#waiver wire

[fantasycouch]

Waiver Wire Adds Week 13 Fantasy Football (2023)

[stereax]

[notacowfest]

hi everyone! in light of AO3's planned downtime when fics were set to go live on july 1, fics will now go live whenever the downtime ends on july 1. also in light of this, please feel free to get your fics in at any point between now & july 1 in order to have them be part of the collection whenever fics do go live!

in other news — following some conversations had with people who signed up & want to participate in the fest, the collection will not be closing for new contributions after authors go live. plenty of people (myself included!) have claims that they won't be able to fulfill before july 1 but that they/we would still like to get to. leaving the collection open allows everyone to have a place to eventually put those finished fics; it also means that more prompts might have fics written for them! a win-win!!

any fics submitted to the collection before july 1 (fics go live) or july 5 (author reveals) will be part of the Big Fic Drops, but i will continue to periodically check the collection for any new fics to be added to the collection. for right now, the plan is to leave the collection open until next year when there's a new prompting period for NAC 2025.

speaking of prompting, prompting will not be opening back up. the collection is simply staying open for new fic submissions. if you do have a new prompt you want to put out in the ether, however ...... might i suggest checking out .......... the waiver wire?

anyway, thanks so much for bearing with this update post! i hope everyone's excited for fics going live!!

[halfmoon-horse]

This guy is an expert on submarine design, and there are a lot of engineers in the comments. Consensus is that they're most likely already dead, as the submersible was not designed with contingency in mind.

Possible shearing forces on the adhesive holding the carbon fibre tube and metal domes together

Advertised 96 hours of air, but it's not stipulated whether that's for 1 person or 5

Controlled by a third party wireless game controller, unknown if back-up wired steering system is in place or spare batteries for the controller are brought along

No way of removing smoke or toxic gases in the event of a fire, and no reported oxygen masks with positive pressure

No way to open from the inside even if they surface - reminiscent of the Apollo 1 tragedy where all three astronauts died in a fire on the launch pad because they couldn't escape the capsule

And so much more. It's a deathtrap. I'm hoping that considering the negligence of construction and lack of quality assurance and testing their little waiver will be struck down and they're sued out of existence. It's not about this one company being stopped, it's about preventing similar companies in space and ocean exploration making the same mistakes. Even NASA gets things wrong - Apollo 1, Challenger, Colombia - so these private businesses must be held to the same or better standards when there is a risk to life, just as the aviation industry is.

Regulations are written in blood.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

When Are You Gonna Come Down

Pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Rating: M

Warnings: Aftercare; implied rough sex, but no sex is shown; implied lack of previous aftercare; nonsexual nudity; fluff; not beta-read

Summary: "Let's get you cleaned up," He urges against your skin. "C'mon."

You hesitate before you nod, scooching toward the edge of the bed. Bradley gets up with you, taking hold of your hand and guiding you down the hall. You follow, blinking a little blearily.

You're usually in your car by now. You're usually pulling over to take a deep breath, to calm yourself down, to settle.

"Slow down."

"I'm fine."

"Just hang on—"

You don't heed his order, already sitting up—and nearly falling back as your head spins. Your gut swoops with panic as you brace your hands on the bed, sucking in a nervous breath.

"Holy crap," You mumble.

"I told you." He's chuckling, but it isn't a mean sound. Bradley scoots closer to you, gathering you back against his chest and easing you to lay down. You sag back against him, head still throbbing as stars crowd your eyes.

"You always in such a hurry afterward?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," You grumble.

"I would, for next time. May tie you down, head it off at the pass."

"I'd like to see you try."

"I'm in the Navy, sweatpea. I can tie a mean knot."

You can't help but smile a little as he gently smooths beads of sweat back from your forehead, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"You alright?" He asks. "You want something to eat or drink?"

"I should go."

"Wait a little bit." His hand slides down, smoothing down the slope of your shoulder. "Just...Come down properly, huh? I'm not gonna send you out all wired."

"I'm used to it."

It falls out of your mouth, and it's chased by harrowing silence. His fingers never waiver in their tender stroking of your skin.

"You shouldn't be," He finally murmurs. "You shouldn't split so fast."

"It's normal."

"It's not right."

"I can handle it."

"...I don't mean to be rude," He hedges, "But you just tried to get off of my bed and nearly dropped back down immediately."

"I'm just a little lightheaded."

"I know. I was rough."

"I wasn't complaining."

"I know." He leans into it. You can't see his eye roll, but you can hear it. You open your mouth to argue again, but he lowers his head, dotting your neck with tender kisses. You let your eyes slide closed, feeling yourself become putty in his arms. He carefully props the two of you up after a few minutes. You draw in a nervous breath, waiting for your head to spin, for the room to tip sideways…But it never comes.

"Feelin' alright?" He murmurs.

"Mhm."

"Let's get you cleaned up," He urges against your skin. "C'mon."

You hesitate before you nod, scooching toward the edge of the bed again. Bradley gets up with you, taking hold of your hand and guiding you down the hall. You follow, blinking a little blearily.

You're usually in your car by now. You're usually pulling over to take a deep breath, to calm yourself down, to settle. You follow Bradley into the bathroom, leaning against the counter as he starts the shower up. He glances at you now and again, seeming to want to check on you before he draws you takes you by the hand, leading you into the stall. You sigh at the feeling of the warm spray, tipping your head under the stream and feeling yourself relax further. Bradley curls up behind you, dropping kisses to your shoulders before he takes hold of the soap. It's a moment before you feel him smoothing your hands over your back. You brace your slightly-shaking arms against the tiled walls, relaxing as Bradley cleans your body reverently.

You reach for the soap, determined to do the same, but—

"Nn-nn," He hums, smoothing his hands along your arms until he's intertwining your fingers. "This is about you."

It makes you shiver. The brush of his lips, and his steady, sweat insistence.

"You took me so well, you know that?" He murmurs against the shell of your ear. "So fucking sweet, baby. You felt so fucking good."

The praise melts over you like warm butter. You whimper softly, fingers against his.

