what if i write a black doves x 007 crossover where agent young goes undercover as a mascot actor paddington bear at paddington station to smoke out idk like, mafia or something. and ruby loves paddington bear. so. you know.
another instance of circus-level clownery that have me laughing so hard i pee myself a little about black doves: that moment where sam takes michael on a first date to the restaurant where he killed his father as his first hit. iâm sorry did you miss that? let me repeat: first date. in the same place. where he shot his father. for money.
like i donât think it was the same booth exactly but jesus christ - what level of pseudo-freudian psycho-shit do you need to be on for that to seem like a good, let alone romantic idea. and i do believe with my whole chest that he thought it was romantic, because jesus christ did yâall see how fucking whipped he is for that man after one single instance of eye-contact. the only explanation i can possibly find for this is that sam young has reached such levels of immense theatrical drama-queenery that the cycle has simply come back around to close on suspicious glibness as a trauma response. like. what the fuck. heâs so funny.
sam young, jaded triggerman, utter tragedy of a human being, gifting his best friendâs children heâs never met fucking nerf guns for christmas is the funniest possible way black doves could have ended. how even. did he walk into that toy shop and it was just the first thing he saw he could relate to? i like guns, this is guns for children? or is he simply the funniest bitch around? either way, what an absolute piss-take. god i love him
as an addendum to my last post, may i present: corrie guard christmas multiverse of madness
while thire is off john mcclane-ing and fox psychologically tortures three bountyhunters trying to break into the senate, hound is left in command of barracks where perimeter alarms begin to screech suddenly and LOOK, okay, YOUR first instinct wouldâve been to shoot at the strange being on the roof of military property too!
is what he tries frantically to explain to the strange little creature that appeared out of nowhere exceedingly miffed at him for apparently accidentally shooting its boss. how was he supposed to know that man wasnât trying to blow them up?! people do that all the time!
the little being who looks remarkably like general yoda if he was not green, wrinkly and himself at all turns up its nose at him. well tough shit it says. you still have to come live in the north quadrant now. congratulations, you have just been promoted to spanta clause.
what the kriff is a spanta clause hound asks. the answer does not make him any less confused. also, what kind of kriffed up hiring process is this where you have to kill the guy who had the job before you?! hound knows very little about natborn conventions, but even heâs pretty sure they donât make senate aides fight to the death in gladiatoral spectacles!
(most of them, anyways. heâs not entirely sure about some.)
also, why the kriff is grizzerâs nose suddenly red?!
Allâs calm and quiet on Coruscant, for once - the Senateâs either gone home to celebrate the universally beloved Xeshmas with their closest, or is attending the annual festive bash at the Spakatomi Splaza buildings, sponsored by Chandrila. At 79âs, a horde of merry Commanders get together to bask in the Xeshmas spirit (red, green and white shots) and celebrate another year survived. But wait, Bacara groans into someoneâs boots only thirty minute into their jolly bash, where the kriff is Fox? Ignored the invite again?
A strange feeling comes over Cody. He spent the entire day brooding, telling everyone who would listen that he has the strangest sensation of having forgotten something important and being told it canât be that important if heâs forgotten it (Wooley) or to quit being such a partypooper (Rex). Now, it dawns on him.
He never sent that comm to Fox.
To be entirely fair, Fox probably couldnât have attended either way - stuck as he is as the singular vod on babysitting shift at the empty Senate building. Still, it wouldâve been nice to at least hear from some of the others, considering he saw them all loiter towards the clubbing district on security cams anyways. Now, here he sits and gathers dust - as a glorified secretary while his brothers are off partying or on security detail at Spakatomi Splaza.
Fox heaves a deep sigh and traces expletives in the thin film of dust on the reception desk. One positive of this whole thing - for once, heâs safe from being accosted and having slurs thrown at him by uppity senate staff, or, Force forbid, being called on a special mission by the Chancellor. Heâs safely in his Nubian mansion by now, thank the Galaxy.
Thire and Ballsy are heading the party security, which, most ridiculous kriffing thing heâs had to assign troopers to in a long time. He wouldâve doomed himself to it, but the Chancellor specially requested he man the desks and empty Senate. Fox is, after all, the best of the best.
Kriffing Xeshmas parties. Mothma, whoâs usually capable of critical thought, specially requested they be in softshell for this assignment - to make their guests feel more comfortable and off the clock, she told Fox with a completely straight face.
Imagine that. Off the clock. Hah.
