#these and more appear in my fic on ao3

[shrmptst]

these two again

[hms-lurking-latinist]

For @bird-lord1993 and @vastwinterskies, although it’s not exactly what either of them proposed, I still think they’ll like it: below the cut, Archie Kennedy and the Eighth Doctor

(I strongly suspect I am about the one millionth person to write roughly this exact fic, but hey, one million cakes!)

Horatio had been here a moment ago but now it was Bush. Why was Bush here? He should be free to go—he must be—unless it hadn’t worked—

“Don’t need to wait,” Archie tried to say. “Horatio will wait with me.” But Horatio wasn’t here. They’d taken him away to the court-martial. No, the court-martial was over. And Horatio had waited with him, they’d talked, he’d known that Horatio knew, and he’d heroically refrained from Hamlet and then—

Horatio must have left after that.

Bush leaned over him and said, “Don’t try to talk,” and it wasn’t Bush at all. The face could have been Bush’s brother, but older, and he spoke differently, and it wasn’t him. 

“Thought you had sisters,” he mumbled, only this wasn’t Bush, it was Bush’s brother, presumably a different Bush then, only Bush didn’t have a brother…

He was still feverish, it seemed. Natural enough in a dying man.

He had still to finish dying.

It was turning out to be more work than he had expected.

***

Next time he surfaced to awareness, he had enough presence of mind to realize he wasn’t in the prison infirmary. He could not make any sense of where he was. There was dim light, but—he lifted his head with some difficulty—he couldn’t see a lantern or a window, and it reflected off oddly smooth surfaces—stone? glass? steel?—in uncanny ways. Small colored lights glowed nearer him like unnatural little stars, and there was a buzzing noise, in his head he thought at first, but it seemed in fact to be coming from above him. Also a monotone chirping. The total effect was unpleasantly like a fit coming on and he was glad to close his eyes again.

***

The third time he woke up, the man who wasn’t Bush was there again, doing something across the room. Archie tried to sit up, and then realized he had tried to sit up, and the muscles of his belly and side had moved and nearly obeyed. They were weak and painful still, but—was his wound healing?

He tried to assemble his questions in a useful order. “Who are you?” floated to the top first.

“I’m the Doctor,” he said, and added “Just the Doctor” in the manner of someone who had often received further questions. Archie didn’t care, at least not at the moment; if he wanted to be secretive, let him.

The Doctor was coming over to Archie’s bedside now with what looked like a glass of water. But before he could offer any care Archie said what he had to say: “I’m sorry that you’ve wasted your time.”

He closed his eyes. He could hear the Doctor’s quick, anxious movements, quite characteristic of a certain type of surgeon. “Don’t say that,” said the Doctor. “I have better treatments here than your surgeon had. You’re going to live.”

“It’s not worth it, just to be hanged.” He took another breath—full, deep, almost unhindered, damn this doctor, he was going to live—and added, “The only kindness you can do me now is—decent obscurity.”

He could feel the Doctor hovering over him, so that he more or less had to open his eyes. He was met with bright unnerving blue eyes, so like Bush’s but so different in expression. Uncanny, that was the word.

“I’m sorry to have acted without your permission,” he said, “but you were really in no state to give it. They thought you had died, you know that?”

“Horatio wouldn’t have left till I had.”

“Your tall friend?”

“You’ve seen him?” Archie interrupted. “Is he well?”

“He still hadn’t left when I came and took you away. I was afraid he never would, you know, and I’d miss my chance with you. I can roll back time here, under certain constraints, but I can’t work miracles.” He looked very worn as he said this.

“What have you done?”

“Saved your life to start with. And—I’ve taken the liberty of departing Kingston. We are well outside English jurisdiction. So you see you haven’t got to be executed after all.”

There were bigger questions he would ask in time. He knew better than to quarrel with the surgeon while still confined to his bed. For the moment he would stick with the very practical: “Where are we now?”

“Where? Aboard the TARDIS. My ship,” he explained.

Archie took another look at his surroundings—the level floor, the big square room. “It’s very calm, then,” he said dubiously. “She must be pretty large. What is she, an Indiaman?”

The Doctor laughed, although Archie hadn’t intended it as a joke. “Bigger than that,” he said.

There were more worries there—who crewed her? did they want a fugitive aboard? did he want to be a fugitive, come to that; could he endure it? and what was this captain-surgeon of hers?—but he could feel himself growing faint, coming near the end of his strength for the moment. One more thing he had to ask first.

“Why have you done this for me?”

The Doctor got that tired expression again. He didn’t look at Archie. “I didn’t mean to find you at all,” he said. “I came to Kingston quite by accident; looking for someone, avoiding something else; you know how it is.” Archie didn’t, much, but it didn’t seem to matter. “You were the talk of the town, for the moment at least. I heard your surgeon talking, saying it was better to let you die, before…. I’ve known too many people that thought that way. I’m sick of the waste of lives.” He met Archie’s eyes again, with a lopsided smile. “And I can’t resist a challenge.”

The smile was nearly infectious. “I’ve been remiss,” Archie said. “I haven’t yet thanked you. What for, precisely, I’d still like to know…”

“Just rest,” said the Doctor, “let the nanobots do their work—I’ll explain nanobots later—I’ll come back and explain everything. Don’t, whatever you do, don’t wander off,” but Archie had already obeyed his first command and fallen into a deep unfevered sleep.

[shitpostingfromthebarricade]

I was talking with a friend about the canon named women of Les Mis and decided to experiment to see who those are according to Les Mis fanworks.

Behold: your top ten women of Les Mis.

[definitelynotshouting]

woe, out of context scarian kisses be upon ye

Scar pauses. Pulls back to examine him, eyes flitting across his face; they backtrack several times, searching, an intense light growing inside them as Scar finds whatever he must be looking for. Grian endures it with reddening cheeks and a galloping heart that slowly sinks into his stomach the longer Scar studies him.

