#until we cleared off some from the WIP list!!!!

[nixie-deangel]

me to me: stop coming up with AU's until we finish at least 3 off the list!!

me to me: but just think about young nerdy professor Bradley in glasses and unruly curls with older, jaded, Jake trying to get his life together who both mistake the other as a teacher/student!

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Stars Align 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as age gap, manipulation, power imbalance, dubcon/noncon and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Steve Rogers was one of the biggest stars of Hollywood’s Golden Era. For years, his disappearance from the spotlight has been a mystery, that is until he walks right into your life. (Old Hollywood AU/1960s AU)

Characters: silverfox!Steve Rogers, reader is named ‘Satyr’ for clarity

Note: I enjoy older music and musicals. I tend to drift into this idea whenever I’m enjoying some and I finally said fuck it.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

Steve 

“Sam, wait, wait,” Steve quickly folds up his glasses and tucks them away. He doubts anyone would recognise him but New York has a way of washing the familiar faces up to the shore. “We found her.” 

“What are you talking about? Don’t tell me it’s that Bambi-legged girl who fell on her face,” he scoffs and cups his hand around the cigarette between his lips, flipping up the lid of his lighter. 

“No, not—if you’d stayed, you’d have seen. Dammit, it’s like you want this to go wrong,” Steve accuses. 

“Me? Come on. You’ve been griping since I pulled you out of the cave. It’s not me that wants this to go wrong so forgive me for being a little wary of self-sabotage.” Sam sucks on the tobacco and lets out a puff of smoke. Steve waves away the stinky cloud. 

“You know, that’s not good for you.” 

“Who says? My doctor said it’ll clear up my lungs,” he snickers. 

“Look, alright, there’s work to do but I’m sure it’s here.” 

“Who?” Sam arches a brow. 

“Again, you ran out--” 

“Yeah, yeah, well, we can play doorman, catch her on the way out,” Sam shrugs and pushes his shoulders up against the frosty wind. “Hate this city, too damn cold.” 

“Colder places than here,” Steve grumbles. He can’t put to words the glimmer of a memory; gunshots and smoke from mortars mingling with the breath of shivering shoulders. He shakes off the thought. “So, let’s do it. Let’s wait.” 

“You think your old bones can stand it?” His laugh turns into a hacking cough. 

Steve sneers and rolls his eyes. He buttons up his jacket and approaches the marquee. The theatre is dead, not even a matinee. It’s the best place for a famous face. No one’s around to see him. If they remember him. 

“Stark liked the script, you know?” Sam stands across the double doors. “He laughed though. Says of course you’d only write about yourself.” 

“It’s not about me,” Steve sniffs. 

“Sure,” Sam scoffs and sucks on the cigarette. “Whatever you say.” 

“Come on,” Steve huffs and looks around.  

He’s not used to all these people. What’s wrong with him? This is his home. Or once was. Why did he ever move away? 

The smell of tobacco makes him curl his lip. He never got the habit, even with soldiers in their foxholes. There’s enough stench to go around. 

“So, how do you know?” Sam asks. 

“Know what?” 

“That it’s her.” 

“She’s a good dancer.” 

“Ask me, they were all pretty good, Rogers.” 

“She was... different. She... did you see her? The one with no shoes?” 

“No shoes? Ah Steve, not you and your bleeding heart.” 

“It’s not just that. You weren’t even paying attention. We need someone who can move--” 

“Saw a lot of moving,” Sam snickers. 

“Cut it out,” Steve waves him off. 

The doors open and they both tense. Sam holds in a mouthful of smoke as he looks at his client. Steve shakes his head; not her. The woman rushes off with a frown and tears. The rejects are on their way out. 

Sam puffs out and Steve tucks his hands into his jacket pockets. He waits patiently as the other man bounces on his heels. Others burst out in spurts. One or two, carrying their jackets, tearing their call numbers from their chests, or grumbling under their breath. 

Steve peers around. He catches a few stray gazes. Do they know it’s him? Does anyone recognise the grey old man? They can fix his hair when the time comes. 

The trickle slows and leaves them in a chattering lull. Steve has to admit, it’s an especially frigid January day. An hour at least before a cluster of babbling women emerge. Ah, the callbacks. They’re glowing. Sam taps an unlit smoke on his silver case as he looks them over. She’s not there. 

Steve shakes his head again. Sam rolls his eyes. The pairs and trios flit off, rubbing palms together, blowing into their bare hands, tapping away in their tapered heels. 

“We missed her. Should’ve kept those glasses on,” Sam feels around with his lighter, balancing the cigarette between his lips. 

“I wouldn’t,” Steve insists. 

Sam sighs in frustration as his search comes up fruitless. “Where’s that dang--” 

The door opens again and a woman tumbles out, her coat catching as it closes behind her. She squeaks and turns to pull herself free. She keeps one foot off the pavement, only her toe touching. Steve stands straight and tears his hands free of his jacket. Sam tweaks his head. 

“Say, miss, you’re missing something,” Sam muses. 

The woman spins and looks down at her feet, “um, yes, sir. I... know.” 

She grabs the front of her coat and holds it closed against a gale. Steve can’t stop staring. He’s almost dumbfounded. Sam clears his throat and puts away his cigarette as he catches his eyes. Steve nods. 

“Well, honey, what if I told you I could get you a new shoe?” Sam grins. 

Satyr 

The music ends. There’s less than twenty women left on the stage. The sweat drips from your hairline, glazing over your eyelids and cheeks. You ready for another round. 

“2, 14, 28, 29, 33, 41. Come get your slips for the call back. The rest, thank you for coming.” The grey-haired man sat among the front row says as he stands. “Call backs are tomorrow at nine.” 

Without any further acknowledgement, the six observers shuffle out in a row. You look down at the paper pinned to your dress. ‘14’. You follow the other chosen dancers to the stage manager as he hands out yellow slips of paper. 

“You show up without this, you ain’t gettin’ in,” he snarls.  

You take yours and smile. You can’t believe it. You can hardly fathom that you’re in New York or auditioning for Broadway. You got a call back! It’s not a guarantee but it’s something. 

Yet the good news comes with a new set of worriers. You don’t have a place to stay. You can save the bus fare for your way home but for what? One night’s stay. You’re not sure you thought this out very well.  

You go backstage and stop as you wiggle your toes. Oh yes, your shoes. You look in the corner where you tossed them. You find both your stockings but only one flat. You frown and spin around. 

There’s a grumble among the other women. Some in an elated hush, excited for the next day, others droning in a disappointed murmur. You feel bad. You could as easily be one of the let downs. 

“Hey, um,” you stop the blonde named Carla, “have you seen a shoe that looks like this?” 

Her eyes drift over and she curls her lip. She scoffs and flicks her fingers in your direction. You frown as she struts off. You spin and continue to look. 

The backstage area clears out as you skim every inch of the floor. Where could it be? A shadow looms over your desolate mission. You turn around to face Judith and her blunt bob. 

“There’s a matinee. You better get out of here,” she says. 

“Yes, ma’am, but my shoe, you see,” you show your right shoe again. 

“I’m not a school marm. It’s not my responsibility to keep track of your things,” she sniffs. “Go on, take that yellow ticket before I rescind it.” 

“Oh, okay, yes, ma’am. Thank you,” you attempt a smile, “I really enjoyed dancing today.” 

Her brow tweaks but the rest of her face remains as still as stone. You shuffle away and grab your coat and bag, left on the floor in the carelessness of the other dancers claiming their own. You hurry off, still without shoes on, and don’t stop until you’re in the lobby. 

You stop and sit and pull on your stockings. The sweat has cooled to a slimy sheen as your dress sticks to your skin. You put on your single shoe and contemplate the walk to the station. No shoe, no place to stay, this seems like less of a dream and more of a nightmare. 