"Took care of me, just like I needed," He adds, giving your hands a squeeze. "Now it's my turn to take care of you."

--

You think that it'll end at the shower—that Bradley will shove some clothes at you and nudge you out to your car with a kiss. But there you are, sitting at the counter, wearing your underwear and one of his old t-shirts, and chowing down on the best damn grilled cheese you've ever had. Before you can completely finish the first one, Bradley's tipping another one onto your plate. You glance up guiltily, but he just smiles, turning back to the stove.

"You can have it," You offer.

"Nu-uh," He waves you off. "That's yours. I'll make another one."

"...You don't have to be this nice, you know."

"This isn't a have to, this is a want to. Although," He glances at you over his shoulder, "If you're that used to taking it and no one taking care of you afterward, that's not okay."

"I don't do it a lot," You shrug, "But when I do, it's just, like...I don't know. It's quick. I don't think about it."

"That why you're so used to running?"

"I guess."

Bradley glances back toward you, and you hurriedly look down, taking up the grilled cheese and stuffing a bite into your mouth.

"Does running feel good?"

"...Not really," You mumble around the food.

"Then don't run next time."

"I didn't run this time."

"You tried to."

He's got you there. You raise your thumb, sucking a few crumbs and melted butter off before you glance at Bradley again. You find him watching you with gentle curiosity.

"...I'll let up once you finish that," He nods to the grilled cheese and the glass of water beside your plate. You consider, looking down at the plate and poking a few crumbs.

"Is it okay if I sleep here?" You ask.

You don't dare meet his eye. You hear turn the stove off, and the sound is chased by the steady padding of his feet. You feel the heat of him at your side, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him place a hand against the counter.

And then—he presses a tender kiss to your cheek. Your eyes slip shut, lips pulling with a smile as he murmurs,

"More than okay with it, sweetpea."

"You're a real romantic, Bradshaw. And you know what," You hold up the rest of the sandwich. "This grilled cheese isn't half-bad."

[stereax]

Pretty sure Ren's got everything right here! You'll see a few AHL moves going forward, like the NJD-MTL Legare-Durandeau deal, but these players are only expected to play in the AHL. NHL teams' rosters are essentially locked from here on out.

Question for you if you dont mind. If a team claims a player off waivers after the trade deadline, can that player play in the playoffs?

I don't mind and this is a hilarious scenario to talk about but it's accurate and it's saddening. Because if you get waived and you get claimed you are ineligible to play for the remainder of the season. And in order to be eligible to play in the AHL you had to be on the AHL roster before the trade deadline.

Meaning if a player gets waived and claimed they cannot even play in the AHL unless otherwise noted in a previous paper transaction.

So I'm going to do a quick breakdown of all of the post trade deadline rules for anyone & everyone who's not aware of them and or are new to hockey or the NHL

Teams can still waive and claim players however claimed players are ineligible to play for the remainder of the (NHL) season. We may see some later in the season for teams whose AHL teams are making the playoffs.

The trade deadline is not actually a hard cap on trades for the season. We will still be seeing people getting moved for future considerations, or for their AHL teams as the AHL trade deadline is exactly a week after the NHL

Players can still be signed. However players that are signed after the trade deadline that we're not already on the reserve list are ineligible to play in the playoffs. You'll probably see this most often with college signees or AHL boys that get NHL contracts and play the remainder of the season but are still ineligible for the playoffs

For a player to be sent down to the minors after the trade deadline they must have been on the AHL teams roster prior to the trade deadline. Players who are waivers exempt are still subject to this rule and as such that is why we saw a bunch of people sent down right before the trade deadline that way their players can get sent down for possible playoff runs. The only exception to this is players that need to go on conditioning loan Post injury (Long Term/LTIR) to make sure they're good to play in the NHL

The major rule post TDL is that teams only have four recalls (non-emergency) for the rest of the season. So paper transactions that during the beginning of the season would be often. Emergency recalls are limited to a team that has less than twelve (12) healthy forwards, six (6) healthy defense men, or their two (2) healthy goalies. Teams must be able to fill their roster in order to play they're required to have eighteen (18) skaters and two (2) goalies, and requires the cap space to be able to call these players up. When players become healthy again and are roster eligible they must then send the recalls back down or they are changed into a paper transaction and takes one of their four slots.

I'm tagging these people for opinions, corrections and exposure: @stereax @hard4softthings @robindrake13

[bluestar22x]

Maze Find

Summary: When your dog runs into a corn maze, you run into Frankie Morales

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Rating: General

Word Count: 900(ish)

Warnings: None, pure Hallmarky fluff

Author’s Note: This is my submission for jolabrew + withcheese fall challenge ( @goodwithcheese and @jolapeno ) - I picked Morales Mocha with corn maze mishap (more like meet cute).

xxx

"Biscuit, where are you?" you called out, eyes scanning your surroundings, trying not to panic.

There wasn't much to see beyond corn stalks, given you were in a corn maze, but you had to try.

Your new dog Biscuit, a rescue from the local animal shelter, had managed to wiggle his way out of, you could admit, his too loose collar to chase after a squirrel during your afternoon walk.

The last you'd seen of him, about three minutes ago, was his wire haired sandy colored body slipping into the corn field, which was unusually busy due to the time of year.

The owner was hosting a corn maze, open to anyone, for a small price. A price the farmer had waivered for you when you explained why you needed access to his field.

You hadn't seen the dog since his initial escape, and you were starting to worry that he was no longer even in the area. Hounds were well known for running off far.

You were nearing the end of the maze when you turned a corner and sagged with relief, finding Biscuit sitting in front of a tall man with a well trimmed beard and a Standard Heating Oil cap perched on top of his head. A nearly fully eaten ice cream cone was in his right hand, a paper shopping bag in the other.

"This wanderer yours?" he asked when he saw you appear, an amused expression on his face.

"Sorry, he got off the leash," you explained, "Saw a squirrel and it was too hard to resist."