Grian opens his mouth– to say what, he's unsure, but something's got to give– when Scar finally stops, eyes round, and says, "Oh."

Then: "Oh, Grian."

And that's far too much to handle tonight. "Right," Grian says miserably, getting an elbow underneath him, "right, I'm just going to go then–"

"Wait, wait, wait!" Scar cries, lurching forward to grab Grian's wrist. "Hang on a second, I didn't even say anything!"

"You didn't have to, Scar, I can– I can read it in your face." Grian tugs at his wrist, but Scar doesn't let go; only tightens his fingers, dragging Grian back down toward the mattress. "Scar–"

"Grian." Scar matches him tone for tone. Then he smiles, sudden and blinding. "Can you hold still for a minute? Everything's fine, just trust me!"

"Trust you?" Grian snaps without thinking– then balks as a flicker of hurt darts across Scar's face. Ice fills the pit of his stomach, cold and stinging. "Sorry, I– I didn't mean to say that, I'm sorry," Grian stumbles out, frantic. Anything to erase that expression from Scar's face, that perilous stillness. "That's– that was rude. I didn't mean it."

Scar takes a deep, careful breath, eyes closing. "Yeah, it was rude," he says after a beat, "but I wasn't being very clear, and you're distressed. So I'm sorry too."

Grian's insides curdle. "Stop– Scar. I'm not distressed, you're making me sound like a damsel."

When Scar opens his eyes again, only a hint of that previous distance remains; instead they're brimming with warm exasperation, and a lot more patience than Grian deserves. "G," Scar says, far too gentle, "relax. Please. It's okay. Everything's okay right now, I'm not mad, I– I'm not upset." Another smile tilts the corners of his mouth; Grian's lungs flutter. "Quite the opposite, actually, if you'd sit still enough to listen."

Grian stares at him, throat drying out. "What do you mean?" he manages.

Scar eyes him for a moment, then carefully lets go of Grian's wrist. The warmth dissipates immediately; Grian misses it with a longing he does his best to hide.

It must not be enough, though, because Scar makes an aborted little sound in the back of his throat, and raises his hand to cup Grian's cheek.

Grian freezes like a startled rabbit, pulse thrumming in his ears. The foreign weight of Scar's hand radiates heat outward, spreading molasses slow through his skin and igniting beneath his skin. He stares, useless, at Scar's arm before trailing his gaze back up to meet his face.

The smile on Scar's lips has taken a wry turn. "I like it too, Grian," he says, and there's so much compassion in his voice that Grian nearly flinches. "I like spending time with you, and I especially like spending time with you here." He raises his eyebrows with a meaningful arch, glancing briefly down at the mattress they're sitting on.

"In your bed," Grian says anyway, flat as he can make it. The phrase nearly cracks against his teeth.

"Well when you put it like that–"

"Scar."

"So maybe I like cuddling you," Scar says mildly. "Is that such a huge crime?"

Grian opens his mouth to retort, but no sound scrapes out. He snaps his jaw shut instead, staring at Scar with huge eyes.

He can't hope. It's stupid to hope; they've been friends for years, only friends, and Scar has never– Grian can't think of a single time he might've once–

But Scar is giving him that look again. The soft one. The one filled with so much warmth it threatens to scald Grian's frostbitten fingertips if he reaches too close. His hands itch– he wants to hold Scar's hand, tap his fingers against his pulsepoint and listen to it tick; press his thumb into the hinge of Scar's jaw and lean forward, so he can–

"Can I kiss you?" Scar asks, quiet and tender, a spark of hope catching in his voice, and Grian's mind blanks.

"I– what?" Grian asks eventually, very faint.

It's Scar's turn to go red. "I mean– I'm not reading this wrong, right? Because you kinda just admitted to... liking me? Romantically? Unless I have completely misinterpreted that, in which case that is, um, very misfortunate for me, actually."

"No, I– you want to. Really?" Grian ignores the mispronunciation; instead, that little kernel of hope that Grian's been stubbornly trying to stamp out kicks back to life, fluttering around in his throat. "You're not joking, are you?"

"Grian, I would never joke about this," Scar says solemnly, and against all odds, Grian believes him.

Slowly, uncomprehending, Grian nods. "Yeah," he says, and it comes out hesitant, breathy, barely on the outskirts of sound. "I– yes. Please."

Scar's smile turns into a grin, self-satisfied and smug. "Well, since you asked so nicely," he says, and–

And his hold firms against Grian's cheek; his fingers tangle in the back of Grian's hair; his hand is guiding Grian forward, gentle but insistent, and Scar is leaning down–

It's not what Grian expects, actually– not that he was expecting much of anything. Scar's lips press soft against his own, a steady pressure that tingles onto Grian's tongue. Slowly, his lips part, urging Grian's open, and with that same, gentle insistence, he coaxes Grian into a slow, heady kiss, lips closing over his cupid's bow before opening again, sliding down to catch his lower lip next. Grian shudders into it, following Scar's rhythm; his head is tilted, just slightly, enough to deepen the angle and deepen the kiss.

Their lips slide against each other, and Scar's right hand comes up to frame Grian's face, winding through his hair and pulling him closer. Grian fumbles to cling back, hands fluttering until they find purchase on his shoulders; after a moment of hesitation, he loops them around Scar's neck, sinking his own fingers into the long hair cascading down his back. Scar melts into it, a soft noise slipping from his throat, humming against Grian's lips. It shoots straight into his stomach– Grian pushes closer, something hungry and desperate opening inside of him, clamoring to swallow Scar whole.