You get up and cross the lobby floor. You push open the outer door, the wind offering extra weight as you lean into it with your shoulder. As you do, you trip over the lip of the threshold and nearly find yourself on the sidewalk. 

Your coat is trapped in the door and you quickly spin to tug it free. You balance on one foot, the cold gale swirling around you. You put only your big toe to the ground to regain your balance. Should you just hop down to the station? 

You only then notice the man to your right. He makes himself taller as he stands straight and slips his hands free from his pocket. The man at your other shoulder shifts in turn. He draws your attention first as he speaks. 

“Say, miss, you missing something?” He remarks. 

You twitch and look down at your feet as he stares at your shoe, “um, yes, sir, I... know.” 

You pull your coat shut and hug it around your front. It’s awfully chilly today. Your bag hangs heavily from your shoulder, though you didn’t think to pack a scarf. The man clears his throat as he puts a cigarette in a silver case and tucks it inside his jacket. He glances at the other man and back to you. 

“Well, honey, what if I told you I could get you a new shoe?” He smirks. 

Your brows pop up high on your forehead, “well, that would be mighty kind of you.” 

“Mighty kind?” He echoes and again his eyes flick to the other man. 

You turn to get a look at the other sentinel. You nearly cry out in surprise. No! Really?! It can’t be-- 

You know it’s him. There some silver in his blond and a few lines deeper around his eyes. Quite a few but not to his detriment. And his posture, you would know it anywhere. 

“Steve Rogers?” You blurt out without meaning to. 

He seems just as surprised as he puts his hand to the chest of his jacket and his throat bobs, “you recognise me?” 

“Course I do,” you smile in a glow of marvel, “you’re... you’re... alive.” 

He tilts his head and his blue eyes wander above your head. You put your hand to your cheek as you realise what you’ve said. The other man laughs once more. 

“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean--” you sputter. “I love Golden Stars. It’s one of my favourites. I know the finale goes--” you raise your arms in a mimic of a couples dance, “1, 2-3, 1 2-3, 1-2 3...” you perfectly make the steps. 

He stares at you, speechless. Your embarrassment swells. Oh my, you’re really making a fool of yourself. 

“Well, she’s got the moves,” the other man drawls, “but can ya sing, darling?” 

“I can give it a try—er, here?” You look around the street. 

“You’re not from here, are you?” He chuckles as you turn to him, “go on, these people have seen worse than that.” 

“Oh, well, er... um,” you swallow and search your repertoire; all you can recall is that same sequence from Rogers’ famous Golden Stars. You take a breath and clear your diaphram, “Golden stars in my eyes, golden stars at my heels. Olden days passin’ by, fading flames dancin’ high. My baby’s shine can never die...” 

You continue on, focusing on the moment, though you have no idea why they’re asking for a song. Still, you could never dream of meeting Steve Rogers. Ever. It’ll be a story, even if it’s a foolish one. 

You quiet as you run out of lyrics and sway, peering between the men. They’re deathly quiet. You don’t know what to say. 

“That bad?” You ask with a tinkling chuckle. 

The man to your left snorts, “let me introduce myself. Sam Wilson, and you are?” 

“Satyr, sir, I just came from an audition,” you explain. 

“Oh, we know,” he offers his hand and you shake it. “How’s about we get you some dancing shoes, if you’re interested in doing more of that.” 

“What do ya mean?” You bat your lashes as your heart thumps. 

“We saw you. In there,” Steve speaks at last. “You’re really good.” 

You turn to him and smile even bigger, “oh, thank you. You have no idea how much that means.” 

“Not as much as it’d mean if you hear us out,” Steve counters.  

You give him a curious look and shrug, “I don’t got nowhere to be until tomorrow morning.” 

“Great. Perfect,” he says, “Sam, where’s that joint we went to last night? It was quiet there.” 

[d-esmond]

; wip thursday

hello. remembered i still wanted to post something today <3

im still consumed by the little side project and mostly these fools. thank u

—

“You pray often?” Gabriele took a long drag off his cigarette and I found myself fascinated by the line of his jaw.

“I try to. My father taught me.”

“Faisal?”

I cleared my throat and looked down. Explaining that Rashid was not truly my brother was always accompanied by a sense of moral failure. “No, uh- my real father. He is— I don’t see him anymore. But he gave me that, so… I’m grateful.”

“That’s beautiful.” When I looked up again, I might as well have been looking into the sun. His smile radiated warmth. I don’t know if I was blushing. If I was, he didn’t say anything.

“And you?” I quickly followed up.

“I was raised Christian.” He paused, glancing back at me. “I know I’m doing everything God forbids, but—” He tapped on his chest with his free hand, “— He is in there. Looking out for me. I say thanks everytime I get to eat a meal or sleep in a warm bed.”

His expression changed and he looked off in the distance, his face marked by something much more solemn than I would have expected.

“That’s not… a given, then?”

He smiled somewhat wistfully and flicked his cigarette away. We both watched it fall down until it eventually disappeared in the distance, where it hopefully landed on the pavement and not on some poor pedestrian’s head. I cringed at the thought.

Then Gabriele finally answered. “It’s not been a given for a long time.”

I felt like that was the only explanation I was going to get. “Sorry.”

Just like that, the moment was gone. Gabriele pushed himself back from the railing and stretched his arms out above his head. “That’s alright, no? How about another round?”

I didn’t want to go downstairs. The cool night air soothed me in ways the past day had not done in the slightest. I debated on how to tell him I wanted nothing more than stay here — preferably with him. The possibility that I would most likely never be able to crept up on me, but then Gabriele seemingly decided I needed more convincing, and he held out his hand expectantly. The past day was forgotten.

“Yeah, okay.”

tag list:

@adelaidedrubman @auricfog @carlosoliveiraa @cetra @cptcassian

@confidentandgood @elvves @famewolf @faithchel @full---ofstarlight

@imogenkol @jackiesarch @johnnystorm @lavampira @leviiackrman

@loriane-elmuerto @moonflowcr @pricemarshfield @raresvtm @risingsh0t

@roberthouse69 @shellibisshe @socially-awkward-skeleton @thedeadthree @tommyarashikage

@travellingseal @viktorgf @unholymilf @statichvm

[productofaritual]

So, let's begin the torture.

You, being the BeeDuo Obsessive Fan that you are, get to pick the subject.

Should we talk about how Fae!Ranboo gets his first Human (Tubbo) that stepped into his circle without knowing (or knowing) and it's fricking out? Like, he doesn't know the protocol for this Although the human seems very confident and it's kinda nice waiting for him to talk and he likes flowers and holy shit is this really happening? His first deal! Hope he doesn't screw it.

As a side note, Tubbo is really pissed off. :)

Or maybe—

Fae!Tubbo getting (FINALLY!) a human trapped in a deal where they have to get him some new bric-a-brac for a year!

This place doesn't have a lot to offer in technology so a year should be enough to keep him entertained while he gets another human. So every day, the human (Ranboo) comes to his circle and explains his new toy that he can open and study until the next day. As an appetite, he studies the human with little conversations; discovering how they are amazed by nature (pretty flowers). Everything is going according to plan until his human arrives broken.

Choose *Zeus voice in Epic The Musical*

Someone's gotta die today and you have got the final say🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶

I've already read both actually (not these plots specifically but human/fae from both sides) though they weren't necessarily dark beeduo focus (both very plot heavy, but it was more angst than actually being dark in that sorta sense) so uhhhhhh

I am very much a sucker for "who did this to u" Type shit, call me cliche, you wouldn't be wrong. So fae!Tubbo it is. Also damn I wanna see it as a full fic now, but if u wanna just keep yapping, I might write it myself when my WIP list clears out a lil

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Rain, wildfire, clear skies for the ask game?

