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except the luther one, they're all gen.
Just collecting some of the shorter tumblrfics in one place.
A. prompted:
No one prompted:
This is still Annie's fault somehow but:
Ruble wanted:
I tried to write original fic but in the end it turned out to be:
Z prompted Mishalecki gangsterverse from that time they thought Jared was a snitch and so:
A. prompted:
“Very nice work,” she says.
“All in a day’s,” he replies as she drapes her arms around his shoulders and kisses his cheek. There’s still a smudge of blood on her chin. He wipes it clean with his thumb. “What’ve you got there, then?”
She holds out the giftwrapped box. “For you, John.”
He raises his eyebrow at the card. “To Vivian and George, congratulations and best of luck.”
Alice shrugs. “Well, they won’t be needing it anymore.”
No one prompted:
Once you say yes on the rack, can you take it back? You want the pain to stop, so you pick up the knife, but there you are, cutting your umpteenth damned soul and do you start questioning it? Is what you’re doing worth the escape from pain? Maybe you deserve the torture, especially since you’re so willing to torture right back. Can you beg hell to put you back on the rack? If hell refuses you, would you feel worse or relieved?
You’re not kidding when you tell him you still remember what it’s like to be human. That’s why hell works. That’s why you’re here.
This is still Annie's fault somehow but:
The only bat they can find is a plastic whiffleball bat because the wooden ones have been consigned to weaponry or firewood. For bases, they use buckets and crates. There are no mitts. The only ball they can find is a scrappy old tennis ball, but whatever, no one in the camp wants to play tennis.
Chuck is the umpire. Risa’s on the pitcher’s mound. Cas, with his broken foot, has been consigned to scoreboard duty. He draws the grid on the chalkboard with military precision, then boos the umpire because it has been explained to him that that is how baseball games go.
“We haven’t started yet!” Chuck yells back.
Dean is first up to bat.
“Shouldn’t we sing the national anthem first?” Chuck asks.
Dean says, “I got an anthem for you,” then cries out, “Play ball!”
And Risa winds up for the pitch.
Ruble wanted:
She won’t remember you when she grows up. That’s just how humans are. The name she called you, the winter songs you taught her, the word you both made up for ‘sister’ because that’s what you were to one another - all of it gone. It does not sadden you; it is the way of things. A human moves on, and a wolf remembers. So be it.
It will be a long time before you see her again. She will be walking alone in the forest, the place you have taught her not to fear. She’ll walk straight-backed and clear-eyed, and will not remember who gave her the courage. When you call her sister, she will only hear an animal growl.
What big eyes you have, she’ll say. The same thing she said the first time she met you.
The better to see you with, you’ll reply, for the sun has just set and the woods are dark, and I would like to look upon you one last time before nature consigns us to the hunt.
I tried to write original fic but in the end it turned out to be:
In those days, alchemists were respected figures, occupying a position near the top of social stratum second only to the mayor, and remained there as if buoyed by their own mystique. Like priests, they concerned themselves with truth and beauty, and somehow operated at the center of society by virtue of being outside it. Like politicians, the gold helped what mystique could not.
My father had climbed over and shoved his way through a dozen hopeful families to apprentice me to the city’s finest alchemist. The first day I walked through my master’s workshop, I was filled with awe. Beautiful baubels and infernal machines, the smell of sulfur, the smell of iron, the heat of a small forge at the corner of the room whose fire it will be my duty to tend. But my attention was immediately diverted to four glass stands on the top shelf of a mahogany bookcase. They stood out precisely because they didn’t glimmer in a room full of things that did.
My master noticed my interest and said to me, “These are the creations of my youth. My finest work.”
I said nothing, not wishing to appear insolent by saying that they seemed to be nothing more than trinkets purchased at a flea market, or things my sister’s hounds would find in our garden.
“They may not look like much here, but their powers reveal themselves when the time is right.” His voice took on an oratory tone. “You see, one night I was working quite late when suddenly a shooting star fell behind my house.”
“My goodness,” I said politely. My mother warned me that alchemists liked to tell tall tales.
“Or so I thought. These objects,” he gazed at them with a fond smile, “have been made from the essence of an angel. From its grace.”
Z prompted Mishalecki gangsterverse from that time they thought Jared was a snitch and so:
The thing is, Jared’s seen the beginnings of that knifepoint look in Jensen’s eyes a bunch of times before - or maybe it’d be better described as a lack of a look, the way he just shuts down. The way he becomes unstoppable that way. Jared has never stuck around to watch Jensen work his craft, and he can’t tell if that makes this better or worse.
Off to the side, like the doctor waiting to confirm that the hanged man is dead, Misha nurses a drink.
Jared doesn’t even know the words coming out of his mouth, he’s just saying whatever, babbling whatever comes to mind as if talking can postpone his fate or undo his ropes. Some of what he’s saying is ridiculous and much of it is shameless, but he is terrified, terrified, and neither Jensen or Misha are looking him in the eye.
“Listen,” Jared says. “Listen to me-“
“We are,” Jensen says, and the crack in his voice is at odds with the rest of him. “Problem is, so are other people.”
Ah. There it is: the knifepoint look, final version. Here is Jensen locked and loaded, ready to go. Here’s the guy who always gets results. That’s the light at the end of a very long tunnel: Jensen will find the truth. Jared just has to stay alive until he does.
“Misha,” Jared says, slurry with fear. “Misha, come on, you know me, you know me—”
And the last thing Jared sees before the world goes red is Misha’s hand shaking, his eyes closing as if to brace himself, so Jared braces himself too.
And it begins.
(#the next scene starts with misha telling jared to wake up hey wake up #jared hurts all over #jensen's nowhere to be seen #probably outside smoking a cigarette and feeling some feelings #and misha's like listen if you don't give us anything we can't help you #and jared's delirious and desperate with pain #i don't know anything i don't have anything please misha #and misha's like don't fuck with me #I'M NOT FUCKING WITH YOU #yells it so loud his cracked ribs feel it #and misha says 'have a drink.' #'i don't want a drink.' #jared drinks anyway #misha says 'you stupid son of a bitch' and wipes away the worst of the blood #jared winces because bruising #'misha i didn't do anything i didn't say anything you gotta believe me' #misha says nothing #what can he say?)
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OOH A PROMPT
ARCHIE PANJABI, that is my prompt. Archie Panjabi and red.
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For my next trick I will learn to actually make this work. What even are you, Gimp. WHAT EVEN ARE YOU.
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FEELINGS
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Let's say Morgana.
They have a lot of sex and there are pretty hoods involved, is maybe my point???