His head is spinning; when Scar sweeps a thumb across his cheek, Grian mentally chases the sensation, every point of contact between them a steady burn. He is fire, sparking and crackling, and Scar is the tinder– coaxing him into a proper flame, teeth tugging at his lower lip to make him hiss. Grian follows each sensation blindly, etching it into his nervous system; maybe if he keeps it here, hollows out his bones to makes a home for it, this memory will never, ever leave him.

It ends too soon; Scar pulls back eventually, but not very far. He tips his forehead to touch Grian's, their noses brushing; warm air fans over Grian's face, intimate and paralyzing. Grian doesn't quite pant, but he does end up needing a moment to catch his breath before he can speak.

"Wow," is what he eventually lands on. "Okay. You've been holding out on me, mister."

"Not my fault you never said anything," Scar murmurs, tapping his thumb against Grian's cheekbone. He leans back in, pressing another soft, sweet kiss to Grian's lips before pulling away again. "I've been gone on you for ages."

Grian sucks in a deep, shuddering breath; something beneath his sternum is beginning to crack, letting out soft, incredulous light. "You're telling me," he says, "that we could've been doing this from the start."

"Well, not the start," Scar says, clearly amused. "But pretty close to it."

"I hate you." Grian's voice is petulant.

"You love me."

"Kiss me again," Grian demands, in lieu of responding to that just yet.

"Jeez." Scar's eyes are twinkling in the low light. He slowly trails one hand down to Grian's shoulder, rubbing up and down his upper arm and leaving goosebumps. "Let a guy take a breather for a second. Patience is a virtue, y'know."

"I have never been patient even once in my life, Scar, and you know it."

Scar pauses, considering him with lidded eyes. "No," he says finally, but it's layered with fondness. "I guess not." He presses a quick, teasing kiss against Grian's nose; Grian wrinkles it, then musters his courage and dives in for another kiss. When he pulls back, Scar is beaming at him. "Good thing I like you anyway."

"Only because you have terrible taste," Grian informs him, before reeling him back in and kissing him again for quite some time.

[crispycreambacon]

S-oar Wounds

— ☆ —

Warning: The fic above contains brief depictions of violence, gore and death. Moreover, the themes of this fic heavily involve trauma, specifically PTSD. If any of the following distresses you, please read with caution or refrain from clicking the fic.

The Professor finally reunites the Sword and the Oar after years of being apart. But can they even be together again after everything that happened to them?

— ☆ —

Fun fact! The Oar's piece is based on "Gifu Road Station: Godo, Nagara River Cormorant Fishing Boat" by Keisai Eisen and Utagawa Hiroshige. Another fun fact! The Oar's palette lowkey looks like the gay mlm flag while the Sword's palette looks like the lesbian flag. How fun! How gay even :3

Anyways, Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!! I hope y'all are doing swell whether you're spending today with your partner, your friends, your family, or you're simply vibing. As for me, I cooked up another fic featuring your favourite gay couple! Don't let the oar pun in the title fool ya, this is uhm. I think you can tell from the warning :D

The fic has it all! We got:

An exploration of the Sword and the Oar, particularly how they grapple with their trauma and how it affects their relationship with each other

Honest depictions of, well, life which can get ugly, and sometimes, they don't know how to handle it, but it's okay! It's part of the process

A really cute friendship between the Professor and the Oars! (Albeit the Professor and the Sword uh. Not exactly wholesome especially at the start-)

Hand-holding! And hugs. And general physical affection to even out the amount of drama radiating from this fic

A happy ending! Because they deserve it god DAMN IT

If all of that sounds like up your alley, you can click here to read the fic, click the title or search "S-oar Wounds" by crispycreambacon on AO3. This was a very interesting and cathartic piece to write, and I hope you get even a fraction of that catharsis while reading it too.

Thank you for showing interest in the fic, and even if you don't end up reading it, I hope you enjoy the art. Have a lovely day, everyone!

[bunkernine]

and if i rewrote the tartarus au with my own version of tartarus... who can stop me?

[hballegro]

incoming cap dump

episode titles at the bottom

they arent good but i harvested them myself

point of view s7e11 // bottle fatigue s8e16 // goodbye, farewell and amen s11e16 [twice] // peace on us s7e2 [twice] // no sweat s9e11 // divided we stand s2e1 // rally round the flagg, boys s7e22 // welcome to korea part 1 s4e1 // sons and bowlers s10e2

to finish it off. large section of Point of View because that was my tester episode for my new screencap ability and i went silly mode

the only order they are in was the order my heart felt like

also my way of screencapping was desperately pausing at around the right time, no exact scrubbing so. godspeed

[arahusk]

Courtesy of the Chef Characters/Pairing: Alastor/Husk, Sir Pentious Word count: 2276 Ao3 mirror: [here]

-

When Husk opened the hotel’s kitchen door in the afternoon, he didn’t really expect to find Alastor already there, cooking at the stove with a jaunty tune and an odd spring to his step.

He also hadn’t expected the numerous amount of weird shadow tentacles to be streaming out from his boss’s back, all of them holding some sort of ingredient or cooking utensil.

“Husker! You’re actually awake and not wasting the day away in a drunken stupor!”

Husk stared. Then, he began to back away. “You’re right. The stupor sounds good right now.”

He really should have expected one of those damn tentacles to reach out and grab him by the wrist.

“Nonsense!”

A mistake to let the situation get to him as it did. His free hand had reached out to the door jamb, embedding his claws in the wood deeply. Feet planted themselves on the floor, all while the tendril around his wrist played some good old fashioned tug of war.

But the floor was made of smooth tile, and the wood was of such cheap quality that his claws had crushed right through it to hit air. That, and the tentacle that was made of horror and nightmares was stupidly strong.

And, it was too soft. Like velvet, or silk. Husk gritted his teeth as he was forcefully slid forward to be right next to Alastor. A simmering pot boiled on the stove, smelling of spices, but Husk could hardly bring himself to care.

“You can be my taste-tester, after all. I haven’t had a poison scare in a few years but, you never know!”