(in reference to this ask game)

💧Rain - What's the most emotional scene you've ever written?

Answered here!

🔥 Wildfire - Who is your most emotional character and why?

Hmmm tough call.

Jas is a spitfire, spends a lot of The Legend of Orian Goldeneye in a state of pissed-off (I would too, if I got isekai'd then arrested and a bunch of other stuff). She is also highly empathetic, when she's not angry.

Draven's much the same way, if we're being honest. His default state is more frustrated than furious, but he can also get ticked off really easily. In the first chapter of The Hunter, the Myth, and the Cure, part of his motivation for taking the job that got him into the Fells in the first place was because the messenger was just a kid affected by the attack.

And then we have Jarsali, the queen of bottling up emotions like bottling up lightning until it all comes spilling out at the wrong moment.

🌌 Clear Skies - How long have you been writing your current WIP?

The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure -> late 2021, though Octavian and Draven's first meeting was first written before that. So roughly three, almost four years.

The Legend of Orian Goldeneye -> January 2023 was when I started the first draft, and I finished it in September 2023. Jas as a character predates the first draft, in 2022 at some point, though I don't remember how long before. Definitely my youngest if you don't count Writemas or Forsaken.

Trials of the Six -> 2019. Earliest record is from an email draft in 2019 with the first chapter. It has evolved a LOT since then my goodness. Surprisingly this isn't the oldest WIP on the list.

The Watcher and the Thief -> 2018 was the early early early versions of this WIP, back when it was my D&D ranger's backstory. I don't think it started evolving until 2020 when I actually made the file for it, and the current draft didn't exist until around 2022. So yeah, that's my oldest WIP. It's not my first attempt at novel writing, I think this might be the third? The first was a shitty videogame fanfic, and if I recall correctly the second was also D&D style fantasy, but I don't think I ever made a digital file for it, so it only exists in one of my notebooks somewhere.

[whinlatter]

<Art credit: Margaryta Yermolayeva>

Wild card trick or treat: go nuts, friend.

Send an ask with “Trick or treat!” to the writer who reblogged this & you could receive a 3-sentence fic, drabble, headcanon, sneak-peek at a WIP, the last sentence they wrote, a new fic idea, random line from a fic, picture of their notebook, a deleted line they love, an idea for a sequel, something they’re researching, behind-the-scenes info on a published fic, or something else!

an excuse to post hinny deleted scenes??? 👀👀👀

i bit off more than i can chew with this delightful trick or treat challenge but i do have literally mountains of dumb harry/ginny letters that didn't make the cut in beasts so here's some deleted scenes/the two of them doing what they do best (flirting by post, shooting the shit). do i love these lines? not particularly, but i love these two and i couldn't find anywhere for this extremely dumb exchange to go in the fic so sharing it here in honour of halloween will have to do! thank you sm @turanga4!

Gin, 

How’s your week? It’s shit here. Work’s shit, weather’s shit, house is shit. Today I also stood in literal dog shit and I couldn’t even scourgify my shoe because I was in a street full of Muggles so I had to wait until I was in the employee entrance at work to try clean it out. And then when I walked in someone said ‘what’s that smell’, and then someone else started retching and someone else started pointing and going ‘shit is that Harry Potter’. So then I had to try to pretend like it wasn’t me that had shit on my shoe until the room had cleared and I could finally sort it out. And now I’m worried the Prophet is going to run a story about how Harry Potter smells like shit, or start calling me The Boy Who Lived in His Own Filth, or bring those Potter Stinks badges out of retirement and send them into mass production, or something.

Yours (drowning in shit) -

Harry

—

The Boy Who Lived in His Own Filth (catchy),

I’m sorry your week has been so full of shit (literal and figurative). It does seem cosmically cruel that you can save the Wizarding World and still find yourself standing in dog shit. You’d think the universe would give you a pass, or something. Really, no treading in dog shit for the rest of your life seems the least the universe could do for you, given how much trouble you’ve gone to. I’m outraged on your behalf and willing to write to whatever necessary higher power to make this right. 

It’s pretty shit here too. I miss you (yawn, lame, boring). When you inevitably go into hiding from the brutal Prophet expose of your personal hygiene habits you are very welcome to hang out with me up here/hide out in Hagrid’s cabin and help me try to explain to him the proper consistency of custard. 

Yours in shitty solidarity,

Hagrid’s long suffering sous chef

—

Dear Hagrid’s long suffering sous chef/custard de-lumper in chief,

Thanks for the sympathy. I miss you too, a lot (yawn, lame, boring). Ron’s just asked if I’m writing to you ‘again’ like he doesn’t write to Hermione each time there’s a Y in the day. He just asked what we even talk about. So if he asks I told him we’re working on a big list of his flaws and most embarrassing moments to read out at his thirtieth and/or him and Hermione’s wedding, whichever comes first. Now he’s saying we’re ‘very childish’ and keeps trying to get a look at the parchment to check if I was lying or not. Oh wait no now he’s going up to his room to write Hermione about his very busy exciting day spent reading evidence logs and complaining about the canteen’s stingy pie portions. What a lucky girl.

Keep fighting the good custard fight. 

Yours,

Harry

PS. Thanks for the offer but have to say no to hiding out in Hagrid’s hut. Fang’s poos are huge. I can’t risk it. Can I not crash in your dormitory? The steps up to the girls’ rooms don’t still turn into slides, do they? 

—

Outrageous and scandalous attempt to wangle your way into my bed, Potter. Of course the steps still turn into slides. What, you thought because there was a war on and the castle got pounded to smithereens the relics of archaic magical paternalism designed to defend young witches’ virtues would somehow cease to function? How naive. Anyway, I for one am grateful for the slides, if they stop you bringing your stinky shit covered shoes into our dormitory.

Tell Ron I'm writing you absolute filth. Like debauched sexual propositions, truly eye-watering stuff. That said, if you think for a second I’m not going to back my dear brother in his campaign for generous pie portions then you’re out of your mind. Despite the sneering of critics (you), we Weasleys believe in the importance of hearty pie helpings, almost as much as we believe in the importance of perfect custard viscosity.

Yours,

Ginny

PS. You're literally not going to believe this - wrote this letter at Hagrid’s, was heading out and sealing it up to send and I literally stepped in one of Fang's enormous shits. What are the chances???

[kaylinalexanderbooks]

ROYGBIV TAG GAME

Thanks @buffythevampirelover for the tag!

Rules: find the main rainbow colors in your WIP!

Last time I think I had a lot of TSP, so this will be SOTL heavy

Okay I'll tag @illarian-rambling @mk-writes-stuff @somethingclevermahogony @elsie-writes @willtheweaver @frostedlemonwriter @spitefulbull @infinnative + anyone else who'd like to do this

Keep reading for:

Jack is nimble and quick

George is hungry

Úrsula is reading

Beau is excited

Beau is excited again

Kwasiyaa is going through the portal

Tierney is testing something

Red ❤️- from School of the Legends Year One

He closed his eyes and braced himself for the excruciating pain he was about to feel. But nothing came. Even the light from the flame no longer shone red through his eyelids. He crashed onto something soft with a grunt. He opened his eyes.

Orange 🧡 - from The Secret Portal Part One (Ash POV)

George walked over to an array of buttons on one of the walls. In a streak of orange, he pressed some of them, faster than the naked eye could have seen. Below the buttons was a small alcove, from which he pulled out a meaty sandwich that resembled a cheeseburger, but I sensed wasn't cow.

