Skits

Generally anything that has to do with my AO3 account or writing. I have a Bad Things Happen Bingo Card, too. You might also see me follow you as @skitscratched. Current Interest: MCU

[skits-things]

:)

Hiya! I'm Skits, I go by She/Hers and I'm a fanfiction writer. My AO3 is linked in my about.

This is a writing blog and will post and reblog things related to my writing and interests. Currently I'm very MCU focused - Stephen Strange has infested my brain and isn't leaving anytime soon.

Asks are always open for anything. I take prompts right now, but look below the readmore for this post before sending me any. Rules are there.

Reblogs might or might not be tagged. Sometimes I forget.

This blog is for me so don't argue with me about my opinions. Disagree, sure, but don't start a fight.

Tags

These are the most consistent tags I use. This list will be edited as I remember/think up more.

#my writing is for anything that I've written

#ask will be used for any asks I get and answer

#personal will be tagged for anything about me, well, personally

Prompts

Current Number of Prompts: 1

You can send them in my ask box. :)

Here are a couple of things I’d like to emphasize for those interested:

I write for fun. This is done in my freetime and whenever I get inspiration. It might take a long time for me to fill the prompt. If there's a prompt or ask I do not want to write, I will outright say so.

It comes without saying, but underage and sexual abuse is a definite no. I don't have too many other limits, but there's a lot of weird stuff out there. I might not have heard about them. Feel free to ask but please be aware there's a good chance I will say no. Limits will be updated as I come across them.

Yes, I am open to writing NSFW but all NSFW will be under a readmore. No judgement on the prompts (I'm open to trying to write things at least once) but I will also refuse if I find that something is outside my comfort zone.

Yes, I ship. My OTP is Ironstrange. I don't wanna have a mile long list of my other ships here, but feel free to ask. I'll let you know if I'm open to writing a different ship.

Genfic prompts are ABSOLUTELY WELCOME. The category is sadly underappreciated.

If I happen to reblog/participate in an event with a prompt set, I am usually alright with receiving requests about them.

Unquestionable, but, prompts from other posts/not an original prompt you made is, of course, welcome.

I have a Bad Things Happen Bingo Card. I'm up for any prompts along those lines.

I don’t write/read x reader or reader insert. Sorry. I'm okay with using second person POV however.

I do not write “Not [X] Friendly” fics. I do not like character bashing.

The rules may update from time to time. Please check them before sending requests.

My preferences

I prefer if Stephen Strange is a character I'm writing about, but I'm not entirely against writing about other MCU characters. If the character is obscure, I might not have heard about them and OOC is likely to occur. I do both fluffy works and angst, so ask for as much hurt or comfort as you want. Multiverse of Madness is also on my hate list and I am not likely to write Wanda very positively - though, again, I don't do character bashing.

Reading wise, I sample from all over the place. My hard limits on things I refuse to read/write are things like SpideyStrange, where the age difference/character generations are too far apart for me to stand. ScarletStrange is another ship I do not like personally.

Other things

While I don't mind constructive criticism, if there isn't a single thing (no matter how small) you also like about my writing, I don't know what you're doing on my blog. I am a hobby writer - not a professional, and human besides that. I have feelings. Don't hurt them.

Minors are allowed to follow as I do not post anything too explicit; at least without tagging them.

Ask me if you want to translate/post my works to other platforms. You must have my written permission.

If you disagree with me (e.g. you characterise/see/view [Character A] as … but I write them as …), please keep in mind that all of this is fiction and everyone is allowed to have their own opinions. But well, feel free to discuss with me if you’d like.

Please don’t hesitate if you have any questions! ^-^

If you've read everything above, then thanks! Let's all interact with respect and positivity! :)

[kittyswritingcorner]

how to become a god

Summary:

In the crevices beneath and intervals between every loop, the moment before his flesh and bones knit back together and the word bargain is carved with his tongue, slipping out of numb lips, they speak. There's little else to do. 

OR 

This is how you become a God. 

Word count: 3,495

Characters/Relationships: Stephen Strange & Time Stone, Mentioned Dormammu, Mentioned Peter Quill, Background/Cameo Characters

Warnings: (non-descriptive) Violence, Canonical Character Death(s), Angst (this is me, though, so that's a warning of its own), and uh, Lots Of Trauma

A/N: This is a gift for one of my loveliest friends @skitscratched, who has been nothing but an absolute sweetheart. Happy belated friendship anniversary :) 

The fic itself is loosely tied to the prompt she’s given me quite a while ago: ‘my one and only’, which could be interpreted… several ways. (She specifically meant ‘those who know you best when you feel out of place’ but I’m unsure if that sort of theme fits here but, hey. This works.)

There was a short work that thinly relates to this one I’ve written titled ‘how to kill a god’, but they’re not related in the way this is a sequel to that one. I suppose this just provides more context to ‘how to kill a god’ rather than a continuation/a part of its storyline because, well, that fic was plotless to begin with. It's not necessary to read that before reading this.

~

In the crevices beneath and intervals between every loop, the moment before his flesh and bones knit back together and the word bargain is carved with his tongue, slipping out of numb lips, they speak. There's little else to do. 

It had taken so long. Long enough that the silence in these moments became unbearable when before it had grown to be familiar. 

(He knows now; how it feels to be a God. How it feels to lose his mortality, even if temporarily. The weight of its consequences and how such infamy could only be paid through a penance of equal measure. Every mistake could cost his life. And it will. Over and over, in an endless loop.)

Time is a heavy and reassuring weight on his chest, nestled–nestled, not caged–in the Eye, almost like an embrace, its warmth like arms wrapping around and between each slip of his ribcage; makes a home out of it. It had been, for a while now. Perhaps years had passed since he last felt free of its hold. Perhaps decades. Now all he could feel is the way it grips his heart, all-consuming but not invasive. 

