#tentative title but i like it :)

[shorthaltsjester]

Imogen Temult, Exaltant Hope of the Red Storm

Heroes and Monsters by Penny & Sparrow // Critical Role Campaign 3

[mikussabbath]

There was only one thing Sephiroth could think of that would save Cloud. All of his knowledge, all of the millennia he’d lived and power he’d acquired—it was all useless now. For what was the power of a god in the face as something as inexorable as death?

Sephiroth would spit in the face of death for trying to take his Cloud from him. And in any other situation, any other reality, he truly would. But now that Cloud carried the Planet’s blood in his veins, nothing but the Planet herself could offer him salvation. 

Gaia, Sephiroth knew, was not generous when it came to the lives of individual humans. No planet was when it came to the lives they sustained. She viewed humans as small, insignificant, and Sephiroth would be a hypocrite if he claimed that he was any different. But Cloud was his eternal exception. 

If Gaia would not freely offer Cloud salvation, then Sephiroth would have to take it from her. 

[strangersteddierthings]

You Left Me Scars Through Memories (Tangled in my DNA) - Prologue

"I love you so much," Stephanie Harrington says, reaching out a hand to tuck some hair behind his ear. It's more an excuse to touch than to clear his face of hair. It's at a length now that will result in the tucked hair falling back into his face with barely a shake of his head.

Steve blinks up at her from where he's sat in her lap, his face far too serious for a toddler just a few hours shy of three years old.

"Your life is going to be so difficult and it's my fault. I'm so sorry," she whispers, sweeping him into a hug. He snuggles into her embrace instantly and it brings tears to her eyes. He should hate her for what she's done. Perhaps he will, once he's older and can understand what she's apologizing for.

"I'm going to tell you a story," she settles back into the chair, a big plush thing that she sits in every night to read a bedtime story to Steve, or tries too anyway. He's at the age where he's wiggly and full of energy until he drops.

"Once upon a time, there was a man and a woman. Husband and wife. And they loved each other very much," she starts, running one hand up and down on her baby's back, soothing, "and they wanted nothing more than to have a child.

"But try as they might, no child would come to them. And soon resentment began to grow. The wife, convinced that having a child would remove the resentment, set off to make a bargain with a witch, said to live deep in the woods.

"She told her husband she was going to visit her family so as not to arouse suspicion. Consorting with witches wasn't something that was done, you see."

This is the longest Steve has sat still in her lap in months. She thinks he might be asleep but continues the story anyway.

"It took her almost three weeks to find the witch, deep in the woods. Upon arrival, the witch had tried to turn away the wife. But the wife was persistent. 'Please,' she begged the witch, 'if we can have a child then my husband will love me again.'

"The witch was not moved by this plea. 'You would bring a child into a loveless marriage?' and the wife argued that once they had a child, their marriage would no longer be loveless. The witch disagreed but the wife would not be deterred.

"'What would you give up to have this child?' the witch asked after being pestered by the wife for almost a week. And the wife had said anything.

"'Anything is dangerous,' the witch said. 'I can give you the means to have a child, but the universe will decide the price.' And so, the wife agreed, and the witch pressed a folded piece of parchment into the wife's hand.

"When she finally returned home, she had been gone for eight long weeks. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, they say, and husband and wife reunited. Still, the wife waited three more months before preforming the ritual the witch had pressed into her palm.

"Soon, they had a child, a daughter. But with her arrival came the universe's price. A life blessing is not an easy thing to give, and the price for life is the highest to pay. Free Will was that price. And when the daughter turned three, she learned her daughter also paid the price. Her daughter, and her daughter's daughter, and her daughter's daughter's son. Forever more. The wife, now mother, was angry to learn this. Why should her child have to suffer for her own sins?

"She told her husband what she had done. She had to, you see, because how else could he be expected to raise a child that would do everything you told her to? Words would need to be picked carefully.

"It was years later before the mother could track the witch down again, to demand the witch undo the curse. 'I made the bargain, why must my child also suffer the consequences?'

"'You said anything,' the witch responded, 'and I told you that was dangerous. It was foolish of you to think your actions would not affect others. All actions do.'

