#amnesty fic

[asexual-juliet]

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

duck newton is seventeen in oversized flannel and scuffed-up doc martens and a name that doesn’t quite fit right.

[factoffictionwriter]

Tiva Fic Amnesty #14

More from Chaval Extras. Things to know: Ziva has 2 Aunts back in Israel whom she took Tony to meet. The Aunts are friends with Shmeil as well. Oh, and Tony and Ziva are totally a thing. Like a thing thing.

“Wait a second. So I wasn’t imagining it? Ziva really did have a motorcycle?” 

Shmeil nodded enthusiastically, “My Ziva had a motorcycle before she even learned how to drive!” 

Tony chuckled to himself, “That explains a lot, actually.” 

“What explains a lot?” His beautiful Israeli asked as she breezed into the room, delicate looking teacups in either hand. She carefully handed one of them to Shmeil before crossing the room to take a seat next to Tony on the couch. 

“I was just telling Anthony about your, shall we say, preference for dangerous modes of transportation.” 

Her eyebrows came together as she wracked her brain for what he could possibly be talking about. But when she saw Tony’s smug little grin beside her, she put the pieces together. 

“The motorcycle?” She asked. 

“Oh yeah,” Tony chimed.

She eyed him warily, “Remember what I said about stories being exaggerated? Keep that in mind.” 

He just laughed at her. 

“What is so funny, Anthony?” Nettie asked as she too emerged from the kitchen, her two sisters trailing behind, each with their own teacup.

“Ziva was just about to tell me about her motorcycle.”

“Oh, goodness. Why would you want to hear about that horrible thing?” Adina asked as she settled into the couch across the room. 

“Because he is a man,” Shmeil laughed, “And men like two things: hot women and fast vehicles.” 

Tony nodded, “And this story promises to have both.” 

“Very well then,” Nettie sighed as she sipped on her tea.

“We do not know where she managed to get such a horrible contraption, much less how she managed to keep it secret for so long,” Hinda was giving Ziva a disapproving look, “But somehow she managed to drive that thing to school every day for an entire year before we even knew it existed.” 

“She parked it a few spaces down from her father’s car in one of the neighbor boy’s spaces. Lord knows how she convinced him to let her have such a coveted spot,” Nettie shook her head. 

“I can think of a few ways,” Tony whispered to himself, but Shmeil managed to hear it. 

“David women can be quite convincing,” the old man winked at Tony, causing his smile to grow wider. 

“Anyways, we never would have even known about it if she hadn’t gotten in that accident.” 

“Which was not my fault, by the way,” Ziva added. 

“They never are,” Tony remarked, sending her a look of such pure adoration that she couldn’t help but forgive his jab. 

“Okay, but this one really was not. The man should have looked over his shoulder. Even I look over my shoulder when changing lanes.” 

“And how fast were you going, dear?” Nettie asked, the stern look on her face telling him she already knew the answer.

“That is not important. He still should have looked.” 

“I seem to remember the officer telling us you were going 110 mph… in a 45 mph zone,” Adina provided helpfully. 

Tony let out a long whistle before pausing, “Actually, I’m not that surprised. That does sound like something you would do.” 

She rolled her eyes, biting back a tiny smile. 

“She was thrown clear across the highway. A couple more feet and she would have rolled right off the cliff and into the sea below.” 

Ziva just shrugged, “I walked away with a few scratches.” 

“If by scratches you mean 3 broken ribs and road burn up your entire left side,” Hinda corrected, “But yes, you were able to walk away. You were very lucky.” 

Tony leaned into the couch cushion, slowly sliding his hand over to rest it on her side, right where he remembered seeing a long patch of scars, mostly faded until they looked like delicate white flames dancing across her skin. 

She nodded slightly in his direction as if confirming that the marks were, in fact, the remnants of this exact accident. 

“Tali would not go near the thing,” Nettie spoke, breaking up the moment between the couple on the couch. 

“Of course Tali wouldn’t go near it. She was smart. She understood the concept of danger,” Hinda acknowledged. 

Ziva let out a quiet huff as she leaned back against the cushions, and inadvertently his arm. 

