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ways_back_room2021-01-29 08:15 am
thebattycakes) wrote in ways_back_room2021-01-29 08:15 am
Entry tags:
Friday DE
Hellooooo Milliways! Happy Friyay, y'all!
I've been in a funk, I'll admit, but the last couple of days I have felt the fire for creativity and been excited about taking up things (and then yesterday had to curtail that because work and a deadline ate up my entire day). So, let's get creative and have a Fic Friday!
BUT, let's do it with a twist.
Stealing one of my own ideas from the DE Suggestion Box (feel free to leave your own for future DE's!), today will be reverse fic prompts.
Instead of tagging in with your characters, tag in with random fic prompts and people can browse through and pick up ones to write fic with using their own pups and then share.
One of the things I find myself doing as I go about my day is I pick up random ideas, song lyrics, snatches of dialogue that could make for a story. Most of the time I have characters in mind to assign these to, but sometimes I don't and I end up squirreling them away until I find someone they'd work for.
Share those tidbits now, whether their phrases, song lyrics, first lines, whatever, and maybe they'll find a home with someone's character.
No word limit today, short or long, if the mood strikes, write!
I've been in a funk, I'll admit, but the last couple of days I have felt the fire for creativity and been excited about taking up things (and then yesterday had to curtail that because work and a deadline ate up my entire day). So, let's get creative and have a Fic Friday!
BUT, let's do it with a twist.
Stealing one of my own ideas from the DE Suggestion Box (feel free to leave your own for future DE's!), today will be reverse fic prompts.
Instead of tagging in with your characters, tag in with random fic prompts and people can browse through and pick up ones to write fic with using their own pups and then share.
One of the things I find myself doing as I go about my day is I pick up random ideas, song lyrics, snatches of dialogue that could make for a story. Most of the time I have characters in mind to assign these to, but sometimes I don't and I end up squirreling them away until I find someone they'd work for.
Share those tidbits now, whether their phrases, song lyrics, first lines, whatever, and maybe they'll find a home with someone's character.
No word limit today, short or long, if the mood strikes, write!
no subject
- persnickety
- vernacular
- Blood must have Blood.
- Who's afraid, motherf*****?
- I think maybe you're the only person who really knows who I am and still likes me anyway.
- I'm a monster
- it starts at my toes
- All the what-ifs start to haunt you.
- You're stronger than you know
- In the perfect act of seredipiocity or serendipaciousness
More coming likely.
preserving the past
Okay, so, um… I'm not sure what happened. I grabbed this prompt immediately and started working with it, but then my fic took a different direction and so I'm not really sure if it matches the prompt anymore, but it was certainly inspired by it.
Also, I'm kind of cheating here since Foggy isn't technically my pup. Laa!
*************************
Foggy feels a little bit conspicuous right now; awkwardly out of place wearing a suit and tie and leather loafers as he trails a man dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie making the rounds through a boxing gym.
"Look, this place meant everything to my friend. You know Matty, you knew his dad, just please, let me help," Foggy pleads, his voice rising above the sounds of boxing gloves hitting heavy bags and the shouts of a sparring match taking place.
"There's nothing you can do," the old man says, picking up discarded towels as he moves through the space. "I can't afford it, they wanna tear down the building to use the lot, it's over."
Letting out a sigh and glancing over at the brick wall where 'Fogwell's Gym' and its two slogans 'No Pain No Gain' and 'Turn Up The Heat' are painted, the old man shakes his head.
"We been here as long as the neighborhood has, and just like that it's over."
Very earnestly Foggy steps in, cutting off the man before he can start moving again.
"That's the thing," Foggy says, "this building could qualify for historical status. It would be untouchable. Just let me do the paperwork, get the ball rolling and we'll go from there. We save the building and then we can work on saving the gym."
The old man studies Foggy shrewdly and asks, "And what do you get out of it? Because if I can't pay the bills on this place you know damn well I can't pay no Manhattan lawyer."
"Nothing," Foggy says, swiping his hands through the air. "You know me, too, I'm from the neighborhood. My dad owns the hardware store, my brothers are butchers down the street. This place is home, and I just want to keep as much of it as we can. Especially this place."
The old man holds his hard line for a long moment and then it dissolves into relief and gratitude.
"Alright. You think you can do it well, we gotta at least try, right?" the old man says.
Foggy smiles, nodding his head up and down. "Absolutely. And I really think we have a great shot at getting it done."
The old man sticks out his hand and Foggy takes it, giving it a firm shake.
"Well thanks. And if there is anything I can do… " the old man says, voice trailing off with the offer.
Foggy takes his hand back and clears his throat, working out the knot that's suddenly lodged there so he can say his next words.