He chuckled and you smiled at him as you approached and slipped Biscuit's collar back around his neck, tightening it in the process. You liked the sound of the stranger's laughter. It was warm, hearty. "Thanks for distracting him while I caught up."

"It was purely by accident," he told you, shrugging. "He was interested in what I'm eating."

You nodded. "Ice cream is a weakness of his."

The man's lips curved up. "Mine too."

"So what are you doing in the maze?" you inquired. "Got a lost dog of your own?"

He had to be either a farm hand or a parent, but you were curious. He was very easy on the eyes, and you were pretty sure you'd never seen him around before. The town wasn't so small that not knowing him was impossible, but still.

"No, just a lost kid," he said, "Except not actually lost. I can see from here where he's hiding." He glanced over your shoulder. "Nic come on out. It's time to head home."

A young boy, maybe four, shot out from between the stalks to your left. "Aww...already?"

"Yes, already," the man said in a tone you immediately recognized as fatherly stern. "Your mom will kill me if we're late."

You cocked an eyebrow at him and he laughed. "She won't actually kill me, but Nic's mother is planning to take him to see a movie tonight and she doesn't like being late to anything."

"Ah, Nic's mother," you repeated. That didn't sound like they were still together. You shouldn't care, but you did. Because he was handsome, especially in the green plaid shirt he was wearing, and seemed nice.

"Yeah, we divorced three years ago. On good terms. But she likes her schedules."

"Can I pet your dog?" Nic interrupted.

You grinned at his politeness, most kids didn't ask, even though they should with strange dogs. "Of course, Biscuit would love it."

Nic kneeled down and started petting him under the chin and the dog flipped over to expose his belly, making everyone laugh.

"Looks like you've made a new friend," you declared, grinning.

"He's so silly," Nic said, "What kind of dog is he?"

"A Basset Fauve de Bretagne," you answered.

The young boy blinked at you, confused. "A Basset what?"

You chuckled. "It's a French breed. You know France?"

The boy nodded. "Mrs. Bran is teaching us how to read maps."

"Oh...interesting."

"It's...okay."

You laughed again at his honesty. "Well, I promise the country is more interesting than its map."

Nic's father gave him a few moments more to stroke Biscuit then repeated that they had to go.

The boy pouted but did as told, heading out for their car at the end of the maze.

"Thanks again..." you trailed and the man took the hint.

"Frankie. Most people call me Frankie."

"Thanks again, Frankie."

"I didn't do much, but I'm glad to have helped..."

You gave him your name and smiled again. "Help is help."

You rummaged through your purse after and pulled out a pen and notepad.

"Those still exist?" Frankie joked as you put ink to the lined yellow paper. His dark eyes were curious as you jotted down something on it - your phone number.

You weren't usually so bold, but if he wasn't interested he just wouldn't call right? No big deal. But you'd regret not making an attempt at a date. You'd been single for far too long.

You passed him the note. "I'd like to thank you over coffee or something. My treat. Just call me when you're not busy sometime?"

He smiled and folded the paper up nicely. "I think I'll take you up on that offer. Let me drop off Nic, his mother's house isn't far, then I'll call."

"Sounds good."

You shared warm smiles and parted with your boys.

As promised, Frankie called a few hours later.

xxx

Tagged: @harriedandharassed

xxx

Main Masterlist

xxx

[matsmi13]

Devoted to his club forever

I have always been a big fan of the Paris Saint Germain football club. So, when I won a contest for an exclusive behind-the-scenes tour of the Parc des Princes stadium, I was over the moon. A whole day to explore the secret nooks and crannies, meet the players, and maybe even get a first-hand look at the world of professional soccer.

The visit began in the classic way. I discover the dressing rooms, the press room, the benches where so many legends have sat. It's all fascinating, but it's at the end of the tour that things get really interesting.

“For the more passionate like you, we've prepared a never-before-seen immersive experience where you have the opportunity to “live in the skin of a player”. Would you like to try this experience ?” announced the guide with an enigmatic smile.

I accepted immediately, all excited. I thought it was a kind of virtual reality simulation, an interactive experience where I could feel what it's like to play for PSG.

I had no idea what was going on when I was taken to another part of the stadium, an area normally off-limits to the public.

Once inside an ultra-modern room, I was taken aback by the atmosphere. The room is filled with high-tech equipment, complex machinery, and scientists in white coats bustling around various devices.

“Before we start this experiment, we need you to sign a few waivers. It's standard procedure to make sure everything goes smoothly” said the guide. He handed me a stack of documents to sign. The sheets were dense, full of legal and scientific jargon I didn't really understand. But my excitement won out. I told myself it was probably just a formality.

I signed without hesitation, then was ushered into a small booth off to one side.

“ Please enter this cabin. We need you to undress and leave all your belongings here, including any digital devices”. I obeyed, thinking it was to put on some special equipment, maybe even real PSG match gear. But once undressed, one of the scientists took all my stuff and closed the cabin door behind you.

The cabin I was in was simple, with white walls and soft lights. I was starting to feel slightly nervous, but I pushed those thoughts aside. After all, I was here for a unique experience.

But something wasn't right. The cabin began to emit a dull hum, and the walls around you lit up in a strange way. Suddenly, a breath of fresh air escaped, followed by a strange tingling sensation on your skin. The buzzing intensified, and waves passed through your body, leaving you with a sensation of warmth, first slight, then increasingly intense.

I felt strange, as if my body were reacting to something invisible. My skin began to stretch, my limbs lengthened inexplicably. I wanted to move, but I felt frozen in place, unable to control my movements.

My heart was beating faster, but it seemed to be beating outside me, as if my body had become a mere shell. Sensations multiplied as I gradually lost the perception of myself as a human being. My muscles contracted, then relaxed, slowly breaking down, fiber by fiber.

My mind was in total confusion. I didn't understand what was happening to me, but I felt that something irreversible was happening. My thoughts scattered, your identity slowly faded away as your body was transformed into malleable matter.