“Yes, but I understood the concept of fun.” 

Tony let out a hearty laugh at her comment before smoothly transitioning it into a cough when the aunts shot him disapproving looks. 

“You only truly understood how to piss off your father. Let this be a lesson to you, Anthony. When you have children, do not rule with an iron fist, lest they turn out to be anything like their mother.” 

“Doda!” Ziva cried, sending Adina a truly incredulous look. 

---

“Did you ever get the chance to meet Eli, Anthony?” Nettie asked. 

He felt Ziva stiffen beside him, and took that as a sign to proceed with the utmost caution. 

“Yeah, I did. A couple of times, actually. He… wasn’t a big fan of me.” 

“Nor you of him, I assume,” Hinda offered. 

“I think Eli David was a complicated man… in a complicated situation. It’s really not for me to judge. I will never understand exactly what he was going through.” 

“It is quite alright, Tony. You are surrounded by fellow Eli-haters here. I am sure there is nothing you can say about the man that Ziva has not already heard from one of us,” Shmeil assured him. 

Ziva’s shoulders heaved as she let out a long sigh. 

He watched her carefully out of the corner of his eye as he spoke, “I obviously don’t agree with many of the decisions he made, particularly in regards to his children. But at the end of the day, I think he was doing what he thought was best. He just happened to be wrong.” 

“He just happened to be wrong?” Hinda spat. 

“Doda…” Ziva warned. 

“No, Zivaleh. I am tired of listening to Eli’s excuses. He may have brainwashed you into believing them, but I will not let you bully Anthony into believing them as well.”

Tony sat forward, sliding his arm out from behind Ziva and resting his elbows on his knees, “She hasn’t bullied me into anything. Well - she has - but not with this. I just think that I’m coming at the situation from a bit of a… different angle than the rest of you.” 

“How so?” Shmeil asked. 

“Well, for starters, I didn’t meet Ziva until after Eli did a number on her. I can sit here and listen to you guys tell stories about her tending to a garden or flying off a motorcycle, but I’ll never fully understand what she was like back then.” 

“All the more reason you should be upset,” Hinda grumbled. 

Tony shook his head, “How do I explain this…” 

He looked around the small living room for a few seconds, trying to find some sort of inspiration for-

“Star Wars!” He exclaimed. 

Five heads all turned in his direction, their eye brows furrowed in confusion. 

“A movie. Really?” Ziva asked from beside him. 

“Not just a movie. A series. 7 movies. Filmed and premiered out of order. 3 movies, then 3 prequels, only to return back to the original timeline for the new one.”

“I do not follow,” Adina sighed. 

“Okay… it’s like you guys are watching the series in chronological order, and I’m watching them in the order they premiered. And you,” he pointed a long finger at Ziva, “are Darth Vader.” 

She looked confused, “The guy with the mask?” 

“Exactly,” he brought both his hands up to cover his mouth, creating a deep echoing sound as he pulled out his oldest and most adored character impression, “Luke, I am your father.” 

She had to focus hard to keep the corners of her mouth from curling up into a small smile. They both knew that she would never admit it, but she liked his little impressions. She thought they were cute, even if they were annoying. 

But then she remembered the single Star Wars film he had forced her to watch after one of his million references went over her head, and her face fell a little, “He is the bad guy, yes?” 

“No. Well, yes. But no. That’s just what they want you to think. In the original series, he’s portrayed as a total monster who betrayed his friends and killed his father. It’s not until you get to the prequels that you realize, hey, this Darth guy isn’t so bad. In fact, he was just a normal Jedi until his master took advantage of him and made him a monster.”

“And as the series comes to a close, he gets one of the most epic redemption arcs in movie history when he realizes that he had been duped into using his powers for the wrong side and then kills his master to save his son,” he turned back toward the Aunts, “So, if you guys watched the prequels first, then you would have already known that Darth was actually a good guy before he joined the dark side, making his fall all the more dramatic. But when I watch it in the order that the movies were made, I can’t help but think about how different the story would have been without that corrupt Jedi Master.” 

“And this changes your perception of Eli… how?” 