"The mother said, 'can it not be undone?' and the witch said, 'All curses can be broken.' When the mother asked how, the witch just looked at her and said, 'go away, and do not seek me again.' And the mother had no choice but to obey."

Steve still has not stirred on her lap and when she looks down, she can see he is asleep. Even if Steve had stayed awake for the whole story, she knows she'll have to retell it to him when he's older. When he'll remember all of it. Perhaps she should write it down, too, just in case.

"You see, Steve, what was supposed to be a blessing became a curse. One of obedience. People will tell you to do things and you will be compelled to obey. You will become someone you will never truly know, because anyone can make you anything," she says as she stands and places Steve in his bed. "But don't worry. Mommy will teach you how to trick and cheat the curse as much as you can."

[callmehere-iwillappear]

coming soon(...ish) to an ao3 account near you: the idiot's guide to blindfold chess

in the meantime, the full piece of this ^^ is on patreon!

[idontmindifuforgetme]

I ACCIDENTALLY VOTED NO. IGNORE IT! I think you must start a substack I would like to hear your insights

STOPPP LMFAO I rly have been toying w the idea for so long but I would never call myself a writer so…………… a self teaching creative writing student is what I will be . And a substack is just a practice notebook wonderful amazing ppl get access to. Idk!

[teddykaczynski]

a few years ago my dad half-recommended me curb your enthusiasm but he pretty much said he thought i was too much of an sjw to really enjoy it and i want to prove him wrong

[princekirijo]

Finished up Kaneshiro's palace and overall it's really solid in terms of gameplay and design. Love the money littered all over the place, the guard designs (liked the detail of their masks looking bug like its a nice bit of foreshadowing) and ofc the music. I think the last puzzle is fun but it drags a little at the end tbh (but that could be because I did the palace in one day so)

[rxttenfish]

you know, i think the thing about miranda that most make or breaks if any given writing for her is any good, is that you just can't tell if she's doing something on purpose or not.

she switches hard from cute, innocent, head full of fluff and so oblivious and kinda stupid that she matches scott, to having such expertise and cruelty in manipulation and being able to not only get her way but to get it with such violence that it takes everyone else aback — and there is NO way for any other character in the situation to tell if both really are true and equal aspects of her personality and who she is, or if she really is planning this all along and all the innocence was just a farce.

both are given equal weight by miranda, both seem equally likely, and both are roles that miranda inhabits so wholly that there's not really any flaws anyone can find in either one of them. you expect one, the other one catches you off guard. for someone who makes such a show of wearing her heart on her sleeve, it is incredibly hard to actually tell what's going through miranda's brain at any given moment.

[jichanxo]

made a tierlist of my kuwagami fics for funsies (+ notes for a few) ↓

(everything listed in the same tier are equals, so the order they're listed in has no meaning)

[hinamie]

recent itfs draws caption

[midnightwind]

coming to the realization that if I ever properly share my DAV fic, I'm likely going to fall into the trap of writing a few sections twice because I like writing Spite too much, but giving his internal nonsense means writing from Lucanis' POV

[v88sy]

WIP Word Game

My word was: CRASH

I was tagged by the wonderful @jamieroyjamieroy, thank you!

I'm just gonna go ahead and give you a good portion of the Buck/Ravi rebound fic I started, because I'm almost certain it's just going to rot in my docs app.

C - "Can I finish my breakfast, at least? It's a really good omelet.”

Buck just offers him a weak smile. He wants to offer something more, maybe an explanation, or even a half formed excuse.

R - Ravi does deserve more than someone who's never really there, just living in the past with all it's haunted corners.

A - As hard as he tries, Buck can’t escape all the hazy memories of Tommy that seem to permeate every inch of the loft. The kitchen space that saw their beginning…and their quiet end. The coat rack by the door that still houses a pair of Tommy's work boots and one of his favorite jackets. It's a miracle most nights that Buck can actually sleep in his own bed, and it wasn't a coincidence that they almost always met up at Ravi’s. Almost.

S - “There’S no need to look guilty, Buck. We're good. Really.” (cheating a little because there was nothing else to use.)

H - He turns, sliding the dirty plate into the sink when he hears the unmistakable sound of the barstool scraping over the floor.

