#james writes

[diazsdimples]

bucktommy + "To be fair, that wasn't the stupidest thing I could've done"

"To be fair, that wasn't the stupidest thing I could've done," Buck pants as he leans against the cool, brick wall. He pulls off his helmet and runs his fingers through his hair, knowing he's likely smeared soot all over his face. The building is still smouldering behind them, but Eddie and Ravi both have the hoses directed towards the flames. It's under control. Tommy looks like he could explode. His boyfriend is usually very calm and level headed, perfect traits for a first responder, but right now he looks set to rip Buck's head off. "Wasn't the stupidest - you could have - Evan, are you fucking kidding me?" Eddie and Ravi's heads turn towards the outburst and Buck winces, not wanting their first proper fight as a couple to be on full display for all their coworkers to witness. He grabs Tommy's arm and pulls him around the side of the building, away from any flapping ears. "Tommy, it's okay, I'm fine. She's fine. We're fine," he reassures Tommy as he reaches into the pocket of his turnout and pulls out the reason behind his sudden expedition into a burning building without a second's thought. The kitten is tiny in his hands, her fur rumpled and soot smudges over the beautiful, white coat. When the little girl he and Tommy had pulled from the building had said her kitten was still stuck inside the inferno, Buck hadn't hesitated before sprinting back into the building, not even with Bobby, Tommy and Eddie all yelling at him. He just hadn't anticipated Tommy to follow him back in. "Yeah but you could have been not fine! I agreed to help this shift as a favour to Bobby, not so I could get a front row seat to my boyfriend burning alive!" Buck swallows thickly and transfers the kitten into one hand so he can reach out to cup Tommy's face with the other. Tommy doesn't meet his eye, instead looking resolutely behind Buck. His jaw ticks as Buck strokes along his cheekbone with his thumb. "Tommy, I-I'm not going to burn alive. I was just gonna get her and come right back," he explains. Tommy's got to understand, right? Buck's a professional, he'd never do anything to put himself in any real danger. If he thought he couldn't get to the kitten before the building collapsed or got too hot then he would never have set foot in it. Tommy finally meets Buck's eyes then, and Buck is alarmed to see that his eyes are swimming behind a film of tears. Fuck, he's really fucked up here hasn't he? "Tommy, I-" "I can't lose you, Evan," Tommy cuts in, circling a hand around Buck's wrist and lowering his hand from Tommy's jaw. "Not like that." Buck swallows again, and he must tighten his grip on the kitten because she lets out a pitiful meow, her tiny tongue rasping against his glove as she licks at him. "I'm sorry," he whispers, hanging his head as the gravity of the situation washes over him. Tommy thought he was going to lose Buck. Tommy thought Buck was going to die. "I didn't mean to scare you." Tommy curls his fingers under Buck's chin and lifts his head, forcing eye contact. "I know you didn't, I just - baby, you mean so much to me," Tommy says, his voice raw and choked with emotion as he searches Buck's face, his eyes drinking in every inch of Buck as if he's worried it's the last time he'll be able to see him again. "Please, please don't ever do that again." "I won't, Tommy, I swear I won't," Buck promises, and he leans forwards to kiss Tommy softly. Tommy responds instantly, wrapping his arm around Buck's waist and pulling him close. Their lips move in tandem with one another, Tommy running his tongue along the seam of Buck's lips until he opens, and Buck licking back in apology. "Hey," Buck says as they pull away, resting their foreheads together. "I love you." Tommy huffs out a small laugh and kisses Buck again, lighter this time but no less emotionally charged. "I love you too."

Send me a ship and a sentence and I'll finish it!

(once again tagging @theotherbuckley)

#james answers things #james writes #this could have gone many different ways #but I chose Feels #bucktommy #bucktommy ficlet #911 abc #evan buckley #tommy kinard #tevan #kinkley #tommybuck #buck x tommy #tuck #911 ficlet

[cheapnicotine]

hey god,

i saw one of your angels today, bloody and bruised and battered, slumped over the hood of a ‘79 chevy truck. do you not love him? he was crying for you. oh, but a mother’s love is not unconditional—a father’s love is like a hurricane. do you not love me? all i wanted was to be good enough. i’m dancing on glass and fingering the trigger these days, these days, these days. my world is burning outside these dirty windows. my car kicks into overdrive on the way home, five thousand rpms, danger zone. it’s like it knows home is no home at all, panicking like i do when the driveway fades into view. i got sick this morning. why don’t you pick up when i ring heaven’s landline? i saw another one of your angels last week, head down outside the quik mart in dixiana, tired eyes and even tireder wings. do you not love us? have mercy on the sinners. it’s all we’ve got left. god, i saw your only son, dead and bleeding out on the cross. do you not love any of us? a family’s love is like cancer, settling deep inside until you can’t tell where you start and it ends. it never lets go. i’m on my knees, please, just let me be good enough. why am i not good enough? is it not enough to bleed and to cry and to scream and to abstain? the city lights are calling. pick up the phone.