"There's only one thing I want, besides to save this place." Reaching into the bag slung over his shoulder, Foggy draws out a plaque. It's a simple thing, rectangular with a gold border surrounding gold letters that spell out 'Nelson and Murdock Attorneys at Law'.
Foggy turns the plaque over to the old man, eyes glimmering and voice not quite steady. "I'd like it if you could hang this, beside the poster."
The old man takes the plaque, and he doesn't even have to ask which poster Foggy means, he looks right over at the faded promo banner hanging on the far wall: 'Carl Crusher Creel vs Battlin' Jack Murdock'.
Looking back down at the plaque, and then at Foggy, the old man nods.
"Yeah. Yeah I can do that."
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What a teddy bear.
Of course he's trying to help in the way that he's able — and honoring the neighborhood, and Matt, and all that history in the process.
Oh, heart. Achy-perfect. I'm so damn glad you wrote this. ♥
Re: preserving the past
I love him so much. And I love, Love, LOVE your Foggy so I'm so happy this proved worthy. <3
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no subject
'And if you feel like night is falling / I wanna be the one you're calling'
'And sometimes our compass breaks / And our steady true north fades / We'll be just fine
Sitting side by side at the end of the world
"I can't anymore."
The worst hearts you've known can be salvaged and saved
Bubblegum
'You can tell a few things about the soul of a town / From the blood of the men gone in the ground'
'I've been sleepwalking, wandering all night / trying to take what's lost and broke and make it right'
Worn out boots
no subject
~*~
When Luther Hargreeves, known better to the world as Spaceboy, vanishes from the news feeds, the magazine fronts, and even mentions in daytime talk shows, Allison notices. She'd like to say she hadn't noticed very fast, but she had. Just like it dragged spindly metal spider-tips down her spine to look at that grinning face (take off the mask when you speak to me) on the tv after every still-happening caper and villain was caught over the last five years, she notices.
She tries not to let it become an itch between her shoulder blades when it keeps going on. Her star is only rising higher and higher in Hollywood. And none of it requires rumoring anyone to notice her anymore, or to ride the coattails of The Academy (even if still and probably always will involved interviews asking insider gossip into her childhood and fielding sucker punch questions about Diego's newest arrest or Klaus' most recent OD, half a country away is not far enough for the leeches not to bite every chance they can).
When it's announced, Spaceboy is going on a long-term mission to the moon -- "To protect Humanity from extraplanetary dangers as well now!" -- Allison doesn't, and can't miss, that there are no pictures. Their 'Father' (who never was; and the role of which is starting to change drastically watching Patrick with their daughter, being drawn even further into the world of his family, seeing his relationship with his parents) doesn't have him on display. Isn't milking Luther and this new genius mission and the first human long-term satellite outpost on the moon in all-time for everything it's worth.
Allison notices. She does. She's busy with meteoric rise now, and motherhood (she doesn't understand how anyone could sell their child anymore, and the disgust for never really feeling anything about the fact she had been for two decades crystalizes so fast), but she notices (and she knows she has no right to; it doesn't matter that the last day and their last conversation -- his choice to change his mind, to stay -- isn't one of her million sins to bear; but Allison still left her best friend there, alone, under that man’s thumb, the last one to leave 'Number One;' she doesn't get to outrun that ever).
The details are just battle scars, dusty on the shelf, years still passing. Until Luther's been on the moon months, half a year, and without any updates, on the last conquering superhero of Mankind, he slips from the news again, so quickly, into the cracks. No pictures of even the lunar landscape with all those inspirational quotes of spacefaring hero's Luther had worshiped for years and aspired to be like. Nothing and nothing was left behind so fast by the world.
A year passed, two. Three. Four.
But it isn't until she's standing in that foyer, the chandelier on the floor, the taste of her own blood still lingering in her mouth, Luther running up the stairs (so much louder than the lithe beanpole of a boy she left) and all she can see in front of her is the ghost of Luther's terrified face frozen staring at her, that she begins to get it. Has a puzzle piece and three thousand questions that only boil to one: Why didn't you tell me?
She'd have come back. The girl who swore she never would. The girl who was ready to leave before she was thirteen and already talking back to her father in a temper and breaking his rules (and even rumoring him, before he'd set a serial killer on her to 'teach her a lesson'). The girl who waited (after Vanya was sent away to school, and Klaus was kicked out, and Diego slipped away into the night). For him. She would have come back. For him.
He wouldn't have even had to say the words that he needed her. They'd always know. They'd never even needed words for it. A look. A gesture. A flickered change in tone. She would have known, and she would have come immediately. Rumored the whole god damn world if it tried to get in her way.
no subject
Even without knowing it still made my heart do things, and the writing is so Good.