Ravi almost makes it to the front door before turning back to face him.

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Unspoken

for Angstpril, Day 2: Loss of Control (alt)

cw: torture, nonsexual nudity, death mentions

masterlist ///// next

§•§•§

"The Shadow King has fallen."

A phrase on everyone's lips, passed around like a greeting, a blessing, a well-wishing.

"The Shadow King has fallen, and we are free."

General Nisha was at the head of the makeshift procession that paraded through the city, enemy shields and helmets held high like banners.

The war for the kingdom had been waged for five years. The fields outside the city were red with blood. But they'd won, they'd won. The undead legions had met their defeat, and their dark king had been imprisoned and was awaiting trial.

There was little doubt what his fate would be.

But before he could be executed, certain matters needed to be addressed. There were whispers in the streets, rumors of secret blood rituals, fail-safes emplaced by the Dark King to ensure he'd always be able to rise to power again. And if these rumors were true, they must be destroyed.

There were holy mages in cities further from the capital, wise men who could draw truths from a person's mind, but it would be weeks before their arrival. For now, Cerus the Shadow King would face Nisha.

They held a meager feast in the reclaimed castle; the city was still suffering from being besieged. Knights and lords and commoners dined together in celebration. Once the evening had turned to drinking and song, General Nisha took their leave, making the long journey down the stairs, to the dungeons.

Cerus hadn't moved an inch from the spot he'd been left in, Nisha had seen to that personally. The ex-king was blindfolded, chained spread-eagled on the ground with an iron bit in his mouth. Knight's gauntlets had been fitted over his hands, their joints fused together to form immobile metal gloves.

One could never be too careful when dealing with a mage, especially one as powerful as the Shadow King.

Nisha said nothing at first, unlocking the cell door and circling the prisoner inside.

Cerus's breathing quickened at the sound, his long black hair plastered to his face with sweat. He wore nothing but his restraints, leaving the multitude of wounds he'd sustained during his capture plainly visible.

How should they proceed? Normally, allowing a captive mage to speak would be exceedingly dangerous, but Nisha had taken precautions. One of their mages had crafted a runed cuff that would sap Cerus's power. The real question was, how would they get the man to respond?

They knew appealing to Cerus's morality was a lost cause. The former king had no issue razing whole villages to eliminate a single rebel. He'd executed entire families, burned the crops of his own people. There was no hope of finding any humanity in him.

Pain could be a motivator, but it would take time. And they had time, but pain alone wouldn't be enough. Someone like Cerus would need to be wholly broken before he'd give them anything worthwhile. Now fear… fear would be a useful tool, but how to employ it?

Nisha supposed they were already making some headway with their silent circling. Now to heighten it…

They eyed the rack of implements that lined one of the stone walls, selecting a slim wooden rod that looked like it had been freshly cut. Someone had stocked the dungeon for the occasion, then.

They tested it, watching Cerus's chest hitch as it cut through the air with a swish. Good. Instead of bringing it down on his exposed flesh, Nisha resumed their circling, letting the anticipation rise for a long moment before hovering over one of the deeper wounds on the chained man's torso and slowly, slowly forcing the tip of the implement into it, increasing pressure until Cerus was screaming around the bit.

Then without a word, they withdrew, the tip of the rod now slick with blood as they continued circling.

How would it feel, they wondered, to be in the Dark King's place? Dethroned, rendered powerless, in the hands of enemies who were hungry for blood. A prisoner in his own dungeon. They imagined it was terrifying. They hoped it was terrifying.

Nisha stopped, found another wound, and repeated the slow, pressured prodding. None of the cuts that littered Cerus's body were too deep; a few still oozed blood, and a few looked like they'd require stitches—or at least they would were Nisha inclined to grant the man any sort of medical aid. No, if Cerus were to be healed, it would only be to allow more pain. He deserved no mercy.

Nisha allowed themselves a few more jabs, a few more screams elicited from the tyrant, before even bothering to lock the runed cuff onto his wrist. They already knew they'd be up well into the night, whether Cerus elected to respond to their questions or not.

Whatever answers they were granted, they couldn't deny that they were going to enjoy this.

