass bastard”.

What in the hell does that even mean? Was it some sort of secret code? Was she going to be drunk? Was she insane?

...

Sakura has had her soul mark since she was born although she didn’t learn this until she was a young girl.

When she had asked her parents why she didn’t have one, at the tender age of five after her friend Ino had shown off hers, her parents had laughed with mirth, given her a hand mirror, and told her to find it. After a solid fifteen minutes of searching and acts of stretching that contortionists would be proud of, she located her soul mark printed in a small, professional script in the crook where her inner thigh met her hip. While part of her had been disappointed it was in a very personal place, a spot she could never show up, she had been overwhelmingly satisfied with the words on her soulmark.

I didn’t know angels had pink hair”.

Other Fics (may or may not get written)

Broken Trust

ObiSaku, Uchiha MC branch off, lots of angst

Guardians

MadaSaku fic where Impure World Reincarnation is never outlawed and instead becomes a technique for raising “Guardians” to protect the village. Izuna becomes the first guardian and leads to the formation of the village. Madara, Hashirama, Tobirama, all the hokages, Itachi, etc become Guardians and never technically die, instead being treated as well respected protectors

Fighting Dreamers

MadaSaku MMA AU, Sakura “Cherry Bomb” Haruno and Madara “Wildfire” Uchiha

The Chances

MadaSaku soulmark AU, takes place during the war

Three Rejects

NaruSakuSasu, dark fic where the trio runs away from Konoha after suffering through years of abuse and neglect. Sakura is an orphan, stolen from her clan of incredible healers following the massacre of her family. They can only trust each other and only love each other, ends in tragedy for the rest of the world but bliss for them

Wake Up

MadaSaku fic where Sakura, Madara’s wife, is in a coma in the Warring States Era and imagining her life in the future

Like the Ocean

IndraSaku fic where Indra goes on his journey to help the distant village to determine if he would become the next leader of his village and comes across a strange woman on the beach, part of an even stranger clan of healers and mystics who live on the ocean’s edge

Cosplay

I have a new wig from Shippuden Sakura that I’m very excited to try out. I even got a pair of customized boots that are pretty incredible! I even met a Sasuke cosplayer who is so incredibly sweet and is just as into cosplay and Naruto as I am! So you may or may not see me and Sasuke at Anime Matsuri in Houston, TX this year.

[biorusted]

Title: More Than One Option Characters: Gabriel, Michael and Lucifer, Natalie Pairings: none Word Count: 2453 

Summary: Gabriel goes to Michael’s room aiming to get permission to search for Lucifer, but ends up comforting him instead. Meanwhile, Natalie is given the answer to an infamous moral dilemma. -- Just two scenarios I've been playing with since the gift update. 

Gabriel always found himself walking the empty halls of heaven, probably because he was always running around doing Jophiel’s, Michael’s, and his jobs. The routes he took lined up with those less frequented by his fellow angels and more likely than not, pasted by the many flowering gardens of heaven. Not this time though, the reason why he saw no one was because no one ever had a purpose to go down this particular hallway, no one except the Arch Angels, of course. Their bed rooms were private and unless the apocalypse was starting, all the other angels knew to never seek out the arch angels while they rested. Though this unspoken rule is most likely due to Uriel not being a ’waking up’ person.

The hallway itself was pretty boring, Gabriel had thought so the very first time he walked down, with all the rooms spread out on one side of a ‘U’ shape with windows that looked on an inner garden lining the other side. It's hard to believe that at one time all eight archangels resided here. Gabriel glanced over to the opposite side of the building, to where Zadkiel’s locked room was. He had never been close to them, but still, with their fall came another locked door in heaven. There are too many of those.

Gabriel sighed-- he really does think too much-- and quickened his dwindling pace. There was, after all, a real reason that he was here.  Not to rest, oh no, it would be a long while before he could rest. Right now his goal was to find Michael, who Jophiel said went to his room, to get permission to search for Lucifer, and, hopefully, get the story behind Pestilence’s recent gift. Naturally it wouldn’t be that easy, but he could work out the kinks.

He paused at Michael’s door. There really is no telling what could be behind it, even normally Michael could be doing anything. Apart of him was actually afraid of what he might see. It was obvious that Michael never let go of Lucifer, and seeing Luce’s wings, both slightly smoldering and glowing faintly, in a wooden create would affect him tremendously, but how far did it actually push him? What if it was off the ledge?

Did he actually care? Gabriel felt his heart jump at that thought. Did he? Could he honestly say that seeing on of his brother’s wings in a box and seeing another complete break down made his own heart break? He rubbed his eyes and sighed again. He'll ask himself that another time, when he wasn’t so busy.

The door wasn’t locked. So either Michael was expecting a visit, or just forgot to lock it behind him. Being dark inside, the room seemed ominous to Gabriel. He peeked inside the creaked door and scanned the room. At first he could not see Michael, the room being dark with the curtains pulled shut, but a quiet sniffle directed his attention to the bed on the far side of the room. There was a faint outline of a large mass. Gabriel quickly entered the room and shut the door as silently as possible.

It was like Michael had formed a pillow fort around himself. The habit wasn’t that strange, whenever Michael was in a low spot he usually could be found with piles of blankets and pillows around him. He always claimed he was just tiered of Heaven’s chill and needed a few to warm back up. Gabriel quietly approached the bed. Halfway there, however, he heard a light crack. He looked down and saw a part of a mirror shattered even more due to his heel. He would have to talk to Michael about his at a later time. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mass on the bed shift slightly.

A weak voice pierced the already shattered silence. “Go away.”

Great. So he had been crying. That’s another one on the checklist to be weary of.

Gabriel took a few more steps before Michael said, a little louder, “I don’t care who you are: Go. Away. Any other time Gabriel would have heeded this warning and left Michael to sort himself out, for better or for worse. But today running wasn’t an option.

Gabriel stood next to the bed and contemplated wither or not he wanted to sit down. He decided not to. “It’s me, Michael.” He waited for a response, but nothing came. “I’m here because I need to talk to you.”

Still nothing.