“That’s stupid. And I’m not hungry.” Husk shook his wrist, but the tentacle had only coiled itself around his arm. The touch made him shiver, enough that even his voice was changing pitch. “Grr, haven’t you tied me up enough this week?!”

Alastor was still turned away, as if the only interesting thing in this entire kitchen was the pot full of whatever he was making. Another tendril hovered just by his boss’s head, clutching a bottle of cloves to sprinkle into the mysterious concoction. 

“Hm, probably needs a bit more than that.”

God dammit, this was another of his stupid little games again.

“I’m not going along with it this time, alright? So you can just—”

He cut himself off as another tendril swayed past him, holding a large butcher knife in its clutches. It had been much too close, sharp edges nicking at his fur, and Husk catching the reflection of his own bright eyes in the blade. He was still.

The knife was then gently placed in Alastor’s waiting palm, who then proceeded to cut some carrots into thin slices over a cutting board.

The game was already in play and Husk was losing, fast.

He tried not to let himself play the part of the fool anymore. Whether that’s more yelling, or struggling, or just anything that would make his boss think was so deeply amusing. Even though he was turned away, the man’s ears were sharp. They’d pick up anything.

So, Husk would just not do anything then. He’d stand there with the stupid tentacle wrapping itself around him, and be as boring as possible. Even if whatever Alastor was cooking smelled pretty good.

He winced inwardly. Come on, Husk.

But maybe, this could still work. Alastor kept his eyes on the meal he was crafting up, even letting another tendril go up to him and hold what looked like a cookbook, flipped to a certain page as Alastor hummed while he read. It was almost ludicrous to watch. Radio Demon, horror of Pentagram City, who ate other Overlords for lunch, was being so goddamn domestic and using his unexplainable powers to do the chores.

And keep Husk’s bounded soul in line.

Husk looked to his shoulder, seeing the end of the tendril edge just past it, like it was sentient. And maybe it was, for all he knew. It had been years, and even now, he still barely knew all of what made Alastor tick, what made his powers manifest, and just why he kept someone like Husk near him.

Another soft touch over fur. Husk shivered again. He didn’t want to think about times that were similar to this, not the door closing and the tendrils pulling his arms back and his voice just—

He tried to clamp his lips shut, but his body was already responding to the touch.

He can’t be doing this here. But last time he’d just been messing with Husk in the main parlor of all places. Why would this be any different?

Husk moved his arm slightly, and the tendril didn’t tighten like he feared, but it slid, and it was warm. 

Maybe this was worse actually.

“I’ve been trying a new recipe but I’m not sure if it’s working. I suppose if this is a bust, I could always just redo it.” Alastor shrugged, closing the book and then using a cooking spoon to stir the pot’s contents. “But it would be such a shame for this food to go to waste.”

Husk knew a sound was going to leave him already, and had to swallow it down. The end of the tendril pressed against a chin, slightly lifting it. Playful. Soft.

No. Whenever Alastor would pull off something like this, at least they would be somewhere private.

Husk shuddered. All he had to do was not care about it, but the tendril’s movement was like a caress. A caress that overstimulated and made him lean against the edge of the kitchen counter. His free arm reached around to grab his other one. He looked at the floor.

“Not… not in the kitchen,” Husk panted out, feeling the tendril writhe over his fur even more. “Please…”

He saw Alastor’s eyes shift to him, for a second. The smile stayed on, as sharp as a knife. Then he looked back to the pot that he continued to stir.

Husk knew now that he’d already lost this game the moment he walked through the door.

Knees buckled. He would have fallen and probably hit his head on the counter were it not for another tendril that snaked through the air for him. It wound around his waist, lifting him up slightly so that his toes just barely touched the ground. The other tendril around his arm still slowly caressed him, finding the spots that made Husk weak, that already knew from times before.

A flap of his wings, which were free and uncaged, but they didn’t do much. Just a rustle of feathers, along with a strained gasp leaving Husk’s throats as shadows embraced his body like a lover.

“Just… let’s go to my room, or yours. I don’t care. Not here where people can…” He risked a glance toward the door, slightly ajar. It couldn’t even lock now, because his claws had broken one piece of it in his desperation. “Al, please.”

He hated being this sensitive to it, a discovery that Alastor had kept using to his advantage over and over. There were some things that Husk could hardly say no to, and they were more than just booze or a chance at the card tables. He flattened his ears as one tendril slipped underneath a suspender strap, then down to his legs that shook fiercely, like they would snap off at the knees at any second.

It was embarrassing to respond like this, to beg for it while Alastor continued to cook and not even look at him.

Why did he want Alastor to look at him in the first place?

And then, a sound left his throat. A little louder than he wanted, a little more desperate. Husk clenched his fists, but he was held up in the air, limbs slowly getting stretched like some kneading massage. “Just stop. Too much.”

The soft end of the tendril that had been playing near his chin, that had been writhing and touching him, then slipped past his lips so quickly. He barely had any time to react besides a muffled gag, a breathy gasp.

“Don’t choke now,” said Alastor who was now, finally, finally , facing him.

The tendril was also so sensitive on his tongue. It didn’t taste like anything, as it never had. The shape sometimes felt like mist, moving so smoothly into his mouth that it was almost addictive. Husk closed his eyes, trying to push away the idea that his voice only sounded louder in his ears, that he was losing sense of what was up or down. But he felt hands place themselves against his knees, felt them shift up his legs until they rested over his waist, until they sat him up on the counter, all while the tendrils that streamed out from Alastor’s back kept holding him up slightly, sliding over him, and touching him, and—

The first time Husk had felt them, he had been a sobbing mess, hands and shadows engulfing his body until all of him was spent. Maybe he’d built up some tolerance since, but it still wasn’t enough. Husk bent his neck to the side, feeling the tendril move deeper through his mouth. A breath ghosted over his neck.