#james writes #poetry

[junkyardromeo]

made my first ever poetry collection 🍻

was inspired by my friends barbi @jwowwsboobs and mel @born-to-lose to do this—they both put out beautiful poetry collections for this past year. would definitely check those out.

tagging a few other folks to see this too: @constanze-1782 @therearecowboysinmysoul @lemonfloatz @rebelrollerqueen @americanbummer

#poetry #james writes

[blankfairy]

this is how a girl becomes holy

Summary: She’s five-and-ten when Viserys Targaryen takes her to wife and declares her Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; not yet a year past the death of his first. She’s six-and-ten when she becomes a mother. Somehow the latter feels more daunting.

Characters: Young Alicent Hightower, baby Aegon II Targaryen, Viserys I Targaryen, Otto Hightower.

Warnings: Implied/Referenced death in childbirth, implied marital rape, childbirth, underage pregnancy. All canon-typical, unfortunately.

inspired by this post and this post !! title/quote from prelude by brynne rebele-henry. read on ao3!

She’s five-and-ten when Viserys Targaryen takes her to wife and declares her Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; not yet a year past the death of his first. She’s six-and-ten when she becomes a mother. Somehow the latter feels more daunting.

Alicent is lying in the same bed Aemma Arryn perished in when she bears her first, and all she can think about is the scent of her blood, still clinging to the sheets, and the sad mewling of Baelon Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne, as he died in his crib. Her handmaidens and nurses surround her, flitting around the bedside like pigeons, fixing pillows and wiping sweat from her brow and neck. They try to hide it, but Alicent sees their nervous glances, hears the soft quiver in their voices as they urge her along, and feels the shake of their hands as they clutch her own. She thinks she catches the glint of silver protruding from the Grand Maester’s pocket as he stands between her legs.

Stillborn. Deformed. Dead in the cradle. Which of these fates will her babe share with their half-siblings? Or will Alicent finally be the one to bear the burden of a son? The pregnancy hasn’t been easy, it wouldn’t be, for a girl her age, but no harder than poor Aemma’s; perhaps she’s only some part in the gods’ cruel plan to punish Viserys, and she’ll die the same way as the woman she stole her crown and husband from.

When the pain becomes its worst, and she fears she’ll be split in two, she prays to the Stranger it isn’t so. She prays to the Mother for mercy, and wishes her own was there to comfort her; she prays to the Father for strength, while her own stands outside the chamber doors with the king, awaiting the birth of the grandson he hopes to put on the throne.

Would he do the same to me as Viserys did to Aemma? The thought shoots through Alicent’s mind as the muscles in her belly pulse and shriek. Ser Otto Hightower, servant of the Realm first, father second. Guilt mingles with pain and the question is gone, replaced by a quick prayer for forgiveness. Of course he would. It is his duty.

It would be her duty. Alicent, too, is a servant to the Realm. Her body is no longer her own, her wants and wishes must now be for the good of the kingdom, and her joy belongs to her son — the one pulled from her womb after hours of fear and suffering. He takes his first breath, and his screams overtake her own. The maester proclaims him male, and before Alicent can even lay her eyes upon her child, Viserys is in the room, flanked by her father.

The Grand Maester wraps him in cloth and passes the bundle to Viserys, congratulating him, murmuring that he’s hale and healthy and that the Seven Kingdoms have a new prince. Alicent smiles, because that’s what she’s supposed to do; no one spares her a glance. Some part of her is thankful they won’t see that it doesn’t reach her eyes.

Aegon, her husband, the king, declares his firstborn son. He looks to Alicent for approval, and she gives a nod; her son’s name has never been hers to decide. Viserys looks back down at Aegon, and his smile falters. The object of his desire after fifteen years of yearning; the prize of his patience and consolation for the murder of his first wife.

He places his son back in the arms of the maester, and leaves. Alicent’s father squeezes her shoulder. Well done. A shaky anger rises in her throat, but she doesn’t know who or what she’s angry at: her husband, her father, or her son?

Thank you, she murmurs back, in the voice of the queen, not of Lady Alicent.

They wash Aegon of every trace of her own flesh before giving him to her to hold for the first time. By then, the room has cleared, save for the lingering nurses who fuss over the queen and her prince, fetching fresh linens and milk of the poppy.