Yellow 💛 - from School of the Legends Year One

After she finished clearing off her plate, she pressed the pause button on her music. Usually, Úrsula would allow whatever was playing to finish as she awaited Mamãe to bring her whatever dessert she had made, but she had left her book on a cliffhanger. It pained her to leave the music, but at the moment, this was her priority. She leapt on her bed and picked up her book right where she had left off, not bothering to get into her usual comfortable position, as she was too excited. Immediately, she felt her surroundings disappear. She left the confines of the room she’d lived in for the past five years, and entered the world that only existed in the ink forever tattooed on the face of the binded yellowed pages.

Green 💚 - from School of the Legends

Beau shrugged. “A few months? Well, I always liked plants and had a green thumb for gardening, but yeah, I soon found out that I had a gift.” He smiled. “And I got this!” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a piece of paper, holding it out. Jill took it, holding it so Jack could see it, too.

Blue 💙 - from School of the Legends

“So we’ll be going to school together!” Beau was saying, his blue eyes sparkling. Jack was snapped out of his thoughts--not sure if he’d missed anything or not. “Now, hold on,” said Dad, “I think we should talk about this. I’m not against it, but we should at least see if Jack wants to go.”

Indigo 💜* - from The Secret Portal Part One

Almost at once, brilliant colors erupted from the ground, a bright contrast with the indigo-tinted forest. As the portal surrounded them, Kwasiyaa and Dylan’s visions were limited, as the dark world they knew as their home began to fade away against its bright, colorful light.

Violet Purple 🩷* - from School of the Legends Year One

Tierney glanced down at the duvet he was sitting on. He rubbed his hand across it, feeling the familiar static shock. He kept sliding his palm back and forth and back and forth until he heard a crackling sound. He lifted his hand, concentrating as hard as he could, until he saw a spark. He rubbed his hands together until what appeared to be a purple lightning flickered around them. He stood, holding one hand palm-up, curling his fingers inward. A sparking purple ball of electricity had formed in his palm. He laughed giddly, opening his hand slightly so the ball got bigger. His hand shook and the electricity shot upward, blasting Tierney over the bed and causing him to crash onto the floor.

*there needs to be an indigo heart so I don't have to do this

Edit: Forgot taglist because it was so SOTL heavy

TSP intro

TSP tag list (ask to be +/-): @thepeculiarbird @illarian-rambling @televisionjester @finchwrites

Enjoy the two paragraphs lol but SOTL is fun too

[aphroditestummyrolls]

I’d love the engagement series for the wip

game. It’s one of fav you’ve done.

Hi anon! Thanks so much for sending this— writing out the rest of this little scene was such a nice break from working on BHaD chapter 3!

“I want to ask Wy to marry me.”

Well. Well, that was just… That was a bloody sunbeam through a cloud. That was what that was.

Colm couldn’t have kept the smile off his face for anything in the world. He couldn’t keep the happy little twitch from his fingers or try to squash the warm expansion that filled up his chest. He very nearly wanted to cry.

Jesper blinked at him. “What is happening to your face right now?”

“Oh hush, I’m so happy for you!” He gushed. His hands reached out and took his son— his grown, wonderful, clever, handsome boy— by the cheeks. By some miracle Jesper humoured him, and Colm was grateful. Through the misty eyed lens of time, he could see all the variations of wild and young that his boy had been, and all the ways he’d grown. All of the wonderful future paths he could take.

That he and Wylan could take together.

Jes patted his hand over Colm’s, only a little awkwardly, laughing a little. “C’mon Da, it’s not like he’s said yes yet.”

Colm tsked, swatting at the words like an irritation. It was a mere formality. “Oh, don’t give me that! I barely spent an hour with the two of you before I knew you two were special.”

“You did not—“

“The point is,” he let the bubbles of his joy settle a little, taking his son’s hands in both of his, “that that boy is clearly ass over tea kettle about you. And you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

That was the moment, it seemed, where Jesper finally let himself relax into the moment. His shoulders deflated, a proper grin spreading across his face like a sunrise. Those grey eyes were sparkling and bright, and he exhaled in a gust. It must be something, to get the weight off his chest.

“Is this the first time you’ve said it all out loud?”

He shrugged a little. “It’s the first time it feels really real, I suppose. I asked Marya for her blessing just before we left, but this feels… different.” It was a good different, clearly. It was the type of different that lit Jesper up from within, the type of different that glowed so bright, it warmed the whole room ten degrees.

It made him look terribly like his mother.

“Jesper, I…” it came out a little raspier than he’d like, clearing his throat. “Your momma—“

“Da, I—“

“Jesper Fahey.” They’d spent too long hiding her memory in the shadows, wearing her like a yoke around their necks. It still took so much to say the words aloud. But, they’d both promised to change, and this was the most important thing— learning how to carry her with them in a way that wasn’t stifling. “Your mother would be so, so proud of the man you’ve become. And she would love your Wylan.”

Jesper blinked hard, fluttering his short lashes as he looked down at their hands. But his smile didn’t waver.

“I, um… actually, I wanted to ask you about her. Is there anything of hers— her jewelry, I mean— around? Maybe something that I could fabrikate a bit?” He was fiddling with Colm’s fingers, not looking up at him. “It’s alright, if you can’t part with anything! It’s just that having something of hers, it would mean a lot, for making Wylan part of the family, I think. It would mean a lot to him— to us. And I wanted to make it, y’know? Like how you pass down and, and remake family rings in the Wandering Isle? It’s alright, though, if—“

Colm stood up and pulled Jesper with him, pulling him into a hug that could hopefully ease the nervous rambling. He didn’t even know what to say, or how else to express it all otherwise. Jesper had put so much thought into this. So much care.

He wanted to honour them.

Colm didn’t ease up his hold on his son until he finally let himself be held. He wrapped his gangly arms around Colm’s shoulders, and went comfortably quiet for a moment.

Thanks for playing! ❤️❤️❤️ (want to play? click the link for WIP list!)

[elsajeni]

My new year's goals this year revolve around finishing things - some existing unfinished stuff, like abandoned (or bought-the-kit-but-never-started) craft projects and fic WIPs and the long list of House Stuff that was generated when we moved this year but only the urgent ones ever actually got done. But also just Finishing Stuff, generally, starting things and then finishing them, at levels ranging from ambitious home improvement projects to, like, "the final step of doing laundry is Put Laundry Away and it is not actually finished until you do that."

I do want to be clear that this is partly a boring self-improvement goal, yes, but it is also a "please eat the fancy cheese before you have 'saved' it so long it grows mold" goal. I am a Saver Of Little Treats For Later and a Putter-Offer Of Things and I would like to do both of those a little less! (Also also I tend to abandon books and shows I'm enjoying just before the end, especially if I feel like something bad is going to happen, and I would like to... do that less? What's that about, anyway, psychologically speaking? Anyway it's probably too late for Being Human (UK) which I didn't finish watching 12 years ago because something horrible was obviously going to happen to Mitchell but maybe I can knock some of these other books and shows and whatnot off the list.)

Originally this post was going to be a poll about which of several unfinished projects I should work on first, which I may still post later for funsies, but I think I will let this post stand as simply: here is a goal, good luck to me on achieving it.

[pertinax--loculos]

And now, because I'm feeling miserable chaotic as fuck, after just posting some banners for Vibes WIP earlier this arvo, I'm going to post a rewritten version of the first scene of Absent That Night.

Note that this is just a first pass, so even those it's technically ~draft two~ there still may be typos, etc etc.

But regardless! I hope you enjoy. ^_^ Any feedback is welcome -- particularly things like would you like to read on, does this make sense, do you have any questions that aren't plot related? (I'm super close to and familiar with this WIP, so I sometimes forget what the reader would and wouldn't know, and I'm not sure if foreshadowing etc would come across correctly.)