There was always a chance for things to go wrong. Husk still remembered the knife that had floated so near his face, that had shown the terrified look in his eyes. And that was always the game between them, to see where the balance would shift from pleasure to pain, from affection to some form of soft horror.

He hated how, deep in the recesses of his mind, further and further until he buried it away with drink, that he enjoyed the excitement of it. The panic. Like a euphoric high that he kept chasing over and over again.

Husk moaned around the tendril in his mouth, feeling the other reach into his pants to grasp at heat. And Alastor’s fingers rubbed tiny circles in his waist, watching him unravel with all the fascination of some obsessive scholar. Another deep thrust, nearly sliding down his throat—and  then that tendril slid out, making Husk gasp for air. It hung before his eyes, wet and dripping from his own saliva. 

He couldn’t even speak, already exhausted in what must have been a new record. He could only hang there, panting as Alastor looked on. It wasn’t over though. The other tendril was clutching at him beneath his pants, making his chest rise up and down. 

Husk already conceded that he lost. He still tried to swallow his moans, even as his tail swished just next to Alastor’s leg, entwining around it slightly.

Then, a hand gripped his chin, facing him as he continued to pant, as his body continued to shake.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to cut this short.”

He barely could comprehend what Alastor meant until he heard the door creak open.

Maybe it was supernatural, or just Alastor had such a keen control over things that it made Husk look like a shambling zombie in comparison. The tendril still on him slid away like smoke. Hands lifted off his face, turning him away so he faced the counter. Back on his feet, shaky as he was, his own hands placed themselves on the counter so he could stand. And Alastor was now right in front of his pot once more, where he went back to stirring like he’d never even left.

The door continued to creak, opening inward. Then came out the most irritating hiss in Husk’s memory. “Ohhh! I thought I sssmelled something good!”

Oh for Christ’s sake.

But if there was anyone who would be too stupid to pick up on what just happened, it would be Sir Pentious, failed supervillain in the making.

“Just in time, my good man! I experimented with a new twist on my jambalaya recipe! Husker helped me out with it quite nicely. Here, have a taste!”

When Husk looked out of the corner of his eyes, turning half his body away until his excitement finally wore down, he took a guess.

Alastor had definitely poisoned that pot. Maybe Pentious would die, maybe not. Either way,he’d have a nasty stomach flu for sure.

His boss liked playing games with many people, even if they were of different stakes.

“Wow! For me?” Pentious looked gleamy-eyed (hat included) as he graciously took the spoon Alastor offered. “You’ve been so kind to me lately… after all that I’ve done…”

“Yes, yes, it’s very beautiful. We’re in a hotel for redemption, after all.” Alastor waved away Pentious’ annoying grievances. “Make sure to take a big bite!”

At that, Husk cleared his throat, trying to get the feeling back in his mouth. Pentious turned, as if just now noticing he existed.

“Ah, and what did you add to the meal, my fellow peer’s minion?”

Husk, still half-turned away, wiped at his chin. He saw Alastor’s eyes from behind Pentious, a soft red, draped in shadow.

“You’ll have to find out, won’t you?” Husk answered, knowing he didn’t sound normal, knowing it would probably take half the day before his knees stopped feeling like putty. He’d only been entertainment for the chef, his sole contribution to whatever life-ending meal Sir Pentious was now gulping down.

Maybe if he hadn’t just been edged to near oblivion, Husk might have shared a little sympathy for what the snake demon would soon endure. But that was what Alastor did, exhausting him to the point he could barely care about much else.

And Alastor had always been much better at games than Husk ever was.

[fallen-flier]

Where There’s A Will…

i’ll figure a better title out later,,,

so uhh here’s my dimension/time travel will au for the january gathering assessment @rangergathering

Will wakes up slightly groggy, back aching from the hard floor underneath him. It’s only then does the panic set in as he stumbles to his feet, wincing in pain when his head throbs. Calm down, Halt murmurs in his memory. Assess your surroundings. Where are you? Why are you here?

Will can’t remember. His head hurts and his mind is racing, and his body is slow in a way that it hasn’t been since Skandia. Will swallows shallowly, taking deep breaths as he looks around. He’s underneath a tree, a few of his belongings scattered nearby, and Will breathes out a sigh of relief when he finds his recurve bow. The bow is nicked with familiar scratches, the string lightly frayed from use, and Will takes comfort in the fact. It’s also concerning, because whoever brought him here allowed him to keep his weapons.

Wherever Will is, he doesn’t recognize this section of the forest. His knives weigh comfortably against his hip as he unsheathes his saxe, turning it over in his hand. Focus, he thinks, and studies his surroundings. There’s nobody around. The forest is disturbingly quiet, which works in his favor and sets alarm bells ringing through his head because the only time a forest is quiet is when there’s something worse than the biggest predator.

He’s still in Araluen— his mind is not so muddled to not recognize the trees and soil composition, but Will hasn’t lost track of his whereabouts and his own self in years and it terrifies him beyond belief. He gathers the rest of his possessions and slips his hood on, marking the nearest tree with his knife.

Okay. Will has been through worse. He’s fine, even if he can’t remember what he was even doing before this. He briefly closes his eyes, then sets out, marking trees along the way. The sun has barely risen— the day is young and the light shines through the leaves, as if nothing has changed at all.

It’s been a few hours since he left his original position, and he’s found a creek, collected water, and finally, found human footprints. They lead toward a well-worn road, one Will still cannot recognize. Right. At least he’s found his way to civilization, and once his finds the local Baron, he’ll be on his way back home and they can figure out what happened to him. Will steps away from the path, making sure to stay hidden as he follows it down through the forest. He hasn’t stopped to eat food, unwilling to risk eating the food he found in his pack. Will had assumed he would run across some animal along the way, but— the birds are silent, and the forest is nearly devoid of game.