[luluwquidprocrow]

like a row of captured ghosts

kit snicket

teen

2,568 words

Kit Snicket visits a house in the city.

for @asouefanworkevent's woevember day 2, the baudelaire mansion! featuring my enduring headcanon that the baudelaire mansion was previously the snicket mansion, and b+b get it when they marry lemony. i am 100% willing to admit it is Unlikely, however let us not forget kit saying “our families have always been close”, so, yknow

title from welcome home by radical face

Kit could get in if she wanted. She’d been given lockpicks expressly for the purpose, because the locks on the house were special, but she didn’t need them. She knew the statue in the back of the garden had a hairline crack in one of the hands – she didn’t remember which one, but it wasn’t as if there were many options – that, when pressure was applied, opened a brick in the patio. Under the brick was a lever. If one were to pull the lever, the little window in the hidden attic opened, roof shingles shifting out of the way, and one could wiggle themselves in, with enough effort. Her grandfather had put a number of clever little secrets in the house, and Kit had gone looking for them when she was very, very young, so she knew a decent amount of them. Few others did. 

(The lockpicks confirmed that. If they thought that was the only way someone could get into the house, Kit was not going to correct them. And there were worse things, weren’t there, than simple theft, things for which no real defense existed.) 

Night air bit at her ankles, her fingers, her neck. She wasn’t dressed nearly warm enough for November, having grabbed her blue spring jacket in her hurry, but the cold was of little concern to her. The mansion stood across the street, set back from the road, with that winding brick path up to the front doors, the maple trees scattering their leaves around the yard. It was in the heart of the city but in a place one would never know unless explicitly looked for – a turn off an erroneously marked dead end, then another, to an old avenue along a river with more trees than houses. Her grandparents had picked it on purpose. Presumably safe, but close enough. 

They had added to the windows. Neat, decorative ironwork, curled into hearts and vines. 

Kit put her hands in her pockets and crossed the street, her footsteps the only noise. 

The fence out front had been replaced as well. Kit’s grandmother had done most of the architecture, and Bernadette Snicket had favored a simplistic, practical style in her work, but the new fence matched the intricacy of the window grates. That just-too-big space in the bars a person could slide themselves through if they desired, that Kit had, years ago, when she’d – that was gone. Kit walked the length of the fence twice, considering. She couldn’t linger long. There was a light on in a downstairs window, glowing soft behind the drawn curtains. Kit could not put it past them to eventually see her. She walked down the sidewalk one more time, picking up her pace. There was no way around the fence. Climbing over it didn’t seem like an option. The points at the top of each iron bar looked sharp, glinting in a stray hit of light from the streetlamp over near Kit’s car. 

(Kit wondered how much was a choice – how much was a needed decision – how much was meant to erase. She couldn’t judge Beatrice and Bertrand for that. Not without damning herself, which Kit was not, overall, in the habit of doing.) 

Of course there was a sewer grate nearby, and of course Kit pushed it up soundlessly and slipped down inside. 

Her grandfather had three boxes – one Kit had already taken some years ago and given to Bertrand, for reasons better left unsaid. One had been given to Lemony. The third was still in the house and held a very specific map of the city. Headquarters wanted it, among other things. And if Kit came across one of those other things, she was at her liberty to take them. 

(She and Beatrice had argued, Kit remembered. The sewer was dark and icy, and Kit shivered hard, grinding her teeth together. They’d argued about those other things, and Kit had not been able to give Beatrice, or herself, a satisfactory answer. It was one of the last conversations they had, if not the last. Most likely the last, if Kit was honest. Beatrice had made it clear where she and Bertrand stood, and where Kit stood, and that it was no longer in the same place. And it never would be. 

Kit told herself over and over that she would never do it. There would always be another option, as long as Beatrice and Bertrand were alive to emphatically refuse. Right now, there was this option – Kit was going into the house. She was taking the box back. Nothing else. And the box wasn’t even going to headquarters. There were other plans for that box.) 