Once the dissolution was complete, my remaining residues were transformed into fibers. I was stretched, twisted and reassembled into a continuous thread. During this process, I gradually lost my human consciousness, turning into a textile material. I became a material, a textile substance ready to be used and shaped for a new creation.

Once the thread was formed, the machine stopped and the cabin opened. The scientists reappeared, exchanging satisfied glances.

“Let's see the final result” says one of them. He runs his fingers along the wire I've become, while another scientist checks data on a screen. “The transformation is very conclusive. The texture is homogeneous, and the molecular structure is stable. The yarn is very strong, yet light. This is exactly what we needed for the rest of the process”. “We finally have the perfect organic material to make what sir has been waiting for. After several attempts, this person was the right one. And to think that this young supporter didn't even take the time to read the documents he signed. His blind enthusiasm and unthinking devotion have led him to a unique destiny: to become a piece of clothing for his club forever. Send the wire to the factory for assembly. We have to meet the deadline”

I was wound into spools, taken away and transported to a new destination.

I was shipped to a specialized textile mill, woven into a solid, uniform navy-blue fabric, cut into pieces according to a precise pattern and assembled to create the undershirt. The sewing process finalized my transformation into a ready-to-wear garment.

I was carefully packed and sent straight to the Parc des Princes stadium. I arrived in the dressing room, where the kitman in charge of the players' equipment unpacked me and placed me carefully folded in Kylian Mbappe's locker.

The locker room was quiet as we waited for the players to arrive. Not a sound. It took forever. Then the players arrived, including Kylian Mbappe. I felt his hand close over me and inspect me for a moment, his fingers gliding over your surface, before slipping me under his main jersey.

“Hmm, this feels really different” Kylian murmurs as he adjusts the sleeves, testing the sensation against his skin. “It's light, but it's like it's breathing with me” He makes a few movements to check my flexibility. “Not bad at all. It's exactly what I needed. The fabric is soft, but it has this... sturdy feel. I feel like I'm going to be able to move freely without it bothering me”. Kylian continues to test me, raising his arms, bending down, jumping slightly on the spot. “It keeps me dry. Even here, in the changing room, I can feel it regulating the temperature. I don't get that clammy feeling you sometimes get with other undershirts”.

On the pitch, the sensations run wild. Every time Kylian sprints, makes a technical move or changes direction, I'm subjected to compression and stretching forces. The constant pressure and friction are new sensations for me. Every impact has to be absorbed in such a way as to minimize disruption to Kylian.

My fabric, designed to wick away moisture, is in constant interaction with Kylian's sweat. This persistent absorption seems crucial to maintaining his comfort and performance. As an undershirt, my fabric body have to effectively manage this moisture, distributing it throughout my fabric to avoid accumulation that could cause discomfort.

As an undershirt, I have to provide constant support. The cut and seams are made to fit Kylian's body perfectly, offering both support and comfort. Every seam, every insertion must be impeccable to avoid chafing or distortion that could affect his game.

The match is over. Every fibre of my being is saturated with sweat, soaked in Kylian's warmth. I've been worn, I've been useful, I've been... his.

But the happiness was short-lived. In one swift movement, Kylian pulls me off and throws me in his locker, like a worthless object. The air is now freezing. I lay there in the corner of his locker, motionless and useless.

Time passes... or maybe not... because the notion of time is escaping me more and more.

Finally, a hand grabs me. It's that of the person in charge of the equipment. I'm handled and tossed into a dirty clothes bag. I find myself among other clothes, all soaked with sweat, all marked by the effort of the person wearing them. We're crammed together, pressed against each other.

The bag starts moving, carrying me towards the launderette. Each jolt reminds me of my new reality. I'm just another garment to be cleaned, stripped of all traces of life and human warmth.

I'm thrown into a machine without the slightest consideration. The cold water overwhelms me and cleanses me. Every fibre of my body is abused, turned inside out, wrung out. Kylian's sweat is washed away, his musk erased... and with them, that little feeling of belonging disappears. I have become a simple piece of cloth, washed and disinfected, with no soul, no memory.

The spinning compresses me, crushes me. I'm emptied, compressed, reduced to a state of pure fabric, without warmth, without life. Drying... the hot air passes through me, making me lighter, but also emptying me of any trace of what I once was. I'm nothing more than an undershirt, clean, dry... and empty.

Finally, I'm taken out of the machine. I'm folded, put away and placed in a dark closet with the other undershirts. I'm no longer struggling. I'm in the dark, motionless... but this immobility, this waiting, is no longer important. Waiting... that's all clothes do.

The closet is silent. I am among the other clothes, perfectly folded. Time no longer has any meaning for me.

Where am I ? Who am I ? What is my real nature ? I'm... what ? An undershirt ? Yes, an undershirt. But… where do I come from ? What have I become ? The questions float unanswered, in the void. Here in the dark, all I know... is wait. Wait…why ? Why wait ? My role... is... to be a piece of clothing.

My only thoughts are of serving, of being worm. I want the sweat. I need the musk... need to comfort and support my owner. I no longer have conscious thoughts, desires or dreams. My humanity is gone, replaced by the pure essence of a piece of clothing. I no longer feel the emotions and thoughts of a human being.

I am an undershirt, a simple fabric, entirely devoted to serving my master, Kylian Mbappé. When the time comes, when he wear me again, I will be ready. But until that day, I remain here, still, accepting my destiny as clothing.

Thanks to @inanimatetffantasies for his support and advice in writing this story

[fantasycouch]

Waiver Wire Adds Week 17 Fantasy Football (2023)

[stereax]

[punks-never-die205]

I just went to a renaissance faire where there was a blacksmith engraving kids’ initials on horseshoes and bending metal into hearts for fair maidens and all I could think of was kid and killer running that booth in pirate “costumes” in a modern au and Heat doing fire breathing performances for teenagers and Wire running the axe throwing booth and giving lessons on how to throw tridents and shoot bows

Any thoughts on an AU like that? This blog has given me kid pirates brain rot for real 😂

Oh 1000000% the kid pirates would have a booth at the ren faire.

Kid would definitely run a blacksmith booth, and I could see him having some medieval styled prosthetics on display too.

