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precious-little-scoundrel · 3 months

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WIP teaser

I got myself a lovely little request over a week ago for a Nurse!xBuck fic. Well, hi, it’s me, can’t not take that and run with it straight off the edge of the known world. I don’t even have a fixed name for it yet but I’ve been enjoying AU-ing our familiar faves to death with it

MOTA Pacific Theatre AU: yeah, you heard that right. Maybe it’s the anniversary of Iwo Jima currently happening or maybe it’s my ongoing crush on Ensign Jane Kendeigh, or -more likely- my subconscious awareness that nurse OC’s are a pretty favorited bunch for fandom writers, so I’ve found myself mixing it up entirely.

We’ve got Navy Flight Nurses and we’ve got Lt. Commander Doc Egan and co-pilots Cleven and Demarco who aren’t too fond of having to fly cargo planes full of wounded out of war zones all due to flight surgeon John Egan’s special request to have Cleven chauffeur him around. Oh yeah, and somehere in here there’s a developing thing between Cleven x oc Nurse!Ensign Maureen Kendeigh

TW: blood? Use of the word “Jap”

…

“You got it, commander.”

More than a little sure her mission was more provoking than necessary, Maureen still obeyed and followed Brady up the length of the plane and towards his station, then past it to poke her head between the pilots’ seats.

“Well, well, this is a pleasant surprise, getting car sick, kiddo?” Demarco joked, “Hey, I get it, I’d find it hell back there with no windows to look out.”

“Those mortars obligingly made a few.” Maureen joked back.

“Anybody hurt?” Cleven asked, and to her surprise, he turned from his panel to look at her with unmasked concern.

A joke was ready made there about everyone quite literally being shot to hell but she sensed he’d not appreciate it and following some uninterpreted impulse of desiring his good opinion, she hardly wished to repay his earnestness with flippancy. “Only one.”

“How bad?”

“He looked -dead.” Maureen admitted, she hadn’t gotten a good look at the man moving past him but she’d seen Egan’s treatment of the body and it wasn’t promising.

Cleven’s jaw worked overtime at the news and something snapped in his mouth, followed by a soft curse from lips too full and soft to always be so stern. Maureen thought he may have broken a tooth with all that tension but he spit out two halves of a bloodied toothpick instead. It fell to his pant leg.

“Major Cleven, sir, you’re bleeding.” It had drawn Maureen’s attention to his wet lap.

“That’s what I said.” Demarco agreed.

“It’s somebody else’s.” Cleven shook his head.

“You know if you pass out on me-“ Demarco warned, completely ignoring Cleven’s denial.

“-that’s why we’ve got co-pilots.” Cleven finished for him with a maddening smirk that made Benny Demarco throw his hands up.

“Can you check him?” he asked, “I mean -you are a nurse!”

“What? Hell no!” Major Cleven spooked for the first time all day at the suggestion, glancing quickly from his reddened trousers, behind him to Maureen Kendeigh, and back again. “I’m fine.” he declared in a firm tone that dettered her almost as much as the challenge of getting over the instruments and a steering column to pull down his pants and look. “Ensign Kendeigh, was there a purpose to your visit?” He redirected, resolutely ignoring Demarco’s unabated concerns.

“Yes sir,” she replied, meekly as she could, “Doc Egan asked me to remind you that you’re not flying a bomber. To mind the oxygen, sir. And that it’s cold.”

Cleven let out a mirthless little laugh. “We’re full of holes Ensign, of course it’s cold.”

“I know sir.”

“Yeah, ‘course you know,” his eyes lightened for a moment and Maureen almost deluded herself he was being chummy when he murmured next, “you’re smart like that. Tell the Lieutenant Commander I’ll keep her nice and low, so low the Jap navy gunners can blow the floor out without a sweat.”

“Thank you, Major.” Maureen chirped, pleased to have been trusted with a bit of morbid humor -it was the truest test of being taken seriously a woman could hope for in the service.

“Thank you, Ensign.” And with that she was dismissed.

#wip #those who can #mota #masters of the air #Gale Cleven #mota AU #Buck Cleven #Austin butler #Austin butler fanfiction #mota fanfic #gale cleven x reader #john egan

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allmyocsarebritish · 5 months

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Cello time

Pairing: Wednesday X Reader

Warnings(?): Soppy, I think it is a universal experience to almost cry at this song (linked at the end), I still haven't finished any of my wips so I wrote this instead

I actually love this sm lmao

It was no secret that the Hyde was playing on everyone's minds. The creature rampaged through the dreams of all Nevermore students; for no-one knew exactly when it would next strike. Living in pure fear was exhausting, and you didn't know how much longer you could go on.

Though it wasn't all terror, distress and sleepless nights. Life may have been a chore, but you did have one solace.

And her name was Wednesday Addams.

The raven-haired girl who swore she felt nothing had found her reason to live. She may have sworn to never end up like her parents, yet she was purely delaying the inevitable. The Addams curse was inescapable, no matter how stone-hearted she pretended to be. One smile from you and the walls Wednesday had solidified with layer upon layer of cement and mortar came crashing down, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

And she would protect you with every fibre of her being; to the death and beyond the grave. So truly, she did not know why you bothered to fear.

You would never tell her what really scared you. What made your blood run cold, lingering in the deepest, darkest corner of your mind. It wasn't the disturbing appearance of the evil beast, nor the paranoia that the creature was a student like yourself, wandering through the very halls you did. Hell, it wasn't even the thought of the Hyde taking you as it's next victim.