Anyway, it's approximately 2.5k words, so really if you read it at all I love you for it. <3

Latrell stared at the blank space on the wall, incensed. It used to host a painting. Much like the sections of wall to his left and right, in fact. Though those paintings were still there. Of course. Voices drifted down the long featureless corridor from his right. “I just don’t understand.” Shrill, piercing, unbelievably loud. A woman accustomed to getting her own way. “We pay all this money, and that is supposed to protect us from situations like these, and now you’re telling me that it doesn’t?” Latrell narrowed his eyes until the wall in front of him almost disappeared. “I understand your frustration, ma’am.” Albie’s voice was low, soothing, a stark contrast. Ever the professional. “And you are correct, your contract with LEAH does guarantee swift retrieval of all listed items. However, the item in question was not on the list. Surely you understand how that might change the situation.” Latrell smiled to himself and moved down the corridor, away from the woman’s increasingly hysterical objections.

Habitually, he dipped mental fingers into the Orn, the waterlike texture of his flow shimmering in his mind’s eye. A few signatures jumped out at him, the paintings lining the corridor. Not the one that was missing. He’d never touched that one before, never even seen it, hadn’t had a chance to familiarise himself. Absolutely no chance of tracking its location.

He blinked, moving away from the Orn and back into the physical world.

The corridor was lined on both sides, no rhyme or reason to the order of the artwork, no overarching theme. The only thing the pieces had in common was their price. The corridor was an exhibition of wealth, not of passion.

At this end it opened up into a large, airy living space, made to seem even larger by the wall of windows directly opposite. They looked out over the centre of the city, all steel and glass and whitewashed concrete. Far off in the distance, the dark line of the waterfront, the ocean stretching to the horizon.

“Nice view,” Albie said from his elbow.

Latrell glanced at her. “You manage to calm Mrs. Bishop down?”

“Calm might be too strong a word.” Albie rolled her eyes. “I think I’ve talked her down from a lawsuit. And she’s going to let us actually do our jobs, so that’s something.”

“It sure is.”

“Oh, c’mon, you know you love me.”

She patted his shoulder, the bad one, and Latrell had to hide his flinch. Albie probably wouldn’t have noticed anyway; she stepped further into the living area, spinning in a slow circle as she took it in. “Got anything yet?”

“Besides the obvious? No.” Latrell rubbed at an eye under his glasses, a headache beginning to tug at his temples. “Honestly I don’t even think there’s any point searching.”

“Naw, don’t be like that. It’s not our job. Besides, he’s gotta make a mistake eventually. Today might be our lucky day.”

Latrell seriously doubted it, but he moved next to her to examine the table.

It was an ostentatious piece of furniture if he’d ever seen one. Swirling patterns from the original tree paired with spaces of black and clear resin, sitting on legs that seemed to Latrell at best impractical and at worst dangerous for the tens of thousands of dollars he was sure the tabletop cost.

Not that it would be worth that now.

Etched directly into the resin — deep enough that it hit the centuries-old wood in some places, small shavings dusting the surface around the gouges — was a series of lines, swirling around each other. An artwork in itself, really, evocative of water, or perhaps a representation of wind. Latrell couldn’t look at it without thinking of his flow. And in the centre, a single word.

Nox

Latrell brushed his gloved fingers over the edge of the carvings. They were deep yet smooth, nothing rushed or crude about them. Each line a separate groove. Not made with anything as pedestrian as a knife. Perhaps a hammer and chisel. A specialised instrument, at the very least.

“He’s getting bolder.” Albie stalked around the table as if to view the signature from every angle. “This is bigger than anything else we’ve seen.”

“More space to work with, maybe. Not often the most expensive item in a room is a table.” Latrell traced the sharp angles of the ‘N’. “Did the Bishops tell you where they were last night?”

“Dinner at the Station House, then apparently they went to a friend’s house to kick on. No plan to stay the night, but that’s what ended up happened. Got home about three hours ago, took them an hour to discover the theft.”

Surprising it was that fast. The apartment was big enough they could’ve spent days inside without visiting every room.

“Do they often stay out all night after a dinner?”

Albie was at the head of the table, arms crossed. “Took a bit of finagling, but I reckon so, yeah. Mrs. Bishop wouldn’t admit it but the way she talked gives me the impression it’s not an uncommon occurrence.”

“So no way to be certain they wouldn’t return, but the odds were pretty good.” Latrell massaged his temple with two fingers. “Still, he wouldn’t leave anything to chance. Would’ve gotten in early. Security cameras?”

The hopeful uptick in his voice made Albie smile. “Nothing.”

“I fucking hate this guy.”

“Oh, I know.” Albie’s voice was teasing, but there was a note of censure behind it. Latrell kept his eyes on the table so she wouldn’t see his wince.

Fucking Nox. The man had been a thorn in Latrell’s side for nearly three years, and that thorn was quickly turning into an entire branch.

LEAH’s Artefact Recovery Division served the clients who could afford to have their most valuable pieces insured with something more than money. Every Agent assigned to the unit had an affinity for object tracking; a location on the Orn that allowed them to see, touch, familiarise themselves with a certain item, and then use the Orn to find it. Latrell had been assigned to the ARD eight years ago, a consolation prize after an on-the-job injury had caused the police to fire him. He’d met Albie about twelve months later, and they’d been partnered six months after that.

Most of the time an ARD Agent’s job was fairly simple. If a thief managed to bypass the comprehensive security systems a LEAH client could afford, they tended to know which piece would get them the most on the black market. Unfortunately for them, so did the Agents, so the pieces were already listed and a part of an Agent’s repertoire. A brief look at what item was missing and the relevant Agent briefly checking out the Orn would usually locate the piece.

Usually. Nox was a different story.

He had an uncanny ability to target only those items that Agents hadn’t yet had a chance to itemise. Generally new acquisitions, often those on the books to be added to a client’s list within the next few days. It was specific enough that there’d been talk of Nox having some inside source.

Latrell wasn’t sure that was true. But it was getting to the point that he’d have to agree or figure out a more compelling theory soon.

Because the last six pieces that Nox had stolen — the last six households where he’d taken something and then destroyed something else, picking a room and defacing the most expensive item to leave his signature and no doubt of who it was that had committed the theft — had all been on Latrell’s register.

Once was an anomaly. Twice was coincidence. Three times was a pattern. Six times got people asking questions.

The sharp trill of Latrell’s phone cut through his musing. He answered it without looking at the screen. “Latrell.”

“Good morning, Agent,” a voice purred in his ear. Male. Smooth. Smug. “Enjoying yourself, I trust?”

“Who is this?” Latrell snapped. Albie raised an eyebrow, and he held up a hand. The voice was utterly unfamiliar, which raised a host of problems, chief among which was— “How did you get this number?”

“I have resources.” The man managed to convey the wave of his hand with the tone of his voice. “I should think you would know this by now.”

“Look, whoever you think I am, you’re mistaken. You’ve clearly got the wrong number, and I’m busy right now, so—”

“Forgive me. I thought you’d pardon the intrusion, given that it’s my handiwork you’re currently admiring.”

“What?” Latrell spun. Pointless. There was no one else in the room. “Fuck off. You think I’m going to fall for that?”

A chuckle in his ear, silky and deep. Whoever it was, they had a hell of a voice for radio. “Is it really that improbable that I would contact you, Agent Latrell?”

Latrell stopped.

Forced his mind back into its box. There was any number of reason the caller would know his name. No need to get ahead of himself. No reason to let his thoughts careen out of control down paths that made no sense—

“Have you seen the Michelson, by the way? It truly is a stunning piece. They say his use of colour is unrivalled.”

Latrell’s heart tripped. Stumbled. Caught its balance at a speed that felt unhealthy. They hadn’t known which piece had been stolen until they arrived. That information hadn’t been publicised. It hadn’t even been passed along to LEAH yet.

“Latrell,” Albie said quietly.

He waved in her direction again. Turned away. “Okay, so you’ve managed to find out some information. Congrats. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna believe—”

“Agent,” the man cut in again, “If you examine the table from the end closest to the couch, I believe that will be proof enough.”