The box would be in the downstairs office, under a floorboard. Probably Bertrand’s office. The windows were one of the ones her grandmother had put the stained glass in, and shards of blue fell over the green floor when the sun sat just right in the sky. It was a good room for thinking, and Bertrand likely did a great deal of it there. Kit swallowed and hurried further through the sewers, past the names that didn’t matter, and started scanning the curved ceiling. If one knew where to look, there was a sloped hatch up there that led up into the passage between the house and 667 Dark Avenue. Kit would open the hatch, get inside, go into the house, and then leave the same way. And there it was. Tucked in a shadow, just waiting for her. Kit reached up for the wheel, ready to heave the door open. It was going to stick with so little use. 

The wheel turned easy under her hands. 

Kit jerked back, her whole body seizing up. Someone had been here. Someone who was not her. Someone who wasn’t just checking. Kit spun the wheel frantically and the hatch fell open. 

(She’d brought Olaf here. Her grandparents hadn’t cared who knew the location of their house, but their generation had been different, and Kit’s parents had stressed, when they could, the importance of keeping this secret. Her associates thought it was a safehouse, one they could never quite find the location of, and wrote off as another ruse. She’d driven Olaf, pointing out landmarks the whole way, because she’d thought – 

Kit was not foolish enough to think she’d get married. But Olaf was important to her, and she was foolish enough to think he’d stay important, and that when Lemony inevitably married Beatrice and they took the house, Olaf would be there too.

They crept in through the fence. Olaf chased her around the maple trees. Kit took him into the house through the font doors and showed him what her grandparents built. And he understood what the Snicket mansion meant, in the way he had to understand what the Count’s mansion meant. Some time later, Kit realized he had not. 

Olaf’s memory was shit, except where it mattered. Except in the things she wanted him to forget. He’d remember where this house was and it was only a matter of time before he – before anyone – got their hands on the Baudelaires.)

Kit hoisted herself up into the passageway. She tugged the hatch closed behind her, then felt around in the black for the dip in the center. Her fingers kept slipping, shaking, pushing into metal that wasn’t right, nicking her nails, her heart thudding faster and faster in her chest and rising to a crash in her ears – where was it? There. She found the button and jammed her thumb into it. The metal hissed as it sealed from the inside. It wasn’t enough, Kit knew. Nothing would ever be enough now. But it would have to do. 

She ran along the passageway, keeping one hand on the wall. It came to an abrupt end, and Kit had her hand ready to pull open the trap door into the office when her mouth went dry. She swallowed, and then did it again. Once more. She let the trap door fall open and climbed into the Baudelaire mansion. 

The office was dark, as expected. Bertrand kept his desk by the windows, because of course he would. Not because Kit’s grandfather had, but because Bertrand would obviously like the view. The bookcases still lined the walls, but the books must surely be different. Kit wondered what he kept there, but there was no time to get into it. She could see the strip of light hovering under the door. It was poetry, probably. He probably kept poetry. Fairy tales he read to his children. The chair at his desk was different than the one her grandfather had there, perfect for sitting in and telling stories. She turned and faced the wall.

The floorboard was in the far left corner, at the front of the room. Kit moved slowly, quietly, barely breathing. Bertrand had covered the whole floor with a thick, heavy carpet, so at least that was in her favor. She bent down, tugging the corner of the carpet up, and lifted the single loose floorboard. 

(She always wound up doing this, she thought, in a voice that sounded stunningly like Lemony’s, wry as he ever was. Sneaking into someplace to steal something important. At least now she had experience.) 

There it was. Just as it had always been, another secret waiting for its time. The small, jeweled box with the complicated lock with the code her grandfather had taught all three of them. Kit tucked it inside her jacket and replaced the floorboard. 

It hit her like a shot, her breath catching in her throat. The sewer hatch locked only from the inside. She couldn’t go back that way. She whirled around, clutching the lump in her jacket to her chest. The best way to leave – the closest way out – that was through the library, two rooms down, through the passageway in the wall and up to the hidden attic. But that meant leaving the room. Standing in the hallway. Walking to the library, unseen. 

(She did not have experience. That voice sounded like Jacques, if Jacques had ever been so straightforward in his disappointment. She had to get out of this house before she kept thinking.)