No, it was the thought of losing her.

Exactly one week before the Rave'n, you sat on Wednesday's monochrome bed, engraving the features if her side profile into your mind. She was the picture of elegance, a true gothic beauty. Her slender fingers glided over the keys of her type writer, as she began to round off her daily writing time.

You couldn't help a giddy smile pulling at your lips, for this meant only one thing.

Cello time.

This was your favourite pass time; feeling the cool evening breeze caress your cheeks as you tilted your head to the twinkling stars, serenaded by the passionate music radiating from Wednesday's instrument.

With a final click, the Addams girl turned to face you, flashing a small smile. A smile that made you feel as though you had swallowed an entire bowl of crawling spiders. You replicated it, albeit more emotionally, before rushing to open the window.

Your adoration for as you dubbed it, "cello time", made Wednesday's previously dead heart restart with an electric jolt. The fiery sensation was unbearable.

How she loved it.

Bringing her source of music, she joined you on the balcony, indulging in a long, romantic kiss before gliding to her music stand. She flicked through the sheet music, you peering over her shoulder intently.

"Which one would you prefer, Cara Mia?" She questioned, and you couldn't deny the addicting feeling of your heart bursting at the nickname.

You grinned, knowing she would have already presumed which one you would choose; hence why she paused on that sheet.

"This one." You clasped your hands together excitedly, hoisting yourself up and sitting on the wall of the balcony. Wednesday grinned back, extending her bow.

An overpowering feeling of pure, blissful love washed over you as the first few notes of 'Can't help falling in love' rang out into the silent darkness.

The love you felt for Wednesday was unrivalled, and as the song continued, your eyes became glassy, overcome with powerful emotion.

As the final notes rang out, you leapt from your seat on the wall, racing into the arms of your girlfriend.

"I love you. More than words can say, more than I can even comprehend. I don't know what I would do without you."

youtube

#Youtube #wednesday #netflix wednesday #wednesday adams x reader #wednesday addams #wednsday addams #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x reader #wednesday x reader #wednesday x you #jenna ortega x you #the addams family

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underdark-dreams · 4 months

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🖤 WIP Whenever 🖤

Tagged by @commander-krios and @dutifullylazybread! Thank you both! No-obligation tags for your fic or art WIPs: @rolansrighthorn, @faerunsbest, @swordcreature

I thought I'd share more from my in-progress Rolan rut fic, Birds and Bees. It started as a one-shot and is now drafted out at 3 chapters (oops!)

(Featuring a new Tav! She's a ranger who swings by Sorcerous Sundries to do her alchemy when she's in the city, and attempts to flirt with the oblivious wizard in her free time)

A laugh came from behind his back. “Do you mind?”

Rolan turned to look. Tav was gesturing at the corner of her makeshift alchemy station with eyebrows raised. To his own confusion, he found that his tail had traveled there of its own accord sometime in the past minutes. It lay coiled on the wood, its tip flicking back and forth in her direction, as if seeking her attention.

With another chuckle, Tav’s fingers closed around it and playfully dropped the appendage off the edge of her work desk.

An involuntary sound caught in Rolan’s throat. The moment her hand connected with his skin, a shock of blood rushed to his groin. He nearly tipped forward in alarm at the feeling.

The rapid redirection left his legs wobbling and bloodless. His knees nearly buckled under him; he gripped sharp claws into the edge of his wooden desk to steady himself.

As the ringing in his ears cleared, he heard Tav reading under her breath behind him as she ground something in her mortar. Praise the gods that whatever just happened to his body had escaped her notice.

“I need a book from the library—”

Without a backward glance, Rolan stumbled toward the stairs.

#if you see this and want to join #consider yourself tagged!!#wip whenever #rebgrrl writes #rolan x tav #i initially planned this as just a smut oneshot #but it's so interesting to think about how ruts work #and specifically what rolan's nuclear embarrassment surrounding it would look like

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saintsenara · 1 month

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Seeing as all this excellent ink is being spilled on the concept of Snape and Tonks bonding through grief (and queerness), how about Snape and Tonks the elder, Andromeda? It must be lonely sometimes for Andromeda after the estrangement from her family, however necessary the break was and however impossible a reconciliation would be, with nobody in her new life who she can plausibly befriend having any understanding of her sisters beyond them being evil and hot. But Snape is fond of Narcissa and gets Bellatrix. Added bonus of Snape despising Dromeda’s son in law and rightly believing her daughter could do much much better!

thank you very much for the ask, anon!

and this is a pairing which has occurred to me too... so much so, that there's a little something in the wips folder on this very topic...

as i've said as part of the stonks manifesto, the interesting thing in fics in which snape survives is how authors approach the fact that he has been following a script which has now ended, and how he deals with - for the first time in his life - having no master and having the freedom to live on his own terms.

and i think it’s particularly interesting to mash this into andromeda’s own finished script - the fact that her war has ended so devastatingly, with her husband, daughter, and son-in-law all dead; that she has gone from being a grandmother to teddy’s primary caregiver [and the resentments that brings up - i’m wedded to the idea that she isn’t thrilled that harry is teddy’s godfather]; and, most thorny of all, that her sister is dead and there is now absolutely no chance of bellatrix seeing the error of her ways and trying to make amends [which, while i loathe the common trope that andromeda and her sisters would reconcile easily, is something i believe it’s entirely reasonable for her to have hoped could be possible.]

snape’s post-war relationship with the malfoys - presumably absolutely torpedoed by the reveal that he was a spy - also has parallels with andromeda’s post-war reckoning with narcissa.

would you like a snippet?