Wide, violet eyes stare up at Alicent’s brown ones; tufts of silver-blond hair peek out from beneath his shroud. A stranger’s babe with a conqueror's name. Her son does not belong to her, either.

#house of the dragon #alicent hightower #aegon ii targaryen #viserys targaryen #otto hightower #character study #james writes

[writer-or-whatever]

Rise or fall for the WIP ask game! (or a variation of either)

Found this one not in my recent WIP but in my spideypool pwp that has been in my drafts for months (it's my experiment into trying to write a first draft on my computer instead of pen and paper and it's so hard? to write that way?)

The sound of his phone ringing startled him. But when he went to answer through the bluetooth system he’d recently sewn into his mask, he realized that it wasn’t his burner spiderman phone ringing. Someone was calling Peter Parker. Which was weird because there were about three people who had his personal number, and it was definitely too late for May or MJ to be calling and Wade, as Peter had spent much of the night lamenting, was not able to call him. 

Peter used the momentum from his next swing to propel himself on top of a nearby high-rise building. Once he landed, he pulled out his phone and looked to see who was calling, though it was probably just spam. 

Unknown Caller

Yeah, definitely spam. But, eh, Peter was bored. 

“Hello?”

“Baby Boy!” That was definitely not the ‘We are trying to reach you about your car’s extended warranty’ that he was expecting. 

“Wade?”

“Of course. Who else do you know that calls you that?” 

#james writes #word excerpt ask game #pals

[roodborstjes]

daddy issues

[read here and check out the art on ao3]

[cw: graphic descriptions of violence]

-

Jason’s reaction to Bruce going down is not fear. It’s not . It’s smug satisfaction and vindictive pleasure. It’s not a skipped heartbeat or a caught breath, and it most certainly isn’t an aborted step forward and a muffled half-cry.

Because if it was, that would mean Jason still cared about him. That would mean Jason doesn’t want to see him in the future, lying broken and bruised at his feet, cowl off, locking his eyes with Jason’s and realising just how badly he’d fucked up all those years ago.

Jason doesn’t care. Not at all.

But Bruce goes down, hands clutching his bloody abdomen, and doesn’t get back up .

“Shit,” Jason hisses, shooting dead the man who’d just stabbed Batman. “ Shit .”

If Batman dies now, then Jason won’t be able to finish his plan. He’s put so much into this. Bruce is not allowed to die before Jason can deliver his ultimatum. Batman is not allowed to die before the Joker does.

“I can’t believe you, Old Man,” Jason says, skidding to his knees next to Bruce’s limp body. “A knife is not gonna be what takes you out.”

Next to him, Bruce struggles to drag himself away from Jason. A batarang is clutched in a weak hand, and he makes a feeble attempt to swipe it in Jason’s general direction.

Jason can’t breathe.

The helmet is on the floor in a second, and Jason gulps in deep breaths of copper-tinged air. The smell hits him hard without the filters between him and the heavy scent of Bruce’s blood. Jason’s hair sticks up in all directions, and some of it is plastered to his forehead.

Bruce drops the batarang, and his mouth opens in surprise.

“Jaylad,” he whispers. “Oh, Jaylad .”

Just like that, Jason is fourteen again, broken and bruised in a warehouse in Ethiopia, desperately wishing Batman would show up and save him.

It’s a horrible parody of the night Jason died. Except this time, Bruce is the one bleeding out on the warehouse floor, and it’s up to Jason to save him.

Jason has to keep Batman alive for just a little longer. He has plans, after all.

No other reason.

“Hey,” Jason says before his brain can catch up with his mouth. “Long time no see.”

“They didn’t tell me I’d hallucinate while I die,” Bruce says. “Though I’m glad it’s you, Jaylad. My boy. I’ve missed you so much.”

Jason has absolutely no idea what to do. This wasn’t part of his plan. This wasn’t meant to happen. How’s he meant to cope with Batman telling him he loves him in his dying moments?

By making sure these are not Batman’s dying moments. To do that, Jason has to stop the bleeding and get him to a hospital, or the cave, or something .

“Do you have an emergency beacon?” Jason asks, frantically flicking through his and Bruce’s first aid kits. He tears his gloves off, shoving them into his jacket pocket, and coats his hands with antiseptic spray.

“Pressed it on my way down,” Bruce says. “I’m not coming back from this one.” He coughs weakly, smiling up at Jason with a strange look on his face. “I don’t want to die with my cowl on. I want to see you with my own eyes one last time. Please, Jaylad, I know you’re not real, but I need it.”