It lays aglow, its shining green seeming iridescent amongst the swirls and ink-splatter of colours in the Dark Dimension. Time did not speak to him then, did not reveal its words–he did not know of its voice to begin with, but he knew of the life that pulsed within years ago–and took its seconds, minutes, hours, years, and millenia to. But only once Time was ready did he hear it: soft words whispered between non-existent teeth, its intimate whisper coming from inside his own head, susurrant and low. 

At first, he could not make out anything but sound. But Time is patient, always has been, and it took more than seconds, minutes, hours, years, and millenia to discompose it. It is, after all, a being beyond time. A being beyond Infinity. 

That has occupied Stephen for a minute–or maybe several decades–and now he knows that Time is the best teacher he’ll ever have. (Although he wouldn’t call Time a mentor, not in the way the Ancient One had been.)

It is generous with its teaching, disposing kernels of invaluable knowledge liberally, and he lets none go to waste. It is in his nature, after all, as a scholar. 

It teaches him Their tongue, Their history, the justifications of Their existence in their plane of reality. Stephen absorbs all of this knowledge, consuming it like Time has consumed him. 

It teaches him how to recognise Gods before they recognise themselves. It teaches him concepts beyond mortal comprehension, reified in verbal constructs that slip into his ears and wrap themselves in ribbons around his cerebral cortex. He swallows all its wisdom and bites those he can’t, and the more he listens the less he knows. He feels its affection clinging to every word, flowing within its energy that vibrates everywhere inside and outside and around and all over him, overwhelming in its intensity. 

He did not hesitate to accept when it lent its power into his trembling hands and entrusted him with it with an unbridled certainty. He had cupped it within his palms and let it unfurl, feeling it slipping inside every nerve-ending and thrumming beneath his skin and flesh, inside every cell of blood and bone marrow. 

He isn’t quite sure why it had chosen him. Any fool could see that it had chosen him, but it was anybody’s guess as to why. Time sees something in him he couldn’t see himself, and Stephen doesn’t intend to keep quiet in his curiosity. 

Why me? He asks, in the seconds that stretched into centuries between the end and the beginning of another loop, self-conscious in his inquiry but patient in his response. He feels Time bundle him up before another series of rings circle his wrist, green and secure as he feels the energy radiating heat on the surface of his skin there, and as he is on the cusp of being again, Time speaks. 

You will see, it says, and Stephen feels a clench in where his heart is supposed to be, before it is, and when it becomes he feels it stutter with its beats. Just you wait. Time will tell, it says. You will see, my dearest Time Keeper.

The words had since refused to leave where they had nestled deep inside his head. 

*.~ ◇ ~.*

When Stephen strikes his final blow and Dormammu accepts defeat, he feels Time physically recoil itself from inside him, wrenching itself out of where roots had grown inside every muscle tissue and its substance had diffused inside every drop of blood in his body, a split second that felt like years. 

It leaves a gaping hole in its wake, like his body is more a shell that used to occupy something quintessential that was always there, was always supposed to be, and was now a mere empty space that’s lost meaning and purpose. He is no longer Time Keeper, he is Stephen. A mortal that draws blood on cuts and breaks bones on blunt impact and stays that way, irreversibly. 

He staggers as his feet land on the ground, real and solid, and most of his weight is supported by the cloak. 

He’s nearly forgotten that Time has been stopped here, frozen into a state of forever until forever ends, and forever has ended for Stephen moments ago. There’s hesitation that rears its ugly head inside him, fear by its side, and he wonders if he could stretch forever to Infinity. 

It’s been so long since he’s felt Time. The real Time, not a never-ending loop. He isn’t sure if he’s ready for it. 

You are, Time says to him–or at least of what’s left it had attached to him, staying to leave its mark like a brand–as if reading his mind. In a sense, he thinks it might have been. He feels its shards dig inside, and comfort blooms wherever it has buried itself in. There is security in its presence that his body greets like an old friend. Or at least you eventually will be, Time Keeper. 

But what if I’m not? He says. It’s been so long. Too long. 

You will be the way you were before, Time insists. But better. 

Stephen doubts the words–hardly believes in them–but he trusts Time without a shadow of a doubt. Even more so than he trusts himself. 

And then he feels it: a shift, and as the remaining energy of Time sheathed inside flows out of his fingers, he feels the seconds begin to tick. 

Everything around him begins to move. 

Motion slowly returns. He sees people and objects and life. Sound begins to filter in. He hears chatter and sounds and life. 

Well done, Time praises, and it feels as if a weight has been lifted off of Stephen’s chest. Very well done, my Chosen. My one and only. 

Stephen frowns. One and only? 

He knows there are people before him who have wielded Time. He is not the only Chosen. 

Wielding Time does not mean taming it. It does not mean owning Time’s power. The words send shivers running down his spine. There is affection laced in every word, overflowing in every part of him, filling him with so much of it he could explode. You are my Chosen. My one and only. My Time Keeper. You are mine as much as I am yours. I have chosen you, the same way you have chosen me that day. 

The words sink into his head and drown themselves. 

He belongs to Time. The same way Time belongs to him. 

He feels Time’s warmth wrapping like tendrils inside him in approval. 

Everything else that happens next feels like a blur to him; he has not spoken in mortal tongue in a long time, beyond Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain, Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain, Dormam–

So speaking proved to be a struggle. The first thing he says is smoother than he expects, and he silently applauds himself for it. It was a joke, good enough that it had Wong cracking up, and a part of him felt everything was worth having gone through just so he could hear those rumbled chuckles. 

And then Mordo left, telling him about how the bill comes due and how things come with a price. There is pride that his mortal body still holds inside that shakes and seethes in anger at that, but Stephen tamps it down.

Have I not paid my price? He asks Time, because surely Time knows. Surely Time will tell. Surely Time will answer. Is it not enough? He says, Is it? 

