#text snippet from 'fire and thread'

[revelisms]

His room, five paces down the hall from her own, carries the same dryness that sits on his clothes: a cool brush of evening air through the open window, their city's sweet-soured tang mingling with the spice of his cigars, the dusky notes of his cologne, the polished cedar of the floors: all deep greens and old carpets and the scent of tobacco on his fingers, where they tick an ivory comb through the knots in her hair.

.

Silco aesthetics

[beatriceeagle]

@tevyaa sent an ask with a snippet from "something just broke" for DVD commentary. Unfortunately due to the nature of the fic, even a very short snippet takes up a massive amount of space (and the formatting limitations of the ask box make it very difficult to parse) so I'm making a separate post for it.

Commentary under the cut. (Since this fic heavily includes diegetic bolded text, my commentary will be indented.) Tragically, it doesn't seem possible to right-align text on Tumblr, so apologies for any confusion about who's speaking.

Given the subject matter of the fic, be advised that there's a whole lot of discussion of sexual assault below.

"unstoppable mofos in masks" group chat

Donna I have a question I'd like to throw to the chat

Would you be comfortable with male survivors in here?

There was a version of this fic that dug into the gendered experience of sexual assault a lot more, but I ended up mostly cutting that thread for being a) not totally relevant to the broader point I was making, b) very difficult to untangle the Watsonian and Doyleist implications of, and as a result c) something that I wasn't totally sure what I wanted to say about. Some of that material ended up in "this year's love." Some of it is still floating around in my brain.

I left this particular conversation less because I had something to say with it, and more because it felt like something these particular characters would bring up.

Mia are they unstoppable mofos in masks? because if not could be a problem

Firenza I assume this is someone you know and trust not to fuck up too badly?

I'm really proud of "Firenza Hale" as a secret identity name for a fire-based superhero.

Donna I do

Barbara I'll vouch for him too.

I hope everyone appreciates that Barbara and Bruce are the only characters in the fic who end every sentence with a period.

Firenza Then I'm okay with it

Donna Mia, I’m assuming you were trying to say you don’t mind?

Mia 👍

Donna And Kory already said she’s okay

Okay, I’ll add him

Donna Troy added Dick Grayson

Mia no fucking way

oh wow that was super not okay sorry

I have read some of Mia's run in Green Arrow, but not nearly as much as I have of many of the other characters, so although I have a sense of her personality, I was very worried that I might have totally missed the mark with her. My general sense from the reaction I've gotten is that I did not at the very least TOTALLY miss it, which is a great relief. I bring that up mostly because, for obvious reasons, this is the moment that I worried most about. It did very much feel like a moment that needed to be acknowledged, though, and Mia seemed like the right choice of person to do so.

Dick Hey Mia 😎

I assume you’re the one who named the chat?

Mia like it?

Dick It’s amazing

-----

"unstoppable mofos in masks" group chat

Here's the level of picky that I get about writing: In this fic, I tried not to have the same characters/medium twice in a row, so for instance I tried not to have a newspaper article followed immediately by another newspaper article, or a Donna conversation followed by another Donna conversation. And TO THIS DAY it bugs me that I didn't find something to go in between these two group chat snippets.

Firenza Hey, does anyone know anything about Lois Lane?

She approached me to talk to her for an article about the JLA's response or lack thereof

Her work seems good, but I wanted to be thorough

Barbara Lois is on the up-and-up

Missed a period here. I should probably go back and fix that.

Donna She is JLA-adjacent, which is probably technically a conflict, but you know how that goes

The journalistic ethics of the superhero world fascinate me to no end.

Firenza She actually told me that

Donna Well I think she's a great reporter who's interested in the truth

Dick This is a pro-Lois Lane household

Apartment

Whatever

Firenza Okay, that's all very reassuring

Btw I know she's looking for other vigilantes to talk to, anonymously or otherwise

-----

Texts between Barbara Gordon and Stephanie Brown

So, have you decided about Bruce?

nope

stuck in unending indecisive hell

Steph and Mia have similar texting styles because they're modeled after the younger Gen Z texters I know. Steph uses slightly more punctuation than Mia because I tried to make everyone's personal style slightly different. (I also tried to think about how different social circles would affect each other's styles. The OG Titans grew up together and stay in frequent contact, so they write similarly! And so on!)

I may have a compromise option for you. Or at least, something that you could do to test how you feel.

??

Lois Lane is doing a story on the JLA's general culture and response to abuse and assault. You could talk to her about your general feelings—and you could do it anonymously.

She probably wouldn't print specific accusations without more evidence, but you're not sure you want to do that anyway.

So it could be a way of saying *something* without having to decide whether you want to say *everything* yet.

I thought the Steph subplot was important to include because this is fundamentally a fic about the SYSTEMS that allow sexual assault to flourish, and systems that allow sexual assault will also allow other kinds of abuse. I also knew that I wanted the fic to end with everything not totally tied up and neatly resolved, and this was an obvious choice for a loose thread to remain.

that's… an idea

i'll think about it

[acre-of-wheat]

Hi there! I was a bit late to the Willow fandom/Tanthamore ship, but I love your writing, adore NCI, very much appreciate you sharing your fics. One thing, though: in a reblog, you said you write NCI live on a discord server. I don’t think I understand what you mean, do you mind explaining that?

Oh, thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying the writing!

I'm part of a Tanthamore Discord that has a lot of writers, artists, fans, and friends in it. If you've been reading a lot of Tanthamore fanfic I'd bet you $20 that a fair number of those authors are in the server.

NCI happened in one of the discord channels where some of the authors do "live writing," which is when we get an idea and just start...writing it as it comes to us in the thread and folks react throughout. I wrote The Bite this way, and then due to an amusing miscommunication, I started live writing a story about Jade being a cam girl. Almost immediately I knew that Kit was going to be autistic, just based on how it felt to write it. In those first couple of chapters nothing was super planned out in advance, I'd just sit on the train to and from work and write in the thread and whatever happened happened! It's acquired a structure and beats in my mind by now, and certain things I'm writing to, and little snippets of text that I know will come in later, but 90% of it is still live written in the discord, because it was such a joy to start it that way and it's an incredibly unique writing experience.

The benefits of live writing for myself are that it forces me to stop agonizing over plot points, I don't get bogged down in editing, and it's exciting enough to keep me energized about the work. It's also such a fun community thing when we're all sort of gathered around the fire for storytelling time. It's improvisation, and I've always been decently good at that, and I think the live writing strengthens that skill. I recommend it!

If you're interested in joining the server, here's a link!

[popjunkie42]

The One Where Rhys Wears Glasses

I did it.

Instead of doing my actual job or working on the 30k+ word fanfic I’m writing, I wrote a one-off with nerdy philosopher Rhys. He wears glasses.

Eureka on AO3

Rhys finds something interesting in one of his dusty old books and goes on a late-night research tear, much to Feyre’s amusement. 

Someone on a previous thread mentioned the idea of fae glasses helping them see hidden text or objects, like Lucien’s eye. Remind me who you are and I am happy to credit you. I stole the idea completely.

I also fully invented some random Prythian history and magical rules as I went so...be gentle.

I hope you enjoy!

Snippet:

Feyre regarded him for a moment, a soft smile on her face. It was easy, sometimes, to forget they had known each other for such a short amount of time. Hardly two years. Sometimes she thought she knew her mate more than she knew herself. Much of her life was spent with him by her side, his thoughts and emotions traveling freely back and forth between the bond, his mind a familiar landscape.

She knew his moods, his looks, when a quirk of his lips meant he was annoyed or amused. When he was calm and lost in his thoughts, or observing the tone of a room and ready for a verbal spar.

Since she had first met him on that fateful fire night, Feyre had seen many faces of Rhys. The cruel High Lord, the cold politician. The cocky Illyrian warrior and the grand commander of armies. The gentle ruler of Velaris, and his truer face, smiling and teasing with his family around a dinner table. Her mate, his eyes sometimes lustful and wicked, or filled to the brim with love and devotion.

And now, here was a new one for her own personal catalog. Rhys…the nerd. The devoted scholar, the inspired researcher.

She loved it, of course. As she loved all of his many personalities.

Oblivious to her thoughts, he let out a rather dramatic sigh, crossing out some notes on the parchment.

Feyre snorted. He lifted his eyes to her, the first time in hours.

“You remind me of one of our tutors when he finally got to my father’s library,” she said. “He used to bounce his leg furiously when he found something he liked. None of us could even sit in the same room as him when he was reading.”

“Oh? Was he also handsome, charming, devastatingly intelligent?” Rhys crooned.

She smirked and sent a mental image down the bond. One of her childhood tutors, a mere scrap of a boy fresh from school, his limbs gangly, his greasy hair slicked over his forehead, and small round-rimmed glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose, threatening to fall into the book he was buried in.

“Yes, I’d say it’s almost a mirror image.” He rolled his eyes. “Except for the glasses, I suppose.”

“Well, fortunately for us, the fae have little use for such things. Although,” he said, thoughtful. “I do have an old pair actually. Enchanted, for reading hidden text.” With a flourish of his hand he brought forth a pair of glasses, rectangular and thick-rimmed at the top but nothing but glass below. He placed them on his face and with a snap a book appeared in his left hand. He motioned her over for a demonstration. Feyre swallowed, looking him up and down.

“The Illumi village, centuries ago, were a people very secretive about their knowledge. They wrote with enchanted parchment and ink that was only visible to their own people. Until their rivals cracked the magic and created objects with which to view it. It was quite a scandal, back in the day.” He held open the book for her to examine.

Feyre made her way to the table, taking the book from his hands and dropping it unceremoniously onto the table. Before Rhys could object, she slid into his lap, her arms wrapping around his neck. The corner of his lips twitched and his hands rested on her hips.

“Perhaps I could become a scholar,” she said, kissing him, pulling a bit more than necessary on his bottom lip. “Of this mysterious knowledge.”

A low growl rumbled from his chest. The glasses . The glasses were doing something to her. He looked…distinguished. Somehow more than usual. Rhys the scholar, indeed. Feyre had been too young and their tutors too odious for her to have anything but rather negative memories of her lessons. But she did recall one of the younger of them all, how Elain would go beet red when he leaned over her shoulder to check her work, how she squeaked once when he laid an unexpected hand on her shoulder.

“Would you like a lesson later?” he whispered, his eyes darkening a bit. Feyre captured another kiss and then her lips began a slow path down his jaw, to his neck. “I have a twenty-volume History of Prythian we could start with. It would take…a while to get through.”

He hissed slightly as she nipped at the soft skin of his neck. His hands found her backside and squeezed, dragging her tantalizingly across his lap, closer to his body.

“Maybe I could shape shift into a quartz stone,” she said, her lips and teeth working their way slowly back up to his mouth. “And then I could get some of that attention back on me again.” Feyre kissed him again, taking his lip between her teeth and pulling.

Rhys groaned against her mouth. “Don’t you know, Feyre darling, you will be my top research subject? With all your many powers, you’ll probably be the most interesting fae I could study.” His voice was low, and his hands were skimming across her body, her hips, her waist. She loved how she could see his eyes go darker, his breathing heavier under her attention. “And when we’re done I’ll buy you a necklace of quartz, and you can wear it always, so I can take minute-by-minute calculations. For…research.”

[hgejfmw-hgejhsf]

Year In Review: Favorite Lines/Snippets!

Hello, my lovelies! Many thanks to @anincompletelist for not only creating this tag game, but for including me in it! I have ALWAYS loved a good quote that can hit someone right in the heart, and this year, I've been incredibly lucky to write a few such segments myself (that hit ME in my own heart!). Words that I stepped back from the keyboard after writing and thought "did I actually write this?"

Additional thanks to @kiwiana-writes and @firenati0n for the tags on their years in review as well!

What If I Do?

“Fuck,” is all that he can say, but even that tastes of Alex, of top shelf whiskey and the cinnamon he always adds to his coffee. Alex had spoken the word into Henry’s mouth on countless occasions, so he was all-too-familiar with the way it slipped off of his tongue so smoothly, as if the letters themselves were forged together just for him by some foul-mouthed god who knew the damage such a word might wreak in the possession of someone as fearless as Alexander Claremont-Diaz.

Gravity

But though fire may burn through carefully worded commands parading as suggestions on a pretty page, it stands no chance against the might of a golden crown. He only wishes he could fan the flames high enough to reach that blessed melting point. Watch it all soften and liquefy until it’s no longer a gilded cage but a puddle at his feet. He thinks, bitterly, that even then he wouldn’t have the time to escape before it would congeal and stiffen and trap him once more, forever frozen as a statue rather than a prisoner. And perhaps they’d prefer it that way. Statues can’t fight back.

The Rope

This is not supposed to be his life. He was always supposed to love Alex from the other side of a wall, never daring to climb over. So instead, he’d punched a hole in that fragile wall under the winter moonlight in the White House Garden, the taste of Alex on his tongue. And again and again he’d punched new holes in the weakening structure, reaching through and grabbing and clawing at whatever pieces of Alex he could grip, knowing that he’d never be able to grasp his heart. Except when, somewhere along the bloody way, he had. But Alex was never supposed to let him.

Ghosts

His first attempts to contact Henry are a flood. Incessant, desperate, confused. All paragraphs and punctuation. And then a storm. Intense in the moment but eventually losing its power. Streams of single sentences sent in quick succession. Then a trickle. Droplets of isolated words over the course of agonizing days. Until finally, they dry up completely, and Henry’s thread of communication falls lower and lower down his inbox. Alex tries not to actively seek it out.