“Let me - alright - fuck - let me staunch the bleeding first,” Jason says, shovelling cotton into the stab wound. “Fucker took the knife out. That’s like, rule one of what not to do with a stab wound.”

Bruce’s laugh fades into a cough. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Fuck off,” Jason snaps, face colouring red enough to match his helmet. “I have. You’d hate me if you weren’t stabbed right now.”

“I could never hate you, Jaylad.” Bruce says it with such sincerity, even though his voice is failing him as he slips closer to unconsciousness. “Never. I have loved you since you hit me with a tire iron. Bruised me for weeks .” He laughs. “Bruised. Sounds like Bruced…”

“Fucking hell, you’re delirious,” Jason says. “You cannot have lost this much blood already.”

Bruce shakes his head. “I got shot a few days ago,” he explains. “Shouldn’t be back in the field, really, but… I don’t care if I live or die. Not really.”

“What - what the fuck , Bruce?” Jason’s voice comes out strangled. He pauses in the middle of sticking a bandage to the entrance of the stab wound. It won’t keep for long, but Alfred should be on his way soon. “How could you say that? Are you an idiot?”

“Yeah,” Bruce says. “Big one. I… haven’t cared since you died, Jaylad. Not really. I’ve been an awful man.”

“Oh yeah?” Jason’s lips are numb.

“Yeah. I hit Dick. My boy, and I hit him. The worst thing a father could do. Nothing I ever do is going to make up for what I did.”

“Have you tried talking to him?” Jason asks, putting his hands on the wound in order to keep pressure on it as much as he can. Bruce groans in pain, the noise echoing around the empty warehouse.

“He needs time,” Bruce moans. “I screwed up, Jaylad. I screwed up with you both. I got angry and I hit Dick. I got angry and you died .”

“I’m not mad at you for that,” Jason tells him, and finds that he means it. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

Bruce’s next noise is a weak one that sounds too much like a sob. His hand scrabbles at his cowl, and Jason briefly lets go of the wound to pull the cowl away from Bruce’s face.

Bruce is sobbing .

“My Jaylad,” he hiccups. “My boy. You look so handsome . I wish I could’ve seen you grow up. You’ve done… you’ve done me so proud, you know. I couldn’t have asked for a better son.”

Bruce’s bloodstained hand reaches up to Jason’s face, wiping away a tear Jason hadn’t realised he’d cried. He can tell it takes all of Bruce’s strength - gone so quickly because Bruce didn’t want to live - and Jason can’t do anything about it.

“Of all the things I could have seen,” Bruce whispers. “I’m so glad it’s you.”

“Fuck!” Jason yells as Bruce’s hand falls to the floor and his eyes roll back into his head. “FUCK! Dad! No! No! Shit!”

The only thing keeping Jason sane is the fact he can feel the pulse of Bruce’s heartbeat - slow and faint, but undeniably steady - under his hands. Bruce looks horribly, impossibly pale, contrasted with the darkness of the cowl.

When Jason hears the roar of the Batmobile, he pulls Bruce’s cowl back over his head and puts his own helmet on with shaking hands. It takes him four tries to get the clasp to lock, and he wants to just throw the damned thing into a wall.

By the time Alfred comes round the corner, letting out a panicked cry at the sight of Bruce’s prone form, Jason is out of the warehouse and on his way to who-knows-where.

#james writes #bruce wayne #batman #jason todd #red hood

[writing-is-fun-i-guess]

Prompt #4 - The window was whispering

The window was whispering. Muttering under its long held breath with the wind carrying away the words, long forgotten languages heard once more by those who will listen.

The glass was groaning, moaning, complaining about something, anything, wishing to be heard, drowned out by the smashing and splashing of the rain upon its surface.

The latch was screaming, shouting and balling and screeching to be let open, the let the wind and the rain and the birds and the leaves and the snow in, let them settle on the already cold floor, make a home where one doesn’t exist.

The frame was squeaking, creaking and moving with the force of nature outside, supported and cradled by the still air of the quiet, empty room.

The wind was shouting, throwing the windows words back against it, drowning the glass’ groans under the heavy wall of water, pulling the latch, begging to open, ignoring the frames squeaks, longing to fill and fuel and destroy the room.

The window was still whispering m, the grass was still groaning, the latch was still screaming, the frame was still squeaking.

And the wind stayed out.

#james writes #writing #short writing #writing prompt #prompt 4

[my-heart-of-heart]

So normal about Jon being like I don’t remember what you looked like but the man who let you die is going to suffer for what he did to you. If only Sasha coulda seen that.

