#That and this comic has been sitting in my WIPs for a couple weeks now and it needed to get done

[lumiidragon]

"Zim's people aren't even capable of love or even friendship. All that good stuff is genetically modified out of them. The Irken race is pure selfishness, ego, and warlike ambition."

"So why didn't you take the shot..."

A continuation from my lil Dodge Ball comic~

#invader zim #zim #dib #tw: blood #//Yeah I snatched some lines from Issue 50// #//I explored Dib's humanity in the last comic// #//now I wanted to play with the first time an Irken has shown mercy// #//That and this comic has been sitting in my WIPs for a couple weeks now and it needed to get done//

[shrinkthisviolet]

talk shop tuesday - outside of your active WIPs, what is/are your next big fic/fics on the horizon, even if they're just outlines for now 🎤?

Oooh 👀 interesting question! This got long, so under the cut:

So ofc the Morgan and Lucy AUs are my active WIPs but…within those, there are some fics that I haven’t written but have been at least vaguely outlined.

For the main Morgan AU, these include:

1x17 and onwards fic. I haven’t decided if this will include the finale or if that’ll be its own fic, but I’ll see how the flow goes

E2 rescue fic. I’ve gone back and forth about having Morgan help rescue Jesse, but I’m more and more in favor of it as time goes on. Her dynamic with E2 Barry is so sweet to think about 🥰 (and E1 Barry being a little jealous of Morgan calling another version of Barry “like her brother”, even tho Morgan would clearly only be saying that to mess with him 😂). Plus, her potential standoffs with Zoom compel me. I’d have to rewatch the episodes to add more detail. In any case, Morgan would definitely use the telepathy link as an excuse to come, hoping she can find some way to reopen it after Jesse accidentally (not that Morgan knows it was an accident) closed it in the last fic

Jesse POV fic. This covers the events of s2 up to [episode TBD] from Jesse’s POV. So we’ll get to see her get kidnapped, her interactions with Zoom, befriending the real Jay (which didn’t happen in canon, but the medallion says that’s dumb, so it happens here)…and the telepathy link. I originally thought of taking it up to 2x16, but…since Morgan’s likely gonna be part of the E2 rescue, I’ll have to fiddle with things 😅

2x16 fic. Eliza survives this ofc, and as I’ve mentioned prior, there’s no split personality. Taking inspo from the comics for this one, and blending it with show canon: she got powers from the accelerator and the constant defibrillation made her powers unstable. She thus created the drug Sharp to dampen her powers. She’s also a WOC like the comics, unlike the show. Beyond that, the rest is TBD 😂

Morgan & Jesse roommates fic! This is the “enemies to besties/sisters” fic. Jesse shows up at Morgan’s apartment when she runs away, and though Morgan is reluctant to help because of how she and Jesse rub each other the wrong way (they’re a bit jealous of each other, seeing the other as the best version of them, etc etc), she ofc does—she can’t let Jesse wander Starling City alone, especially without powers and with Zoom possibly able to find her if he’s hellbent enough on it. Over time, they get to know each other and become close! Exact timespan is unknown rn, but depending on which episode this needs to be wrapped up by, I might artificially extend the time to at least a few weeks

2x17 fic! I’ve thought about this quite a bit :D Barry time-traveling to 1x11, being furious at Thawne and guilty that he can’t help the others…and also also, using Morgan against him 👀 Eowells is a sucky father in so many ways, but if he knows Morgan is in grave danger, he’ll do anything to stop it (after all, she can’t be his treasure if she’s dead, can she?)

s3 arc. This is…vaguely outlined. I’ll have to sit down post-s2 and really go through it, and especially as I rewatch s3, but…I’ve thought a lot about it, especially how I’m gonna rewrite Savitar and his dynamic with Morgan. I’ve been inspired quite a bit by the comics lately, especially a certain blue speedster in them…👀

For Morgan AU spin-offs, these include:

the “daddy issues AU” is starting to be outlined! I’ve written a couple snippets to get in the zone too :D the first fic just covers Barry’s placement with Eowells and meeting Morgan…and it’s delightful to write. That’ll be the only fic from Barry’s POV, I think—the others will be Morgan’s. It’ll cover s1…possibly s2 but I doubt it

CF AU s1 has been vaguely outlined, even though that’s a ways from now 😂 it’ll ofc be Barry’s POV and cover him waking up, realizing Morgan and Iris are hiding something, and trying to uncover it while hiding his own secret. Don’t worry though, everyone is ofc looped in way sooner than canon

I am ofc currently writing the first fic of a soulmates AU, which should be done this week, and although it’s just the intro fic I’ve written (pre-s1), I’ve thought about how the s1 arc will go. Specifically…how Morgan and Barry’s interactions will go 👀 I can’t say too much because of spoilers, but needless to say, there’s a big mystery at the center of s1 regarding Morgan…and she doesn’t realize it for a while

For the Lucy AU…there’s a few:

post-ESB fic, pre-ROTJ. Covers the fallout of ESB, sorta bridges it to ROTJ. This will be when Lucy gets her Jedi training, while Luke is reeling from the Vader reveal and goes off on…whatever quest he goes on (I still need to read those supplemental comics 😅). Lucy is also, ofc, reeling from Lando’s betrayal—she can’t seem to shake it, even while Leia’s able to push through it. Leia gets Lando’s reasons on some level, even if she’s hurt…but Lucy doesn’t. Something else major also happens 👀 but…spoilers!

TFA fic! Which is jumping ahead quite a bit, but…vague outline and all that. Lucy is ofc raising Rey on Jakku, and there’s some growing pains…especially since Rey, unlike canon, wants to go out into the world, because she knows her family is out there. Lucy, however, believes everyone is dead and that they’re safest here. She’s tired of fighting, tired of losing people. They clash quite a few times about this…though ultimately, when Lucy finds out Leia is alive, ofc she and Rey both go. Also in this fic, there’s no fake Poe death, so the ST trio is established from early on!

OH ALSO:

PJO x Flash AU!! How the PJO trio gets to the Arrowverse is still up in the air, but they have their show appearances (their backstory is the books’ story, not the show, though there are a couple things from s1 I’m carrying over). And ofc the central conflict, besides the general events of the show, is that the more Team Flash finds out about these kids’ past, and especially about the Prophecy, the more reluctant they are to send them back. This causes a number of fights between Barry and Percy in particular, because Percy wants to get home to Sally and also take on the Prophecy so Nico doesn’t have to. Barry meanwhile is so angry that Percy has to make the choice between protecting his loved ones and keeping himself safe. There’s also, in s3, some fun Savitar & Percy interaction that furthers these themes…👀

That’s about it as far as vaguely-outlined fics go! Probably a bit of a longer list than you were expecting 😅 but I do like to bounce around

talk shop tuesday!

Taglist (send an ask or DM to be added or removed):

@arrthurpendragon @ocappreciationtag @raith-way @vexic929 @ironverseocs @thechaoticfanartist @goldheartedchaoticdisaster @negative-speedforce @dream-beyond-the-fantasy @starstruckpurpledragon @angst-is-love-angst-is-life

#talk shop tuesday #morgan wells au #morgan wells au what-ifs #lucy kenobi au #pjo x flash au

[aquaticpal]

WIP Wednesday - Chrysalis

So the other day I promised to share something related to this post 🙂 This is a random OoT idea that popped up a few weeks ago, and I managed to nurse it into a full-blown comic script (thanks @aegon-targaryen for listening to my blabs). Now, I have a buuuunnnch of things to do before I have anywhere near the time to draw such a lengthy comic, so it's going to sit in this script form for a long time maybe forever. Still, I wanted to put it out here so that it at least exists in this form 😌

Chrysalis

Rating: G Word count: ~2000 Tags: canon divergence, fix-it fic, healing, let's pretend this is an AU where uhhh Navi doesn't exist

[desert sand dunes - night, around a campfire]

"Hahhh... Sheik, you saved me again..."

"A couple pieces of bread and dried meat was all it took, and you went traipsing across the desert without even that?"

"I had them! It just... didn't last as long as I thought...!

I used to stay out all night in the forest and got by fine just picking a few berries... dunno what happened..."

"You have a body twice the size to feed now. Idiot." "Oh... yeah..."

"Aren't you gonna have some, Sheik? (I feel weird eating by myself...)"

"I ate earlier. No need." "Pff, I know you're just trying to avoid taking down your mask, right? (It's fine, I get it)"

"My hands are occupied."

[Link stretches out under the wide, endlessly vast desert sky, full of stars]

"Thanks for the music. It's a real treat for the last night before the Spirit Temple tomorrow."

"After I clear the last temple... that'll be it, right? Then I'll be able to see Princess Zelda?"

"...Presumably."

"I wonder what she'll be like, after seven years... Hey Sheik, you know where she is, right? Do you talk with her? Have you met her?"

"As if I would divulge that information." "I guess I'll just have to find out tomorrow~"

"What if when you meet her,

she's not the perfect person that you imagine? What if she's actually selfish, or cowardly, or cruel?"

"What if she has blood on her hands?"

"Sheik."

[Link's hand has moved to the Master Sword.]

"You don't like Princess Zelda very much, do you."

"..."

"She is using you."

"She's my friend! She's not that kind of person. And I want to help her."

"Aren't the Sheikah supposed to be loyal to the Royal Family? Are you?"

"That is where my loyalty lies. The Princess can trust me to work for her goal, as can you. I have no obligation to like her as a person.

But perhaps you shouldn't trust me fully, either."

"You don't seem like a bad person. You've been helping me get to all the temples. And you've never tried to do anything bad to me even though you could sneak up on me anytime."

Besides, we're friends, aren't we?"

[plink] "You are far too quick to open your heart to others. You may have missed the past seven years, but in a world like this, there are many who would take the opportunity to strike at that openness."

"It's okay, I'm the Hero. I can take it." "You can't treat your own well-being so frivolously like that!"

"All of Hyrule's fate is dependent on you!"

"In a world like this... people need someone who opens their heart more than ever, don't they?

I'm lucky. I slept through all these years, and I woke up strong - strong enough to fight the evils in this world. Strong enough to help all the people who's been hurt and worn down by years of darkness.

So, I don't mind taking a few nicks or hits if it means giving a bit of hope to someone who needs it. It's what I'm made for.

I don't know where Zelda is, but... I hope she can see it, too. That all over Hyrule things are getting a little better, so wherever she is, hopefully things are a little brighter too."

[His optimism makes his face glow in the firelight. Sheik is silent.]

"She doesn't deserve you."

"You sound jealous." ("Don't be absurd!")

"I-I have to go." "Wait, hold--"

[behind a nearby rock formation, Sheik re-materializes, hands clenched]

===

[shot of clasped, gloved hands - Temple of Time] "...It was I, Zelda. Princess of Hyrule."

"I'm sorry for deceiving you all this time..." [Link steps forward, reaching out, hopeful]

!! [The room shakes, a crystal forms around Zelda]

[her vision blacks out, the last sight being Link inaudibly banging on the crystal]

"...Ganondorf... pitiful man..."

"Six Sages... now!"

"...the road between times... will be closed..."

"Link, give the ocarina to me.

As a Sage, I can return you to your original time with it."

[instead of giving the ocarina, Link reaches out and cradles her outstretched hand, like a wounded thing.]

"Are you all right?" "What... I..."

"You look so sad.

Back then, that time when you were talking as Sheik. You said you didn't like the Princess very much."

"It was my childish whims that threw Hyrule into ruin. I have to make amends for all the souls that suffered the price for my mistake. Most of all, you."

"Can I talk to Sheik?" "I..."

"That's just me, Link." "No"

"Even though Sheik was always behind a mask, It seemed like you could talk more truthfully then."

"Link, this isn't the time..." "This is the time! If you're going to send me back, if you want me to give you the ocarina... then at least I want to hear it from Sheik. I want to hear your true words."

"I..."

[Zelda turns away, huddled into herself]

[but silently and motionlessly, she Shifts]

"Can we go somewhere else?"

===

[Lake Hylia - the island with the warp pedestal]

"It's nice to be here without having to worry you'll run off again."

"You're not gonna run off, right?" "Link, please."

[they sit silently for a moment, looking out over the water]

"Is this what you really want? Will it make you happy?"

"This isn't about that. The people of Hyrule--" "That's not what I asked."

"...It doesn't matter." "I'm asking how you feel--" "It doesn't matter!"

[a silent moment.]

"Why do you hate Princess Zelda so much?"

"She was weak. All she could do was cower and hide. All she could do was wait while others fought and bled for her mistake."

"She befriended a brave, pure-hearted boy, only to take advantage of his kindness. She stole so much from him. From everyone."

"How can you even look at her? After what she's done?"

"..."

"After I woke up from the Sacred Realm, I met a lot of people who needed help. People who were beaten down and tired, and lost their hope and will. It was all they could do to hang on and get through each day, and some of them didn't make it."

"But not Zelda. She survived for seven years, and not only that, she traveled all across the land, even through all the dangers - all to make sure that her people were protected, and her hero could succeed."

"There would've been no hope in this land if she hadn't worked to keep it alive for seven years. And she kept this idiot hero alive, too."

"I think she's very strong. Even stronger than me. And she deserves to smile, too."

[Smiling - it's something she hasn't tried to do in a long time. Behind the mask, she is worn down, but tries feebly to mount one more defense]

"What about you? You deserve to be rewarded for your efforts and sacrifice, more than anyone."

"Wouldn't you rather go back to a world without turmoil? Wouldn't it ease your mind, knowing that you saved the lives of so many?"

"Yeah, but I'll know there's one person I haven't saved."

"The one person I most wanted to save." "Don't"

"I'll go back if you want me to. I'll do it if that's what you think is best, Zelda. But don't do it because you think hurting yourself is the only right thing to do, okay?"

"I swore, when I met you, that I would protect you, no matter what. Don't make me do something that would hurt you."

[Link takes her hand, and places the ocarina in it.]

"Please, promise me that whatever you choose... you'll do it with a smile."

[Cradling the ocarina, Sheik tries to gather her composure, but she cannot muster a smile. She looks down, defeated]

"...Will you forgive me, if I choose to be selfish?"

"You know what my answer would be. But I think I'm not the one you need to ask that to. Am I right?"

[A vision - Sheik stands looking down at a young Princess Zelda from seven years ago, bloodied and dirtied as if she had just escaped from the castle]

[Slowly, Sheik approaches and stoops to the young girl's level, and reaches out to pull her into an embrace.]

[In the real world, Sheik is wiping at her eyes]

"I'm sorry. Please stay"

[Perhaps, she's saying it to someone else, too. Link holds her, for a long time]

"Look, the sun's coming up."

[still leaning into each other, they look to the brightening horizon]

"This is a lot nicer than last time."

"When I threw a Deku Nut at you and ran away?" "Heh"

[Looking into the light, Sheik reaches up to her mask, and lowers it. She faces the sun for a moment, then looks up to face Link]

"Hi."

"It's good to meet you... at last."

[their faces are so close. She's moved to lean in and kiss him, just a little.]

"Sorry, I..." "Don't be sorry! That was nice. You're... nice."

"Can I kiss you too?" "Link, I..."

"This body... It's a male body." "So?"

"I thought you might not... like..."

"I like you. The real you. Without hiding. Without holding back."

[Blushing but touched, Sheik tucks her hair behind her ear, finally showing her full face.]

"All right, then."

[they do not hold back.]

===

[partially restored castle - Princess Zelda steps out of a political meeting, looking tired. Out of nowhere, Link tugs her around a corner for a kiss]

"L-Link! You can't just--I'm still Zelda!"

"What? Don't worry, no one's gonna see. (Promise)"

"It's not that, I... I thought you just liked... Sheik."

"I told you, I like you. Did you think I wouldn't want to kiss a beautiful princess?

Zel. You're no less kind, or brave, or hardworking, just because you're in a different body."

[she looks down for a moment, emotional, tempted to refuse. But then she looks up, with a smile.] 

"Okay."

[She steps into his arms, and kisses him fully for the first time]

===

[Fishing Hole - golden hour. Link is struggling to reel in a fish]

[Zelda's POV - Link turns, and drops his rod in excitement] "Zel! You made it!"

[full shot - Zelda is dressed in a plain, androgynous tunic and leggings, carrying a small picnic basket. Her hair is free and loosely pulled back, without a crown, without a mask.] "And you brought food!! You're the best person in the world."

"Man, I didn't realize I was starving" "You have to take better care of your own needs, Hero." "I don't have to, I've got you~"

"Here, you should have some too--"

"Oh crud - there's no more?" "I'm sorry. Supplies are still low--" ("No I'm the one who should be sorry!!")

"Well, here - I've got something for you too."

[Link pulls out a glass bottle, filled with strawberries. They're a deep, ripe red - the first splash of color in this black & white comic] "I picked them from the Lost Woods. They've just started growing back recently."

[He holds one up to her lips. A little tentatively, Zelda bites into it - and bursts into tears]

"Zel!? You okay?" "Y-Yes, I just..."

"It's been... a long time since I've had anything so sweet."

"You deserve it."

[Wide shot - she has a little emotional fit in his arms. Color is gradually seeping into the comic.]

[But eventually, the berries get finished.]

"Link - there's one more thing. I..."

[Zelda takes out the Ocarina of Time, and places it into his hands.]

"Zel, this..."

[She gives him a genuine smile, fond and peaceful.] "Keep it. I've made my decision."

[She touches her forehead to his, as they share a moment of joy] "It suits you better, anyway."

[Zelda pulls out her harp, and begins playing a tune.]

[Link raises the ocarina, and joins her in a duet.]

[The musical notes drift into the sky, intertwined over a lush, colorful world.]

#wip #zelda #zelink #shink #ocarina of time #my writing #oot my beloved

[acydpop]

WIP Wednesday

✨ Projects:

Daddymort Fest

DD:DNE Summertime Sadness

HP Cest Fest

Snape Big Bang

Tomarry Big Bang

Snarry Bang/Reverse Big Bang

Batfam Reverse Big Bang

---

Hello!

This week has been pretty busy.

There's been a lot of cycling through projects to have a little bit of progress being made on each one. I've been using the Pomodoro method to help me stay in "work mode" during the allotted time (and it's been working so far). I tend to hyper-focus when working on a project, and that's great, but I also am a perfectionist, which means I would spend too much time focusing on the minor details of one piece when I have other projects I'd also like to work on. Plus...I like to sleep, and working until 3-4 am is not good for my health. 😅

I'm glad there was a gap in the bad weather so I could take the final photo for one of my pieces. I love working traditionally, but some materials like to shine brighter than others under indoor lighting, so natural light is very much needed.

