#these ficcers know what's UP!!
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Note
👻 🎃 trick or treat! 💀 🕷️
OMG thank you :D
Well... since you passed my door... and my jack o lanterns tonight... I will post a snippet from my yet unfinished James Wan / Patrick Wilson silliness!
Here's a scene: Patrick, invited over, has stumbled upon James's stack of script ideas, notes, and - GASP - letters to his leading man he has collected over the years. James walks in the room with some tea. Patrick, intrigued by the few lines he has read, slips a few pages in his pocket. Later, James is frantically checking the stack of paper. He senses some of it is missing. Is it, really? And which parts? Hopefully not the worst parts?
His second concept was an action movie, plain and simple. He hadn’t had the time to work out the golden excuse that would seamlessly combine tight spandex suits + Patrick and the script hardly had a fleshed out story. There were a couple of keywords: trained spy, chameleon personality, high-level sabotage, phoenix-like revival after getting seriously hurt – and that was all. He had finished only a few of the scenes that would eventually be in the movie. In one of them, Patrick wooed a group of powerful corporate executives just by being his charming self. James had left a small uncredited part for himself as a desperate director looking for the executives’ millions to fund a movie. In another scene, Patrick stood naked in front of a mirror as to make the audience familiar with his scars and the extent of his injuries. Writing it had been a battle between James’s knowledge that scenes like this were cheap and his ravenous wish of shooting it one day.
He fervently went over the pages. His action script appeared to end at scene 8. There was almost nothing there. It said: rooftop escape / water element.
I could make it classy, he had written on the next page. But he had crossed that out and changed it to I could get away with it.
Bloody hell. This meant that the infamous nude scene- that was supposed to be in between these two pages- was missing. Feeling his mood sink like water down a drain he tried to recollect what he had seen Patrick do. He had perhaps taken a few pages. Where could he have hid them? The most logical spot was his pockets but James had not seen him put them there. Let alone which pages they were.
He checked again, flicking through the pages of his third concept; the romantic comedy. The mere thought of this project materializing one day gave him the chills. Chills of insecurity, of leaving his comfort zone further behind than ever- mixed with a vague confidence. He knew he could do it. Knowing that he could somehow made it worse; it wasn’t just a fancy and that meant that not only could he do it, he probably would.
It was a dumb story. He had tried to make it smarter than romantic comedies usually were and it was still dumb. A naïve teacher makes a house visit for a creepy child in his class whose grades have been dropping lately (not to mention her intensely scary behavior towards other pupils and her commentary about dead tissue and blood during biology class) only to meet the love of his life: the child’s single mother, who might be a witch, might have murdered the dad, and might be the kindest woman in the world. He wanted to go absolutely bonkers with the house. Think carnivorous plants, antique standing clocks ringing off key, dolls on the barbecue, dolls in the oven, dolls on the cutting board. It should never become clear if the ladies were actual witches, could actually use real magic. With every line he wrote down he thought: I have to make this more goth. At the same time he didn’t want to rip anything off. It shouldn’t be a Little shop of horrors remake, or a new version of The Addams Family. He wanted it to be small, intimate; just the family and the teacher, perhaps with a sub plot involving the suspect neighbors and the classmates. In the end, the teacher should join forces with the witch family he has grown to become so fond of, and take part in a spell to get rid of the dad, who returns in a plot twist. Did he mention that it was dumb?
He was forced to give up. He had checked everything, even ‘SATANIC CURSES SHORTLIST’, 'MORE CREEPY DOLLS PART 3' and 'MISSION: BATMAN' and they weren't anywhere. This could only mean one thing.
He needed to stop dragging them along. They were baggage and they were a risk and they were blackmail waiting to happen. He had money, he could afford a guarded safe, or an underground bunker storage somewhere. When I get back home, he told himself, silently rocking back and forth, sitting on the floor. The first thing I'm gonna do after I get back home is find a safe place for these.
Not yet willing to accept that one thing, James went over the scripts and concepts again. Not once, but twice. Wait. His fingertips touched a well-known stack of paper, tied together with a string, and he sighed the deepest sigh.
Okay, okay, a few pages of his older scripts were probably missing, but the letters- including the worst of them- were still present. From newest to oldest, the piece of string around it tied into a little ribbon, because he was a goddamn romantic and he couldn't help himself. He held them to his chest, realising in how big of a mess he could have been right now. Thank God. Thank God.
So why don't you get rid of them?
He had shaken his head when he saw the date on that letter. The thing was two years old. He shook his head at himself, at his silly way of dealing with things, his juvenile feelings. At the James of two years past and the James of that day. He hadn’t thrown the letters on his barbeque. It had felt like he was taking pity on his own folly, somehow.
"I know, I know," he muttered, putting the stack of letters back where they belonged, buried underneath his works-in-progress. Double-checking if it was really locked. It was true; the easiest and most permanent solution was to run his love letters through a shredder. He had been so close, once. Ready to shove the entire heap on the remains of a barbecue, one late summer night, after his friends had left. Drunk and tired, a familiar paranoia had overtaken him and he had gone inside to get his pathetic confessions. All fifty-six hand-written pages of them. Even this one? He had thought, his hand not quite willing to include the very first- and longest- of his letters. Yes, even that one, he encouraged himself. The job had to be done. It had to be done sooner rather than later- had to be done now in the exact same way it had to be done back then. The damage of his hesitation was still visible on some of the pages today. But standing in front of the fire, holding the fragile paper over the hissing coals he had read a few lines on the top page.
“You are an affliction. You make me want to pour fake blood all over you then wash it off-”
“I am the most privileged of all, because I get to stare at you, full-time, get paid for it, and people think nothing of it. The perfect disguise, better than a one-way mirror-”
“I had to write it down somewhere, because I can never tell you. You will never read this, either. It’s still a bit better than keeping it all inside. It felt like a growing disease gnawing its way out from the inside-”
It was stupid, he was aware that it was. He guessed he was simply too attached to his own words. Wasn’t that a pretty common disorder among authors? Pulp or not, you could call him an author, right? Whatever his diagnosis (terminal sentimentalism) he had held on to them. He’d take them out sometimes and give them another read. And throughout the years, the stack of letters had grown. He’d add to them every now and then. Particularly, when something had happened on set or after events that he needed to write down and relive. It had morphed into a very private kind of diary.
James put the last of his concepts on top of the others, carefully checking if it looked like any regular bunch of typed documents. The drawer passed the test, and he locked it.
#this is silly#to me it also felt bittersweet#HAPPY HALLOWEEN#James Wan#Patrick Wilson#it's a great pairing and so far I have seen mostly Chinese-language fic of them#these ficcers know what's UP!!#trick or treat#they are also Halloween-friendly#still cannot believe how in love the camera was with Patrick in the Conjuring and especially II#WanWil
1 note
·
View note
Text
OFMDs, while I find your pathetic clownery to be even more intolerable than the rank vitriol of my Stucky fandom nemeses, I have to put my personal aggravation aside to offer you, along with my MSR besties, my most sincere congratulations on achieving what is objectively the funniest possible outcome for this round. You eliminated THE top two unquestioned juggernaut patron ships of this entire cursed website in their first matchups, and I honestly couldn't have asked for a better outcome. I cannot stand those fucking pirates but god bless. Love and peace on planet Tumblr ✌️
AO3 Top Relationships Bracket- Round 2 Side 1
This poll is a celebration of fandom history; we're aware that there are certain issues with many of the listed pairings and sources, but they are a part of that history. Please do not take this as an endorsement, and refrain from harassment.
#I am a marvel bitch forever and I actually love Stucky#but holy shit#as a Tony fan there is no more hostile place on the internet than the stucky fandom#and that can't even touch what the poor Sharon fans endured#love the ship and the skill of the ficcers and fanartists is truly unparalleled#but the fandom is fucking PSYCHO#jesus christ those people are hateful#I would say I hope some stuckies have learned their lesson about their behavior from this clownshow#but it's been 7 years since CW and they still haven't cleaned up their act so I think we all know they haven't learned anything#anyway that's the irradiated wasteland that OFMD fandom is up against so that should tell you how annoying I find THEM#/smiling affectionately/ I hate all of you so much#bite each other's dicks off and so on and so forth#I don't remember if the unlisted tag trick still works but I'm gonna go ahead and tag this for my own blog organization anyway#and if this post shows up in search then it's in god's hands#we're all waking up and choosing violence today#AO3 Ships Poll#AO3topshipsbracket#fandom#fandom culture#Marvel#MCU#Steve Rogers#Bucky Barnes#Stucky#Steve/Bucky#Our Flag Means Death#Blackbonnet#Blackbeard/Stede#Destiel#Mulder/Scully
17K notes
·
View notes
Text
INTRODUCING: CRACK IN THE CHASSIS
Because we always need more cracky fanworks. Yes, even if we have a billion already. We need more.
Every absurd crossover or AU, every ludicrous pairing that would never ever happen in canon, every "What if?" thought that was followed by "Actually, it'd be weird as hell but I could make that work"--we want them.
SPN canon brought us evil clowns that explode into glitter and an entire season where the villain was high fructose corn syrup. Fandom can make it worse. We have the technology.
Crack in the Chassis is bang and a reverse bang at the same time--but NOT limited to fanfic and 2D fanart!
THAT'S RIGHT. You can get cracky with format as well as content!
Have a bunch of SPN figurines you'd love to pose for photo stories or--if you're a masochist--stop motion animation? We'll take it.
Do you have a ton of red color gel food dye and a sheet cake that would make the perfect canvas for a torture scene? We'll take it.
Do you have a few "in this essay, I will" jokes that you're lowkey dead serious about, even though you know you'll look like the Pepe de Silva meme? Don't be self conscious. We'll take it!
Filk, animatics, short films, cosplay--if you can find a way to transmit your fanwork over the internet and it's ridiculous as hell, then you can submit it to CRACK IN THE CHASSIS.
You can be either a pitcher (creating your work first) or a catcher (claiming a work from the gallery and creating a work in response to it.)
And don't worry, if you want to keep to the traditional ways, fanfic and digital fanart are fully welcome.
As pitcher, you can specify which types of fanworks you're willing to claimed by! You can treat this as a traditional bang or reverse bang if you want to--or you can get a bit adventurous. Allow your fanfic to be claimed by another fanficcer and see what it's like to collaborate with the same equipment. 😏 Mark yourself as exclusively fanart4fanart and watch the ficcers cry about it.
CRACK IN THE CHASSIS: ALL ABOARD THE CHAOS BUS
Sign ups open May 7
Claims July 13
Posting starts August 22
SIGN UP HERE
and follow @crack-in-the-chassis for updates!
FAQ | Schedule | Rules
110 notes
·
View notes
Note
Do you think Bucky ever got any sleep during all his years of Hydra captivity? Or was it just wipe/kill/back in the freezer? I don't think cryostasis would be anything like normal restorative REM sleep.
Hello nonnie!! I have finally had a light-bulb moment for this ask (I'm sorry it's taken me like 7 months)
I've been going about it the wrong way, trying to research on sleep, when in actuality what I should have been researching is the brain under hypothermia. This is an observational study conducted in the 1980s looking at children undergoing induced hypothermia (lowering of body temperature) during cardiopulmonary bypass (sometimes required during major surgery). In summary, by the time the body temperature cooled to 18 degrees, all brain activity ceased. Sleep - consisting of non-REM and particularly REM - are associated with far more active brain waves. So nonnie, you are very correct in saying that Bucky, even with his super soldier abilities, unlikely ever got any "sleep" during cryostasis. (I'm sorry to all the ficcers that wrote Bucky dreaming during cryo but I think most people are happy to ignore this piece of science)
In terms of whether Bucky ever got "sleep", I think that is hard to say. Even normal soldiers might drive themselves to go without sleep for 36+ hours if required for a mission (heck, even hospital shifts go for 36 hours in some places). As a super soldier, Bucky might tolerate sleep deprivation for longer. This means missions like taking out the Starks - travelling from Russian and back - he might achieve in one sitting without sleeping in between (although I guess no one can stop him from dozing off on the plane).