So normal about Jon being like you died hating me and wanting me dead but I’m still gonna make sure this man knows I’m ending him in your name. Sure wish Tim coulda seen that.

So normal about the fact that everyone believed Jon was losing his humanity but no one got to see the ways his love and compassion for the people he lost or who hurt him drove him to that final moment.

So normal about the fact that even after everything Jonah’s done to Jon, the only person he never thinks to get justice for is himself.

#same energy as Jon diving into the buried to save the woman who tried to kill him #for all his flaws Jon’s a good person at his core #he just wholeheartedly believes he deserves to be hated so he never even tries to explain himself #analysis #istg every time I post one of these I get closer to writing a full dissertation on this guy #tma #the magnus archives #jon sims #jonathan sims #tim stoker #tma 200 #sasha james #jonah magnus

[the-sun-is-also-a-star]

me, reading my own incomplete writing : *gasp* and then what happened?

#someome make me write #or give me writing prompts please!! #hp #marauders #the marauders era #harry potter #gryffindor #wolfstar #hogwarts #remus lupin #sirius black #slytherin #james potter #regulus black #jegulus #drarry #draco malfoy #writing #writer #ao3 #fic #fanfiction #fanfic #fanfic author #drabble #prompts

[wordsofwilderness]

Wames

#look at him!! #so pocket sized 🥰 #maybe I should quite writing and start drawing instead #james potter #marauders #fanart

[addsalwayssick]

Remus opened his letter, surprised when it appeared to be a howler. The last time he’d heard one was the day before Sirius got disowned back in 5th year.

He was in the dining hall for breakfast, sitting at the staff table. He watched as Harry and Hermione plotted, looking anxious. He blew it off, as it seemed Harry was always weary.

“A howler,” Snape sneered from beside him.

“Astute observation, Severus.” Remus told him, nodding at him.

Remus disregarded Snape, and focused on the howler. There was no name on it, so it was possible it was from a student playing a prank. In good nature, for the prankingnostalgia, Remus opened it.

There was silence for a moment before a loud, booming voice started to yell. “DARLINGGGGG, GUESS WHOS BACK FROM JAIL” And it was his Sirius Black. And he knew they would find each other again.

#remus lupin #sirius black #james potter #sirius #jegulus #sirius x lupin #wolfstar #regulus and evan and barty #sirius and regulus #remus and regulus #DARLINNG #IM BACK FROM JAIL #and yeah #addie writes #i’m so sorry #this is a joke #i promise

[diazsdimples]

Fuck It Saturday

I'm not sure if it's friday anywhere anymore so we're fucking it on a Saturday!! I've been super lax on writing this week because I've got a beefy 3k word report on care for transgender/gender diverse parents during pregnancy due on Monday and I am not even halfway done dfkjds. BUT I did get a small trickle of Frostpunk AU beans so I thought I'd share! Snippet below the line bc it's kinda long

Tagged for Friday & Saturday by @smilingbuckley @thekristen999 @dangerpronebuddie @spotsandsocks @bidisasterevankinard

@cal-daisies-and-briars @daffi-990 @theotherbuckley and @kitteneddiediaz, I will be getting to your snippets tonight!!

Buck’s reading to Christopher when it happens.

Ever since Christopher woke up, Buck has been keeping a near-constant vigil at his bedside, keeping the boy entertained and comfortable where he can. He’d even snuck into the Children’s Shelter to borrow some toys for Christopher - a set of cards, a rainbow puzzle, a small, plastic dinosaur toy, and a fluffy rabbit that Christopher had kept tucked under his arm ever since.

So, it’s not entirely surprising that Buck is there when Edmundo wakes up.

The first indication is the bleeping on Edmundo’s heart monitor begins to increase in speed. Buck stops midsentence and turns in his chair. The first thing he notices is that Edmundo’s eyes are open, wide and fearful as he looks around the room.

In a flash, Buck is on his feet, book clattering to the floor, and he rushes over to Edmundo’s bedside.

“Hen!” he yells, praying his friend is close enough to hear. “Chimney! Someone, come quick!!”

Edmundo’s chest begins to heave as a heavy panic sets in and he raises his arms to claw at the breathing tube down his throat. Buck grabs his wrists and pins them to his size, and is surprised at the strength of the man. It takes no small amount of effort to keep him from ripping the tube out, or scrabbing at the IV lines in his arms.

“Hey, hey it’s okay, Hen and Chimney are coming, just breathe for me,” Buck says hurriedly as he watches Edmundo gag around the tube. He knows the man will be getting oxygen, but that won’t be stopping the feeling of suffocation, the feeling of obstruction in his throat.