Gabriel signed and grabbed on of the pillows and moved it to the head of the bed. He laid down on his back just close enough to Michael so the he knew he was there but far enough to get the message that he was there for business, not comfort.

He stared at the blank ceiling while a few minutes past. It wasn’t long before Michael let a sob escape from the pile. Then there was no point in holding back. Gabriel felt Michael curl up tighter in a ball, pushing his back to Gabriel’s side and sob as quietly as he could.

Gabriel closed his eyes. He still cared, of course Gabriel still cared. It was still frustrating though. Michael was so stubborn that he even denied his own blatant feelings. Could he even judge? Maybe not. But this was Lucifer. The one that dissolved their family, the one that opposed heaven and father himself, the one that would bring about the end of everything and still, after everything, Michael was brought to his knees after seeing wings in a box.

“Why are you crying?” Gabriel heard himself say.

Michael froze at Gabriel’s tone. He let out a shaky breath before saying, “He... can’t come back now.”

Is he still going on about that? It was all he was muttering when Raphael ushered him to his bedroom.

“Michael, honestly ask yourself, would he have ever come back?” he tried to not sound too harsh, but he was just so tiered of this.

Silence again.

Michael turned over and sighed. “I- I know. B-but now’s theirs no ch-oice. I have to-” he drifted off for a moment, “I have to kill him now.” His voice was just above a whisper.

Oh... Gabriel looked over, he could faintly see his brother’s outline. “Michael”

“There’s no other way, Gabriel, I have to kill my brother. I have to. Father, I don’t want to. I don’t want to. But there’s not another option. He can’t come back. He can’t...” Michael said in between his increasing sobs.

Hearing Michael’s confession, Gabriel didn’t know what to say. He never thought Michael would ever admit that he didn’t want to follow the prophecy. It had been hovering above their heads for so long. Did it really have that much of an effect on him? Of course it did. Gabriel searched for something to say. Anything that would get him back on task.

All he could come up with was, “There’s always another option.”

It worked though, Michael was quiet again.

“Like what?” whispered Michael.

A few options floated though Gabriel’s head. Humans where always good at finding other ways around problems, it was commendable. Death, for example, seemed to be a human favorite. Technically, it was an option in this case too, but not a favorable one, and certainly not one to bring up to Michael the way he is right now. Falling would be about the equivalent of dea- no, he shouldn’t have those kind of thoughts.

Lucifer was also always good at finding third or fourth options. They were always witty and strange, but followed the parameters of whatever situation was brought up. It was almost like a game they all played; make up a situation in which there were only two options and see if Lucifer could find another way. Sometimes they made no sense realistically, but it was still fun to listen and watch him think.

What would he say in this situation?

Gabriel shouldn’t think about that either.

“I’m not sure.” He lied, “Prophesies are strange, Michael, maybe it will work out in a way we don’t expect.”

Michael didn’t speak for a long time, but after a while Gabriel heard his brother’s steady breathing. Darn, he’ll have to ask permission later then.

___

They have been walking for way too long. And Natalie made sure Lucifer knew that too. God, if she complained one more time about the awful smell of the road or her feet hurting he might just give up entirely.

At least she was talking to him. After the hospital visit, she defiantly seemed more relaxed around him. Maybe because she got substantial evidence that he was not a kidnapper. On the flip side, however, her comfort meant senseless chatter about almost anything.  He didn’t know if he liked quiet Natalie or talkative Natalie more.

“So what would you do?” Natalie paused in her out loud brainstorm.

“What was that?” he looked back. He tuned her out while she was complaining about the Styrofoam cup she stepped on and soaked her shoe in soda with. What could she possible be asking him?

“In the dilemma, what would you do?”

How in hell did she get there? How much did he tune out?

“Kid, I’ll be honest with you, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“The trolley dilemma.” She paused as if that was enough information to go off of. He gave her a look indicating that it wasn’t. “You know, the moral dilemma where there are two tracks both with people on them and a runaway trolley heading towards the group with three people but there is a lever that you can pu--”

“Ok I’m going to stop you right there.”

“Good, because it was going to take a long time to explain it.” Natalie giggled.

Lucifer marched on. He had no idea where the next town would be and it would be nice to have an actual room to rest in instead of waiting out another night in the woods. If they were lucky, they might stay and a nice motel. Then they could take a shower, she could sleep on a bed and he could finally find something to clean his back off. He was tiered of feeling the sharp pains when he twisted and even more tiered of feeling the blood trickle down his back. Hopefully it wouldn’t get infected before he got actual medical attention, boy that would be the icing on the cake.

“So... what would you do?” the girl chimed in again.

“Huh?”

”For the Dilemma! Would you pull the lever or do nothing?”

Oh. She was still going on about that.

Lucifer sighed and slowed down a bit, letting Natalie walk next to him. “You know” did he really want to do this? Engage in this potentially long winded conversation... fuck it why not. “That’s not how you’re supposed to propose the question.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” she looked up at him earnestly.

He glanced briefly at her green eyes before looking up at the sky. “What you’re supposed to say is ‘what would you do’ by saying ‘would you pull the lever blah blah blah’ it presents only two options to the person you’re asking, which is not the point.”

“What do you mean by ‘not the point?’” she kicked an empty plastic back and watched it float in the slow breeze.

“Well...” Lucifer sighed, “The reason it’s called a moral dilemma is because it tests the person’s morals, right? There is no wrong or right answer, only what the person deems is best. Fifty people could all say the same thing, but have different reasons for doing it. So by only presenting two options, you’re limiting what a person can say etc. etc.” he waved his hand dismissively.

Natalie thought about that for a few moments, visibly thinking about what he said from different angles. “Ok... so what would you do.”

“Easy, I would walk away.”

“And leave three people to die?” Natalie said casually. She wanted to know his reason, his moral ground. Kid wasn’t smooth, but she probably realized that.

Lucifer sighed, “They got themselves into that situation, they can suffer the consequences.”

“Ok, but you saw them and walked away, wouldn’t-”

“No, it wouldn’t, I don’t care about those people, I don’t know anything about them. They’re people of no consequence.”