Fox is so busy watching the imaginary off-time heâs only heard of in dreams that he doesnât even register the sudden plunge into darkness, until he starts to blink and his brain slowly comes back online.
Well, kriff.
With a heavy, internalized eyeroll, he flicks at his vambrace. Nothing. Taps for the light-controls. Nothing. Pokes at the screens of various pads.
Nothing.
âŚdouble-kriff.
With a much more external sigh, Fox heaves himself to his feet and attempts to manually flick on his helmet lights, only to grunt out a string of curses when he realizes they shorted out along with everything else. He gropes at his belt and -
Yup, magpack on the blaster too. Great.
Fox trudges through the empty, darkened corridors with all the enthusiasm of the worldâs saddest glorified customer service worker, mentally cursing all the great forces at work to create this extraordinarly shit day for him.
Mothma for throwing stupid kriffing Xeshmas parties and requesting an unreasonable amount of softshell (!) Guard for it.
Palpatine for ordering him to babysit the Galaxyâs center of operations alone.
Cody and all the rest of them for not even kriffing pretending to invite him to anything anymore.
This stupid kriffing generator for deciding to kick it at the worst possible moment, and whoever was stupid enough to make the whole Senate power grid and comm access dependent on one single kriffing -
Fox freezes, all at once.
Voices. Plural. Outside.
Slowly, Fox creeps towards the slide doors leading outside. He pries them open gently, careful not to allow for a single creak or slip that could give him away. Itâs more likely to be nothing than anything, but -
â - enter from the trash chute, while Bossk takes the staff entrance on the other side and cover more ground that way. Bane, you will screw off the vent covers through the third floor exit and -â
âI know what Iâm doingâ, a deep, gravelly voice interrupts that sends shivers down Foxâ spine. Heâd hoped heâd never have to encounter it outside a criminal court recording again - triple kriff. âI donât need your lectures, Sing.â
âTouchy today, are we?â, Aurra Sing says, snidely, and it begins to dawn on Fox exactly how kriffed he really is. âRelax, Bane. We know what weâre doing. The Chancellorâs treasury doesnât stand a chance in Sith-hell.â
A low, vibrating hiss answers her, trembling with laughter. Fox has to force himself to hold his breath to keep in the expletives that want to slip free, hands cold and clammy in his gloves.
âAlright, everyone on position. We wait an hour for the commotion to really get started over at Spakatomi, and then -â
Deciding heâs heard enough, Fox carefully shifts the sliding doors back closed and inches back through the hallways with his heart hammering in his chest. Kriff, kriff and double-kriff this stupid kriffing holiday - first thing heâs doing when he gets out of this alive is outlaw the very idea of Xeshmas for all acting GAR personnel, and then heâs going to shove a Nabooian fir-tree up the ass of Jango Fettâs kriffing ghost, because somehow, this too is his fault. Fox just knows it.
First, though, heâll have to keep three of the Galaxyâs most infamous and deadly bounty hunters from stealing Republic secrets and treasures on his own.
(Somewhere, among the debris-littered ring of planetary satellites, a string of increasingly desperate comms waits to go through:
CC-4477: FOX
CC-4477: FOX HELP
CC-4477: FOOOOOOOX
CC-4477: THERE ARE SEPPIE TERRORISTS IN THE LOBBY THEY ARE BEATING UP ORGANA
CC-4477: I AMN HIDNG I TOLET
CC-4477: Sorry for that, Commander. The situation is back under control - I have acquired a bomb. Iâm sure youâre right outside with the others setting up a perimeter - Iâll keep the hostages safe, oriâvod! :) -Thire)
i do! same handle as the tumblr, unfortunately only 2 published WIPs so far that i pinky promise iâm working on whenever i get the chance - feel free to drop by xx
can you share something about "winter is here" for the wip game?
yes of course! this is exciting because itâs a little out of the usual programming, but something iâve been working on for like two years on and off since the idea just will not let go of me - now iâve finally decided to sit down, write it out, and just do it :3
âwinter is hereâ is the follow-up to âan eye for an eyeâ, and the basic premise of the series is this: instead of a son, jacaerys velaryon is born a girl. much proceeds as in canon. except for this: now there is an additional targaryen around of marriageable age, and no one except for viserys is excited about this grand idea, especially not aemond or jace. jace goes on a continent-wide tour (thinly veiled bid for fealty) to hand out personal invitations to the royal wedding, and lands on the last stop of her roadtrip - winterfell. it ends up being neither a quick nor simple visit, and upends more than it clarifies. for jace, at least. for the cause itâs kind of great.
honestly this is a big spoiler but also like the singular scene i have written for this, and i donât know if any of you read hotd stuff anyways, so here you go!