I think one implied part of your question is "is it likely that Bucky was allowed out of the freezer for long enough periods at a time to need (and get) sleep"? I feel like that is unlikely, judging from the "he's been out of cryo for too long" line from CATWS. The timeline goes: day 1 Bucky makes assassination attempts daytime + night time against Fury / day 2 Steve makes a run down to Jersey arriving there at night / day 3 Bucky attacks Steve on the causeway and then we get the nighttime vault scene where Bucky is "unstable". Even if we add a day or two prior to allow for prepping, that still means Bucky becomes "unstable" and questions his identity within a bare week of being out of cryo.
Credit @lost-shoe (this post)
Now onto the angst...we know anaesthetics is not like restful sleep, so theoretically neither is cryostasis. While the science of cryostasis doesn't exist at the moment, we know from artificial hypothermia in surgical situations that it puts incredible stress on the body and all its organs. Looking at the laboratory derangements during hypothermia it looks like it pushes the body over to anaerobic metabolism and causes lactate to go up. You know when you go for a run and your muscles cramp up because you haven't warmed up enough? That's because your muscles have produced too much lactate from anaerobic metabolism. So...no wonder Bucky can't stand when he comes out of the cryo chamber. It also increases one's bleeding risk and reduces one's healing speed, so take of that what you will for your Whumptober prompts 😂
I also wonder whether, because the brain is not receiving any REM sleep during cryo, it means Bucky has been in a constant state of sleep deprivation for the last 70 years. The theory of "prefrontal vulnerability" in sleep deprivation proposes that functions like language, executive functions, divergent thinking, and creativity are particularly affected, so that can contribute to Bucky's inability to process/produce complex language and his slowness when it comes to working through complex problems. It also has significant effect on memory and attention: it's interesting to note that during sleep deprivation of more than 35 hours, they found that while free recall was affected, recognition was not. (Disclaimer for science: small sample size, opposite result for subjects with sleep deprivation ~24 h).
So yeah, I think there are practical reasons why Hydra would not allow Bucky to have restorative sleep between missions. Consolidation of long term memory (i.e. transferring them from short term storage into long term storage) usually happens during sleep which means it is quite likely Bucky remembers only broken bits of his time (if at all) in the last 7 decades.
#bucky barnes#bucky barnes meta#medical meta#bucky barnes: where the angst that keeps on angsting#asks#i hope you get to see this nonnie! i'm so sorry for the long wait
233 notes
·
View notes
Text
I've been on the writer's tag again.
Listen guys.
Nobody owes your fanfic anything. I know that you want validation and adoration and those are both completely normal things to want. But this obsessive demand for comments over kudos and reblogs over likes is A Problem.
I won't bore you with tales of yore where we literally punted our fiction into the world with no idea of how it was being perceived by others because the only way to know if anyone even glanced at it was by the incredibly inaccurate page counter on our shitty geocities page.
(But that was a thing and it's semi-relevant to my point.)
A lot of you are growing up in a era of social media and viral marketing. You are babies of the influencer age, raised on the myth that if you can just get enough attention you'll get famous for something. I don't mean 10 million followers on insta famous but famous in your specific sphere.
That will not happen for you.
Not because people aren't reblogging your shit or writing out loving comments but because it's a myth. The idea that if you shame, beg and cajole enough people into interacting with your creation you'll access some serotonin high and ascend to a greater state of being is also a myth.
Here's the truth:
Most writers do not know how the majority of their audience feels about their fics. Those very few novels that you see on booktok, X (former twitter) or wherever else you get your writing news represent an infinitesimal portion of stories written and books published.
Most writers do have writing buddies or trusted members of an inner circle that they share their writing with.
For most fandoms, fanfics are so plentiful it's like going into a mall sized grocery store that sells only apples and then demanding the customer review every apple they touch.
For those few fanfics that you see that have an outrageous number of comments there are three possible explanations: 1. that person is what we used to call a "Big Name Ficcer" and they have amassed a following through consistent production of whatever that fandom is into, 2. that is a fic so long you have to sign a waiver to start reading it and despite the fact it was started seven years ago its still getting updated, or 3. that person is writing a viral fic in a fandom that is presently on fire.
Your self worth and self esteem cannot be tied to writing and posting fanfiction. It might be a fun outlet or you might be looking for your viral moment, but either way the moment you start weighing your worth as an author or creator based on what a bunch of strangers on the internet think of you is the moment you give up on yourself.
Social media has brainwashed you into thinking that you must be recognized and rewarded for the things that you put onto the internet. Or maybe it hasn't brainwashed you, maybe you just want to get a comment because you worked super hard on something and you feel like if you can't even get one decent response then its all been wasted. (I.e. you've been brainwashed into the feeling that you need the validation of strangers for happiness purposes.)
So what are you going to do about this?
Get off the internet. I don't mean permanently. I don't even mean literally. I mean take yourself out of the spaces that reinforce the idea that you need validation from strangers to be happy. Stop going on the social media sites for a few days (or a few weeks). If you've got a friend in fandom that you share fics, headcanons, ideas or anything with start chatting with them about something you want to write. Invest in them, in what they're doing and their opinions and how they react to your creations.
Put your shit on the internet like you literally don't give a fuck about anyone's opinion. Explain nothing about your writing choices. Put warnings, no more than 5 tags and drop that shit into the world like a newborn giraffe. Then ignore it.
Teach yourself to seek validation from your accomplishments: write a slightly longer fic, write a fic in a different genre, write a fic in a different rating, write a fic in a different fandom.
Find an actual friend that you actually interact with whose opinion you know matters because you agree on the important stuff.
Stop begging strangers for compliments like a cartoon hobo shaking a cup for coins. You're better than that.
#writing is hard#fanfiction#on writing#i would love a rebuttal#but nobody fights me#i understand#i'm too scary
63 notes
·
View notes
Note
tumblr user flirtmeister you can ask other saw ficcers for dad bod and tummy lawrence but where's your adam losing it over lawrence's tummy fic, huh? (blatant weak plea for more fic lol)
“I think I need to start going to the gym.”
Adam doesn’t look up from his veterinary textbook from where he’s studying on the bed, finger tracing the diagram of a dog’s brachial plexus. “The gym?”
“Yes,” Lawrence says. “What do you think?”
“I don’t have an opinion,” Adam says, mouthing the words subscapularis muscle. “But why do you want to go and hang out with a bunch of sweaty men? Am I not good enough?”
He looks up with a grin, hoping to catch Lawrence’s eye. Instead, he finds Lawrence looking at himself critically in the mirror, pulling his shirt tight around his waist. The fabric clings to his soft stomach, and Lawrence pulls tighter until his jaw sets hard. He doesn’t seem to notice Adam’s eyes on him.
“Hey.” Adam frowns. “What’s going on?”
He climbs off the bed, abandoning his textbook, and stands next to Lawrence. Lawrence stops playing with his shirt and sighs, running his hands through his hair instead, still slightly damp from the shower. Adam rubs his face against Lawrence’s side, smelling the fresh scent of aftershave and laundry detergent.
Everything is very new. The relationship, the moving in together, the veterinary degree that Adam has gone back to. Adam had expected to panic when everything became real, when he first saw Lawrence’s clothes in their shared wardrobe, but instead, he’d just been filled with anticipation. Fuck Jigsaw, for giving him a new lease of life. The asshole’s philosophy worked.
“I don’t know what you see in me,” Lawrence says, still looking at his reflection. “I’m just some washed-up doctor, with a broken body-”
“Shut up,” Adam says, nuzzling his head against Lawrence’s side. “You think I think like that? Your version of Adam sounds like a dick.”
“Writing’s on the wall,” Lawrence says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Look at me.”
He places his hands over the swell of his stomach. “Christ. I should take more shifts. I never used to look like this when I was working sixteen-hour days-”
“You were stressed as hell,” Adam interrupts. “You were a barely functioning human being.”
“I wasn’t like this,” Lawrence says sharply. “I didn’t have this body.”
Adam moves quickly, because fuck this line of conversation. He swivels to face Lawrence and walks him backwards until the back of Lawrence’s thighs hit the bed. Lawrence looks a little surprised as Adam pushes him down, and straddles Lawrence’s lap.
“Are you trying to distract me?” Lawrence asks.
“Nope,” Adam says. “I want to take a good long look at you.”
He wriggles his hands underneath Lawrence’s shirt and spreads his hands over Lawrence’s stomach, rising quickly as he breathes. Lawrence is soft to the touch, and Adam squeezes a good handful of flesh, his own belly twinging with desire.
“You’re really fucking hot,” Adam says. “You know that, right?”
Lawrence quirks an eyebrow at him. “I bet you say that to all the middle-aged men.”
Adam gives Lawrence’s stomach another squeeze. He likes this new version of Lawrence, relaxed and middle-aged. It takes most of his self-control not to jump Lawrence’s bones every morning when he watches him prepare breakfast, pyjama pants sitting low on his hips. It’s a miracle Lawrence ever gets to work, when all Adam wants to do is drop to his knees in the kitchen and worship Lawrence’s body with his tongue.
“I mean it,” Adam says. “You’re driving me crazy.”
He grinds himself down slow against Lawrence’s cock, starting to get hard. Lawrence inhales sharply, hands grabbing hold of Adam’s hips, big hands spanning the width of his waist. Sometimes he’ll place his hand on Adam’s stomach when he’s fucking him, feeling the bulge of his cock through Adam’s skin. The first time he’d done it, reverential as he split Adam in half, Adam had cum all over himself like a teenager.
“You look so fucking good,” Adam says, continuing to roll his hips. “I want you more today than I ever did in the bathroom.”
“Adam, be serious.” Lawrence says, voice strained.
Lawrence in the bathroom was a rat in a trap, frightened, willing to do anything to save his family. Lawrence in Adam’s bed is bright-eyed and loving, sensible in the face of adversity. He’s kind to Adam, gentle when Adam needs help with his work. Adam wants him forever.
Adam presses his forehead against Lawrence’s. “I want you to fuck me,” He whispers. “I want you to force me down onto the mattress and fuck me until all I can do is scream your name.”
Lawrence swallows hard and squeezes Adam. “You’re really not kidding about this, are you?”
“I’m so into you,” Adam says. “I want you to fuck me stupid.”
Lawrence kisses him sloppily, tugging on Adam’s bottom lip with his teeth. Adam whimpers, giving another thrust of his hips, and Lawrence moans against his mouth, hands gripping Adam’s shirt. Adam’s jeans dig between his legs, sending sparks through his body and his face flushing.
“You’re going to kill me.” Lawrence groans. “God Adam.”
“Please just fuck me,” Adam says, and Lawrence manages to turn them over so that Adam is on his back on the bed. “Please, please-“
Lawrence above him looks like sunshine. His hair is blonde and floppy, eyes crinkling as he gazes at Adam, and his mouth is fond. Adam feels another thrill go through him as Lawrence presses the length of his body against Adam, the bulge of his cock rubbing a wet spot on both their trousers.
“Are you sure?” Lawrence says.
“Lawrence,” Adam says, slipping his hands underneath his shirt again to grope his love handles. “I’m not going to break.”
He didn’t break in the bathroom. He didn’t break when Lawrence left him. He’s not going to break when Lawrence bends him in half in their shared bed and fucks him until Adam is a drooling sweaty mess against the sheets.
“God,” Lawrence swears, and drops all his weight on top of Adam, pinning him down. Adam is so turned on he can’t breathe, a moan bubbling up out of his mouth. “I’ve got you.”