Killer would have a food booth that sold like, three things - Turkey legs, pasta, and beer. XD Okay, I jest, there'd be some more stuff on the menu, but the big sellers would be those three.

And spot on for the other two - Wire has waivers for people to sign, not because of accidental injury, but "when you become a badass javelin thrower, you do not tell the court that I taught you." XD

[kitsune-pop]

here's something for the robot fuckers

contains soft dom AI, body swapping, robot porn and the trans experience

you, like most people, are strapped for cash and the only money is in the military. but you've never been much of a fighter, so instead you join the RD department as a test dummy. you never expected to do anything worthwhile with this job, just test a new gun, or a new type of suit, get paid and go home. then, one day you're approached by the head researcher with a proposition. experimental surgery to implant a mech connector into your brain. you've known the military uses advanced robotics to fight their battles, but you thought they were just autopiloted, or maybe used like a video game. the reality is a mix of advanced AI and wireless direction, but RD wants to eliminate any lag between pilot and mech to make the first fully piloted mech in history. and due to your willingness to participate in almost any experiment (not to mention your expendability) you'd be perfect for the job. plus a hefty cash advance with ten times more waiting after the procedure is finished doesn't hurt. you could get not just yourself, but your friends and family out of the slums with that sort of cash!

so you hurriedly sign the waivers without any more thought than before and agree to the date of the surgery. scratch that, the first surgery. this… is gonna take a while. at first, you barely notice anything. just a couple of smooth plates placed just under your skin. more fun was when they put a few jacks in your temples. now you can play music directly in your brain! then they split you open, pulled out your spine and replaced it with a fully mechanical connector to your nervous system. they promise the taste of copper will leave your mouth after a few weeks. and finally, they remove the back of your skull, stuff what seems to be a glorified headphone jack into your brain, and give you a neat new panel to replace the bits of bone they tossed out. and the procedure is complete! you check yourself out in the mirror, see the various connection points along your spine and the Big One in the back of your head and wonder what the next step is

turns out you don't have to wait very long, because soon enough you're introduced to your new mech! you always knew these feats of mechanical mastery were big, but gazing up at it you were taken aback by just how big. thirty meters tall, it was surprisingly slender in build. sleek arms (four of them!) and oddly jointed legs, this thing was utterly alien to what you've known your body to be. and they expect you to pilot it? with your mind, no less! the scientists assure you it won't be alone, they've upgraded their AI to accommodate for the human interface. shrugging, you ask where the ladder is to get in

one elevator ride later and you're facing the cockpit… which happens to be an oval pod sticking out of the back of the mech. turns out you don't need to be in the head to be a brain. the more you know. you slide in, resting comfortably on your back as the gel-like cushion softly expands to envelop you. only your head is exposed as the pod slides in and you're faced with darkness. gentle white LED lights come on and you're faced with a quite horrifying contraption descending on top of your head, all hooks and needles and wires. you panic briefly, but relax as it stops just above your face, four arms topped with flat metal plate extending to connect to your head where you know similar plates are just under the skin

you hear a voice greet you, and it announces itself as your AI partner who is going to aid you in the steps required to fully integrate yourself with the mech you're currently inside

you feel relieved, and the AI announces that it's going to activate the next steps. you see the needles approaching, but as soon as anxiety mounts the AI tells you they are simply going to enter the ports on your temples to gain access to your brain. similar needles are approaching your spine as well. it feels… odd as you're probed. almost like touching a limb that's fallen asleep. your AI tells you this is normal

your AI announces a successful integration. but, something sounds different about its voice. your AI partner tells you that it is speaking to your mind directly. you try to think of a response, but the voice assures you that you don't need to worry about thinking words, that simple feelings and urges will be read appropriately and responded to quickly. the researchers want the new generation of Mecha to react almost entirely on instinct with AI guidance. amazed by the technology that has taken over half your brain, you're eager to continue

your AI tells you the next steps will be disorienting. it will be shutting down your senses so that once the final jump into the Mecha is complete your mind won't have any conflicting information. it tells you it's going to start with your taste. initially you're excited (the copper taste hasn't left yet) but then you realize just how different your mouth feels when you can't taste it. your sense of smell goes next, and all the scents are gone; the rubber smell of the gel, the faint smell of oil on all the machinery. it, combined with your lack of taste almost makes your face feel numb

next is your hearing. immediately you are deafened. you expected it to be gradual, but this was instant. all of the sounds; the whirring, the clinking, the squeaking, all of it was gone. you briefly panic, but your AI quickly reassures you everything is going well, and that you're doing excellent. the praise calms you down, and you close your eyes. the adrenaline is still pumping through you though, and it's starting to affect other areas of your anatomy. you hope the AI doesn't notice. it assures you it does, and that this is normal. well then. so much for dignity

you're told your vision is next, and you open your eyes to… nothing. you expected darkness, but that's not quite right. you aren't seeing the absence of light, you aren't seeing anything. your heart starts to beat faster, realizing that anything could be approaching your face and you wouldn't be able to see it. you take some deep breaths before jolting as something comes down over your face. you AI assures you that this is simply an oxygen mask to ensure proper airflow to your body once final integration is complete. it tells you you're doing very well, and a feeling of warmth spreads through your mind. you take a deep breath, ready for the final step

you feel a prickling along your back that quickly spreads through your whole body. just as it reaches unbearable it fades to nothing. you can't feel the gel surrounding you, the mask on your face, the connections plugged into your brain. your mind tries to panic, but your AI soothes the fear with gentle praise that seems to fill the space where your senses used to be. it tells you how well you're handling the integration, how you're the best candidate so far, how proud it is to be your AI companion. your mind calms, floating in absolute nothingness, completely sensory deprivation, soaked in sweet praise and a warm sense of comfort

