Month: November 2016

PROMPT 3/MUA HAHAHAH: gimme some of that sweet, sweet True Blood vamp Spock and redneck cop Kirk, YOU KNOW YOU WANNA

~ kototyph ~ Leave a comment

Here, have a tiny slice of epilogue from The Eternal WIP. PAST TENSE, I DO NOT MISS YOU

Labor Day was big in
Riverside.  The church notices went out weeks beforehand, and the park
next to the elementary school was a madhouse by ten in the morning.
 Families from around town had donated their folding chairs and card
tables, and a long row of them groaned under the weight of ten different kinds
of potato salad and twenty kinds of pie. There were some real fire hazards down
on the end with hot plates, but Jim was still technically suspended. Not his
problem.

An enterprising art
teacher set up a facepainting station, and Jojo ran around most of the
afternoon with half her face done in shimmering blue and pink scales.  She
insisted to anyone who would listen she was a fairy dragon, and at some point
Bones had gotten a smear of silvery purple under his nose. No one told him, but
he’d noticed something was up and started scowling at every wide smile aimed
his way.

They’d headed out
early, citing school the next day.  Ny had gone too; Gala was doing well,
but not in any shape to come to the park, and Nyota had wanted to bring her a
few helpings of marshmallow salad.  The park grills were still going
strong as the sun set, Scotty commandeering one near six and kept up a steady
stream of hot dogs and burgers.  Very few sandwiches, surprisingly,
although Jim thought he saw some breadheels hiding in the mound of buns on the
table next to him.

At that point, Jim
bought another warm beer from the Knights of Columbus and dragged a picnic
table over to the grill from outside the cafeteria, ten years of preteen angst
carved into the wood and red paint flaking off in sheets. Sulu and Chekov
showed up soon after, followed by the sheriff in a brand-new, motorized
wheelchair.  Jim and Pike knocked their bottles together while the two
officers on duty looked on with longing.

“Hey, you lazy
assholes,” came Giotto’s voice
from their radios. “I see you over there. I need a body by the swings,
over.”

“Not me,” Sulu said
immediately, and slowly wilted under Pike’s raised eyebrow. “I mean.”

“Someone’s dog got
ahold of Mrs. Kowalski’s handbag and it’s dropping… stuff all over. Over.”

“Stuff?” Jim asked.

“Stuff? Over,” Sulu
said into his radio.

“Stuff,” Giotto said, clearly uncomfortable. “You
know, stuff. Adult stuff. Christ, this woman is older than my mother—”

“Not it,” Chekov said,
eyes wide.

“Someone’s got to go,”
Sulu argued.

“Suspended,” Jim said,
raising his hands.

“Medical leave,” Pike
said dryly. “Officer Sulu, please proceed to the scene. I’m sure you’ll handle
it with all the courtesy and professionalism I’ve come to expect from you.”

Sulu gave him a
hangdog look, but swung his legs over the bench and slunk off towards the
playground without any more complaining.  

“Ah, shite timing,”
Scotty said cheerfully from the grill. “Bangers up, lads!”

Four plates were
raised and filled, and Jim was about to take a bite of the first of two fat,
split brats when something beyond Scotty and the grill caught his eye.

A blink, and he didn’t
know what it had been. There wasn’t anything there on a second look, just the
treeline marking the edge of the park. Lots of walnuts and broken acorns on the
ground under them. Could be a squirrel.

Jim kept his eyes on
the trees said, “Hey, Scotty. Pass the ketchup?”

“Ah’ll ha’ ye know
catsup is no th’ thing te put on yon wee sausage,” Scotty said disapprovingly.
“Mustard. Only th’ mustard, ye ken, ah have it here—”

“Just give me the damn
ketchup.”

“’s no’ right,” Scotty
said sadly, but he passed the ketchup.

The park sat on a
sloping lot, which in some places was quite steep: the school at the top and
the woods at the bottom.  The hill faced west, and though the tops of the
trees with their firework bursts of scarlet and orange were lit, their trunks
sat in deep violet shadow.

Jim put a huge blot of
ketchup on the edge of his plate and plunked the bottle down on the table.
“I’ll be back in a sec,” he said, and plate in hand, he walked carefully down
the rest of the hill and into the waiting woods below.

He’d only taken a few
steps inside before he was completely swallowed in darkness, and only a few
steps beyond that before he stopped, tilted his head, and grinned.

“Hi there,” he said.
“Hotdog?”