The Maldives

“I love you. I don’t have your extensive vocabulary to say it, but the truth is that I’m absolutely crazy, head-over-heels, desperately in love with you, and I’ve spent so much time not saying it that I want to spend the rest of my life saying it as much as I can. I want to wake up beside you each morning and say it before we start the day. I want to text it to you from across any distance between us, whether it’s an ocean or the couch. I want to gasp it at the ceiling when you do that thing with your tongue. And I want it to be the last thing you hear before you fall asleep each night. I love you, and I want you to hear it so many times that it heals the pain of thinking you’d never hear it in the way you always dreamt.”

You can’t escape this drying ink

He knows, as they approach the door just down the hall from the main ballroom, what awaits him on the other side. He knows it as certainly as he knows what a terrible mistake he made on these very grounds to start the new year. A blank page already gushing bright red ink before he’d ever had the chance to write a single word other than “Alex.” He’d dripped his bleeding pen across the map as he fled, red ink footsteps trailing behind him in the snow, a smear across the map over the 3,700 miles separating them. He’d trailed it from the plane to the car, from the car through the palace, staining the perfect ancient path walked by kings and queens as he retreated back into the cage of his own making, a cage he never should have left, for now he knows what damage he wreaks when he allows his heart to guide him.

Save a horse Alex is a book that Henry has read countless times. He knows the placement of every punctuation mark, from the freckle above his hip to the smallest of scars on his knee, sustained while thoughts of Henry plagued his every waking moment, Alex admitted to him once. He’s familiar with every piece of dialogue from “motherfucker” to “sweetheart” and his personal favorite, “baby.” He’s bookmarked all of his favorite pages and even added his own annotations, like the way Alex always wants to look Henry in the eyes after they make love, regardless of what positions they may have ended up in, or the soft snores that come only when Alex is completely and utterly spent, nothing left to give but the sound of his breathing that never fails in lulling Henry to a deep sleep after him. But in the constant reading of the book of Alex, Henry is never bored. There is always something new to parse from between the lines. Words that aren’t explicitly stated. Details that can only be found by diving deeper than the surface. And Henry is happy to spend the rest of his life sinking to the depths of it, turning the pages again and again.

Heart enough

“Well, normally with a royal guest staying here, I’d roam the halls in a white sheet moaning about taxation without representation, but the joke would be wasted on someone as dull as Henry, so here I am…”

Alex has never seen Henry like this. So raw and vulnerable. Someone who needs. Frankly, he didn’t think it was even possible for a prince as polished as Henry to ever falter. Never thought a spine as rigid and straight could ever hunch, that a heart as walled off and locked away could ever break. How very wrong he was.

The taste of the whiskey from Alex’s flask and the champagne Henry drank earlier in the evening mixes with the rainwater that continues to pelt them from above, falling in their mouths and baptizing their tongues in the memories of this night that Alex knows he will never, could never, forget.

Wind me up, fill your cup like a river, drunk on watching me drown

He’d almost be impressed that a statue sculpted out of unforgiving, unchanging marble could affect anything but a strong-jawed, tight-lipped expression of utter disdain, were it not for that very first meeting of the prince and the president’s son. But nothing Henry could ever hope to do in his meticulously scheduled life of cutting ceremonial ribbons and haunting the corners of ballrooms is capable of wrenching and scraping the clock hands backwards, turning back the years of disappointment Alex has felt for ever pressing his fingers to a photo in a magazine and allowing himself to dream of someone just like him. Someone who understood.

Alex quickly realizes, though, that he’s never stood this close to the prince before. Never made out the freckles hiding beneath the carefully applied makeup. To the dungeons with a blemish on a royal face! Never noticed the halo of hazel around his pupils, a tiny island in eyes as blue as the ocean. He wonders, briefly, if Henry would choose to embrace these perceived imperfections if given the chance. Would the open, grinning young man from the magazine sign his looping script on an agreement of a royal portrait painter dotting a canvas with physical proof of being kissed by the sun, or mix up a bit of color other than the most stunning cerulean for his eyes? Or does he relish in the mask that he wears, locked as perfectly into place as every strand of his golden hair?

The injury of finally knowing you

He listens to the quiet sound of snow drifting to the ground around him and thickening the blanket of white. He listens to the distant thump of music and the explosion of fireworks across the city, of liquor-soaked laughter and raucous cheers. He listens and listens, his ears straining as if some part of him hopes to hear his father’s voice break through the clouds as brightly and certainly as he knows Orion shines somewhere above the earth upon which he stands on trembling limbs. What he doesn’t expect when he listens is the lilt of another voice from behind him, an all-too-familiar sound that never fails to color his dreams in flashes of vivid molten gold, fiery scarlet, and radiant orange, lighting his very imagination aflame. Every word spoken by that voice now grows a fraction louder with each soft, crunching step through the snow.

Unsure who's done this so far, but wanting to throw out some tags for @indestructibleheart @thinkof-england @whimsymanaged @sparklepocalypse @duchessdepolignaca03 @ships-to-sail @magicandarchery @suseagull04 @rockyroadkylers @inexplicablymine @littlemisskittentoes @ssmtskw @affectionatelyrs @lizzie-bennetdarcy @songliili @priincebutt @daisymae-12 @happiness-of-the-pursuit @leaves-of-laurelin @roseharpermaxwell @adreamareads @indomitable-love @cricketnationrise @clottedcreamfudge @ninzied

[mxtantrights]

the Dent Cut

this is a snippet from the famous dc!au that started with The Greatest Hits [read here]  you don’t have to read it but a lot of things would make sense if you do. 

It started on twitter like all things seem to do these days. There had been a petition going around ever since the movie hit theaters to see the hinted Dent Cut. 

Dent was known to give his fans and viewers a glimpse into the directing process. Certain scenes that were cut, lines that were changed, set and location ideas. These we

This time around you know what the Dent cut is. It’s the movie within the movie he directed. Which is weird to say but you were there so you know exactly what it is.

Whenever you were on set there would be another camera going. Lines being changed right there in front of the cast and crew, sets being rearranged. There was actually a whole other plot line created that Dent scrapped due to time. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t feed into it sometimes with the extra footage he had.

Love in Pieces (The Dent Cut) features some moments between you and Jason that weren't exactly in character. Nothing too bad really. Just you and him bickering over whatever was happening that day, staring at each other from across set, etc.

But you knew that with the video swirling around it would only fuel the rumors about the two of you. You had your own opinions on the whole supposed relationship between you and Jason but you didn’t get the chance to speak to him about it yet one one one. 

You were both busy people now. He’s got projects, you’ve got projects. And you’re downright nervous to bring it up to him. You don’t want it the change whatever it is you’ve got going. He’s the first friend you made in the industry and you don't wanna lose that.

But not talking about it when there is oil possibly going to be poured on the fire would be worse. 

So you pick up your phone and pull up your thread conversation.

you: hey if you're not busy we need to talk 

What you don't expect is an instant response. 

Jason: I can talk now. call?

You negate answering with another text. Instead you hit his contact and then the call button. It rings for three seconds and then he answers. You can hear a bit of shuffling in the background.

“Hey what’s up?” he asks.

You blow air out of your mouth, “Uh, nothing much just wanted to talk to you. just us.” 

“Did that impromptu zoom meeting scare you that bad?” he asks lightly, with a bit of a laugh at the end.

“I mean not really but I was just- we didn’t get to talk about all of it just us.” you answer. 

“I promise you the heat from the video will die down.” he says.

“Even with Dent possibly releasing his collage of stuff online?” you ask back.

“What? What are you talking about?” he’s quick.

“There’s a petition going around asking him to release the other footage he has. Footage of us, Jason.” you explain.

There's more movement in the background of the call. You try to make out where he is exactly but you can’t. You have a feeling he was busy and lied in order to take your call. 

“But we were just on set. Two actors on set. How could that make the video worse?” he asks.

“Because there’ll be a YouTube montage as soon as it hits. And the tabloids will run it into the ground.” you speak slowly. 

You're nervous. You’re overthinking. In your head a million things are happening at once. You career is tanked. You’ll lose your current projects. You’ll only be seen as the actor that feel in love with their co-star. You’ll be out of a job.

“Hey listen to me, listen to my voice.” 

“Holy shit. Did I say that out loud?” you ask.

“Yes you did, it’s okay. It’s gonna be fine.” he tries soothing you.

You shake your head and shut your eyes. Phone still pressed to you ear. 

“Jason what if this is ten times worse than the video? What if I tank your career?” you ask.

“If the video and Dent’s extra footage tank my career then it was never worth it, but I would be glad I got to do it with you.” he answers honestly.

And it breaks your heart. To hear him say such kind words to you. A tiny part of you was expecting him to be a little bit upset about this. Ot at least as nervous as you are right now.

“How are you so calm about this? How are you not freaking out?” you ask.

“I just texted my brother.” he says.

“What- good for you... I guess?” you waver.

“Not like that hun, he’s good with online stuff. Said he could minimize the impact of the video leak if it starts trending.” he explains.

You let out a breath. It feels good. He has someone to take care of this. That’s why he’s so calm. You take another breath.

“And I can speak to Dent if you want.” Jason offers.

“No! I don’t want come off as rude.” you answer quickly, shouting a bit.

“It’s not rude. Plus he’s a family friend. He and my dad go way back.” he adds on.

“You would do that for me?” you ask.

On the other end you hear a short chuckle, “Yeah. Of course.” 

You’re not sure of what to say. He’s being so nice to you. Of course you’re about to star in the highly anticipated sequel opposite of him, so he kind of had to be. But this feels different. This feels real.

“It would mean a lot actually, Jason.” you admit.

“Okay then consider it done then.” he speaks.

“And I know that you were probably busy and still picked up my call anyways. Thank you.” you smile a bit to yourself.

“You’re hard to ignore. And trust me I’ve tried.” he jokes.

And you laugh at that. “Okay I’ll let you go. Bye Jason.” 

“I’ll call you when it’s done.” he departs.

You put your phone down and take a deep breath in and out. Some semblance of normal was returning. You know the rumors won’t really stop. If not with Jason then with someone else. But you’re glad that you have him by your side to go through this. And that it doesn’t seem to change your relationship with him.

“LOVE IN PIECES” EXTRA FOOTAGE? DENT CUT PETITION BELOW!

DENT DENIES EXTRA FOOTAGE CLAIMS, APPEASES FANS WITH SEQUEL TALK AND RARE WAYNE/DENT PHOTO FROM EARLY 90S! 

BUZZ ABOUT LEAKED VIDEO OF “LOVE IN PIECES” CO-STARS!

JASON TODD POSTS BEHIND THE SCENES PICS OF “LOVE IN PIECES” ON INSTA!

[faebriel]

and you caused it: chapter 1

(click for more detail!)

In which Niki has a terrible secret, Puffy just wants to move on, Tommy sneaks into casino parties and Wilbur learns to deal with anger being justified. Or - the one thing they don't warn you of, when dropping nuclear warheads on old friends, is fallout.

in chapter one: wilbur does his very best to be a good friend. niki continues to have issues with making apologies. a casino opening party is attended, and a few well-kept secrets find their way into the light.

wc: 9.8k (this part's the longest! you can tell i start writing out fics from their opening scenes lol)

so before getting into things, i'd like to lay out a few warnings and additional comments.

cws include: implied/referenced suicide, implied/referenced self-destructive behaviour, implied/referenced child abuse, and discussed food restriction. this is very much a fic about trying to deal with the fact that you haven't done great things and having trouble coming to terms with your mistakes and wrongdoings, and not always approaching that in a healthy way. do i still need to clarify all my fics are extremely entrenched in unreliable narrators? the viewpoint(s) of this fic most definitely are.

this fic should be considered canon-divergent from early season 3, as a direct sequel to cause most of us are bitter over someone.

apologies for some of the broken up snippet boxes. did you know tumblr has a character limit per text block? i didn't, until today.

and yes, this fic is also named after youth by daughter. i mean, come on.

with that in mind, onto the story proper.

prologue

The crater is so, so much bigger than she thought it would be. Crumbling rock stretches onward, a chasm fields larger than the pit that once was L’Manberg - easily bigger than L’Manberg ever was. Even now it yawns itself larger, stone crumbling at the edges and tumbling downward, ever downward. The crashing is muffled, the ground under her feet unsteady and yet floating, frozen, caught and crystallised in the stray second that Niki is trapped in. Every stone a diamond, the hulking and twisted mass of metal below glittering in the late afternoon sun. It sinks into her brain, thick and heavy, as she struggles to wrap her mind around what her eyes tell her she sees. This isn’t a burning tree, this isn’t dynamite - this shouldn’t even be possible. And yet somehow, somehow, they failed. She edges closer to the lip of the cliff, letting the sound of tumbling rock fade from her earshot, and stares. Just - stares. What else can she do? Bedrock peers up at her, threaded with smoking silver-grey. The air is clear up here, sky a fading blue, but the longer she looks - her eyes burn, and when she takes a breath she coughs on what tastes like gunpowder, but it burns down the rungs of her throat like it’s somehow been lit behind her tongue. Gunpowder is dry, cold - it doesn’t do that. She would know. The burning feeling raking its way into her lungs pulls her back from her vigil, and somewhere behind her she can hear Tubbo pulling Tommy back from the edge. His voice rambles on about - about radiation. Poison leeching its way into her lungs, her skin, every thread of muscle and sinew holding her together, her brain. (She’s either dizzy, or the height is giving her vertigo. She steels herself, clenches her hands into shaking fists, and tries not to drift.) And they’re all standing in the thick of it, air hot and heavy with poison. Because Tommy’s still here. She tears her eyes away from the wreckage, watches - watches him, still here, still alive, still fire-bright and bold enough to start kicking rocks around. When a cliff crumbles he bounces back, has the audacity to laugh. Jack’s eyes bore holes into the side of her head. Her stomach hurts, pulling itself apart, lining loose - oh, fuck, she’s going to be sick. She can - she can’t feel it, she shouldn’t be able to feel it, but she does. That poison seeping into her bones, settling there like silt. It reaches out with sticky hands, tearing open her stomach and burning everything it touches leaving nothing but the wet and wrong feeling of gristle inside and she takes a deep breath and squeezes her eyes shut and clamps a hand over her mouth because she’s all too aware of every toxic shift in her chest. Takes a shaky breath, feels that burn down her throat too. Her gut is twisting like something’s grabbed it, shot it through with shards of ice, but it’s just her, Jack, Tubbo and Tommy. And the pit that stretches out beneath them. There’s a hand on her shoulder, and Tubbo’s words swim past her ears like she’s been held underwater. We need to go, his voice murmurs quietly. It washes over her like rainwater, like what’s left of the stream that weaves its way into the crater and drips down like rain on the edge of a roof. We need to go, or we’ll die. Isn’t that the point? she wants to ask. It all blurs together when she blinks the water out of her eyes - the shitty canopy over their van, a tree that goes up like firewood, smoke in the back of her throat. Dynamite under her hands, dug deep into a podium. Radiation sinking into her bones. She staggers over - Tubbo is wearing something heavy and yellow, encrusted in shimmering black dust, pressing something similar into Tommy’s hands. She’s wearing - Wilbur’s coat, thin and flapping in the breeze, still smudged with ash. She can feel a draft through the tears in the back. Tommy steps away from the cliff’s edge, and her hands twitch. Hasn’t that always been the point?