He frowns, tracing the ground with his eyes when an impression on the floor catches his attention. It’s big, almost bear-like, but off. It had stampeded through the forest, scaring most of the animals off. But there’s no sign of injury or blood, a tell-tale factor to that type of behavior in animals. Instead, the tree trunks are covered in a sticky, wax-like substance. Oh. Oh.

It was never a bear. Will takes a step back, as if it’ll bring any distance between the beast and him. For whatever reason, the Kalkara were back.

Will pulls an arrow from his quiver, carefully controlled. His hands are shaking, he distantly notes. Will had been through far worse than a Kalkara since he killed one, but the last time he had faced anything related to Morgarath— Will needs to find the nearest village, and he needs to do so quick.

Will finds himself in the village of Trenton a hour after finding the Kalkara tracks. It’s a quaint village, quiet and unassuming, and filled with an undercurrent of tension. And there, hung upon a bakery wall, a few houses, and a bar, is a red and black flag with a yellow lightning bolt running through the middle. It flaps in the wind, almost mockingly at him. Because Will knows what King Duncan’s flag is, and he knows what flag Morgarath once used.

He presses himself against an alleyway, glad for the shadows that provide a cover, because Will doesn’t think he can breathe. Well, he thinks hysterically, at least he knows why the Kalkara were back.

Are back. Because wherever he is, they never left. It’s 636 CE and Will is not safe, never will be safe here and he doesn’t even know what happened to the rest of the rangers. If they still existed. If Halt was still alive. Halt was pivotal to the First Araluen Civil War, wasn’t he?

If Morgarath had won here, then where was Halt?

The first thing he does is buy food, vaguely grateful the coins he has are still in circulation. He shouldn’t be out in the open, but it didn’t really matter here, did it? Nobody even knew he existed. Will had stuffed his ranger cloak into his pack and clipped his silver oakleaf into his inner pocket in an attempt to seem inconspicuous. It seemed to have worked, or at least given off the sense that he was some world-weary hunter looking for a job.

Will is pretty sure half of the village is looking at him with pity and the other half with suspicion but he can’t bring himself to care. Time travel, how did he even get here? He makes his way into a bar, sitting down near the corner, making sure the exit is in his peripheral. The server, a plump lady walks toward him, a friendly smile on her face.

“Here for a drink?” she asks, a look towards him. Will should probably put more effort into looking happier.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, running a hand through his hair. He’s exhausted and drained and misses Alyss and Halt and everyone—

“It’s been a long day.” Will is pretty sure his smile looks painful. The woman hums sympathetically.

“You up for a warm bowl of soup? You look like you need something to wind down.”

He laughs, a little rough. “Yeah. That would be nice, thank you.” Will slides a copper coin towards her, and she takes it, making her way toward the kitchen. The bar is half empty, but it’s still early in the night. A few knights sit around drinking, and Will tears his eyes away, wincing at the symbol on their chest.

A few minutes later, the server returns with a hearty bowl of stew, smelling strongly of herbs and meat. Will nods his thanks, taking a long sip of the broth. The knights across the room are getting louder with alcohol in their system, slapping each other on the shoulder.

“I heard King Morgarath is planning on moving in on Clonmel! Ha, serves the cowards right for refusing a treaty. Knock ‘em right off their high horses once they see us.”

“They refused a treaty? I heard they can’t even keep their own royalty in line— King Ferris keeps Prince Halt locked up in the castle. Apparently Prince Halt attempted assassination on his own brother.”

“He’s still alive after attempting to kill the king? Psh, if one of King Morgarath’s tried to murder him, his majesty would have had him tortured and hanged.”

Will stands, pushing the bowl of stew as far as he can. No. It couldn’t be. Halt hated that place, but he wouldn’t go so far as to attempt murder on his own brother. For some reason, Halt had stayed in Clonmel. He was alive. His twin brother had apparently trapped him inside the castle, but at least he was still living.

Still living, in a way that would have killed Will’s Halt inside. This Halt, whoever he was, didn’t even know Will. Will was never his apprentice, and it wasn’t as if he could break into the king’s palace and what, get Halt out of there? Halt wouldn’t even trust him. There was nothing Will could do here— one man couldn’t fight against a whole army. And who would listen to him? He wasn’t a knight, he had no status, no reason to go running to Clonmel to warn them of Morgarath’s attack. They probably already knew.

Will is going to be sick. The knights are staring, probably because he just abruptly stood out of nowhere and is staring off into space. Mechanically, he picks the bowl up and drinks the rest of the soup, turning sharply and walking out, plans whirring in his head.

He ends up paying a few coins at an inn to stay the night, too tired to haggle a cheaper price with the innkeeper. He’s near silent as he walks along the streets, the path dimly lit by a few candles and knights making a night watch. All of a sudden, a child’s scream pierces the air, the sound of a struggle all too loud against Will’s ears.

The nearest knight looks up then away, because that’s a child, struggling against another knight who has a too-tight grip against the boy’s wrist. “Let me go!” the boy screams, high-pitched and terrified, the false bravado in his voice faltering under the fear.

The knight growls, grip tightening on the boy before throwing him to the ground, ignoring the whine of pain he makes. “You know what you did, return the money you stole,” the man threatens, foot pressing down on the boy’s back and Will sees red.

He’s moving, throwing knife in his hand and his saxe in the other, and then the knight is on the ground, whimpering in pain just as the boy had. The knight from before, the one who had ignored them all of a sudden notices the ruckus, drawing his sword and yelling furiously.

Will ducks, letting the man drive his own momentum and pushes him toward the ground, pinning him with a knife to the neck. “I suggest you gentlemen leave,” he says, and his hand is shaking and Will can’t. There’s a dull fury running through his bones and he’s so tired. He pushes off the man, picking the boy off the ground and stepping into the shadows, returning to the inn. It wasn’t exactly the best idea, but he had faith there was no way the knights could track him, and he would be gone by sunrise. The boy shifts in his arms, looking up at him suspiciously.