I can't post any progress photos on any of my projects since they're for ongoing fests, but I do plan on making individual posts for the bts of my artworks. I may do the same for my fics, but I'm not sure what I would do for them tbh.

Here is a picture of what my work desk looks like now. The towel is covering up a fest painting. The desk is a lot cleaner here. Once I bust out the other materials, the decks, poppet, and other misc things will be moved somewhere else (most likely my bed).

[id: A photograph of the writer's cluttered workstation. The majority top portion of the photograph shows a stack of art media paper, a Batman comic, tape, sticky notes, and writing utensils. In the top-left corner is a small stack of tarot and oracle decks with a small doll on top with a part of its head off. The bottom half of the photograph shows from left to right: a mixing palette with a pink hand towel for cleaning brushes on top, a taped-down painting covered by another pink towel (this one even messier with paint) and a white ceramic container housing small tubes of watercolors. /id]

For the next couple of days, I'll probably not be working on anything since I just got injections in my lower back today, and I was told I'll definitely need days to heal from that. Hopefully, by this weekend, I will get back to my painting. :)

My goal for next week's check-in is to have a couple of fics outlined and another couple having the drafts started. I will be flexible with my expectations with the art creation piece since I can't sit at my desk for too long.

I hope you all have a lovely day, and until next time,

♥ acyd

March 24, 2023 --> Listening to: "Ritual" by Necronomidol

--> Reading: I Failed to Oust the Villain! (webcomic) by Jaeunhyang & Assam & syunnuyn

#acyd's diary #wip wednesday

[laufire]

writing woes: january

I'm going to try to do this every month. Because.

in general

I signed up for get your words out over dreamwidth, doing a habit pledge instead of a word count one: to write at least 180 days in 2024. divided by 12 months, that means writing an average of 15 days per month. I wrote 19. some days very very little (100-300 words for the three sentences ficathon), others more (dropping about 2k on one sitting), but the point of a habit pledge is to get less hung up on that lol. so all in all, I'm happy with my progress.

original fiction

I wrote and published a "prequel" or teaser for a somewhat larger work. you can find it in my author's newsletter. I'd also really appreciate a reblog of the post in tumblr, to boost it ^-^

I made a veeeeery loose outline of "Underground Elysium", a.k.a. said larger work. I know I will inevitably deviate from it, but this way I won't feel completely directionless lol.

I also outlined (just a tad more thoroughly) a short story that I want to retouch/rewrite. though idk if I'll publish that one on substack, or try to get some feedback and try my luck with magazines. we'll see.

fanfic

I posted a bunch of drabbles and ficlets for the three sentences ficathon hosted in dreamwidth. I'll crosspost them on ao3 (and update this post) when the event is over, in a couple of weeks.

I didn't finish my immortal jason wip because something that I predict will be a pattern for me happened: I went from an idea set in some ~vague point the timeline to deciding it'd be MUCH more interesting if I grounded it firmly in canon (even if I don't adhere to it fully and play around with things, of course). so I had to read some issues here and there to really settle it. it's on track now, so hopefully I'll finish soon!

I advanced a bit on my long young justice wip! not quite as much as I would've liked, but still. I also have a definite outline (pending changes that'll come up, as per usual with me), with all the character povs and arcs clearly visualised. this one is going to take a long while to be finished but I'm really excited about it.

I've also made a semi-loose outline for my journalist dick wip and plan to start writing it next month. I wanted to read devin grayson's nightwing arc, because the idea is to set it (with the exception of some key flashbacks) post utrh, albeit with a mix of comic and film canon because I wanted to explore the possibilities the later gave just this one time. I had shelved the wip for a little later in the year, but it turns out said storyarc has been incredibly inspiring lol, so it rose on the list.

all in all, not a bad first month!

#talking to the void #my thoughts #writing woes #writing woes monthly #dc #young justice #dc comics #immortal jason wip #young justice wip #journalist dick wip #original works #me me me #my wips

[nyxocity]

Fic Writer Questions!

Thanks to @redmyeyes for the tag!

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

82, although that's not even close to my actual total. There's a bunch on LJ that have never been transferred (all shorter works)

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

1,780,805 (over 2mil on LJ)

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Mostly three, plus a couple dips into a few other pools. X-Men Comic Book fandom, Buffy & Angel fandom (they kinda count as one since it's the same universe), and Supernatural & SPN RPF. Dips have included Dragon Age, Firefly, a tiny bit of TVD, a Sons of Anarchy crossover.

4) What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

This is tough if I go by numbering. Homework Verse has the most kudos scattered across all parts, but Stranger Than Fiction has the most as a single story. Anyway...

Homework Verse (J2 RPF, 200k+ words) - My very first RPF fic, Supernatural or otherwise. Two of my online fandom friends basically TOLD me I was going to write Teacher/Student J2, and I kept protesting that I drew the line at RPF. They didn't care. 200k later, here we are. This story was a game changer for me; it made me fandom famous. I still love those boys with my whole heart, and they still talk to me sometimes.

Stranger Than Fiction (Sam/Dean, 50644 words) - This story idea took root immediately following the episode The Monster at the End of This Book. I quit the Big Bang I'd already begun writing for that year (which was Who Watches Over Me, which I finished and posted for BB the following year) to write this story. It just took hold hold of me and took over. I wrote it in 6 weeks and it was easily the most fun I ever had writing anything--I cackled like a madwoman most of the time.

Who Watches Over Me (J2 RPF, 96591 words) - This story was, at the time, the toughest thing I'd ever written. Little did I know that would become the norm and not the exception, as I began to write more complex stories. It was by far the longest story I had ever posted all at once in its entirety (rather than chapter by chapter) and I had no idea if people would like it. Fortunately a lot of people did.

Like Staring Into the Sun (Sam/Dean, 23243 words) - Ah, my very first hardcore Wincest fic. I remember writing the first chapter of the story (meant to be a one shot honestly), and just sitting there, at 5am, being terrified to post it. It was twisted, dark and intense and SO porny I was scared people might think I was weird. There wasn't anything like it out there at the time. As it turns out, people loved it so much I ended up writing eight more parts.

Like a Fish Out of Water (Sam/Dean, 59498 words) - I have a lot of love for this story. It didn't come to me easily, but it was fun to write. I remember smiling a lot and just having a nice, warm cozy feeling the whole time. I had no idea if anyone was interested in reading this many words of what amounted to a dramedy curtain fic

Of course there are other stories that I feel deserve love, but I can't argue with these.

5) Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I do. And by that, I mean I try. I don't always succeed in answering them all, but I answer as many as I have time and energy for. Life is busy and there is writing to do as well. I read every comment I get (multiple times) and I feel guilty for all the ones I don't answer, because they mean SO MUCH TO ME. Like you took time to leave this beautiful, well thought out comment, or even a keysmash, or a heart, in response to something I wrote. That means the world.

I WISH there was a reaction function for comments on Ao3, so I could heart things, or laugh in response. Replying with emojis without words feels weird. So yeah, a reaction function would be amazing. But in the meantime, I do my best.

6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Hmm. Probably A Touch of Evil. Interestingly, it's also a HAPPY ending, so there you go lol. It's a serial killer love story with a happy ending that comes at an exorbitant price.

8) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

I'm not sure why the OG post skips from 6 to 8 lol . So, yes, I have written a few minors crossovers. Mostly Faith in the SPN verse with the boys, nothing too crazy, because she fits right in. But for long stories, I have written all of ONE crossover. It's Dean Winchester/Jax Teller (SPN / Sons of Anarchy). My crossovers so far have tended to make sense to crossover, so I don't think any of them are crazy.

9) Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yes. I got some hate on a Buffy/Xander fic back in the day. I got really excited and had fun with it. Like yeah, now I'm SOMEBODY! You're no one til someone hates you lol Most of that was people who were haters of the ship, or were like, gross, they're like brother and sister (they weren't, they were FRIENDS). I've gotten nasty comments here and there on some of my SPN fic. My favorite was the person who accused me of having a "Top Dean Agenda". I STILL laugh about that one. I don't respond to that crap.

10) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Have you MET ME? LOL If I ever post a story without smut just put me out to pasture, because I'm done. And all kinds. Het, Gay, PWP, Plotty porn, mostly super kinky but some vanilla (but intense). I used to challenge myself regularly to see if I could up my kink game--like hmm, but could I write THIS? I haven't written really kinky sex in a long time, though. Might be time to do that.

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Several times. Who Watches Over me was stolen by someone and converted to One Direction Lourry fic. Literally just did a name change. Someone else stole a bunch of my one shots and passed them off as their own. I know there were a couple other instances but I only vaguely remember. I never got too deep into it, most of the time the people who discovered the theft already told everyone else too, and the plagiarist had been hammered by them so hard that I didn't have to step in before they took it down.

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes. I used to get requests so often that I just posted my usual response in my profile for people to read instead of replying. Definitely into Russian and Chinese for most of the stories listed with most kudos above.

13) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

A few times on one shot fics. SO MUCH FUN. I love co-writing with people.

14) What’s your all time favorite ship?

Sam/Dean. Easily. Hands down. I just love their unique relationship, bond and love so much.

15) What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Well I finally finished A Touch of Evil after posting 3 chapters in 2009 and never touching it again until 2017. And I never thought I'd finish that. So never say never, I say. That said, there's the third and final part of my X-Men comic book epic that remains unfinished by about five (shorter) chapters, and it HAUNTS ME. But I don't think I'll ever finish it.

16) What are your writing strengths?

NOW we get to the hard questions. I'm really good at dialogue, bouncing banter back and forth between characters, and I have a sense for how long a scene should be. I just KNOW when it's going on too long, even if there's more that needs to be said, and I try to tighten it up in that case.

A friend of mine once told me "Porn is my gift". I don't write as much of it as I used to, but yeah, I shine in that area.

17) What are your writing weaknesses?

So I always reach a point after writing so many words in an unpublished fic where I'm like, I have no idea if this is even any good/makes sense/hangs together etc. Beyond that, I've been writing for so long that I've had so much practice that I've strengthened a lot of my weaknesses. I'm sure I still have some, but I don't FEEL them like I used to anymore. That said, there are things I simply will not write. Like historical pieces. Because I would research the fuck out of every detail trying to get it perfect and then I would still doubt myself completely.

18) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I mostly try to avoid it, because there's no way I would ever get the language correct. I usually write it in English and then explain that they're saying it in another language. Like, "What are you doing?" the man asks, speaking in Chinese. Then reiterate in the continuing dialogue in various ways that they're speaking in Chinese.

19) What was the first fandom you wrote for?

X-Men Comic Book fandom. I was reading a lot of Remy/Rogue fic back in 1996-1997, and one day I was like, you know what? This person did a pretty good job on this story. It's not great, but it's pretty good, and if they can have the guts to put it out there, then I can do it, too.

20) What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

This is a tough question. I don't love all my children equally, but I love them all a lot in different ways lol

Remembering favorite is different than which one I think is BEST... Homework Verse is probably my favorite. I was learning so much about writing then, I was really growing, and discovering, and pushing my limits. Those characters lived and breathed in me, I swear they spoke through me from some alternate universe. They feel so REAL to me. There's so much of what I've learned in life in that story, like really, big, life changing ideas and understandings that happened to me that I put into that story. There's so much of me in that story, and yet there's so much of THEM, too. It's their story, but it's also mine. It's raw and not entirely perfect and it feels like home to me.

--

So that's it, that's my piece. I feel like EVERYONE has been tagged since it took me 3 days to have time to do this, but I'm basically tagging any of you writers out there who haven't done this yet!

#my stories #about me #writing #on writing

[thelittleredheadedmusician]

I’ve been tagged by @klaineharmony and @wordshakerofgallifrey in one version of this and b @radioactivepigeons in another so I combined the 2 (there was one question difference lmao).

How many works do you have on Ao3? 

146 (and like many who have done this before me, a couple are drabble collections and such)

What's your total Ao3 word count? 

530,111 words which... wow.

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they? 

Oh dear GOD if I listed each individual comic series we’d be here all day. We’re gonna go with the five I know for sure off the top of my head w/ the 3 big subcategories for comics. 

DCU 

> Batman comics

> Teen Titans/Titans comics

> Young Justice cartoon

Newsies

Les Mis

Percy Jackson

Harry Potter

What are your top five fics by kudos?

All of these are older and Batfandom so I’m not even remotely surprised by this. 

Family Gatherings Dick wakes up to a text from Bruce asking that the whole family meet at the Manor that night, causing him to stress out all day.

No Judgement Damian crashes at Jason's apartment and has to explain to Jason why.

Nursing a Sick Bird Tim loses contact with his family when he gets sick for a week, causing Dick to come and check in on him.

Bat Kid Jam Sessions All of Bruce's kids play an instrument which gives Dick Grayson and Jason Todd an idea.

Annual Wayne Enterprises Take Your Kid to Work Day Bruce has Tim, Damian, and Dick all coming to WE for the day and he's a bit nervous over what kind of mess they might make.

Do you respond to comments, why or why not? 

I do! Though I see now there’s a bunch sitting there that I haven’t yet. I’ll get to them when I’ve got more spoons. I love interacting with people and knowing what they like about my stories and writing. It makes me really really happy. 

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

I don’t really write angst? I don’t think I write angst. I write a lot of ennui. So much ennui. And bittersweet endings. Donna Troy and the Outlaws may be the closest to an angsty ending cause they only get one resurrection out of a possible two? But again, it’s more bittersweet than anything. 

Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve ever written?

DO I EVER. Yes. Yes I write crossovers. Mainly modern au newsies/les mis cause it just makes sense. The craziest one has to be from my main newsies/les mis series A crooked politician? Yeah but that ain't news no more where I dropped so many references in media, networking, and other things you don't learn in a lecture to Hairspray and Hamilton characters that I wrote the “shit show” of the four musicals being combined in a modern au that I alluded to (and I think I was encouraged if I remember correctly) and it’s called Cautionary Tale.

Have you ever received hate on a fic? 

Not so much hate as someone doing what was essentially a “well, actually” on the politics in one of my Crooked Politician fics. The moral of the story is character views and emotions and blatant optimism do not directly reflect that of the author and I did study political science and know my stuff. OH! And then there’s my crowning glory of a DIFFERENT Crooked Politician fic being quoted out of context in a New York Times article. That isn’t really hate but it was certainly something. 

Do you write smut? If so what kind? 

Haha. No. 

Have you ever had a fic stolen? 

Not that I know of.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but I welcome translations and podfics!

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! @wordshakerofgallifrey and I cowrote Costs of Civil Disobedience as part of her Piano Man au and by that I mean were LITERALLY typing in the same doc at the same time. It was wild and amazing. From Across the Bar isn’t cowritten but is my companion to her fic Play Me A Memory. @radioactivepigeons were working on a leverage!newsies au but then we both got busy. 

What's your all time favorite ship? 

I? Don’t think I have one? Uh... Beatrice and Benedick from Much Ado About Nothing? Parker/Hardison/Eliot from Leverage are the ultimate ot3? I care very little about ships. If I like it, I like it. If it squicks me, it squicks me. If I don’t care, I don’t care. Sorry?

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will? 

Oh the Batfam Ghostbusters au. The concept is still solid but I just don’t have the motivation or know where I would go with what stands. If anything I’d strip it for parts and write it new. 

What are your writing strengths?

I have been told my descriptions are really strong but personally I think that my character voices/dialogue is. Also my ability to write teenaged ennui. Any ennui. It’s a mood. 

What are your writing weaknesses? 

Grammar! I do weird shit with my sentence breaks and make run ons and just absolutely butcher punctuation. And balancing characters in ensembles. That’s hard. 

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I’m going to quote @radioactivepigeons here cause I agree with it wholeheartedly and she puts it better than I possibly can rn: “I think there needs to be a narrative purpose. Like, is it building dramatic irony? Is someone being purposefully excluded from the conversation? Is there a characterization where the linguistic difference matters?“ If the answer is no then just note it’s being said in the other language. 

What was the first fandom you ever wrote for? 

Actually physically wrote a story out? Batman. I wrote a “patrol report” as Batgirl to my friend as though she were Robin in middle school as part of a christmas present. 

What's your favourite fic you've ever written? 

Oh this is hard. Uh glitter and gold is like my love of DC characters made manifest and is absurdly long but like there’s certainly scenes I like more than others. Three Card Draw might be my favorite? I love the vibes and the little world I made and using it to work out my own thoughts about gods and magic as a stepping stone for my original stuff. 

Since I think literally everyone I know in the newsies fandom has been tagged in this at some point I’m going to kick it towards the dc folks. Absolutely no pressure to do this. @audreycritter @oh-mother-of-darkness @sohotthateveryonedied @preciousthingsareprecious @whore4batfam

#personal #long post #own writing #my fic

[sakurablossomcreamlatte]

tiny giants made of tinier giants

Fandom: Gravity Falls

Relationships: Dipper Pines & Ford Pines

Characters: Dipper Pines, Ford Pines, Stan Pines (mentioned), Mabel Pines (mentioned)

Words: 3,596

Summary: “It’s two AM, and Ford has a visitor.” 

[AO3]

why would I work on any of my own WIPs or try and get my life together when I could write oneshots

(this work was inspired by this super sweet comic by @rosesanddoodl3s! I hope you don’t mind, I just really loved it and had to write some of my feels out)

Ford’s been back in his own world for approximately thirty-two hours, and yet it’s almost like he never left - sitting at his desk in his old room, scribbling in the back of his second journal and muttering hissed curses between his teeth. The Oregon sky sits inky and indigo outside the panes of his window, studded with stars, and despite their apathetic, twinkling benevolence Ford can’t shake the feeling that they’re watching him. 

It’s not something he can just let go of after thirty years on the run between dimensions. 

On top of snatching away his chance to finally take out that demon once and for all, mercilessly and swiftly as he was powerless to stop it - his idiot brother’s activation of the portal literally created an interdimensional rift. He spent most of the day figuring out a way to contain it... and subsequently wrestling the slippery splashes of interdimensional matter around the portal room into the glass orb he was able to create. At least he’s in good enough shape to do so, despite his age - not that Stan would have a clue, if the beer gut he’s developed over the years is anything to go by. 

He crosses out one equation and scribbles another, tugging at his hair in frustration. All that stands between Bill and his goals now is a veil of worryingly breakable glass. 

There has to be something else he can use to protect everyone until he can find something stronger. Project Mentem, maybe? Would the machine still even work? It would probably need some level of repair after thirty years of disuse - not that he’d even used it successfully the first time round. 