☢ ☢ ☢

chapter 1

the first two scenes of this fic are actually written out, so they have been linked in their entirety below:

scene 1 - wilbur and niki, hanging out again - comfortable, reunited - as niki brews potions that she (reluctantly) reveals are to treat radiation sickness from a mishap with one of tubbo's nuclear experiments.

scene 2 - niki walks to snowchester to drop off a few potions, a peace offering. unfortunately, tommy and michael are the only ones home. it's a bit awkward. niki struggles to navigate the historically-turbulent relationship between herself and tommy.

---

after snowchester comes the afternoon syndicate meeting - insert the meeting notes, penned by the deeply-experienced ranboo_beloved.

items of note: technoblade's absence, as he is due to return from his hibernation tomorrow. phil advises ranboo and niki that techno seems to have some big ideas in mind for the syndicate upon his return, but there's no time to speculate - wilbur has advised them that las nevadas is throwing an opening party for its casino in a few nights' time, and the syndicate does not trust like that! ranboo will be representing paradise burgers and phil is pulling the "you've all called me old for too long, and i am now using it as an excuse to get out of this party i don't want to go to" card. niki, you would love to go, wouldn't you?

---

well, niki is a bit so-so on las nevadas, but to be honest - a night at a fancy party with a few friends doesn't sound so bad. so niki makes her way to the sparkling city in her glitziest red dress, and wilbur is just a little bit too excited to meet her on its front steps.

The place is bustling, fashioned for pleasure instead of business tonight - strings of lights wrap their way around slender pillars of stone on every corner, each housing sea lanterns that send shifting shades of blue and purple across the obsidian paving. The water flowing from the fountains is bright and blue, the music coming from the casino is booming, and the space needle is lit up like a lighthouse that throws the spotlight onto every partygoer who enters the city. It is sparkling, dazzling, and probably shockingly expensive. In other words, just as tacky as Niki had expected. Although maybe even sparklier. There is something about this place that is stale, artificial. There is a chill to the air despite the sand stuck in her heels, and Niki finds herself shivering as night settles over the desert - and wishing she had a shawl or something. She's wearing the same red dress as she did for the banquet months ago, knife tucked by her back, right in arm’s reach. Though even in her glitziest gown, she feels underdressed. "Wonderful, isn't it?" Wilbur, at least, seems unbothered - he’s still donning his torn trenchcoat and canary-yellow sweater, but moves through the city as if the bright lights and tall buildings fit him like a glove. “Wonderful is one word for it,” Niki murmurs. She’s never visited Las Nevadas, and tonight with its flashing nights and thrumming music seems determined to leave… an impression. A good one, or a bad one, she can’t say - although she’s certainly leaning towards the latter over the former. She thinks she can feel a headache coming on. “Oh, come on, Niki. Try to have a little fun, won’t you?” He grins, a little crooked. “A beautiful night in a beautiful city - a lot of potential, for a night like that..." Wilbur is acting strange. it’s not the locale, because he looks the same as usual and moves through the city in the same way as usual - but he is clearly planning something, and Niki hates to say it but it’s putting her on edge. Bless him, but Wilbur planning things doesn’t end well. Especially when she doesn’t see it coming.

"Alright, get over here," he interrupts her rapidly-derailing train of thought. "Your eyeliner is smudged.” Niki wrinkles her nose as Wilbur licks his thumb, and dodges an attempt to swipe it past her temple. “I’ll decline you rubbing your spit on my face,” she says, taking a step back. Wilbur pouts. “I don’t have anyone to impress here, Wil.” Certainly not. Not in the brightest, most wasteful city in the server. Wilbur presses his lips together, but he doesn’t say anything - just huffs, taking a step back with a roll of his eyes. Niki resists the urge to roll her own. He’s wired, and she’d like to pretend she’s not at least mildly suspicious, but she is. She keeps her mouth shut, though. She trusts Wilbur - despite and because of everything in equal measures. “Don’t blame me later,” is all he says. “This place is so... gaudy. I don't know how much fun you expect me to have,” Niki points out, and reaches out to fix the pins on his collar - glinting gold under the lights, one’s come detached from the point of his collar and dangles helplessly from the chain. He huffs slightly as she winds the pin out from the wool of his sweater, and fiddles with the point of his collar until it stays. “You really are starting to sound like Techno now, you know.” “He’s your brother,” Niki says, flattening out his collar. “i think that should be a compliment.” “Maybe,” Wilbur laughs, and offers her his arm. “Just - try to have fun, yeah? Don’t be stressed. It’s a party.” “It’s a reconnaissance mission.” “It's a reconnaissance mission at a party,” he says flippantly, although there’s something hiding beneath his tone. Niki trusts Wilbur, she reminds herself. “I know you’re putting some plan together again,” she says, despite herself. she just can’t piece together what he’s planning, and that worries her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hums. “You clearly do.” Wilbur drops the act a moment - not long enough to fill her in on whatever scheme's caught his eye, but just enough for him to shoot her an encouraging smile. “You'll have a good time, Niki,” he assures her, confident. "Promise."

but oh, the party seems fine. she runs into a few friends - quackity, tubbo, ranboo (they got a babysitter for tonight), actually meets slime. tommy is there too, and they share a bit of awkward conversation, but even they are getting along finely tonight.

Tommy nods out towards the mostly-empty space in the middle of the room, some glitzy imitation of a ballroom - Ranboo and Tubbo, hand in hand, twirl around the space in a clumsy but cheerful attempt at a waltz. As they pass the bar Ranboo spins Tubbo under his outstretched arm, smiling at Quackity - the man grins back, and lets the vodka glug into his glass for a few seconds too long before tossing it back with a grimace.

niki eventually takes a small breather from the party, lingering on the sidelines to catch her breath between all of this talking - this is where wilbur finds her, the most keyed up he's been all night and insisting that niki follow him. it'll be worth her while, of course (he's done something to make things up with her, to make things properly right between them, to do something just for niki). and so niki follows to the faux-ballroom, eyes cast downward to avoid stepping on anyone's feet as wilbur eagerly ushers her through the crowd, until she almost runs into his back as he steps away and finally -

locks eyes with puffy.

who is not happy to see her.

(oh, it would be so kind of wilbur - who has noticed how lonely the niki-who-is-now is compared to the niki-who-once-was, who once had perhaps not a country but friends and a girlfriend who she could rely on. and someone as sweet and good as niki would never do something to cause a horrible, drawn-out, justified breakup.

the point is, wilbur puts niki on a pedestal. he means well. they don't even notice that he does, half the time - he thinks she is good and clever and rational and deserving of the world, and some of the time, she really is those things. she's just also an attempted murderer. and finally, it is coming back to bite both of them in the ass.)

puffy, who has been led to believe that this is some get-her-back scheme orchestrated by niki, is mildly annoyed at best. we broke up for a reason, she insists, and niki knows that.

"I can’t believe you," Puffy scowls, the expression a brash, red rose across her face. "Really, Niki?” “This wasn’t my idea!” she cries. "Guilty as charged," Wilbur mumbles - suitably abashed, he slinks over to Niki's side. She is still too shell-shocked to shoo him away. Puffy is transfixing, like that. A thousand thoughts tumble through her head, chaos - and yet, she can't bring a single other one stammering to her lips. “Well, god knows what you’re telling everyone, then!" Puffy snaps. "I don't know what kind of dumb get back together plan you're trying to pull - I don't care, Niki. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, but - you're a fucking mess." The words land like a blow to the chest - Niki sucks a breath in past her teeth, bracing for the hit, before she thinks better of it. "I told you. I can't fix you, I couldn't - I couldn't just stand around and keep my eyes closed when you hurt people, Niki, I'm done with it. I told you, I'm done."

but niki has been trying. and fuck, trying has been hard. she's not going to beg that puffy takes her back - that ship has sailed - but she's not going to stand there and let herself be slandered, either.

“...I’m getting better," Niki retorts, voice small. Puffy lets go of an angry breath. “Don’t start. Don’t start.” “I have the Syndicate now!" she exclaims. "I have friends - good friends - and I started baking again, I started caring again, I started trying again, and it's - it's none of your business, either way. It's not your business!" “This started being my business when you tried to kill someone under my care - I don't know if you remember that - and then you just, just disappeared off into the wilderness about it! Fuck, have you even apologised to Tommy for all that?” And Niki goes quiet. It's more of an answer than anything she could have said in words. Puffy's glare goes thunderous, voice a loud, rumbling crash in Niki's head. “You haven’t? After exile, after all of that shit - you were in the vault with us, Niki, you heard everything that fucker said, you were there - and you haven't even fucking apologised to him?” A cold rush of - of shame, it sweeps over her, making her painfully aware of the scuffs on her dress and the acne on her chin and the abject, open anger on Puffy’s face. Puffy is no angel but she is righteous, powered by something burning bright and so scathingly good at her core, nigh-divine in her knightly fury - and despite her namesake, Niki is so very far from godhood. “It’s difficult," Niki tries. "It’s - it’s complicated.” “No, it’s fucking not!" Puffy shouts, incredulous. "You tried to kill the kid!” “Niki," Wilbur cuts in, voice quiet. Niki freezes, ice fanning down the length of her spine - she had forgotten, she had somehow forgotten, that the world existed outside of the small bubble encasing herself and Puffy. It all comes rushing back to her now, an assault on the senses - the coloured lights, the fabric of her dress settling across her neck, the uncanny sensation of a person standing at her back, the low sound of Wilbur's voice over her shoulder. "You, did you - you tried to hurt Tommy?” She is experiencing that sense of paralysis again, she dimly notices, silent - voicebox giving up the ghost. Oh, there's nothing she can say to fix this one. So the cords of her throat make no noise at all. “Yeah, go on, brag about it." Puffy waves a half-hearted hand in her direction, dismissive. "You seemed real proud of yourself this time last January.” “She’s - she’s lying, right. What the fuck." She can't see his face. She can't see him, and for some delirious moment her mind parrots if you can't see him then he can't see you, then it's not real then this never happened, he never came back you never tried to kill anyone you never he never - "Niki - Niki, she’s lying, isn’t she?” She turns, strangling the delirium silent. Niki has seen Wilbur heartbroken, desperate, dead - and yet there is another expression in his face that Niki simply cannot recognise, can't put a name to, an expression she has never seen turned onto her. “...I told you," she says weakly. "I said - I said I’d done things I wasn’t proud of - “ "Yeah, what - property damage or something, some shitty fights, I don't - I don't know," he exclaims, voice climbing in volume and incredulity. “You tried to kill him?” “I - I..." “...can you even admit it?” "Let me finish," she snaps, and he falls silent. “I - I did, I did.” Ah, there's the name for that expression. Horrified.

a crowd is forming. and it is listening.

from the crowd bursts tommy and ranboo, both in a state of panic - and as soon as tommy enters the scene, all eyes land on him.

did niki try to kill you, wilbur demands.

and tommy, he backpedals - no, we're over it, we're getting over it - it's none of your fucking business, wilbur, we sorted it out! and the lack of denial amidst it all is damning.

the argument could continue between the four of them for days, but tommy is already frantic - he cuts wilbur off, tells him ranboo is in a state of panic and can barely speak, and was using his few words to beg tommy to take him to wilbur. wilbur's not keen to drop this line of conversation at all, until ranboo babbles out the words casino, and TNT, and wilbur goes white.

you didn't, tommy says. no way you did, no fucking way -

you promised, niki chokes out, and wilbur snaps that now is not the time for her of all people to be rattling on about lies -

and the horrible story forces its way out of ranboo: yes, wilbur asked him to place a bit of TNT in the casino. a small amount! small enough that wilbur had practically forgotten. but ranboo, anxiety-ridden, felt strangely something was out of place - and discovered that somehow, they don't know how, they don't (they do know: it's the same reason excess TNT seems to appear around ranboo and prisons in droves) a few stray pieces of TNT have become an entire network, hundreds of pieces as far as they could see when they checked just now. enough to blow the casino sky-high, and easily kill every player inside.

all hell breaks loose.

tommy is furious with wilbur. wilbur is demanding why tommy didn't tell him about niki. niki is panicking. the crowd has given up on staring for now, instead focused on their escapade stampde. quackity is furious with everyone, barely keeping control of the crowd as they flood outside, as far from the building as they can get.