[from the very end, because i always write the endings of things first.]

And she looks up at the house, and - although it’s narrow - it’s straight and tall, and it stretches up to a clear sky. And she thinks about Ted, about what Ted used to say about things having good bones, and she knows that he’d chide her for defaulting so quickly to chucking the whole thing in the dustbin. A bit of repointing for the mortar, Dromeda, he’d say, and a new coat of paint, and this’ll be a cracker.

And she can picture the cant of his sandy head, and his wry smile, and his wink, as Snape shuffles down from the kitchen, holding a cup of tea out to her in a thin, cautious hand. The mug is chipped - a big chip right out of the rim, right over the place you’d put your mouth to take a sip - but the tea is perfect, like Snape has watched her carefully over the course of endless cups she’s made them both in her grief-filled living room in order to learn how she takes it. Good bones there, too, Dromeda.

Good bones. Good, marrow-filled bones holding him up, despite all the scar tissue. A thing worth restoring, worth maintaining.

She looks out across the little yard, with its high walls and the gate hanging on by its hinges. Someone has started to hammer through the concrete - Snape couldn’t have done it himself, surely? Snape has asked someone into his space, into his weakness, to do it - and to lay topsoil. She sips her tea and she breathes in and she can smell it, how it smells of earth, and she remembers what Snape told her about fertilisers, about how even the ground benefits from good bones.

He stands beside her, drinking his tea in solemn silence. He doesn’t have his stick - he couldn’t carry two mugs with it - and she can see the pain starting to stiffen him, the blood starting to drain from his face.

She conjures him a chair, settles him in it, and, for once, he doesn't complain. She lays a hand upon his shoulder which he doesn’t shrug off, feels him take it in his own, feels the touch of his lips against her fingers. The kiss is feather-light, but the bump of his nose against the back of her hand is emphatic. And that’s Snape, isn’t it? For all his subtlety, he’s an immovable object.

He’s got a nice nose, she thinks. She likes it, even though this would sound absurd to the person she was twelve months ago. It’s got good… well, cartilage, she supposes.

And perhaps it’s all futile. Perhaps Snape is past repair. Perhaps, if she stays, they will destroy each other, wearing each other thin with constant relitigation of the past, never letting the ghosts in the walls drift away.

Perhaps.

But she can picture Snape sitting in this chair again - the sunshine on his face, warming his paleness away and making the silver threading his temples glitter - chatting to her in a voice which has grown stronger while she potters around the garden.

While things grow.

#asks answered #asenora's opinions on ships #severus snape #andromeda tonks #gardener's question time

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i-can-even-burn-salad · 10 months

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Till Death

When everything falls apart, will they save each other, or will the price be too high?

WIP Intro — Ebook — Image description below the cut

[ID: A moodboard with 9 images in 3 rows. 1) A person cowering in a dark, barren attic, next to the only light source, a small window. 2) A polished blue stone on a necklace, hanging over a piece of wood. 3) The face of a person with red lines drawn over their lips, making it look like they're sewed shut. They're touching their chin with a bloody hand.

4) Raspberries on a branch. 5) A foggy meadow with a hut, overgrown by moss, and a small stream cutting through the grass. Coniferous trees and mountains are in the background. 6) White ducks and a black goat.

7) A man with a white bandage wrapped like a blindfold that's stained with blood. Blood is running down his face from his left eye. 8) A white mortar and pestle with green mushed plant parts. 9) A black and gray crow perching on a branch. End ID]

#wip: till death #blood tw #eye whump #mouth whump #feels silly but since it's graphic :')

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tallmatcha · 5 months

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WIP: The Perfumer (Elden Ring)

🏵️

The oldest scent in Pheta’s memory is green. Specifically, it is the bright, fresh green of a newly unfurled leaf. She likens it to the skin of an apple—tart, but not enough to make her eyes water. A morning scent, sunlit and beaded with dew. She has tried countless times to recreate it. It is a fool’s errand, for a memory so old is bound to be flawed. Even with Leyndell’s Royal Gardens at her disposal, the best she can hope for is a pale imitation. She thinks she catches a whiff of it as she grinds a pinch of Fulgurbloom. The yellow petals hiss and spark as they’re crushed against the pit of her mortar. Pheta closes her eyes and opens her mouth, analyzing the aroma. She manages to isolate the sharpness, but it is not what she is looking for. What stands out more than anything else is the smell of the soil that yielded the flower: red clay, redder blood, sparse rain. She sighs, expelling the scent from her senses, and continues to grind.

#matcha scribbles #elden ring #leyndell #Pheta the Crumbled #Elden Ring fanfic #the lands between

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trench-rot · 1 year

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Tagged over the last few weeks by @inafieldofdaisies and honestly many more of you. Again apologies, my brain is soup and my blood is acid and I'm doing my best atm🙃

Tagging: @josephseedismyfather @aceghosts @jacobsneed @shegetsburned @derelictheretic @adelaidedrubman @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @poetikat @henbased @strafethesesinners @dumbassdep @florbelles @strangefable @voidika @vampireninjabunnies-blog @g0dspeeed @detectivelokis @ladyoriza @poisonedtruth and anyone else who sees this and would like to!