“What if they were you’re brothers.”

“Then they are perfectly capable of getting themselves out of that situation.” Lucifer said without missing a beat.  

“What if Michael was-”

“What if the sky was purple and it rained citric acid? What if suddenly Venus exploded? We just don’t know. Stop with the what ifs, girl.”

Natalie jumped and shrunk back. She followed behind him like a puppy in the pouring rain would. He tried to not let it bother him. It shouldn’t. Eight months ago it wouldn’t have. But damn if a lot didn’t happen over the time he had met her.

“Did you know that there is a way to save the people on both tracks?” Lucifer barely recognized his voice, he doubted that the girl even heard him with how soft his question was. But apparently she did. Out of the corner of his eyes she peaked around, looking up at him.

“Really? How?” she asked, her interests peaked.

Lucifer hummed and said, “What do you think?”

“I- gosh I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of an actual way to save everyone.”

“You really want to know?”

“Of course! I must be ready if I ever come across people tied onto tracks with a runaway trolley! Dude tell me!”

Lucifer felt the corners of his mouth raise and he turned to Natalie, hands in his pockets. “Just pull the lever half way. The trolley derails and everyone lives. Hypothetically.”

As expected, Natalie’s jaw dropped as this amazing new information was absorbed. She looks away, and then back at him.

“Dude...” was all she could say.

He rolled his eyes for show.

“Ok- ok. Omg ok. My mind is blown.”

“Obviously.”

She searched and stuttered to find her next words. “But- but if you knew that then why would you walk away?”

“Just because I can save everyone doesn’t mean I have to. Bottom line is, I still don’t care about those people.”

“But but- You know the way to save everyone.” She emphasized.

“Yes, kid,” He shrugged, “That’s the whole point of moral dilemmas. Why they’re so interesting to think about. There’s no right answer and there are always more than options to choose from than the ones presented.”

[asexual-fandom-queen]

Solidarity

Five times Leonard Snart finds solidarity with someone of a different religion, and the one time he doesn’t [read on Ao3]. 

cw: islamophobia 

1. Stein

“Kid says repairs on the Time Drive are gonna be a month.”

Stein jerks in surprise when Len speaks, dropping his spoon with a messy slosh into his soup. The sweet, earthy smell of chicken broth tickles Len’s nose and floods his tongue with saliva, though he knows from experience that Gideon’s best synthesized effort still doesn’t hold a candle to the comforting warmth of matzo ball soup made by a loved one.

“Y-yes,” Stein stammers after a minute, glancing surreptitiously around the room first, as though Len might be talking to someone – anyone – else. “I heard.”

“You’ve got a way of tracking dawn and dusk on this ‘ole tin can,” Len observes, his voice a slow, disinterested drawl. Abruptly, he turns the whole of his focus from some abstract point in the corner of the room to Stein and smirks. “I want in.”

Stein blinks, quick and bewildered, then reaches up to adjust his glasses as his brows furrow. Len pushes off the doorframe and wanders to the counter, leveraging himself up to sit, one boot curled under his thigh.

“Really, there is no way to track the sun in a space that exists outside time,” Stein explains.

“But you and Palmer have a system.”

Len’s eyes narrow, something that never fails to make Stein ruffled and insufferably pedantic. “It’s interesting, actually. Many rabbis and Jewish scholars agree that all time-bound mitzvot are exempt once a person leaves Earth,” Stein says. “Of course, not everyone agrees. In fact, Jewish astronauts have been known to use the sunup and sundown times of their origin of departure while on the ISS.”

“Which is what you’re doing,” Len guesses.

“A version of it,” Stein agrees. “Since we’re out of time rather than space, there is no way to relate our time back to that of, say, Central City. But, it is possible for Gideon to track how many hours we’ve been displaced from our timelines, and when sunrise and sunset would be, had we remained on Earth. Of course, Raymond and I are no longer in synch after all the times we’ve been separated, so we’ve agreed to both follow my internal clock. It’s nice to have someone to observe with.”

Len tilts his head. “Makes sense,” he says. He remains perched on the counter, thinking.

Stein turns back to his meal, but obviously can’t fully settle with Len still in the room. “I didn’t realize you were Jewish as well, Mr. Snart,” Stein says, cracking at last.

Len shrugs. “I’m not,” he replies. “But so long as we’re stuck here for a month, now seems as good a time as any to celebrate Ramadan. Not technically the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, but hey, it’s not technically Shabbat for you and Boy Scout, either.”

Len offers Stein a shit-eating grin the slides gracefully off the counter, crossing the room in long strides. Stein takes a second to process, and Len’s halfway out the door before he manages to sputter out, “M-Mr. Snart.”

Len stops, turns on his heels and gives Stein a curious look.

“You’re welcome to join Raymond and me,” Stein says. “Not for Shabbat, I mean. But on our internal clock. If you’d like some sense of community.”

Len trails his fingers over cool metal, body wrapped around the edge of the doorframe with enough force to feel the outline pressed against his sternum. “Invitation accepted,” Len replies with a tilt of his head, then a wave of his fingers.

He’s gone before Stein can say anything else.

2. Singh

“CCPD! Put your hands up.”

Len has very little choice but to oblige. His bike is still halfway down the alley, his handgun still resting on his bedside table. It’s his own fault for being sloppy enough to get caught, but he’s head’s been elsewhere all day.

Lisa ruptured her achilles tendon.

No matter how many times he thinks it, the pill doesn’t become any less bitter to swallow. Figure skating was it for her. She was going to make it big and leave Central City and their shit excuse for a father behind. But there’s no way Lewis pays for the elective surgery to get her back in competing condition, and Lisa’s mother is either too drunk or too terrified of her boyfriend’s fists to speak up on her daughter’s behalf.

Len needed the hit, needed the score, needed something to give him hope.

“Now, turn around slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Len does, and gets his first look at the officer who’s stopped him. He’s in plainclothes, fresh-faced and handsome, no older than Len, if not a few years younger. Truth be told, if they were meeting under different circumstances, he’s exactly the kind of guy Len would pick up for a quick night of fun. Jury’s still out on whether he’ll try his luck anyway.