“Where is Tubbo?” Quackity shouts. “Tommy said he left earlier,” Niki offers quietly, and the man whips around to face her - his gaze settles on Niki, and Niki is not afraid of Quackity by any means (not in Manberg, not now), but the fire in his glare makes her stand a little straighter. “You’d better fucking hope you heard him right, Niki,” he snarls, and turns back to the crowd. “I need - “ And then, the bombs go off. It feels as if someone has taken a sword to the night that falls over Las Nevadas, splitting it open - day spills over them, a bright light that burns its way into her eyes even as she hides her face in the crook of her elbow. The ground shakes…

they make it out, but las nevadas is a wreck. fire falls from the sky, the sands glowing alight with flame, slick with melting glass. niki falls into step with the flood of evacuees, surrounded by whispers, by stares, by a crowd of nosiness and judgement that shifts awkwardly away from her when she walks beside them, pulled into puffy's tumultuous wake.

as the blast settles, the truth dawns on niki - wilbur has heard what she's done. everyone has heard what she's done. puffy has (yet again) rejected her, her peers have rejected her, even wilbur, whose friendship she fought so fucking hard to get back, has rejected her. all her work to heal - all her work, dragging her feet as she just couldn't quite spit out an apology to tommy, not a proper one - has gone up in fire and smoke. it's over.

With her arms wrapped tightly around herself, curled-up and pitiful, Niki walks away from the flaming crater that was once the city of Las Nevadas.

[monstersandmaw]

For the WiP ask: Weaver of Threads.

*swoons*

ok... the rules were 'a snippet, or tell them something about it'

Here's an infodump worldbuilding snippet with young journeyman mage Kae, and Maeve, having a discussion a long way from the Citadel.

(For more, slightly outdated, information on this world, head over to my rather dusty and neglected sideblog @weaverofthreads)

___

Patiently, Maeve waited in the doorway for him to scrabble around, picking up this and that and stuffing it into a shoulder bag like an eminent professor caught in a house fire. When he was ready, he flushed, tripped over a corner of the rug, stumbled, caught himself, and then announced in a mumble that he was ready to go.

“So you really were researching weaving?” he blurted as he trailed her like an excitable and gangly puppy through the encampment.

She shrugged. “Not exactly. We were looking to expand the knowledge of early runic practice, to see if we could work out why the flow of magic can so unpredictable at times. For instance, why…” she trailed off and held out her palms to the sky, pausing her long-legged striding and opening herself up to the magic that surrounded them. Kae felt her drawing it in and it was all he could do not to gape. She wasn’t particularly strong in the craft at all. From the confidence with which she spoke and carried herself, he had assumed she would be a formidable mage, but in fact she was relatively weak, especially compared to him.

Obviously sensing this epiphany in him, she laughed but offered no further comment on it, instead continuing her train of thought. “Why out here in this particular spot, the magic is relatively strong, and I could, were I perhaps a little stronger…” here she cast him a sidelong look, the meaning of which he understood perfectly, “…I could draw almost infinitely on it, while fifty miles north of here, there’s almost nothing, except what a mage can draw from nature itself.”

He nodded.

“That’s what we were looking into. Plenty of mages have tried and created endless reams of theories, no doubt most of which you’ve read and dismissed already, but no one has ever proved it definitively.” She fell silent again for a moment as they began to walk again and Kae sidestepped a pile of horse droppings with surprising agility given how interested he was in the conversation. “So, among my other research, I spent a lot of time delving into the earliest records we had, some of which included mention of weaving.”

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “Unless I’m being really stupid, there’s nothing on it now, not in the index room or on the shelves… One text referenced the Travel Journal of one Finneus Kettering, where he apparently met some folks who claimed to have spent time among the weavers, but that is the closest I’ve ever come.”

“Don’t waste your time with Kettering,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “He was one of the first people we found, and it’s a load of blithering old codswallop. Nothing but hokum and horse-fart,” she said, and Kae snorted.

“So… What did you find? Is it real? Can it be done?”

“Oh lad,” she chuckled. “Don’t go getting ahead of yourself. What we found wasn’t weaving, but some early form of hybrid between gesture magic and runic magic. I’ll show you what I mean when we get to my house, but tell me, have you ever heard of dynamic rune practice?”

“No,” he said, feeling uncharacteristically and unexpectedly stupid, but then something sparked in his memory. “Uh… actually, maybe? Is that when the mage carries or holds a rune that’s still connected to a static circuit?”

[rocknrollsalad]

WIP Wednesday Weekend

I was tagged by @shares-a-vest and I'm not sure what I have in the way of wips but here we go!!! 💖💖

Here’s how it works:

In a reblog of this post (so people can find you in the notes) or new thread (w/ rules attached) if you want to play on your own, post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs; not titles, file names.

Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to play!

After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can't share from (for example, an event or gift fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

That’s it! You can invite others to join in, or just post. I’ll be searching the reblogs to find people to send asks to!

If you’re reading this, you’re invited!

If you see someone posting a WIP Wednesday Game snippet, send them an ask! Make them write.

File Names:

Winter holidays 2023

Untitled Document

Where Did You Find It - STWG Daily Prompt 12/8/23 (or just send in STWG Daily Prompt if the day changes)

steddimas

steddie holiday drabble

Snippet and tags under the cut

Not saying what it's from, you get to guess lol

As far as responses went, Wayne couldn’t have asked for better. All of the necessary information was included, he was cautious but smart, and didn’t make Wayne send back countless texts of forced conversation. Firing back a “That works.” and dusting off his hands as he celebrated all that hard work.  For the first time, Wayne thought this might be a good idea after all.

I'm not tagging anyone but if you need a reason to join in, I totally tagged you!

[thebirdofthechapel]

10 Moments Showcasing swapped!Saiki and Ritsu’s Brotherly Bond 

I am obsessed with sibling love and if you wanted to see snippets of it, here are 10 scenes of swapped!Saiki and Ritsu being the closest siblings in Room of Hyacinth. There are spoilers beyond the read-more up until Chapter 13 (out of 17) unfortunately. Lots of text, and a comic panel at the end!

1. Ritsu is used to swapped!Saiki’s telepathy

My attention wanes as I let the rest of Ritsu’s thoughts merge into the constant, noisy buzzing in my head. I have already become desensitized to the endless whisperings, and twelve years with telepathy, growing in range every year, has allowed me enough skill to pick through them. It’s at least good in helping me not hear thoughts of those close to me. It still takes a bit of focus, since I have to get into a state of - ironically enough - spacing out. Of course, my little brother is used to this by now. No pausing or questions asked. It’s almost psychic how he seems to have picked up on small cues even I’m not aware of. He taps me on the shoulder, picking up the rest of the dishes. “I can do the rest. You go take a bath.” — Kageyama Shigeo (C1: Not Using Pyrokinesis to Start the Fire)

2. And swapped!Saiki is saved by Ritsu’s inner voice

There’s a chime—a sharp, small ripple of sound slicing the dense mud. A transparent thread, bleeding in a pink glow. When I open my eyes, every second is a battle to keep them open. I can sense the back of my hand again and push all my willpower to force its form to clench as tightly as possible. I can’t feel my extremities, but I can feel the tension as I squeeze Ritsu’s hand. I want to black out, to sleep through these overwhelming sensations. But I have to stay with Ritsu. I can’t leave him out here. He must be scared. I’ve put him through something ugly and terrifying again. I’m still too unfocused to understand his thoughts, but his inner voice has been unraveled from the rest. Maybe it’s because we’re brothers or each other’s closest friend, but I can always zero in on it. Ritsu knows this, so he knows talking or yelling can’t help me. All he can do is to call me in his mind — Kageyama Shigeo (C11: Giving Cakes To A God)

3. Hurting Ritsu turns swapped!Saiki into a villain

“Ow, ow, ow!” howls Nendou, his offending hand hoisted up as he did with mine. Except there’s nothing touching him. Only the wrinkles in his sleeves show evidence of a force keeping him in the air. A beastly growl resounds in the chambers of my mind. Nii-san’s teeth are clenched, and his usual serene eyes, bold and alive like the shine of cutting knives Shut up. I don’t even want to hear you scream. I tilt my head at the strangeness of what I’m hearing. Nii-san? As I move my legs, I feel a cold wetness in my pocket. Which rock are you insects skittering out from? Tell me, so I can burn it down to ashes! — Kageyama Ritsu (C5: The Worst Thing to Say Out Loud )

4. ...and he’s a villain that isn’t afraid to kill (he’s 12)

The sky has turned fiery in the sunset with long trail of fluffy clouds drifting by. Because of my prodigal older brother’s mysterious machinations, I ended up watching my first sunset with this person, Nendou Riki, someone from my past who I never expected to meet again. He doesn’t seem to be aware yet that he had survived an attack that would have tragically killed him. It’s for the best. The problem now is resolving this mess. — Saiki Kusuo (C6: What Every Loving Parent Would)

5. swapped!Saiki adores/dotes on his younger brother (and is very obvious about it)

“Well,” I start, considering how to explain it without being technical. “Ritsu is great, so it doesn’t matter.” It’s as simple as it can get, but Miyaike is still confused. “Is Ritsu considered tall in the club?” “No. But since he started back in third grade, he had a lot of experience with taller opponents from facing off with the senpai.” “He must have a lot of experience sparring with you,” says Takahara-san. “No,” I answer. “I don’t want to hurt Ritsu.” Miyaike arcs a brow, smirking. “It’s not supposed to hurt.” “Well.” I blow a puff of air, somewhat annoyed. “Then I don’t feel like it.” — Kageyama Shigeo (C10: It’s an A+++ Photo )

6. ...but also finds him terrifying when angered 

Ritsu doesn’t look very happy to be here. On top of waking up early and standing in long lines in the shrine, he’s been spending all day and night studying as finals draw in. I keep telling him he’ll be fine without exerting so much effort, but even I, the strongest person in the planet, started to feel like something dangerous would awaken if I continued on. — Kageyama Shigeo (C4: A Cause of Unhappiness)  

7. Ritsu won’t stand for slander on his older brother - even from their own mom

“Yeah, sure… Besides,” says Ritsu, smiling as he realizes he can seize the opportunity to turn this around. “I can’t have a fan club first before Nii-san. It doesn’t make sense.” My little brother can be so silly at times. “I don’t need something so inane….” “That’s impossible,” says Mom bluntly. “We’re talking about Shige.” Ritsu gapes in disbelief. Slowly, he collects himself. “Yes, we are talking about Nii-san. An incredibly talented person.” “Yes, yes, that person,” jests Mom. “I know you look up to your brother, but Shige’s always been shy. You can’t be popular if you’re shy.” I can hear Ritsu coming up with five different arguments, but he settles for the sharpest jab. I don’t know where Ritsu gets the courage to talk to our parents like this. “What would you know? Are you going to tell us you were the most popular girl in school back in your days?” — Kageyama Shigeo (C10: It’s an A+++ Photo )

8. ... and does not hesitate to use his charm to provide him with more crepes

They even have a sign for it: 250 of their bestseller crepes a day, strictly one per person only. Ritsu addresses this next. "Of course, you can bring me along any time. I can even get you a third." Dad had been with him when he brought home two, so I'd assumed he got it with his help. Had he done it without Dad? Did he say the second extra was for his cute little sister back home? "It's a popular store for couples, so all I did was to make sure they see me talking to a girl and act like I'm buying for the two of us." I turn to stare at him. "What? I bet plenty of other people do it too." Flirting with a random girl to get an extra crepe? Somehow, I doubt that. — Kageyama Shigeo (C12: Always Blame the Rain)

9. They have secret telepathic conversations all the time

A pause. Arataka takes another glance at the mirror, and as he suspected, the brothers are wordlessly communicating with a look. They are doing their utmost not to speak to one another. He wants to reassure them they can have a conversation without including him, but calling attention to it may only discourage them. "Nii-san isn't feeling well, so - um - he may sound succinct." "Hmm. I see." Arataka is bemused at what made the younger brother speak up. "It doesn't bother me. But, more importantly, Shigeo-kun, maybe you should lay off the pudding until you get home." "Can I have one last cup?" "One last," he allows. "How many is that?" Plastic being peeled away scratches from the back. "Six," answers Ritsu-kun, picking an empty cup. "Nii-san? This isn't pudding. It's coffee jelly." "Oh, my bad," says Arataka. "You don't like coffee," goes Ritsu-kun, almost like an accusation. "Are you okay?" Shigeo-kun doesn't reply. "There's sugar…" Ritsu-kun's voice fades and the conversation ends without another word. — Reigen Arataka (C13: Almost Out of Tokyo)

10. And, of course, they have “sibling fights” (aka Ritsu’s patience is tested)

As soon as he finishes the sentence, a scuffle breaks out. Takahara-san almost falls over as Ritsu gets into a stance and slams his elbow onto my rib cage, having perfectly predicted my reaction. That blow is serious. I catch Ritsu glowering darkly my way. No words, just a look that can absolutely kill. Is it enough to convince me to stop? Of course not. Some things are worth dying for. I grab the mic with my superior, older brother arm. Ritsu, achieving zen, is not fazed by my decisiveness and makes a smooth pass behind him. "Mishima-san!" "Huh? Me? Huh? Why?" Mishima-san scrambles to her feet and, with wide, confused eyes, successfully catches the mic like a pro baseball player. Takahagara-san gasps, impressed. You fool. You just made it easier for me, and you even picked the only person in the room who would understand how important this is. Mishima-san lets out a shrill, mouse-like "eek!" as I lock my target on her. Then, before I can make another move, I fly. The room spins, and before I can brute force a counter, it turns upside down, and I'm lying on the floor on my back. — Kageyama Shigeo (C12: Always Blame the Rain)

10.1 Comic bonus 

[archer3-13]

Been playing fire emblem echoes: shadows of valentia again in the last few days. on ocassion i go back to em and see how my opinion might reevaluate on old fe games, but heres some general thoughts:

-as this is for enjoyment im playing on normal which is basically just 'nes balance' mode since its the most overarchingly similar to the original nes game.