“Well, when I met Ziva, she was already a Mossad super spy. And yeah, the more I learned about the way her Dad treated her, the more I started hating the guy. But I will never be able to see him the way you guys do because without him, I likely would have never even met her.” 

“Because without what happened in the prequels, there would have been no need for the original series,” Adina nodded along as she slowly made sense of his convoluted explanation. 

“Exactly!” he flashed a dazzling DiNozzo grin at the older woman, thankful that at least someone had been able to follow his train of thought. 

[owlinaminor]

Taz amnesty writing prompt! Hollis still has a crush on Jake and thinks he’s cute but is a grumpy goblin about it cuz what even are???? Feelings???? Or romantic attraction????

thanks for the prompt, anon!  I’m sorry it took me a while to get to this one -- I hadn’t written jake or hollis before, so I had to do a bit of transcript rereding to come up with a scene.  I hope you like it!

The thing is, Jake’s not even that good at snowboarding.

He’s capable, sure. He can do the pizza and the French fries, he can twist and jump, he can getdown the highest peak without running into any trees.  But there’s no finesse, the way Jake does it—theway he throws his arms out and laughs, bright pink beanie nearly slipping offhis head, blonde hair shining in the sun. The way he runs back to the lodge limbs flailing, rips of his boots andtosses them in the lobby, orders ten hot chocolates with extra marshmallows anddowns them two at a time.  The way hesits up whenever Hollis comes in and grins, starts yelling about routes and stuntsand the snowstorm that might roll in next week, the way he—shit.  It’s like he’s not trying to show off or bethe best or even master a particular technique but is actually enjoying himselfout there, just the sun glistening on the snow and the white-capped trees and thebright blue sky above it all, smiling down. Like this is all he wants.

Hollis asks him about it, the first snow after what theHornets have started calling the Kepler-pocalypse.  It’s some ridiculous time, like eight AM on aSaturday, but Jake had come by and banged on their door all bundled up androsy-cheeked from the cold insisting that the snow was perfect and theyneeded to go out on the slopes right the fuck now, so.  Here they are.  One hill down, sitting on their boards at thetop of the second, waiting for the wind to die down a bit, or waiting for someoneto come and yell at them, or waiting for a monster to rise up from beneath thedrifts.  Or just waiting.  Jake does this a lot, after theKepler-pocalypse.  Sitting very still andstaring at the tree line, like this is high school English and he’s been askedto find a hidden meaning in the pattern of oaks and pines.  Hollis hates it.

So Hollis turns, faces Jake head-on under the December sky,faces his red cheeks and golden hair and pink beanie.

“Why do you look like that when you snowboard?” Hollis says.

Jake shakes himself, as though waking from a dream, and turnsto Hollis.  “Like what?”

“Like…” Hollis struggles to come up with the best word.  “Stupid.”

“You always think I look stupid.”

This is because Jake always does look stupid: stupidhair curling with sweat after a long day outside, stupid eyes wide and bluewhen they watch a movie, stupid surprisingly-strong arms helping withrenovations at Amnesty Lodge.  But thisis a special kind of stupid, which Hollis tries to describe: he’s always smilingas he rides the snow, even when it’s ten below and the wind is howling, evenafter he’s made a wrong move and pitched into a snowdrift.

Jake squishes his face up while Hollis talks, and that’sstupid too—makes him look like he’s just swallowed something sour.  Gives Hollis the stupid urge to pinch hischeeks, or get in real close and unfold him, press inside, taste.

“I guess it’s just, like—back home,” Jake says, and Hollisknows he means Sylvain, “we didn’t have slopes like this.  No snow, at least not where I’m from.  And even if there was snow, I couldn’t be outon it like we do here.  I always had tobe working, or fighting, or—anyway.  Justbeing able to ride down a hill like we do, not having anywhere else to be oranything else I have to think about—maybe I look stupid but that’s fine,because it’s the most incredible thing in the world for me.  I still feel like I don’t really deserve it,I guess.”

“You do deserve it,” Hollis says, the words spilling out oftheir mouth.  They clench their teeth, adam against the rest of it—You deserve everything.