“… I am incapable of
ingesting solid foods,” said a vampire who was not Spock, and Jim felt a
brief flash of shock shading into panic before a soft touch at his elbow turned
him towards the second vampire standing in the shadows.

“Hello, Jim,” said
Spock, fingertips resting briefly on his arm.

“Hey,” Jim said,
quieter, and couldn’t help a smile at Spock’s slow blink. “Hello.”

“I am pleased on this
occasion to introduce a member of my former nest,” Spock said, voice and
posture so stiff he seemed robotic. “Sarek, esteemed and venerated among all
Vulcans.”

The other, seemingly
older vampire nodded gravely. “Well met, James Tiberius Kirk.”

He wore long, dark
robes, his hair cut into the same simple style, his dark eyes familiar. It took
Jim a moment to place them, but when he did— when he remembered where he’d
heard that name previously— he blurted, “Wait, your dad Sarek? Sybok’s
dad Sarek?”

“The esteemed Sarek is
our progenitor, yes,” Spock said, incredibly wooden, and Jim barely stopped
himself from laughing out loud. Of all the bizarre and unimaginable places this
relationship had led them, he never once thought he’d have to meet the family.
Much less ever have the opportunity to embarrass Spock in front of his parents.

He kind of wanted to.
Did that make him a dick?

“I’m very pleased to
meet you, sir,” he said diplomatically, and next to him Spock seemed to relax a
fraction. “Would you care to join us at the table?”

Spock went rigid, for
no particular reason Jim could see. Sarek merely folded his hands.

“I thank you for the
invitation,” he said. “However, I have another engagement this evening that
demands my attention. With your permission, I will call on you at your place of
residence tomorrow evening.”

Jim very much saw
where Spock’s tortuous turns of phrase came from. “Sounds good to me.”

Sarek bowed briefly,
and then simply wasn’t there anymore.

“Wow,” Jim said, after
a moment. “I wasn’t expecting—”

“Please do me the very
great favor of never again inviting my father to ‘join your table’,”
Spock said through what sounded like tightly clenched teeth.

“Wait, what? Wait. Is
that a—?”

“Yes.”

“Did I just ask your
dad to—?”

“Yes,” Spock said,
aggrieved. “In the first sixty seconds of meeting him no less. You are a
singularly astounding man, as always.”

“Damn,” Jim said. “I’m
sorry?”

“I doubt that,” Spock
said, but his hand was on Jim’s arm again and with it, he turned Jim fully
towards him and raised the other to his face, thumb stroking his cheek. “But I
do appreciate hearing it.”

Jim was grinning again
as Spock leaned in. “I did say he could come over tomorrow.”

“Cease,” Spock
growled.

“Make me,” Jim said,
and laughed into Spock’s mouth when he did.

~ kototyph ~ Leave a comment

kisbys:

proper artists giving a critique: wow… the mediums you used and the the varying textures create such a pleasing conflict in the piece and the composition and vibrancy of the colors all really add up to make one solid painting

me givin a critique: awww fucke dude id…. shit man id eat this if you’d let me

~ kototyph ~ Leave a comment
image

prompt #5 (x) – “A stranger in the house.”

(MCU – Captain America, WWII, Finland, Gen)

“Liebchen, good evening,” the officer says with a show at jovality. “I am so sorry to disturb you this late.”

The little girl draws further back behind her mother’s legs as he crouches to her level, taking his hat in his hands and smiling broadly.  In the loft above, Bucky silently slides his rifle onto Steve’s shoulder.

“I have an important question, Liebchen. Very important. Have you seen any strangers around your village tonight? Any men you don’t know? Anyone new?”

“She doesn’t understand,” her mother says with a heavy accent, hand on the girl’s head. “She does not speak— the Germany. We haven’t seen these men.”

Bucky exhales slowly, elbow digging into Steve’s chest, Steve’s thigh going numb under his knee. They’re awkwardly wedged under the sloping roof, Steve taking most of Bucky’s weight and braced against a ceiling beam to keep them in place. It’s only by the grace of God they haven’t been seen yet, nothing between them and the Mannerheim soldier but height and darkness.

“Are you quite sure?” the soldier says, straightening. His eyes rove over the wooden walls and simple furnishings, lingering on the door to the stable. “There would have been six or seven of them. Hard to miss, I think.”

The girl’s mother holds the only source of light in the small wooden house, a fat tallow candle that waivers as the wind slots itself through the cracked door. Steve feels like he hasn’t seen the sun since they snuck ashore in Turku two weeks ago. There’s snow in the creases of Bucky’s jacket and inside Steve’s boots, up his cuffs, down his collar.