I greatly enjoyed it.
no subject
Blood in the ground
In the Rebellion, they said he was an ice cold spy but that was safest. He'd seen too much blood on the snow in Fest, the snow and the hard ground were protection. The thaw brought flash floods and mud to pull you down, his work was the same. There was no time to wallow when he had to make a shot, convince an asset, he had to keep moving, keep safe and frozen.
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[bill pardy ; kate warner] recompense
- - - - -
I've been sleepwalking, wandering all night / trying to take what's lost and broke and make it right
- - - - -
[ milliways ]
"Kate, hey, uh — " Bill clears his throat. "D'you have a minute?"
He hasn't slept at all, and his hands are about as steady as his voice — one part nerves, one part pure biochemistry. Detox is a goddamn sadist. He curls his fingers into his palms, in hopes Kate won't notice.
Her gaze meets his, and Bill doesn't miss the flash of something in those blue eyes he loves so much — it looks like fear, or something close to trepidation.
(The bar is right there, just a few feet away, endless rounds just waiting to be poured from the dozens of top-shelf bottles behind the counter. Bill could drown himself in half a heartbeat, smother and squash the clawing panic shredding through his crawling skin.)
"A minute," Kate says with a small nod, and the reserve in her voice nearly breaks Bill's resolve.
"Could we, uh, maybe," and he cuts his eyes away from the bar, "go out back for a sec? I won't — I swear I won't keep you long."
(And there it is again in her eyes. Christ, he's made her afraid of him.)
"Sure," she says, but she's glancing around the bar, like she's looking for witnesses, or maybe help.
Jesus, Bill thinks, talk about fucked up.
Out on the porch, it's quiet and still, the cool morning air tinged with the promise of spring.
(It'd almost be hopeful — if only.)
As they approach the wooden railing, Bill glances over, taking in Kate's profile, and the way the rising sunlight streaks her blond hair with scarlet.
He wets his lips before he speaks.
"I don't think I'll ever be able to tell you exactly how sorry I am for how much I've hurt you, Kate." His voice is low, heavy with regret. "I — I've done the kind of damage I don't know can be undone, and I'm ... Christ, I'm pretty damn sure I've lost you. I've been reckless, I've been a fuckin' nightmare for you."
She wraps her arms around herself as he speaks, and he's not sure if it's the chilly morning air, or if she's protecting herself from him.
"But, uh, I just — I wanted you to know that I've stopped drinkin'."
Bill's voice almost falters when he sees her fingers tighten into fists, and her lips press together in a bloodless line.
"I'm takin' a leave of absence," he continues, stilted but earnest, "and I've got a spot in a program up in Hilton Head, and, uh — I'm headin' there this afternoon, for a couple months."
He doesn't dare look up, afraid of what he'll see written on Kate's face.
"Thirty days inpatient, thirty days outpatient. I just — I wanted you to know, is all."
His heartbeat hammers in his ears; he's certain Kate can hear it.
"That's good," she says softly, and he's so startled, he does lift his eyes.
"Yeah?"
Kate nods, and as weary and worn as she is, Bill can also see genuine relief etched on her features.
"Take care of yourself, sheriff," she says, and gives his forearm a brief squeeze before heading back inside.
Throat tight and eyes tearing, Bill exhales, long and slow, watching his breath fog before his face.
"All right, asshole," he mutters shakily to himself. "Let's live one fuckin' day at a fuckin' time."
Re: [bill pardy ; kate warner] recompense
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Re: [bill pardy ; kate warner] recompense
I've read this about a hundred times over the weekend and my HEART. WAUGH.
I'm pretty sure this is a prompt you gave me a million years ago and you have totally pulled a Reverse Uno on me and destroyed me with it. Well done my friend, well done.
Re: [bill pardy ; kate warner] recompense
Also, I have legit lol'd, because you just might be right! This may have been one I tossed at you at some point? REVERSE UNO FOR THE WIN, muahahaha. Thank you, thank you; I'm so glad you've been reading and re-reading and it has given you a case of the feels. ♥
no subject
-No time
-Cold tea
-Doing enough
-Quantity vs quality
-Snow day
-Change the angle
-See to tomorrow
-Safe in a crowd
no subject
Humanity was tribal and global, a community at heart, and the corps couldn't change that. At least not on the large scale.
A person could be mean and bitter and selfish, but people were not. And that person? They just needed reminding from time to time.
The first hint there was something wrong felt like a sliver of ice caressing her spine. A discordance entered the dancing then, though it wasn't in the music. She could tell that much. Making her way to the edge of the dancing crowd, she looked about for what the spirits were trying to tell her.
This certainly would be easier if she'd be a more typical shaman. Bonding with Dog or Cat or even Rat would mean they could tell her directly. By Dog or Cat or Rat hadn't reached out to her. City had and it was just rude to ignore a call like that. So she did what she could.