with a slam, everything is blinding. you can touch, see, hear, smell (taste is still gone) you know the exact temperature of your internal engine (rapidly rising) you know the chemical makeup of the concrete beneath your feet (thirty meters tall!) your coolant levels are slightly below optimal (your internal temperature is rising fast) your mind is abuzz with so many more connections, people muttering in your ear (is that a radio station?) your vision flashes from normal to infrared to ultraviolet (how do these colors even exist) at the core, just above the engine, that's you and your vitals are going nuts and-

calm. systems are prioritized and minimized, checks are made in the background, and a calm voice telling you how well you've done, no one else has made a connection this quickly, what a good pilot you are, how it can't wait to take you out for a walk… you glance at your body's sensors and some… interesting readings are going off. and your internal engine is heating up again. and there's a strange energy surge-

your vision clears and you find yourself on your knees, all four arms braced on the floor to keep you steady as enormous fans vent out excess heat from your core. mechanics and researchers are scrambling around you, but you announce that you're okay. your AI states a little embarrassed, but otherwise functional. internally you beg your AI to keep this a secret. your AI assures you that so long as you keep being a good pilot (temperature jump) it has no reason to tell. you thank it, quickly wondering its name. you're told it's MP13

you go over basic movement with the researchers and MP13 simultaneously shows you how to monitor your internals. you quickly adjust to this titanic new body, and even find the scrolling numbers and shifting charts satisfying to watch as you progress. you're amazed at how easy multitasking is with MP13's help. it assures you it's your compatibility that helps it just as much. you complete advanced movement, testing the functionality of all four of your limbs at once, and the researchers call it a day. you head back to the dock, attach and let MP13 detach you from your body. soon enough you find yourself blinking in the LED lights as the rest of your senses come back. you notice the lights have changed to your favorite color, which was nice. MP13 tells you farewell and that it looks forward to seeing you tomorrow. in short order you're pulled from the Mecha, the gel retracts from your body and you peel yourself up with the help of a few mechanics. aside from some sweat stains (you hope no one notices your crotch) you seem perfectly healthy! the researchers call faze one a complete success!

over the next few months you make headway with MP13 and the Mecha. you already can go toe to toe with the best remote pilots in the military, your reaction speeds being far superior. it doesn't hurt that MP13 knows just how to motivate you. with its praise whispered in your mind as you tackle your sparring partner to the ground, you quickly disarm them, then to show off, you even disassemble their weapon in front of them. both you and MP13 cheer at the perfect performance. as you detach from the Mecha and say goodbye to MP13 you're called to the head researcher's office. you're told your results are exemplary (with the only aberration being unusually high core temperatures. still well within functional limits) and that they've been given the go ahead to bring even more subjects to the project! and the team wants you to be in charge of the new recruits! you panic for a moment, not ever being in charge of a group of people before, but your voice tells the researcher that you'd love to. stunned, your body shakes hands with the researcher and walks out into the hallway. you quickly realize MP13 has somehow followed you out of the Mecha! as you walk you have a high speed conversation with it, all it knows is that the docking procedure went without a hitch, and that everything should have happened normally. and as far as talking for you, it knew you would be able to handle a leadership role and simply spoke up on your behalf. before you know it, you're home with your companion nestled in your brain. you shrug, and figure it'll be fine

from then on, you notice more changes. as you cook for yourself, you no longer need to set a timer since you have a perfect sense of time. your chores get done quickly and efficiently as you converse with MP13. in your new leadership role you and MP13 shift seamlessly in the conversation whenever your nerves get the better of you or it doesn't quite grasp human euphemisms. you start to spend more time in the Mecha as well. training takes longer, you start filing reports before the docking procedures, you even have casual conversations with the mechanics as they work on your body. one day, you go to detach the body from your metal frame to find it unresponsive. you panic, because this is definitely horrible, but you stop yourself. you did everything correct, you should have slipped into your body… but, you realize, this is your body now. you've felt more at home in the Mecha than you ever did in your old body, and… you can't remember the last time there was a distinction between you and MP13. you bring this up to the head researcher who posits that you may have inadvertently made the jump to the next stage of human evolution

you talk to the other subjects about what happened to you, and what could happen to them. some of them are disgusted by the idea, and quit the project immediately. but several others are intrigued, and even excited for this change. a chance to be in a body that they have complete control over, one of them even brings up how easy cosmetic changes would be! and so the project continues

several years pass. you're walking down a pathway made specifically for Mecha, talking to your friend in the next city while chatting to the human on the raised platform next to you and organizing a grocery list for your partner (six months next week!) to pick up on their way home. plenty of people still balk at the thought of integrating themselves with Mecha, but many more have no issue with it. there's plenty of information, in no small part due to your work making sure the research you were a part of made it to public eyes. most people are happy to love and accept Mecha as people, and you couldn't be happier

plus, being able to praise yourself to overload is a nice bonus, too

[notacowfest]

and with that, authors are live!!

thank you so much to everyone who participated in the fest this year — whether it was by submitting prompts or writing fic or cheering people along in either endeavor. there was a lot going on in stars fandom during this last stretch of the fest, between the playoffs and all the moves made so far in the offseason, so getting to share in this with everyone was amazing!!

the collection is staying open for new submissions, so if you would still like to participate via fic, you absolutely can. i'm going to be periodically checking the collection but if you want to shoot me a message here on tumblr telling me when you've just submitted a new fic, please feel free to do so!! for right now, the plan is to leave the collection open until next year when there's a new prompting period for NAC 2025, so there's plenty of time to check over all of our unclaimed prompts & see if any spark your inspiration.

speaking of prompting, prompting will not be opening back up. the collection is simply staying open for new fic submissions. if you do have a new prompt you want to put out in the ether, however ...... might i suggest checking out .......... the waiver wire?