Adam kisses Lawrence hard, worming his hands up into Lawrence’s hair to grip him tightly. Lawrence sighs into the kiss and grinds their bodies together, so close that Adam can barely tell where he begins and Lawrence ends.
Yeah, they’re going to be fine.
#ANSWERED#Nice Anon#chainshipping#adam faulkner stanheight x lawrence gordon#YEAHHHH DAD BOD#YEAHHHH VET ADAM#sorry if this got tooooo weight-based kink i just think lawrence should be heavy and fuck adam#thinking about the gifs of cary elwes in that fucking pink shirt#genuinely i keep re-reading monty's fic so much I'm like 80% of the hits on ao3
71 notes
·
View notes
Note
Following on Gap Or Not Gap conversation:
Methinks part of the struggle is that, when writing is supposed to be a hobby, it's hard to see the point of struggling through the act of it, knowing you're not the very best you could (but it can feel like should) be, and all of it for… what? My own fics get positive feedback re the characters, writing, etc; betas are thumbs-up… but what jumps at me is how ridiculously iddy it all can be.
There's been improvement over the years too, both from a technical (punctuation, cohesiveness over longer and longer works) and more nebulous (imagery, for example? Probably. Hard to be objective on one's work, obviously) points of view .
But… all of that, for what? Writing advice is practice, practice, practice; write in the morning, write in the evening, write every day; it's keep an eye on grammar and keep an eye on adverbs (might be caricaturing here;-). Copy a style, use prompts, try new things, aren't you loving it? Aren't you?
It's all about getting better, and at the same time, you're exhorted to not worry about improvement, and focus your writing on your own pleasure and enjoyment. For now at least, that spark is gone; whether it's 'Art and Creation, Behold! (insert cake/more cake metaphor, which has never convinced me of anything but it's beloved)' or 'Not Art but good healthy fun :3 look how not neurotic this ficcer is!'
Are we supposed to want to improve, or are we supposed to put that thought away? Are we supposed to call it art because it's creative, or not art because it's too much pressure? We're supposed to enjoy feedback (it's connection!) but not too much (obnoxious neediness!); we're supposed to write for ourselves but sharing is important.
Yeah, yeah, there's no rule, you do you etc. But where is enjoyment? What happens, when it's more hassle than not? How do you make it fun again? Should you? There's this emphasis on being creative in one way or another, and the contradictory imperatives of It Must Be Fun and You Should Want To Improve, of This Is Real Art and This Is Just Slapped On The Page Lol.
So for me, for now, the spark is gone, and it feels empty, like there's nothing left in me to give anymore.
--
If it's not fun, don't bother.
I didn't consciously practice. I just did Yuletide for over 20 years and then noticed I was good enough that practicing now felt worth it.
32 notes
·
View notes
Text
Spirktober 2023, day 25: Pon Farr
Rite (write ;) ) of passage for star trek ficcers!! Yes I made the same joke on my AO3 but it was too good to only post once!! I am very behind on Spirktober but I'm having too much fun to stop now so here's my accidental 6K fic about spock's first pon farr.
Also posted on AO3 here!
Archive warnings: explicit sex ahead! ahoy!
☆☆☆
After three years of having a direct line into Spock’s emotions, Jim was reasonably accustomed to his bondmate’s daily moods. There were, usually, very few surprises. So when the bond between them lit up with an unexpected one-two punch of lust and anxiety with no apparent cause, Jim was concerned, to say the least.
He shifted in the captain’s chair and thought down the bond, Everything okay, love?
There was not an immediate response, which was not necessarily a problem except for that the anxiety had not abated in the slightest and the lust was starting to make Jim’s skin itch. Spock? Hello?
Are you on the bridge? Spock’s mental voice was ragged, slightly breathless, and Jim’s own concern ticked up another notch. Are you safe?
Yes, I’m safe, he thought back, and pushed the image of what he was seeing to Spock. Sulu and Chekov at their stations ahead of him, the blackness of space and the occasional distant star on the viewscreen, and the general air of relaxation around him. Uhura was humming to herself. Are you okay? What’s wrong?
I do not know, Spock said, and that answer frightened Jim more than anything else so far. I find that I cannot logically pinpoint the source of this emotion nor can I compartmentalize it.
Spock, are you having a panic attack? Why do you feel like you want to jump my bones?
At “jump my bones,” Spock’s half of the mental link contracted so suddenly and painfully with arousal that Jim bit the inside of his lip to keep from gasping.
Refrain from considering such subjects until I leave the laboratory, Spock said, and his voice was strained.
You’re meeting me in Medbay. Head there now, I’ll be down soon.
Captain---
That’s an order, love. I’ll see you in a minute. At the promise of their meeting, Jim felt Spock’s stress decrease fractionally. He rolled his neck and stood. “Sulu,” he said. “You have the conn.”
“Sure, captain,” Sulu said. “For how long?”
“Ah,” Jim said, and scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know yet. Until I come back, I guess.” Sulu shrugged and stood to replace Jim in the captain’s chair. Jim walked into the turbolift and said, “Medbay.”
Spock was pacing the hallway in front of the Medbay doors when Jim arrived. “Hey, you,” he said as he exited the turbolift, smiling at his bondmate. At the sound of his voice, Spock whirled and was on him in a second. He slid his hand into Jim’s hair, tight enough to pull, pressed his face into the crook of Jim’s neck, and inhaled sharply. Through Spock’s hand against his skin, Jim could feel the trembling in his arms. Spock’s nose was pressed hard against him; he could feel the fluttering of his eyelashes against his neck.
“Hey,” he said again, soothingly. He ran his hands down Spock’s back, resting on his ribs. His heart was beating entirely too hard for anything short of active combat. “Hey, now. It’s okay. Everything is fine. Let’s go see M’Benga, okay?”
Spock took one more deep inhale against his skin before straightening. His cheeks and ears were flushed, like he had a fever, and he tucked his hands behind his back for only a moment before he released them to touch Jim again. Jim took his hand, despite their usual moratorium on PDA, and that seemed to steady him, before pulling him to the Medbay doors. As soon as they slid open, Spock pulled Jim behind him and stood between him and the rest of Medbay, eyes flicking from side to side like he was expecting an attack. The only person Jim saw over Spock’s shoulder was Christine, who sat with her legs stretched out in front of her on an unoccupied biobed, surrounded by a stack of padds.
She looked up as the doors opened. “Hey, boys,” she said, smiling. “What can I do for you today?” She frowned as she registered Spock’s face. “What’s wrong?”
“I think he might be, uh. Having a panic attack?” Jim peered around Spock’s arm.
Christine immediately swung her legs down from the bed and approached, palms up like she was soothing an animal. Her eyes narrowed as she took in Spock’s defensive stance, the flush on his face, his unsteady breathing.
“Everything okay, Spock?”
“I do not know,” Spock said. His voice was tight. Christine took another step towards him, and his grip on Jim’s hand tightened as he crouched slightly. “Christine, please. I know, logically, that you are my friend. But do not come any closer.” She stopped immediately where she stood, and Jim saw her put something together.
“Oh, shit,” she said. “Is it that you don’t want me to come near you? Or near Jim?”
“Jim,” Spock said immediately, and pulled him further behind him.
“I’m gonna get M’Benga, because he can help more than I can, and then I’ll be right back. Okay?”
When Spock nodded, she spared Jim one nervous smile and vanished behind the partition wall, into M’Benga’s office. Spock ran his thumb compulsively over the back of Jim’s hand, and slowly Jim put together the pieces. He pulled Spock to face him, putting his free hand on his chest, making Spock look at him.
I think it might be your time, Spock.
No, Spock said immediately, but with no conviction. M’Benga said that I would sense it coming for a few days first.
He was taking an educated guess, love. He might have been wrong.
I fear for you, Jim. I am not ready. I do not want to hurt you.
You’re not going to, he said, but he privately made a note to call his mother-in-law as soon as he could. We’ve talked about this. We have a plan. It’ll be okay. We’ll just speed up the timeline a little bit.
M’Benga stepped out from his office with Christine, but maintained a healthy distance between himself and Spock.
“Doctor,” Spock said. “I think I must request leave.”
“Yes, I think you must,” M’Benga said, and he crossed the room to pull a medical kit labeled in Vulcan from a locker. “You and the captain are both on leave from duty for the next six days. If you need more time, it’s yours. The captain’s quarters have a replicator, no?”
“Yes,” Jim said.
“Go there, then. Captain, you must ensure your own nutrition and hydration. I’m not sure if Mr. Spock will remember.” A flash of guilt came over the bond, and Spock’s hand flexed compulsively around his. M’Benga placed the bag on the ground and shoved it, so it slid across the floor to them. Spock picked it up without releasing Jim’s hand.
“If there’s anything you need that isn’t in the bag and can’t be replicated, call us,” M’Benga said, and now he was talking to Jim. “We’ll bring whatever it is. Captain, I mean it. Whatever you need. Do not prioritize your privacy over your health.”
“Got it, doctor,” Jim said. Spock did not respond. “Thank you.”
Let’s go, sweetheart, Jim said, and when he pulled Spock by the hand, he followed. M’Benga and Christine watched him go, and she crossed her arms over her chest. When Jim looked back over his shoulder as the doors slid shut behind him, she mouthed, “Good luck,” and winked.
Well, at least one person thought he was going to have fun. He wasn’t so sure, himself.
☆☆☆
Jim had been sitting on the closed toilet seat for forty-five seconds, composing the most intimate and embarrassing padd message he’d ever written and bracing himself to send it to Amanda, when he felt the anxiety flare again. Three seconds later, Spock overrode the bathroom lock. He panicked, hit send on the message, and stood.
“Hi,” he said. “Okay there?”
Spock looked between the padd and the closed toilet seat and to him. “I do not wish to be apart from you right now,” he said, voice mostly even, but Jim felt his anxiety spiking through the bond. “Is… everything alright?”
“Yes,” Jim said. He stuck his padd in his pocket and crossed the room. I’m worried about you, he said through the bond. And about me. I messaged your mom for advice. He wrapped his arms around Spock, and Spock dropped his forehead onto his shoulder.
I am in control now, but I do not know what will happen when the blood fever comes. I am terrified to hurt you.
I know, baby. That’s why I don’t think you will. But… just in case. I wanted to tap in the only other human I know who has done this before. Spock rolled his head to press his lips against Jim’s neck and wrapped his arms around Jim’s waist.
Let’s lay together and watch holovids for a while. No rush. If it starts, we’ll already be in bed, Jim said. He stepped forward, pushing Spock backwards out of the bathroom, back into his quarters. He stripped out of his clothes before flopping onto his bed. Spock methodically removed his own uniform, folding it carefully, and placed it on his desk.
His padd dinged from where it had been abandoned in his pants. Spock retrieved it and handed it to him before climbing into bed beside him.
“Do you want to see what she says?” Jim asked. Spock rolled onto his stomach, face buried in his pillow, and mumbled, “No.” Jim stroked one hand over his bondmate’s hair before tapping on the notification from Amanda.
He closed his eyes, breathed in, and opened the message.
My dear Jim,
I’m so glad that you reached out to me, even though I can feel your embarrassment through the screen. Please do not be embarrassed. I wish that I had been able to ask anyone about what the plak tow was going to be like for our first pon farr together, and I’m glad that I can be that for you.
I am going to let you in on a secret, one that I hope will set your mind at ease and bring you and Spock closer together during this time. Vulcans are so private, and have been for so long, that I think they’ve forgotten the damage that their privacy causes to those who aren’t in the know. I know that the idea of this time terrifies Spock --- it has since he was small and first learned of it. I hope this message assuages his worry as well as yours.
Here is the secret: because you are already bonded, and because you love each other, it is going to be wonderful. Do not be afraid. The secrecy with which all Vulcans hold this time has only served to perpetuate the worst rumors from the worst situations.