As always no pressure/apologies for doubles/missed/etc

i was going to leave Pie off of here until I had a few wips to introduce her but now I can't unsee her and Sharky disco inferno-ing to these and I gotta talk about it SOMEWHERE. Fire wifey?? Hello 🔥🔥🔥

welcome to cabaret conflagration - aka new ship just dropped babes

#ship: cabaret conflagration #disco inferno darlin #oc: doreen “pie” boshaw #sharky boshaw #pie x sharky #wip music monday #Spotify

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heystovepipeboys · 4 months

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🖍️🤡

oops I thought I had answered all these... thanks for the ask!

7. 🖍️Post Any sentence from your wip

Snafu had never met anybody with anything like the curse he's got. Not that Sledge's thing was the same as his. If it was, the boot wouldn't have been trying so fucking hard to save Oswalt's life. He would've known it was useless. But Snafu had felt it when Sledge slapped his hands on his buddy's limp corpse in that torn-up shell crater: some kind of electricity, a surge of energy, something desperate and powerful. He'd never felt that coming out of someone else's body before, only his own. It wasn't the same though, and Oswalt didn't sit up and talk like a broken-stringed puppet. But he'd kept trying and trying, the desperate push of power into the lifeless husk with the cracked-egg skull making Snafu's gut lurch unpleasantly, until blood burst from his nose and gouted down his face and across his mouth. “Hey,” Snafu had yelled, voice low and hoarse, ripping his throat up as he shouted over the whistling scream-thud of mortars and gunfire. He'd grabbed Sledge's wrist and jerked him backwards. A crawling ripple of power burst up Snafu's fingers from the other marine's skin. He ignored it. “He's dead, you fuckin’ idiot. You wanna go with him?”

I've been noodling around with an old sledgefu powers au and trying to get some words flowing on that, so here you go, anon! (also tagging @lamialamia bc I know you asked me about pacific WIPs a while back)

10. 🤡How many Wips are you actively working on?

lol too many? the clown emoji is apt here. I think I probably have about 7 or 8 that I am bouncing between at the moment, that have more meat to them and more focused versus just vibes or vague concepts.

send me WIP asks here!

#jessi writes #jessi talks #WIP ask game

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albatris · 1 year

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WIP playlist tag!

thank you @indecentpause for the tag! yay music

Rules: list at least 4 songs from your current WIP playlist or a writing playlist you’ve been using lately, and the lyrics that speak to you the most! Then tag 4 people (or as many songs as you listed).

I'll be picking from my rentalcar playlist :3

Strawberry by Andrew Montana, a Quinn and Nat tune

A new dress, nail polish, something I found in college All gumption, no panic, post-modern, so satanic I saw it in her eyes, she tried to warn me It started with a drop and now it's pouring She said I wanna see you in the morning And I don't wanna be alone, it's boring I'll bake you strawberry pie Clean the blood and never ask why I'll be your alibi Hide the bodies, change your hair dye

Move to the Ocean by Brick + Mortar, a Quinn and Alex tune

Do you think about the life you live Seeing as you have to Think about the things you did Things that they don't do Together we could make a stand You could take some too Cause I could use a helping hand We'll move to the ocean To feed off the daylight Was hoping that you'd understand I got a darkness, darkness But you don't gotta hold my hand Do you got a darkness, darkness Together we could take a stand

Social Climb by IDKHOW, a :-) tune

Come break some hearts now, tear them out Filing for amusements with the crowd Oh, but be advised, participation is required Doing things not typically allowed Feels like we're having a good time It's true, a wonderfully good time

When I'm with you

Cut Your Bangs by Girlpool,,,,, a Lyra Finch tune,, :c

Now the flesh is melting off your bones The maggots around your heart make themselves at home And, where the river flowed I am left alone I just stood there, bathed in the quiet No, you say you'll cut your bangs I'm calling your bluff When you lie to me it's in the small stuff

Fight for Me by AlicebanD, red flags red flags red flags

I'll make you fight for me and pray I pay the bills I'll make you die for me and watch your body spill I'll make you cry for me and lie for me And bleed for me and die for me But most I'll make you right for me I'm sure I'm right for you

Agoraphobia by Autoheart, a mood,

If you gave me all the money I would buy such ordinary things Like TV magazines and coffee beans I have such simple needs Tried on 13 different pairs of shoes And not one made me want to Leave this blessed house of mine That’s just fine I don’t really want to go anywhere

do I wanna tag anyone..... I'm feeling shy.... 😔👉👈

you are tagged if your url has the letter Y in it or you have a pet lizard or you just feel like it

#a rental car takes a left down rake street and disappears

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moondust-bard · 1 year

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WIP Word Search Tag Game!

I was tagged by @human-still-developing

Sorry for breaking the chain post. I got overwhelmed 😅

Rules: search for the words given by whomever tagged you within your wip(s) and post them for us to see! Then tag as many people as you want and give them five words to find in their works.

BALANCE, SQUARE

“Wyn.” A familiar soft voice disrupts the music of my beloved jungle. “I’ve brought you something,” says Shevaun, raising the woven basket balanced in the bend of her elbow. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“Always thinking of others, aren’t you?” I lift my head and force a taunting smile. It must not be as convincing as I’d like. My sister winces and draws nearer to the fireside. I can’t stand how her brows wrinkle with fake concern, as if she sincerely fretted over my wellbeing. “I’m not hungry,” I add, returning my gaze to the writhing flames.

“I’ll just leave it here in case you change your mind. You’ll need to keep your strength up this night. Food and drink will sustain you. Keep you steadfast.”

“I’m not hungry,” I repeat, my tone flat and cold, dismissing her conditional kindness. Only I would recognize this gesture for what it truly is: an excuse to scrutinize me, to ensure my adherence to our father’s orders. Shevaun is his spy, his hunter—and I, her prey.