[ratatatastic]

"And Ekblad's partner has been pretty darn good as well. Plus-56, he lead all players last year in the NHL—that's Gustav Forsling. He was a waiver wire pickup from the Carolina Hurricanes and now he has signed an 8 year deal worth 46 million dollars. Paul Maurice said to me today, he thinks he's the best defensive defenceman on planet earth. And that is high praise! He says the way he closes the gap, the way he makes reads is next level."

florida panthers @ winnipeg jets | 11.19.24

and its not the first time paul has said forsys the best dman in the world in fact viaplay even brought it up to forsy back during the global series and he couldnt help but giggle as he goes into humble goddess mode about it

[wyattjohnston]

need nothing else but you - tyson jost

series: this is getting good now

word count: 1,781

summary: tyson gets put on waivers; it goes better than expected.

note: as always, thank you to @matthewtkachuk for being my sounding board and knowing more about my fics than i do. i promise there are brand new fics coming!

Flick had handled it well, truth be told.

That might have been because Tyson had called her first, eliminating any chance she would hear it from elsewhere. Therapy helped, too. She was able to take a few deep breaths before comforting Tyson as best she could. She was even able to finish her shift, which Tyson had insisted on when she offered to come straight home to him.

As well as she handled it, there was the lingering fear that he’d be claimed off waivers before she even finished with her last client.

He wasn’t. Thankfully.

Flick sent him a text as she was leaving. She had half a mind to tell him she was stopping to get ice-cream but thought better of it when all she got back was an uncharacteristic heart reaction. Immediately home it was.

She found Tyson on the couch, face down, with one arm and one leg hanging off the side. Her heart crumbled as she did, kneeling beside the couch and resting her hand on the back of his head.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, mumbling into the couch cushion.

Flick leant her chin on the cushion, right next to his face, and started stroking his curls as she asked, “For what?”

His sigh was so heavy that Flick felt it in her own chest.

“For not being good enough to have a team want to keep me.”

“Oh, Tyson,” Flick said softly. “I’ll love you whatever team you’re on. Me being in love with you has nothing to do with your hockey. I hope you know that.”

“I might not even get picked up; I might have to go to Iowa—I don’t even know where that is.”

“That makes two of us,” Flick said, unable to help the laugh that came with it.

Tyson laughed, too, but it was wet and tired. Flick leant in to kiss his cheek, watching him closely as she continued to stroke his hair. It was devastating to see his body shake as he breathed, a shake that had become all too present with the increase in healthy scratches.

“I don’t want to play in the AHL,” he said once he’d calmed down. “I don’t know how to try any harder to keep my spot and they just keep scratching me and now they… fuck.”

“Now they want to let you play hockey,” Flick insisted her, her hand never stopping. “This is shit, Tys, of course it is, but if you come out this in Iowa or in… I don’t know, Arizona, you’ll be playing hockey.”

“You’re not going to come with me.”

“Tyson…”

“No, I know,” he said hurriedly, shifting around on the couch so that he was lying on his side, looking at her. “I shouldn’t have said it. You can’t just drop everything for me again. I don’t want you to be that sad again.”

Flick frowned, moving her hand from his hair to his cheek, and said, “But you’re sad right now.”

“I’m a lot of things right now and sad is one of them.”

“We’ll work it out. We always work it out.”

Tyson reached out, guiding Flick so that she could lie with him on the couch, his arms wrapped tightly around her.

The twenty-four hours of the waiver wire were over and Flick was slumped over their dining room table waiting for Tyson’s call with his agent to finish. She’d slept fitfully—as had Tyson—so she was desperately trying to stay awake while she waited to find out Tyson’s next hockey team.

It felt like an age passed before he returned to the table, sitting down diagonal to her and touching her arm to make her lift her head.

“Where?” she asked warily, noting that there was nothing particularly enthusiastic about his expression.

“Buffalo.”

“New York?” Flick asked, sitting up straighter. “We’re going to New York?”

“Not the good part of New York. I think they’re actually in a blizzard right now.”

“No, I know, and I think you’re just going places that are colder and colder so that I’m prepared for if you make me move to Alberta. But, New York. Mat’s in New York, Tys. Cheyenne’s in New York. And I know that your hockey is more important; aren’t Buffalo supposed to be on a huge upswing right now? You’ve talked about that. It could be way worse.”

Tyson visibly cringed. “It doesn’t get much worse. They probably won’t be good for awhile. Few years.”

“Part of the rebuild?” Flick suggested. “I don’t know much about Buffalo, but I do know that Jeff Skinner is there and he’s got a smile that’s almost as big as yours, so I think you’re going to be just fine.”

“And you’ll be there in two weeks.”

“Less than. I’m gonna clean this place up, pack up all our stuff, work my final shifts, and then I’ll be there on the second for the game against the Avs. When do they want you out there?”

“Tomorrow. They’re in Toronto tonight, so not much use me flying out to nobody being there.”

Flick rose to her feet and stood beside Tyson, wrapping him up in her arms and kissing the top of his head repeatedly.

“We’re going to be fine,” she said. “I went back to Vancouver and we were fine. And you’re going to be fine because you’re Tyson Jost and I’ve never met anybody as good and as strong as you.”

“The next few weeks are going to suck.”

“Yeah, but we’re going to talk every day and it’ll be over before you know it.”

“You’re being very calm about this.”

“Oh good,” Flick said, sighing in relief. “I’m trying very hard to be calm.”

Tyson pulled her into his lap easily, so that his arms were wrapped around her.

“You’re doing a really good job. I don’t feel so bad about it.”

“Good. I’m also… Happy? I know it’s not the right part of New York but Mat is just a short flight away, right? And he’s not going to be able to fly up just to keep you company, but I reckon Cheyenne would if you really needed someone. In the grand scheme of things, there are far worse places than Buffalo.”

“Where?” Tyson asked, teasing.

“Uh,” Flick hesitated, caught out. “Dallas. It’s in the middle of the country, it’s a long flight everywhere.”

“But it’s the same distance to everywhere. Buffalo is a long, long away from LA.”

“Okay, but I don’t have to go to LA, so. That’s not a me problem, that’s a you problem.”

Flick’s phone buzzed, repeatedly and quickly. Tyson frowned; she’d gotten quite a few texts in the previous 24 hours because Tyson had put his phone in Do Not Disturb to ignore any calls or texts from people who weren’t family or his agent.

“It’s just Mat and Cheyenne,” she said happily when she had her phone in hand. “They’re excited we’re coming to New York, see.”