There is a pause, and Stephen wonders if a being like Time could ever feel anything close to hesitance. 

Not yet, it finally answers, and Stephen feels something fragile shatter inside him, setting aflame a burning fire. You will, soon. You will. Just you wait. 

What do I need to do? 

He feels Time reach out from inside and embrace him, the same way it had the first time, and Stephen feels warmth. He feels nothing but Time. There is nothing but Time. It always makes him feel so alive, having Time’s power inside him. In this moment he doesn’t need to think; he only needs to feel, needs to know that Time is here and Time will take care of everything else. 

It has him floating in a headspace he wants to be in forever, where there is only him and Time and nothing else. 

Time will tell, it says. 

*.~ ◇ ~.*

Thanos is after the stones. 

He had taken Power, something Time had warned him about years ago. He had taken Reality, something Time had told him only some time ago. 

Now it is Time’s turn, and that gives birth to fear which gives birth to defensiveness which gives birth to a feeling of possessiveness, dark and twisting inside him. 

Thanos came to them. Stephen would rather sacrifice himself than give away the stone. 

He can sense the stone’s distress in where it remains, encased within the Eye that he refuses to let go of, and feels the way it attaches itself tighter inside him, curling up inside gaps and filling in space, gripping. 

Thanos’ god-awfully covetous fingers will not lay a single print on Time. He will make sure of it. 

Time Keeper, it whispers, and Stephen feels shock go through him, having not heard its voice in what feels like forever ago and yesterday. It is your Time. 

His words take their time as they form in Their tongue, a language he has not spoken in far too long, and it comes out warped. I will defend you, he assures, with my life. 

Approval, dripping like honey inside him, loosens his muscles as a breath slowly escapes his lips. 

My one and only, it says. My Chosen. 

*.~ ◇ ~.*

Stark takes them to Titan–straight to Thanos–instead of back to Earth. Their ego clash had been immature and embarrassing, but Time tells him he made the right decision in yielding. 

“When it comes to you, or the kid, or the Time stone,” he had said in the throes of their heated argument, and he knew he should know better than to try and one-up someone as hot-headed as Stark is, but goddammit if he couldn’t help himself. “I will not hesitate to let either of you die.” 

*.~ ◇ ~.*

Power, he says, and watches as Quill flinches. You are a Vessel of Infinity. Like me. 

Stephen can sense it. There is Power written in this man’s veins, stars hidden beneath his eyes and blood hidden between his teeth. 

Quill watches him, observing, almost wary. Stephen returns the eye contact, firm and steady, and ever so subtly nods. 

At first, there was nothing. He can tell Quill isn’t accustomed to speaking Their language. 

I’m. I. I’m. I. I. 

He’s a fresh God still, if that’s anything to go by. There is something more that lays ahead of him, and Time seems to agree. 

Stephen gives him an encouraging incline of his head. 

I am, he finally says, and there is something in the way those words were shaped that Stephen can’t put his finger on. 

Time, he says, the sound odd and unsteady. Did Time teach you Their tongue? 

Yes, he admits, I am Time’s Vessel. Its Chosen, the same way Power chose you. 

A look of understanding flashes in Quill’s eyes. He nods, and Stephen returns it. 

They do not speak this way again after that. 

*.~ ◇ ~.*

The rest of the team attempts to come up with a plan. Stark does not relent as he holds his head high, expectedly so, and Quill–Power’s Chosen, of all people–is not as intelligent but just as determined and stubborn. 

It’s a mess. 

He secludes himself in a corner, wondering for a split moment if he should mediate their petty dispute instead of stepping away, but discards the idea quickly. 

The only person–or, rather, the only being–he can consult now is Time. It sits inside the Eye still, waiting for its wielder for something. Anything. 

Stephen sits on a nearby ruin, one of the many that reside on this desolate, barren waste of a planet, and thinks. And thinks. And thinks some more. 

And when he comes up with something, he grasps the idea firmly in his shaking hands on a desperate hold. It leaves a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. 

There is only one way we can accurately plan a victory. Or something close to it. He says after a short bout of dubiety. One where everything will go accordingly, without hiccups and the potential of mistakes, with as minimal destruction as possible. 

Time does not respond for a while, and Stephen fears he has stepped a boundary before it speaks up. 

Time Keeper, Time whispers, tentative. Mortal, it calls him, in a way that does not feel as demeaning as it should. This path may not be one you can bear traveling. Are you sure? 

Stephen doesn’t hesitate. Yes, he whispers back just as fervently, Yes, I am. It’s the only way. 

Time stands still, and Stephen waits. He’s good at that. 

Very well, it says, eventually. One small matter: you will die. Does that worry you? 

Stephen, despite everything, considers it for a moment. 

Will I come back? 

If Time could smile, it would look the same way he feels it curl inside him. 

You will, it says, Time promises you will. 

Stephen breathes. He breathes again. And again. Over and over until he feels it is real. 

Then yes. His breaths are real. He savours the way the air flows in his airway, swirling in his lungs in gentle whirls, providing him with life. I’ve been through death. I can go through more than that. 

There it is: the soft thing, a feeling like cotton that settles inside when he knows Time is pleased, and Stephen couldn’t help a smile. 

My Chosen, it says, I have chosen correctly. 

Stephen preens inwardly at that, his appreciation of such validation returned with an influx of soft, sweet nothings inside. 

You are my one and only, my dearest Time Keeper. 

And so it begins. He settles down, in his meditation position, one that his limbs know best as they bend and adjust accordingly. His eyes close, and he feels Time signaling it’s ready. 

It is Time. 

The power of Time returns in his bones, absorbing him more than he absorbs it. It makes Stephen feel so complete. He feels full of everything he’s ever needed. He feels energy sparking in his fingertips and tastes stars in his mouth like dust. He feels like he could take over the world. Suddenly he is aware of every drop of blood running in his veins, every heartbeat of the muscle he calls his heart concealed in his ribcage, every nerve signal sent up and into his brain. 