“Leonard Snart,” the officer says, his deep brown eyes cast even deeper in shadow in the low lighting of the alley. “What are you doing here?”

Putting on all the bravado he can muster, Len inclines his head in the direction of the building he’s just left and offers the officer a pompous smirk. “ Zakat ,” he replies.

Len’s expecting to see the officer’s brows knit in confusion, or at the very least, for him not to react, so it comes as a surprise when he lowers his gun half an inch and lets out one of the most conflicted sighs Len’s ever heard.

“Fuck, this is just great,” he mutters to himself, the sarcasm laid on thick.  

The hair on the back of Len’s neck stands on end. “Problem, officer?” he asks, trying to keep the nerves out of his tone. Normally, the kind of people who bash his religion don’t know enough about it to recognize any of its Five Pillars by name, and certainly not to recognize them in Arabic, but Len doesn’t feel entirely confident dismissing the possibility.

Of course, it’s also likely the officer is reacting less to Len being Muslim and more to the fact that he’s just come out of an LGBT youth shelter. Gay bashing is much more commonplace in Len’s life than islamophobia, though he’s only come back to the faith of his childhood in the past several months, knows that’s something that might change.

The officer scoffs, harsh and bitter, and shakes his head. “Yeah,” he says. “I gave up my one night off this week to mentor queer kids, not have a morality crisis, so, thanks for that. Thank you very much.”

Len’s brain scrambles to adjust to this new turn of events. He’s not sure what it means, but his situation suddenly feels markedly less dire. “I didn’t catch your name,” he says, trying to put some semblance of control back into his hands.  

“Officer Singh,” the man replies on instinct, then immediately berates himself. “And why would I tell you that? You had nothing on me.”

“If it’s any consolation, Officer Singh,” Len says. “I’d have found out anyway, if I really wanted.”  

Singh worries his lip between his teeth. Len let’s him sweat. Finally, Singh lowers his gun another two inches and asks, “were you really in there making a donation?”

Len narrows his eyes. “You’re Muslim?” he asks.

Singh shakes his head. “Neither is the youth centre,” he says. “I thought that was the whole point of Zakat , anyway. Giving to poor Muslims.”

“Let’s just say I’m still trying to work out where I fit with this whole Islam thing,” Len replies, cryptic as he figures he can get away with.

That’s enough to get Singh to lower his gun and return it to his holster. He scrubs a hand down his face, still shaking his head, like he can’t believe he’s doing any of what he’s doing, and honestly, Len can’t either.

“Go,” Singh huffs, stepping aside to clear the mouth of the alley.

Len’s hackles rise. “You’re just gonna look the other way because of my religion?” he asks. “Or maybe it’s my sexuality? You do me a favor, I do you–”  

Singh matches Len’s ire like a switch was flipped. “I’m looking the other way because this world is shit enough without going out of my way to police what little good does happen,” Singh says, nearly a shout, but keeping his voice controlled enough to avoid attracting attention. “And because you’re not the only person who’s religion advocates sharing your prosperity,” he adds.

Len considers that, gives Singh a thorough, calculating look. “You’re Sikh,” he says finally.

Singh huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “The turban and the beard really give me away.”

He gestures to his close-cropped hair and clean-shaven faith with a hint of confliction beneath the bemused expression. The rest of the tension eases from Len’s body, as much as it ever does.

“Maybe we’re not actually so different,” Singh proposes. “Just a couple of queer brown kids trying to figure out where we fit when none of our pieces seem to wanna go together. Maybe that’s why.”

There’s something remarkably vulnerable about the statement that makes Len’s insides curl and flip. He doesn’t want to examine it too closely.

“Maybe,” Len agrees, backing toward his bike. He grabs his helmet from the handlebars and swings his leg over the seat. “‘Course,” he adds. “I’m on my way to rob a bank after this, so maybe we’re not so alike after all.”

Len doesn’t leave time for Singh to comment. He slides on his helmet, starts his bike, and peels out of the alley, nearly running the officer down on his way by.

3. Mick

Len’s shoulder is still aching when he shuffles into the kitchen in baggy pair of sweatpants and and even baggier sweater that can’t possibly be his. It smells of sweat and woodsmoke and gasoline in a way that’s still somehow pleasant.

“Good, you’re alive,” Mick grunts. He’s in a pair of sleep pants, chest is bare, a dangerous game with the bacon spitting grease indiscriminately on the stovetop, but it hardly seems to faze Mick when the errant droplets land against his skin.

“It was a through-and-through,” Len grumbles, sitting at the table and pulling two pancakes from the stack. There’s a plate already waiting, along with a knife and a fork and a full glass of water.

Len’s never stayed overnight at Mick’s place before. They’ve been partners on and off for just over ten years, but the few times their relationship has crossed the line into the personal, it’s been under dire circumstances. That’s even true now, Len laying low, recovering from a gunshot wound and hiding out from those moronic, trigger happy Santini kids. If Mick hadn’t taken him home and patched him up, Len would probably be dead.

Though cooking him breakfast feels like more than just obligation, professional or otherwise.

Before Len can react, Mick’s crossing the kitchen with his frying pan and a pair of tongs and depositing a huge stack of bacon on top of Len’s pancakes. Len watches, heart seizing, as the grease soaks into the pancakes, tiny flecks of char speckling the golden crust.

Len opens his mouth, but the words freeze in his throat.

Mick notices anyway. “What?” he asks, putting the tongs down in the pan to grab a piece with bare fingers.

“I don’t eat bacon,” Len replies after a deep, steadying breath. Anymore , he could add. He’s only stopped in the past year, trying be more observant, to eat only what’s halal. Bacon, he’s been successful with. Mini-marshmallows are still a work in progress.

“Oh,” Mick says, chewing with an open mouth. “That a Jewish thing or somethin’?”

Len shifts in his chair. His shoulder throbs. “Actually,” he says. “I’m Muslim.”