Be prepared --- certainly be smart, and safe, and drink more water than you think you need --- but do not worry. He will take care of you.
I love you both. Talk soon.
Amanda
“Oh, my god,” Jim said. He read the message again, and then a third time. Spock, he said. His bondmate was still facedown in the pillow, with one hand spread possessively over Jim’s stomach. Jim threaded their fingers together. Spock, listen. He read Amanda’s message aloud through the bond.
Slowly Spock picked his head up and propped himself on his elbows. Jim handed him the padd for him to read for himself. He scanned the words once, and then again, before returning the padd to Jim and meeting his eyes. The worry that had clouded the bond since the first flare of anxiety this morning had not totally dissipated, but it was greatly lessened.
I knew you wouldn’t hurt me, Jim said, and he pulled up a Terran movie from the 2050s on his padd, propping it on his thighs and sliding down the pillows to lay on his back. Spock curled around him, head on his shoulder, arm across his middle.
Thank you for asking her, he said. I am less concerned for your safety now than I was before.
Less concerned? That’s all?
I do not understand.
Come on, you’re not even a little excited?
Excited? To behave like an animal for a week?
Have it your way, Jim said, trailing his fingers over Spock’s forearm.
After a few minutes of watching the movie in silence, Spock said, Are you excited?
In response, Jim pushed one of the fantasies he’d been nurturing ever since Spock had explained the pon farr to him along the bond and felt Spock’s arm tighten across his stomach. Only if you’re taking requests, Jim said.
I will see what I can do, Spock said, but Jim felt his tension dissipate further and the lust from earlier begin to take its place. He settled in to watch the movie and fell asleep with Spock on his shoulder.
☆☆☆
When Jim woke up, the room was pitch-dark and his body told him he had only been asleep for a few hours. His padd had been moved to his bedside table, and Spock was nowhere to be found.
My love? He cast the thought out through the bond as he felt around in the bed for Spock. He found no warm body beside him, but heard a shuffling across the room.
“Computer, lights to ten percent,” he said quietly, and the room illuminated enough for him to see what had woken him. Spock had gotten out of bed --- recently, if the state of his hair and the imprint of the lines of the sheets against his chest were any indication --- and he was digging through the bag from M’Benga, which had been abandoned on the coffee table. He pulled a large bottle of something from the bag and turned back to Jim, whose eyes flicked downward.
His bondmate was very, very hard.
You are awake, Spock said. His voice was ragged.
You’re awake too, Jim said, and sat himself up fully. Spock prowled towards him, tossed the bottle onto the bed next to Jim, and crawled across the bed to him.
I burn, Spock said, and he cupped the back of Jim’s head and pulled him into a human kiss. Jim opened his mouth to Spock, allowing him access, not awake enough to give one hundred percent but certainly awake enough to enjoy Spock’s attentions.
What do you need? Jim asked sleepily. Spock pushed him back down onto the bed, laying his weight over him, pressing him into the mattress. He nudged Jim’s head sideways, giving him access to his neck, and licked a strip up to his ear.
You, Spock said, and his voice was just a growl now, primal and assertive. Give yourself to me and I will give you everything.
Everything? Jim said, and wound his arms around Spock’s neck, sighing as Spock sucked what was surely going to be an enormous hickey into the skin below his jaw.
Whatever you desire, ashayam, it will be yours, Spock said, and he ran a hand down the length of Jim’s torso, halting at the waistband of his boxers. Jim felt his hands hesitate, and even though Amanda’s message had eased his concerns, he had not realized that giving his consent was part of the process. He had assumed that it did not factor in. But Spock had never once taken something that Jim had not offered, and it did not seem like he was going to start now.
Yes, he said. I’m yours, love. Give me everything. Spock’s hand slid into his boxers, nails dragging against his thighs, and he felt his hips being lifted and his shorts being removed. The dim lights shone against the darkness of Spock’s hair as he licked and kissed and bit his way down Jim’s body, halting for only a second to kiss the side of his dick, before he felt Spock’s arms twine under his body and flip him onto his stomach, fast enough to knock the wind from him.
Oh, shit, he thought, dizzy, and Spock was back at his head in an instant, nuzzling against his ear from behind, the heat of his body radiating into Jim’s back.
Ashayam?
Still here. Still good. Just surprised me. Not totally awake. Spock kissed his ear in confirmation and then licked a hot wet stripe down his back. Jim crossed his arms under his head and closed his eyes as Spock spread him open and licked from his balls to his tailbone. His body was waking up now, paying more attention to what Spock’s tongue and hands were doing, and it was only a couple of minutes longer before he was completely awake, hard, and grinding against the mattress and Spock’s face. He moaned into the pillow, and before he realized what was happening Spock had flipped him over again. He landed on his back, knees bent and falling open, and Spock put himself between them, grinding their dicks together, kissing the moans out of his mouth. The friction of Spock’s boxers was almost too much, and he groaned.
In one motion Spock stood, removed his boxers, and recovered the scarily large bottle of lube from where it had landed before crawling back to Jim. He sat back on his knees and flicked the cap open, squirting the liquid onto his fingers, and trailing them between his cheeks.
Please, Spock said. Jim let his knees fall further apart.
Please, Jim said, as he felt Spock’s finger trace a line down his hole. He hissed at the cold surprise of the lube, but it warmed quickly between his body and Spock’s hand, and sooner than he had expected Spock was scissoring multiple fingers inside him. Spock pulled his fingers out and Jim groaned. But a second later he felt the head of Spock’s dick push at him, and Spock’s hands around his hips.
Ashayam? Spock asked.
Yes, Jim said. Spock pushed inside him, less gently than he might have otherwise, sure, but he had been careful and methodical in his preparation and he seated himself inside Jim with no pain. The head of his cock brushed the bundle of nerves inside him, and Jim arched off the bed. Spock slid an arm beneath him, holding him up to Spock’s chest until there was nothing separating them but their skin, and then he began to move.
Spock was usually careful with Jim. And he still was, mostly--- Jim could feel his love leaking from every inch of the bond and from Spock’s hands on his skin --- but the leash had slipped. He thrust into him harder than he had before, pushing him up the bed against the headboard, driving his hipbones against Jim’s ass until he was sure that he couldn’t take another millimeter of him.
Jim leaked come onto his stomach, flying towards the edge of climax, but Spock showed no signs of slowing. Love, please, he gasped. I’m too close.
I will have your orgasm, Spock growled. Give it to me. Even as he drove into Jim with that punishing rhythm, he reached up to wrap one hand around Jim’s cock, a question in his eyes. Yes, Jim gasped, and all it took was for Spock to close his hand around Jim and tighten before Jim came like a supernova, spilling over his chest and Spock’s, crying out and digging his hands into Spock’s shoulder as he clenched around him.
Spock followed him over the edge, and as Jim was still coming down he felt Spock come inside him, muffling himself by biting into the meat of Jim’s shoulder. Spock convulsed once, twice, before pulling out gently and pulling Jim into his arms, cradling him in his lap.
Good morning, he said, head lolling against Spock’s shoulder. He was covered in his own come and could feel Spock’s dripping out of him, but he didn’t have the bones left within his body to get up and wash off. He was content to lay here in Spock’s lap until otherwise forced to move.
Thank you, Spock said, and Jim opened his eyes in surprise.
For what?
For giving yourself to me, Spock said. Jim closed his eyes again.
You’re welcome, he thought. That was… nice. Not what I expected from all the stories. He also didn’t expect the chest-deep amusement he felt from Spock in response.
My James, Spock said. This is only the beginning. Sleep now.
Despite the come drying on his chest and the awkward curl of his position, he obeyed, and slept.
☆☆☆
When Jim woke again a few hours later, it was because the mental bond was hot with desire. He opened his eyes to find that he and Spock had not moved from where he had fallen asleep after they had had sex--- Spock sat cross-legged beneath him, arms cradled beneath his legs and shoulders, holding him to his chest. He blinked and lifted his head. As soon as he started to move, Spock tensed.
You awaken, Spock said.
I do, Jim said, and moved to roll out of Spock’s lap. But as he did so, Spock’s arms tightened around him.
No, he said, and he sounded contrite even as he refused to let Jim go. Do not be parted from me.
Even to use the bathroom? Jim could feel and now regret not cleaning up after last night. His skin was tight and sticky. Spock lifted him from his lap, rose to his knees, and uncrossed his legs, all while keeping Jim held to his chest. He carried him across the room and into the bathroom before finally setting him on his own two feet on the cool tile.
Are you going to stand there while I pee?
Spock’s face flushed, but he made no further moves to leave the bathroom. I find that I cannot bear to let you out of my sight.
Have it your way, he said, and relieved himself, studiously ignoring the weight of his bondmate’s continued gaze. He finished and crossed to wash his hands, and Spock followed him, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind. Feeling a pulse of arousal through the bond, Jim watched in the mirror as Spock traced the dried evidence of the night before on his chest with two fingers. With every pass of his hand, he felt Spock’s interest grow through both the bond and his erection against his back.
Will you give yourself to me? Spock asked, and his hands tightened around Jim’s hips. Jim turned in the circle of his arms as Spock leaned down to kiss him.
Always, he said, and Spock lifted him and carried him to the shower.
☆☆☆
It had been twenty-four hours and Spock had refused to let him go more than three feet from him at any given point in time. After fucking him in the shower up against the tiles, Spock had carefully washed and dried him, toweled and brushed his hair, and then followed him step for step to the replicator. Jim thought that, if he hadn’t already picked up the fork himself, Spock would have insisted on feeding him. Through the bond he could feel the fever, some of it leaking through the connection and spiking his own arousal, and Spock had not said anything but some variation on ‘give yourself to me’ in hours.
Contrary to his and M’Benga’s fears that Spock would accidentally dehydrate him into a shriveled husk, Jim found that Spock was more attuned to the needs of his body than he was. Before he was even aware of his own thirst or hunger, Spock had stood, acquired whatever he needed, and returned, sliding his hand behind Jim’s head, lifting a glass or fork to his lips. Then, every hour or two, Spock would slip his hand between Jim’s thighs, waves of fevered arousal flooding him from the bond, and ask Jim to give himself to him. He would agree, and his bondmate would take care of him. After four rounds in four hours, his dick had given up on participation for the day, but Spock melded them after that point and he instead rode the mental high of Spock’s relentless ability to climax until his body was rubber and his thoughts slid off his brain like rain off a rooftop.
But Amanda had been honest with him. The pain that he and Spock had both expected and feared for this time never came to pass. It was true that very little of his thoughtful, eloquent bondmate remained --- there was none of the usual scientific curiosity or quick wit through Spock’s half of the bond. But the bone-deep possessiveness, the love and care and protection that Jim had felt since the first day they were bonded, had been unleashed, and even when Spock left bruises on his hips and ass and neck he knew that Spock would not hurt him.
In the medical bag from M’Benga he found three more of the enormous lubricant bottles, a truly unholy number of condoms, emergency rehydration goo, nutrition bars, and a strange plastic wand labeled ‘internal dermal regenerator.’ He set the last aside for future use, because the state of his ass after just the first day made him think that it would be highly useful by day three.
Spock allowed him to nap as long as it was in his arms, and when he awoke near dinnertime to Spock’s hands sliding down his back to grope his ass, he wrapped his arms around his bondmate’s neck and said, before Spock could ask, I’m yours.
☆☆☆
Eighty hours after the last time Jim had left the bridge, the plak tow reached fever pitch. His sense of time had entirely abandoned him, but he felt the itch of want under his skin even before he registered Spock’s uneven breathing and blown-out pupils in the dim light. Spock’s hands against his back pressed hard enough to bruise, and when Jim called his name down the bond he received nothing in return but waves of possession and need.