A tentative knock on the door jolts him from the letters and numbers that are starting to spin on the pages in front of his eyes, and he really hopes it’s not Stan - but then again, Stan’s not really the type to knock either. Brow creasing, Ford turns to face the door. “Yes?” 

The door slowly creaks open, and he can’t stop himself from raising an eyebrow at the sight of the boy twin - Dipper, that’s it - hovering apprehensively in the doorway, clutching what looks like the comforter from his bed. “Um, Great-Uncle Ford?” 

“Dipper?” Ford frowns again, closing the journal and setting his pen down as he checks his watch. It’s after two AM. “What are you doing up?” 

Dipper hesitantly crosses the threshold, and as he steps into the dim light of the room Ford notices that his eyes are red - and a little puffy. “I, uh…” he averts his gaze, biting his lip, “...couldn’t sleep.” 

“I… see.” Ford can feel his heart sink a little. Dipper and Mabel were certainly a lot to take in upon his arrival back in this dimension, considering the thought of descendants hadn’t even crossed his mind - but they seemed assured of themselves, despite the way Dipper had almost fainted and/or thrown up upon discovering that yes, Ford was the one who wrote the journal he was clutching in his hands. The bright-eyed expression of hope and determination the boy had turned to him with as he’d pulled the memory eraser gun from his rucksack was a stark contrast to the one on his face now, and Ford’s struck out of nowhere with a sudden urge to protect him - his sister, too. He’s only known them for a day and he already knows he never wants to see them cry. Ever. 

Stan might want him to stay away from them, but he certainly can’t stop him from caring about them - and if Dipper’s down here of his own volition, Ford certainly won’t push him away. “Did you have a bad dream?” 

“Something like that.” Dipper hugs the comforter to himself a little tighter, and Ford makes a decision, rising from his desk and crossing the room to take a seat on the couch. The kid’s wide-eyed gaze follows him, and Ford simply pats the cushion next to him as an invitation. 

Dipper comes to sit on the couch next to him, tugging the worn, patched blanket around his shoulders. There’s still something hesitant in the movements of his limbs, like he’s holding himself back, and something twinges uncomfortably within Ford’s chest. He doesn’t want either of the children to feel like that around him - but he just wants to protect them from the dangers Stan’s opened their world up to, regardless of how inadvertent it might have been, and for that he probably needs to keep his distance. Even now he feels like he’s breaking some arbitrary rule, with Dipper perched on the couch at his side - before a wave of indignation washes it away. It’s Ford’s house, damn it, not Stan’s - despite what he may have told them… and everyone else in this town.  

“Any reason you came to me rather than Stan…?” Ford ventures. He’s absolutely not against it - if anything, he feels strangely honoured that one of the kids came to him seemingly looking for comfort - but considering how long they’ve known him against how long they’ve known Stan, he has to wonder why. Dipper simply stares at his socked feet instead. 

Were ten year olds always this… small? Both the boy and his sister barely come up to Ford’s - and Stan’s - elbows. Are they just short for their age? What were we like compared to Dad? 

He wonders if it’s a good thing that he’s struggling to remember. 

“I….” Dipper starts, and then seemingly gives up on himself, thin shoulders slumping with a sigh. “Sorry. I just - I dunno. I don’t think Grunkle Stan’s… mad at me, as such, but I kind of… said some things to him yesterday.” He averts his eyes, curling a little further in on himself. 

Of course. Ford’s still smarting at the idea that his brother claimed his name as his own (and almost certainly amassed an impressive criminal record under it). Stan obviously cares about these kids - that part’s so glaringly obvious that even Ford can’t deny it - but it doesn’t change the fact that he’s essentially betrayed them. 

“Well,” Ford concedes, “it’s… a lot to take in. I think you’re handling it better than I might have at the age of ten.”

Dipper looks up at him, stricken. “I’m twelve.”  

Ford makes a mental note to correct his journal entry on the boy later. “I see. My apologies.” 

His great-nephew (and that feels so bizarre to think, knowing that less than forty-eight hours ago he wasn’t even aware of the kid’s existence) just deflates even further. “It’s... okay, I guess. I know I’m short.” He pulls his knees up to his chest. “I mean, it’s just really annoying right now. Grunkle Stan’s really tall - and so are you, actually - and so’s my dad. I guess I can’t be short forever, but… I dunno.” 

Right, their father. Shermie’s boy - David. 

“How is Shermie, anyway?” Ford ventures, and no sooner have the words left his mouth than he wishes he hadn’t asked - because at the mention of their elder brother’s name Stan’s face immediately falls, any light that might have remained leaving his eyes, and that tells Ford pretty much everything he needs to know. 

“What’s your father like?” 

The question leaves Ford’s lips before he even really has the time to think about how random it is. He hasn’t even seen David since… what, Thanksgiving in third year of college? His nephew was barely four or five years old at that point, a rambunctious child with big brown eyes and a mop of chestnut-coloured curls who gleefully ran around their parents’ apartment while Shermie chased after him, throwing out frantic, stuttered apologies in their dad’s direction. It’s crossed Ford’s mind every now and then while jumping between dimensions, but he’s always pushed it away just as quickly, not wanting to dwell on the pain of everything else he threw away the second he shook Bill’s hand. 

Dipper’s seemingly just as taken aback by the question as Ford is, and when he lifts his head to look up at him, brown eyes wide beneath his fluffy chestnut fringe, for a second it’s almost like he’s looking at a carbon copy of David himself… although he thankfully hasn’t inherited the infamous Pines nose. “My dad?” 

“Ah - yes.” Ford coughs, averts his own eyes. “I suppose - well, Mom babysat for Shermie sometimes.” 

Dipper’s brow lifts a little in the light of recognition, before furrowing again in thought. “He’s…” he trails off, visibly searching for the right adjective. “Nice. Kinda goofy, I guess. Mom always says that’s where Mabel gets it from.” 

“What does he do?” Ford presses. 

“He’s a software programmer.” Dipper’s shoulders relax, if only by a fraction. “And Mom’s a lawyer.” 

“A software programmer, huh?” A memory of Fiddleford holding up a laptop prototype with bright, shining eyes briefly floats to the surface, and a stinging pang of regret bounces painfully against the inside of Ford’s ribcage, and he tries to focus on the child sitting next to him - family that he didn’t even know he had. It’s more than he expected, and more than he could have asked for. “Does he work a lot?” 

“Yeah,” Dipper answers, kicking his feet under the seat of the couch. “He has his own business, but he works from home a couple of days a week - and he tries cooking dinner sometimes, but he’s not great at it.” His shoulders twitch beneath his blanket, the shadow of a laugh bubbling up. “One time he made us spaghetti sauce with ramen noodles - it was so gross. When Mom got home we ended up ordering Chinese food instead.”

Ford has to chuckle at that. “You know Shermie was never a great cook, either.” 

Dipper relaxes a little more, and his shoulder bumps against Ford’s elbow as he leans a tiny bit closer. “I don’t remember a whole lot about Grandpa Shermie,” he admits, hesitantly. “Mom always says he really loved us, though. And Dad always took us to the planetarium on our birthday, because he said that was his favourite thing to do with his dad when he was a kid.” 

And even if Ford’s trying to stave off his own looming anxiety about the very real possibility of the world as they know it ending, there’s something in his nephew’s words that lifts his own battle-scarred heart by just a touch. Maybe it’s knowing now that for all he left behind him when he hightailed it out of Backupsmore with two PhDs and a fat research grant cheque, back home Shermie turned out to be a good man, bringing the happy, excitable child Ford once knew as his nephew along that path with him. Seeing that David apparently grew up to be a good man himself, if the little smile that tugs at the corner of Dipper’s mouth when he talks about his parents is anything to go by. 

At least someone in this family of ours turned out to be remotely functional. 

Ford’s next question emerges a little more easily, the distance between them slowly beginning to close in fractional increments. “Did they give you your nickname?” 

The question had already arisen when Stan was catching him up on the family history - the name Mabel is a little old-fashioned, although sweet in its charm, but surely nobody would ever call their child Dipper legitimately? - and Stan had simply shrugged and grunted something along the lines of, ‘Look at the little goofus’s forehead. It’s like someone spilled hot sauce on his face.’ 

He would, if the kid would stop vibrating with anxiety/pen clicks long enough to sit still. Not that it was even necessary, with the carefully inked sketch - which, sure enough, was a dead ringer for the Big Dipper - he’d found flipping through the third journal under the entry titled, ‘Your new author!’. 

He’s ten - no, twelve. Ford won’t hold it against him. 

Back in the present, Dipper nods. “Dad said Grandpa pointed it out to him when we were little and then he couldn’t unsee it, and then they both started calling me Dipper and it just… stuck.” He hugs his knees. “I feel like it fits. My real name’s kind of dumb, anyway.” 

There’s probably not much that could be dumber than naming a pair of twins Stanford and Stanley, but Ford decides not to push it. “Well, it’s certainly unique.” 

Dipper shrugs and averts his gaze, and a silence falls between them… but after a few moments, there’s a soft weight against Ford’s arm as he leans against him. 

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts his arm to rest it around the boy’s shoulders. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s expecting - but Dipper doesn’t jolt, or flinch away. Instead, he simply shifts to rest his head against Ford’s chest with a soft exhale. 

That in itself can only be a testament to the kind of fathers Shermie and David turned out to be. When Mabel threw her little sweater-clad arms around his neck earlier that night and chirped, “goodnight, Grunkle Ford!”, the wave of longing and affection that surged through his chest was so powerful that it both ached and almost took him off his feet at the same time. 

He’d forgotten what love - and the affection that goes hand in hand with it - felt like, and in one simple hug from a niece he didn’t even know he had, it had come rushing back with all the force of a tsunami. These kids - Mabel especially - are so strangely warm and open, with each other, and with Stan and that young man - what was his name, Zeus? no, Soos - and now with Ford himself, too. And Dipper could barely make eye contact or stop shaking, but in the middle of the night, worn down by exhaustion - and he hasn’t missed the shadows under the boy’s eyes, either - he’s far more subdued, seemingly removed from the stammering, gagging ball of pen-clicking anxiety that had first greeted him after he’d set foot back in this world. 

Either way, they’re certainly a far cry from himself and Stan. 

Belatedly, Ford realises that his eyes are stinging a little, and he awkwardly clears his throat. Dipper doesn’t say anything. Beneath his fringe, his eyes are distant, and Ford can only wonder what he’s thinking. 

“Is…” he winces at how his own voice breaks the silence, but they’ve already crossed this line. He doesn’t even know what it means to be an uncle, but if something’s bothering the kid, he wants to help. “Is there... another reason you can’t sleep, Dipper?” 

This town’s fascinating, but it’s also dangerous, and in those six years he lived here Ford had more than his fair share of close shaves. Dipper’s thin arms are covered by his blanket right now, but during the day, the thin lines and dots of scars and scrapes that traverse his skin haven’t escaped Ford’s attention. 

Ford can only wonder what he’s seen, and he hopes to God it’s not the same thing that sparked his own suffocating paranoia. 

He can feel Dipper’s shoulders stiffen beneath his forearm, and for a few long moments, another silence descends. 

When Dipper does answer, his voice is quiet, partially muffled by his comforter. “S-sometimes it’s just…” he trails off, shifting slightly against Ford’s chest. “Difficult.” 

It doesn’t exactly provide much of an explanation, and Ford sighs. It was probably a step too far to expect Dipper to open up right away - if anything, he’s grateful for the way he’s here with him now, even if it’s explicitly against Stan’s wishes. 

Dipper’s voice breaks the quiet once again. “Anyway… I wanna know more about you. Like…” he trails off, searching. “What were you and Grunkle Stan like when you were twelve?” 

A laugh bubbles up in Ford’s chest at the innocence of the question. It’s a lifetime ago now, like Stan had said. Before they thought anything could ever break them apart, when they were just two identical best friends - brothers, even - with a dream of sailing away from their shitty little town. 

“Didn’t Stan already tell you? He was a troublemaker and I was… well, a nerd, I suppose.” 

Dipper leans against his side, relaxing once again - and it’s a relief. If they have to do this on his terms, that’s fine. Hopefully the kid might open up to him when he’s ready, whenever that may be. “I mean… we heard Stan’s side of the story. I guess I wanted to hear yours.” 

Ford casts his mind back. “Well, Stan wasn’t wrong - he was a troublemaker.” A chuckle. “But then again, I suppose I wasn’t entirely innocent either…” 

The stories flow from him more easily than he would expect them to - for some reason, it doesn’t hurt as much to tell Dipper, who listens, giggles here and there, occasionally interjects with some quip or aside that shows Ford that for all that’s happened in the last forty or fifty years, there are parts of his brother that haven’t necessarily changed. With each story he recalls, hazy days gone by that leave his lips as a shared memory, Dipper slumps a little further into his lap - and in some complete paradox, the heavier the kid rests against him, the lighter his heart feels. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind as he’s regaling Dipper with the tale of Fiddleford’s disastrous attempt at a college open mic night - guest starring that godforsaken banjo - he wonders if it might be worth revising the entry he wrote about the kid in the third journal. 

It’s still painful to think about Fiddleford, though, and Ford hopes that one day he’ll get the chance to apologise. 

Even so, it still comes back to Stan. It often does. And for some reason, it’s easier to separate them in his mind - Stanley, the goofy, scrappy little smartass with half his front teeth missing who always pulled Ford up by his armpits when bullies knocked him down and tried to pin most of his mishaps on Shanklin the possum, and Stan, the exhausted, hollow-eyed stranger in a hooded jacket who showed up on his doorstep on that fateful day in 1982… who’s evidently reinvented himself as the man they now know as Stanford Pines, with a fez perched atop his now-grey hair and lies and blatant falsehoods falling from his lips. 

“It’s kind of crazy imagining Grunkle Stan as a kid,” Dipper murmurs. He looks like he’s having a progressively harder time trying to keep his eyes open. “Like… Mabel and I only ever knew him as this weird old scam artist guy.” 

Ford can feel the smile tug at his lips. Dipper and Mabel are going to grow up one day, too, and he hopes he’ll be able to witness it. “Well, we were all children once.”

It’s like he’s taking a back seat to himself as he tells Dipper these stories from another life. If he thinks about Stan and what they’ve become, it hurts - even if it’s dulled into a detached ache over the years, the occasional wave comes, raw and fresh, and it’s sharp like a knife. If he thinks about Stanley, it still hurts - but the edges are softened by the miasma that nostalgia casts over everything, and that’s not quite as painful. At least back then, he knew some sort of happiness, and at least he can vaguely recall what it felt like. 

He can’t stop the chuckle that escapes him at the memory of Stan trying to convince their mother that the person who set off the whole school’s sprinklers and took off into the distance shouting ‘that’s how Stan Pines does it, suckers!’ was someone trying to frame him, and the way she’d absolutely eviscerated him in response. 

“...and that was the last time Stanley ever lied to our mom.” 

There’s no response from Dipper this time - no giggle, or eye-roll, or dry quip - and he looks down to see that the kid’s drifted off in his lap, head pillowed against Ford’s thigh as he breathes, slow and soft. 

Well. In fairness, that was pretty much what he came down here for. Objective achieved… more or less. 

Tentatively, he runs his hand over Dipper’s hair. It’s a complete bird’s nest - he obviously doesn’t brush it that often - but it’s thick and fluffy, just like David’s had been as a child. The heavy curtain of Mabel’s long tresses that had hit him in the face when she’d hugged him had been more or less the same. 

Twins run in the family, he’d written in the journal. It’s a comforting thought - if anything, knowing that they hopefully won’t turn out like him and Stan. 

He hadn’t wanted to throw it away - neither of them had, but Stan had no idea what he was dealing with, and if he had any inkling of just how dangerous the forces he was messing with were, most likely didn’t care. Irresponsible and knuckleheaded to a fault, from childhood to now - and honestly, probably to eternity. 

As a scientist, Ford is used to determining things by probability and likelihood. Each situation has a predetermined number of potential outcomes… but sometimes, something greater - fate, the universe - has a hand in things. And maybe this time, she’s granted Ford a second chance of sorts. There’s a second generation of Pines twins, and they might have the potential to be better than he and Stan ever were. 

“Alright, my boy,” he mutters to the one currently sleeping in his lap. “Let’s get you back into your own bed before Stan notices.”

#own writing #dipper pines #stanford pines #ford pines #gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction

[mcrmadness]

Madness draws: Behind the Scenes of the latest Farin&Bela pencil drawing.

Aka the one that’s also my icon, even when that was a big risk to take because normally I start hating the photos I have once drawn, especially if I have failed miserably. This is how the drawing itself turned out:

ATTENTION: The original post about that drawing, with better image, behind this link.

This post is solely about the process itself with lots of pictures and also plenty of gifs, because I promised to do one if people would like to see that and I got some comments saying that they’re looking forward for that. So, here’s now that post!

For starters I have to apologize for the terrible quality that is the photos. I used my phone camera only and never thought about posting them, I just took them as a reference for myself and to show the progress to a friend and only after finishing the drawing I noticed that the angle of the camera causes a huge impact on the perspective of the drawing, so I sometimes might have done useless work when I thought some perspective was wrong when it was actually the photo that was wrong and not my work! I mean, take a look at these photos of the finished piece:

You see that? I realized this when I took maybe the second photo of the Farin sheet and looked at it and couldn’t believe my eyes because I didn’t remember drawing his torsto THAT small! And then I looked at the drawing and was like “wtf???” because it looked nothing like in the photo and then it hit me...

Also, another thing that I learn was that I might need to pay more attention to the perspective of the whole thing also because when I draw, I sit at the table so I am constantly seeing the drawing from my perspective instead of looking at it from above so that’s probably also going to affect the way I draw. I try to keep that in mind in the future so I can avoid redrawing things again and again just because my perspective is different than the reference photo’s.

Also the giant forehead of Farin’s in the photo on the right might have caused me to laugh a bit too much but anyway, let’s continue~ Or more like: let’s start for real this time.

Here’s the reference photo to y’all:

What I did in photoshop was to draw a line between them to see how I can divide the photo on two A4 papers. I had been thinking about this photo for some time already because it’s one of my favorites (but now I just feel cringy looking at it after I have drawn it... goddamnit!), and I got this idea that I could try drawing it on two papers in case I fuck up so I can start over or try again without having to do twice the work! Which was actually a good decision because this was the first version of Farin:

And it was awful. I also realized I had never drawn Farin’s face from he front. I have drawn him before from the side a few times but maybe once it came out actually good so that was why I decided to do the 2 paper method - because I knew it was not going to be an easy job! Bela is relatively easy to draw so I knew already that I would not have too many problems with that one.