Edmundo’s eyes bug out as he looks at Buck, gaze boring into him in a silent plea. Help me. Make it stop.

There’s a clattering of feet on linoleum as Hen, Chimney, and another medic Buck doesn’t know the name of all sprint into the cramped med bay.

“What’s going on, what happened?” Hen asks as she comes screeching to a halt, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s going on. Before Buck can even open his mouth, Chimney is grabbing the extubation equipment and barking orders at Hen and the medic, all three swarming Edmundo’s bedside.

Buck’s in the way, he knows it but he cannot make himself move. Instead, he takes both of Edmundo’s hands and laces their fingers together, squeezing lightly to give Edmundo something to focus on.

“Look at me, Edmundo,” he says as Hen peels off the tape keeping the tube in place. Edmundo’s eyes flick back towards Buck, his eyebrows scrunched together, and Buck’s stomach twists uncomfortably as he sees a tear slide down Edmundo’s cheek.

“That’s it, just keep your eyes on me.”

“Okay, extubating patient now. Hen, have suction at the ready. Jess, get the O2 mask,” Chimney orders, and there’s a fluffy of movement as everyone gets in position.

Buck looks away. He doesn’t want to watch the tube come out. He’s never been the best with medical things at the best of times and this.. well he’s not exactly sure why the thought of Edmundo in particular being in pain makes him so unhappy but it does. So he doesn’t watch, instead keeping his eyes trained firmly on his and Edmundo’s hands. It doesn’t escape his notice the way Edmundo’s knuckles go white as he clings to Buck for dear life.

There’s horrible wet noise followed by the sound of suction and a volley of wet coughs, before Buck hears a deep breath in. He chances a glance upwards and sees Edmundo, eyes open and sans tube for the first time he got to Sector 118. There’s an oxygen mask fitted over his face, fogging up with every breath Edmundo takes.

Instantly, relief flows through Buck like warm honey, filtering through his veins until he’s lighter and warmer than he’s been in days. Edmundo’s awake. Edmundo is breathing on his own. Edmundo’s alive.

Buck grins, unable to contain his joy. “Welcome back to the world of the living, Edmundo.”

“Eddie,” the guy croaks, and Buck blinks.

“Huh?”

“Name’s E-Eddie. Not Edmundo,” he rasps, before breaking out into a coughing fit. Buck rushes to help him upright, takes off the oxygen mask, and holds out a container as Edmundo – Eddie spits into it, his chest heaving from the force of his coughs. Buck rubs his back, murmuring reassuring words until Eddie takes a shaky breath and allows himself to rest back against his pillows.

No pressure tagging (for Friday or Saturday) @hippolotamus @watchyourbuck @neverevan @babybibuck @aroeddiediaz

@bibuckbuckgoose @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @nmcggg @jesuisici33 @wikiangela

@loveyouanyway @exhuastedpigeon @epicbuddieficrecs @hermscat @worriedbisexual

@slightlyobsessedwitheverything @actuallyitsellie @idealuk @dangerpronebuddie @simpingforhotfictionalcharacters

@houseofevanbuckley @loserdiaz @elvensorceress @underwaterninja13 @rainbow-nerdss

@steadfastsaturnsrings @thewolvesof1998 @jehdogg @ohlookitsthearkhamknight @revenge-of-the-assbutt (lmk if you want to be added/removed)

#james writes #buddie wip #frostpunk au #buddie #911 abc #eddie diaz #evan buckley #911 buddie #911 #911verse #911 fanfic #eddie x buck #HE'S ALIIIIIVE #GOD i'm so glad I can finally write alive eddie #also the fact that I'm at 16k and not even a quarter of the way through... #help

[cheapnicotine]

i got sick this morning thinking about blood and infections and cold november rain, about how my hair turned orange like a malibu sunset and my skin turned pale like death, about neon pink and harley-davidson. when i turned eighteen i thought life would become brighter. instead, california calls louder than before, louder than love, louder than hell. my cowboy boots traded for dirty white high tops touch sticky hot pavement, sweetness in my lungs sickly, and i wish i was lying in the gutter looking at the stars (looking like a star.) platinum shines like fame under cigarette smoke. i weigh suicide and desperation on a scale made from broken dreams, praying to a god who doesn’t answer, twisting a five euro rosary between my singers fingers, begging. you like your boys insane.