“Spock,” he said aloud, voice rough from disuse. He grabbed Spock’s face, forcing him to look at him, and as Spock’s wild eyes focused on him the fever flowing from Spock’s half of the bond intensified until Jim was burning with it too. Against all evidence of human endurance he was hardening against Spock’s thigh, and he knew the moment Spock registered it because Spock rolled them, pressing him into the mattress, grinding down against him. He gasped under Spock’s weight, at the sudden friction of skin on skin. Spock’s head dropped against his neck, and he arched up at the feeling of his bondmate leaving another mark on the abused skin there. He had stopped looking at himself in the mirror after finding the necklace of hickeys Spock had left on the second day.
What do you want? Jim asked, but there was no response in words. He just felt the overwhelming needneedneed from Spock, the bone-deep urge to crawl inside Jim’s skin and live there, the need to make Jim orgasm again and again until he was shooting blanks, the need to claim him body and soul.
After three days of marathon intercourse he needed very little warmup, and he lost the entire rest of the day to the fever dream of his bondmate’s need. Spock was pressing him into the mattress, pulling him into his lap, holding him against the wall of their room and then the shower, and Jim had given up entirely on actively participating. He clung to Spock’s shoulders, burying his face in his neck, and between them flowed a river of yours, yours, yours and mine, mine, mine until he no longer knew who was claiming whom.
☆☆☆
At some point in the night Jim had fallen asleep, and he was reasonably certain that that had been the only reason Spock had finally been convinced to stop moving. But the urgency that had flooded the bond the previous day had abated, and Spock was sleeping next to him when he awoke.
He sat up, trying not to disturb Spock, but Spock’s eyes opened as soon as he had registered the flare of pain from pressure on his ass. He hissed out a breath as Spock sprang up, lifting him from the bed, holding him in his arms so he wasn’t putting any weight anywhere near his tailbone. Spock was still nonverbal, it seemed, but the bond pulsed with question and concern.
Baby, please. Can you grab the regenerator from the medical pack? Jim asked. Rather than set him down to retrieve it, Spock carried him across the room and settled them both in Jim’s chair as he grabbed the regenerator. For the first time in days, he saw a flicker of Spock’s normal disposition in his eyes as he turned it over to read the instructions. He stood, carried Jim back to the bed, and carefully flipped him over to deposit him on his stomach before rereading the instructions.
Jim slept on and off for the next four hours as Spock methodically and deliberately applied the dermal regenerator to and in his abused ass. The blood fever had abated enough that the lust had taken a backseat to Spock’s worry, and when his rear felt mostly back to normal Spock pulled him into his lap again and let him sleep for another few hours.
When the fever reared its head again later in the evening, some of the urgency had faded and Spock took his time bringing them both to orgasm twice. They fell asleep wrapped in each other and when Jim awoke again, it was morning.
He opened his eyes to find Spock watching him fondly, smoothing his hair back with a hand that was no longer shaking with need.
Hey, love, Jim said.
Ashayam, Spock said--- his first actual word in days--- and bent to kiss him. Kissing had fallen by the wayside in favor of wantonly gasping in each other’s mouths the past few days, and Jim was content to lay here and neck like teenagers for a while.
He eventually asked, Is it over?
Almost, Spock said, and Jim could feel through the bond the difficulty he had thinking in Standard. Jim curled up to him, wrapping his arms around his neck, and Spock sat up and pulled him into his lap. Spock mentally tapped on the bond.
Yeah, honey?
Instead of replying in words, Spock kissed the back of his head and pushed the fantasy that Jim had shared with him on the first day back along the bond.
Surprised, he asked, You want to? Spock nodded against the back of his head. He turned in his arms and captured Spock’s lips again, sliding his tongue into his mouth. He readjusted his legs to straddle Spock’s lap and ground down against him as Spock’s hands slid up his back.
He threaded his hands through Spock’s hair and pulled his head back, exposing his throat for Jim to finally, finally leave a retributive hickey on him. He felt the tensing of Spock’s throat as he swallowed. He pressed a kiss to the point of Spock’s ear and asked, Will you give yourself to me?
Under his lips, he felt Spock’s inhale and nod in response, and he pushed Spock down on the bed beneath him.
Spock had always had a shorter refractory period than Jim did --- just one of the unexpected benefits of his Vulcan-human hybrid physiology. But when Spock had explained the mechanics of pon farr to him six months after they’d accidentally bonded and purposefully married, the first thing that Jim had thought about after the preliminary shock was how he could take advantage of Spock having a virtually nonexistent rebound period for their mutual appreciation.
He had to admit to himself that, after the fear and reluctance had melted away, he had enjoyed a week of being the absolute and unchallenged center of Spock’s entire universe, with no responsibilities to distract them. But their relationship had always been one of give and take, and he was ready to give as good as he had gotten.
Jim laid down next to Spock, one leg slung over his, and wrapped his hand around Spock’s dick. Jim had bet that Spock would be hypersensitive, and he was pretty sure he had bet right when Spock arched up, thrusting into his hand immediately. With his other hand he grabbed Spock’s wrist and dragged it to his face so he could slide two of Spock’s fingers into his mouth, and he was rewarded with a choked-off whimper of need. He set a loose pace with his hand, using Spock’s precome as lubricant, and swirled his tongue around his knuckles. Spock slid his other hand under Jim’s head and pulled it to him, pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to his hairline. After less than two minutes Spock was keening with need, thrusting with abandon into Jim’s hand, and Jim said, Give it to me.
Spock came, wordlessly moaning even as the bond thrummed with JimJimJimJimJimJim. Jim released his hand from his mouth and kissed along his jaw.
So good, my love. He smeared his hand through the mess on Spock’s chest and slowly trailed his fingers along Spock’s dick. Again?
Spock rolled towards him, pushing his hips against his hand, burying his face in Jim’s neck. Jim lazily stroked him until, an absurdly short amount of time later, he was hard again. He crawled down the bed and Spock sat up to follow, but Jim pressed his hand against his chest and said, Stay.
Spock laid down with reluctance, and Jim laid between his legs and kissed and licked and bit the insides of his thighs until Spock threaded his hand through Jim’s hair and said, Please. Only then did Jim take him into his mouth and suck. Spock arched off the bed again, pushing his dick further into his mouth, and Jim hummed around him. He liked making Spock come; liked knowing that he was the only man to do it, the only one that got to see him fall apart like this. He wanted to take advantage of the pon farr to take him over the edge as many times as he could before Spock insisted on reciprocating. He had wondered how many that would be.
The answer, as it turned out, was six.
☆☆☆
When Jim awoke, it was because Spock’s half of the bond lit back up with the conscious and curious feel of his bondmate’s waking mind at 6:30 in the morning.
Good morning, Spock said when Jim opened his eyes.
Hey. You’re back online, Jim said, and caressed Spock’s face with the back of one hand.
So it seems, Spock said. He rolled over and stretched like a cat, exposing his back and the scratch marks Jim had dug into his skin over the course of the week. Jim ran a fingertip over one of the deeper green lines. They replicated breakfast and lounged in Jim’s bed together, and eventually Jim worked up the courage to look at himself in the mirror again.
He gaped. His neck was virtually one entire bruise, very little of the tan of his skin visible between the mottled purple and green love bites. He was supposed to be on the bridge again tomorrow, and though he did not think his team was under any illusions regarding where he had been, he wasn’t sure how much proof they needed. He stared at himself with chagrin until Spock kissed one of the marks apologetically and pulled him away from the mirror.
When he sat back down on the couch, he pulled out his padd and composed two messages.
Amanda,
Your message was a lifesaver. We can’t thank you enough. It made a huge difference in how the start of the week went. Everyone survived, with way less damage than originally feared.
We love you. Talk soon.
Jim and Spock
The second message was a group message sent via the inter-ship instant messenger.
>JTK: Hey
>JTK: Can one of you please bring a normal regenerator to my quarters? Preferably before my shift tomorrow?
>MBenga: Yes
>MBenga: Anything else? Bandages, antiseptic? Do you need a full physical?
>JTK: Appreciate it, but no
>JTK: I’m actually in perfect health. Honest
>MBenga: So the regenerator…?
>CChapel: omg
>CChapel: on the way
>CChapel: i want to see your historic hickeys
>STS: You will not be entering the quarters.
>JTK: Real professional, Christine
Jim set down his padd and pulled Spock down to rest against him. He kissed his forehead and said, We survived.
Indeed. With far less physical trauma than I had envisioned.
Do you think you’re going to be on a seven-year cycle? Or no?
I do not know. Why do you ask, ashayam?
I have ideas for next time.
Spock’s indignant and aloud, “Already?” was worth every bruise.
#spock#spirk#kirk#my writing#spirktober2023#spirktober#k/s#kirk/spock#kirk/spock fan fic#k/s fan fic#pon farr#pon farr fic#plak tow#spirk fan fic
27 notes
·
View notes
Text
20 questions for fic writers 💜
tagged by the lovely @mihrsuri (I think more than once, although the other time was some time ago... thank you for the tag! 🥰💜)
1. how many works do you have on ao3? 221, not counting unrevealed ones from exchanges
2. what's your total ao3 word count? 1,417,178 words
3. what fandoms do you write for? Right now, mostly M*A*S*H and The West Wing, though I do occasionally dabble in other fandoms (Star Trek TOS, For All Mankind, etc.)
4. top five fics by kudos? 1) Ties That Bind - Star Trek (Spirk) 2) a wild call and a clear call (that may not be denied) - Star Trek (Spirk) 3) Uncharted Territory - M*A*S*H (Beejhawk) 4) ye who are weary, come home - M*A*S*H (Punnihawk, Charles/Donna, canon pairings, etc.) 5) you were meant for me - M*A*S*H (Punnihawk)
5. do you respond to comments? Not usually. I feel pretty guilty about it and I do try and go for a thank you note in the A/N at the end of each story/chapter, but my spoons are pretty limited. I do however cherish each and every comment, and if I have regular commenters, your username is probably carved into my heart. 🥺
6. what is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Uhhh. That is a good question, because even if I write in angsty/bittersweet scenes, the endings are usually more hopeful or happy.
I guess my best answer to that is "let's do some living (after we die)" only because it's immediately followed by canonical character death. lmao.
7. what's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? There are any number of stories you could pick for this one, haha. But I guess if I had to pick (twist my arm, why don't you!), then it's probably either "ye who are weary, come home" (OT3 Endgame!!!), OR "Make the Leap" (this one takes place on January 21st, 2007, so that and the title should make it self explanatory 😉)
8. do you get hate on fic? Not... really? Sometimes I'd get comments complaining that I should be writing a different pairing 🤷🏻♀️ (which..???) but I don't get much "engagement" to begin with usually, so I'm grateful that what I do get is for the most part positive. 🥰
9. do you write smut? Yep. Nothing super hardcore and not very often (because I am a self-conscious girlie haha) but I will write it. Posting it is another story. I want to do more, it's just getting over myself to do it. (if anyone has advice on how to proceed with getting over my self-consciousness, I'm ALL ears).
10. craziest cross over? I once, in my misspent youth, wrote a crossover between Downton Abbey and Titanic (it's still buried in the depths of my FFN page, alas it is unfinished.)
11. have you ever had a fic stolen? Not as far as I know, no.
12. have you ever had a fic translated? Yes! My one M*A*S*H Fic, "Here's Hoping We Meet Now and Then" (aka BJ puts the "GOODBYE" stones together with the help of the rest of the 4077) was translated into German by a dear friend of mine, Pat. And you can read that here.
13. have you ever co-written a fic before? A few times in the distant past. Once recently (I'm sure you'll all see it soon enough!!) 😈... in general, I love the idea of getting to write with my fellow ficcers whom I cherish and admire, so I'd love to do more co-written fics.