Kit waited. Listened. She couldn’t hear anything from here in the office. She went through the map of the ground floor in her head, the foyer at the front, into the parlor, the living room to the left, the kitchen to the back, the dining room to the right – the hallway behind the kitchen, with the office, the billiard room, the library. The left wall in the library, where the hidden door was. Conceivably, it was easy. Wasn’t it? 

She turned the door handle and left the office. 

The hallway was half-lit from the living room at the end of the hall. Now she could hear the phonograph, playing a jazz record she didn’t recognize. Beatrice and Bertrand had to be in there, and it was right across from the library. Unless they were in the library. Unless they were – Kit gave herself a shake. She wouldn’t know anything until she moved. She just had to move. She just had to move. Kit just had to move. 

She couldn’t see the green floors. Beatrice and Bertrand had rugs everywhere, in elegant red and ivory. Kit tiptoed over it, hesitating. Paintings hung in groups down the hallway, flowers and little portraits and framed children’s drawings, scribbles of the garden hung with the same care as the art. They must be Violet’s. The jazz record kept going. Kit’s grandmother had liked oil paintings of flowers. She’d had a few in the hallway herself in her time. 

(Katherine, Bernadette Snicket had said. 

No, Kit insisted. How old was she then? Four? Just Kit. And her grandmother had looked pleased, like Kit had passed a test. Everything was a test and always had been, tests she’d completed perfectly, and why did it hurt? How far had Kit gone down the hall? The box sat against her ribs like another heart, heavy. Everything ached, especially her jaw, clenched shut like her life depended on it. And it did. This life around her she wasn’t a part of anymore, this family, this safety, Kit’s life existing outside of this place, everything depended on Kit, on her walking out of here alone, back to her apartment. The whole series of events spooled out in front of her as a nightmare unraveling. Was she crying? Why was she crying?)

Kit took another step, then another. The library was one foot away on the right, a mile away, mere inches, an eternity. The passthrough to the living room on her left gaped open.

Bertrand hummed a bar of the jazz record. And then – 

“What’ve you got there?”

Kit froze.

“I knew I left it somewhere in here – ha! That book I was looking for, for Violet and Klaus.”

“You really want to do the cob, don’t you?” The smile was clear in his voice, and Kit pictured Bertrand leaning forward in his chair, his hand on his chin, gazing at Beatrice and bursting with delight. 

“I absolutely do! I get to do a fake death scene and everything. How many kids books are going to give me that kind of opportunity, Bertrand?” 

They were alone. Their voices were far enough into the room that they shouldn’t see her at the doorway. They joked like she remembered, exactly like she remembered. Did they joke like that with their children? Would they have joked like that with Lemony, here, like they used to? With her? Would Olaf have – would her grandparents – wasn’t Kit supposed to be here too, not because it was hers, that wasn’t what mattered, what mattered was – 

Kit held her breath and didn’t let it out until she’d slipped into the library, until she’d rushed to the wall, until she’d nearly slammed her hand into the door hidden in the dark wallpaper, until she was safe in the narrow passageway. She wanted to run, to keep running. But they’d hear her in the wall. She took it step by step with her chest burning, traveling up two floors to the hidden attic. There was the little window in the roof, waiting for Kit to wiggle her way out. She did. The climb over the roof and down the trellis was harder, with her whole body trembling, but she made it. 

She stumbled through the garden, racing over the brick path back to the road, to the fence – she shoved her heels into the ironwork, scrambling over it, the tip of a bar slicing into her calf and her palms. She slipped on the way down the other side and her hip met the sidewalk, pain skittering through her leg and up her side. Get up. Get up, Kit. And Kit did, back to her car across the street, into the driver’s side. 

Kit took long and deep breaths. In and out, until her head was back on straight, with the plan set right in her thoughts, as it was supposed to be. Everything was as it should be. She set the box down gently on the passenger seat. She did not look at the Baudelaire mansion. She would patch herself up later, when she had time. She took another breath and put the key in the ignition. 

She had to go back home.

[thisliminalspacedaydreams]

Me (this weekend, laughing to myself) : I'm going to write an Mpreg fic

Me (right now, three days later and in a emotional trauma crisis, crying as I Google research) : Why are small skis much better, aerodynamically speaking ?

[vulpinecircuitry]

bwandy 💖