He feels everything and everything feels him. He is everything and more. He is Time.

But one thing rings loud and clear to him: in this moment, he is playing God again. In this moment, he is invincible, immortal, all eternal in the way his skin and bones weren’t fit to be. In this moment, he is the puppeteer, the seer, the orchestrator. Everything is decided by him and everything decides his fate. Everything is against him and everything is his to control. 

He has the power of everything. 

He has the power of Infinity. 

And in this moment, Stephen is reminded that he was once mortal. Maybe he still is, in a sense. Only Time can tell if that is bound to change soon. 

He feels deja vu wash over him in crashing waves.

Time passes, and it passes, and it passes. One timeline to another, a string of events with altering variables depending on his every calculated risk taken. Years pass and then some, each one ending and beginning with flashes of green, and Time is there every millisecond and nanosecond of the way. Time is a steady, constant, dependable presence that stands with him through every step. 

Which made sacrificing it all the harder. 

You must do what you must, Time Keeper. 

Stephen doesn’t want to. He’s not sure how to express it. 

I can’t. I don’t think I can. 

You can’t, or you wouldn’t? 

Stephen doesn’t want to. He does not want to give the stone up. He had vowed not to. 

Time is silent for a moment, and so is he. 

Stephen Strange, it utters his name, for the first time, you must give up Time if you wish to succeed, it says. You are my Chosen, and you will always be. That will not change. 

The assurance did nothing to calm his nerves. 

Do what you must. 

Stephen doesn’t want to. Stephen doesn’t want to. Stephen doesn’t want–

For the greater good, Time urges. It is the only way. 

Stephen doesn’t…

(Stephen thinks of Dormammu. When the world was supposed to end but he managed to stop it. A miracle is what that was. He thinks about the timelines, all the ones he’s gone through, how everything ultimately led to this. 

Stephen thinks of everything that happened that has not happened.)

You said I will die. 

It’s not a question. Stephen knows the answer anyway. 

Yes, Time replies. That remains true, the same way you will come back. 

There is a beat as everything comes at a standstill. There is another when Stephen isn’t sure where he’s taking this. 

You didn’t say everyone else would. 

(He could care less about dying. He could care less about it so long as the world would live.)

Momentarily, Time explains, for some. For most. You know this. It is as minimal destruction as we can afford. 

He does know that. Knowing doesn’t make it feel any less unjustifiable of a deed. 

But he knows, most of all, that everything else will end worse. 

Time is waiting for him. There is only one answer to this question, now that remains is whether Stephen wants to answer it or not. 

(There was dust fading into nothingness and desperate hands clinging on tear-stained skin, the roar of a battlefield overhead as blood stains the ground over and over. There is a loud snap and eyes that turn lifeless as life is slowly drained out of Stephen’s Rogers’ Peter’s Pepper’s Stark’s body and knees falling in tandem with thumps as they land to honour his death.

There are wrinkles that form in the edges of Tony’s eyes as they make bad jokes in the lab, there is tears that speak of trust and vulnerability in Natasha’s eyes as she speaks about things she refuses to speak before, there is a muttered thank you slipping out of Clint’s lips as he patches up an open wound, there is echoing laughter in the Sanctum halls where Peter has settled in his library–)

Stephen relents. 

Alright. He sighs. Let’s get this show on the road, then. 

When he comes back, it feels like Dormammu all over again. It leaves him shaking, like he’s been slammed to the ground from high up in the sky. 

Time is not still this time, so everything around him is alive and real and very much happening, here and now. There is Stark’s–in another world, Stark is Tony–face hovering above his own, and Stephen steels himself from the rise of panic. He sets up his composure, lips trembling as he explains what should be everything but isn’t. 

They agree, eventually, to follow his instructions. 

He cannot hide Time on Earth anymore, and he knows having it in its home–the Eye, dangling from his neck–serves nothing but increase its risk of being in harm. So he buries it in the stars, inside a sea of blue and orange and white, a twinkling light in disguise, and sets to work. 

Everything goes as planned. 

~

Also on AO3.

[kittyswritingcorner]

how to kill a god

Summary:

And (re)learn how to be human. 

OR 

A brief look into Stephen adjusting to life post-EG. 

Word count: 1,533

Warning(s): Depression, Trauma, Processing Trauma, Past Trauma, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced PTSD & Nightmares

A/N: Finally did up this little WIP! Posting it here first because I'm still unsure about whether I should put this up on ao3 yet or ever. This was beta read by the wonderful and amazing and talented @skits-things

~

Sometimes, when Stephen stops and thinks about everything, his thinking gives birth to a gnawing feeling that sits uncomfortably behind his sternum but in front of his spine, the space where his heart is supposed to be. The feeling–a twisted, ugly thing–writhes inside in a way that feels as if it encompasses his entire chest.

It feels like grief. Maybe it's melancholy. Maybe it's nostalgia. Whatever it is, Stephen knows one thing for sure, and it's that he can't contain it all, so it slips out of his ribcage and pours down into his trembling hands.

(There were shards of glass flying into his face and there was a glowing green stone, and there were visions and fractures of memories of what would have been and could have been and should have been and never will be, and then there was death and guilt and silence.

There was a voice echoing into freezing air and frostbitten hands flying desperately above icy water, and there were tears on soil and a name carved on a headstone sitting above it, and then there was death and guilt and a deafening, endless silence.)

Silence. Silence is familiar. 

Silence was there in nights where terror would slip into every crevice of his fragile mind and silence was there in days where his heart rotted from the inside and his throat refused to give in to desperate breaths. Silence suffocates him. Silence grounds him. Silence grips him by the throat, sinking its claws into his flesh. Silence is an old friend. (The same way pain is.)