I stiffen, and this seems to split the uncomfortable quiet unfolding between us. Shevaun squares her shoulders, mustering her nerve, no doubt. Her spine straightens into a practiced taut line of righteous authority. “I know what you’re thinking of, Wyn. But please—“

LOVELY

“You mark my words, girl. I ain’t a-tellin’ lies.” The old dyer clicks her tongue in irritation and jabs a needle in Phreya’s direction. “You got that blood in you, too. I can see it in them frosty eyes of yours. Tempests a-brewin’ in ‘em. And darkness, too, I reckon. You just mark my words.”

“You see all that, do you?” Phreya turns a half-smirk in the dyer’s direction.

Hilde throws Phreya her own ghastly rendition of a grin, the shatter-sharp edges of her blackened remaining teeth grinding together like ice on stone. “Aye. And much more, dearie. But I won’t tell you nothin’ more.” Hilde waggles a finger chidingly. “You’ll not heed me anyway. You all think I’m mad as a headless hen, eh? Fine.” She sets aside her needles and takes up a stained mortar and pestle. “Don’t listen to old Hilde. She ain’t no seer, is she? Nothin’ like your lovely, half-mad mama, is she?”

BLUE

Gleaming white buildings and swaying trees heavy with large jewel-colored fruits interrupt the cloudless blue sky stretching above. What a dazzling, strange world for a daughter of the burning clans.

PAINT

Shevaun is the perfect model after which other Weyloch maidens mold themselves: demure, reverential, obedient. Old women praise her and young men covet her. To compare the chief’s twins is to compare a ravenous jungle cat to a tiny painted songbird.

I am tagging @lizhly-writes @likegemstone @andromeda-grace @isabellebissonrouthier @untethereddreams

Your words are: voice, fire, hunger/hungry, jewel, fall

#writing tag #my wrtitng

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bardic-inspo · 5 months

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Okay so I also happen to know nothing about BG3, other than what several characters look like and sorta...general D&D knowledge? if that counts?

but "Blood in the Mortar" sounds veeeerrrryyyy interesting 😗

@krokaxe Thank you both! <3 <3 I think general D&D knowledge definitely counts!!

[Ask me about a fic on my WIP List]

This fic features an Vampire Ascendant Astarion (a powered up vampire lord is the short of it) with a vampire bride Tav. The Tav I'm using (Naomi, a bard) is the same main OC from my multichapter with her and Astarion, Midnight Chimes, but this fic is very much a standalone and a sort of "what if they both ended up evil" AU occurring post-game. It's just a smutty one-shot for now, but I might end up writing more of their "evil" versions at some point if I have enough fun with it.

There's a lot of different interpretations of Ascended Astarion out there, but some concepts I'm playing with in Blood in the Mortar are:

Tav has been made into his bride and not just his spawn. This is a concept a lot of folks have played with and is based heavily off this excerpt from what I think is an old monster manual talking about vampire bride/groom rituals.

In the rendition of this I'm playing with, a bride and a spawn is really similar. Astarion could compel Tav if he wanted to. But, they have a really intense/intimate mental/telepathic link and he's gonna take a buttload of psychic damage if he did anything to hurt or really upset her.

It also works as a sort of perpetual feedback loop. They feel each other's happiness and affection for the other as if it was their own (and other, less pleasant feelings, too). Who the emotion originally started with starts to get a little blurry. Their individual wellbeing is really tied up in the other's happiness. It's intense and probably toxic but for the most part, they're both happy about it. (As Wyll comments in-game, they are the "unholiest union")

I wanted to toy with the protective/possessive streak in Ascended Astarion, but also, some text I saw in an epilogue that I think was ultimately unused in the game. Something about him hosting grand masquerades at his palace while Tav bolts the doors behind the party guests.

So, some uppity nobleman (or maybe another true vampire, I haven't decided yet) starts talking shit about Tav at one of Astarion's masquerades. It's clearly an effort to get a rise out of him, or to poke at what this nobleman perceives as Astarion's only weakness (Tav). But instead of getting the desired result, Astarion takes the "have you met my wife?" angle:

“Do you know what they call her? Other than mine, of course?” “The hero of Baldur’s Gate." Astarion waves a manicured hand irritably, as if swatting away a stray fly. “One of them, true, but isn’t there another name that comes to mind?” The man swallows thickly. “The Siren of the Sword Coast.” "And yet here you are," Astarion sneers with a curled lip, "ready to dash yourself upon the rocks like a little wayward ship blown astray. I can hardly blame you." His eyes soften, just past the shoulder of the lordling's gaudy doublet. In the low flutter of candlelight, he spies the sheen of sapphires set amongst delicate feathers wrought from silver. He'd had the mask made for her, with the likeness of a swan in mind. Still, as pretty as it is, his favorite gleam is those eyes, set between the glittering finery. She still kept the kiss of violet in them, even in death. It mingles with the red in her irises, like a rich, deep wine. "She is captivating, isn’t she?," Astarion sighs, a faint smile grazing his lips. "My beautiful bride." At long last, it seems, lord what's-his-name has found the decency to shut up. Astarion draws a long draught from his goblet, drawing a dark glare over the sheen of sweat that's started on the other man's brow. “You see," Astarion drawls, as the vintage seeps sweetly down his throat, "my beloved, oh, she’s a monster too. She so does love the taste of blood in her mouth, now that she’s supped of mine.”