Mick’s lips twitch. “Huh,” he says. “Didn’t know you guys had a hate on for Piglet, too.”

Shrugging, Mick reaches down, grabs Len’s plate from him, and returns with it to the stove. Len’s about to protest that picking the bacon off won’t be enough now that it’s soaked into everything else, but he doesn’t have to. Mick sets the frying pan down and comes back with a clean plate, handing it to Len and settling in with Len’s old plate as his own.

“Yeah,” Len drawls. “It’s almost like we all wanted to be on the safe after the first guy got trichinosis.”

Mick hums, like Len’s probably got a point, but tucks into his bacon anyway. Len takes new pancakes on his new plate and covers them in syrup, then cuts a piece with his good arm and brings it to his mouth. It’s his non-dominant hand, so the trajectory’s a bit shaky, but he makes it.

“I just gotta say,” Mick says suddenly, out of the blue, a few bites later.

Len’s heart leaps into his throat and beats double time. Mick’s been the most constant, reliable person in his life outside of Lisa – maybe includingLisa. They might not have the same degree of intimacy as most people who consider themselves friends, but for Len, they mean something. And he’s tried and injured and not in peak fighting condition. Whatever Mick’s going to say next, he tries to brace for it, but he’s not sure he can.

“I know jack shit about Muslimism,” Mick continues. He takes a heaping bite of pancakes and doesn’t wait to finish chewing before he’s speaking again. “So if I say somethin’ dumb, tell me to fuck off.”

Len chuckles. He can’t help it. Something in the relief is explosive. “Well, to start, it’s Islam,” Len says.

Mick’s brow furrows. “Why?” he asks.

“They’re Arabic words, Mick,” Len replies. “They don’t really care about English grammar.”

Mick snorts. “Last I checked, English didn’t care about English grammar, either.”

They get through another few bites of pancakes before Mick comes back with more questions, but Len feels none of the panic from before. Mick’s curiosity is friendly, rather than an inquisition. Len isn’t used to that, but he thinks, as a wave of fondness settles in his chest, it’s something he could get used to.

“Is that something you grew up like?” Mick asks.

Len tilts his head rather than aggravate his shoulder with a shrug. “When I was younger,” he says. “Moved away from things by the time we met, but I’ve been getting back into it.”

“I wish I could move away from things,” Mick says with a small grunt, somewhere between amused and genuinely annoyed. “Pretty sure I still recite acts of contrition in my sleep.”

“Are you still religious?” Len wonders. He wants to know, to understand Mick better. Len’s never been one for sharing, but something about this feels good.

“Irish Catholic. Such a big part of growin’ up, couldn’t really stop being if I wanted to,” Mick replies. “‘Course, it’s more a personality thing than a religion thing now. Can’t say I believe in God. If He really existed, things would be good, instead of bein’ this.

“But,” Mick says. “I believe in honesty, confessin’ your sins. Believe the undesirables and the wretched deserve as much as anyone else does. Occasion calls for it, I even believe in forgiveness, turning the other cheek and all that hippie crap.

“None of that bullshit about burning in hell,” he adds. “Probably is one, and it’s probably even where I’m goin’. But because I’m a murderer, and a heartless bastard to boot. People out there, livin’ their lives, loving and fucking whoever they want, maybe doing a few shit things ‘cause everyone’s human. That’s not mortal sin. Pope can get fucked for all I care if he disagrees. I know what it’s like to be a bad man. Catholic Church doesn’t have a fuckin’ clue.”

“You ever find it weird?” Len asks. He can’t seem to find his appetite with his stomach full of lead. “Having faith and doing what we do?”

“It’s all weird,” Mick says with a shrug. “End of the day, what you believe is up to you. Then deciding what, of all that, actually matters. Ain’t a religion in the world that’s gonna call us Saints, Snart. Doesn’t mean you can’t wanna walk the parts of the path you can still reach.”

4. Sara

Len is walking the halls of the Waverider when he hears it, a low and guttural sound, like a river carved through a mountainside, harsh and abrupt in places, buoyant and fluid in others. Hair rises on the back of his neck as his whole body turns clammy and cold with some ineffable feeling. It’s waking up from a nightmare. It’s nearly falling on the ice. It’s misremembering an extra stair in the dark.  

It’s Arabic.

Len understands a few words – sorry , and soon , and can’t wait , and I love you – but hears even more, combinations of sounds, sharp and rough, that mean nothing to him anymore, and yet somehow still mean everything. His eyes burn, but he won’t cry. Like speaking his mother’s native tongue, he doesn’t know how to do that anymore.

Abruptly, the talking stops. Len considers retreating to his room, forgetting this ever happened and going about his life. Had he been outside anyone else’s room, he might have.

He knocks on Sara’s door.

“Come in,” she says.

The door slides open, and Len steps inside. Sara sits cross-legged on her bed, hair half-up, with one of the Waverider’s intertemporal calling devices in her lap. Len hovers, torn between sprawling performatively and keeping a safe distance.

“Nyssa?” Len asks.

Sara nods.

“I didn’t know you were fluent in Arabic,” he says.

Sara snorts. “My pronunciation is shit,” she replies. “But Nyss was having a rough day, and sometimes it’s nice to just turn your brain off and speak your first language, you know?”

“I wouldn’t,” Len says. “Haven’t been able to speak mine in years.”

Sara’s eyes are suddenly wide. She shuffles over in bed and looks pointedly at the empty space left at the far end. Len sighs and stalks over, sitting with his back against the wall, spindly legs out in front.

“Well,” Len amends after a moment. “That’s not entirely true. English is a first language, too. Just not the only one. Or it wasn’t.”

“Arabic?” Sara asks, an expert at reading people, but especially her friends. Especially him.

Len shrugs. “My mother was Lebanese,” he says. “She left the country when the civil war broke out. Married Dear ‘Ole Dad not long after. From what I’ve gathered.”  

“How long were you fluent?” Sara wonders.

Len says nothing, stares blankly ahead at the wall with stony eyes and twirls the ring on his pinky.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want,” she says. “I know I could go for some gin. The card game or the alcohol, I’m not picky.”