*.~ ◇ ~.*

Some mornings, Stephen wakes up with pain clawing into the metal-clad nerves in his hands. Some mornings, Stephen wakes up shivering under his blanket, curled up in a fetal position as he focuses solely on steadying his breaths, visions flying and returning beneath every blink, slowly ebbing away into fading sound or static. Other mornings, Stephen doesn’t wake up at all. Not in the real sense, at least.

He gets out of bed, yes, but only after the sight of the ceiling above him is burned into his eyelids and the blanket feels too tight and too heavy and too suffocating, body too heated but not enough to sweat. Only after his back hurts from laying too long, feeling every second and every minute and every hour slowly weighing down on him until all he could do is wait, wondering what it is he’s waiting for. Only after his head attempts hundreds of millions of times to detangle its mess only to twist and wrap itself around and all over his mind over and over and over again. Only until sick rises up in his throat and forms a lump there, unmoving, solid, stubbornly blocking his airway despite his multiple swallows. 

His days, however, were at least predictable. Sure, a normal Tuesday for him could either be a makeshift-sandwich-date with Wong or fending off interdimensional threats that could possibly result in the end of humanity and all of existence in his plane of reality, but at least in those he didn’t have to face the apprehension of what awaits him when he’s asleep, or worse yet, the aftermath when he wakes up. 

*.~ ◇ ~.*

The face in the mirror is his. It's different, and it's almost foreign, but it's his. It's hard to remember that Stephen used to be somebody else. It's hard to remember he was an older brother, or a doctor, or God.

(It was all in his hands. The stone, between his trembling fingers; all of the thrumming power sheathed inside was his to control. He was playing God. His hands, the same fragile ones that could barely carve the letters of his own name on paper, held the power of God.)

Stephen was not fit to play God. He is a human, a mortal, and he was not God.

And here, in the silence of the kitchen, Stephen feels human. He feels mortal.

He puts his hands to work, dropping a teabag in his old china dug out of a wooden cupboard–perhaps it belonged to the Sanctum more than it belonged to him, the same way the Sanctum is its own more than it is his–and boils the kettle until it croons its whistling tune. 

The Sanctum is alive. He knows this, feels its heartbeat in its thrumming walls and feels its breaths rattling from where his feet make contact with its shifting floorboards. He senses life pulsing from the gently carved wood of its furniture and its well worn knitted cushions that have surely seen better days. 

The morning air held a scent that told him of the Sanctum’s mood that day. Some days it’s sour, on others it’s sweet, almost playful. Today it smells like fruit and clove; the citrus sour of bergamot, with a hint of saccharine sweetness trailing around its edges. 

Everything here is alive; from the way the curtains gave way to the light streaming in through its windows to the way each door handle yields itself willingly–almost as if assisting him–against the weight of his hands. 

Sometimes Stephen wonders if the Sanctum perceives him the same way. A being filled with life, who had a mind and emotions of his own. He finds comfort in the thought.

He watches the teabag surface as water fills his cup just shy of its brim, seeing the colour unfurl as it spreads until the liquid turns a shade of brown. He adds in some sugar and watches it dissolve, feeling the heat as he lightly touches the ceramic.

He lifts the cup up to his lips, hands slightly trembling, and sees the cloak reach up to assist him. The hot liquid slides down his throat as its steam fans across his nose and up his face.

It's a beautiful morning. The sun is warm as it cascades into the room, his tea is warmer as it settles in his stomach, and the silence holds the warmest comfort he often finds in it.

But still he feels it: the thing, writhing in its spot behind his sternum and in front of his spine, demanding more and more.

He isn’t quite sure what it wants. 

If Stephen is honest, he does not remember much of his childhood, the crunched-up taste of it. 

He remembers the good things: starry nights in his rebellious youth, sneaking alcohol as he drinks under the moonlight, back hurting but a boyish grin plastered on his face as he lays on his pickup truck, making bad jokes with his friends. Warm, sunny days with endless blue skies that stretch up and up and beyond. The scent of summer and its heat sinking into his skin. He remembers further back than that, mowing his neighbour’s lawn with the other kids, remembers his walks to school every morning as he watches the lush, damp grass dance against gentle breezes and birdsong accompanying his every step. 

He remembers the bad things, too: nasty insect bites and the scars from its scratched itches, finding bugs and worms hiding underneath every crevice, dirt sticking underneath his fingernails, bruises and cuts on his knees and elbows from falling off his bike, bee stings and sunburns from staying out too long. 

(He remembers knowing how to brew the darker things–he remembers letting them sit on a counter, long forgotten, a cup left to cool. He remembers watching himself sink into the water, waiting for something to bloom. He remembers the bitter aftertaste of it, and the burn from its scorching heat like disappointment on the tip of his tongue. Only some years later did he learn the vanity of overly-eager expectations.)

All of it felt like it was just yesterday and some years ago. Life was easy, and things were simple. 

Stephen didn’t want that. Something in him, in his young body and dream-filled mind, with stars in his eyes and naive optimism in every flesh clinging to his bones, all awkward limbs and stiff fingers and sun-smelling hair–whatever it was, demanded more. 

He was young, enough to still be filled with so much pure, unadulterated humanity but not young enough to still be adjusting to his own skin. He was young, and he wanted a life. He wanted to live through something, to be a part of something, to experience something. The world offered so much to him and he wanted everything it could give him and more. He wanted to meet every person and pick every fruit and learn every word of every book. More, more, more. 

Moving into the city was an easy decision, after that. 

And yet. And yet. 

The feeling has not left. He does not know what it yearns for. He does not know if he could ever satiate it. 

Now, as he watches the sun shining outside and the leaves rustling down the road from a gust of wind, Stephen could only remember home. He could only remember Nebraska, with its starry nights and rolling hills and sunny skies. 

He feels the thing inside him, that’s too soft and too hard and too gentle and too rough and too light and too heavy all at once, morph and turn into something like longing. 