-on a pretty sharp if casual blitz i can manage to get to and beat grieth and desiaxs fortresses quickly enough. of the two of them celicas side of the map definitely has the uphill battle to contend with throwing more enemies, more promoted enemies, and more importantly more fast enemies at you then alms side which favours defensive enemies.

-it makes some general sense as celicas side gives you a lot more mages then alms side to use but a larger pattern of echoes design philosophy is 'fewer enemies, but much tougher enemies'. and i stand by that statement even with acknowledging cantors and other enemy summoners, because the enemies those units summon are intentionally chaff fodder compared to the main map crops.

-in terms of grinding i really cant stress enough how bad an idea it is to grind every tier out to lvl20 unless you have an efficient grinding system in mind. the games systems actively work against ya going in that direction, and i dont mind that meself cause im very much an all or nothing type on that kinda stuff so the game slapping my wrist on that is more my speed. that said, i think a median can work pretty well, grindin out or atleast holding out until units reach atleast lvl10 for promotions

-next run ill pay more attention to the story, but with a fresh head/perspective on things the snippets i have been watchin again this time do make me realize that a lot of what people attribute to a misfired thematic thread of 'the station of your birth dont matter', more so has to do with narrative tensions and themes of alm and celica being reluctant or hesitant to actually grapple with their destinies/responsibilities. most of the flavour text of village npc commentary on the happening of things for instance reads more so in the light of emphasizing that to me anyways on recent reflection, village people complaining about how worthless the zofian royal family is to celicas face before praising her unaware of the irony, and the teasing of alms secret rigelian heritage fits into that framework a lot more snugly. and as i noted, theres a distinct reluctance on alm and celicas parts when it comes to facing their fates, celicas trip to see mila noted as being a possible way to avoid making a claim to the zofian throne that people probably wouldn't be happy to see and that celica doesn't want to make. and conversely on alms part well he takes on the mantle of leadership in war theres not much thought on his part put into what comes after kicking rigels teeth in, almost a reluctance to do so even evident in how he shys away from the indications of his royal heritage and downplays the peoples desires for him to become the new zofian king/ruler.

-thats just my current wild thoughts on the matter though, but i do think its a better throughline that makes more sense, especially given how often its alluded to in dialogue with characters such as grieth rubbing it in celicas face that he managed to get so powerful under the royal families noses because the royal family gave less then a shit about doing anything about it, similarly as to how desaix could be the most fragrantly evil/self interested piece of shit around without any repercussions.

-love grieths voice acting, i think the VA also does the voice of the brewer gundam pilot in ibos english dub and hes a joy to listen to. plus grieths just kinda fun with his weird lil henchman in general, really reminds me of a hokuto no ken villain.

[lloydskywalkers]

Heyo! Hope your doing exceptionally well, wonderful and ur staying safe! I was reading ur little oneshots for the movie! Verse and instantly fell in love! Think u have anymore for Kai and Lloyd? (But u don’t need to listen to this, obviously hehe) Have a splendid day!

ahhH thank you, I hope you’re doing well too!! :D oh man it’s been so long since i’ve written something for movie-verse, but I’ve had this little snippet in my head for a while so I guess it’s as good a time as any (and it is, of course, about kai and lloyd bc when is it noT)

it’s a little different than what i usually write, for movie-verse? but i hope it fits the bill! (takes place pre-movie, btw)

Of all his friends, Lloyd thinks Kai is most like the sun. Not just for his codename, and the enthusiasm with which he brings fire to the team, metaphorically and far too often literally, but for how bright he is. Kai reminds Lloyd of the sun at full force, strong and blazing and staunchly refusing to let anyone hide from his warmth. An endlessly combusting ball of stubbornness and passion.

Kai also reminds Lloyd of the sun in the way that he possesses about the same amount of brain cells the sun does, which is zero, because the sun has no brain — much like Kai.

“Hey, ru—de, ow, stop—”

Kai’s petulant response strangles off in cracked pain as Lloyd hushes him, simultaneously pulling the alcohol-soaked cloth from his arm with a sympathetic wince.

“Sorry, sorry,” Lloyd murmurs, wringing the edge of the cloth. “But I’ve gotta — it’ll get infected, if you don’t—”

“Nah, s’okay,” Kai says, breath hissing out through clenched teeth. He gives Lloyd a wavering smile that could almost be encouraging, were he not bleeding over Lloyd’s faded bedspread. “Just caught me off guard, I’m good now. ‘Sides, the — the stitches are gonna be worse, so—”

“It won’t be that bad,” Lloyd promises him, cleaning the rest of the deep slashes that run across Kai’s arm as quickly as he can. The lower ones aren’t so bad — he could get away without stitches, maybe. It’s the uppermost one that scares Lloyd, cutting deep enough into Kai’s skin to pose a threat. And Lloyd has no intention of leaving Kai anywhere near in danger, especially with the reason he’s hurt in the first place.

Lloyd swallows against the thick lump that suddenly forms in his throat, trying to banish the flood of emotions that have been rising since the battle against his father’s forces earlier. Surprise, shock, gratitude—? A swirling maelstrom of a deep-seated kind of aching warmth Lloyd is utterly unfamiliar with. It leaves him off-kilter, and words don’t come easily as they usually do.

Not that words ever come easily to Lloyd, but normally he isn’t quite this stuttering. Maybe. He hopes not. Maybe he’s just hyperaware right now, after everything, and he always sounds this embarrassing.

“I promise,” Lloyd continues, yanking himself from his thoughts as he busies with the needle. “I’ve got a lot of experience, and I’ll be gentle.”

Kai watches Lloyd threading the needle with a thinly-veiled fear, but he nods, the bravado Lloyd’s more familiar with making its way across his face. “Nice,” he says. “I trust you, Dr. Lloyd.”

Lloyd’s hands falter with the needle for a moment, before he resumes sterilizing it, ducking his head. Kai sounds like he means it — Kai sounds like he means everything he says, but the way he says trust hits differently, for Lloyd.

They’ve only been a team for few months, now. Not very long at all, to form any kind of trust in the son of your greatest enemy. Lloyd’s been going to school with some of the same people since kindergarten, and they’ve never looked at him with anything kinder than hatred, much less trust. And yet Kai is here, offering him his bleeding arm in Lloyd’s tiny room, trusting him to repair the damage he only took because he was protecting Lloyd.

Lloyd doesn’t understand. He doesn’t — people don’t — but his team—

They listened to him. Actually listened to him, to Lloyd. They actually listen to him in general, have since they were all thrown together in this odd little grouping, but it hasn’t quite hit home in the way it did tonight, when he’d snapped orders at them in barely-restrained panic, Kai’s blood staining his fingers as he’d staunched the knife wounds meant for him.

They hadn’t flinched back at his raised voice. Lloyd never raises his voice — he’s learned to keep it quiet, soft, unassuming. Even the slightest slip of frustration is enough to send anyone around him murmuring in suspicion, eyes narrowing and hissed whispers of just like his father filling the air.

Lloyd’s voice had been sharp and strained, barking across the rooftop, and they’d listened. No one flinched back, no eyes widened in fear — they’d just listened. They’re still listening, carrying out Lloyd’s orders without question, and it’s — it’s dizzying, if Lloyd had to put a word to it.

Cole and Zane are taking care of clean-up — something Lloyd will have to thank them for later, profusely. Neither were particularly happy about letting Kai out of their sights, but Cole and Zane are better at keeping each other steady than anyone else. It was the right call, Lloyd knows it was. Hopes it was.

But Lloyd hasn’t been having much faith in his calls, tonight. Not after Kai went down.

He swallows, focusing on the sounds reverberating from behind his closed door. Nya and Jay are talking with his mother, Nya’s louder tones easier to hear as she laughs. Lloyd knows her well enough to catch the strain in it, but he knows it’ll fool his mother. They’re distraction — Lloyd’s house was closest, and he’s got the best supplies stashed there. No one questions why he’s the one with the fully stocked medical kit, but Lloyd suspects they’ve all drawn their own conclusions.

He wishes they’d believe him, when he says it’s because he’s worried for them. He grew up with Wu as his uncle, who picks fights on a daily basis — with Morro as his cousin, who picks fights on an hourly basis. Lloyd knows the importance of having the good kind of medical supplies.

He finishes prepping the needle, squeezing Kai’s wrist briefly in warning. Lloyd’s not usually a tactile person — not that anyone would let him be — but he knows Kai soaks up touch like a starved sponge, and Lloyd’s desperate to give any kind of comfort he can before he starts with the needle.

Kai swallows, fixing his eyes firmly on the faded glow-in-the-dark stars plastered across Lloyd’s ceiling.

“Okay,” he says, his voice tight. “Bring it on.”

Lloyd swallows, steels himself, and sets the needle against his skin. Kai flinches at the first prick, eyes squeezing shut briefly, but otherwise he doesn’t move, jaw set stubbornly as Lloyd moves quickly. For his part, Lloyd keeps his eyes locked on the stitches, his hands steady. For all that Lloyd’s made up of bouncing nerves half the time, his hands rarely shake. Never when patching wounds up. He’s always been proud of how steady he can hold a needle, and tonight is no exception.

It’s the least he can do.

Kai suddenly tenses up, a broken-off noise strangling in his throat. Lloyd’s heart twists, but he stays steady, rallying himself. Conversation — Kai likes talking, right? Distraction, he can do that.

“So, um,” Lloyd stutters. On second thought, he’s awful at small talk. But — for Kai. “The way you took down that last guy was, it was really cool. Where’d you learn that?”

Kai bites his lip, exhaling shakily before he answers. “I train too, you know.”

Lloyd’s mouth quirks, despite himself. “Not like that.”

“What, a ninja can’t — can’t get creative,” Kai replies, through half-gritted teeth. Lloyd doesn’t say anything, but Kai rolls his eyes, continuing. “Fine. When I was younger, I ah…might’ve taken a few dance classes. For Nya! ‘Cause I couldn’t let her go alone, y’know, but they were — they were kinda fun, I guess, and maybe they slip into fighting, sometimes.” His cheeks darken, and Lloyd bites back a quiet laugh.

“Nothing like Cole, obviously, ‘cause he’s an actual dancer, but — that’s where I got it from.” He pins Lloyd with a glare, that’s somewhat dimmed by the scrunched expression of pain on his face. “Tell anyone and you’re dead though, okay?”

Lloyd hums his agreement, too focused on the stitches to reply immediately. After a moment, though, he speaks up again. “I did some ballet, when I was little.”

“No way,” Kai says, sounding delighted.

“Yeah, way,” Lloyd says. “I’ve heard from a very reliable source that dancing backgrounds are useful, with ninja stuff.”

“Very reliable meaning your uncle,” Kai grins.

Lloyd shrugs. “Maybe,” he half-smiles. Kai suddenly sucks in another pained breath, but to Lloyd’s relief, it’s likely the last one. He finishes off the stitches with a well-practiced hand, snapping the end of the thread and exhaling in relief.

“There. All done.”

Kai’s eyes widen. “Seriously, already?” He glances down at his arm, his other hand moving up to touch the stitches. Lloyd smacks it away, glaring at him.

“Don’t touch. You still have to watch out for infection. I’ll text you instructions for taking care of it, and everything. Just don’t do anything, ah…”

“No ninja-ing?” Kai finishes for him, crestfallen.

“Probably a good idea,” Lloyd says, apologetic. “But it’s not too bad. Shouldn’t take long, and you can be out, uh, ninja-ing again."

Kai is quiet for a moment, regarding his stitches. Then he turns to Lloyd, who is immediately staggered at the bright smile that stretches across his face.

“Cool. Thanks, Lloyd. You’re good at this.”

Lloyd can’t answer, his throat burning. He forces the welling moisture back, looking away. Kai’s only hurt for him, and that is layered with so much more meaning than Lloyd can comprehend right now.

“No problem,” Lloyd mutters, focusing instead on the voices outside his door in an attempt to find footing again. He can hear his mom laughing at something Nya’s said, open and relaxed in a way his mom rarely is. Lloyd’s heart twists into knots.

He doesn’t deserve them, any of them. Not really.

If Kai reminds Lloyd of the sun, then the rest of the team reminds him of stars. All bright and shining, bursting with warmth in their own way. Maybe not quite at the blazing heat that Kai does, but Nya is a north star if Lloyd’s ever needed one. Jay’s a blinking constellation, scattered stars that form a complex whole much larger than you’d thought. Cole’s the kind of star you see first pop up over the horizon, blending with the oranges and purples of the sunset, like a painting you’d see in soft watercolors. Zane’s the early-morning kind of star, the ones that stay stubbornly after the night’s left, dotting the pale morning with a calm steadiness.

Lloyd would be a planet, he supposes, caught in faithful orbit around the five people who have somehow, for some reason, given him a chance. It’d be generous, though. No, Lloyd is content just to be a moon — with no light of his own, reflecting only the brilliance others give him the best he can.

Kai’s finger taps the edge of his forehead, snapping Lloyd from his thoughts, and he blinks in confusion.

“Lost you there, again,” Kai asks, words mangled through a yawn. “Where’d you go?”

Lloyd shakes his head, turning his attention back to the bloodied thread leftover in his hands. His stomach turns, and he quickly sets it aside. “Just thinking.” He pauses, momentarily lost for words. He settles for jerking his head toward the window, where the smoke trailing from their hard-won battle is still visible against the dark sky, and gives Kai a wry smile. “How much do you wanna bet the cheerleading team comes up with a new song tomorrow?”