14. all time favorite ship? I'm not picking one lmao. But if I had to? Probably CJ/Danny. They had everything. the chemistry. the will they/won't they. the yearnnnning. (Close runners-up are BJ/Peg/Hawkeye, Anna/Bates, Spirk... and Kate/Gibbs because I don't forget my roots).
15. what's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Triad Wedding. 😬 I got kinda burnt out and (at the time I finished it) went "eh no one will want to read this anyway" so now I have a 125k MASH draft on my desktop. It has... well, everything. Bisexual OT3 wedding. Mucho smut (more than I've ever published in one story before in my LIFE). Communication ✨. etc. It's been two years now, so even though there's a full draft, I don't want to promise that it'll ever be done. It needs a lot of work.
16. what are your writing strengths? Dialogue. I used to be terrified of writing dialogue, and now I think I'm decent at it. Staying in character, maybe?
17. what are your writing weaknesses? Pacing! Ask me why the 125k draft mentioned above is only seven days of in-universe time.
Also I could be better at worldbuilding. I know many authors who flesh out the whole universe and make it feel so breathable and lived in (Mia for example, she's a champ at that!) but that's still a work in progress for me. AND smut. I need to get better/more confident at that, but I've yet to learn how after six-odd years of writing it. 😐
18. thoughts on dialogue in another language? I don't speak enough languages for that. Other authors can do it and do it convincingly. Not me tho.
19. first fandom you wrote in? Lost (baby's first fanfic, still buried in the depths of my FFN page); but I really got into it with Downton Abbey.
20. favorite fic you've written? I could give one of my usual answers about "ye who are weary" (because of the technical achievement of covering so many characters in one story), or "Don't Bet Your Future" (probably my MOST self-indulgent) but instead...
I really enjoyed writing "None of Us Are More Than Caretakers", guys. The season 7 secret relationship is one of my favourite time periods to cover for CJ and Danny, and getting to write this little "missing episode" between Last Hurrah and Institutional Memory was so much fun, and a great technical challenge. Plus it WAS self-indulgent because I got to write all the post-coital scenes we were robbed of in canon AND build up to the events of IM.
thank you again!!! and I'll tag whoever is interested and has a few free hours to kill! 💜✨
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
I've seen the complaint so many times that fanfic is strange in first person, because how could you possibly know what the character is thinking all the time?
and it really strikes me as this odd way that people think of original fiction as a kind of art and fanfic as a kind of product, that of course an author could imagine many separate people's entire internality, but a fanwriter can only copy other people's statements on what that character thinks or does.
and this, of course, is part and parcel of the 'accurate to canon' hardline some people have. that to show a character doing something, saying something, especially thinking something has to be proven in some way, because there's a 'real' version of the character out there that original authors have access to and fan authors do not have access to.
but the thing is. they're making it up.
when people write original fiction, they're making things up. they put in things that fit the story, and sometimes they have to wiggle the character a little to include the parts that make the story work, or they have to wiggle the rest of the story a little to make it fit with how the character functions. there's no 'real' version of the character whose thoughts they know, who they can ask if something is true or not. they make it up to fit the story, and if it doesn't, they change it or cut it or add something else
and fanfic works the exact same way. people either develop an internality for the character based on canon, or they develop a version of the character for their own headcanon and write about that character the same way every other writer writes about a character. they create thoughts that fit the story and they create story that fits the thoughts. and they tell that story.
now you may see a difference in the quality of the work - that's not limited to fanworks; original works cover just as wide of a quality spectrum (just typically with fewer typos) - and this may impact how much you like first person. alternately, you may feel that the way someone characterizes your blorbo isn't accurate - this is true of third person works, too, though - and it may be hard to ignore since it's such a foundational part of the text.
and I'm not telling anyone what to read, obviously that's up to your preferences and you should read what you enjoy. but the idea that people can't "know" what's in an established character's head is falling into the bad practice of thinking of fanfic as something that doesn't take effort, creativity, and choices. it's writing, and it requires the same amount of time, skill, etc. as any other kind of writing. (which is also why fan authors can't just churn out an infinite number of chapters per day.) ficcers are doing the same thing as everyone else. they're making it up.
all fiction is made up.
6 notes
·
View notes
Text
Honestly, sometimes when I am updating my new Trigun stuff on Ao3, or contemplating more Zelda stuff, I see the SHEER VOLUME of my Spop fics and I get a temptation just to personal-archive them all and take them all offline. Most of my experience in this fandom has been pain and I feel kind of ashamed of my Spop fics because "why was I writing for a children's cartoon that people take way too seriously, anyway?" Even though I was a prolific Trigun-ficcer back in the day, and after that, a prolific Zelda-ficcer, I never wanted to take all of my fanfiction dot net stuff over to Ao3. It's kind of surreal for me to see myself as an author of around 100 fics on Ao3 and instead of them being "mostly Zelda" or "half Zelda, half Trigun" like on the old site, on Ao3, there are just sooooo many individual Spop fics, most of them Entrapdak or veering into my original characters, and that's listed-fics, some of what I have are small-fic COLLECTIONS. And, it's like... I've returned to what has become a far better (and less traumatising) fandom now? I have a lot of stuff I've done over on fanfiction dot net from like 20 years ago, but it's not good, I just want to keep on doing new stuff, with the occasional bring-over of an old "I've re-read and I don't hate this" fic. So, I just leer at my Spop stuff and wonder... "What if I blew you all up?" I don't know if anyone is reading that stuff anymore. I get a few kudos now and again, but it's old stuff. I don't think I'm particularly missed in the fandom. And it's like...comparing my lower-effort fan-writing for a not-too well-written show with my explorations of something that is inspirational, amazing and burrows into the soul. I...just don't want people going to Ao3 to think of me as "an Spop writer anymore, when I'm becoming a Trigun writer again. But... I am not a coward. I've left up my old, dubious-quality bullshit-fic for many fandoms that I did over 20 years ago up on fanfiction dot net TO THIS DAY - seriously, things that make me facepalm still exist on the Internet, easily accessed. I also wonder, if anyone does still like my Ao3 Spop work, feeling nostalgic or whatever, they should be able to find it.
#spop#spop fanfiction#ao3#transitioning fandoms#finding an old fandom again#trigun#trigun fandom is superior#trigun has helped me heal a lot#while I regard spop fandom with increasing bitterness#enough that sometimes I just want to blow all my fanwork for it to smithereens#just do a full 3rd City July on it#but then I calm down#and realise there are always new fans seeking old work#and I will always love that stupid fic I wrote#in which imp was destroying the Fright Zone because he was teething#dear god I ought to write a short where Rem has to deal with...#her twin boys doing the weirdest baby Plant-shit when they're growing#in a very Imp like manner#like chewing solid metal with newly formed baby Plant fangs or something
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
Snarry BANG! is coming - get ready!
Signups will open formally mid-April and will close at the end of May, although of course you can already start thinking about plot bunnies :D
Snarry BANG! aims at offering Snarry creators the chance to pair up - writer and podficcer, artist and ficcer, etc - and collaborate on the same project!
What are Signups for? They allow you to participate in one, two, or even three different ways! 1/ You already have the Severus to your Harry? The happy spouses team members each sign up to let me know you're not participating in claims for this specific project since you're already married matched. You can of course still participate in the other ways if you so choose!
2/ You can claim one or more slides (art slides and/or fic slides). You do not have to submit in order to claim, but you do have to sign up.
3/ You can submit your own slide, aka fic or art that has never been published, but it doesn't have to be finished at this point.
If you do not sign up, you won't be able to claim a slide (this means seeing the fic and art projects participants have submitted, and choosing which one(s) inspires you and that you'd like to work on). If you sign up but don't claim, i promise i will not come to your house and Crucio you into claiming - RL happens, no harm done. Signing up will means all options are open, and not signing up means all doors are closed! You know what to do in April/May ;-)
Claims will happen once signups close, and once claims are over matches will be sent. Final posting will be around Harry's birthday!
Questions about length, what kind of art, AO3...? Check out the FAQ on Tumblr (open link in a browser window) or DW!
There will be no Discord server for the event; all major info will be sent by email. However, i will also be available via Tumblr DM and Discord DM and can contact you via these. Anon asks are open on Tumblr if you have a question and no Tumblr blog or if you want to stay anon.
Want to make sure you don't miss the Snarry BANG! ?
Follow this blog!
Banner by the super-talented @flymetosnarryland ! ID in Alt Text
39 notes
·
View notes
Text
MINIFIC: Oct. 23: Day 21: Ghost Animal (MLB, Lukanette, DLM AU)
This started as wanting to play with Pet Reapers. When I first saw “ghost animal”, that was the direction I wanted to go. The rest was an accident, but Quick okayed it. TW for potential loss of pets/close calls, the punching of children, and beloved ficcers ending up on my hit list. 😂
(Pet reapers are, canonically, children. The one in the show looks like he might be around ten?)
For @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers October Minific Challenge 2023.
Read on Ao3
To Feel Alive Again: Ch20: Drowned
Luka was…not having the best of days.
He wasn’t having the best couple of days, actually.
That was…kind of to be expected. What with yesterday being his Death Day. Most reapers got…Moody on their Death Day. It had been pretty par for the course, actually – he’d had ten of them by this point; he should know – but then…well.
Most reapers knew to leave each other alone on those days. Most reapers knew the traditions. The customs.
Most reapers weren’t Marinette.
He hadn’t expected Marinette to show up at his door with a smile and a bottle of booze. He…should have expected to be grateful when she did. He was finding more and more he was…grateful for Marinette’s presence in his life.
Because he didn’t…care for her. He couldn’t. Whatever feelings he might have thought he’d been catching were clearly not mutual, so. They were…friends. Coworkers. Buddies, at best.
But when she had shown up, eager to offer the comfort he’d so desperately been craving…for one minute he had let himself believe…had fooled himself into thinking…
It was too easy to give in to how the night could have – should have – gone. Marinette, so warm and real and alive, holding him together as he fell apart. Finally giving in to the curiosity that had been plaguing him for months now and learning what her kiss tasted like. Finally giving in and taking what she had been so innocently offering. Letting himself be happy for once. Finally forgetting he was dead as he made her fall apart, finally loving her like he had been telling himself he couldn’t all this time. Waking up in his bed – or on the couch, he wasn’t picky – with the sunlight illuminating her hair like it had that first morning, making her glow. The smile that would still be on her face, and the lazy kisses they’d exchange as they put off getting up. Maybe even sharing a shower. Showing up to breakfast late with her hand in his. Pissing Théo the hell off when he helped her into the booth and stole a kiss in front of all of them.
The way she would blush and smile and how it would be all for him, and how he would smile back because…
Because…
But it didn’t matter. That was clearly not what she’d wanted. He had clearly misread the signs, misread her intentions, her desires – had clearly confused them with his own, and he…he wasn’t about to force himself on her. He wasn’t her choice – her romantic choice, at least. He was just…he was a friend. And he was fine with that. He had to be. Because it wasn’t her problem he’d gotten stupid on her, and he wasn’t about to make it her problem, so if he had stupidly misread everything and kissed her like a fucking idiot when she clearly didn’t want him to…
…he’d let her go. He had to. He wasn’t Théo.
She didn’t love…she wasn’t interested in him. Not like that.
So he wouldn’t be interested in her.
And he hadn’t slept the rest of the goddamned night, because who the fuck would be able to after that? He’d left his flat earlier than usual – certainly earlier than Marinette usually arrived, on those mornings she showed up to walk to breakfast with him – and had just…shambled around for a bit. Walked around the city trying to clear his head and dispel that anxious energy or…something. He was at the café as they were opening, and when Mendeleiev showed up an hour and a half later he was already nursing his third cup of coffee.
“…can I just have my post-it and go?” he’d asked, his voice low. She had looked him over critically, taking in his disheveled appearance, before slapping his post-it by his coffee.