She chuckles a bit at her own joke, then shifts to move off the bed.

“I was six when she died,” Len says, shocking Sara silent and still. “Dad had already started getting hands on about keeping that towelhead stuff” – said with a sneer – “out of his red-blooded American house. And I was lighter than her. White passing. He thought he could save me from being like her. All he had to do was beat her language, her culture, her religion out of me, and I’d be just peachy.”

Sara bites her lips, eyes wet. “That’s shit,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“Tip of the iceberg,” Len replies with a shrug. “Hardly worth mentioning.”

“Do you forget it all?” Sara asks.

Len frowns. “Most of the language is gone,” he answers. “Still a practicing Muslim.”

“You drink all the time,” Sara says. “I thought that wasn’t allowed.”

Len smirks. “That’s why I’m still practicing.”

Sara groans at the pun, shakes her head and buries her face in her hand to hide the way her frustration devolves into laughter.

“Please,” Len adds. “As if you don’t do things the Catholic Church would frown upon all the time.”

Sara’s still chuckling when she answers. “Tough luck for the Catholics, then, because I’m not.”

Len raises a surprised eyebrow.

“Not everyone who believes in Jesus is Catholic, Leonard,” Sara says with a dismissive scoff and an eyeroll. “I’m Presbyterian. Not to say we’re above critique, but we’re also one of the largest Christian denominations in the world that supports gay marriage. Plus, we starting ordaining women way back in the 30s. The number of men and women ordained now is almost equal.”  

“Is this Presbyterianism 101 or are you just bragging?” Len asks in his signature drawl, fixing Sara with a teasing smirk.

Sara narrows her eyes. “I’m sorry, am I boring you?” she says back, but it’s all in good fun. Len laughs from his belly, nothing more than a short, quick chuckle, but it’s enough to lighten the mood.  

“I could teach you,” Sara offers after a moment of companionable silence, soft and so earnest. “Arabic. Or, re-teach you, I guess.”

Len snaps his head sideways, staring at her, wide-eyed and guarded.

“Though, again, godawful pronunciation problems ,” Sara chuckles, and whether she’s reminding him or herself, Len isn’t sure. “I could be more of a curse than a blessing.”

Len shakes his head. “Don’t sweat it,” he says. A warmth settles over his chest. “I remember how it sounds.”

5. Barry

“Do you want our kids to be Jewish or Muslim?”

Barry’s sudden question takes Len by surprise. They’re in the galley-style kitchen of their two bedroom apartment, dating for close to three years but not engaged yet – though it’s something Len’s been thinking about more and more the longer his travels on the Waverider keep him away.

“I didn’t realize we were expecting,” Len drawls, leaning against the counter, arms crossed at the wrists.

Barry frowns. He turns back to his pot on the stove and sticks the wooden spoon gripped like a vice in his hand back in, stirring the contents with more vigour that strictly necessary. “Be serious,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Len says, tilting his head in that way he does to demonstrate his acquiescence. “This is me being serious.”

He’s quiet, waiting, and Barry sighs before asking again, “do you want to raise our kids Jewish or Muslim? It’s not that hard a question.”

“What do you want us to do?” Len throws back.

Barry freezes, hand still gripping the spoon. “Wait, seriously?” he says. “You’re actually okay with us talking about having kids?”

“I’m assuming you don’t mean tomorrow,” Len says with a roll of his eyes.

Barry swallows thick and nods. “Okay,” he says. “Well, I guess the reason I’m asking is because I’ve been thinking a lot about our future lately, and every time I do, I realize how important religion being a part of that is for me.”

Len is quiet, considering.

“Is that weird?” Barry asks, when his patience wears thin and Len still hasn’t replied.

“It’s not weird,” Len assures him. “I’d just never thought about it.”

“It’s not that I don’t want our kids to be able to make their own choices about believing in God, or which version Him they think is the right one,” Barry says, rushing to explain, the way he always does when his ideas are so personal. “I mean, they could grow up and be Christian, and it’s not like I’d be upset.”

Barry stirs the soup again, calm and repetitive, leaning over the pot to let the steam settle against his face. Len reaches out and wraps a hand around the base of his neck, squeezing in reassurance.

“Growing up, losing my parents,” Barry says, after taking a moment to collect himself. “I lost my whole community. Moving in with Joe and Iris, they were great, but they’re atheist, you know. There are things about being religious and why it’s important they never really understood, and my Jewishness became this thing that sort of fell through the cracks.

“I’m not mad,” Barry says quickly, forceful in a way that makes the statement hard to believe. “I just– I remember what it felt like to go to temple for the first time since I was a kid while I was away at university. It felt like home, like there was this whole community that I shared something really deep with and just– I felt like I was a part of something again, something bigger than me.

“I want our kids to have that,” Barry says. “And yeah, a selfish part of me wants them to be Jewish, because I want to share that with them. But at the same time, I want them to be able to share your religion with you, too. And I figured there was no easy answer, so it’s probably something we should start talking about sooner rather than later.”

Len wraps his arms around Barry’s waist and rests his chin on his shoulder. Barry melts into him, nervous tension easing from his muscles.

“I hate to break it to you, Barry,” Len whispers, bumping Barry’s ear with his nose. “But we’re not exactly special. Interfaith families have been around a lot longer that we have.”

Barry scoffs. “I know that,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean there’s some kind of guidebook. Is there a guidebook?”

Barry turns to catch Len’s eye over his shoulder. Len can’t help himself, leaning in to steal a kiss that Barry eagerly returns.

“We’ll figure it out,” Len says when they separate. “If the culture and the community is what’s most important to you, we’ll find a way to make sure they have that.”

“What, like sermon Friday, temple Saturday?” Barry asks.

Len shrugs. “We could,” he agrees.

Barry laughs and shakes his head pitifully. “God, that’s so much religion,” Barry says. “Our kids are gonna hate us.”

“We don’t have to force them, Barry,” Len reminds him. “Plus, you said it yourself. It’s not all about the religious angle. I’d like them to speak Arabic. To be charitable. To have principles, self-discipline–”

“Ethics,” Barry adds.