#poetry #james writes

[junkyardromeo]

home sweet dixiana—dependin on what you believe. somethin feels different this time. in a woodsmoke-exhaust-spiderweb-decay haze i looked around n realized nothin stays the same. same as it ever was. same as it ever was. knocked back cheap domestic beer with my dad n waxed poetic about whiskey myers n jason isbell. pretended not to notice how many times the word “daughter” fell from his lips (217) n how many times the name i don’t use these days hit my ears, sour like milk left out too long (124). pretended i didn’t care. pretended i didn’t notice the dirty looks n the shared eye rolls about my fucked up hair. slammed another coors n looked away. slammed another coors n looked down. slammed another coors. slammed the door. the sun don’t set like it used to. same as it ever was. same gold rays washing over same fucked up highway (god, ain’t the county ever gonna do somethin about that?) n same orange fire on the horizon n in my eyes. smashed a bottle in the middle of the highway. fuck this town. i hope they leave me the house. i hope i die in this town, i know i’ll die in this town because no one gets outta dixie alive or at least not well. if i got out i wouldn’t be me. when i’m fifty fuckin years old i’ll be at the bar in bunkys nursin a cheap domestic beer n i’ll die in this town because i was always meant to die in this town. i’ll die in this town with a pack of reds in my hand n a case of coors in the fridge n a .38 in my truck. dear god, if you’re listenin—make it quick.

#my photos #poetry #james writes #on earth as it is in dixiana #james.jpg

[blankfairy]

the fire spread throughout my bones and stayed

Summary: She knows. Larys never told her of his very first dream, but when his feet found the weirwood he found her, too, dark hair braided over her shoulder, cotton dress stained with smudges of grass and dirt. She’d smiled at him, the way an older sibling should, the way ten-year-old Harwin never did to his crippled nine-year-old brother, and offered to pray to the old gods with him.

Her very presence had been prayer enough.

Or, nine-year-old Larys Strong and his fourteen-year-old half-sister, Alys, have more in common than just a father.

Characters: Young Larys Strong, Young Alys Rivers.

Warnings: Internalized ableism, ableism, ableist language.

read on ao3!

The dreams come in the blackest nights, in a flash of fire and smoke and a spreading pain behind his eyes, thrumming in tandem with his tempest of a heartbeat.

A flash of marbled silver, and two dragons dancing above Gods Eye; Harrenhal consumed by flame. Choking ash and blood spilling blood and blood spilling blood —

When Larys wakes, his skin sheened with sweat, a black bird with three beady eyes bears down upon him, crooning to him in the crackling voice of the Stranger. The only breath that can fill his lungs is thick and dark and acrid.

He does not realize the dream has ended until he feels the grass beneath his bare feet, his cane sinking into the mud, and the bleeding eyes of the weirwood boring into him. The summer air is warm, but he shivers anyways, because the Old Gods have only ever looked through him, never at him.

I’m still dreaming, Larys thinks, but the words pass through him like wind through stalks of ghost grass. The pale light of the full moon filters through the weirwood’s amber leaves, rustling in the wind; their shadows dance upon the earth. He falls splay-kneed in front of the tree.

Alys is behind him.

The old gods tell him. In the muffled footfalls in dirt, in the sound of grass brushing at the hem of her dress. She treads carefully in the godswood; Larys can only think of his brute of a big brother crashing through the trees as if the very land was made for him to desecrate.

She slips beneath the gnarled branches of the weirwood and sits beside him, sparing him no peace. “It happened again, didn’t it?”

Larys glances at her. It must be the hour of the wolf, but Alys’ eyes are bright, as if she hasn’t been sleeping at all; she’s only fourteen, tall and lean, but seems so much older and wiser in the dark.

“No,” he answers in a quiet, low voice.. He gnaws at his lip, even though the maester and his father have told him off for it more times than he can count. He feels the tips of his ears fluster fire-hot.

She knows. Larys never told her of his very first dream, but when his feet found the weirwood he found her, too, dark hair braided over her shoulder, cotton dress stained with smudges of grass and dirt. She’d smiled at him, the way an older sibling should, the way ten-year-old Harwin never did to his crippled nine-year-old brother, and offered to pray to the old gods with him.

Her very presence had been prayer enough.

Alys kneads her fingers into the white roots protruding from the ground, tilting her head. She looks more like him than Harwin does, all bone and willow-thin limbs that seem too long for her body. If he didn’t know any better, if his father hadn’t clout him on the ear the first and only time he’d suggested Alys was his full-blooded sister, he could have believed they had the same mother.

“What did you see this time?”

Her voice pulls at the words lodged in his throat, willing them free, when all Larys wants to do is sit in silence and pretend he’s the normal, no-name second son of Lyonel Strong, who has no clubfoot and doesn’t dream of the future’s fires.