“Are we going to have a problem?” she’d asked, and for a moment Luka had thought she’d meant his reap. It had taken a moment to remember Mendeleiev didn’t really know about his side job. Well. She knew he had a job – knew what the job was – but she didn’t exactly know his clients.
She didn’t know he knew B.M. Quick personally. That Brenda May Quick was one of the nicest people you’d ever meet, or that she owned the stupidest, fluffiest beast Luka had ever met. Bach was a special dog, an absolute sweetheart, but he had needs. He was deaf, and caring for the brute could be…difficult. Luka was one of the only people Quick trusted with Bach’s care.
And he had to go kill her.
It really wasn’t turning out to be his day.
“…of course not,” he’d sighed, his voice heavy and full of his usual disdain. Mendeleiev had reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder. He had looked up at her and found she was looking at him, and if he hadn’t known any better he would almost say she’d looked…concerned. “What?”
“Fred gave me a call last night,” she’d said. His fist had tightened on the post-it, crumpling it. He had shrugged her off and stood, tossing a few bills down on the table.
“I’m fine,” he’d said, glaring at her. “Mind your own fucking business. Please.”
“It is my own fucking business when it affects my group,” she had said. He’d scoffed, and she’d snatched at his wrist before he could turn away. “Luka.”
He had watched her for a long moment, caught in some sort of stare down. He’d finally sighed and turned away.
“…we’re fine, Philece,” he’d said, tugging his hand away. “I just…had a bad night. We all do now and then. She’ll have her own in a few months.”
…and he would be there for her, too, when she did. However she needed him. Because he was fucking stupid.
Jules had always liked to remind him of that. She’d be having a field day with it now, if she could only see them. The brat.
Mendeleiev hadn’t looked like she’d believed him, but she had let him go all the same. So he had left the café before the others had arrived, stopped by a pet store on the way to his reap, and surprised Quick by showing up a day early for Bach’s walk.
“…the past day’s kinda sucked,” he’d said, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “You can say no – I know I didn’t really confirm this with you before showing up – but…I could use some Bach time. If that’s all right. I could take him for a short walk? No charge.”
“That’s really sweet of you, Luka, and I’d love to,” she’d said, closing the door a bit more behind her when Bach’s nose tried to snuffle his way through, “but Bach actually has a vet appointment in about an hour. He’s fine – he’s ok, don’t give me that look – just a standard checkup. We were just getting ready to go. Maybe come a little early tomorrow? He can have an extra long walk then.”
“…yeah,” he’d said, nodding with a bittersweet smile. “That would be great. Um. Here, can you give him this for me? I saw it earlier, and…I don’t know. He likes chasing the squirrels at the park, and I thought…”
“He’ll love it,” she’d said, taking the stuffed toy from him with a smile. His fingers had brushed along her hand when she grasped the toy, and the feeling of a soul popping along his arm had never felt so slimy before. Not even when he’d popped his own father. “Thank you, Luka. You’re too sweet.”
He hadn’t feel sweet.
He’d felt like an asshole.
“I think the world hasn’t been very kind to you, and I think it’s made you hard. I don’t think you were meant to be hard, though,” he remembered Marinette saying, but he wasn’t so sure about that. Being hard was…easy. It was every time he let his guard down and tried to open up to people that he ended up getting hurt.
He was pretty sure today was going to hurt.
He’d said goodbye to Quick, and when Bach tried to push his way through the door again – when he’d let out a low woof and snuffled in Luka’s direction, he had laughed and, after letting Bach sniff his hand, gave the big goof some scritches. He’d left after that, but he hadn’t gone far.
Because he was a day early for Bach’s walk, but he was only twelve minutes early for B. Quick’s appointment.
He had grabbed a to go coffee at a cart somewhere between the pet store and Quick’s house, and he sipped on it as he sat on a bench on the other side of the street, waiting. It really was turning out to be a shitty day. Ten years dead, the undead girl he had thought he’d been falling in love with just wanted to be friends, and now his favorite client was about to become an orphan. He…
…dropped his coffee as some punk ass kid zipping past on a skateboard attempted a trick, stumbled off his board, and knocked into the back of the bench. He turned, ready to snap at the brat, and froze.
“…sorry,” the reaper mumbled, ducking his head as he tugged his gray beanie lower on his head. A mop of brown hair poked out at the edges, and he watched Luka with steely brown eyes older than his face had any right to be. It was easy for reapers to spot other reapers, once you’d been dead long enough.
And Luka had been dead a long time.
“Ok, Bach! Let’s go, buddy!”
He looked up at Quick’s voice, Bach’s low woof carrying across the street as their door opened and she led the fluffy beast outside. The reaper glanced over at them, and Luka felt his stomach drop to his feet.
There was only one reason a child reaper would be here.
“…no,” Luka breathed, his hand gripping the back of the bench so tightly his knuckles blanched. The kid looked back at him, his expression a mixture of bored and annoyed that Luka was well acquainted with. “No.”
“Fuck off, old man,” he said, dropping his board back on the pavement and hopping on. He turned towards Quick – towards Bach – and started to kick off.
Luka acted on instinct.
His fist was connecting with the little shit’s face before his wheels could start rolling. He toppled back off his board, tumbling towards the sidewalk, and it all happened so fast after that.
It all happened because of a fucking squirrel.
“Bach, no!” he heard Quick shout, and he looked up just in time to see the squirrel dash in front of her car. It might have been fine, if Bach hadn’t seen the damned thing. But Bach loved squirrels, and Bach would always chase after a squirrel, and Bach was over forty five kilos of deaf dumbass who couldn’t hear his maman shouting at him to stop, wait, come back as he ripped his leash from her hands and bounded after the rodent and straight into the street.
“Shit,” Luka hissed as he shoved the kid’s face back into the pavement and ran after him. Quick was chasing him, too, but he was closer. Faster. And he didn’t have an old foot injury slowing him down.
He saw the car coming.
Saw the distracted teenager fiddling with the dash behind the wheel.
He ran faster.
Quick saw him a second too late. She saw him grab Bach’s leash and tug him out of the way, spinning to shield the oaf, and slowed down just a second too soon.
…it was his fault, in the end.
Because the car slammed on its brakes and smacked into his hip, and that would definitely leave a mark in the morning, but it hit Quick head-on. It crashed into her with a sickening crunch of bone and the heavy thud of a body hitting pavement, of a skull smacking into asphalt and life leaving a body.
He would walk it off.
Quick wouldn’t be walking anywhere anymore.
“It’s ok, boy,” he murmured into Bach’s fluff, scratching his chest as he whined and tried to turn towards his maman. He looked up to see Quick’s soul standing beside them, a bittersweet smile on her face.
“Take care of my boy for me?” she asked, and he nodded. Of course he would. He adored Bach, and he was so sick of losing things he loved. Quick gave him one last smile and turned, walking off towards the lights Luka was too preoccupied to look at. Bach gave a low whine, and Luka looked up to see the kid glaring at him.
“Monsieur! Monsieur! Christ, are you…oh my God, mademoiselle!” the driver cried as he stumbled out of the car and saw Quick’s body on the ground. Luka wasn’t paying any attention to him, though.
“You can’t have him,” he spat at the kid. “Not today. Not to-fucking-day.”
“You know what happens if I don’t,” the kid said. “You’re old. You can’t stop this.”
“…not today,” Luka said. “Reschedule the fucker. You can’t have him. You can’t.”
The kid watched him for a long moment, his eyes hard. He tutted after a moment and kicked up his board, stepping onto it.
“Suit yourself, old man,” he said, rolling his board back and forth a few times. He looked back at Luka and smirked. “I’ll get him eventually. Or someone will. Watch out for gravelings…”
The kid kicked off and started rolling down the street. Bach barked, and Luka almost didn’t hear the kid calling after him as the driver shouted for him to call 1-1-2.
“…asshole.”
#miraculous ladybug#luka couffaine#lukanette#endgame lukanette#lukanette endgame#ml fic#ver fic#lbsc october minifics 2023#to feel alive again#luka couffaine is a fucking idiot#bach the dog#quick the reap#love you quick#I kill bc I care 😁#tw: near loss of pet#tw: loss of quick#Idek what I'm doing anymore#I just transcribe by this point 😂
6 notes
·
View notes
Text
FAQ
What is Crack?
In short, it's a fanwork--traditionally fic, but we're inclusive--which is absurd, ridiculous, ludicrous, and other -ouses. Imagine the kind of thing you come up with at 3AM during a fit of the giggles. It's exuberant, it's shameless, it's unfettered creativity.
For a lengthier discussion of "crack" with a historical lens, see also: https://fanlore.org/wiki/Crack
Is the event Cas-centric?
No. The line "crack in his chassis" refers to Cas in canon, and we do anticipate plenty of entries to feature Thee Treasured Blorbo, but you can produce fanworks about any characters, items, episodes, monsters, etc. from canon you like.
Is this a bang, or a reverse bang?
It's both! It's neither! Participants will be divided into Pitchers (who create their fanwork first) and Catchers (who select a pitch during Claims and create a fanwork in response to it.) This event is not limited to the traditional fanart and fanfic.
What is the minimum required work?
Minimum word count for fic, meta, and other text-based fanworks: 1,500
Minimum length for audio or video based fanworks: 30 seconds
Minimum size for visual fanworks such as art, comics, sculpture, etc: one image suitable for web browsing, so about 750px width or height. This is very hand-wavy. Gifs can be smaller in dimension because they're technically multiple images stacked in a trenchcoat.
Is there a maximum word length or art size?
No! The minimums are calculated to be feasible for the average creator within the time allotted for the endowed, but if you are endowed with the hubris of gods, then go ahead and write that 150k epic or stage a three hour opera with full sets, score, and costumes. Just make sure it’s done by your posting date, mmkay?
What types of "other" fanworks are allowed?
Fanworks must fit two criteria:
1. Your fanwork must be able to be displayed via a public website. Fanfic and digital fanart are de riguer. Traditional 2D artwork can be photographed. Serial 2D art, such as sequential art aka comics, are displayed in much the same way. But we can do so much more than that.
3D or non-traditional art with a primary visual element--like cosplay, sculpture, cake decorating--can be displayed with photos from multiple angles and accompanied by an artist's statement advising of any elements that are lost (e.g., textures, flavors, scents, mild electrical shock.)
Performance art, music, a podcast or radio play, theatrical skits, etc. can be recorded by video or audio and supplemented with text and photos as needed. Video games which can be played in a browser window also work. (Shameless plug: Dean Dodge https://4mortea.itch.io/deandodge as an example.)
2. Your fanwork must be something that you are considered to be the sole owner of, and which is fair use. So, for example, if you're a filker and you claim a pitcher's fanfic, you can't just set the fic to music, as the ficcer is the owner of the text. But you can compose your own lyrics which comment upon or respond to the fic.
Note that co-creators are allowed--so an author who writes lyrics and a singer-composer who then sets the lyrics to music could present the resultant song as a single pitch or catch, with the "duo" being considered the sole owner.
Fanvids and gifsets that are just clips of canon footage without significant transformation (e.g., other than cutting and color correction) also don't qualify for this event. (We still love them, though.)
Types of transformation which would qualify vids and gifs of canon footage include, but are not limited to: juxtaposing different shots or scenes to create new meaning; adding commentary; altering the images (mod's personal favorite is adding cat ears to the characters). You can also include captions, subtitles, musical accompaniment, etc.
PLEASE NOTE: We know this is a huge tradition and genre, and this hurts us, it does, but using another artist's music on the video without written permission* is not permitted. Youtube will throw your ass under the bus and we will not be able to help you. Crack in the Chassis isn't tangling with Universal Music Group. Nuh uh. Don't go where we can't follow, Mr Frodo.
* if you manage to get permission somehow then holy snackballs please let us know.
For further information on fair use:
https://smallbusiness.chron.com/copyright-laws-30-seconds-music-61149.html
https://www.transformativeworks.org/faq/ (specifically the section "What exactly is Fair Use?"