I struggled with Farin’s eyes the most, at first.

It took me a while to figure out how to do that white line in his lower lid. Keep in mind that this was my first face portrait in over 10 years so I was very, very rusty and I just didn’t remember how to draw like anything anymore. (The photo is tilted because Bela’s face is a bit tilted and my hand can’t draw anything that is not straight [lol] so I have to rotate the photo in order to even draw the sketch of Bela’s eyes.)

So I took my sketchbook and tried to do some eyes...

I was still struggling so much here until I remembered about blending. And I didn’t have my hopes high but grabbed the eyeshadow applicators (my fave tool for blending) anyway, and switched to my other sketchbook in case the paper was the issue and:

Blending. It was all about blending! So with that in mind, I realized I can continue and I don’t need to do these in my old way, everything doesn’t have to have a lineart done but some of the job is done not with the pencils but with the eraser.

Anyhow, the previous Farin looked really bad and was too big as well so I just discarded that and started a new sheet because the old lines were not coming off properly anymore. I don’t remember if this is the old face or new but I think this might still be the old one:

Yes it definitely is the old because look at those lines! This is the new sheet:

And in the photo you can see one of my pencils - I use Derwent Graphic pencils, it’s a 12 pencil set with very soft pencils, starting with H, F and HB and ending to 9B. With this one I used F, HB, B, 2B, 5B, 7B and 9B. The white pencil is actually my new love aka the eraser pencil Koh-I-Noor Hardmuth. It’s amazing, I recommend! I just didn’t order 10 new ones this other day. I actually used about 1,5 full eraser pencils on this drawing alone so that’s why 10.

Here’s a “little” gif of the process on Farin:

I felt crazy when I went for the shirt, and I felt like I was going crazy MEANWHILE drawing it but in the end I did it and I’m super proud of it!

Below is the reference photo, it was pain in the ass to follow all those lines with my eyes and try to find what was I drawing and where was I but I think I did good. That was a fun challenge.

Okay so, when I was done with the new lineart, I decided to go for the shading and blending because that’s what really makes the drawings to pop. I started with the left (his right, my left) side of Farin’s face because I’m right-handed, and in the first photo I had done just the left (right) eye and mouth and nose, but in the second there’s also the other eye done already:

Keep in mind this was not the last time I drew the eyes. Not even close.

Something was off with the right (left) eye so I had to do that one again and I noticed that when you blend but haven’t erased and cleaned it yet, it looks like a black eye :DDD So here’s the before and after images of that cleaning. (Cleaning = I draw, blend, erase, draw and blend more when needed and then erase again, and repeat this as many times as I need until it starts to look ready to my eye.)

So here Farin was “finished” but if you still remember the final piece or compare it to it, you might notice it looks quite different. And you’re right. But more about that later, because at this point I started to work on Bela.

It actually started really well - I also had to do the whole lineart again because it did not match the size of “finished” Farin. I don’t remember if this is the first or second eye but when I had drawn his eye for the first time, I noticed it was not in line with Farin so I had to redraw it. A gif of the progress:

What’s that brown paper I’m using, you may ask? Well I noticed that people have some sort of paper on top of their art to keep it from smudging and I have no clue what that is so here’s my poor artist recommendation: baking paper! I tested it and it works (if you just remember to keep it under your hand, that is...) so that is, in fact, baking paper! :DD

I have drawn Bela’s face a few times before and he’s just so much easier to draw. In fact I used 4-5 days on Farin but I managed to start and finish (this version of) Bela just in one day. And that means that out of 12 hours (because I literally used the whole day for drawing) I used maybe like... 5h or something on Bela. That’s how much easier he really is to draw.

I don’t know wtf is wrong with Farin’s face but he’s extremely difficult to draw and I’m not the only one who has been saying this. I guess he just looks so regular but still unique enough to be difficult to draw. Bela then again has features that are very unique and very... caricature-like? I mean that just by drawing his nose or chin you can make a comic book Bela look exactly like himself, and with more realistic style his eyes already do a lot, but Farin’s really the opposite. My comic book version of Farin is literally the most basic version I can draw, it’s how I draw those characters and the only thing that makes him look himself is the hair, and his nose in a side profile. So I think that’s why it’s so difficult to draw him because he doesn’t look too regular but still regular enough to make is a very challenging task to do properly.

So yeah, the same day as I started working on Bela, I was also “finished” with the drawing:

Also look at how different it looks like from this perspective:

With the reference photo open in photoshop and I don’t understand how Bela looks more like himself in my drawing than in the photo. Also when I showed the WIP to my brother, he said that I somehow had succeeded at making Farin look more like Farin than what he does in the photo even. It’s weird.

But we were still far from finished. I was going to use the fixative on this soon but it just kept snowing the whole week so I couldn’t so every time I walked past the drawings, I stopped to fix this and that. For days I kept telling myself “I’m done, I can’t do more than this, I can’t do better than this.” and considered the drawing finished but still kept fixing things. Every time I was “done” with the other drawing, I saw something to fix in the other one and once that was done, I felt like the first one wasn’t as good and had to fix something from it too. And that led to a cycle where the other drawing was always better than the other and the worse one needed to be fixed. In the end I was hating the whole process and myself and my skills and I was already ready to abandon this whole thing and call it a day and never ever show it to anyone “because I cannot draw”. The photo above, here’s a list of things I redrew after that:

Bela’s eyes, the right (left) one at least twice.

Bela’s nose.

Bela’s mouth a couple of times.

Farin’s eyes x588045028520

And a list of things I kept fixing and fixing:

Bela’s chin.

Bela’s neck shadows.

Bela’s hairline.

Farin’s whole face was tilted so I tried to fix that.

Farin’s face was too wide, which meant also partially redrawing the ear.

Farin’s hair was too long and wide too.

Farin’s nose.

Farin’s mouth might be the only thing I drew only once and I’m actually still extremely proud of how it came to be. I did the lips solely with blending so that was super exciting to notice how I can use it for drawing and don’t need the pencils for everything!

During Bela’s eyes and nose and mouth especially I was hating myself so much and I felt like I was taking the risk of ruining the whole thing and a few times I was certain that was what I had just done too, until I somehow was able to save it again. But because of that, I wasn’t able to make Bela’s mouth any lighter anymore, the color wasn’t just coming off the paper so had to use what was there and make it look like it’s how it’s supposed to be, too.

Here’s a gif about those changes on Bela - the first one has the old eyes and nose, the others have minor changed on the nose and mouth:

(The blacks probably don’t get any blacker in reality, I did add more color to it all the time but mainly it’s just the lighting and my phone camera changing the brightness.)

I did the final details on his nose without even using the reference photo anymore. The photo didn’t seem to make any sense anymore at all so I was just using my mechanical pencil and the blending tool and eraser to make is look better. To my eye it looked more like a very flat nose with a big tip of the nose and he doesn’t have a flat nose and I tried to get rid of that illusion. I still feel like it makes him look bit weird but I’m not entirely sure how. Maybe it was because of my improvisation, idk...

So, Bela was then finally finished for the last time. In the Farin piece his left (right) eye had been bugging me the whole time and I didn’t want to touch it but still I felt like I have to do something about it because it was bugging me way too much. I then figured I could draw the eye line by line and take a photo of it each time to see if it looks right already or not, maybe I could then avoid doing all the phases before I was sure what to think about it. I mean, now the only way to see if it was correct was to draw e.g. an eye from start to finish, I couldn’t see from just the lineart or unblended eye if it was in the right spot etc. And here’s that progress on a gif:

The gif about only the eye would look so nice if Tumblr didn’t make the gifs so HUGE - this one is actually only 300px or 400px or something:

Apparently I also wasn’t happy with the other eye because:

But good thing is: I really enjoy drawing eyes. I love seeing them to “come alive”, my favorite part was to eraser a bit of the color on the iris to make them look like they are actually shiny! It feels like something so small to do and yet it makes a huge impact on the drawing!

And here’s yet another gif of the whole Farin sheet with all of the changes, including the last changes that made his head narrower, and less tilted and more in line. Look at the left side of his head especially to see that:

I can also see his nose changing between the first few photos. I keep forgetting about that but yeah, I also fixed that a little at some point.

And last but not least, the whole drawing in some sort of a timelapse gif:

Last two are the same but just a photo and the scan of the finished drawing. I still keep seeing things I would do differently but no can do, I already used fixative on it, also to keep myself from obsessing with it any more :D And to use it as a study of some sort. I have never been able to draw a perfect pencil drawing and this isn’t one either. I probably never can draw perfect drawings from references.

I do enjoy the whole shading and blending process, so much so that when I was editing these photos, I just wanted to start drawing something so bad but I also figured that I start to lose motivation when I get to the point where everything should be finished but I just can’t make it perfect. Like the current WIP I have, all I should do is to get the proportions and perspective and the lines of their faces correctly and I would be ready but it feels more like a superpower some people possess and I’m not one of those. I don’t know what is it but I just feel that I cannot see. I don’t know how to explain it, but I can’t see what I try to do and somehow keep drawing everything the wrong way. Just like in this post’s drawing too. There’s still things that are wrong and I know what it is but I don’t know how to solve it. My hands just don’t listen to me and they can’t do what I think they should. I also think the reason I cannot draw perfect copies of photos is because you can always see my “handprint” in them. If I copy a photo, it will look like a photo and not like a drawing made by me. So I believe that in my drawing there’s always a part of me visible and I’m not entirely sure if it’s a good thing or not. On bad days it’s not a good thing, obviously. On good days? Well I guess it’s good then because it just means I have my own style which I really should appreciate. But I wish I had my style only when I want it to be visible, but I can’t control it. Just like I cannot write text by hand that would look like it was written with a computer, so I guess I should just try to get used to it, no matter how much it’d bug me sometimes.

#mcrmadness draws #mcrmadness draws: behind the scenes #dä fanart #die ärzte

[rudysrings]

Adapt or Die (Prologue)

A/N: This is a new series I’m trying out. If it’s a go then yay! If not--Well, I’ll let it fade away into nothingness then, I guess... :(

Summary/Blurb Here

SO, the main character/reader was essentially inspired by Darwin from the Marvel comics/X-men. However, I will be adapting (HAHA adapting, get it? That was totally by accident I swear) the abilities and back story to fit what I’m writing; so, die-hard Darwin fans, please know I’m not trying to misportray (is that even a word? Eh, I don’t care. I think y’all know what I mean) the original character, but I simply wanted to draw from the bomb-ass root idea of what he can do. 

For those of you who don’t know who Darwin is, here’s a quick blurb from Wikipedia on what his abilities are:

Darwin has the power of "reactive evolution"; i.e., his body automatically adapts to any situation or environment he is placed in, allowing him to survive possibly anything; the exact nature and limits of his powers have not been revealed.

Examples of his powers include: gaining night-vision after a few seconds in the dark; functional gills after being submerged in water; fire-proof skin after being exposed to flame; increasing his own intelligence; converting his body into pure energy; no longer requiring oxygen after being sucked into space; morphing into a sponge when shot at with a weapon designed to destroy the subject's nervous system; and acquiring comprehension of the Shi'ar language merely by looking at written samples. His power may concern itself with more efficient methods of survival than Darwin himself might choose; for example, instead of continually increasing Darwin's powers when taking punishment from the Hulk, his body simply teleported him away from the fight.

His power can also work when dealing with non-immediately-life-threatening situations, such as rendering it impossible for Darwin to get drunk by allowing his body to process alcohol faster than humans would normally.

It’s pretty fucking cool, right? Let me know what you think. By the way, this part is pretty short because it’s the prologue, but I expect the other parts to be longer. 

Oh! I almost forgot: the reader is desi :) Thanks to @parkerpeter24​, who wrote an awesome Peter Parker imagine here for Holi, I felt inspired to post this WIP. 

I realize that makes the writing not truly an all-inclusive one, but I thought it would be cool to bring this aspect in. Obviously, you don’t have to be desi to read it and the whole thing won’t be about being desi. Just a little background I felt like adding to the character. If you absolutely hate it... then maybe don’t read it? :) please and thank you.

Anyways! Sorry for the rambling. Enjoy and thanks for reading if you’re still here <3

Warnings: There’s for sure going to be some swearing in this series :) Also, It’s gonna be a little steamy ;-; But it’s not revolved around smut and probably won’t be all that graphic. Probably. No promises O.O Only implied sexual happenings and for once, no swear words in this part.

Words: .957 k

ON WITH IT:

You blink your eyes against the startling light that is pouring through the thin curtains. Surprised that it’s morning, you sit up quickly, looking to your side to see no one there.

Ok, so that’s two surprises in the first ten seconds of the day. We’re off to a great start today, Y/N.

You sigh, brushing your hands through your unruly turquoise hair and swinging your legs out of the bed. You slip on your jeans and look around for your shirt. The black lacy thing you had worn the night before is laying over a lamp and you quickly shuffle over to it. Your eyes flick down to the nightstand and see a flip phone. Confused, you pick it up, opening it to see a single message from a private number.

We’ll be in touch.

Your stomach drops and you hastily pull your shirt over your head and clear the hotel room. Your better judgement tells you to get rid of the phone. Toss it in a river. Run over it. Throw it into a passing car.

For some reason, against that better judgement, you tuck it into your pocket and check out of the hotel.

You remember the previous night perfectly; the alcohol that had done absolutely nothing to dull your acute senses.

                                                                ~

You slam the shot back down on the bar counter, not even wrinkling your nose at the sharp taste of tequila that should have burned your throat.

The bartender gives you a look of obvious judgement. Next thing you know, he’s asking for your keys.

“I don’t have ’em. I walked here,” you lie.

“Wasn’t that you on the motorcycle?” There’s a smooth voice behind you and you turn to see a woman with fiery hair and an enticing smile.

“No.” You reply shortly.

She shrugs. “Hmm. I could have sworn…You know,k I always did have a thing for a woman on a motorcycle.”

She approaches the bar beside you and asks the bartender for some sort of fruity concoction.

She has an accent. Italian, maybe. It’s obviously fake. She’s doing a helluva good job of over-enunciating every single word an Italian would. However, no Italian who’s lived in London for more than a week would continue to cling to those pronunciations. So, you decide she’s either a tourist or a spy.

When you smell metal—vibranium—on her, but don’t see it, given it’s probably hidden underneath her tight-fitting clothes, you decide it’s the latter.

“Do you ride?” You asked her.

“Motorcycles? Nah. I just hang on to the one riding,” She flirts.

You finger the rim of your drink. You can hear someone speaking to her through her earpiece.

“You got her, Natasha. Close in.”

“Y/N.” You stick your hand out, unafraid.

Natasha takes it immediately, giving you a firm shake and lingering on your ring a little too long.

“Sienna.”

You can’t help but giggle out loud. Wow. She had to choose the most cliché Italian name to ever exist. You covered your outburst with a cough. “Beautiful,” you complimented her fake name.

“Classic.” She shrugged. “So, what’s a gal like you doing in a bar like this?” She asked, gesturing to how run down the area was. The bartender gave her an incredulous look, but even he probably knew the kind of reputation the place had. You had to admit that it was unkempt and clearly not maintained--not to mention the types of sleazes that seemed to frequent it.

“I could ask you the same.”

“Deflect,” said the voice in the earpiece. You furrowed your brows slightly; you could usually judge by the timbre of the voice what a person’s age was, but this one stumped you. The inflections were outdated for sure, but the man spoke like velvet, far too young to be using that old-time Brooklyn accent.

“You first,” Natasha pushed.

Shrugging, you replied, “It’s more low-key, don’t you think? Wouldn’t want to run into anyone I know when I’m clearly trying to escape the real world right now.”

The bartender slid over her drink in a cocktail glass and Natasha took hold of it, taking a sip and staining the edge of the glass a deep burgundy. “And what exactly has the real world done this time?” She asked.

You smacked your lips thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s more about what the real world hasn’t done this time. Or maybe about what it did the other time.”

“Oh,” Natasha said simply.

“Can you get her somewhere alone, Nat?” The wannabe 40s Brooklyn man in the ear piece asked.

You smiled, showing your teeth. “How would you feel about helping me escape the real world a little bit more, Sienna?”

She moved closer, brushing your elbow. “Y/N, are you suggesting we get out of here?”

You were a couple of inches taller than her and you leaned over, close enough that locks of your ocean hair brushed her forehead. “What I’m suggesting is that I know a hotel with nice sheets not too far from here.”

Natasha smirked. “Nice work, Romanoff.” 

Romanoff? Sounds more Russian than Italian, you thought.

                                                               ~

It wasn’t the first time that somebody had attempted to con you, be it for information or for money. You didn’t mind the game. So, you let it happen. Undeniably, you enjoyed the spy’s touch and the numbing feel of her pillowy lips on yours. 

However, you did not expect to fall asleep. That had never happened before. Your body didn’t do that. Your body never failed to do something that would strengthen you. You had never, not once, fallen asleep in the presence of another.

That scared you.

You had been careless.

You straightened your shoulders as you walked out onto the streets of Southwest London. No big deal, you just had to be a bit more careful now.

я иду за тобой Natasha Romanoff.

A/N: я иду за тобой = I’m coming for you (Russian) 

(I used google translate, which is probably wrong; so, if anyone catches a mistake in that, please let me know, and I will change it :) )

*PSST*: Isn’t Natasha so fucking stunning in that picture on my sucky ass moodboard? Those eyes? That barely there smile? I’m melting. 

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x enhanced!reader #natasha romanoff x darwin!reader #female!darwin!reader #desi!reader #natasha romanoff x desi!reader #peter parker x reader #peter parker x enhanced!reader #avengers x enhanced!reader #avengers x reader #avengers x desi!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x enhanced!reader #enhanced!reader #marvel x reader #marvel x enhanced!reader #marvel series #darwin #marvel's darwin

[naniro2]

As I said few days ago - working on a Cockles fic. This is how it’s going so far.  These are characters based on real people's public personas, speculation, vague interviews and stuff. None of this is claiming to be remotely real or accurate! No disrespect is meant to anyone.

***********************

When did Jensen know? When did he figure out that there was something off with Misha? Well, since the first day he met him, things were a tad bit weird between them but it was not until a couple of weeks later at a cast party that he realized there was more to their awkwardness around each other. Since the beginning Erik Kripke was saying if you want to stay on the air as a successful show you need a really tightly knit cast and crew so everything runs smoothly in unison. So bonding was essential and usually came with alcohol, music and lounging around until well past midnight. After three years, team building parties had become essential.