“You’re welcome to see,” the girl’s mother says, gesturing towards the stable. “There is nothing there.”

They’d taken the horses months ago, she’d told the Commandos. Then the sheep. All the way down to the chickens.  Aaretti— that’s her name— has a small, underfed hen under her bed that gives them about one egg a week.

“I will, thank you,” the officer says, and walks right under Steve and Bucky where they’re tucked against the roof’s thick supports.

“Now?” Bucky breathes against Steve’s cheek.

“… now,” Steve says, the moment the soldier is through the other door, and swings down as quietly as he can.

“As you see,” the girl’s mother says, standing in the doorway and blocking the fall of light from the candle. “Empty.”

“Are these tire tracks?” the officer asks, staring at the dirt floor.

Bucky starts to ease over the edge on his belly, boots kicking three feet above the ground.

“Old ones.”

“I see.”

Steve grips him around the waist and pulls him into his chest, then down. Bucky’s hiss of surprise is hopefully lost to the sound of the wind outside.

“Well. Frau, I suppose I’ve intruded enough tonight—”

The wind has already nudged the door open several inches, and Steve and Bucky slip into the silver-blue night on the tail end of the officer’s platitudes and around the side of the house, past the snowed-in garden and the pasture that once held a cow, and into the pitch-black pines.

“You fuckin’ punk,” Bucky huffs beside him, “try picking me up one more time. One more time, I’ll fucking—”

An engine revs behind them. Steve grabs Bucky where he’s wallowing through a four-foot drift, puts him over his shoulder and runs like hell.

ONSEN SAUNA BONUS

Basecamp is around the other side of a frozen lake, in a long and mostly windowless hut.  Bucky and Steve meet Aaretti’s husband outside on the porch, trees crowded up to the log walls and a skinny dock stretching out onto the ice. They pass him a thick pat of butter and a note that makes him blink rapidly before he slips it in his coat.

“Your friends,” the man says, slapping Steve’s shoulder. “They have proper sauna now. Tomorrow, we move— tonight, sauna.”

Steve has some idea what a sauna is, but he’s unprepared to open the door and have steam and heat hit him like a ton of bricks.

“You made it!” Dum Dum says, naked as a jay and scalded pink from head to toe.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Bucky says, shielding his eyes.

“Stay out or come in, just close the damn door!” Gabe yells.

Which is how Steve finds himself stripped equally naked and occupying a corner of the rough wood bench, skin red from scrubbing and a little dizzy from breathing more heat than air. At their host’s insistence, he’s sipping something strongly anise-flavored and so potent it makes even his eyes water. He’s not sure he likes it; he’s much less ambivalent about the sausages that appear and get roasted over the coals in the center of the room.

“You come near me with those birch branches, you better be ready to lose that hand,” Bucky says to Jacques, sprawled next to Steve with one knee bent and no hint of shame.

“Suit yourself,” Jacques says with a sniff. “Philistine.”

“Thanks, I will.” Bucky knocks his knee against Steve’s and steals the tin cup of booze from his loose fingers. Steve, warm and relatively clean for the first time in weeks, lets him take it without complaint and leans further back against the wall, feeling his eyes start to close.

Aaretti’s husband abruptly stands up in the middle of the small hut and exclaims, “Now snow!”

“Snow?” Dum Dum asks.

“Snow!” he confirms, and flings the door open.

Later, they have to fish Jim and Monty out of the lake itself, but in the meantime there’s Dugan and Gabe rolling in the snow like a couple of deranged dogs and Jacques fending them off with the birch branches when they comes to drag him out. Bucky puts his boots on and gets up on the roof when no one’s watching, and Steve says a lot of things he’s not proud of when a sheet of snow and ice is dumped on his head from above.

“Bucky, goddamn it!”

“I told you,” Bucky says, smug and shivering. “Don’t c-cross me, Rogers.”

~ kototyph ~ Leave a comment

mrasayf:

rowanwoodcock:

ị̱̹͚̺̬̍ͧ͒ͬͬ̃ͅf͓͍̣̰ͭ͌̔̆ͥ͞ ̺͉̝̉̌͗̑̒́̚ị̓̔͂ͫ͞t͍͕͍̄̏ͮͬͣ ̠͆̈́ͫ̚͡f̴͚͚̙̣̒̾i̠̻̰̼͒̀̌ͫt̢͔̘̥̬͗̔̈́ͤs̸͔ͪ̓̈́̿ ̧͉̟i̬ͨ͘ ̞͈̗͈͙̹̓ͬ̋͒s̽͂͏͈͓̞͇̫̤i͛͏̱͖͇̜̺̼t̨͈̥̱͕̐̿ͮͤ̄̃ͅͅs̖̫̪̙ͬͭ͐͒͞

November Comment Challenge

~ kototyph ~ Leave a comment

calligraphypenn:

dinosaurswearingdior:

stultiloquentia:

lingua-mortua:

theactualcluegirl:

theactualcluegirl:

I double dog dare you, Tumblr, to leave some kind of comment on every story you read on AO3 this November.