“Where are you taking me? Who are you?”

And oh, isn’t that just his luck. Because under a mop of blond-brown hair and a scrunched up face is Horace Altman, in all his eight-year-old glory.

Horace shifts under his scrutiny, looking away nervously. “I didn’t steal anything,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I swear I didn’t, I just wanted to see their swords and I know I shouldn’t have gotten close but—”

Horace falls silent when Will puts a hand on his head, gently ruffling his hair. “It’s okay,” Will says. “I believe you.” His stomach is turning, because Horace’s first reaction was to defend himself instead of ordering Will to bring him home, something his Horace would’ve done at this age. But here he was no ward at Castle Redmont.

"My name is—" Will pauses. Even if he had a younger self here, he wouldn't have the last name of Treaty. But it still felt wrong in a way, to take a name that would belong to another eight-year-old boy who would probably never get the chance to earn his last name the same way Will did.

"Treaty. What's yours?"

"Horace," the boy mumbles, then as he gains confidence, "Horace Altman. I have a last name, but uhm..."

He trails off, clearly ashamed. Another spark of fury runs through Will, and he keeps his face carefully blank. Horace had always been so proud of his family name, of who he was— perhaps sometimes to the detriment of Will's younger self, but there was something about the shame that set Will off. Horace should've never been afraid to proclaim who he was.

“We’re going to go back to my inn room and I’ll patch up your side and check your arm, then you can tell me where you live so I can drop you off, all right?”

Horace relaxes at his lack of outward reaction and nods, and then they're off.

okay so author’s notes + extra plot:

wow that was way more depressing than i actually planned it to be. i promise i didn’t make this purely so will was sad. the plot may have ran away from me.

oh gosh i feel so bad for the characterization. any concrit about will is greatly appreciated. i feel like i may have made him a bit too grim. sorry will. :(

ugh i forgot how long writing takes. why are there so many scenes i have to write before i get to the actual plot points i want to write about.

it has been 5-7 years since i read ra and please can anyone explain what will canonically knows about halt and clonmel because i do not remember and the wiki is not helpful 😭😭

uhh i basically made up morgarath's flag based on the cover of "the tournament at gorlan" because i'm pretty sure there's no canonical flag that he used

i have way more ideas and plot i have to flesh out, like if i’m gonna replace prince halt with ranger halt or not (because the angst potential is there)

but essentially i was gonna have will run around being a hyper-competent cool ranger helping people and basically being morgarath’s number one hater. hmm maybe have crowley locked up somewhere or in hiding, or gilan a disgraced knight for disagreeing with morgarath’s rule?

will will (teehee) definitely keep horace once he realizes horace is being mistreated. but will is probably not okay with putting like, a 8 year old in danger so idk where will would put horace once they set off. but it would be kind of funny to just have an army of disgraced, downtrodded people following will?

morgarath is probably going to be the same one from will’s world. yeah, that’s not gonna be pretty.

if anyone was looking forward to seeing will meet his tiny self, unfortunately tiny will is kind of dead. like, canonically, daniel’s wife was not gonna survive that assault while giving birth without halt.

also i find it funny that i have to defend the monarchy in this strange british-adjacent fantasy world. uhh we’ll see how it turns out.

[theceaselessidiot]

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences

Summary:

Cressida Cowper was not a good person. She was cruel, vain, and vicious. These were things she had known about herself for a long time, ever since her debut into society at eighteen. But really, she had probably been this way since birth and there was nothing she could do to change it. OR: A Character Study of Cressida Cowper

[welcometoteyvat]

Xiao visits Mt. Tianheng one autumn day, when the eternal yellow ginkgo leaves have started drifting off their branches. In the small inner courtyard of the thaumaturges’ residence, Chongyun is meditating quietly; breathing slow, eyes closed, sitting cross-legged on the ground. Xiao slowly approaches, careful not to disturb him.

“Xiao! You’re back!” Chongyun opens his eyes, beaming brightly up at him.

Something impossibly warm washes over Xiao. Chongyun’s pure heart is ever so radiant, like a little ball of light. He can’t help it—he tilts Chongyun’s face up, presses a tender kiss on his waiting lips.

“Yes, I’m back.”

---

now on ao3!

[governmentmandatedryujinstan420]

I regret to inform everyone we're back in the white space. Expect the fire alarm to go off periodically in typical fashion of whenever it detects a steaming pile of garbage on the way. Like me! [i'll give a cookie to whoever recognizes where the sfx is from!!]

[seventh-district]

.

[vincess-princess]

as we were falling: masterpost

should have made it a long time ago, i just thought there was no demand for it

Summary: The coreworld sparkles and shines in its skyscrapered glory, the midworld smothers its planets in industrial smoke, and the edgeworld fights tooth and nail against the inevitable human expansion. All of that rests on the shoulders of 'unpaid workforce' - or, more commonly, slaves, the resource now most in demand. Tommy and Nikki, just recently enslaved, now have to navigate the complicated hierarchy of the new age society - the society that doesn't tolerate slaves with opinions and ambitions of their own. Word count: 14k Warnings: slavery, violence, invasive medical practices, imprisonment and the like. Will be updated along the way.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

[teecupangel]

YOU

HI

okay, my brain just exploded with the idea of:

The Ancestor Assassins, the fellas right? Pick or choose, one or all of them, okay??

Now reincarnate them in the modern day, in DESMOND’s era

Have THEM go on an adventure as an outdated assassin in modern times, have THEM meet Desmond while they’re still young, have THEM hide the truth until Desmond has already been kidnapped and put through the animus

Maybe they don’t even meet Desmond until he’s a bartender and then hear about Desmond’s kidnapping and be on his team!!!