They usually throw a party  after they wrap up a particularly difficult episode. It was the middle of September 2008, probably around 18th or 20th. Jensen couldn’t remember exactly but they were probably at a soundstage that had been turned into a lounge with  Jared and Genevieve and he was having his 4th or 5th drink. He  distinctly remembers Jared’s obnoxiously loud laughter that he has when he is on the verge of being too drunk. Right about then Jay, that’s what he called Jared, had found something so hysterical he was ignoring  Genevieve because he was not even trying to flirt with her. Gen looked amused and Jensen did not miss the softness in her eyes whenever she looked at Jared's now red face. At that moment, Jensen knew that Jared’s silly crush may actually become a love story.

“Dmitri? What kind of name is Dmitri?” the giant numb-nut shrieked, erratically.

“It’s Russian, dummy,” Genevieve shook her head, patting Jared on the shoulder.

“Who is Dmtitri?” Jensen asked. That’s a stupid thing to ask, Jensen thought but was too drunk to stop himself.

“Well,” Misha  replied from the backrest of the armchair he was perched on “it’s me. I am Dmitri.”

“Your actual name is Dmitri?” Jared’s face was turning blue, he needed to breathe. .

“Dmitri Trepens Krushnic, enchanté” Misha bowed a little from his unusual seat, almost spilling wine on his ridiculous sweater.

“Krushnic!”  Jared  laughed again and Misha’s face turned the slightest tint of pink, he was starting to get  uncomfortable.

It is not that Misha was touchy or couldn’t make a self-deprecating joke, on the contrary, he was quite the comedian, but Jensen felt uneasy with how Jared was acting. Way to look like assholes to the guest stars . “Don’t embarrass yourself more than usual, Jay,” he chided as he lowered his eyes to Jared who was still laughing hysterically  then he turned towards Misha, “I am sorry on behalf of my purely American friend, Padalecki here.”  He rolled his eyes hard on ‘Padalecki’ but the irony was lost on drunken Jared.

“It’s okay” Misha chuckled and straightened a little. The whiskey was pooling warm in Jensen’s belly. “I’m used to it. A nice Russian accent can land you some amazing roles.” Sometimes Misha’s voice had a mesmerizing note to which people failed to resist. “A spy. An assassin. A mafia… well, not boss but a mafia cutthroat. Yeah, variety is key.” He shrugged innocently as the others laughed, “Well sometimes someone can mistake you for an actual spy. There was only this one old lady living down the street when I was 10 or 11 years old that was pretty sure I was a Soviet spy” Misha’s expression had become conspicuous as he was leaning in towards Gen, sitting on the armrest of Jared’s chair and stroking his hair. “See, the lady had a little bit of dementia, maybe that was why she called 911 on several occasion to report suspicious activity.”

“About you?” Gen asked.

“Yeah, yeah about me. ‘See, Homeland Security, I want to report a boy in my neighborhood.” Misha’s impression of a 75 years old, suburban lady with a hushed voice made for gossip and secret reports was outstanding.  “I heard him being called ‘Dmitri’ who talks with Russian accent and I think he may be spying on us. No, no, he is about 11. How do I think he works? I don’t know, I’m not a communist spy. Maybe he tries to convert the kids at the school into communism or something. Yes, thank you, thank you officer for your attention.’”

Jensen had tears in his eyes and his belly was aching from the laughter but managed to say “But you don’t have an accent now.”

“Well…” Misha grinned with a look of childish mischief on his face “A nice Russian accent have other benefits too.” he winked “It is an excellent way to get away with things and to receive people’s desserts from lunch.” Suddenly mid-sentence his expression changed, his voice rasping an octave lower “I’m Dmitri, came here from Russia with my brother Sasha and my mother Masha.” The words were rolling out of his tongue all hard ‘r’-s and hard ‘h’-s, no sign of diphthongs. Jensen was folding in two in something that was threatening to enter giggle territory. “Your country - very beautiful, love it here. In Russia we have all that borsch and cold and snow and poverty'' sorrowful wrinkles scrunched Misha’s forehead, his eyes bigger and bluer than ever. He looked like a sweet hungry child and Jensen would give him not only his dessert but the entire lunch if it would make him happy. “Only two flavors of ice cream. In America, there are 32 flavors of ice cream…”

“This Dmitri guy is quite the performer, huh?” Gen challenged and Misha broke character, a wide smile on his face, eyes crinkled at the corners. Jensen hadn’t noticed when he had stilled fixated at the comic show in front of him.

“That was great, dude” Jared said, patting Misha’s knee. “Right, Jackles?”

“Yeah… great.” Jensen’s eyes locked with Misha’s and for a moment he thought he saw something unreadable in them; a twinkle maybe. They both failed to look away for what probably was far too long and as Misha’s face relaxed and his gaze became clearer, Jensen could feel it going right through him to his very core.

So, it’s not just Castiel then , he thought.

************************************

Huuuuuge thanks to @cooloddball for helping

And here’s the link to the entire thing, it’s very much a WIP

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27708518/chapters/67814744 

#jensen ackles #misha collins #cockles #destiel

[need-a-fugue]

Why Not? - Chapter Ten

Summary: With a garage to run and a young daughter to, well… run after, Bucky Barnes doesn’t exactly have time for dating. And with his relationship track record – and the constant meddling of a certain overbearing best friend – he’s not so sure that’s a bad thing. But then he meets Annie – a rather insistent, pretty damn cute fellow car enthusiast – and it’s got him asking himself, despite all his hesitations, why not?

Author’s Note: Written for Little Darlin’s Mystery AU Challenge. Thanks to @sourpatchkidsandacokecan​ for triggering this… sprawling thing simply by supplying me with the prompt of Mechanic!AU for Bucky. It’s taken on a life of its own already… look at what you’ve done!

I'm so sorry it took so long to update... I got a little sucked into a different WIP that I've been obsessing a bit over. But here we are, the final chapter!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

Warnings: Bit of angst, mostly fluff. Some bad language words…

“Come on,” Annie intones – practically whines – as both hands come up to wrap around his wrist. She gives a sharp tug, lets out a dramatic groan, and then plants her high heels and pulls on him with all her might.

But Bucky’s feet remain cemented firmly in place, his eyes still lingering on the throngs of well-dressed, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous people behind her as they casually saunter into the country club. The corner of his mouth ticks up ever so slightly, lopsided grin blooming as he watches her antics from his periphery, catching sight of the pretty pink chiffon of her dress blowing in the soft breeze as she leans heavily back and lets out another huff while continuing to manhandle him.

“Uh-uh,” he mutters, shaking his head slowly, methodically. “No way in hell am I going in there.”

She pulls herself upright and gives him a disappointed look, bottom lip protruding in an overdone pout. “You promised.”

He shrugs, twisting his hand easily in her grip to wrap his fingers around hers. “Changed my mind.”

There’s a cheekiness to his gaze – and a brilliant hue to his crystal blue eyes – that she recognizes immediately. It’s the same vague, teasing look he gives his daughter whilst telling her that dinosaurs used to keep sabretooth tigers at pets… and made wooly mammoths use their tusks to clean their litter boxes. Or when he insists that ice cream for breakfast is against the law, and he’s keeping her out of jail by giving her waffles instead.

It’s a look Annie’s had directed her way a time or two as well, the playful flash in his features doing more to set her ablaze than just about anything else – save maybe seeing him slide out from under a car, covered in grease and sweat. Those moments when he sneaks up behind her while she’s washing dishes, gives her a swift and startling slap on the ass that every time causes her to nearly jump out of her skin? There’s that glint burning in his gaze as she turns to coyly chide him. Or when she bemoans being tired after a long day and a late night, only to feel his fingers trail slowly up her thigh, setting her flesh to tingle and singe? Sure enough, when she rolls over in bed, it’s that look she’s met with, impish anticipation painting his features.

It’s a look that has already become adored and craved by her. And freely given by him. A gesture, an unspoken admittance of affection that – in just these few short months – has managed to work its way into a new, shared vernacular.

She steps closer to Bucky, the slowly setting sun beating harshly on her back as she presses herself to his chest. “What if I change my mind about coming home with you tonight?” she asks with a sly smile, eyes fluttering flirtatiously up at him. “I mean, if I go in there alone, chances are, I’ll find some handsome, rich man and go home with him instead. Let him whisk me away in his Ferrari.”

Her mere presence coupled with the unseasonably warm temperature causes sweat to build beneath his collar, and he reaches up with his free hand to tug at the suffocating tie. “If he’s got a Ferrari, I can’t blame you,” he breathes out casually. “Go for it.” He drops his palm down to her hip, taking in the cool silkiness of her dress. “But you’re not gonna find anyone in there more handsome than me.”

She pulls back with a sudden – utterly enchanting, he can’t help but think – laugh and slaps him in the chest. “Cocky much?”

He merely wiggles his brows at her, earning an eyeroll – amid a beautifully dimpled smile – in response.

“C’mon,” she breathes out then, spinning round and twining her fingers with his before setting off towards the celebration. “You’re my officially RSVPed plus one. There’s no backing out now. It’s the law.”

He bites back a short chuckle, lets out instead a rumbling growl, but easily relents just the same, this time allowing himself to be pulled forward towards the massive gardens ahead. “I don’t know any of these people,” he whines pathetically, plodding behind her with heavy feet.

“You know me. And Tony,” she supplies, forging on without casting a glance back at him.

He rolls his eyes restlessly. “Last time I saw your boss, he was practically dusting for prints in my garage.”

“So dramatic,” she mocks thickly, accepting a program from one of the ushers as they enter the sprawling garden. She stops short once inside, Bucky very nearly ramming into her from behind. “It looks amazing,” she lets out in a low, astonished tone, the very tenor of which shoots a wide grin across Bucky’s face. She spins to look at him, her eyes inadvertently ticking round to take in more details of their surroundings. The lush, green topiaries looming on all sides. The big, beautiful lilies and orchids encircling the seating area. The perfectly placed fairy lights streaming from the tall trees. The giant pergola up front where a terribly well-dressed justice of the peace is already stoically standing. “This is exactly like what Pepper requested,” she mutters delightedly. “She must be so happy!”

He tugs her off to the side – out of the way – as more people stream in. “Well, it is her day, right?”

Annie nods, small hum spilling from her lips as she turns and drags him off towards the pristine white chairs, marching ever closer to the pergola at the front. “Tony said that if I sit any further back than the third row, I’m fired,” she tells him when his heels begin to dig in yet again.

And again, he yields, a deep, rather comic frown pulling on his face as they lightly push their way through the other guests. “So Stark is the bridezilla,” he mutters, no question to his voice.

She leads him into the seats, across a few already sitting – oddly familiar-looking – people before plopping down with a huff. “Ugh,” she drones, completely ignoring his comment and instead straightening her skirt beneath her before letting out a long, weary sigh alongside the very simple utterance, “It is hot.”

“You’re hot?” He turns on her with wide eyes, tugging once more at his tie, trying – and failing – to slide the sleeves of his suit jacket up his forearms for just a little air. “If they say anything more than just I do, I might freakin’ melt out here.”

A soft, clever smile rolls across her face. “But you’ll look good while you do it,” she says, reaching up to flatten his lapel before giving a single, terse nod. “I like you in a suit.”

He lets out a small scoff. “Don’t get any ideas, doll.”

“Any ideas?” she intones, grin only growing. “We’re at a wedding, Buck. I’m getting all sorts of ideas.”

His eyes blow wide for the briefest of moments, mouth falling agape and head cocking towards her as an anxious trilling buzzes through his brain. But then he sees the teasing turn to her lips, the tightness in her jaw as she works to hold in a bout of laughter. And he releases a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding as an exasperated, “Very funny,” slips from his lips.

The bright, airy chuckle she’d been holding so tightly to spills out, her fingers dropping to splay wide over his knee. “Relax. I promise I won’t propose to you at the end of the night.”

His face drops, and along with it, his voice. “Might not mind you proposing certain things,” he mutters with a shrug.

A quick bark of a laugh has his eyes veering automatically back up at her, locking onto her mirthful gaze. “Fine,” she eases out after the giggles begin to fade. “Maybe I’ll propose something.” Then she shifts in her seat, turning towards him, her face mere inches from his. Her eyes take on a somewhat solemn quality as she tells him, voice dropping nearly a full octave, “I’m not one of those super-sentimental, sappy girls who’s going to get all weepy just because we’re at a gorgeous wedding.” Her eyes tick over to the waiting pergola, a wistful air wrapping around her tone. “Or because I genuinely love the two people getting married. Or because,” she looks back at him, something clenching and burning deep in her core as she catches his bright blue eyes. “Because I love the fact that you actually came here with me.”

A tight breath hisses between his teeth. “Jesus, doll. You keep looking at me like that, you might just turn me into one of those super-sentimental, sappy girls,” he tells her before throwing an arm over her shoulder – despite the heat – and settling back with her body nestled close to his.

000

In the weeks following what had since been dubbed FLU: Revenge of the Toilet, Annie and Bucky had not only grown closer, but more… solid.

That rather rough Wednesday night – when everything seemed to go wrong and all of their insecurities were laid bare – had been a bit of a turning point in their relationship. Looking back, both of them would likely say that it was, in fact, the beginning of their relationship. Before that night, they were dating. They were two people who talked and laughed and hung out… and were – undeniably, categorically – attracted to one another. But after, they became so much more.

For Annie, the defining aspect of that evening – the thing that convinced her they were about to head down a new path together – was simply the fact that Bucky had pushed. He forced a conversation about whether or not she could handle his messy life, felt the need to because – I really like you – he was beginning to see a place for her in his future. That, coupled with the fact that he never asked her to leave, clearly never wanted her to leave, served to quiet Tony’s well-intentioned warning – You’ll never come first, you know – that always seemed to linger in the back of her mind.

Maybe that would still be true at times. Maybe it should be true, especially when the one she’d be competing against for that top spot was a four-year-old girl. But in that moment – that night – Bucky had made it abundantly clear that she was his priority.

Needless to say, she had stayed the night after all. After a rather intense and achingly long make out session that resulted in swollen lips, a bit of beard-burn, and a broken coffee maker; a quick everything’s good here check-in phone call from Steve and Natasha; and too much lukewarm Indian food, Annie ended up coiled around Bucky’s hulking form, breathless in his bed, sweaty sheets sticking to naked flesh as her exhausted body drifted off to sleep. It was blissful and hot, and above all else, it just felt… right.

The next morning, on the other hand, wound up being less than stellar. She woke cold and alone, sprawled atop an otherwise empty bed, pulled from her slumber by the muffled sounds of retching emanating from behind the closed bathroom door.

She cared for Bucky that day – much to his chagrin – helped him shower and dress, cleaned his toilet, even ran to the store to stock up on Gatorade and ginger ale. And she allowed him to care for her as well – to come and fetch her and take her home, clean her up and keep her hydrated – when she blew chunks all over her desk at work two days later.

And that is what became the defining moment for Bucky.

It had all been a somber sign of things to come. Sickness. Hardship. Going to bed on cloud nine and waking the next morning with a faceplant to the dirty ground. It was all the things that he’d been afraid might happen. Burdening Annie with the cumbersome task of caring for a stubborn patient – I see where Lana gets it now – and the painful domesticity it bore. Having to do the same for her, just looking at her pale skin and hooded eyes, wiping the sweat from her brow, all the while knowing she was sick because of him. Having to break plans – the first plans they managed to make that didn’t involve chicken soup and Netflix – when a rather green-looking Natasha brought Svetlana over two days early because Steve’s horrendous retching was making the little girl cry.

But they made it through just fine. It was oddly easy, in fact… easier than he ever expected it to be. Caring for one another. Wanting to care for one another. It had been too damn easy.

If he were to be completely, unabashedly honest, Bucky would have to admit that this degree of ease… of comfort and simplicity – because that’s really what it is, isn’t it? Just a bizarrely uncomplicated, effortless sensation? – was not something he’d ever had with any other woman before. Even with Nat – whom he’d loved long before Lana came along, though admittedly not in the way that allowed two people to forge a life together – it had never been easy. She was strong and independent and wholly her own person. Her strength reeled him in and turned him on. But it also terrified him. Still does. Showing any vulnerability in front of Natasha Romanov – despite her telling him repeatedly that she can see right through his cocky façade – is not a thing he has ever been willing or able to do.

And with other woman too, he’s only ever allowed a certain side of himself – or perhaps a select few sides – to be glimpsed. More often than not, he’s shown them the charming, self-assured smile, imbued every movement, every word with the seemingly subtle confidence that he could see turned them to mush. But never, that he can recall, had he shared with them his struggles. No, instead he’d wear that charm like armor, a beguiling indifference that got him laid while still keeping his heart safe. And after Lana was born, once he realized his heart had become even more precious – more full and seemingly fragile now that his baby girl lay inside – an utter air of detachment was added on as an extra, thicker layer of protection.

He’d tell women about himself – what he did for a living, where he grew up. He’d share with them that he loved cars, loved screwball comedies, loved his daughter more life itself. He’d let them into his home and his bed. But his heart – and most of what made him truly him – was simply off limits.

He never really realized how much of his time was spent walking on eggshells around the women in his life, cautiously selecting which pieces of information to reveal, which parts of himself – if any – to lay bare. He’d never realized quite how hard it had been to be himself… to be real and genuine and – God help him – vulnerable with women.

Until Annie came along and made things so damn easy.

000

The music is surprisingly… intense. For a wedding reception, at least. The not-so-subtle beats of AC/DC and Metallica permeating the air for a good hour or so before slowly tapering off into some more appropriate rock ballads. “Tony got to choose the tunes for the cocktail hour,” Annie whispers to him with a smirk. “Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon.”

But for Bucky, the predetermined cocktail hour expands well into the post-dinner lull, his general wariness of large crowds and unease with small talk driving him to keep his hands and lips busy with drinks for as long as humanly possible. He gets it down to a science… sip easily at the watered-down drink in his hand to keep from having to say more than a few words to any of Annie’s overeager – borderline neurotic – coworkers. Then slip back over to the bar, taking his sweet-ass time to get a refill.

He’s on his fifth lap now, taking a break to sit at the far corner of the open bar. He watches from afar – head ducked, fleeting smile stifled – as Annie laughs and talks and mingles with a handful of work friends, her kind eyes ticking his way every few moments in quiet – easy – reassurance. And with each tender glance he feels a new wave of adoration wash over him, a steadily undulating current that both buoys him and threatens to drown him in the depths.