The reference to the table, the knowledge of the signature, was proof enough. Nothing that had ever been released to the press. And it was unusual, moreso than any other scene. Not a coffee machine. Not a couch. Not, perhaps most memorably, an entire sound system. Never the artworks themselves, but always an item of incredible value — generally more than Latrell’s annual paycheck — marked, dismantled, defaced. Ruined.

Latrell stepped around the table. Stared down at it for a few long seconds. Saw only swirls and whisps and curving, branching lines.

He squinted a little, tilted his head, and it jumped out at him like an optical illusion snapping into focus. Seamlessly integrated into the pattern, a series of letters, distinct and separate from the larger, blocky moniker.

Hello, Latrell

“The hell…” The words were faint.

The man on the phone chuckled again. “You’re welcome. I am quite sure your boss will be very curious as to the meaning of that.”

“What the—”

“Apologies, Agent, but I really must be going. Places to go, paintings to fence. You know how it is. Though if I may offer some advice?”

He paused. Not long enough for Latrell to formulate a response.

“You really should make an effort to leave work earlier. Eight pm every night this week? It’s a recipe for burnout.”

Latrell dropped the phone from his ear, staring at the screen. The unknown number stared back at him, stark black numbers on a too-white screen.

Implausible. Impractical. Impossible. Beyond that, beyond the logistics and the motivation and the feasibilityof it all, it was just fucking insane. If he was right, if the man on the phone was who he thought it was, then he’d done all that, found Latrell’s number, tracked his movements, knew that he’d be at this crime scene, knew enough about his life to know when he was leaving work every night, all with the ultimate goal of calling him to— what? Gloat? Provide a clue? Hear the sound of his own fucking voice?

Each possibly theory was more insane than the last. Latrell swept off his glasses and pinched at his eyes with a thumb and forefinger.

“Brishan!” Albie all but shoved him, and Latrell realised it wasn’t the first time she’d tried to get his attention.

“Sorry,” he said, too distracted to bother with sincerity, mind racing, whirling, unmoored. He shoved his glasses back on, tried to school his expression back into neutrality. “I was just—”

“Who was that?” she demanded.

“I don’t know. It was nothing. Nobody. A prank call.” Yeah, right.

“Who’d they say it was?”

“They didn’t, actually.” He realised the truth of the statement even as it left his mouth. Not that it mattered. The content of the conversation left very little doubt just who he’d been speaking to. As much as his brain was trying to find ways to deny it. “Never actually identified themselves. They just implied— but it wasn’t really— I mean, I’m not sure—”

He exhaled, rubbed at his eye again. Spoke without lowering his hand. “I actually— I think it was Nox.”

Beat. Then: “What?”

Latrell kept rubbing at his eye. Didn’t really think that question deserved an answer.

Albie took a few moments to realise that was his conclusion, then added, “Are you sure?”

“Fuck, no, I’m not sure!” Latrell dropped his hand in time to catch the hurt look flicker over Albie’s face, shoulders tense, spine straight. He sucked in a deep breath, tried to modulate his tone. “No, I’m not sure. But… well, he was certainly pretty convincing.”

Albie chewed her lower lip for a moment. “We’re gonna have to report this.”

Irritation flickered hot and fluid in Latrell’s chest. He loosened his jaw, endeavoured to keep his voice entirely level when he said, “Of course I’m going to report it.”

It still came out sharp. Too sharp, if the slight lift to Albie’s eyebrows was anything to go by.

Latrell closed his eyes for a beat. Shoved down the slow boil of annoyance licking at his insides, forced himself to inhale, exhale. Slowly. Repeated, “I’m going to report it.”

Some of her scepticism faded, though an element of obstinance remained in the jut of her chin, the wrinkle between her brows. “Good.”

Latrell’s jaw locked. He turned away from her, back towards the table. Let his eyes skip over those two horrifying words, embedded in the centre of a criminal’s signature. Abruptly wished he’d chosen something else to look at.

“It’s… weird, right?” Albie’s voice had softened. “After the last few months…”

“Yeah it fucking is.” He sucked in a deep breath, gestured towards the table. “And this doesn’t help.”

Albie stepped up next to him. He didn’t really want to show her this. Didn’t really have a choice. It wasn’t exactly something he could hide, couldn’t change the signature so those two words were no longer a part of it.

But it was okay. Most people so far believed what he thought, that he was just a random target. Believed that he had no idea why Nox was fixated on him. Believed that he was just as in the dark as the rest of them.

But things kept piling up. Coincidence upon coincidence. As a cop Latrell had been trained to believe coincidences didn’t exist. But coming up with any other theory now seemed even harder.

He knew the instant Albie saw it. Felt her tension lurch like a physical presence in the room.

“Oh,” she said, quiet, loaded.

“I know.”

Albie turned to him, her face as earnest as her voice. “You’re fucked.”

Latrell removed his glasses to pinch his eyes again. “I know.”

[void-botanist]

hello and how are you?

We had to come scurrying over after we found your WIP Name Game! Honestly, a lot of those names make us want to ask after them, this Work seems to be filled with good things, but!

Can we see something from these parts? Whatever you want to share? ( •̀ω•́ )σ

Farewell to the Ancestors, Tatiana Arvenswold, that secret option from the tags that you want to scream about

Have fun with it too! If ya wanna pass or go wild, then this is your invitation to do so! we're entirely intrigued!

☕ Natsume Rune, @365runesoftheamalgamations

From this list

Thank you so much for the ask! I actually talked about the one that made me want to scream over here, but "queueing" is a similar sort of scene, where Spinder gets into a different unusual conversation. The Nicea has been queueing for a warp transit for hours, Tristan has taken a sleeping pill, and Rodney is left having to make his first non-training warp transit:

The door slid open six inches and Spinder blinked sleepily up at him. “What?” he said with the distance of someone still shaking off a dream. “We’re clear to transit in a few minutes, and I just need someone to sit on the bridge with me while I do it.” He raised his eyebrows but didn’t argue. “Let me get some pants on. I’ll be right there.” The door shut again. Rodney decided to trust him and go back to the pilot’s seat. Tristan’s seat. It felt too big, even though it was only marginally larger than his own. He was about to take the unnecessary step of strapping himself in when he remembered that his coffee was halfway across the bridge and went to grab it. Spinder showed up at the same time, half-covering a massive yawn while he dropped into his usual seat. The pants he’d put on were just the lower half of his flight suit, zipped up to his waist with the sleeves tied over it.

"Farewell to the ancestors" was previously an almost-empty scene where I planned to have Tristan visit the graveyard where most of her family is buried and say goodbye to them before the trip, but this ask made me want to work on it some more:

Tristan climbed to the top of the hill, weaving the familiar path through the generations of her family’s gravestones. At each one, she ran a hand over the small dome carved from the top of the stone, feeling the grooves left by increasing generations of hands. On the oldest markers at the top, the dome had started to become a valley.

And "Tatiana Arvenswold" is one of my favorites. This is deep into their space journey, after assorted disasters, when Spinder and Isabel first meet Tatya, who stays with them pretty much to the end of the book:

Isabel was aware of someone passing their table, but didn’t look up until a pale brown hand rapped on the tabletop. Standing over her was a person whose brown hair seemed to be all cowlicks, even into their loose ponytail, with a scruffy half-attempt at a chinstrap beard and a wide baby-pink collar choker peeking out past the massive triangular lapels of their khaki jacket. They were completely ignoring her in favor of Spinder, and she prepared herself to bolster his defense. “Hey, are you Spinder?” they asked. “You look just like the picture Gwinny sent me.” Spinder blinked. “I am. Are you…the warp witch?” They grinned. “Tatiana Arvenswold at your service. She-her or whatever you feel like.” They turned just enough that Isabel could see the silver heart-shaped ring in the front of their choker. Their eyes lingered on her face, and at first she thought they were looking at her bruises in order to make a dumbass comment about them. Then she got a full once-over, and when their eyes met again Tatiana’s gaze was thirsty. “And who are you?” “I’m Isabel,” she said. “The captain of the Nicea.” “Oh, nice, nice. So, uh, y’all in need of a warp witch? Or a finder?”