And then they do murder and steamy (if wildly impractical) sex together. I think there's a grand piano involved. 👀

#thank you!! <3 #ascended astarion #astarion #astarion ancunin #vampire lord astarion #wip: blood in the mortar #naomi tavriel #bg3

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redadm1ral-moved · 1 year

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scuttles back on this blog. I come bearing gifts

well, kinda: I'm still throwing myself against the wall that is reworking Chapter 1 of The Plagued Capital (for new followers who've been trickling in during my inactivity: that's my Dishonored/Call of Duty: Modern Warfare crossover). I've come to realize that the first two acts of the fic needed serious overhauling, which I think was contributing to my writer's block; now that I'm smoothing out those issues and changing the plot happenings up a little, I'm a lot more eager to write. I'm also getting a handle on the type of tone and writing style I want to go for in COH as a whole, which means my Chapter 1 rework is going a bit faster too.

it'll be a while before I have new stuff to share still (I've been at the mercy of ailing physical and mental health for a while). but I do really want to share a portion of what's for sure definitely gonna be the final version of Chapter 1. I'll stick it under the cut (and maybe also tag @onlycodcanjudgeme since it's WIP Wednesday)

Dove gray light scattered across the overcast sky as the frigid morning sun crept over the eastern horizon, pulling the jagged fragments of Prague into the tentative embrace of dawn. Black pillars of smoke towered over the city’s rooftops, spitting debris into the clouds and shrouding the world in a thick veil of gray and brown. The air shivered with the deep drone of patrolling helicopters, punctuated by the occasional crack of gunfire from the streets below.

An icy breeze snaked through the old city’s veins, scraping soot from the bottoms of mortar holes and dusting the steps of shelled-out buildings in ash. The ash clung to frost-coated walls, to rain water trapped in the dips and crevices in pavement, to the blood seeping between stones and pooling under the corpses of waxy-faced insurgents. Crows squawked and squabbled between each other as they feasted on the bodies amid the smoldering, mangled remains of the civilian vehicles and military transport trucks scattered across the Old Town Square.

Rising above the carnage, glimmering under brilliant white floodlights and crowned by a grand brass clock, the Hotel Lustig stood as a beacon on the southeastern end of the square. Golden light beckoned from around the scarlet curtains in her arched, frost-kissed windows. Her unblemished silvery walls promised security, comfort, warmth—though only for some.

Soap narrowed his eyes at the Hotel Lustig. Unlike the hotel, the Church of Saint Nicholas swaddled its many occupants in darkness, in the muggy warmth of moving bodies and the tenuous security of her stone walls. But that was many stories below Soap’s feet, in the nave. Up in the church’s mortared bell tower, Soap and his companion, Yuri, weathered the cold October morning on their own. The freezing wind plunged through the mortar hole and sank frosty teeth into exposed skin, chilling their blood and stiffening their gloved fingers, and Soap drank down the stink of smoke and the threat of rain with each slow breath. And yet, rather than envy, the Lustig’s rosy lie of safety inspired contempt. The hotel—and its occupants—could burn as far as Soap cared.

And by noon it would be, God willing.

Soap slipped his hand into his pocket, tangling his fingers in the cool, solid beads of his rosary. This would be the best time and place to appeal to God’s will, if he wanted. And once upon a time he might’ve. But he would not; Soap was certain God had long left the equation by now, just as he was certain of the cool, firm weight of the rifle resting across his thigh.

The shuffle of fabric and the soft clink of metal against metal alerted Soap to Yuri’s movement. He’d started yet another examination of his gear. Nervousness from Yuri wasn’t new—he’d always been quiet and reserved, sometimes to the point of neurosis—but he’d already counted his rounds ten times, and he moved with the careful precision of a man focusing too hard on staying calm. Truthfully, the anxious knot in Soap’s own gut left him with little room to judge even if he wanted. Any apprehension this morning was warranted.

“Which vehicle do you think he’ll be in?” Soap asked. A pointless question; unless he’d spontaneously gained the gift of prophecy, Yuri wouldn’t have a straight answer. And for once, Soap didn’t want one. What he wanted was reprieve.

A few moments slipped by before Yuri lifted his gaze to the hotel. The dim morning light glinted off the round he rolled between his thumb and forefinger, and a white cloud floated past his lips as he let out a long, low breath.

“They constantly rotate for security.” The gentle clink of metal against metal as Yuri slid the round into the magazine underscored his statement. “We won’t know until he steps out.”

It was a perfectly acceptable answer. An educated guess. Soap might’ve come to the same conclusion, had he been asked. Even so, Soap found himself lingering on his companion’s face as Yuri returned to refilling his magazines, searching for…well, he wasn’t certain. Because it was a perfectly acceptable answer, after all, and so he let out a low scoff and simply muttered:

“You seem to know a lot about Makarov.”

Yuri’s fingers stuttered over the rounds, not quite fumbling, then returned to their smooth, rhythmic glide over the metal.

Soap gave himself a mental shake. Paranoia at this stage would do him no good; Yuri was a man, just as susceptible to clumsiness and anxiety as any other. And as Soap turned his gaze once more to the square, to the corpses scattered across the stones and the writhing black mass of crows that devoured them, he knew as well as God that they had every reason to be afraid.