“You’re drinking the cheap shit,” he hears from over his shoulder. His hand grips the crystal tumbler of bourbon a little tighter as he slowly spins on the stool, raising a brow at the suspiciously unaccompanied center of attention. Tony ticks his chin toward his glass before calling the bartender over and saying simply, “Break out the Pappy Van Winkle.”

“The what?” Bucky asks, his eyes following the bartender’s cautious steps as he makes his way around to the back of the bar, throwing furtive glances over his shoulder as he goes.

Tony rolls his eyes and lets out a small grunt before dropping into the seat beside him. “Stupid name, wholeheartedly agree.” He tugs at his bowtie, unfurling it in one quick swipe and flinging it down atop the mahogany bar. “But it’s the best. Or…” he shrugs. “One of the best. Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow – not unkindly, but certainly suspiciously – as he watches the bartender return with two tumblers and a bottle that his fingers curl around as though it were the freaking holy grail. “Shouldn’t you be out there mingling with all your high-society guests?” he asks once they’re left alone with their drinks.

Tony raises his glass, holding it high with an expectant sort of impatience. “C’mon,” he mutters fitfully. “I just married the love of my life. Toast me.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth quirks up into an amused grin, a quick snort of a chuckle spilling out as he brings the bourbon up and clinks Tony’s glass. “Congratulations,” he deadpans, the smallest gleam in his eye revealing the depth of his sincerity.

“Thank you.” Tony pulls back and sips at his drink, a look of pure comfort spilling across his face as his Adam’s apple bobs.

Bucky brings the bourbon to his lips – slowly, cautiously – and lets the amber liquid slide inside, coating his tongue, his throat, his soul in the most delicious burn possible. “Damn,” he breathes out, staring wide-eyed at the drink in his hand. A delicate trace lingers as he swipes his tongue along his bottom lip, head shaking slowly. “Damn.”

Tony chuckles under his breath. “Probably shouldn’t have introduced you to good ole Pappy,” he declares. “Like sending someone who’s only ever flown coach across the ocean on a private jet.”

“I’d settle for business class,” he smarts with a frown.

Tony nods, another small chortle spilling out of him. He takes another sip and cheats out on his stool, gazing across the large dancefloor in front of them until his eyes light on the tall strawberry blonde, dripping with white silk, a glass of champagne in her left hand that sets a sparkling backdrop for the platinum band clinking delicately against it. “Nah,” he mutters, grin growing as he watches his new wife throw her head back in a carefree, delightful bout of laughter. “Why settle when you can have the best?”

Bucky’s shoulders pull into a quick shrug, his gaze sweeping out to find the object of Tony’s attention before returning to settle on the drink in his hand. “Not everyone can afford the best,” he mutters a bit under his breath.

Tony turns to him with a disappointed glare. “You do realize I’m not actually talking about bourbon, right?” He lets out a long, exasperated sigh and settles in, placing his glass on the bar and leaning close to the man beside him. “She’s ruined you, hasn’t she? Annie,” he clarifies when Bucky’s brows curl in confusion. “Can’t go back to the cheap shit after getting a taste of her. Am I right?”

Something akin to a growl pulls from his chest, his jaw ticking tightly to the side. “Don’t talk about tasting my girlfriend.”

And Tony just laughs. Loudly. Haughtily. Slapping Bucky on the shoulder as he goes. “Relax, will ya?” he chokes out before swallowing down the snickers. He shakes his head with a fond sort of amusement. “Metaphor, Barnes.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, hint of agitation still in his voice as he brings the glass back to his lips and lets the liquor wash away the remnants of his irritation.

“I was watching you before,” he states simply, mirthful eyes still trained on the rather uncomfortable looking man before him. “The way you look at her, eyes following her around like a little puppy dog.”

Bucky’s lips press tightly together into a small snarl.

“I’m a genius, you know,” he lets out vapidly before giving a quick shrug and reaching up to pop open the top button of his starched, white collar. “Doesn’t take a genius to see what I saw, though.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bucky bites out, perhaps a bit harsher than intended. “What’s that?”

A smug smile, a stifled laugh, a short, incredulous snort… that’s all the answer he really needs. But Tony says it anyway, never one to pass up the opportunity to be heard. “You’re smitten. Intoxicated. You’ve had the Pappy and – you’ve gotta admit – nothing’s been sweeter, smoother… easier going down.”

He flashes him a stunned look, his stare reflecting something between confusion and accusation. And his lips part, jaw popping open to emit nothing but dumbfounded silence.

“Love’s a good thing,” Tony tells him, his voice light and airy, flitting atop a soft laugh. “Annie is a damn good… thing,” he finishes, frown forming as he realizes what he said. But he shakes it off, a look of you know what I mean flashing Bucky’s way. “She tell you about the promotion?” he asks, curiosity lacing his tone.

Bucky sputters a bit, the swift change in topic causing him to reel. “Uh,” he thinks. Promotion… promotion. “Yeah,” he utters finally, once his brain catches up. “Yeah. Something about… operations…” He shakes his head. “Or operational… something.”

Another snort of a laugh. “Operations manager for our new Innovative Tech Division.” He shakes his head with an almost annoyed air. “Up and comers are the worst. They all think they’re the hottest shit, each of their ideas the most… innovative. I find them… exhausting.” He narrows his eyes pensively. “Actually I find them to be the most irritating little shits on the planet.” He issues out a quick scoff and downs the rest of his drink before returning his gaze to Bucky. “Annie says they’re too much like me and that’s why I hate them. But I don’t buy that. I love me.” He shrugs. “Anyway… figured she could go unleash some of that insight on them. Help them all get their shit together and function like a team. Or, hell, I’d settle for just function.”

Bucky lets out a soft snicker, crooked smile blooming. “Want her to clean up more of your messes,” he muses thickly, taking another pull of bourbon.

Tony flattens him with an uncharacteristically serious stare. “It’s what makes us a good team.” He turns on his stool to bodily face the man before him, brows knitting tightly as a contemplative expression washes over his face. “I can only function in a world tempered with chaos… need it to be able to find the answers that just swirl around in the air. I make messes. It’s part of my process. Annie, she likes to… clean things up. Organize them. Fix them. She’s good at it too.”

Bucky’s lips pinch tightly together, his head slowly bobbing in a pensive nod as a sudden swell of doubt rises in his gut. “She likes order,” he says, almost to himself.

“Nah,” Tony mutters. “She just knows that sometimes order is what you need to make things more… palatable for others.” Bucky’s brows twist tightly together, utter befuddlement tugging at his features. Tony stifles a laugh as he catches the look. “What she likes is the mess. Because it gives her something to fix. She likes the challenge.”

“The challenge,” he repeats, his shoulders deflating, head drooping. “Great. Just what every guy wants to hear… I’m a challenge to be around,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Give her some credit,” Tony mutters drolly, pulling Bucky from his haze. “If she didn’t want to be challenged, she’d shack up with one of the boring-ass intellectuals down in accounting. Lord knows enough of them have tried. She saw your ramshackle little garage, saw you racing all over the place to fix things…”

“My garage isn’t ramshackle,” he interrupts with a frown.

“Every time I went in there the place was overbooked, you had some new project going on – ”

“You brought me those projects,” he defends a bit heatedly.

Tony merely shrugs. “Tools and grease everywhere,” he goes on. “A business partner who comes and goes as he pleases. Some teenager trying not to break shit in the back…”

“Hey, Peter’s a good kid.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know. I’ve heard.” He stares Bucky down, his deep brown eyes holding a steely edge. “Barnes, I have heard everything about you. About how great you are with early model fuel-injection systems. How generous your are with your regulars… working out financing and payment plans and other nonsense that’s just gonna land you in the poorhouse. How patient you are with working around other people’s schedules. How wonderful you are with your kid,” he finishes with another overdone roll of his eyes. “Yeah, you got a little bit of chaos surrounding you,” he goes on with a tender note. “And she likes that.”

“You’re saying she likes me because my life’s a mess,” he mutters, only a hint of a question to his voice. “She wants something to fix.”

“Your skull really that thick?” he asks with a raised brow. “I know you’re not a genius like some people…” Bucky rolls his eyes and snorts, both actions being completely ignored by Tony as he goes on to say, “You fix cars. She fixes people. You clean up after a kid. She cleans up after me. You hold together a complicated little family unit, work to make it, well, work. She’s about to do the same with a group of arrogant young prodigies. She’s not trying to fix you. She’s not looking to be challenged by you. Barnes, you idiot… she wants to be challenged with you.”

000

As the party slows, the night growing long and stretching out towards its inevitable end, Bucky finally leaves the bar and returns to their table. The other Stark Industries’ workers that had been surrounding them before, smothering Bucky with their enthusiastic welcomes and long-winded inside jokes that drove him to the silent corner of the bar to begin with, had all filtered off to either take over the dancefloor or simply retire for the night. It’s only Annie now, a vision in pale pink, the loose curls around her face coiling tightly at her temples due the unseasonable humidity. She rests heavily in her seat at the empty table, head propped on her fist as her eyes trail along the smaller – yet still substantial – crowd before her. The sweetest smile rests on her lips as she placidly watches people dance, laugh, talk, and just be.

Bucky flops down in the chair beside her, scooting a plate piled high with two different types of cake and a heaping scoop of fruit covered in chocolate sauce – because apparently there had been a chocolate fountain sitting at yet another dessert buffet on the opposite side of the room all night – over between them. Her smile grows into an excited, toothy grin as she accepts the proffered fork and stabs through the mountain of sugar, trying to capture all of the sweet treats into a single bite.

“Finally get tired of keeping yourself sequestered?” she asks just before popping the fruit-laden cake into her mouth.

He lets out a small chuckle and spears a chocolatey strawberry with his own fork. “Kinda backfired on me,” he murmurs, swiping his tongue around some of the dripping chocolate. “Your boss found me.”

She laughs indelicately, almost snorting around the massive bite of dessert as she chews and effortfully swallows it down. “Yeah,” she says with a nod. “I saw.” Her fork returns for another serving, playfully batting his away to get at a plump blueberry sitting atop a mass of vanilla buttercream. “Could’ve been worse. Gary from accounting found his way over here.” Her head drops dramatically back, a mocking – and loud – snore pulling from somewhere deep in her chest alongside a theatrical moan. “Sooooo boring.”

Bucky can’t help but laugh at that, his wide smile settling into something fond and familiar as he watches her sigh and slouch forward and focus once again on the dessert, taking another too-large bite and leaving a smear of frosting along the corner of her mouth. “You tired?” he asks, reaching down and plucking a naked raspberry from the pile, raising it up to swipe along her lip, using it to clean her mess before he pops it into his mouth with a wink.

She cocks her head at him and grins, eyes crinkling at the edges as she finishes chewing. He reaches out with his thumb to clear off the remnants of icing and chocolate pocking her bottom lip, and she lets her eyes blink slowly shut, head drooping a bit once she swallows. Bucky unfurls his hand, palm opening to easily accept her flushed cheek as she nuzzles into him. “Is that a pickup line?” she asks, leaning over the edge of her seat, gradually fading into his warmth. “You want to put me to bed?”

He laughs – the sound light and airy and wonderfully melodic to her ears – and scoots his chair closer, wraps an arm around her and tugs her casually to his chest. “Maybe.”

Her eyes flit open and take in the twinkling fairy lights above, each tiny, haloed bulb melding masterfully in with the night sky. “Thanks for coming with me tonight, Buck,” she murmurs languidly as her head rolls back along his shoulder.

He lays a chaste kiss atop her head and pulls her a little closer with his left arm, his right hand still absently stabbing at fruit with his fork. “Any time, doll.”

She shifts beside him, turns her head just enough to be able to catch a glimpse of his face. Her eyes shine with something akin to mischief as she says, “I have a friend who’s getting married in December. We went to high school together so everyone I grew up with will be there.” Her eyebrows wiggle almost maniacally, the look equal parts terrifying and endearing.

“Great,” he deadpans, swallowing down a chortle. Then, “Ah, you know what?” oozes out of him in an easy cadence. “Yeah, I think I have Lana that night. Probably can’t make it.”

“I didn’t tell you the date,” she says, blank face just barely cracking as a sneaky smile threatens to tug at her lips.

“Yeah, well,” he breathes out. “I’m a busy guy, you know.”

She scoots a bit closer, her hip splitting his knees apart as she settles in and wraps her arms around his center. “You’re not that busy,” she intones, dropping her face to his chest and letting out a small yawn. “Or did you forget that I updated your calendar myself?”

No, he hadn’t forgotten. He actually – silently – thanks her daily. Every time he gets an alert on his phone… a reminder about swim lessons, soccer practice, a change of days with Lana. Or a notification – complete with embedded heart emoji – telling him exactly where to be and at what time for their date that evening. She had – now that he thinks about it – somehow managed to already calm the inherent chaos in his life, easing the strain of the everyday.

“Hm,” he hums out casually as his fingers weave into her hair. “You know, I’m pretty sure that calendar told me just the other day that Lana’s starting gymnastics next month…”

She pops up excitedly, coming to life in his arms as she presses her palms into his chest and pushes off of him. “I know!” she enthuses, turning a beaming smile his way. “I’m so excited for her!”

The corner of his mouth quirks up, soft chuckle spilling forth. “Well, that’s good, I guess,” he mutters cheerily, all the while shoving down the butterflies that so often burst to life in his gut when she’s around. She’s excited for my baby, he thinks, grin growing wider from just that one thought. “But I was trying to point out that I’m sure I’ll be way too busy for any more weddings.”

Her bottom lip pushes out into a pout, pensive look tugging at her features as her eyes narrow. “Nah,” she says after a moment of seeming contemplation. “We’ll make it work.”

“Oh, we will?” he questions amid a laugh.

She drops back into him, her head colliding with his collarbone and causing a harsh grunt to sound, cutting off his laughter. “Of course we will,” she mumbles into his chest, the sound of her voice muffled but the feel of it edging into him, vibrating through his chest and colliding with his heart.

He squeezes her a little bit tighter, his fingers trailing softly along the bare skin of her neck, swiping down over her shoulder in a delicate trace. He drops his lips to her hair once more, breathes in the now familiar scent of coconut shampoo… smiles when he gets a swift hit of Lana’s lavender detangler too.  

“I think,” he breathes out, low voice slowing trailing off. She curls deeper into him and gives a small hum by way of encouragement. But he doesn’t go on, can’t quite form the sudden, overwhelming thought into a coherent sentence. He releases a long, hot breath into her hair, the statement that had only just cracked forth and dropped through a chink somewhere in his armor now lodging in his throat.

I love you.

She pulls back and gives him a curious, almost worried look. “You want to go home?” she asks, her voice soft, achingly tender.

He offers a fond, closed-lip smile before tugging her back to his chest, nuzzling her close, and tucking her head beneath his chin. I love you. The words are now tickling the very tip of his tongue, smacking ceaselessly atop the roof of his mouth. I love you.

But… not yet. Not here. “Home,” he muses serenely, hums softly into her hair. A deep sigh spills from his lips, and along with it – carrying a note of practiced ease – he utters plainly, “Yeah, doll. Why not?”

#bucky barnes fanfiction #dad!bucky #LDAMC #bucky x oc #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes fanfic #marvel fanfic #marvelau #bucky imagine #avengersau #avengers fanfiction

[mychemicalficrecs]

!!!! could you rec some killjoys fics that actually include the girl? (so many dont :(((( ) just no waycest please n thank u

Sure!

The Killjoys and the Girl

measured out in miles by orphan_account, Gen, Fun Ghoul/Party Poison, 3k, Teen And Up Audiences. motorbaby learns how to drive.

Hugs Gimme Hugs by jedusaur, Gen, 2k, Teen And Up Audiences. Grace learns the lyrics to Queen's entire oeuvre when she's two, how to kill a drac when she's four and a half, and what a flush toilet is for when she's nine.

The Getaway Mile by strobelighted, Gen, 4k, Teen And Up Audiences. Fun Ghoul, Jet Star, and Grace have left the City Slums to live in the desert with Kobra Kid and Party Poison, but desert life doesn't sit so well with Fun Ghoul.

Family Always Comes Back For You by ChokolatteJedi, Gen, 1k, Teen And Up Audiences. As she plays with the ball, she remembers the first time that Poison taught her how to make a Molotov cocktail

Sparrow by Go0se, Gen, 7k, Teen And Up Audiences. They never meant ‘dust angel’ literally, but apparently whatever Powers That Maybe do not give a fuck for their literality or lack of it. Five times the littlest Killjoys' wings were noticed.

Missile Kid by Psyche, Gen, 12k [WIP], Teen And Up Audiences. 'It wasn’t that she wanted to die exactly, because she didn't, not really. It was just that every single time she woke up she would wish so fervently that she hadn't. When she closed her eyes she would dream that she was safe in bed in Battery City. Her parents were in the other room and Luna, alive and safe, would sneak in to play with her and tell her stories. Then, without fail, she would wake and be hit with a sucker-punch of despair; realising that it wasn’t real. That it would never be real again. ' The zones, 2017. How Grace came to be a zonerunner.

Life Lessons with Ghoul and Grace by casesandcapitals, Gen, 2k, General Audiences. Grace needs a favor from Ghoul.

Four Killjoys and a Baby by forgoo, Gen, Fun Ghoul/Party Poison, Cherry Cola/Kobra Kid, 19k [WIP], Teen And Up Audiences. "We are not keeping a baby!" "How hard can it be?" The story of how four teenage outlaws became the guardians of a tiny helpless baby and then raised that baby to be the tiniest Killjoy, messiah of the Zones.

Make A Wish When Your Childhood Dies by Tempxtempx, Gen, 4k, General Audiences. "Yeah, that's it," Dr. D said to The Girl, wiggling the finger that she'd latched onto with her tiny hand. "You're okay now. We've got you. You're going to be just fine." Five times the Phoenix Witch crossed paths with The Girl, interspersed with four scenes from The Girl's life in between.

The Girl, Signing Off by Fame_Is_Now_Injectable (DaisukiRose), Gen, 2k, Teen And Up Audiences. The year is 2079, and I can honestly say that the zones hold no more surprises. The draculoids move in a pattern, the motorbabies are all the same, and the radio station still pumps out the same slaughtermatic sounds that it did when I was growing up. Jet Star told me that Dr. Death Defying had ran the radio station for as long as he could remember, and when he returned to the Phoenix Witch, Show Pony and I ran it. That was after the Killjoys were exterminated by the dracs, naturally, and I had been on my own for a few years by then. Nineteen year old motorbabies don’t usually survive the zones alone, but I was never alone. I had Show Pony, I had the wind and the sand and the Joshua trees. You were never alone, if you really looked.