~

A/N: This work feels rough but I've written what I can and I think that's enough. Hope you enjoyed!

[thewritingrealm]

If you're reading this...

go write three sentences on your current writing project.

[luna-azzurra]

What is an Unreliable Narrator? And How to Write One.

An unreliable narrator is a storytelling technique where the narrator's credibility or truthfulness is questionable. The narrator either intentionally or unintentionally provides a distorted or biased account of the events, characters, or situations in the story. This narrative approach can add complexity, suspense, and intrigue to your writing. Here's how you can create an unreliable narrator:

1. Establish a motive: Determine why the narrator is unreliable. It could be due to personal bias, mental instability, deception, or a hidden agenda. Develop their backstory, motivations, and beliefs to understand why they might present a skewed version of events.

2. Use subjective language: Incorporate language and descriptions that reflect the narrator's personal viewpoint and biases. Their opinions, emotions, and interpretations should color their narration, influencing how readers perceive the story.

3. Include contradictions and inconsistencies: Allow the narrator to make contradictory statements or present conflicting information. This creates doubt and keeps the readers engaged as they try to unravel the truth.

4. Reveal information selectively: The unreliable narrator might withhold or reveal information strategically, manipulating the readers' understanding of the story. This can create suspense and surprise as readers discover hidden truths.

5. Showcase unreliable perceptions: Explore how the narrator's perceptions and interpretations of events differ from reality. They may misinterpret actions, misremember details, or even hallucinate. These discrepancies add depth to the character and raise doubts about their reliability.

6. Use other characters as contrasting sources: Introduce other characters who present alternative perspectives or contradict the narrator's version of events. This contrast allows readers to question the reliability of the narrator and form their own interpretations.

7. Employ narrative techniques: Experiment with techniques like foreshadowing, symbolism, or unreliable memory to emphasize the narrator's unreliability. These devices can help blur the line between truth and fiction, leaving readers intrigued and uncertain.

8. Provide hints and clues: Drop subtle hints or clues throughout the story that suggest the narrator's unreliability. This allows readers to piece together the truth gradually and encourages them to engage actively with the narrative.

[morrithal]

Neither romantic nor sexual nor platonic but a secret fourth thing (bonded like stray cats who cannot be adopted separately)

[arcticfoxbear]

Humans Are Weird

So there has been a bit of “what if humans were the weird ones?” going around tumblr at the moment and Earth Day got me thinking. Earth is a wonky place, the axis tilts, the orbit wobbles, and the ground spews molten rock for goodness sakes. What if what makes humans weird is just our capacity to survive? What if all the other life bearing planets are these mild, Mediterranean climates with no seasons, no tectonic plates, and no intense weather? 

What if several species (including humans) land on a world and the humans are all “SCORE! Earth like world! Let’s get exploring before we get out competed!” And the planet starts offing the other aliens right and left, electric storms, hypothermia, tornadoes and the humans are just … there… counting seconds between flashes, having snowball fights, and just surviving. 

[arafaelkestra]

To paraphrase one of my favorite bits of a ‘humans are awesome’ fiction megapost: “you don’t know you’re from a Death World until you leave it.” For a ton of reasons, I really like the idea of Earth being Space Australia.

[radioactivepeasant]

Earth being Space Australia Words cannot express how much I love these posts

[crazy-pages]

Alien: “I’m sorry, what did you just say your comfortable temperature range is?”

Human: “Honestly we can tolerate anywhere from -40 to 50 Celcius, but we prefer the 0 to 30 range.”

Alien: “……. I’m sorry, did you just list temperatures below freezing?”

Human: “Yeah, but most of us prefer to throw on scarves or jackets at those temperatures it can be a bit nippy.” 

Other human: “Nah mate, I knew this guy in college who refused to wear anything past his knees and elbows until it was -20 at least.”

Human: “Heh. Yeah everybody knows someone like that.”

Alien: “……. And did you also say 50 Celcius? As in, half way to boiling?”

Human: “Eugh. Yes. It sucks, we sweat everywhere, and god help you if you touch a seatbelt buckle, but yes.” 

Alien: “……. We’ve got like 50 uninhabitable planets we think you might enjoy.” 

[val-ritz]

“You’re telling me that you have… settlements. On islands with active volcanism?” “Well, yeah. I’m not about to tell Iceland and Hawaii how to live their lives. Actually, it’s kind of a tourist attraction.” “What, the molten rock?” “Well, yeah! It’s not every day you see a mountain spew out liquid rocks! The best one is Yellowstone, though. All these hot springs and geysers from the supervolcano–” “You ACTIVELY SEEK OUT ACTIVE SUPERVOLCANOES?” “Shit, man, we swim in the groundwater near them.”

[wuestenratte]

Sounds like the “Damned” trilogy by Alan Dean Foster.

[networkentertainment-offici-blog]

“And you say the poles of your world would get as low as negative one hundred with wind chill?” 

“Yup, with blizzards you cant see through every other day just about.”

“Amazing! when did you manage to send drones that could survive such temperatures?”

“… well, actually…”

“… what?”

“…we kinda……. sent……….. people…..”

“…”

“…”

“…what?”

“we sent-”

“no yeah I heard you I just- what? You sent… HUMANS… to a place one hundred degrees below freezing?”

“y-yeah”

“and they didn’t… die?”

“Well the first few did”

“PEOPLE DIED OF THE COLD AND YOUR SOLUTION WAS TO SEND MORE PEOPLE???!?!?!?”

[arcticfoxbear]

My new favorite Humans are Weird quote

“PEOPLE DIED OF THE COLD AND YOUR SOLUTION WAS TO SEND MORE PEOPLE?”

aka The History of Russia

aka Arctic Exploration

aka The History of Alaska

[unicornempire]

Being from Alaska, this was sort of how I felt going to college in the lower 48′s and learned that no one else had been put through a literal survival camp as a regular part of their school curriculum, including but not limited to:

1. Learning to recognize all forms of animal tracks in the wild so you can avoid bears and moose and search out rabbits and other small animals to eat.