It was a chaste, close-lipped press of mouths - nothing spectacular, truly. Jace had seen more heated kisses described by her childhood Septa over needle-work. It should have been entirely, utterly unspectacular. She was a dragonrider who chased her brothers through the sky, a Targaryen heiress to the Iron Throne, doubly descended from two ancient families of Old Valyria both amongst the richest on the continent, and yet-
And yet, when Cregan drew back, Jace immediately found herself chasing after the warmth of his lips, stopped only by the gentle press of his palm against her cheek. It felt like it spanned the whole of her face, swallowed her up entirely, wrapped her in this enchanting man and his enchanting being which had fascinated her from the first instant - and in that moment, she knew that there was now a before and an after in her life; an early Jacaerys who had not known what it felt like to kiss this impossible, incredible man, and then found death and rebirth on his lips.
There was no trace of duty on her mind, to the realm or her mother or even her betrothed, who could not have been paid to care if she threw herself on a blade right this instant.
âI love youâ, the Lord of Winterfell whispered, voice uncharacteristically shaky, after a momentâs hesitation. Jace drew a sharp breath, clammy fingers tightening around his strong wrist, eyes burning as she gazed up at him. âI am sorry for saying it - it would have been easier, I think, if I had not. But it is true, and I am weak. I am sorry for that, Princess.â
And Jacaerys began to weep silently, because she loved him too, but if she said it aloud she risked losing everything dear to her.
yay! wasnât that cheerful! spoiler alert they do not get their grand happy ending, because the targaryen dynasty is a messy clusterfuck of toxicity and intermarrying is the only thing that keeps them from nuking each other into oblivion (textually, this is the whole point: the targaryen paradox, if you will). i mostly find it interesting to ponder how i can make these people not blood-feud eachother into non-existence, and also to slowly make them understand that it will happen anyways. not in this one, maybe, but someday. sisyphus and all that.
rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and tag as many people as you have wips.
Fox has one tattoo. One single tattoo only. He swore heâd never get one, too icked out by the needles - they buzz weirdly and he doesnât like the idea of something under his skin. Itâs not supposed to be there. Kind of common sense, really, he says, looking at a vod from the 501st with a fuck-off massive tattoo of the Republic insignia on his face. Choices.
A month into his posting as least glamorous Marshall Commander in the GAR, however, he changes his mind. Or, rather: the ARF unitâs godless, homebrewed basement-hooch changes his mind. Fox now has one tattoo, namely a tramp stamp that says in shaky script, THORN WUZ HIA. AND THIRE. AND HOUND. AND STONE.
(Stone didnât want to add that last one, so Thire did it for him. He crossed it out as protest. Now Fox has his tramp stamp and none of his Commanders have rights.)
tagged by @sithfox @whiskygoldwings @hastalavistabyebye <3
couldâve put an apple a day whose second chapter is due to be posted any day now, but i thought you guys would prefer this long ass excerpt from an untitled work lmao
Foxâs hands develop a mind of their own, not that he can currently muster the will to care. Green spots are exploding at the edges of his vision, popping off into sparks. Huh. Are senatorial robes always this soft?
âYou have very good shoulders, sirâ, he tells Senator Organa, lowering his voice to a near-whisper. âVery⌠firm. Very broad. Mhhm.â Fox squeezes gently, gasping at the slight give of the hard muscle underneath the fabric. He blinks at the other man, whose mouth is slightly agape. Soft. âHave your eyes always been such a rich brown, sir?â
âHe has a wife, Fox!â, Grids whisper-screams, from where sheâs hovering over them a few steps away, hands fluttering helplessly through the air. Serves her right, Fox thinks with a haughty sniff. Always making him be the adult in the room.
âHis wife is also very prettyâ, he dismisses, and then adds, to Organa, âHer majesty is also very pretty, sir. Very handsome. Mhhhm.â
who knows when this will become a thing. not me. tag itâs you iâm pingponging it back @sithfox @hastalavistabyebye @whiskygoldwings @stealthetrees
how i think the fives chip arc shouldâve ended? they drop the blasters and fight out the treason-or-no-treason, that-is-the-question in a spontaneous dance battle to high school musicalâs âi donât danceâ
commander fox walking into the GAR pool party in red speedos with abs drawn on his armour in slow motion like billy from stranger things with moving in stereo by the cars playing in the background, send twee-