Like my mother's by queen_of_shanath, Gen, 784 words, General Audiences. The days in the desserts can be hard - especially when you have a hungry little girl by your side and you cannot cook.

Aftermath by kryptidkat, Gen, 7k, General Audiences. After the escape they holed up in the bunker for a week. Licking their wounds. Barely able to believe they made it out. When they’re finally forced back into the desert sunlight, none of them are the same. Will another rescue mission help the Four regain the spirit they lost? Or will it just reveal how shattered they've become? The aftermath of Sing.

Everybody's Just Full of Surprises by Oncemorewith_tension, Gen, 3k, General Audiences. For a request calling for Ghoul babysitting the Girl and despite popular predictions, doing quite well.

Yesterday, Today by Arowen12, Gen, 3k, General Audiences. It starts with a whisper. Whispers travel fast in the desert, there’s nothing to stop them, just the wide-open plains with scraggly bushes and they cut through it all like a dry wind, on radio waves, on word of mouth at little burnt out trading posts from zone 1 to 6 and beyond. And suddenly, if its true, everything is different. Motorbabies stare at the horizon each morning and imagine the hull of white creaking through the sand, the Crash Queens in their little strips of insanity mutter to each other over cigarettes but they watch the same horizon just as intently. What’s left of the Killjoys, the outlaws, the rebels, all begin to stir.

Blood and Water by costumejail, Gen, Killjoys & Motorbaby, Cherri Cola/Kobra Kid, 20k, Teen And Up Audiences, Mature. Sometimes, a family isn't a mom, a dad, and a couple of kids. Sometimes, a family is a couple of teenagers, a barely-23-year-old, their younger brother's boyfriend, and the baby that they stole from under the nose of a tyrannical megacorporation.

no rays from the holy heaven come down by Nightwing_Hunter, Gen, Killjoys & the Girl, 25k, Not Rated. You watch as the world burns away, again and again around you. You see the rise and fall of the Fabulous Killjoys. You see the soul of the desert change over time. You are the one that sets BLi ablaze; you are the bomb that turns it to dust. But every bomb starts as scraps—metal and batteries and chemicals set into a chain reaction. The metal is your childhood. The battery is the power you never realize you have. The chemicals are the truth that you spend years uncovering and learning. This is how you build a bomb.

Killjoys Never Die by viviqueen, 21k [WIP], Teen And Up Audiences. "What do you mean, 'they're not dead'?" "I mean that somehow... The original killjoys... They're alive." ~~~ A story that takes place after the events of the comics of The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys. The Girl (also the protagonist) gets caught in a chain of events that unravels a conspiracy. Almost all the named characters from the comics appear at some point, it focuses mainly on The Girl and her own internal battle with her guilt, while she fights for a better future and to protect those she loves that are still alive.

Keep the Chain Going by Flick (raynon), Gen, Jet Starr & Motorbaby, 2k, General Audiences. The Girl finds a rare commodity, and she gets Jet to tell her a story.

Superstar by That_One_Wierdo, Fun Ghoul/Party Poison, 8k [WIP], Not Rated. The Fabulous Four are a lovely little catastrophe. A bunch of teenagers with laser guns and a kid are bound to have some wild rides. Let's just hope that The Girl doesn't find out some of their antics.

Choke by Teethteethteethteethteethteethteeth, Gen, Fun Ghoul & Motorbaby, 1k, Teen And Up Audiences. Fun Ghoul and the Girl walk into a bar(n). And it’s on fire

burning down the batteries by KilltheDJ, Gen, 8k, Teen And Up Audiences. It's been twelve years since the Fabulous Killjoys died for the Girl. Twelve years since they fell from grace, and twelve years since family has been a word in the Girl's vocabulary. Tonight, though, she's not a little girl anymore, and she's more than what Better Living Thinks she is. She's a Fabulous Killjoy, and she's going to save the same Fabulous Killjoys that raised her

#killjoys #fic rec list #gen

[ghostsofmemories]

Ocean in the Woods - Update #2

So, if you missed the first update or want a quick refresher (because it’s been over 3 months... wow), here’s the first update, which has a link to the WIP intro if you want to check that out.

Progress has been very slow, but hopefully now that I’m not in such a rut with a million things to do, it’ll move a little bit faster (no promises, though).

So basically, chapters 2, 3, and 4 are complete and I’ve worked my way up to 10k. It’s a little disappointing considering my original goal was 20k by the end of June and we’re already a few days into July and I only got halfway there, but I already knew that goal wasn’t realistic.

Chapter 2 is called Side Affects of Burnout and is sort of a bonding chapter between Arthur and his younger brother, Aiden. I like this chapter well enough, but I think I put this too early in the story and didn’t do enough to drive home the fact that Aiden and Arthur have a strained relationship before having them bond. However, I’m not all that worried about fixing that because no one is ever going to read this book. I was considering putting it on Wattpad in the beginning, but I’m actually perfectly content with, uh, not doing that. 

With that said, here are some fun little excerpts from Side Affects of Burnout, featuring Lance’s intro to the plot (not very many of the excerpts are well-written, I kind of gave up on editing as I went a couple weeks ago and have some passes to do before I keep going):

I had Lance in my first period, and I knew he wouldn’t notice that something was off with me. Usually, he was pretty oblivious to the rest of the world (in a very well-intentioned way) unless someone told him something was going on. He was the odd one out in our group of friends: the only one who checked the typical boxes. Cis, straight, and white. The rest of us were oddballs in school, but Lance was the oddball in our hearts.

He was folding paper airplanes out of post-it notes when I walked into the classroom. His hair was sandy blonde, uncombed, and he was wearing cargo shorts with a Darth Vader t-shirt. I was almost positive he had seen a maximum of two Star Wars movies.

“Hey,” he said, “what’s up?”

“The usual,” I said. “Sky. Clouds. Trees.” I sat in my chair next to him. Mr. Nelson didn’t assign seats, but everyone always sat in the same place. We were drawn to routine.

“That’s good,” he said, nodding, “if the sky is still up, then the world’s doing alright.”

I started out the story with Lance being somewhat of a comic relief, but I think I’m already beginning to feel some tension building up in regards to everyone labeling him as oblivious and stupid. He’s really sweet and I think he notices a lot, but just doesn’t say much about it. Here’s another section where everyone quips at Lance for being a himbo:

“Afternoon, lady and gent,” he said, sitting across from Maya and nodding at each of us respectively.

“It’s actually 11:30am,” Maya said, stealing another fry from my plate. “Labels and time in general are useless if you refuse to use them correctly.”

“Smartass,” Lance said through a bite of his sandwich. “I was just trying to be nice.”

“And I was just trying to spare you the humiliation of realizing you were wrong on your own,” she said. She started bouncing her leg after she was done stealing my fries, not knowing how to do nothing.

“He wouldn’t’ve realized on his own, Maya,” Ollie said, setting their tray down across the table from mine. “He doesn’t wear a watch or check the time.”

Vanessa, as usual, wasn’t far behind. “Lance, can you even read the time?” She was joking, of course. We always joked with Lance that way.

“Of course I can,” he said, sitting up straighter, “I just choose not to.”

And now, some of the Big Sad with Aiden and Arthur:

But the silence wasn’t horrible. I didn’t ask him to give back the water bottle I’d handed him, and I didn’t ask him why he’d been crying, and I didn’t ask him how he was tired enough to fall asleep sitting up (I also didn’t ask him to move when his head ended up on my shoulder). I wanted to be a good brother. I didn’t always need to know the details.

I love them so much and I’m kind of desperate to explore their relationship more, but so far all this book is teaching me is that I do not know how to manage all these subplots alongside the major plot of killing a monster. I’m pretty sure this’ll be the last fantasy book I ever write. Here’s a snippet of a one-sided conversation while the boys are waiting for water to boil so they can make mac n cheese.

“Hey, you can talk to me,” I said, trying to be gentle and quiet without letting my voice get pitchy. He didn’t look up, but he nodded again, his face lost in his sweater sleeves.

It was different, seeing him like this. I was so used to the Aiden that was always either smiling or sarcastic. I probably hadn’t seen him sad since he was a little kid, scraping his knees on the driveway and losing the watch he got for Christmas. He would breathe fast and panicky back then, when something went wrong. Now his breathing was slow and controlled, albeit shaky.

So yeah. At the end of this chapter, Aiden sees a girl out the window (who is Ocean, but he doesn’t know it yet) and he goes to talk to her and bring her water, and we move on to Chapter 3: River Runner. In which Ocean basically guilt trips Arthur into helping her fight the monster she brought there.

“I wasn’t mad about you not understanding my problems,” she said, standing up to follow me. I ignored her and kept walking. “I was mad at you for just sitting there and not knowing what to do besides ask stupid questions. I’m mad because you know there’s something wrong and you don’t care.”

“Why should I care?” I asked, walking faster. She would follow me all the way back to my house if she wanted to. “I don’t even know what’s going on. I don’t know you and I don’t care, so handle this on your own.”

“I don’t know how to do it on my own!” she shouted, cutting around a tree and walking beside me. “I don’t exactly dedicate my life to putting myself in danger and fighting evil creatures and saving the world.”

“So why do you expect me to do it at a ten minute’s notice?”

“You’re impossible.”

“All of this,” I said between my teeth, stopping in my tracks and closing my eyes, “is impossible. You—I was never supposed to meet you. This wasn’t supposed to happen to me.”

“Well it did. And there’s no taking it back now,” she said, stepping toward me. I opened my eyes, then. She was right about my height, maybe a little bit taller than me. “There is no supposed to. There’s only did and didn’t, do and don’t. And you have to decide which one you’re going with, because there is a right answer. And if you choose the wrong one, I’ll find someone else. You’ll be the boy who did nothing.”

I didn’t like how she could twist words and use them to make me do things. I didn’t want to help, but I didn’t want to do nothing.

“Fine, then.”

Pretty much all of River Runner is these two idiots yelling at each other, minus the part where Ocean is trying to open a portal. I won’t be putting an excerpt of that because it’s still extremely messy and that scene needs to be rewritten.

I only just started Chapter 5: Her and the Sun, but I’m liking it so far. There’s a lot of Maya in this chapter, including another mini description of her. Maya might be my favorite character in the book, honestly. I’ll leave it to Arthur to explain why.

She was crazy in the best way a person can be, I think. Where my mom would call me a little over the place, Maya would be in a thousand places at once. She was everything and everywhere and she could be everyone, too, if she could be.

For almost as long as I could remember, Maya and I were partners in crime. She led us into dozens of disasters and got us out of each one, too. Like when she helped me shave my head after I told her I was trans (but before I told anyone else) and told my parents there was a huge wad of gum in my hair.

“Trust me,” she told my dad, fourteen with huge eyes and hair that could compete in size with anyone else’s in the neighborhood, “my sister tried to fix it and this is a huge improvement.”

Maya’s sister is a hairdresser, at the time, but she had no idea what we were up to. Maya was just so convincing that no one bothered to check in with anyone else.

So, that’s pretty much it. Not my greatest writing, but at this point any words are good words, you know?

Click here to buy cool stuff my friend and I designed, where 100% of the profits go to the Black Lives Matter organization!

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Taglist (send an ask/message if you’d like to be added): @brooklyn-etc @coffeeandcalligraphy @my-lifes-one-big-critical-fail @kozyisa-tries-to-write​

#ocean in the woods #writing update #my writing #oitw #ocean #arthur benz #aiden benz #august is writing #excerpt #writing excerpt #my novel #writeblr

[dfcfanfics]

Stuff I did and do and gonna have done

It’s been so long since I posted a catch-all post to Tumblr that even I’m having trouble scrolling down that far.  So, since it’s probably been a couple of years now since that one, I’ll do some Shameless Self Promotion and throw together a catalog.

Shall we, behind the cut?

Longfics:

Someone To Watch Over Me: Adrien is having massive problems at home... and Akumas are headed his way.  Marinette notices that he’s not himself, and sets out to help -- in both her identities.  A Ladrienette triangle develops, with both of our young heroes hanging on for the ride... and that’s just how it begins.  Complete, 24 chapters, 225k words.  Original inspiration by @buggachat.

The Marinette Project: The school year ends, and Adrien notices that Marinette seems really down about that.  As Chat Noir, he sets out to bring her spirits back up over the summer... and quickly finds himself in way over his head.  Mostly Marichat.  Complete, 14 chapters, 90k words.

Tyger, Tyger, Burning Bright: A new villain’s attack targets Marinette by chance, and knocks Tikki out of commission indefinitely.  Chat Noir gets an opportunity to choose a temporary partner -- and three guesses whose balcony he lands on.  But his choice of Miraculous isn’t quite as predictable... and a devilish Tiger Kwami has way too much fun helping Marinette rediscover herself.  Marichat-ish.  Complete, 9 chapters, 68k words.  Comic-ization in progress via @brittsarts!

Let’s Take It From The Top: A reboot AU in which Gabriel brings home the Cat and Moth from Tibet, not the Peacock and Moth... and an overheard conversation sends his son on a path towards disaster, romance, new identities for familiar faces, reworked canon scenes, and perhaps the destruction of all of France.  But mostly the romance and disaster parts.  Complete, 21 chapters, 125k words.

Mid-length Multi-parters:

Two Hearts That Wax And Wane: Adrien isn’t sure what he said in the car with Marinette, on their way home from the wax museum... but he knows that he screwed up.  Badly.  His good friend stumbled out of the car almost before it stopped moving.  Now he’s retracing his words and steps and trying to figure out what set Marinette off, which will lead him through both of his identities -- and both of hers.  Puppeteer 2 response fic.  Complete, 4 chapters (one for each Square side), 14k words.

Full Stamen Ahead: It’s Carnation Day at Francoise Dupont, where students can send each other floral tokens of their affection and appreciation.  Marinette wants to send one to Adrien, but gets cold feet about sending a red one... which does not go unnoticed.  A prank by Chloe, a misstep by Alya and suspicious friends lead to a cavalcade of misunderstandings, romantic drama and surprises. Marvel at my absolute mangling of the French educational system.  Complete, 5 chapters, 16k words.

Once in a Lifetime: A concussive villain blasts Ladybug’s earrings right off her ears -- and Marinette into a hospital bed.  Her injuries are minor; her loss of her Miraculous is not.  While she tries to keep her identity safe, someone she knows finds herself with what she realizes is the most precious jewelry in Paris.  Who will be Ladybug during this crisis... and how will the balance be restored?  Complete, 4 chapters, 25k words.

Reservations For Two... More May Be Coming: Adrien finally figures out that he’s the one boy Ladybug gets flustered around.  He gets up the nerve to ask her out... and she accepts.  So how are they going to make this couple thing work, anyway... and will Paris be the same after their first fancy-restaurant date?  Complete, 6 chapters, 35k words.

Throw Me Around Like One Of Your French Girls: Marinette reflects on her unpleasant encounter with Felix, and realizes... what might’ve happened if he’d tried to force a kiss on her, rather than Ladybug?  She does know a handsome classmate studying martial arts, though, so perhaps she should see if he’ll teach her some things...  WIP, 5 chapters so far, 25k words.

It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time...: After Season 3′s finales, Adrien makes a go of it with Kagami... but makes a well-meaning-but-big mistake.  A weary and despondent Marinette finds a heartbroken Kagami on her doorstep, looking for advice... and one spur-of-the-moment decision on her part sends everything into chaos.  NOT an Adrien Salt fic, I promise you!  WIP, 13 chapters so far, 53k words.  

Serious One-Shots:

Summer Break: My first fanfic.  Marinette fractures her leg in a bicycle accident, and has to spend several weeks with a light cast.  Chat Noir begins visiting her to cheer her up... and lots of unexpected bonding surprises them both.  6k words.

Forget-Me-Not: “Alternative episode.”  A mind-sapping villain makes Ladybug and Chat Noir forget that their super-selves exist... leaving Marinette and Adrien wondering why they’re out together in Halloween costumes.in September.  What happens if they don’t get their true memories back -- and what happens if they do?  6k words.

Locked and Loaded: “Alternative episode.”  Marinette goes for a walk with Adrien over one of the “love lock” bridges in Paris -- which she hopes will put him in a romantic mood.  But a heartbroken woman they encounter becomes corrupted by Hawkmoth, the locks become her weapons, and Our Heroes must face down an army of enslaved romantics.  6k words.

A Little Promise I’d Made Myself: It’s New Year’s Eve at Rose’s house, and a party is in progress.  Adrien is having a good time, but something seems missing... until he notices a pretty classmate sitting by herself on a couch.  Are midnight fireworks inevitable?  3k words.

After The Storm Breaks: After the Season 3 finales, Kagami and Adrien are dating, and Marinette and Luka are an item... but there’s something awkward in the air.  Adrien and Kagami notice that Marinette has grown uncomfortable around them, and Adrien reaches out... and a lot of important things are said for the first time.  5k words.

Just One More Minute...: A tricky Akuma sends Ladybug and Chat Noir on a wild battle all over Paris, spanning several hours.  They’ve won, and Paris is safe once more... but the two of them have collapsed onto a rooftop, exhausted beyond belief and barely able to move.  Both Miraculous are beeping... so what are they to do?  2.5k words.  Inspired by @ladybeug artwork.

Playing a Familiar Chord:  After Puppeteer 2′s events, Luka is sitting quietly at home when his phone rings.  Someone special to him just underwent an emotional ordeal... and she needs a friendly ear and some male advice.  A gentle conversation ensues, with Luka wondering which way this might lead...  3.7k words.

Options Include Like, Comment, Share, Bookmark and Agonize:  Adrien posts to Instagram, marveling over his good friends’ relationship... and wistfully wishing for one of his own.  Marinette sees his post and wonders what she can do... 1.4k words.

MiracuCrack:

Trouble...Made?: Troublemaker response.  Marinette decides that the only thing to do about her crush being revealed is to confess... but there’s something that she should really have known first.  

It Wasn’t Plan “A”: A terrible new Akuma has sealed off all of the Kwamis’ powers.  With a groan and a sense of dread in his soul, Master Fu leads Marinette and Adrien to a box containing mystic totems best left untouched... the Ridiculous.

The Logical Conclusion: After careful study, Ladybug thinks she’s worked out who Hawkmoth must be, and presents her evidence to Chat Noir.  But for some odd reason, she doesn’t seem very happy about the conclusion she’s reached...

Getting Things Backwards: Adrien Agreste sits quietly on the train, rereading what Marinette had handed him for the tenth time.  It... looked like a prescription for constipation medication.  But inspiration strikes him and he considers it as a metaphor... might it be a love letter after all?  Backwarder response.