Jake grins at them, dazzling.  “Thanks, dude.”

And when Jake stands, and offers a hand to Hollis to pullthem up after him, maybe his warm palm meets theirs with something like anelectric shock, maybe they hold on a little too long.  Maybe, when they fly down the hill, eight inthe morning and sun shining and no other people for miles, Hollis triesthrowing out their arms and grinning, too.

send me taz amnesty prompts!  i’m gonna do a few more <3

[horsegirllucretia]

ive posted chapter one of my newest attempt at a multific!! its called “in which a bat is swung at a hornets nest and met with hundreds of far smaller bats” and its basically about the hornets taking over the role of the pine guard before the story even starts.

i plan to include some vampfire + ice (its danbrey but jake is there) as itll probably be pretty aubrey-centric, but im hoping to give some screentime to a Lot of characters.

it can be found by adding /works/19354753 to the end of the ao3 url or by clicking the link in the notes!

[bopeepwritingsheep]

Hey Bo, whatcha writing? One of the many publish fics you should be working on? No. Is it one of the unpublished fics you’ve been planning for a while and have an outline for??? NO. Is is the hypothetical Big Reveal from a dumb au you’re never going to write a linear fic for???? OF COURSE, IT IS.

Continuation of this idea

Boyd really is trying to go clean, he never wants to sit in a sorry jail cell for the rest of his life. Which is to say that instead of breaking Ned’s lock to his tacky souvenir shop he carefully picks it. Less of a mess to report if by chance Ned is actually faked his papers with enough confidence to go to the police. It wouldn’t be entirely unexpected that Ned would foster his image in a tiny town like this to gain a bit of slack from the local police if push ever came to shove about things. 

Frankly, it’s not so bad a plan altogether. Find a cozy little piece of nowhere, build enough of a reputation and savings for a bit of protection and spend the rest of one’s life in quiet peace. He could almost be a little proud of Ned for accomplishing all this if it hadn’t been earned by selling him up the river.

The store is silent, late as it is Boyd had done less scouting than he might usually have, he’ll admit that he’s losing a bit of the patience he’d had in jail but that’s another matter for another time. He remembers Ned’s chaotic sleep schedule but he also knows store hours from a degree of google searching and facebook review stalking. Apparently, there’s no force in the universe that keeps Ned in that store once it closes at six barring the strange little Saturday Night Dead production.

He almost takes the production equipment too, but that just doesn’t have that same oomph as Ned’s damned treasures.

His eyes drag across said treasure room, there’s plenty of things he remembers from Ned’s old stash--A bit more surprisingly though there are newer additions. He doesn’t recognize the odd little line of tchotchkes in proud display across one table, each of them a different little crystalline flowers. A poppy, a rose, and a violet which upon closer inspection the delicate little things look hand blown and expensive, certainly a fine catch that he carefully wraps and adds to his stolen goods.

He wonders on the merits of pawning a few of the newer baubles, none of them are anything as iconic as Ned used to tend towards. It’s possible, Boyd supposes, that if his old partner really did set the criminal life behind him these might even be self-bought. It makes the temptation even greater, to yank away something Ned had the time and ability to earn while he was rotting in a cell.

He’ll mull it over later, for now, he just needs to get everything.

He finds the bloody fucking pendant last, stored in the very back of the room on Ned’s desk, away from any prying eyes. Boyd has to take a deep, steadying breath in order to keep himself from just thrashing the rest of the nearly empty room. He snatches the thing from its display case, clenching the chain so hard the clasp digs painfully into his skin. He stuffs the thing into his pocket, this one he thinks, this one he could sell. This one he could chuck as far as he’s able into the damned ocean and he might feel a modicum of peace.

It’s on a whim, really, that he bothers to look through Ned’s desk. He has everything he came for and a few extras here and there. Still, there’s something very satisfying about the idea of perhaps moving things around just a bit, just to make Ned panic a little more. Leave him rustled and panicked and unsure, it’s a sweet mental image and he only hopes that Ned’s face will be just as satisfying whenever he decides to make contact.