It’s been an inside joke for them, the ridiculous songs Chen and his gang keep coming up with to throw at Lloyd, and normally it gets a laugh from Kai. This time, though, Kai is silent, his eyes searching as he stares at Lloyd. Lloyd shifts under the attention, caught off-guard again. He doesn’t know what kind of look this is, that Kai’s giving him.

“They shouldn’t talk about you like that,” Kai finally says. His voice is quiet, but Lloyd can spot the brewing anger in it. Kai’s always got anger to spare.

“Sticks and stones, remember?” Lloyd shakes his head. He’s learned, after a while, that anger changes nothing. “Words will never hurt me.”

“Words hurt when people are throwing sticks and stones at you while they yell about your dad,” Kai grumbles.

“No one’s thrown rocks since second grade, actually.”

“Hm.” Kai’s tone is a mix of thinly withheld anger and mild amusement. Lloyd tilts his head, confused, and Kai gives a huff, anger tugging loose.

“Y’know, people say that if kids throw rocks at you in second grade, it means they’ve got a crush on you.”

Lloyd knows well enough it’s a joke, but he flushes red anyways, heat spreading across his cheeks. “Yeah, sure,” he stammers. Kai laughs at his reaction, though, the odd kind of anger departing, and Lloyd feels he’s found his footing again.

They’re quiet as Lloyd finishes cleaning up the medical supplies, Kai nodding sleepily on his bed while Lloyd carefully washes the needle in the bathroom sink. Maybe he can convince his mom to let Kai spend the night, he thinks. Jay and Nya , too — their apartment isn’t very big, but it’s awfully late to make them walk home, and Lloyd is fine with taking the floor, if he needs to.

Lloyd nods to himself, resolving to ask her once he’s finished hiding the evidence. His mom’s been so thrilled about him having people over at all, he can’t see her saying no. A smile pulls at his lips as he listens to the conversation outside his door again. Jay’s rambling on now, bright and excited without any of his usual reservation. He feels a pang, wondering if Jay’s the same as him — wondering if they’re all the same, playing at muted caricatures of themselves, too fearful to let whatever lies beneath shine through.

He wonders what it means, that they’re the ones with the city in their hands, that weight on their shoulders. Wonders what it means, that Lloyd feels safer with bullets strafing the air around him and his mask on, than he ever has with it off. That Green Ninja will always, always sound better than Lloyd in his ears.

“Hey, uh.”

Lloyd starts at Kai’s voice, twisting the sink off as he turns to face him. Kai looks half asleep, but the smile he gives him is bright as ever.

“Thanks, seriously. Not just for this, but for looking out for us. You’re a good friend.”

Lloyd’s heart skips a beat, his brain latching onto the word friend and holding on tightly, tucking it somewhere safe inside his chest.

“So thanks, Lloyd,” Kai yawns, barely awake at all now, but still stubbornly clinging to the threads of awareness.

Lloyd’s got his own thank you to give back, twisted and strangled behind whatever lump’s formed in his throat, but Kai’s snoring before he gets the chance to say it. So Lloyd tugs the edge of his comforter over his friend — his friend — instead, and runs the words over in his mind again and again, like a treasured line from a book.

On second thought. Maybe Lloyd isn’t so bad. He’s only ever liked his name the way his mom says it, without any of the snapping, harsh emphasis others give it. In others’ mouths, Lloyd’s name is a curse. In his mom’s, Lloyd’s name belongs to a person.

But he thinks, maybe, he likes the way it sounds when his teammates use it, too.

[absoloutenonsense]

Snippet from the Witch Girlfriend fic I’ll never write

Harriet ✨: Thai or tacos?

Louis smiled down at her phone as she read the text. Then she sighed as she looked back at her laptop, at the open blank Google doc. She’d titled it as: Understanding the French Revolution’s Impact on the Bourgeoisie: And Other Dumb Ways To Spend a Friday Night. Louis quickly left a comment at the top, reminding herself to change the title before she submitted it. 

Picking up her phone, she typed out a response to Harry a few different times. 

Can’t -- the French Revolution is more important than food.  Eat both for me as I die writing this stupid paper. What do you think the french aristocratic bourgeoisie would think of tacos?

Finally, she settled on: Can’t tonight, Haz :( Got that paper due at midnight.

She waited another moment, wondering if she should just say fuck it to the paper and ask for an extension when she got to class tomorrow (Saturday classes were even more dumb than writing dumb papers on Friday night), but then shook her head. Louis was going to be a responsible student for once in her life. Or, well, as responsible as she could be just starting a paper the same night it was due. 

She barely turned back to her threateningly empty doc when her phone lit up again. 

Harriet ✨: French revolution still got you down?

Louis laughed out loud, shaking her head. You could say I’ve lost my head over it. 

Harriet ✨: Too soon!!!!

She laughed again, feeling butterflies in her stomach at the thought of Harry looking at her phone, waiting for Louis to text back awful or tongue-in-cheek or cheesy things that came to her mind. 

They’d only been dating for a couple of months now, but to Louis, it couldn’t have been going any better. Harry was sweet, funny, and kind. Not to mention that she was smokin’ hot, with beautiful dark curls that Louis loved to thread her fingers through, hands that knew exactly what they wanted, and plush rosy lips that were perfect for kissing (among other things). 

The only downside that Louis could see was that Harry lived off campus a whole two miles away from her dorm, and roomed with her sister, which meant way less funny business (as Harry called it, always with a cheeky smile) than either of them would prefer. 

Forgot you were a royal sympathizer. Louis typed back. This may be the thing that ends us.

Harriet ✨: Marie Antoinette was FOURTEEN when she married the king. Hm, what was his name again, *LOUIS*???

Harriet ✨: Also... like you could get rid of me now 😉

Louis nearly doubled over, started to type out another response, but then was interrupted by the computer with one of her many self-set reminders (because she knew how easily she got distracted). She sighed, and finally typed out a bunch of heart emojis and a message that she’d call Harry after her class got out the next day. Then she turned the volume off and put her phone completely away (under the pillow on her bed) before getting to work. 

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when there was a tapping sound on her window. Louis almost thought she was hearing things --running on fumes and the dregs of a too-old energy drink she found at the bottom of one of the suitcases she used to move in five months ago-- but then she heard it again, louder that time. 

Cautiously, she stood up, walked over to the window, and peaked out through her curtain. She gasped when she saw Harry’s face framed by the window pane. 

Pulling the curtain back, she made her eyes wide with her eyebrows up, shaking her head, just as Harry’s whole face lit up. From the other side of the window, she held up a plastic bag, and it was only then that Louis realized that Harry hadn’t climbed up the fire escape like she thought, but was flying on her broom. 

Louis’ jaw dropped and immediately she opened the window. “Harry,” she hissed. “There are people around!”

Harry looked down to the three stories of empty space beneath her dangling feet, then back up at Louis, still smiling. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Harry,” Louis hissed again, looking down and around worriedly. 

“Lou,” Harry said, voice soft but teasing. “Don’t worry, I cast a cloaking spell over me before I left. I’ve got at least another minute left before someone else can spot me and try to burn me at the stake.”

Louis stared at her, unimpressed. 

“Oh my god,” Harry laughed. “I’m just kidding, I made sure I’m hidden. I just couldn’t bear the thought of you cooped up in here with nothing to eat. That, and I wanted to see your face.”

She tried to maintain a detached expression, but Louis couldn’t be blamed for the way her insides melted, especially not when Harry used those dimples to her advantage. Instead, she rolled her eyes and pretended to be annoyed at Harry’s cheesiness. (She wasn’t.)

“Well, aren’t you going to ask what I brought you?” Harry asked after a minute, holding up the bag again as she floated in midair. 

Unfortunately, right then the bag started to slip and fell right off Harry’s fingers. Harry’s eyes went wide and she pointed her broom down and disappeared from view. Louis had to lean her entire torso out the window to try and see where she went, but it wasn’t that way for long before Harry popped back up, upside down this time so her loose curls hung down freely, swaying in the light breeze. She extended her arm with the bag for Louis to grab. Louis took it quickly to avoid any other incidents like that. 

“So what’s this?” Louis asked, even as she started to open it. 

“Thai food,” Harry said simply, tilting her broom down so her body made a wide circle until she was sitting upright again. “And tacos, since you never said which you wanted. And a Coke, which might be too shaken up now to drink, sorry.”

“Harry,” Louis said, her voice very soft and full of every bit of the endearment she felt. 

“And,” Harry interrupted, “with your permission, I’ve got something else I’d like to give you.”

“What’s that?” Louis asked with a wry smile, already leaning forward in anticipation of a kiss. 

“More time.”

Louis furrowed her brows and pulled back a bit. “What?”

“I’d like to give you a bit more time to write your paper,” Harry said. She reached into the bumbag that was clipped around her waist and pulled out something round and red. It almost looked like a Skittle. 

“Um.” Louis held out her palm so Harry could drop it in there. 

“So one of those will give you about two hours.” Harry’s mouth pulled to the side and she tilted her head, like she was thinking about it. “Well, maybe an hour and a half. It was my first time making it, I think I got a little overeager.”

“You made… time?” Louis asked. Not that Louis was all that knowledgeable about witches --Harry being the first one she’d ever known she’d met-- but creating time definitely seemed like an advanced thing for a witch who was only in her fourth official month of training. 

“Not exactly,” Harry said. “But this will make it so that time has a little bit more wiggle room. Less straightforward, more malleable. Ideally what happens is that a minute becomes an hour, but only for the person who eats it. There is a catch -- you can’t take it with anyone else around, or it won’t work.”

“Is this allowed?” Louis asked, staring at the tiny red round thing in her hand.

“Of course it is,” Harry said. “There aren’t rules about humans participating in magic, just ones where they can’t know about it. So really, this is the least of our problems.”

Harry’s grinning but Louis sighs and shakes her head. When she opens them, Harry is much closer, her face peeking in through the window. Quietly, she says, “You don’t have to, you know. You can throw it away. Or eat it in front of me. I think it’s strawberry flavored, but could be cherry -- the essence label was smudged.” 

Louis pursed her lips, looked over her shoulder at her computer, then looked at the alarm clock next to her bed that read 10 pm. She grinned tentatively as she looked back. 

“Extra time would be great. Thank you.” Louis held up the hand that was holding the bag of food. “For the food, too.” 

The smile Harry gave her was radiant. “I’m very happy to do it,” she said, looking giddy and maybe like she was blushing as she looked down at the front of her broom. “Okay, I’ve got to go, my cloaking spell is probably going to wear off in a couple of minutes.” 

Louis made an exasperated sound, but Harry just came in a little further through her window and kissed her on the cheek before backing up. 

“Go easy on Marie,” Harry said with a smirk. “I’ll see you tomorrow, my King Louis.” 

In the blink of an eye, she was off. Louis took another few moment to stare out the window, half expecting to be able to see Harry flying away at some point, but she couldn’t. 

Shutting her window, Louis shook her head again as she popped the red circle into her mouth. Having a witch as a girlfriend was so weird, but also kind of the best. 

Mm, Louis thought. Strawberry. Who knew extra time would taste so good. 

[gagmebucky]

thank you to taylor @blessedbucky​, mia @theamericanfalcon, liz @marvelous-mr-stark, raechel, shayla, lauren, courtney, em and tina for allowing me to write this content as well as my beta reader kat @angel-fire​! love you all!

read the full synopsis and excerpt // read chapters snippets here.

o. in which you accidentally send your nudes to your brothers’ best friend. (includes reader’s pov, bucky’s pov, mentions of sexting.)

—

Initially, taking the photos—exposing yourself in such an intimate state to another—you were hesitant. It wasn’t the possible repercussions, i.e. revenge porn, that gave you pause but more-so an insecurity in your own body. Having never done something like this before, you briefly dithered between whether you should or not. 

Ultimately, however, you do. The guy had spent money on you, went through the trouble of finding something you’d like and shipped it discreetly. And when you slip the racy number on, your insecurities wash away and leave excitement in its wake. Everything about it you love, and it has you preening in a solo photo shoot you’re eager to show off. 

After a good time of selfie shutters bulking your phone’s storage—positions of you scantily-clad standing, sitting, a cross of both—you finally relent. There’s too many pictures to pick from, but you do. Three poses that optimize the best aspects of the outfit and that you think he’ll like the best have you buzzing in anticipation of his reaction. 

Giddy, you tap them directly on the album app and click the share button; you input the letter B in the ‘To:’ slot. Since there’s only two contact names under that letter, his name shows up immediately, the first with the nickname Bucky beneath it. You gloss over that and in quick succession, you quickly hit the contact and press send. 

For a split second, you’re proud: you’ve taken this e-relationship to the next level like he wanted, and he’ll be happy with you. Then it hits you like a brick through glass. A replay of your actions travel to your brain, and you belatedly realize what your eyes saw—your thumb smearing too low on the screen, so instead of Brock as the recipient, it’s Bucky. 

“No, no, no!” you whisper as your heart hurtles like a jackhammer stuck in your rib cage. 

A part of you insists it’s your paranoia playing tricks on you, and that’s a valid rationale because this whole thing does worry you about getting caught. Except, upon checking its legitimacy, you confirm what you accidentally did. There’s no mistaking it, now, because with your brightness turned up full, your partially nude figure stares you in the face underneath of a thread between you and your brothers’ best friend. 

James Bucky Barnes—the man who’s nicknamed you bambi because the numerous times he’s seen you face-plant over your own footing, the twenty-four year old who still ruffles your hair when he greets you, the soon-to-be business owner who dates certified models—has a trio of your attempts to be seductive; bottom lined with text you hope comes off likewise seductive.