Len quirks an eyebrow. “Now, Barry,” he teases. “Are you calling Islam unethical.”

“No,” Barry replies with an embarrassed flush. “But I figured, as long as we’re listing things we hope our children learn from us, I should make my position on certain things clear.”

Len nods. “Got it,” he says. “No teaching them to pick locks until they’ve started elementary school.”

“Len,” Barry huffs.

“Junior high,” Len amends. Barry chuckles, exasperated, but doesn’t argue the point further, and Len feels quite confident that he’s won this round. “Plus, we’ll have traditions to pass down,” he adds. “Food.”

Barry frowns. “Are you just using cuddles to get closer to my matzo ball soup?” he asks, feigning indignation.

Len smirks and kisses the corner of Barry’s jaw. “I’m a dishonest guy, Barry,” he drawls. “You knew this about me when we started dating.”

Barry rolls his eyes. “Here,” he says, collecting a sample of broth in the curve of his wooden spoon and holding it to Len’s lips. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Len doesn’t need the reminder, but he appreciates it, appreciates Barry’s concern. He watches Len sip the broth from the spoon, nervous to see his reaction. The old family recipe Barry found in a box of his mother’s things is faded with age, but still mostly legible, and every nuance in Barry’s expression betrays how much he wants to get it exactly right.

“So?” Barry asks.

Len smooths his hand over the knots in Barry’s stomach. “Tastes like tradition to me.”

+1. Zari

“You look worried Allah’s going to smite if you take another step.”

The observation isn’t entirely inaccurate. Len hovers just outside the open door, eyeing the ledge in the flooring where cement gives way to tile.

Zari sighs. “You’ve been inside a mosque before, right?”

That’s enough to push Len over the threshold, squaring his shoulders and leading Zari to the coat check to remove their shoes.

“I’ve been inside my mosque,” Len hisses. “Where the Imam knows I’m a supervillain instead of a fraud pretending to be a good Muslim.”

They’re in Toronto, 2246, chasing down a band of Time Pirates looking to bring advanced tech back to the medieval era. A lull in their mission’s forward momentum just so happens to line up perfectly with Friday sermon, and while Len wouldn’t normally bother finding a mosque to attend prayers, Zari, in her enthusiasm to share the experience with a fellow Muslim, roped him along.

Zari shakes her head and rolls her eyes at Len’s declaration. “There is no such thing as a good Muslim versus a bad Muslim,” she says, taking a deep red scarf from her bag and wrapping it around her head to cover her hair. “There are only people and the various ways in which they interact with their faith. Your relationship with Allah is yours. You shouldn’t feel shamed because it’s different than someone else’s.”

“Wow, Sister Zari, you’re right,” Leon deadpans. “However would I handle my crises of faith without you?”

Zari narrows her eyes. “I don’t appreciate when you use Sister in a mocking tone, Brother Leonard ,” she says pointedly.

Len tips his head. “Fair,” he replies.

“Now, come on,” Zari says, urging him along with a wave but keeping her hands to herself. The mosque is progressive in its views according to their cursory research – all of the 2240s seems to be – but Len doesn’t think Zari avoids touching him for propriety’s sake. She’s more devout than he’s ever been, prays five times a day when she can, getting Gideon to keep track of her internal clock the way Stein taught Len all those months ago. The choice to refrain from touching him is a choice she’s making for her.

“We still need to perform wudu , and with how meticulous you are, we could be there all day,” Zari teases. She crinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue, and despite himself, Len’s chest floods with fondness.

“Also fair,” he agrees. Sliding his shoes into an empty cubby, Len follows Zari through the entrance space to prepare for prayer.

[kylosrehn]

oh. oh. so that's how we're doing this? fine then. (I kid I love the excuse to send you LOTS) favorite character to write about this year? any new fics to start next year? events you participated in this year? fics you wanted to write but didn’t? a fic you read this year you would recommend everyone read?

spamming me is actually the way to my heart, this is facts

•  favorite character to write about this year: 

honestly i’m torn between ophelia and leopold (as in, framework fitz.) i loved exploring ophelia, giving her a backstory and developing her character (because ahem, canon failed to do so), putting her in different scenario/aus and just having fun with her in general. i tried to stick to the (brief) canonic characterisation of her in like, the first half of 4x21, before everything went to shit, and obviously the madame hydra characterisation as much as i could, but admittedly a lot of it was my own personal input/shared headcanons and i guess that’s what made it so fun. that’s not to say she’s a blank canvas, but because canon didn’t really expand on her character (she was human for like, what, less than a day?) a lot of it was down to personal interpretation to fill in the blanks. !always human ophelia, for example, would obviously be totally different to the canon enhanced/inhuman/freshly 3d printed version of her and so on. basically it was really fun to try and figure out what she’d be like had canon not done her so dirty.

and, of course, leopold. it’s true that watching/writing/reading about villains is often more fascinating than focusing on the protagonist. i stand by what i’ve said before - he is my favourite aos character. yeah, he was in four episodes, and yeah he’s technically not a separate character at all - but it feels like he is and that’s basically the interpretation i ran with most of the time, treating the framework as an alternate, separate universe as opposed to a virtual reality. hell, even within that virtual reality, he’s just so vastly different, so deliciously depraved that it makes it super fun to explore his character further. there’s just so much more to him than meets the eye and i fondly remember all the days i spent over the summer just coming up with and discussing headcanons about his upbringing, his father and mother, his academy years and rise to power at hydra. that’s the great thing about the framework - the parts it gives you are fantastic, but the parts it doesn’t give you are even better. so a lot of it was exploring his past and his future (babiesssss. !dad leopold might just be my favourite thing, like, ever. the mad, scary doctor caring for a baby. it kills me. him worrying that he’s going to let his child down and become just like his father. the angsssst). he’s so complex and so evidently deeply troubled and absolutely tragic and i love it. he’s not a black and white, “he’s evil and that’s it” kind of character. he’s passionate and determined; he wants to love and be loved, but because of the constant pressure via his father and the absence of his mother, he’s not quite sure how to go about showing it. it’s so fun to explore his voice because he’s canonically savage and just so… like, there’s something so chilling about his stoic demeanor (notice how he only has angry outbursts in private.) i can’t begin to explain how fun it is to poke around his head and explore why he does what he does - he’s convinced he’s saving people, okay, he literally believes that - and how he deals with the complications that arise (inhuman baby, that will be all.) 