Or maybe they’ve known Desmond since the Farm and looked after baby Desmond while judging the whole system, not fully knowing his importance until later

Hell, they could reincarnate after the Solar Flare, but Desmond survived and retired to become a full-time bartender!! Now his bar is a modern assassin’s bureau!!!

(I love this idea and I do not see much of it, just saying)

(Ps. You could add romance, because I know you and your Altair x Desmond fics 👀👄👀, or just keep it platonic, whatever you want)

(More of a Deslex shipper myself, but I love those works anyway lmao)

I’m just going to self-promote my Project Eurydice series which does have the setup of Assassins in the past being reborn in the modern day. It has childhood friends to lovers AltDes, Altaïr screwing up the Desmond Saga’s modern-day setting and Ezio off doing his own thing and messing up the AC movie’s plot. Ratonhnhaké:ton’s version of events as AltDes’ adopted baby is also… sorta planned? I mean, there’s a vague plot and we’ll see if I have time to write it XD

Okay, since I already have a plot for an idea where they are reborn and ‘met’ Desmond when they were young (technically). How about we go for your “they’re reincarnated after the Solar Flare” idea and spice things up.

They were reborn after the Solar Flare and, to make things weird, they were all born on December 21, 2012, at exactly 00:07. The exact date and time that Desmond ‘died’.

So, in this setup, they would know something weird is going on. Maybe Abstergo would even realize it and start looking for people born at that exact date and time.

And, of course, to make this a bit more less obvious, they were born in the same country they were born before so their birth certificate would be a big red herring because they’re all born at the same time but they would only know that if they convert their birthdates and time to EST.

So, that sets us up for their ‘rebirth’.

The next stage would be the world they would be born in.

And this is where things get tricky because…

Well…

If they will all be reborn in 2012, that would mean they would still be ‘children’ by the time AC Valhalla hits.

But this does give us some leeway though.

So, as far as the world knows, Desmond died.

Abstergo even autopsied his body and they used it to make those games.

So…

Uh…

You guys wanna be reminded of something strange?

The pandemic hit the world last 2020 and Layla died in 2020.

This means that AC Valhalla’s modern day setting and Layla meeting the Reader and the two of them deciding to find other calculations all happened in 2020 (August, to be more accurate).

So…

In this setting, the pandemic is in full swing and these children (who are trying to learn the world they have been reborn in) get the same(ish) idea:

Ask their parent(s) to hire an online tutor so they won’t fall behind and they decide on history because, fuck it, that’s the most important subject as far as they know.

Enter a very inconspicuous online tutoring ad that their parent(s) tried out.

And that…

… is how they meet Desmond Hassan, full-time bartender who has a supposed degree in history and is doing this sidegig to keep up with the expenses during lockdown.

Unorganized Notes:

Okay, so I usually make Altaïr an orphan with Al Mualim being his foster grandfather but, for this one, let’s give Altaïr some happiness (and the additional ‘this is what could have been’ angst) and Umar and Maud raise him. (… maybe make Malik and Kadar his childhood friends this time around?)

Ezio is still part of a big family and he’s much more affectionate with them this time around.

Ratonhnhaké:ton is being raised by Kaniehtí:io with Haytham still having ties with the Templars but he doesn’t realize it because, to him, Haytham is just a COO of Abstergo.

I know we’re focusing on the ancestors and Edward technically counts but I want Edward to be a doting grandfather to Ratonhnhaké:ton who videocalls every week to ask how his favorite (“I’m your only grandchild, pappy.” “And that is why you’re my favorite.”) grandchild. He and Haytham have a strained relationship and I kinda like the idea that Edward isn’t an Assassin in this one but he’s sorta allied with them? It’s all hush-hush though but he’s the reason why Altaïr II can go wherever the hell they want. (Edward being the owner of a big shipping company would be fun).

Desmond takes the name Desmond Hassan because he’s not that creative and the mystery is: “Is he really Desmond?” “Is he Desmond and Layla fused?” “Or is he the Reader trying to mimic both Desmond Miles and Layla Hassan?”

Gonna be honest, I don’t really mind large age gaps in pairings and this includes the whole ‘they’re older than they are’ setup so I’m game for AltDes if you’d like. Their relationship can also totally be platonic (I can write platonic AltDes too! (waves hands at The The Second) and …………… technically the fics where Altaïr is just a Bleed like Falconry and The Helios Job? (total silence))

Anyway, if you want this to be Deslex (I’m going to assume that means ProtoCreed Alex x Desmond), the pandemic of AC lore can be a mutated version of Blacklight virus. Not as dangerous and less ‘icky’ than the original Blacklight virus but harder to spot and contain. The idea could be that the whole plot of Prototype happened in the background but it was contained and is ground zero of the pandemic with the public only knowing it as ‘ground zero’ then the mutated, still dangerous but at least you won’t turn into an icky monster, version spreads and that’s when the lockdowns happen.

Those with high Isu genes (like our reborn ancestors) are immune to it and that’s who Alex is looking for since… well… they may have a clue to how to stop the spread.

Alex ends up meeting Desmond because of his high Isu genes and…

Ends up using his apartment as a base of operation while he’s searching for answers and trying to fuck up Gentek-Abstergo’s plans to weaponize this version of the virus and also steal their data for a cure because they’re planning to use it as leverage to those in power and a way for the masses to think of them as ‘saviors’.

Of course, as with all my other ProtoCreed ideas, Blacklight virus is a genetically altered ‘virus’ that had been based on a failed Isu project led by Tinia.

If this is DesLex, the ancestors would be protective of Desmond and would think Alex is not good enough but Desmond seems happy so… okay. But they’ll be watching. If Alex fucks up, he’d have three Master Assassins hellbent on taking him down.