Mortification swallows you. Your skin burns hotter and hotter by the second. Sure, you’ve embarrassed yourself before: you fall a lot, and you’re awkward conversationalist. But never something of this magnitude, not something that makes you seem so desperate and pathetic. 

You can imagine him opening the messages. He’d immediately assume, understandably, it’s a come-on; a girl trying to be a woman’s failed goal to enthrall a man like him, his best friend’s kid sister’s pitiful effort to be anything other than just that. As if you could ever measure up to the types of women he dates. 

And, yes, there’s been a time where you had a crush on him. But it’s not your fault when he looks like how he does, a rugged example of masculine sex appeal, and treating you the way he does, teasing but with a twist of kindness, and the fact that he’s the only non-blood related man allowed near you. 

But that time has passed. Even then, you knew the one-sided attraction was delusional to have. You were—still are—so sure about it that you never even dared to fantasize about him and the rumors that used to trek behind him about his sexual escapades. There’s no hidden desire to be with him, and that worsens it because it’s not like you’d feel any relief in knowing his reaction. You don’t care about his reaction in the first place!

Now, no matter how much you will insist it’s an accident, there will always be a dubiousness about it. With how close your families are, things are going to be tense. Because there’s no forgetting he’s viewed you like that, and there’s photo evidence of it. 

It hits you then. The extremity of your fuckup douses you in ice, and your muscles freeze because you register that since he knows about your family borderline patriarchal values concerning you, he has to tell them you’re taking nudes, and it will be over for you. 

It has taken you twenty years of your life to finally venture outside what your family has allowed, to sate your curiosity of what exactly your fathers and older siblings have kept so strictly from you: sex and all the goodness it entails. 

It has taken you an additional six months to explore in-depth and build the courage to start something tangible, to wander the depraved side of the internet where strangers did things to each other that made you want to do things with someone of your own: stirring foreign but oh-so amazing feelings in your nether regions. 

For twenty-six weeks you carefully treaded across in order to ensure your family had no clue what you’re doing, clearing your web history and using incognito mode, all your accounts anonymous, keeping your notifications on silent in case anyone becomes suspicious of who’s continuously contacting you. 

One hundred and eighty-two days later—in the middle of which you started your sex-based communication—of preparing to lose your virginity, your family will find out what you’ve been up to, and your life will be hell. 

Everything has been going so perfectly. You found a guy enough distance away he isn't affected by your family’s influence, middle-aged so he’s experience and doesn’t mind handling a virgin, and is willing to drive an hour to meet you at a specified hotel when the time comes.  

All that hard work down the drain. 

You toss your phone and jump to your feet. Panicked, your bare feet pad back and forth on your rug-covered wood floors. Your teeth gnaw at your thumbnail as different scenarios of how everything will transpire flit through your head. Each one is more terrible than the last, and your anxiety heightens. 

Somewhere in your disquietude, it occurs to you. Your brothers are downstairs and so is Bucky, but it’s ten o’clock at night, and that means they’re gaming. That particular activity coined a rule that all players have to stow their phones in the guest room. The specifics are blurry but it was something about Bucky interrupting the session due to excessive texts. 

It’s an opportunity. A chance that you can creep downstairs, swipe his phone and delete your mistake—hell, you’ll break his phone if you need to—before he’s any the wiser. 

“And—” Bucky Barnes drawls out the vowel as the rough-textured ball hurls through the air and swishes sharply into the hoop. “—nothin’ but net.” He relaxes from the perfected basketball follow-through stance, hands dropping to his sides, while he regards his old friend with a cocky smile. “Beat that, Rogers.” 

Steve snorts and catches the ball when it bounces onto the concrete. Palming it in one hand, he dribbles it twice and trades positions so instead of being stationed next to the hoop, he’s descended to the driveway curb where the established three-pointer line is. 

“You still got it, Barnes,” the blond admits, loosening his shoulders and spreading his footing to be a width apart. His right hand balances the ball from below, elbow tucked underneath, while the left splays against the side as his knees bend, and he springs up. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he releases the orange sphere at the top of his jump. It catapults in a flawless arc and drops through criss-crossed netting with a similar swish. His lips curve with satisfaction as he adds, “But, so do I.”

Bucky laughs and seizes the ball as it falls free. “Callum and Henry have no idea they’re going to get obliterated,” he says, coming to slap his palm in an affable embrace. “Fair warning, they’re still as sore losers as they were five years ago so be prepared for that.” 

Steve Rogers chuckles. The former fourth to their high school cliquè, he’s aware of just how bad sports they are. 

After graduation, he left out-of-state to pursue a degree in technological engineering, which he acquired last month in May, prompting his return back to New York. Between the four of them, Bucky and Steve are the level headed ones so he’s glad to have the support to handle the wild children his childhood best friends are. 

“Speaking of,” Steve starts, dirty blond eyebrows knitting as he glances around the neighborhood’s cul-de-sac. “Where are they? I thought Henry was supposed to be waking up Callum? If we aren’t starting yet, then can I get my phone back?” 

Bucky clicks his teeth. “Yeah. They’re probably stuffing their faces right now. Their sister went grocery shopping and got a cake so. . .” He waves his hand in gesture before continuing in vehement passion on the second point, “The whole phone thing is bullshit, though. I miss a few winning shots ‘cause I was busy with some pretty little thing texting me, and now there’s a ‘no technology rule’.” He scoffs and folds his arms. 

Now that he thinks about it, he could totally have his phone right now. And he’s more interested in having it than usual. There’s this girl he’s been seeing frequently at local parties—six feet tall with gorgeous brown skin, always done up in intricate eye makeup, silver tongued (he’s very interested in her tongue) when she speaks—and he’s finally gotten her number. She could be texting him, and he doesn’t even know it! 

“You know, yeah, we should get our phones back if those assholes want to take all day,” Bucky decides, agreeing with steps toward the closed storm door, but opened front door until he hears the inquiry:

“How is Y/N, anyway?” Steve’s voice is genuinely and harmlessly curious behind him, and he stops in his tracks because Bucky remembers the poorly hid crush he harbored for you. “I saw her instagram the other day, and she must be quite the heartbreaker.” 

Spinning around to face him, Bucky lifts a brow. “Huh?” Then he processes the implication that you’re out dating and such. The mere prospect has him surprising laughter. 

With their dad and his girlfriend on a tour of the world, the three of them are the only ones in the household. Given you’re the baby of your siblings, despite being an independent twenty-year-old, your older brothers have taken it upon themselves to ensure you focus solely on school work. Callum and Henry know exactly how to threaten their message across that you are not to be bothered, and anyone who tries will end up battered and bruised. 

He shakes his head. “Nah. She’s not with anyone, hasn’t been ever,” he tells him. “If you thought Callum and Henry were overprotective back then, you should see them now.” 

Gunmetal blue eyes blink surprised at him, and there’s a faint battle between delight and disappointment. “Really?” He shoves his hands in his sweats and falters somewhat. “It’s gotta be hard considering the way she has grown up,” he says but Bucky’s face scrunches in confusion. “You can’t tell me you don’t see how cute she is.” Before he can respond, Steve adds, “Obviously I wouldn’t ever see or be with her in that way—I wouldn’t betray Callum or Henry like that—but objectively, you can admit she’s gorgeous, right?” 

Bucky has to take a moment and genuinely consider it—consider you—because he hasn’t before. (Other than noticing the genetic similarities to Callum, who shares your eye and hair color but is a shade lighter than you, and Henry, who shares your complexion and eye color, but his hair is darker than yours.)

There’s no denying your looks are better than most: the structure of your face works beautifully, dazzling eyes framed by your lashes and occasionally accentuated by mascara, lips usually adorned in gloss or anything that keeps them hydrated which could be described as alluring, and your hair is almost always done, sometimes switched up in style. But there’s an inherent innocence there, a sweet and clumsy awkwardness, and maybe because he’s watched you grow up, four years your senior, but it just doesn’t do it for him. 

You’re his best friends’ baby sister, for God’s sake. He’d never at you like that in the first place. Especially not when he’s been aware, in the past, you harbored a schoolgirl crush on him. It was painfully obvious, to your chagrin, but he found it adorable—flattering but unsurprising considering girls flock to him like seagulls to boardwalk french fries. 

Currently, he’s sure you know he won’t ever pick you—under principle, under the lack of attraction. Other than pleasant smiles and occasional small talk mixed with teasing, you don’t gaze at him with starry eyes anymore, at least it’s waned significantly as you matured. 

Back to the question: “Uh, no, not really. Even if Callum and Henry didn’t care, I don’t think I’d be attracted to her,” he answers truthfully. Your purity doesn’t provoke his sexual attraction although it does invoke a duty of protectiveness. “She just isn’t my type.” 

Steve arches a brow, a surprised playfulness in his expression. “Oh? Then what is your type, then?” he asks, nudging him with his elbow. ‘Cause from what I remember you’re up for anyone and everyone.”

“That makes me sound like a whore,” he feigns offense but digresses into a fit of chuckles as he thinks back to all his various sex-capades and Steve flashes him a look that says aren’t you? “Yeah.” He nods with a prideful chortle. “But I’m into more frisky girls, y’know? Ones who’ve been everywhere and done everything. They’re brass and loud and just do whatever the fuck they want. I like to be one of those things.” 

Behind him, his best friend, Callum’s orotund voice rings out between the pressurized shh of the storm door, “Buck’s into slutty girls, Steve.”

He cringes at the diction. “Don’t call ‘em slutty. Sounds degrading when you guys say it like that.” Most of the time, he agrees with him—and his brother—but when it comes to women, there’s usually a dissent and a need for correction. “But yeah. I prefer girls with experience,” he declares strongly. “They don’t get attached like girls with... less experience do.”

Callum rolls his eyes, bounding down the porch stairs to the recently pressure-washed driveway, and he plucks the basketball out of his hands. “Here we go again. Bucky and his ‘I hate virgin’s’ campaign,” he mocks, shaking his head. “Doesn’t make any sense to me ‘cause everyone knows virgins are the tightest.”

This time, Bucky is the one to roll his eyes. “Well, that doesn’t make any sense considering tightness isn’t dependent upon whether it’s their first time ‘cause, y’know, vaginas stretch, you morons.” Sometimes he has no clue how Callum passed sex education (then he remembers that he bribed the health teacher). “Meaning a girl can have sex, then after a period of time, her virgin ‘tightness’ eventually returns. The only reason virgins may seem tighter is because they’re usually nervous.” 

The look on Callum’s face says that what he just said went right over his head. “Whatever.” He shrugs and starts dribbling the ball half-heartedly. “I just know the woman I end up with better be a virgin.” 

“Right!” Henry’s likewise orotund voice, a pitch higher, speaks after he pushes through the glass door. He presses to the court-slash-driveway, wiping icing off his mouth. “That’s marriage material. I’m not fucking around in a relationship with no woman that’s been fucked already, y’know?” 

Bucky’s eye twitches, jaw locking for a millisecond. “But you guys aren’t even virgins yourself,” he points out their hypocrisy. When they look at him to rebuttal, he automatically knows it’s going to run his blood pressure up and it’s not worth it. “You know, I’m gonna go to the bathroom. You guys have fun with your conversation.” 

Swiftly, he whirls around and heads for inside. The last thing he hears is Steve’s ambivalent, “I get the appeal of virgins. But you know, I don’t think it really matters. I think it just matters if you’re into them, and if they’re into you. I wouldn’t care either way but. . .” 

The air conditioned air greets him coldly, and he revels in it. The June sun is killer, though perfect weather for playing a game outside, and the chill dries the sweat beaded on his forehead. He pads down the foyer, turns the corner to the bathroom and enters to take a much needed leak. 

Bucky has so much brotherly love for your brothers: neighbors since being in diapers, his mother the female figure in their life, and becoming and remaining best friends for over twenty years. There’s only one thing that grates his nerves when it comes to them and that’s their view of women is somewhat skewed. Sometimes—most of the time—went the topic comes up, he’s always one second away from throttling them. 

Hopefully after he pisses, they’ll be talking about something else, and finally they all can play basketball. It. 

Flushing the toilet, he goes onto wash his hands. He lathers up in orange antibacterial soap and rinses the suds off with hot water. There isn’t a towel, at least not a clean one, so instead he just lets the remaining droplets drip onto the floor. 

Emerging from the bathroom, James pauses and absentmindedly wipes his hands dry on his mesh-polyester shorts. His attention automatically draws to the guest room’s closed door adjacent to his position. A decision strikes him, and he steps forward and casts a curious glance down the corner. 

When boisterous and distracted laughter filters through the front door and down the empty corridor, it springs him into action. He figures there’s no harm in checking his phone while he’s here. He’d been especially resistant to giving it away because he’s engaged in a particularly stimulating conversation with a particularly titillating woman—popular in her own right, he can’t afford to miss his shot with her. 

His fingers turn the knob, and he shoulders through. The furniture is decorated and accented in yellow and white, condition otherwise pristine, save for the phones littered across the king-sized poster bed’s fluffy duvet. He strides across gleaming light oak floors and hones in on the only golden-colored, rubbed encased titanium. 

As he grips it, long digits curling around the back, pinkie supporting the bottom, thumb tapping the screen to life, he can hear the dwindling of high-spirited jesting through the en-suite’s rectangular horizontal slider window; a wondering of where he’s gone has him speeding up. 

Although he’d been gone for under an hour, his screen is bright with various notifications, social media accounts and text messages. He ignores the former and searches for the latter, specifically the contact, Val 😛💦. Scrolling quickly, he comes to a stop but not because of his original intent. 

His head cocks, and he knits his brows when he sees your name instead; formally nicknamed, bambi, due to your penchant for clumsiness and general fragility. You don’t text him—except for that one time you needed to be picked up from the library—and considering you know he’s just outside, his baffled curiosity is further spurred. 