tl;dr: leopold “the doctor” fitz is fucked up and i absolutely love it.

any new fics to start next year? 

not entirely sure if this is a fic rec or a wip question tbh, so i’m basically gonna give a brief run-down of my fic to-do-list: okay, so i have like three fitz/skye fics i still need to write (as in, plot bunnies that will literally keep driving me insane until i finally get my shit together and get them down on virtual paper). the first one is a (late) christmas-based fic where they’re both working at hydra and he’s her scrouge-like boss who, outwardly, hates joy and love and christmas. one day, after a phone call from his mother, he tells skye he’s got a proposal for her (literally and figuratively speaking). cue a fake-dating trope fic with christmas fluff and a scottish backdrop. basically “the proposal” but with less deportation and more christmas. 

the second one is the framework fitz/skye post-revolution prison au (totally inspired by your three sentence prompt fill, which i love.) listen, i love torturing him and the entire prison sequence from 5x05 stole my heart, depression prison beard and all. so, it’s more of that, plus a lot of healing in a motel room. 

and the third one, which is less of a solid idea and more of a vague outline in my head: a lowkey star wars au. well. a part of it. soulbond i guess? whatever you want to call it. basically i can’t stop thinking about the two of them being psychically linked and appearing to each other at the most inconvenient of times and falling in love like idiots despite the fact that he’s the literal actual head of hydra and she’s a newly-turned-inhuman and, you know, a devoted resistance member. basically, she’s his redemption arc.

also i’m gonna try and finally fill the prompts in my inbox, because i’m always yelling for more and then they just sit there and i end up hoarding. 

events you participated in this year?

i really started writing proper aos fic in the second half of the year, so i didn’t get a chance to join all that many, but hopefully i’ll join more of these in 2018.

• fitzsimmonsnetwork secret santa 2017• aospositivitynet secret santa 2017• skyeward big bang(because i like to mix it up a little. also because like no aos fic writing event accounts for my fav aos ship, rip)

fics you wanted to write but didn’t?

SO. MANY. too many arguably. like, i’m so bad. i’ll probably update this post if/when i upload an actual unfinished fic dump 2017 part II, because tbh i’ve been toying with the idea for a while. 

okay, so there’s: 

1. the literal very first aos fic i started writing, a direct result of all my pent-up anger and frustration at that lame-ass finale. i decided a fix-it fic was in order, where it basically diverges from canon around halfway through 4x21 (before that scene) and ophelia’s pardoned and allowed to stay, albeit under close surveillance and basically locked up in the containment module and the team has to learn to deal with it and accept her while fitz helps her come to terms with what it really means to be human. also, feelings don’t just get thrown away instead of being properly addressed because that’s lazy writing and you can love more than one person at a time, god fucking damn it). while this is still unfinished, it admittedly later evolved into a broader collab verse known as “team au.”

2. fitz/ophelia ‘we kind of broke up because you chose jemma and now we’re meeting again years later in new york and i never realised how much i missed you until you started chasing me down the street’ au.

3. this one canon-divergence (though canon can’t prove me wrong, so technically…) au where the framework is still the framework and everything is pretty much the same except ophelia’s pregnant (look, in 4x16 when he’s getting all worked up about “i have to protect you, i have to…” and she grabs his hand i literally thought for a moment that she was going to place it against her stomach and they’d do an oh-my-god-baby reveal, but they’re not ballsy enough to go there, so it’s mostly just wishful thinking BUT STILL) so when daisy quakes her out the window, well. in other words: ANGST. 

4. this one fic where fitz and ophelia went to high school together but never really interacted until one party during the summer of their freshman year of college, realise they have feelings for each other and sleep together literally under the stars before he moves across the country because of college and a prestigious internship. shortly after term starts, ophelia realises she’s pregnant. cue long-distance internet pining, several failed attempts to confess/meet up in person, and and lots of hurt/comfort as ophelia slowly learns to accept her situation and make the best of it. plus some father-daughter bonding. it sounds really lame now i guess, but it’s really an idea that’s been with me for a long time and i’ve plotted and planned it and thought about it a lot so i would really love to push myself to just sit down and word vomit it out at some point. i promised myself i’d do in december/over christmas, but of course that didn’t happen, so hopefully sometime in january. it’s kind of a pet project of mine so i’ll be really disappointed in myself if i just let it go, even though the fitz/ophelia ship is as good as dead by now and i’d probably just be writing it for myself more so than for any real kind of audience. (yeah, i still have a soft spot for this ship, mostly because of the chest-tightening nostalgia i get whenever i think about it and the literal hours i’d spent being so completely invested in it over the summer. will i ever get over it? probably not.)

there’s a bunch of other stuff i always wanted to explore (leopold backstory, framework-canon hydra uprising, framework post-canon revolution, etc.) but never really got far enough in any other stuff to go into detail about them here (i really have to properly sift through my docs at some point, it’s literally a fic dump of headcanons/ideas from like, three months of hardcore obsessing all summer) but i guess one simple conclusion can be drawn from all this: i have a thing for angst, redemption arcs and pregnancy/baby fic, not necessarily in that order. 

a fic you read this year you would recommend everyone read?

this is such a hard question because 1. i’ve read a lot of stuff from like, a weird mix of different fandoms, 2. with my ‘unfortunate/problematic’ choice of ships/favourite characters it’s hard to pick something everyone would enjoy. however:

for this empire, after night  - i know the kylo ren/rey pairing isn’t for everyone (see above), but in my defense this isn’t really a shippy fic at all. it may, however, be one of the damn most beautiful things i’ve read in a long, long time. the descriptions, the imagery. it’s breathtaking (and really puts my own miserable scribbling into perspective)