2. Extensive swimming and climbing on glacial pieces with competitions to see who could last the longest, followed by a group sit in the sauna so we wouldn’t get hypothermia (no, not kidding, I really did this many times as a kid!)

3. How to navigate using the stars to get back to civilization.

4. How to select the right type of moss from the trees to start a fire with damp wood (because, y’know, you’re in a field of snow. Nothing is dry.)

5. How to carve out a small igloo-like space to sleep in the snow to preserve body heat and reduce the windchill so you won’t freeze to death in the arctic.

[reformed-roark]

“I’m telling you, I don’t think we need to worry about territory conflicts with the humans. You know all those deathtrap hell-worlds in the Argoth Cluster?” “Those worthless rocks? Yeah.” “80% of them are considered ‘resort destinations’ by those freaky little primates.”

[down-sizing-deactivated20180211]

“I’m telling you, they terraform for fun!” “Don’t be ridiculous” “No, seriously. Some of their most celebrated cultural loci are built on swamps. They have an entire city that is literally in a body of water. Not, like, an artificial pontoon city, they literally sunk the foundations into water. For Grilp’s sake, they build elaborate structures out of frozen water AND THEN SLEEP IN THEM.” “Dear Thilak. Think we could get them to terraform our moons?” “Psh, they’d probably pay for the privilege.”

[galaxystew]

Eventually, it occurs to someone that humans are the perfect terraforming shock troops, as it were. They think it’s fun to be sent to horrible planets! They’re really good at surviving and then taming them! All you have to do is sit back and wait until the planet is habitable, and then move there yourself! It’s genius.

It only takes one try before the reality of the situation sets in: human definitions of ‘taming’ and ‘habitable’ are woefully incomplete.

“Why did you not eliminate the venomous plant life?” Grahssk’ti moans, clutching one limb.

“Those?” The human laughs. “Why bother? They’re not that bad. And they eat the mosquitoes.”

Grahssk’ti shudders. The ‘mosquitoes’ are… not to be mentioned. Just one swarm of them caused a landing shuttle to crash three planetary daylights ago.

“And the acid storms? Why did you not warn us of them?”

“I mean, they’re annoying,” the human says, shrugging, “but we figured the cool sunsets made up for it.”

Grahssk’ti flails helplessly. “What about the ten-meter tall Fanged Death Bringers? They can eliminate an entire settlement in under an hour!”

“They’re so cute!” the human says, brightening. “Have you met mine? Her name is Spot!”

[exvind]

Humans are told of some planet or region of space that is considered “completely and utterly inhospitable - it would be folly to try and settle there.”

Without fail, a decent number make it a point to settle there because “Fuck You That’s Why.” It doesn’t matter how uneconomical it is, how difficult the conditions are, how utterly ridiculous it may seem, there will be at least one human who will attempt to do it only because someone else regardless of species says it is improbable or WORSE impossible. 

“This moon is still forming as such it is primarily soft - by that I mean most of the magma is close to the surface and-” ‘OH BADASS you mean its like Mustafar right!?!?!?! I’m totally going to build a castle there.’ “What. I mean. There is NO fertile ground there whatsoever. No ecosystem. It is molten rock and minerals only.” ‘Which will make my castle there look METAL AS FUCK am I RIGHT!?!??! Come on. COME ON. I TAUGHT YOU HOW TO FISTBUMP COME ON.’ “….you….you are going to die, you know this right?” ‘I’m getting the feeling you don’t want to come to Lava Castle for some reason?’

[strangenewclassrooms]

“Listen, lad. I’ve built this kingdom up from nothing. When I started here, all there was was molten magma. All those aliens said I was daft to build a castle on a molten planet, but I built it all the same, just to show ‘em. It sank into the magma. So, I built a second one. That sank into the magma. So I built a third one. That spontaneously combusted, turned to ash, then sank into the magma. But the fourth one stayed up. An’ that’s what your gonna get, lad – the strongest castle in this solar system.”

[lochtayboatsong]

“I’m gonna need for you to explain ‘hurricane parties’ to me again.  You humans have the technology to track these apocalyptic storms of wind and rain and predict where on the landmass they’ll hit up to a week in advance.  And you…have social gatherings during them?”

“Well yeah, but only up to about Category 3 strength.  Then it’s time to pack the car and head inland for most people, although a few hardy souls stick around and ride them out.”

“Oh good.  Category 3 is what again?  Winds up to 75 kilometers per hour?”

“No no, Category 3 starts at 175 kilometers per hour.  You left off the one.”

[onnastik]

I’m sure I’ve reblogged some version of this before, but I needed the STRONGEST CASTLE IN THIS SOLAR SYSTEM on my blog.

[antigonesghosts]

“This planet is so cool!”

“It’s a planet completely made of ice.”

“Yeah! Let’s send some scientists! Or I could be the youngest person there!”

“You’d die, it’s below freezing level!”

“But the blizzards are so pretty!”

“The storms of dEATH ARE NOT PRETTY!”

[darker-than-darkstorm]

“PEOPLE DIED OF THE COLD AND YOUR SOLUTION WAS TO SEND MORE PEOPLE???!?!?!?”

“No, of course not.  Nobody ‘sent’ anyone, they just went up there on their own.”

“They WHAT?”

[human-portalz]

Oh my fuck nuggets, the actual thread

[little-ladynightshade]

@hellsite-hall-of-fame

[smile458]

I HAVE BEEN SEARCHING FOR THIS THREAD FOR MONTHS

[stars-a-n-d-scars]

This is truly amazing. I love humans.

@hellsite-hall-of-fame

[jpitha]

I remember reading this post chain long before I wrote on this site. Always reblog the OG humans are weird/space Australians post.