With a sideways swipe of his thumb, your thread enlarges on the high-definition display. He isn’t sure what he expected, but this? Oh, this, definitely is not it. His eyes widen as the content loads, and reveals you, in all your half-naked glory. 

“Shit,” he breathes out raggedly, blinking multiple times because he has to be seeing things. But, nope, it’s still you—looking like that, wearing that. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Your brothers are beginning to call his name, demanding his attendance, and he froze in shock, unable to tear his stare away from the girl who’s tripped over her own feet more times than he can count; the wallflower who spends all her time studying in her room; the forbidden fruit who’s innocent has always stirred a vigilant feeling inside him—now stirring something hard between his thighs because there you are. 

Like always, your hair is done prettily, wispy-lashed eyes big and inviting, a saucy pout to your glossed lips. Your flawless complexion seems to glow in the reflection of the mirror, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of the warm lighting, or if it’s the confidence you exude in your faux-innocent expression from where something so sinfully sexy. 

Three photos, and every single one is like a punch in the gut; displaying your usually hoodie-hidden figure in its bare, exquisite form. The skimpy white two-piece caresses your breasts in a lace halter top, leaving a teasing amount of cleavage. Your navel exposed, he becomes aware of how soft your skin would be. Moving lower, your untouched flower is wrapped in a thin thong with a bow on the center of the waistband. 

A million things flit through his head; a million disgusting things he never thought he’d think about you. 

The main one is every sort of attraction these snapshots arouse. A laser slices down his center and sears him to the core. The multiple poses calls every hungry part of him to attention, the curve of your breasts, the contours of your hips and the jut of your ass. And he shoves to the darkest recess in his mind because that’s just an innate reaction to lingerie. (Right? Right.)

He combats your images with that of Val: knows-what-she’s-doing and equally promiscuous as him Val. The anthropology major who downs beers within seconds and tongue kisses the first person she sees afterwards. 

The next is the one he focuses on, that you would take these and send them to him—as if he’d betray your brothers like that. Second-hand embarrassment strikes him because he knows if you’ll send something as risky as this, he’ll have to formally reject you and break your unreciprocated pining heart. 

He grimaces at the thought. This is why he doesn’t do virgins and the less experienced in general. The inherent strings are a killer, and he resents the drama; and it’d be ten times worse with you because of the added complications of your siblings. 

In fact, he hears something beyond him, coming down the hallway, and it’s probably them, but he can’t stop rereading your text accompanying the photos, partially imagining how it’d sound in your delicate voice: 

bambi (4:21PM): is this as pretty as you imagined? did i do good? just tell me what you want, and ill do it. i want you. soon, please - and yes, ill beg. i promise itll sound even better in person. 

[read it in its entirety on my patreon - one time fee of $5 to access!]

[mego42]

When might we get chapter 9 :) promise won’t hold you to it. Looove this story!

Ahahahaha thank you, I am notoriously bad at predicting these things as y’all are clearly picking up 😂

That said, ch 9 has been slightly delayed for several reasons mostly centering around a) I wanted to reconfigure some plot stuff for the end, b) I was working on the first three ch of my prompt-a-thon fic which was actually a blessing bc c) I fell into a p bad writing slump for a minute that the PAT fic ended up snapping me out of so huzzah!

Fret not though, I have worked out enough of my plotting stuff, reworked a solid and respectably detailed outline for ch 9 and have started drafting again so things are in progress! I don’t have a timeline because I’m not trying to rush it this close to the end BUT as a consolation prize, I offer an unedited snippet under the cut 

(At least I think this is under the cut? not sure if read mores are working yet so this all may be under the cut when I post and if so CH 9 SNIPPET INCOMING STOP SCROLLING IF YOU DONT WANT IT)

cw: guns, shooting

--

The boom of the gunshot echos around the clearing, shockingly loud and reigniting the ringing that had only just started to fade in Beth's ears.

"Shouldn't I have some kind of ear or eye protection?" she'd asked when they started. It hadn't occurred to her to ask the first time they'd done this, but she'd done her own research—well, watched some YouTube videos—since then.

"You plan on havin' ear muffs and goggles every time you're in a situation you might need to shoot? No?" Rio had said when she shook her head. "Then, you should probably get used to not using 'em."

Beth squints at the target, an ominous outline of a person-shaped space overlaid on a bullseye pinned to the side of a dilapidated barn. She viscerally hates the reminder of what she's practicing to do, but when she'd said as much, he’d given her a long look.

"Lyin’ to yourself about why you're here won't help anyone, darlin'.”

She finds the new hole in the paper up and to the left—well outside the outline—one of at least six shots clustered in that corner of the page. It's almost like she was aiming there instead of the center. There was another cluster in the lower left, and then a handful more to the far right from when she'd tried to overcorrect her aim. Very few were inside the target shape itself.

Steady stance, firm but not locked arms, both eyes open, pull the trigger on exhale.

Beth fires again, rocking back on recoil but not staggering. She lowers the gun and peers at the target. 

"It's still left," she says, huffing out a frustrated breath that blows her bangs off her forehead. "What am I doing wrong?"

"Flinchin' ahead of time," Rio says without hesitation, but he sounds preoccupied, and when she looks over, he's leaned up against the side of his car on his phone. Again. It had been buzzing regularly the whole ride out of the city, and once they'd arrived, after giving Beth a rundown of the basics, Rio'd been texting nearly constantly.

"Hey!"

He looks up and eyeballs the target. "Or yankin' the trigger, not squeezin' it. 'S why your shit's going left."

Beth frowns, studying the sheet of paper, then the gun. "How do I stop doing that?"

"Practice, go slow."

She huffs out a frustrated breath. "I am."

"Slower," he says, and she can tell without looking from the rote way he says it, he's back on his phone.

She takes her stance, wiggling a little, digging the balls of her feet into the soft ground. When she raises the gun, she forces herself to keep both her eyes open, to let them adjust down the sight. She takes a slow breath, lets it out, and fires. She still jerks back, but the shot goes much closer to the center, nearly right on the edge of the outline.

"Did you—" But when Beth turns to Rio, her excitement at the improvement, however mild, fizzles when she sees he's still on his phone and not paying attention. "I'm sorry, am I keeping you from something important?"

He looks up at that, eyebrow raised, and Beth can't tell if he's saying yes, or is irritated at how she's acting about it, or both. Probably both, now that she thinks about it, but too damn bad. If he wants her to handle things, she needs to be ready for it. 

"I thought you were going to teach me," she says, raising an eyebrow right back at him. He's not the only one getting annoyed.

"What you think this is, then?"

"Well, you're not doing a good job." Beth gestures at the target, and all the bullet holes sprinkled around the edges of the page.

"A'ight," Rio says, pushing off the car and sliding his phone into his back pocket. "Show me what you got."

Beth represses a sigh—she has been, he’s just not paying attention—and turns back to the target, taking her stance. 

But she can't suppress her sharp inhale when Rio slots himself in behind her, his chest against her back, his arms coming up to bracket hers, and his hands wrapping around hers.

"Feel me breathing, ma?" He asks, his breath warm against her ear, and she shivers, making him laugh softly. "Close your eyes."

She does, and oh, it's like cutting off one sense makes her hyper-aware of the others. Her entire world narrows down to every point of contact between them, the feel of him warm and sure pressed up behind her. She lets out a shaky inhale, and he laughs again, a smug sort of pleasure threading through it, which only compounds the issue. Beth's pulse pounds like a bass drum.

"You gotta concentrate, yeah?"

"I'm trying," she retorts.

"Breathe in," he says, taking an exaggeratedly deep breath, his chest pushing against her back, and she inhales, matching his speed.

"Breathe out," he says, letting out a slow, controlled exhale, fluttering her hair and tickling her ear, her neck, her cheek. Forcing herself to stay focused, Beth holds steady and breathes with him.

His satisfied hum of approval arrows straight through her, settling low in her belly where the heat that doesn't ever seem to fully dissipate is pooling and turning molten.

"Again."

[pseudofaux]

Author (!) Interview

Thank you for the tags, @alloveroliver and @otonymous!

Name: pseu (I lowercase it on purpose, but it doesn’t bug me if you treat it as a proper name/capitalize!)

Fandoms: Now: SLBP (lingering-- I love some of the characters too much to quit!), Cybird’s Ikémen series, FE3H. I’m also reading STUPID amounts of BTS stories lately, those writers are amazing! Looking forward to: Hopefully getting back into The Arcana when some of the routes conclude. I started TAISHO x ALICE recently and I’d love to write stories for that and some of the other otome I’ve enjoyed. And like so many other writers, some original projects. :)

Where You Post: pseu slings and gift stories are here on tumblr, and everything pre-dumblr. Longer/refined pieces on Ao3. Many, many things languish in my google docs or emails I’ve sent myself and don’t get posted. 🤦🏻‍♀️

Most Popular One-Shot:  Not what I thought it would be! Here it is Venture (Kanetsugu/MC). On Ao3 it’s Something Blue, IkéSen Masamune/MC. I tried really hard last year to edit Something Blue to bring it up to where my writing is now, but couldn’t get through it. Learned my lesson in letting things be. ��🏻‍♀️

Most Popular Multi-Chapter Story: Real (ao3 / tumblr), which is Shigezane/[named] MC. Another one I feel compelled to edit, because I would change a lot about it if I were writing it today. But I also cherish it for what it is.

Favorite Story You Wrote: Oooooh! Hard! I think from last year that is Frost-Edged Fire, a “what happened” story for Sansa post-GoT. I like the way it reads, it felt good to make, and the response has been positive somewhere where I didn’t have my name to stand on, so I feel very satisfied with that one. I also really like one of the pieces I wrote for an Arcana zine coming out this year. :)

Story You Were Nervous to Post: I swing back and forth between “what happens, happens, I’ve written what I felt l needed to” and “PLEASE LET PEOPLE NOT HATE THIS sob sob sob”. I remember when I was working on Real I was trying to let go of some of my own standards for MAKE IT MAKE SENSE BACK FIVE GENERATIONS, so I was scared people would pick it apart even though it was such a soft, smooshy story and such a soft, smooshy thing to write. It still makes me feel vulnerable! I had my first run in with an anti in 2018 and for a while that shook me. I didn’t change what I wrote after that, but the experience was so jarring and gross I was tense.

How You Choose Your Titles: I like sideways titles, in the way of allusions and references. I usually choose single words that are either meant to encapsulate the tone or primary action of a story, or a word or short snip from a phrase, which I hope a reader will read in full in their head even though part of it isn’t there. But I understand that once something is out there, it’s really up to the reader to make of text and title what they will! That or phrases in French I try to make myself but often have to run by a native speaker to make sure they mean what I think they do (often: not quite).

Completed: I have no idea. The pseu slings bump the number way up, it’s probably around 150 total? For non-snippets, around 50? (Ao3 has 53 works, some of which have multiple sections)

Incomplete: I have an idea, and it is mortifying. There are some things I’ve written a little bit for but I know I won’t go back to and sometimes I think about putting them up as free prompts for others. Things I’m really trying on? 7. Given up but not ready to say so... 15ish? More I’m forgetting?

Do You Outline? Sorta! I start with the scene or scenes that motivate me to write in the first place, and then I have to outline to connect them. They are not usually the beginning or end because life is not fair and those parts are really hard.

Coming Soon/Not Yet Started: More IkéVamp! More parts in at last (MLQC). More FE3H! Maybe this will be the year I finally write the Isshiki-sempai story I’ve had floating in my head for Shokugeki no Soma. WHO KNOWS?! (I do. I won’t.)

Do You Accept Prompts? Sometimes! I love doing pseu slings twice a year (once in March and the other later in the year for a follower milestone or something). tbh it can be incredibly freeing, motivating, and feel-goody to write what I know someone has asked for-- connecting to requests and filling them feels wonderful and I have less time to dither or gather rosebuds or whatever, so it’s productive. I think some of my best work is writing that others have requested. 

Upcoming Story You Are Most Excited to Write: 

More of aesthetes, belligerents, contortionists (IkéSen Yoshimoto/MC).

♥️ ASH EXTRAS! ♥️

What do you use to edit?: Just me! I’m not flawless, but I trust myself more than any automatic service. I consciously choose to ignore several best practices when writing anyway. When I’m not as confident as I would like to be about something new, I may ask someone I trust in fandom to look it over as a one-time thing.

Writing setup: This is my desk right now! That’s a draft of this post on my laptop screen.

I need silence and steady lighting to write, so I set up my ~space~ in our basement. When I get a better desk chair and my cozy chair in here for brainstorming, it will be heaven! 🥰 Need: better record storage, more bookshelves, to paint, a rug instead of one of those Barnes & Noble quote blankets on the floor...

Do you use a beta reader? No. I love the just-right feeling of a good collaboration with (or being!) a beta reader, I’ve had it and it is magic! But it has proven incredibly difficult to find anyone who can be trustworthy long term + available. + interested. adflkjsf

Where do you get your writing inspiration?: Nature, conflict, and consuming other media. Museum trips. New foods. Sometimes dreams!

Can we get a quote from an upcoming WIP?:

Every lord of Kasugayama (even the lord of Kasugayama) had given her fine thread and cloth. It was Yoshimoto who made a quiet gift of needles before she could attempt to find them herself. They were in a slender little canister, painted blue and cream and gold, and when he placed it in her palm goosebumps bloomed over her arms and legs. One of his hands held hers from below and the other lingered on the other side of the needlecase, close enough for warmth, close enough that she felt like a carefully-captured butterfly. A part of her soul waited to be appraised and wished she had wings.

If you see this and you wanna do it, please do, and please tag me so I can see! I’d love to know more about your process.