There wasn’t much to see aside from exclamation marks and emojis, but Flick still showed her phone to Tyson—he’d see it all again when he finally looked at his phone, but there was nothing wrong with a double dose of excitement.

Despite Tyson being on the ice, it had been weird to watch a Sabres vs. Habs game. The overall outcome had been pleasant to say the least, surprising but pleasant.

To see seven goals on the score board and not a single point being attributed to Tyson was rough, even if it was overshadowed by the fight that occurred less than two minutes into the game.

Flick told Tyson as much when they spoke on FaceTime after the game.

“You watched?” he asked, somewhere between shocked and tentative.

He was, as she had come to expect, curled up on his side in a hotel room—this one in Montreal, but they did all look pretty much the same. She was curled up on what had been their bed in St Paul.

“Of course, I did.”

Tyson nodded, as best he could on his side, taking his time to speak next and Flick knew exactly why.

He was cautious, sheepish, as he asked, “Are you mad at me?”

“Mad that it wasn’t Pezzetta.”

“That the only reason you’re mad?”

“I’m not mad,” she stressed. “I’m worried.”

“I won this one, though.”

The scoff that left her mouth was small, but not missed by Tyson “You already know I don’t think anyone wins.”

Tyson’s petulance was playful, and Flick was fully expecting it when he said, “He shouldn’t have started it.”

She expected it so much, that she had already prepared her response of, “You shouldn’t have thrown him into the boards like you did.”

“Okay,” Tyson conceded. “That’s a fair point. Was it as good to watch as it was to play in?”

Flick hummed, smiling to herself—that smile growing when Tyson smiled back at her.

“Really good if you’re a Sabres fan.”

“Which you are now,” he teased.

“That’s going to take some getting used to; I hadn’t even gotten used to wanting Minnesota to win.”

Tyson nodded again; Flick watched his curls get stuck on the pillow. She didn’t have a favourite version of Tyson because she loved him in all his iterations but if pressed to choose one, Tyson half asleep after a game was a good candidate.

“You’re handling this really well,” he told her, his voice soft and comforting.

“I was leaving a lot more being in Colorado than I am here,” Flick admitted. “Here only felt like home because you were here with me.”

“I love you, too.”

Flick hummed happily, her eyes fluttering shut in contentment. “I love you, Tys.”

When prompted, Tyson told her properly about his first day with the Sabres and the environment he walked into. It was filled with positive words and accompanied by a big smile, and Flick knew that she wasn’t going to get the real insight until she was with him again. She didn’t think he was lying to her, at least not intentionally, but he went into almost everything with such a positive outlook that he needed some time to get a proper feel for his new home.

“Go to sleep, Tys,” Flick whispered, watching Tyson’s eyes struggled to stay open. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. You can tell me about Buffalo.”

“I’m gonna get buried in the snow, didn’t you see?”

Flick had seen the tweet. She’d laughed at it for far longer than one would think.

“If you make it through the snow like the good Alberta Boy you are, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

[pulpandgristle]

I: TANK DUTY

Pilot ID: Dominic Roth, blockade runner of the 14th Compliment of the Greater Sixth Fleet Status: Deceased Cause of Death: Classified ----------------------------------------------------

They lost Dominic to the prototype last night. I want it on the record that it wasn't my fault.

He signed the waivers and I checked him into its tank, sure. Gave him the haptic credentials, opened the thorax, submerged him, but that's just Command borrowing my hands, y'know. That's courtesy.

No, he saw the guts on that thing and he wanted in. God knows why.

It's a fuckin' nightmare to look at—ninety feet from maw to tail, twice the size of his old model. Somehow it's not done growing yet. You're not normally supposed to pilot the gestating units, I guess, but they need intensive training for this one. Said something about how "it needs practice before it can walk".

I told Dom that the prototype was a monster, but he didn't listen. Just like him.

"I'm a killer, man. Won't even need the nerve shackles. Just you watch."

He was braindead before he finished plugging himself in.

Well, his brain worked fine. All of it worked, actually, every synapse at once, firing till they burned out.

It's some kind of feedback loop. A known bug. He's the fourth one to go like that. They left him in there; pilots on synaptic overclock are live wires, so you can't touch 'em without getting yourself fried too. Command calls those "daisy chains".

The prototype can filter your remains out of the cockpit if they tell it to. That's how they cleaned him out, apparently, cuz he was gone when I came back the day after. That thing turned him to slurry and let its kidneys handle him. Dominic Roth, pride of the Septarchy, ground down into fuckin' guano.

Serves him right. Pompous bastard.

It's almost done gestating. Only has five or six more eyes left that haven't opened yet. Command did a biopsy on one, and they sent me pictures.

The pupils are weird Ws. Same as a cuttlefish. The irises come off in these ribbons on all the contours, like a bike's spokes, crossing over each other till there's no white left. Kinda hard to figure out how it makes ya feel. My dad locked eyes with a whale on one of the wombworlds once. It's probably close to that.

The color was the craziest thing. Hazel, with little blue spots. Like Dom's.

Command took me to the prototype's next inspection and I asked 'em how that happened. They said it didn't matter. I knew better than to push things, but they could tell I had doubts. So I played along for a bit.

"Hell of a thing, isn't it?" The prototype, not Dom turning into guano. Unremarkable, that.

Holloway was there, the Primarch, vetting the next batch of waiver-signers and admiring his baby. The rest of Command still had the scalpels in their hands. Fuckin' vampires.

"Expediently," Holloway said. "Beyond expectations, in fact."

He sounded venomous. Scornful. He frowned and scraped some tarry placenta shit off his gloves while the sentence fell out of his mouth. His idea of a joke.

I laughed, played it off. "Did it at least get good practice?"

Dom's C.O. was there. He still had the probe from the optical biopsy: a big, wet needle on a pneumatic armature, obsidian-tipped to pierce the cornea, three feet long and thick as a fuckin' pencil. He just nodded.

"Yes," he said. "She learned very much."