Suddenly she was shoved to the side and nearly off her feet. Recovering she looked back to apologize for not paying attention but found a large fight had replaced the dancers. Two of the neighborhood gangs were circling each other and tensions were rising, which didn't make any sense. The gangs weren't friends but they shared the neighborhood, taking care of those who lived there. Now they fought?
Shifting her sight inward and to the Spirits, she saw a mist like bruises woven into the human heat and music. She had to stare at it for some moments before she saw the pattern, and from the pattern, she found the source. A man just behind the DJ, burning incense with his eyes rolled back in his head. And a tough-looking human guarding him which he worked.
Pulling out her needle gun and slipping between the bystanders, she heading their way.
no subject
no subject
Thanks. It was inspired by my recent Shadowrun reading in which I felt there wasn’t enough mystic BS happening. I think I’ll be expanding it for some fun as I didn’t quite capture what I wanted.
no subject
Very cool, thank you for sharing!
no subject
– And then they laughed
– You are like a hurricane
– Salvation lays just a touch away
by her touch
"Claire."
She doesn't even have to open her eyes to know that he's a mess. When she does the sight is still enough to take her breath away for a moment.
She fell asleep on the couch scrolling through news articles on her phone, now Matt is standing in her living room, black mask off and looking like he's gone twelve rounds against a bunch of heavyweights.
Sitting up on the couch and sliding her legs around to set her feet on the floor, Claire stands and starts heading for the kitchen.
"Sit down, I'll be right back."
She leaves Matt to settle on the couch and heads to the kitchen for water and towels, and grabs her kit on the way back. She finds him sitting with his head resting against the couch back and his eyes closed.
"Matt-- " she calls out, not sure if he's passed out on her.
He pulls a breath, deep and slow, the tic in his facial features telling her that it doesn't come without pain which makes her eyes immediately dart to his chest and ribs.
"I'm here," he says, a low grate in his voice.
"Good," Claire replies, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves, "because I was crashing this couch first."
Moving closer, she starts her exam, checking his head first.
"Rough night?" Matt asks as she cards her fingers through his hair, searching for injuries and lumps and finding the former on the back of his skull.
"Hm, long," she corrects, almost absently. "Long night, you're the one who had it rough."
The corner of his mouth flickers in the ghost of either a frown or a smirk, but otherwise he doesn't respond; going silent as she continues working.
"You probably have another concussion," she declares at last, pulling off her gloves and swapping them out for a new pair so she can start the repair work. "Bruised ribs at least, you'll have to tell me if they're broken, that cut on your temple is going to need stitches and overall you look like shit."
A saline rinse happens first as she starts to clean out the gash over his eye before setting to stitching it closed. Matt winces but holds still for her, his expression distant. Detached.
"Am I going to get a story or is this just another one of 'those nights'?" Claire prompts after the silence between them has stretched.
"I don't really think it matters anymore," Matt says, his voice hollow.
Claire frowns, snipping the piece of silk after one stitch and pushing the needle through for the next.
"If that were true you wouldn't still be going out there," she says. "Or be here right now."
Matt's shoulder rises and falls in a shrug and he looks so damn lost, defeated.
Claire finishes with the needle and sets everything down. Pulling the glove off of her right hand, she reaches up and slides her palm against his cheek, his stubble scraping her skin as she holds his face in her hand.
"Hey," she says, gently turning his head towards her. He can't see her, but that doesn't matter, her eyes settle on his and hold there. "I still believe in you, Matt."
There's a quake in her voice that turns into a knot when she feels his throat work against her fingertips on his neck, but she forces her voice to keep working for her as she speaks to him.
"I meant it, when I said what you do is important. It still is. Don't grind yourself down thinking it isn't." She swipes her thumb across his cheek, gently, mindful of the bruise there.
"What you do matters. You matter. To a lot of people, including me."
Leaning forward, Claire presses a kiss to his forehead while he bows his head into her.
Something breaks in his expression and the line of his body. The stoicism cracks and he relaxes into weary relief. His shoulders fall and he breathes in then out with a shaky sigh.
She holds him for a long moment, then draws back slowly.
Another glove goes on, and then she gets back to work.
Smoothing a bandage over his stitches, she watches resolve return to him and she knows that when he goes back out there again he'll have it with him.
Re: by her touch
no subject
-- Tech Support Hell
-- Life Insurance
-- How To Raise Your Teen
-- Genie in a Bottle
-- You're Fired!
-- Riddle me this
no subject
→ I'm alone in a way that I've never been since you left me behind
→ there's a world I want to leave, and a world where I want to stay; there's a dream that I believe, when I wake up it goes away
→ I was a knife in a gunfight, and I fought so madly; you were a wolf in the daylight, and you almost had me
→ walk through the night, straight to the light, holding the love I've known in my life, and no hard feelings