You don’t have to compose a sonnet, or make offers of marriage, but I challenge you to take the minute of your time required to type one sentence of feedback into the comment field after you’ve read any story you didn’t completely hate, and tell the author something about what your experience of reading their work was.  Two or three words is all it takes, if you’re feeling shy – “I liked this” or “This was good”  

Something to let the author know that you recognize their efforts, that you are at least on some level aware that they entertained you, or at least kept you occupied for a little while, and that these comments are the only pay you’re ever going to be asked to give up for it.  The only pay these authors are going to get.  Recognition.  From you.

When you think about how many hours of entertainment you get from reading fanfic every week, it’s not so much to pay, really.

So click the comment button.  Use your words.  Give a fan writer some encouragement to keep doing what they do.

I dare you.

Remember, remember, our Comment November…

Gotta do this! My bookmarked for later pile is so intimidating >.

I promise to do this even though I am a failboat with a tortured history of leaving people overly effusive comments and weirding them out.

Oh this is a good idea!

Remember, remember, our Comment November,
Fluff and hurtcomfort and plot,
I see no reason that Commenting Season
Should ever be forgot…

Dean/Cas 6

~ kototyph ~ Leave a comment

prompt #6: “Did that just move?” (x)

bunker, established relationship, thanksgiving (?)

“I swear to God it did,” Dean says, staring into the depths of the fridge. “And I think the sour cream hissed at me.”

“Be that as it may,” Castiel says from the stove, coat on a chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, “someone has to remove it, or we won’t have room for leftovers. Please continue.”

Dean sits back on his heels and stares longingly across the kitchen. Castiel is wearing Dean’s apron, a lopsided knot at the small of his back.  He frowns attentively at a pan and several pots, gravy, mashed sweet potatoes, cranberries and orange slices gleaming on the wooden spoon he lifts as he stirs. It smells amazing. “You sure you don’t need help with any of that?”

Castiel’s head tilts, and he might be smiling. “I am absolutely positive.”

Dean groans. “Cas, I’m dying. The fumes from this— this— hell, I don’t even know what’s in this, but it’s got to be poisonous. Maybe sentient. Angel mojo definitely needed.”

“We drew straws,” Castiel points out, looking over his shoulder. “You agreed to abide by the results, because you have a deep-seated vendetta against the other selection mechanism Sam suggested.”

“Sam cheats at rock paper scissors, that’s why,” Dean says, using the fridge door to get to his feet. “Oh, God, my back. My knees.”

Castiel’s gaze turns wry. “I was unaware the task required so much physical effort.”

“There are five fridges in here!” Dean says, almost whines. “And the freezer Sam keeps his freaky vegetables in, not to mention the ones no one’s cleaned since the assholes of letters were using them as specimen ja—”

Castiel points his spoon at the fridge, and with a muffled pop the contents vanish. All of them. Even the ones already in the trash bag on the floor, leaving the inside of the plastic pristine.

“Abracadabra,” he says, monotone.

“… I just bought that beer,” Dean says, and Castiel makes a disgruntled sound.

“What?”

“Dean.”Castiel has turned back to the bubbling pots, so Dean can’t see his face when he says, “Did you want to help, then? Or were you just complaining for the sake of it?”

Dean looks at the line of his shoulders, the angle of his ducked head and starts to smile. “I don’t know, Cas. You seem to have it covered.”   

“I am very bad at this,” Castiel argues, tapping the spoon on the side of the pan for emphasis. “It all tastes like molecules to me.”

Dean crosses the kitchen, coming up behind Castiel. “Yeah?”

Castiel’s ears are slowly turning pink. “Yes.”

“Well, wouldn’t want to burn those molecules,” Dean says, leaning close. Castiel huffs in frustration and presses into him with his whole body, one hand grabbing his and bringing it up around his waist.  “Perfect. I’ll taste, you stir.”

“Dean.”

“Fine, fine,” Dean says, grinning into his lopsided collar.