Because Vladimir Makarov was responsible for this. Every corpse, every burning building, every speck of ash and soot on the wind and every drop of blood seeping between the stones of every city square and footpath, the cracks in the pavement of every street—he had orchestrated it all, carving a bloody swathe from the Urals to the shores of the Atlantic. Chasing Makarov had been a long, grueling, bloody endeavor, a spiraling descent into cruelty and betrayal. But it would be worth it. Bringing the architect of a third world war to justice would give meaning to all of Soap’s sacrifices. And maybe, once the head had been lopped off the viper and all was said and done, the dreams would finally—

The crackle of Soap’s radio snapped him back to reality.

“Alpha One,” came Price’s low, firm voice through the static. “Radio check, over.”

The black hands of the Lustig’s clock read seven. Almost time. Soap untangled his fingers from his rosary and held down the transmission.

“Bravo One, copy,” he answered. “We’re dug in with line of sight.”

“Right. Kamarov’s our eyes and ears inside the hotel; once he gives us the nod, we’ll kick this off.”

Soap said nothing as he scanned the hotel again, hunting for any sign of their approaching quarry. A flicker of movement caught his eye—on the second floor balcony, human-shaped blots teemed in the shadows like maggots emerging from carrion. The long silhouettes of rifles stood out against the soft light filtering through the curtained window. Ultranationalists.

“You see that?” Soap growled to his companion. Yuri responded with a low hum, and Soap reached for his radio.

“Price.”

“What do you see?”

“I’ve got some activity on the balcony,” Soap answered. “Four armed guards.”

“Any sign of Makarov?” Price pressed.

Soap scoffed. “Bugger-all, mate; looks like Makarov’s late for his own funeral.” Beside him, Yuri let out a dry snort. “They’ve got curtains up on the second floor—you and Kamarov are gonna have to take care of ‘em if you want sniper support.”

“Right. Sit tight until you’ve got a clean shot.” Price’s low, dry voice darkened. “Then you can put as many rounds on him as you like.”

Here they were: three men perched on the edge of a bloody morning, poised to finally catch their kingfish after years of relentless pursuit. Yuri had never been completely clear about his stakes in this hunt for Makarov, but when their gazes met and the resolve in Yuri’s stony brown eyes mirrored Soap’s, suddenly, the specifics didn’t matter. All that mattered was putting Makarov in the ground.

“It’ll only take one,” Soap growled into the radio.

Silence settled over the bell tower.

The urge to smoke nibbled at the back of Soap’s mind. If time were on his side, he’d have indulged in that craving; instead, he chose to spare his lungs, slipping his hand back into his pocket to tangle once again in the cool comfort of his rosary. The sensation of the beads rolling between his gloved fingers melted some of the tension in his shoulders, and on his tongue settled the distant anticipation for the cigar he’d share with Price once this was all said and done.

“How are you feeling?”

Yuri’s voice snatched Soap from the comfort of his short-lived fantasy, and he gave his companion a quick glance—Yuri stared at the hotel, having abandoned his inventory-taking. With a low huff, Soap averted his gaze and grumbled, “I’m fine. Freezing my arse off, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“No,” Yuri pressed. “How are you feeling, John?”

Soap turned toward Yuri with deliberate slowness, making no effort to hide his annoyance; he’d made it clear that he wanted Yuri to address him by either his last name or his callsign. Yuri had never slipped like this before—and if the earnest, though cautious concern lurking in Yuri’s eyes as he faced Soap was of any indication, he hadn’t slipped this time, either. A misguided attempt to foster familiarity, then. Or maybe Yuri just wanted to mess with him.

“What’s this, therapy hour?” Soap released the rosary in his pocket and brought his hand back to his rifle. “I’m fine.”

Yuri hesitated. “Are you still having those dreams?”

Soap arched a brow. “I don’t remember telling you that.”

He and Yuri spun away from each other, repelled by the awkward tension crackling between them. As Soap stared at the men patrolling the Lustig’s second floor balcony, he struggled—and ultimately failed—to suppress a low, sharp sigh.

They’d started in the early days after Shepherd’s last stand. Morphine-induced slumber had trapped Soap in a whirl of twisting dreamscapes, a contradictory cacophony of whimsical vibrancy and achromatic desolation. Under normal circumstances, none of this would be notable; Soap had always been predisposed to vivid dreams, and he blamed any disquieting dips into surreality on the drugs. But as the weeks dragged on, as his knife wound closed and he was weaned off the morphine, one dream persisted—and increased in frequency.

Words alone struggled to encapsulate the sheer vastness of his recurring dreamscape. To Price, he called it an abyss; in his journal, he called it a world of only sky. A cold, brackish mist diffused the light of a blazing sun, a brilliant hole punched through a limitless dark that stretched leagues, eons. Through the mist, a frigid, swirling wind carried the mournful calls of unseen creatures and shivering islands of jagged black stone. One of these islands kept Soap from plummeting into the abyss.

On another island stood a stranger; the flickering haze reduced him to a tangle of disjointed images, to snatches of curly, dark brown hair, patches of a deep umber complexion, and fleeting glances of curious black eyes. The stranger drifted through the mist, sometimes closer, sometimes farther. Sometimes the mist consumed him entirely, with only a deep-seated pull in Soap’s chest to assure him of his sole companion’s presence. Soap’s calls to this stranger went unanswered, swallowed by eternity.

Soap drank in a deep breath, and the frost and ash he swallowed down reminded his lungs of the freezing sting of that unending sky. Images of the black dreamscape lanced through his mind, and dense, deep pressure—the pull, the tether—battered against the cage of his ribs. It felt ridiculous to admit even to himself, but Soap never woke up from these dreams. He returned from them.