Nicea taglist: @kahvilahuhut @malloen8c @outpost51 @writernopal @athenswrites

[queenofbaws]

we're here again! in wednesday land!

i'm really and truly trying to make a concerted effort to cross some wips off my list in the coming months - something that, as it turns out, is ABSOLUTELY fighting me tooth and nail - but in that vein, here's a sneaky little snippet of a CREEPS project that's been gathering dust.

(i will, in case anyone was wondering, will be accepting gentle ghost-hunting-au-based bullying until such a time as i actually start poSTING AGAIN WAAAAAAAAH.)

“Well hey now, friends and fans!” The drawl was low and thick, blood clotting beneath a scab, and as he heard it playing back in his own ears, it was all he could do to keep from grinning outright. A far cry from the usual podcasting cadence, Josh liked to think of what he brought to the show as antifreeze—a voice that lured you in with just enough sweetness that you couldn’t help but get a second taste, only to knock you down and out when you least expected it, leaving you curled up on the floor with your hands clutching your guts and the tang of blood at the back of your throat. He doubted his co-hosts thought of it like that, but hey, you could only expect so much from the rabble; after all, in today’s day and age? Everyone was a critic. At least he didn’t end every last one of his sentences on an upward inflection in some sort of stilted attempt to sound mysterious…unlike some paranormal-slash-true-crime podcasters he could name. “Longtime listeners will know that this is usually the point in the show where we stop oohing and ahhing over the marvels of the paranormal and true crime worlds long enough to really just—” he bared his teeth in a pantomime of tearing into flesh made no less gruesome by its brevity or the fact their audience wouldn’t be able to see it, accompanying the sight with a sound caught somewhere between a growl and a cough, “—sink our teeth into Hollywood’s latest horror abortion…” It wasn’t necessary, but Chris leaned into his mic all the same, clarifying in his most helpful teacher’s pet voice, “A horrorbortion, if you will!” “Chris,” Sam groaned. “—buuut, as it turns out,” Josh continued, “We’ve got ourselves a bit of a development over here.” He cleared his throat with as much ostentatiousness as he could muster (which was, not to toot his own horn, quite a bit), dragging the moment out longer and longer to build up that delicious tension while…okay, giving Chris time to add a drumroll in post-production. It was mostly to give him room for the drumroll. “And by ‘development,’ I do in fact mean we’ve been served a cease and desist by Washington Pictures, Inc. If I had to guess…probably for our scathing review of Blood Monastery 3D: Lambs to Slaughter.” Sam lifted her head from the disappointed droop Cochise’s awful jokes had caused long enough to tease, “Womp womp.”

as ever, i hope everyone out there is doing well, and that you're being as nice to yourselves as you can be <3 just a few more days to the weekend!!!

(and, per the usual, if you were looking for an excuse to post one of your OWN wips...let this be it! ;P)

[klcthebookworm]

WIP Wednesday

So this was the wrong time for Wolfwood to meet the Davidson kids.

She and Milly made the selections and filled up two bags that Milly insisted on carrying out of the store. The bus from Ripmela had arrived and passengers were disembarking. The last one was a familiar black-haired man dressed in a black suit carrying a cloth-wrapped cross on his back.

Milly stopped in her tracks. “Mr. Priest!”

Wolfwood’s shades slipped down his nose so he could look out above them. “Insurance girls! The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

“I guess so,” Milly answered. “Oh, we don’t work for Bernardelli any more.”

“Got too dangerous staying with Needle-noggin?”

“No, it didn’t have anything to do with him,” Meryl said.

He took his sunglasses off and tucked them inside his suit’s jacket. “So can you still point me to him? I’ve got news.”

Meryl glanced around the busy main street. “You better head back to the homestead with us if we’re trading news.” Wolfwood agreed and walked with them as they headed to the scrap heap.

The girl was out of sight and Milly handled the call out. “Hannah? Have you found what you need?”

Hannah’s voice came out from behind a rusted out car. “If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to go to that other town and buy new parts or a whole new car.” She emerged holding some metal tubing in her hand and pulled up short. “Who is this?”

Wolfwood smiled at her. “Hello, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, traveling priest. I patrol the continent doing the Lord’s work.”

“Hannah C. Davidson and I hope that doesn’t include crucifixions.”

He chuckled. “The cross? You know your Earth history. The Church doesn’t involve itself in the affairs of sheriffs.”

“Mr. Priest is our friend,” Milly said. “Vash mentioned him.”

“He did,” Hannah agreed but her green eyes looked wary.

“It’s all right, Tall Girl. It’s not a bad thing to be suspicious these days.”

“Yes, we do have reasons to be on guard,” Meryl said. “Hannah and her brother are traveling with us.”

“When the car wants to go?” He teased.

“I’ll get the car to go.” Hannah’s voice was blunt. “I’m more stubborn than a hunk of metal.”

“It’s not a contest,” Milly said. Hannah just shrugged and they set off down the road that led to the homestead.

Wolfwood didn’t speak until they were well away from the town buildings. “Imagine my surprise to see a familiar face on the wanted poster boards and it wasn’t the one with spiky hair.” He looked down at Meryl.

She nodded. “We got it cleared up quickly, but that’s why we’re no longer employed by Bernardelli.”

“I quit after management threw Meryl to the Cavalry,” Milly said.

“That was rude. Sorry I wasn’t around to help out.”

“I appreciate that,” Meryl said. “So what news do you have for Vash?”

“You’re looking for Vash?” Hannah’s tone went harsh. If she had fur like Chuck, it would be bristling.

“That’s a tone.” Wolfwood pulled out his cigarette pack. “Word going around is to avoid Vash the Stampede. No one has a chance at the bounty since the Gung-Ho Guns are after his head.”

“That’s not news,” Hannah said.

“We already ran into two of them,” Meryl said.

“Three,” Hannah said.

“Three?” Wolfwood asked.

“Meryl and Vash were busy when I had the conversation with Samurai Jack.”

Wolfwood stopped and looked at the orange hair girl. “You dealt with Rai-Dei the Blade?”

“If Rai-Dei the Blade dresses like an ancient Japanese warrior down to carrying a sword with a sheath modified to shoot bullets, I did. He didn’t introduce himself to me while ranting about demons. But that’s okay, I know how to deal with ranting wrenchheads. And we can cross him off the list.” Her green eyes narrowed as her face hardened. “I do not let wrenchheads hurt my bros.”

“You don’t say?” He put a cigarette between his lips. “And just how extensive is your family?”

“That you should worry about? Just two.”

[thecollectionsof]

9, 17, 18, 26, 28 <3

hello i love you

9. Have you ever made yourself laugh with something you’ve written?

i had to go read some of my fics to remember what i’ve written but i found the answer !!! from constant state of saturdays:

“You’re baking for someone. As a date,” Bosco observes simply.

“Yeah,” Gigi says, then promptly drops her face into her hands. “Oh god.”

“You don’t know how to bake.”

“I know, Bosco.”

“Good luck.”

“Fuck you, Bosco.”

Bosco snorts, and Gigi flips her off quickly before the bells above the door alert them to a new customer. Bosco drains the rest of her cup, tossing it above Gigi’s head to a trash can behind the counter, just because she can. It doesn’t go in.