First Times Are Always Awkward: Ladybug’s first time out against Stoneheart didn’t go quite as she’d planned it, but no one got hurt and everything went pretty well.  Didn’t it?  But when Alya pulls her aside the next morning, a little oversight of Tikki’s proves troublesome to our heroes’ dignity.

Communication Breakdown: With an Akuma rampaging through Paris, Ladybug came up with a desperate plan... requiring both Adrien and Chat Noir for it to work.  Thinking fast, Adrien passes the ring off to one person he could trust with it.  Now, Plagg explains how it works as quickly as he can -- but there’s just one problem...

“Busted,” Said the Kwami: Chat Noir found himself very impressed by Multimouse’s debut as a heroine of Paris.  So much so that, later that night, he finds himself having the strangest dream...  Kwami Buster response.

Nooroo Uses a Swear Word: He absolutely, positively does.  But he has a good reason for it, so... let’s hear him out, shall we?

Leave Some Stones Unturned: Wayzz leads Marinette through Master Fu’s abandoned studio, both to make sure everything is as he left it and to walk her through some of the many intriguing items he’d left behind.  But some locks are there for a reason, and some secrets are best left hidden...

Reservoir Kwamis: A completely silly Miraculous/Reservoir Dogs mashup.  Will only make sense if you know the movie.

What do you think, sirs?  (And madams?  And whoever else is out there?)

#miraculous #miraculous ladybug #fanfic #shameless self promotion

[7deadlycinderellas]

The Starks at War, 1941 part 2

AO3 link

(who knew all I needed was something called the “Abandoned WIP challenge to finish another chapter of this?)

Arya doesn’t stop shaking the whole way home, through to the next day. Asha accompanies her, sympathetic, but distant. The bus ride is hell.

When Arya walks through the front door, Jojen and Bran are playing cards, but stop immediately to look at her.

“Arya-” Bran starts, stuttering, “Mother?”

Arya feels a sob choke out, then get stuck halfway.

“How did you know?” Asha asks.

“Radio,” Bran says, pointing at the wireless set by the front window, “It said that the Germans hit a military hospital- the one we knew you were going to.” His voice suddenly becomes thick, and Arya realizes he sounds double his newly fifteen years.

“We were scared, we thought it might be both of you.”

Arya slumps down in her chair.

“It was stupid, really,” Jojen comments, “painting crosses on the roofs of all the hospitals. Just gave them something to aim at.”

“If half the stories out of France are true, it is our error to expect any kind of fair play from Nazis.”

Arya feels like she can barely move.

After a time, Asha stands to leave.

“I’ll spend the night at the inn and leave in the morning.”

She leans down to clap Arya on the shoulder.”

“You know where to reach me.”

Once Asha leaves, Arya slumps and clutches her face in her hands.

“I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it,” is all she can whisper to herself.

Autumn begins to turn over the coming weeks. Arya sleepwalks into it. Gilly ends up being the one who goes to the church to report. There are no remains to bury.

Sansa calls multiple times a week.

She keeps asking if they need her to come home. They all push her off. Winterfell isn’t home as it was, and they won’t bring her back if she is needed elsewhere.

She’s begun to settle in in London. The flat she shares with Margaery is tiny, just a bedroom and kitchen. The two beds they’ve managed to drag in barely have enough room between them to walk.The walls are papered, but it’s fading and peeling. The heating doesn’t always work, what with the coal shortages. Often at night, the two of them simply pull on all of their clothes before crawling into bed.

The tenement building’s shelter is outside. When the air raid sirens bellow, they have to shove on their slippers, grab their masks and barrel down the stairs among the other flat-dwellers. Praying that all they will hear is the sirens and not the whine of an incendiary or the gait shattering boom of an explosion before they manage to cram themselves inside.

Sansa’s begun adjusting to the work as well. She spends all day in the tiny gray office, editing and retyping papers, sometimes helping Margaery do translations. Sometimes, even work is interrupted by air raids.

She can’t stop thinking of what Catelyn would have said to see her now. With her short cut hair and simple office clothes, she looks nothing like the debutante she dreamed of being. This was not a world her or her mother would have even thought to be part of.

She’s good with idioms, her supervisor notes, so at least she can take pride in that. She was always good at French in school, longing one day to go there, to see the sights and the glamor for herself.

One night when they’re at home, eating some cobbled together vegetable medley, cooked in a pan, Margaery comments,

“I think I’m going to cut my hair. I’m sick of having to set the whole mess at night.”

Sansa nods. She had been surprised when watching Margaery do her hair the first time, to see how hard she worked to make it perfect. Without the curlers at night, one side would curl up perfectly, and the other would hang straight pin straight, stretched out by its length.

“They do say long hair is terribly old-fashioned.”

Margaery sighs when it’s finished, touching the ends as though she can’t believe it’s gone. But now the sides curl properly, and she won’t have to do anything but wash it and wrap it all up before bed.

“My mother used to put it up for me when I was little, the way she did when she went out,” she comments idly.

“You never told me what happened to your mother,” Sansa tells her, suddenly keenly feeling her own loss that she’s spent so much time shoving down deep inside.

“She died of the flu- not the big one, just the usual one- when I was ten. My father was never the same after that. I’m not sure any of us were.”

Sansa is quiet. She understands really. She’s almost appreciative that she hadn’t been at home most of this entire past year. She can’t imagine how her mother must have taken her father’s death. While the pair had never been the most demonstrative of their affections, their children were very secure in the fact that the two had loved each other, and that not all married couples were as lucky.

Margaery glances down at herself.

“She always wanted the best for me. Nothing specific, just that I would be happy and the best person I could be. She was the only one I think. Everyone else has their own ideas about who I am and exactly what I should aim for.”

“What do you want to do? What would make you happy?”

Margaery’s expression is pensieve.

“I wish I’d applied to go to university. I’d like to study political science. I’d like a proper little flat, near a park, one that’s not been bombed. Maybe I’ll marry, but only if I meet someone I want to. Maybe I will when the war is over.“

It has been strange, Sansa thinks, leaving school behind and seeing Margaery for who she really was. She had always thought they were friends, but here she’s stripped bare. She’s not a prefect, or head of the French club, or the beautiful polished girl Sansa had idolized. Here she chips her nails and ladders her stockings and forgets her hat just like everyone else.

That doesn’t mean Sansa doesn’t still look up to her though. She fits right in at the office, even with most of the others being London born girls who left school at fourteen and knew they would end up working if they didn’t marry. Many of them were pleased to work in an office, rather than in a factory, or worse, in service. Sansa sometimes feels tongue tied around them, and not just because the Starks have always had a few people employed in service.

Before October, both of them get letters inviting them for an interview with the same Baelish that Margaery had said recognized Sansa’s name. The instructions have them both come to a tiny, bare bones hotel room during lunch hour. Sansa’s stomach grumbles while she’s outside waiting  for Margaery to finish her turn. Her stomach is not eased by her own interview.

Petyr Baelish isn’t a tall man. Sansa’s used to looking most grown men in the eye, and finds that when he stands, she’s actually looking more at his hairline. He has dark hair, going somewhat gray, a neat mustache and an overall aura of having everything under his control.  

He asks her dozens of questions, some of which she doesn’t even understand. But by the time it’s done, she has a job offer.

And a new, horrifying, realization, about the nature of the office where she’s been working.

Her and Margaery both, are, on paper, enlisted in the FANY, the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. In practice, they were brought aboard the organization that became known as SOE for secret operations, and being sent to Scotland for their training.

Sansa cringes at the slightest thought of what her mother would say. But her mother is dead now, and this gives her the slightest hope for vengeance. Vengeance. That was one of those words so beloved in those awful twopenny comics Arya and Bran devoured.

It doesn’t take long before she wonders what on earth she was thinking by accepting.

Even reaching the training school is rough. The terrain in Scotland is difficult. By the time they reach the facility, they are all exhausted, hungry, soaked through with rain and covered in scratches. And when they reach it, the real fun begins.

Sansa never once in her life thought she would someday learn to shoot a gun, or disarm a man, or be required to carry a suicide pill. These skills are not second nature to her, so she has to work at it. When her eyes threaten to prick full of tears and her throat threatens to close up, she thinks of her mother’s face, dead now for no reason, and no one coming to save her, or Sansa or anyone. No one is coming to save them.

She learns to parrot back the goal they are told. To resist the enemy by any means necessary. There aren’t a great many women in training with them, but there are far more than Sansa would have expected. Too many in England have lost loved ones in this war. Too many have seen their homes destroyed.

Learning telegraphy and morse code are much easier, even if they are still totally foreign skills for her. She goes back through Arya’s letters, remembering her speaking of learning these things for Girl Guides. These at least, don’t make the bile rise in the back of Sansa’s throat at even the thought of using them.

One night, she sits on the end of her bed and puts her head in her hands. Margaery has the bunk above her. There are bunks here, it’s like being back at school again.

“What’s wrong?”

Sansa’s shoulders slump as she responds.

“All I can think is how much my younger sister would prefer learning all of this than me. She always loved science fiction and pulp magazines and those awful two-penny adventure comics. And when I called home last, she sounded so angry...she needs to feel like she’s contributing as much as us, but she can’t. She’s sixteen, she’s tiny and she’s stuck at home still.”

Margaery frowns, deep in thought.

“Your sister Arya...you said she’s only sixteen?”

Sansa nods.

“She’ll be seventeen at the beginning of next year.”

“Then let her be a child if she can still, we don’t know how long this war will last. Besides, from your stories, she always sounded like such an impulsive and ill-refined girl.”

Sansa sniffs. Her stories had always been terribly unfair to Arya. She might still prefer running about outside, but she hadn’t thrown a tantrum in ages, and the shouting and even the insults were a thing of the long past. They might never have been as close as sisters in Jane Austen novels, but they hadn’t fought each other in so long.

Except when they did.

“She is.”

Margaery smiles, and plays with one of her gloves.

“Know why Baelish had been head-hunting us?”

Sansa shakes her head.

“Because aristocratic women are good at a great deal more than picking out dresses and fixing their hair. We know manners, and pick up rules of etiquette with ease. We are good at talking to people and getting them to tell us things. And we are excellent at keeping up appearances under pressure.”

Sansa nods, and tries to put on her face.

And it is very easy to see why Margaery was selected. Her French is perfect and she has a great deal of knowledge of French geography, culture and fashion. Information that it turns out, Sansa has picked up quite easily having hung on Margaery’s words when she was just the glamorous school prefect.

And it’s so much easier to keep her face on in the dorms than out in the training field with a weapon in her hands.

One of the instructor’s compliments Sansa on her accent.

“A bit breathy, true, but the disguise of an excited young girl can be very handy. Very few would doubt the intentions of one.”

When the both of them get near to finishing training, Baelish’s assessment claims they would both make excellent radio operators. Even Sansa’s not naive enough to believe that’s a safe occupation, like Baelish insists. Mum had seemed fond enough of him, but Sansa doesn’t trust something in his gaze.

This is what sticks in Sansa’s mind as Margaery and her are sent off to parachute school. The first day of training, she stares out the window and wishes she were more like Arya.

That same day, Arya gets the telegram.

The months since Mother had died were hell. Arya has kept up with the girl guides when she could. She helps out with the WVS, who seems nearly as lost without Catelyn as she does. She helps Bran stumble through the paperwork needed to keep the family affairs in order. She tries to help Gilly with little Sam and Weasel.

She writes Gendry whenever she can. His letters are always so sweet, so understanding, but he can’t write often. And she doesn’t know if her own letters actually capture even half of what she feels.

He writes that he wishes he could come see her, but the Navy is stingy with leave, and when he gets a day, he’s stationed too far away to make the train ride south in the time given. Sometimes, selfishly, Arya wishes she could ask him to come anyway, but she can’t. She won’t get him in trouble because of her.

The day the telegram comes, she’s about to burst as it is. It’s only a few days after America has entered the war, wrapping her mind around that was hard enough.

She’s in the kitchen, staring at the paper when the others trickle in for lunch.

Bran notices first, Arya’s stony white face.

“What now?” he asks.

Arya’s hands are holding the card still, but her fingers are shaking.

“It’s Robb,” her voice says, low, dead. “His plane was shot down over France. They have no idea what’s become of him.”

Without meeting his eye, she hands the telegram to Bran, puts her hands on the table. Then she lays her face down on top of them and cries.

None of them could have known what was going down in France at the moment.

Robb was a competent pilot. He wasn’t a natural like Jon was, but he was good enough. This was very little comfort when his plane was currently on fire and quickly losing altitude.

He tried to radio out assistance, but the controls are dead. Robb’s head is throbbing from where it slammed against the inside of the cockpit and he can hardly think. It’s only through sheer luck that he manages to get his parachute on and leap from the rapidly descending plane and pray as he bails out for the ground.

The air rushes around him for only a split second it seems before he collides with the ground so hard that it feels like he’s being manhandled. He thinks he hears something crack, but he can’t stop to think. All he sees is blurs, all he hears is ringing and all he smells is blood and smoke. He tries to stand and run, but his body isn’t listening.

Eventually, one of those blurs comes closer, and grabs him, by the arm, pulling roughly. His legs screech in protest, his lungs wail, but it keeps pulling, and eventually the world begins to return to him.

The figure pulling him, he eventually sees is a woman. Young, perhaps in her twenties, with dark hair. She wears a heavy, dark green coat and her footsteps are heavy.

Eventually, the image of a barn comes into sight. The woman pulling him stops, moves something, and the next that Robbs knows, he’s being shoved into what seems like a hole in the ground.

“Stay quiet. Don’t make a sound until I come back for you. Not a single word, or you’re dead.”

Robb tries to stop himself from blacking out, but he doesn’t succeed.

When he comes to, he takes inventory of his surroundings. Dirt, a lot of dirt. A couple of what look like potatoes in one corner. A root cellar, most likely. The inhales and all he can smell is dirt too. His leg is on fire, and much of his skin is too. He fears when he wakes up fully, the pain will be so bad it makes him pass out again.

He can hear people outside, somewhere, faintly. He follows the woman’s advice and pretends he’s dead. He hears planes overhead, and gunfire too. He hopes his squadmates are alright.

Robb’s not sure how long it is before the cellar door cracks open and he jumps, squawking in pain, but the woman from before pulls him out again and leads him to the farmhouse.

“I told them where I saw your plane go down. I told them I saw it on fire and was worried about the trees in the wood. I didn’t say anything about your chute, I burned it in the hearth.”

After she leads him in and lays him upon a wooden chair, she retrieves a glass and tells him to drink the liquid inside. It’s bitter, and he sputters, but she pushes it to his lips again, and after that, he fades in and out.

When he finally wakes, there’s the sound of a kettle whistling.

“Not real tea, I’m afraid, but dried mint is good enough to pretend.”

She sits across from him. Even still in pain, Robb can’t help but notice that she’s lovely. He sips the mint tea and tries not to choke.

When he finally gathers the mindfulness to speak, he picks his first question carefully.

“What’s your name?”

The woman sighs, before taking her own cup and sitting in the other chair.

“Talisa.”

“Talisa,” he says, feeling the name on his tongue, “I’m Robb.”

“I suppose we should use each other’s Christian names, given we’re going to be stuck here together for at least six weeks” she admits. Then she gestures at Robb’s leg, which she has immobilized with splints and thick rolls of bandage cloth. “Don’t try and move. I couldn’t set a proper cast, but I did my best. Don’t ruin all my hard work.” Dimly, Robb realizes he is covered in cuts that are also bandaged.

Robb is flush with gratitude.

“Thank you,” he says. He examines her bandaging. “Are you a nurse?”

Talisa nods.

“I was going to be, before-” she waves her arm out, “All of this.”

Robb glances around the farmhouse, and realizes the place is empty, but has the signs of other people having lived here before. Four chairs around the table, more cups than one person would need.

“Do you live here by yourself?”

Talisa nods, sadly.

“My father died when I was young, of a fever. I was born in Guernica. When Franco bombed it, me, my mother and my brother escaped and fled here. My father was French, so getting asylum was easier.”

“Guernica,” Robb muses, rolling the word around in his mouth, wondering where he’s heard it. “That’s in Spain right?”

Talisa purses her lips before answering.

“I guess it was too much to expect England to have reported too much on our own little war. But yes, Guernica is in Spain. The three of us came here and worked this farm. Then the Germans came. It had barely been three years. Seems like such a little time of peace.”

She turns away, and Robb chooses not to press her.

“Once your leg heals enough, I’ll pass you off to the resistance, and they can see about getting you home.”

“The German’s won’t get suspicious of you?” Robb asks. He doesn’t want to bring any trouble to her.

“That’s no matter,” she insists, “It’s not like you can go anywhere on your own, and anything I can do to be a thorn in the side of the Third Reich, the better.”

Talisa drains her cup at this point, pushing it back down against the table, and briefly shuts her eyes.

“It’s probably not good to admit, but I am happy that at least I’ll have someone here to talk to this Christmas.”

Christmas, Robb thinks. He hadn’t even realized.

Christmas 1941 is hellish for his own family.

Jon can barely eat any of the Christmas dinner the servicemen are given. It feels like ashes in his gut.

Sansa is given a break over Christmas, but the next day is when they’re supposed to be given their first parachute lessons. She cries herself to sleep, in fear. Fear for herself, fear for her brother. In her more fanciful moments, she imagines parachuting into France and one day bumping into him on the street. Perhaps he’d lost his memory, she wonders, her mind a Hollywood fantasy.

Arya and Bran are still at Winterfell.

Bran is overwhelmed. The work that has been left in his lap threatens to consume him, even as he had wished so hard to be useful.

Arya feels nearly dead inside.

The past two Christmases without Robb and Jon had been bad enough, but at least there were his letters. Now she can’t read them without wondering if they’re the last she will ever receive.

On Christmas Eve, no tree, no lights, no Christmas dinner, Arya stares out her bedroom window. Father, Mother, Robb gone. Jon, Sansa and Gendry far too far away. Bran overwhelmed, even Gilly, Sam and Weasel ash-faced.

They see Rickon so little it’s as though he’s slipped away.

It hardly feels like Christmas at all.

Maybe it would be better if she weren’t here too. One less mouth to poorly feed.

She leaves her bicycle, and her books. She takes Gendry’s letters, and she wonders if she’ll be able to receive any more of them.

The day Arya turns seventeen, she calls Asha Greyjoy, asking if her offer still stands.

#game of thrones #A Song of Ice and Fire #fic #ww2 au