[infiniteeight8]

ironstrange

body swap

😇

(The obvious place to go with this is their respective chronic pain, but… I didn’t feel like writing about pain. I don’t know where it went, but for this drabble no one is hurting! *handwave*)

Stephen knows immediately on waking that he’s not in his own body. You become very aware of how your body feels when astral projection is a habit. He climbs out of bed, grateful he’s wearing pajama pants, and goes to a mirror to see Tony Stark looking back at him. Stark’s body, anyway. 

“Boss,” FRIDAY says at that moment, “you have a call from Doctor Strange.”

Oh, good. “Put him through.”

“Strange, you are way more ripped than I expected under those robes,” Stark says in Stephen’s voice. 

Stephen sighs. “You couldn’t have respected my privacy?”

“Come on, I woke up and needed to piss! Are you going to tell me you didn’t look?”

“I haven’t taken your pants off,” Stephen says dryly. 

Stark scoffs. “Don’t be a prude, Strange. I put work into that body, it deserves to be admired.”

Stephen takes another look in the mirror. It is a very nice body. “I’m surprised you’re not more concerned with getting back into it.” One hand drifts down to his waistband. Stark looked. 

“Eh, you go through enough of this shit, your panic response just turns off,” Stark says. Stephen wavers, half listening, and then pulls the pants away from his body. “No one’s trying to kill me, I knew who to call, we’ll figure out the rest.”

Looking down, Stephen’s mouth goes dry. Fuck. “You should come over,” he says, still looking. Abruptly, he jerks his head up, letting the pajama pants snap back against his body. “So we can figure things out,” he explains, face blazing. Thank the Vishanti Stark can’t see him.

“Be there in a few,” Stark agrees. His voice drops into a teasing range. “And maybe I can give you a proper introduction to that body.”

An inarticulate noise escapes Stephen.

Stark just laughs.

[thewritingrealm]

If you're reading this...

go write three sentences on your current writing project.

[tygermama]

stuff I like

- when the person kidnapped by the villain is all ‘no one’s going to come for me’ and 

- someone does, but it’s the person they’d least expect

- EVERYONE COMES because wow, maybe I am depressed because I didn’t think I knew this many people, much less that they liked me

- no one comes and the villain gets pissed on their captive’s behalf and treats them better than their former associates did

- they rescue themselves and everyone’s so impressed but the person yells because I AM CAPABLE AND YOU SHOULD HAVE AT LEAST NOTICED I’D BEEN KIDNAPPED

- they get rescued by a deus ex machina, preferably their dad/mom/grandma/old associate who is exponentially cooler than the heroes 

basically, I like it when people get rescued and get validation

[poroquagganbob]

Can I add: people getting rescued by their pets.

[corinnetags]

I also really love when a person gets kidnapped and is utterly unsfraid because they know that a specific person is coming for them and oh boy did that villain make a mistake kidnapping them.

[tairneanaich]

Also when loads of people come to the rescue but none of them planned it together and most of them don‘t even know each other. „What are you doing? I‘m rescuing them!“ „No, I am?“ „Mum is that you??“

[laurasimonsdaughter]

Came back wrong this, came back monstrous that

What if they came back loving? What if they came back in love. What if the necromancy worked and you cheated death and it's everything you've ever wanted, but now they love you in a way they never did before and you cannot know if that is because they finally know the lengths you are willing to go for them, or because something in this deathless magic bound their soul to yours to guide them home and it left them no. choice.

[rocket-sith]

Reblog if you write fic and people can inbox you random-ass questions about your stories, itemized number lists be damned.

[denizbevan]

Always! No time limit!

[stardreamer28]

no one ever has before lol but i’d be up for it lol

[kookicat]

Yes please ask me anything!

[darkkitty1208]

I just stumbled upon an ao3 user who makes outrageous commentary in their bookmarks (not to my fics, but to some authors I recognise and whose stuff I absolutely adore as well as some others whose works weren't even at all bad) and I'm beginning to wonder if people actually realise bookmarks are visible unless you private them. Do people even know that bookmarks can be privated? And that authors can see things you write there, like 'average, skimmed some parts/stopped at ch. 5' or 'gratuitous whump and ooc' or 'very run of the mill romcom' or even 'passable'? I shouldn't be angry becos it's not directly aimed at me, but still. That's honestly wild.

[skits-things]

@infiniteeight8 your birthday gift is done :) I hope you like it

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Summary:

After the events of Titan, Stephen Strange is sure he and Tony Stark will be ships passing through the night. Tony is determined to prove otherwise.

[creatinghelen]

create! create! even if it’s been a while. even if you don’t know what to write or draw or sing. connect with what once brought you joy and you will remember how. create in a new way, knit or dance or crochet. try spoken word or painting. poetry or pottery. the freedom in creating… it’s liberating

[ao3org]

We've temporarily disabled the ability to request a new account invitation as a preventative measure due to a spam attack. If you already have an invitation, you can still use it! However, anyone currently in the queue will not receive an invitation until we turn it back on.

Additionally, we have temporarily disabled the form on the Technical Support & Feedback page and taken the Policy Questions & Abuse Reports page offline. Anyone attempting to access the Policy Questions & Abuse Reports will receive an error page about being blocked from archiveofourown.org, but don't panic -- this is not the case! It's just the default error displayed by Cloudflare. You can continue to access the rest of the site as normal.

Lastly, the Organization for Transformative Works' donation page -- which is hosted by a third party provider -- is currently offline due to a DDoS attack. This is the only donation form the OTW uses, so please be cautious of scammers impersonating AO3 or the OTW to solicit donations. We are unable to take them at this time.

July 11, 2023 - 23:50 UTC

[theslowesthnery]

the "oh. oh." moment in fan fic but instead of a character realizing they're in love it's them discovering they have a specific kink at the worst possible moment