(or willow and daya interacting in the willya fic i wrote for them a while back. that was fun)

17. What piece of writing are you most proud of?

probably in their tree? because (as you know when i bothered you with it originally) i had been trying to work on it for MONTHS before i finished it, and i think it turned out super cute !!! and now when i got back and visit the tree it’s based on i get very :,) also it definitely helped having a fantastic and amazing beta like @fuckyeah-dragrace to help me get my shit together with it because she was a mess without her help <3

18. Which is more difficult, the title or the summary?

ok ok the answer changes every time but i think title has been giving me the most shit overall? normally i forget the summaries exist so i just steal a chunk from the beginning and call it good (probably not what you’re “supposed to do” but god does it make it easier) (also titles are just HARD how do you do it)

26. Is there a specific scene or scenario you’re looking forward to most? (No, you don’t have to give away spoilers!)

oh hmmmm let me go scroll through my wips real quick

ok i (finally) found an answer, but i’m excited for the ways the soulmate au ties into constant state of saturdays!! we get some behind the scenes info, more glimpses into gigi’s job at the coffee shops, and some bosco and daya (of course). i love when fics can be from the same universe, adding little easter eggs feels so exciting and fun and cool

28. Share a piece from one of your current WIPs!

from hanahaki au:

Crystal didn’t care for tea, but at this point she was so desperate to help Gigi that she was researching teas to help her sleep better. She had to get a little creative at this point—Gigi didn’t like chamomile, but she had loved the lavender tea that Crystal would bring her almost every night until one day she told her to please stop bringing it over.

That evening, Crystal found sprigs of lavender in the trash can with a few specks of blood on the flowers. That cleared up any confusion. Crystal added lavender to the list of flowers Gigi had coughed, along with the meaning: purity, silence, devotion, serenity, grace, and calmness. Together they narrowed it down to either silence or devotion, but Gigi didn’t seem to want to look into it any further so they left that one alone.

[tinkertoysdamn]

some late WiP nonsense

Some WiP stuff for the BatB AU and the next TLSLWR story. Trying to motivate myself.

Chapter 2 of "What's Your Work?"

That gave Peter pause.  “You heard this place was Kree and you still came?” 

Nebula didn’t see the problem.  “Why wouldn’t we?”

From the way Peter squirmed, he wasn’t comfortable answering.  “The Captain has a history with the Kree.  We just heard this place was abandoned.”  His eyes shifted around, as if he could find some hidden clues as to the original masters of this domain.  “Don’t think his informant would have given us the tip if it were Kree.”

“Regardless,” Gamora said, “we were sent on a retrieval mission.  We did not find the device but we did spring a trap.”  She remembered that moment all too well with a bitterness that galled her.  There had been no warning until they stumbled across the rune painted by an old wizard.  One that had sealed their doom.

“The curse thing,” Peter said.  “Was it actually meant for you guys or—”

“It was meant for Thanos,” Nebula spat, still bitter about it.  “It was revenge for all the terrible things he did,” her nose wrinkled, “but they got us instead.”

“It’s not like we didn’t deserve it,” Gamora murmured.  The wizard’s tone as he had listed their crimes one by one still haunted her sleep.  She didn’t know how Nebula could act like it didn’t mean anything to her.    

“Speak for yourself, sister.”  Nebula hissed the endearment with as much venom as she could muster.  

Oh, that was it.  Gamora bared her teeth, unwilling to bear all the blame.  “I’m not the one called ‘The Galaxy’s Greatest Sadist.’”

Nebula let the insult roll off of her, eager to hash it out.  “So says Daddy’s Favorite.”

“Okay, that’s enough!”  Peter shoved his way in between them, a dangerous and perhaps foolish decision.  “Point is,” he said, “you got cursed for being serious A-holes, right?”

His assessment was crude but to the point.  “Yes,” Gamora said. 

TLSLWR Part 9 (dear god I've written 8 of these?)

Peter had a great deal of respect for Kamala Khan as a hero and as a teenager trying to juggle crazy powers, school and family.  There was no way in hell he was letting her lead this team.  

“Come on,” Kamala whined.  “I’m totally ready for this.  I’ve been on important missions with you, you’ve seen me in action.”  She refrained from tugging on his sleeve but from how she hovered it was clear that she was this close to doing it.  “I’ve even been to space!”

“Nothing doing,” Peter said.  “Bishop, you’re in charge.”

[fairyboygenius]

wip wednesday (thursday for me)

ft: kill your darlings- the first chapter

the pills had stopped working a while ago. but you still take one when it’s offered, letting the bright pink fizz out on your tongue. the pink pony inside you has returned. she’s more relaxed than she was even a few weeks ago.

you know this is your place, as everyone looks and squeals when a deep brown bunny hops into the room. he has a white pattern on his back that reminds you of angel wings. you squeal with them, fingertips itching to pet him even as bunny warns against it. no use in getting attached, she says. we all know what happens. and she would know, she’s been leading these workshops for the past six months.

at least, until she turns to you, says your name in that sugary-sweet voice. your real name. not bunny. it feels foreign in your head, the tictac still having that power over you.

“we’d like you to lead workshop today.”

with shaking hands, you move to stand in front of the bunny. you squat down, reaching gently out, petting his back once, twice. he really was adorable. it was too bad, really.

“say goodbye to the bunny, girls,” a clear, confident voice rang from your throat. the girls all mumbled goodbyes, cooing at the bunny. you stand up regrettably, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. you can do this. you really want to do this. you know for a fact that you’re better than bunny (chrissy) and her old movie stars, or bunny (rylie) and her hyperfixaton on the one direction boys, or bunny (emily) and her crush on ryan gosling.

you walk over to the tv, scrolling through your youtube to look at recommendations, stopping on a play through of a video game. modern warfare. you’d heard the name, played it with your brothers and cousins growing up, but it was too bloody for the pink pony. you stifled an instinct to cover your eyes and ears, put the video on mute, and pressed play. handsome men in military gear filled the screen. yes, you thought. this is perfect.

rylie turns up the music on the other side of the room- this time, instrumentals of lana del rey songs. emily, on the other side, turns the lights down, takes a red rose from the vase and scatters some petals near the door.

you undress, pulling off the pink jumpsuit decorated with sequins and adjusting the straps of your bra. it’s also pink- but a paler one, and lacy, a bombshell with cups so padded that your cleavage goes up to your chin. the girls had gotten you a size too small, so you spend a few minutes readjusting yourself. then you kick off the jumpsuit, accepting the sheer lace chemise from bunny. your plush thighs stick together with sweat. your arms rest self-consciously on the bulge of your apron belly, and the pink pony whinnies in disapproval. clearly, you’ve been eating too many mini cupcakes for their liking. the thong digs into your asscrack. you can’t bring yourself to pick it out.

maybe the lingerie is what would do. maybe after months- six, to be exact- of failed darlings, ones who couldn’t get it up for your demands- it’d finally work. you better be getting fucked after this. rough but reverent, as you had written on your darling wish list (“we can’t call them men or boys, that humanizes them!” chrissy had chirped). like in the fanfictions you read. in the audio erotica you listened to, two fingers deep on lonely nights. all the other darlings were so sex repulsed that once when emma asked one to fuck her, his head exploded. maybe the baby voices were just grating on his nerves.

you pull on the mask- a hyperealistic bunny mask- and close your eyes. this part is easiest when you can’t see the bunny. you can hear the others pulling their masks on and giggling what to name this one. beowulf? heathcliff? duke? sherlock? john? no, we’ve already had too many johns. you know the men in the game have names- those seem irrelevant to you. they’ll introduce themselves when prompted.

you hold up a hand and the girls quiet down instantly. power floods through you, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. it feels like being doused in water on an especially hot summer day. cold, bracing, but good. …extremely good.

you take a deep breath, and everyone does the same.