“Harrenhal was…” Larys frowns. If his dreams are true, past and future, as Alys once said, what kind of power does he grant them by speaking them aloud? He rolls his lip between his teeth, harder, and the taste of iron spreads across his tongue.

Alys watches, but doesn’t scold; she only smiles, like he imagines their mother would have, and takes his hand. “We’ll strike a deal. I’ll tell you of my last green dream. You tell me yours.”

Through the darkness Larys sees her eyes, the same shade as sage and pine needles, lined with something black. A streak runs down her lips. She’s staring the same way the weirwood does; the same way the three-eyed raven did each time Larys awoke.

Witch, they call her, the same way they call him Clubfoot, but in front of him he only sees his half-sister, not quite his flesh and blood, but more than a stranger. He and Harwin share parents, but with Alys, Larys shares dreams, and shouldn’t that mean more than having the same mother?

“Okay,” he says tentatively, sighing, trying to ease the weight pressing down upon his shoulders. His breath comes heavy and thick. “You first.”

Alys nearly grins, canine teeth poking into the flesh of her lower lip. “A prince.” The words come from her lips quicker than lightning. “Silver-haired, with sapphire eyes. His great dragon danced above the Gods Eye. Her shadow swallowed the Riverlands whole.”

“I saw our home burn,” Larys sputters, not allowing the air between them breath for a single second. “The flames rose so high they touched the clouds. And— And I saw your dragon, too. I think. There were two. One was red, and…”

“Harrenhal hasn’t burned since Aegon’s Conquest,” Alys cuts in sharply. “We see the past too sometimes, you know.”

“It wasn’t Balerion who burned it, it was…” Larys rubs his fingers together and feels soot between them, mixed with something sticky and wet. The flush spreads to his cheeks “It doesn’t matter. You don’t believe me.”

“I will always believe you, little brother. You saw the past, that’s all.” Alys squeezes his hand. Her smile quivers. He thinks some of the ash rubs off on to her, but when she draws her hands back, the only thing they’re stained with is smudges of dirt. “We must stick together, you and I.”

“I know, sister.” The word is cloyingly sweet on his tongue. Only here, in witness of the gods, are they allowed to share blood and bone and dreams.

“The world will fear us some day, as they did the greenseers of old. You and me and my silver dragon prince.”

Larys nods, but mouth is full of cotton and his eyes heavy. He can only bring himself to look up at the eyes of the weirwood, twisted and scorned, glaring into him. He wipes his hands on his tunic and heaves himself onto his feet without waiting for Alys. Night melts into dawn across the godswood, at the corner of his eye; he wonders if his father would even care if he was found missing from his bed. Alys could go disappear for a moon and no one would bat an eye. He leans on his cane, legs aching and back burning. He tells himself it’s from sitting improperly, but everything has begun hurting more and more as of late.

Alys stands after him, takes his free hand again, and wordlessly they begin the walk through the godswood, back to Harrenhal. Her nails dig into his skin.

If she feels the blood dripping from his palms, or smells the ash clinging to his frame, she says nothing of it.

#house of the dragon #fire and blood #a song of ice and fire #larys strong #alys rivers #harwin strong #house strong #greenseer larys strong #greenseers #greensight #warg larys strong #larys strong & alys rivers #sibling bonding #larys and his goth big sister talk about their feelings or dreams or whatever #james writes

[writer-or-whatever]

'Hug' for the WIP game <3

Found the word hug in one of my Bad Things Happen Bingo WIPs lmao. This is from the Gilmore Girls canon divergent fic that I'm writing to fill the "Trying To Wake Them Up" square.

She pushed open the car door and stumbled out, dizzy from the pain. She managed to straighten up, but the sight of her car nearly had her doubled over again. The front of her car was nearly unrecognizable, jagged crunched blue metal intermixed with the metal, wood, and plastic of the bench that they’d hit. Rory swallowed against the bile rising in her throat at the sight of Jess slumped there, unmoving, within the grotesque version of her car. She wrenched her eyes away and looked around wildly for the nearest payphone. 

It wasn’t far—just across the street. But, as Rory started for it, she had a sudden sick feeling that as soon as she walked away, as soon as she couldn’t see her friend slumped over but still breathing, still alive, he wouldn’t be anymore. She couldn’t help him on her own, but how could she just leave him there?

The stinging pain from her wrist, made worse from the way she was hugging herself in distress, brought her out of her indecision. She could not keep standing here. No one else was coming. She took a large, slightly painful, breath in and rushed across the street to the payphone. 

#james writes #pals #word excerpt ask game