Soap drummed his fingers against the side of his rifle and glared out at the broken horizon. After a few moments of prodding the raw inside of his lip with his tongue, he finally asked, “How did you know?”

A few heartbeats passed before Yuri answered: “I overhear you sometimes. Talking to Price.”

“So you’re eavesdropping on us now?” Soap demanded, and internally winced—his attempt at a playful jab had come off far more forceful than he’d intended.

Yuri’s eyes widened. “What? No, I—” He cut himself off with a sharp sigh, then said, “You seemed distracted.”

“I’m fine,” Soap insisted. He drummed one last beat against the side of his rifle before forcing his fingers into stillness. “I’m just focused on Makarov.”

“You’re sure you’re alright?” Yuri asked.

Soap weighed his response against the rifle in his hands. He’d come to Price about the dreams because he trusted him in a way that transcended friendship, transcended family—an entirely different beast than the more tenuous, practical trust he placed in Yuri. To Soap, the quiet, solitary ex-Spetsnaz sat firmly in the categories of ally and asset but not quite friend. He’d assumed Yuri felt the same; perhaps that was why this uncharacteristic line of questioning bothered Soap so much.

“Aye,” Soap finally answered, and he gave Yuri a sideways glance. “I’ll be even better once we put a bullet in Makarov’s skull.”

Yuri nodded, silent and firm.

The minute hand inched past five.

A splash of green and red emerged from the Lustig’s main entryway: four more armed guards, milling impatiently before the Lustig’s stone walls. Then the telltale thunder of a low-flying helicopter rumbled through the frigid air, prompting Soap to duck behind cover moments before it swept into sight. It passed without landing, and Soap raised a brow at his companion, who’d also hidden himself away. Yuri responded with another silent nod just as Soap’s radio buzzed to life.

“You see that?” Price growled through the crackling static.

“Aye,” Soap answered. “Any sign of him?”

“Negativ— Wait.” A pause. “I think that’s them. Four armored vehicles, coming from the east.”

Soap swung his rifle into position and rested it on the edge of the crumbling wall, then settled into his perch overlooking the square. Yuri clicked his magazine back into place and mirrored Soap’s position.

“Head’s up,” Price said. “Makarov’s convoy is arriving now.”

#cod yuri #john soap mactavish #captain john price #vladimir makarov #call of duty #modern warfare #au: call of honor #fic: the plagued capital #(not using any dh tags here bc there's not a lot of dh-ism in this chapter. other than the void)

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battlekilt · 1 year

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📝Share a snippet of an unposted WIP, with or without context.

In the midst of the conflict for the monastery while on Teth, the 501st had been divided from the 212th. Cody had been caught in his own end combative maelstrom. He had to wade through the blinding stream of priority alerts flooding his vision on his HUD that reported the rapid termination of Torrent Company’s members—until there were only two. As mortars crashed around Ghost Company’s movements, blasters zinged past his head, and the wails of his own fallen men, Cody struggled to concentrate. No one would have known, but parts of his consciousness tried to recede back to the sub, while he waited out his ebb of dread. Something told him he might face one of his most feared moments, when the highest priority number would flash across his HUD: #7567. He needed relief from the ache in his chest, an ache so tenacious that it squeezed the blood from his heart like a clenched fist. Ghost had been bugging off when the Clone HUD blinded him and deafened him with the alert: [KIA]—#7567— Had he not been who he was, the galaxy would have stopped rotating on its axis; the stars would have flickered and dimmed, and Cody would have been able to feel the pain in that moment… rather than be who he was. He was a Clone; built to withstand anything— So, he had no choice but to withstand this. Broken though he had been—still, he stood, like the hollowed-out buildings of Crystal City. A testament of engineering; an exhausted monument that needed to come down. No one would have known at the time. No one would have seen it through his helmet. No one would have heard his voice waver or break. His footing never faltered and he never hesitated. He never wavered and kept his focus on the evacuation, on holding the defensive line beside his men—he was dutiful and carried out every expectation. His discipline held. Which was a good thing because the galaxy continued to spin, the planet continued to rotate on its axis, and the war… continued. Nothing would have stopped and given him time to reclaim his breath. Unable to afford it to be stolen, he breathed on through and marched onward. Luckily, it had been in error. When the system updated with an accurate report of the Trooper’s, it had been small… a blip without an alarm to blind him or bind him. It had hardly been enough to make up for that moment when Captain Rex was reported killed in action; when Cody needed for the laws of physics to break—when he needed… he needed to… stop the motion of time and reverse the course of gravity. One moment, Rex was dead… the next, he lived again. It was pain that Cody had never forgotten, even if it later proved to be a false report by the glitchy Phase 1's med-sensors. Yet, his pain had been real, even if a temporary experience for Cody. To this day, the bitter taste lingered in his mouth like sour metal, and his heart had learned the rhythmic march of a broken heartbeat. He had only lived briefly through a taste of such a loss. Time had not rinsed the taste of such grief from his mouth; he knew to be prepared for the bite he’d have to swallow.

#kilt's snippets #au: rexx #commander cody #// do i love exploring the depth of cody's love for rex?#// yes i do #// i draw from my own family's history #// and conceive that there is some devotion that transcends our words #// defies our preconceived notions #// and can only be defined from the concept of loss #// and how i characterize cody about rex is one way #// cody won't even deny he plays favorites #// he'll just stare you dead in the eye #// and challenge you to try and do something about his blatant favoritism #// go on and do something about it #// he needs some entertainment #bucket's snippets

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