How will Claims work, since you're being so complicated about it?
All of the pitches will be presented in a single gallery for all the potential catchers to review and select their preferences. (Pitches may be split into two categories depending on how many under-18 participants and NSFW pitches we get.)
In addition to stating what elements they would and would not like (e.g., yes to gothic horror, no to adultery and A/B/O), pitchers will also specify the kinds of catches they would and would not like. E.g., If you are a fanficer and the idea of a catch piece that is also fanfic unnerves you, you can restrict fic catches. If you are THRILLED with the idea of a companion fic, you can request *only *fic catches. If you grow weary of traditional fic and fanart, you can specify that the catch piece must be an "other" type of fanwork. Any and all choices. There will be ticky boxes.
Can I sign up as a Pitcher and a Catcher?
YES! For the sake of anonymity for Claims, however, you will be restricted from the Pitcher's channel in the Discord server until Claims are over.
How many Pitches and Catches can I submit?
Each person or team can only submit a maximum of three pitches. Each pitch must be fully completed before submitting additional pitches. E.g., You can submit one pitch that is 50% completed for claims. If you want to submit two pitches, your first pitch must be fully complete and the second one 50% complete. For three pitches, the first two must be fully complete and the third 50% complete.
For Claims, each catcher will recieve their most preferred pitch which is still available, on a first come, first serve basis. If there are pitches remaining after the first round, we will do additional rounds of claims as needed. Catchers can pick up only one pitch per round.
Can I discuss my fanwork before it’s submitted and posted?
No. You are not permitted to publically discuss your fanwork in detail or post any portion of it outside the designated channels in the Discord server prior to your assigned posting day.
Pitchers, we ask that you take precautions to prevent the catchers from being able to recognize your pitch piece at claims. This may mean not publicly discussing your piece at all, or keeping discussion to a private chat with your alpha/beta, or just being obnoxiously vague in shared spaces. We know there will be slip-ups. Catchers, please pretend you Do Not See It and uphold the spirit of the event: to be paired with someone based on their pitch, not their identity, and to make some new friends! This may mean deliberately not choosing a pitch because you know who the creator is.
Can I create a work that’s part of a series?
Yes, as long as the work meets the criteria of the event and the work (but not necessarily the series) is posted in its entirety on the assigned posting date. Pieces that can stand on their own are strongly preferred. Be aware that your catcher may not have the time or inclination to brush up on the parts of the series other than the event piece. Catchers, if you’re creating something that happens to fit into a series you’ve been working on, please make sure your pitcher is okay with that.
Can I use a work I’ve already started?
We do ask that you create a new work specific to this event. However, if you’ve already started on a work but haven’t posted it or discussed it publicly anywhere, the mods aren’t really going to know, are we?
Is this restricted to SPN?
Your work should engage primarily with SPN or The Winchesters, but crossovers are allowed. If you want to focus exclusively on quasi-canon materials, like Supernatural tie-in books, graphic novels, or the Ghostfacers webisodes, that's welcome, too.
What about RPF?
There's two prongs to this.
1. Canon includes fictionalized versions of several crew and cast in the s6 episode The French Mistake, and the character Chuck establishes the conceit of a writer as god of the 'verse who engages with the characters he's manipulating. So anything in that vein is allowed, and godspeed.
2. SPN RPF is a different fandom than SPN, so any SPN RPF fanworks would have to be crossovers--meaning the fanworks must *also *be SPN related. E.G., a Cockles coffeeshop AU wouldn't be eligible, but a Cockles AU where they're interacting with the Ghostfacers would. RPF other than SPN RPF is also allowed under the same mechanism--as a crossover.
Are there restrictions on content?
Other than it must be cracky and SPN related, nah.
There must be something you don't allow.
The limits will be 1. the laws of the area in which you reside (e.g. don't do crime. or at least don't get caught about it.) and 2. the ToS of any services you use to host your fanwork: e.g., Tumblr won't host sexually explicit images, YouTube will scan for copyrighted material, and AO3 does not allow commercial promotion.
No, I mean, do you allow content that is... problematic.
Yes.
Surely you jest.
No.
But what about the panopticon? What about being seen at the witch's sacrament?
Look, fandom isn't a workplace or a church picnic. It's a subculture for freaks.
When posting fanwork, your responsibility is to provide metadata--e.g., tag and warn for potentially upsetting content--so people can curate their own experiences.
When engaging with your pitcher or catcher, your responsibility is to honor the restrictions stated during claims, and use care when bringing up subjects which they may not have explicitly listed but that are commonly considered to be upsetting. In this house we respect hard and soft limits. Informed consent is king (gn.)
Other than that, go wild! It's a crack event. Self-censorship is gonna make the fanworks sad and boring and we don't want that.
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
Welcome back to weird.
Tumblr. Pure effervescent enrichment. Old internet energy. Home of the Reblogs. All the art you never knew you needed. All the fandoms you could wish for. Enough memes to knock out a moderately-sized mammal. Add to it or simply scroll through and soak it up.
Oh, and influencers? Don’t even go here. Every video you find, every quote you reblog, every tag you curate, every waterfall GIF you secretly gaze at in wonder—that’s all you. You’re the explorer. We’re just a map you all keep on making. Welcome home. Welcome to weird. Make it yours.
Now picture all of the above, but on the go. That’s what this is.
-
Chances are if you’ve seen it elsewhere, it probably started here. That text post explaining the exquisite specifics of something you never realized you needed to know. That digital painting you can’t stop thinking about. Tumblr is the home of all things weird and wonderful, funny and fascinating—old-school internet vibes. We’re built a little different, just like everyone else who goes here.
Your dashboard will become the place to see what you want to see: a chronological tapestry of all the wonderful, nonsensical, fantastical things you like. Whether you post, lurk in likes, reblog and add your own take, this is your universe to discover, express, and enjoy. Whatever your community, you’ll find a ready-made home here.
When you have something to say—a hot take on the finer points of a Virgo moon, an image of your turtle Harold that you simply *have* to share with the world, F1 fanfic that your mutuals need to see—you have so many options. Shoot your shot with a photo, a video, or a text post. You can make an audio post of your ramblings or share your current favorite song via Spotify. We even have a pre-set chat post for all your incorrect quotes. Don’t say we don’t spoil you!
The reblog starts conversations in which anyone can join. Reblogging creates jokes and continues them—sometimes across the world and over the years. Whatever you choose to send into our effervescent digital ether, know that it can, and will, go anywhere. (Unless, of course, you use our post-level reblog controls. Private blog? Private post only for a couple of your friends to engage with? All possible here). No matter who you are, where you are, or what you are (looking at you here, Pikaman), this is your space—with as much freedom or privacy as you need.
Tumblr is the home of fandom. Maybe you have a favorite blorbo from your show? There’s fanart you’ll want to stare at, reblog, stare at again—or create yourself. You can read your favorite ficcers from ao3, *and* see their OC art on Tumblr, *and* discuss the finer points of lore with them. Pokémon? Got it. Marvel? Here. Kpop? Check. Supernatural? Of course. Minecraft? Ready and waiting. Star Wars? Yes! Doctor Who? You get the idea: it’s all here. Wait. Frogs. Did we mention the frogs?
It’s a whole world out here. If the prospect of reblogging, shipping, curating, and fanart feels a little daunting, or you simply require a refresher on how all this works, head over to tips.tumblr.com, where Cat Frazier of animatedtext.tumblr.com will take you through the finer points of Tumblr etiquette—the effervescent, the eeby, the deeby.
So. Sign up, follow some tags, and find your place on the dashboard. Then reblog, like, and post to your heart’s content. Or simply drift through the dream you’ve created for yourself—a chronological dashboard curated by you. For you. You hold the keys to this kingdom.
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
It’s Really One of Those Years, Eh?
I couldn't log in to Dreamwidth for some reason, so I had to go here.
First writing in 2025 and finally, an update for idk how long since I neglect my account.
It’s 5 AM, on the first day of 2025. I was forced to wake up by the sound of my cat’s auntie wailing at the door, begging for breakfast. Apparently, the door connecting the main room and the garage was opened. For a night, she was the queen of the house. I tricked her to go back to the garage and closed the door. Her reign was over. My dawn had just begun.
In a manner I found unbefitting even for my standard, I sat down and opened my laptop. As my senses started to come back to me, I typed this…essay? Confession? Whatever you call it. There’s something that I needed to let out.
What I wanted to say was…
2024 was a weird year for me.
A fact I believe nobody would be surprised about. Everybody knew last year was kind of a shitshow. Everybody was kind of unsure if this year things would stay the same, in terms of shittyness. There were so many, too many, bad things happening simultaneously. Everything, everywhere, all at once even.
A shitshow as dark as a blindfold over my eyes, our eyes.
Last year took its toll out of me, irl-wise. Right when I started to feel my age. Projects were hard to come. I made even less than the previous year. Worst election in my whole life, and even worse pre-election campaign months. Brain drain on the media, even more heinous brain drain on the internet. Kept my eyes on Gaza, the Palestinians suffered more than I did of course.
At one point, I thought perhaps it was easier to start over your country from zero. My country refused to die, yet somehow it always found a way to make things worse for itself. It kept dragging its rotten body like a zombie, and all of us who were trapped inside it.
My parents accused me of wanting the country to collapse when I debated them about the treatment of Rohingya refugees and the government’s inaction. You know what, maybe that’s right. Maybe I really wanted my country to collapse after all.
This stupid blind nationalism. Polarization even among those who were supposed to resist the government’s oppression. Police brutality went bolder for all eyes to see. Didn’t they realize that Kanjuruhan massacre was just two years ago? Oh who was I to say? Just blame the wind. Case closed.
Human tend to recall bad memories much easier than it is for good memories. It’s a part of our instinct. That’s how our ancestors survived in the wild. Little did they know it would also be the source of anguish for their successors.
This primordial instinct blinded me, and I was forced to navigate the year by haplessly feeling around. The pressure was crazy. Perhaps I’m starting to feel the psychological toll of living through the pandemic.
If you think my hyperfixation and the internet were my salvation during tough times, you’d be… I want to say “you’d be wrong”, but “you’d be right” is also valid.
I still had my DayTez hyperfixation. Past!me would’ve never written this much and made two fanbooks and a half (free paper fic). This counted as good memory. All the doujins and merchs and the printing put some pressure on me financially. And this was the bad memory, but it was entirely my fault.
First time attending Comifuro as a participant. Good memory.
Not selling even one book. Bad memory, but it was quickly offset when someone bought one on CF19 PO period.
Decided to commit to write fic in Indonesian. Bad memory, ‘cause I narrowed down my readership scope when I’m not even a big name ficcer. But it was also a good memory, once I realized that I could still write in Indonesia.
Bought a new laptop. Now I could work faster and I don’t have to struggle with outdated software. Good memory. The new laptop put a pretty significant dent in my savings. Bad memory.
Finally returned to Jakarta and met my friends. Finally got to try that Mexican restaurant and took a lot of oshikatsu pics. Finally left the house to take a temporary breather. Good memories.
Fell ill halfway through the month and for most of the time I couldn’t go to as many places that I wanted. Felt bad because I couldn’t take my friends to the Mexican restaurant because of that damn sore throat & decided to stay in one place. Awful, awful memories.
The list could go on, but I should stop before it went nowhere.
I’m thinking about cool phrases to end this nonsense. I couldn’t think of one. Maybe leaving it without one is the best option. Truth is, I still have my blindfold on. I could pry it open, puffed up my chest, and said, “Maybe there’ll be more good things next year.”
But I have my doubts. I don’t think next year will be easier for me or anyone. That alone is another blindfold to replace the one I pried open.
I guess I will still be stumbling and feeling my way up for I don’t know how long.
0 notes