There’s a safe under the desk, which he just has to crack, it’s begging him really. Ned leaving something so obvious is a bit disappointing but it still tracks. Ned has always been soft and his time in Kepler only made that glaring personality flaw worse as far as Boyd’s been able to get a read for.

From the safe most of what he pulls out is fairly standard, the deed to the shop, some tax records but one item makes Boyd stop completely in his tracks. With slightly shaking hands he grips the paper just a bit too tightly, it crinkles beneath his large hands and it’s only when he can feel the tension ratcheting towards an outright tear does he quickly release his hold. The document flutters to the ground, lays there tauntingly, mockingly and Boyd’s heartbeat suddenly races.

A birth certificate, Ned’s neat handwriting filling in the Father’s name and a nearly illegible scribble for the mother. It’s not a name he recognizes but the child’s name is, after a fashion at least.

Poppy Rosaline Violet Chicane.

A white streak of rage fills his chest as the pieces fall into place, that’s his little poppet.

[madroxed]

call my truth [shadowhunters. ~3k wip. pre-simon/raphael.]

simon should see it coming. [a post season one unfinished wip.]

a/n: HI, THIS IS AMNESTY FIC. it’s been sat in my docs folder for about two years now, and needless to say it’s not getting finished at this point. but, hey, it’s about 3k and the same as at least two other fics i’ve written (i had a lot of specific needs coming out of s1), and i figured i’d just stick what i had on my blog. i swear i’m trying to write new saphael fic, but, uh, yeah. until then have something that hasn’t been relevant in two seasons?

+

Simon should see it coming.

He’s spent enough time with the Clave now to know how they work, how they spin endless tales about ‘protection’ and ‘destiny’ and ‘sacred rights’ but look at Downworlders — at him — like they’re little more than an annoyance, a bug to swat or a child to scold, and that’s on their better days. Clary doesn’t notice it, can’t see the ugly truths behind the shiny new world that makes all those years of feeling different seem validated, and Simon wants to tell her that everyone feels like that, the mundanes, and the werwolves and vampires before the bite takes away any control they may have had over their own destinies, but she’s his best friend and he loves her even if he doesn’t always like her nowadays.

He knows it’s not fair to blame her, not for him Turning and not for him being here now, trapped in some farce of a deal with the Shadowhunters so they can parade him around as living proof of alliance instead of with the people who’s harsh words and sarcastic jibes had glossed over the reality of the home they were offering.

In the end, Simon chose Clary. He always chose Clary, and in hindsight he can see all the small crevices of his mistakes cracking into the crater he’s made for himself, but they’re his to live with.

(He still resents it, resents Clary, on the days when he’s patronized and insulted and looked at like a second class citizen as Clary laughs with Isabelle and doesn’t notice the way the world’s shifting towards something darker. Her mission to save her mom was true and just and the origin story of every kind of superhero, but he doesn’t think she realizes even now the wheels she put into motion with her casual arrogance and each seemingly harmless act of hypocrisy. Doesn’t think she sees the destruction she brought about in the name of ‘peace’ and the parts they all ended up playing in her name.

Simon made his choice because it was the familiar one, and he wonders how Clary would react if she knew he’d change it all given half a chance.)

Simon should see it coming in the way he’s slowly being shut out, in the way even Isabelle and Alec have stopped sharing as much. He should see it in Magnus’ frown, like he notices the change too, and the hushed conversations he and Alec share in corners that leave Magnus more frustrated than he arrived.

Simon should see it coming but he doesn’t.

+

He’s at Luke’s when he finds out, chilling on the couch and laughing at Alaric’s list of complaints about training the newer wolves. It’s a break in his routine, and the pack may still be getting used to having a vampire voluntarily in their mix, but it’s still a thousand times better than being at the Institute, stuck in the antechamber waiting to be scowled at and sent off like the good little errand boy he’s apparently become.

“Shit,” Luke says, cutting Alaric off mid sentence and staring down at his phone. Luke doesn’t swear all that often, and it takes Simon by surprise for long enough that he doesn’t notice the look Luke and Alaric share.

“Who?” Alaric asks, and it’s only then Simon recognizes the seriousness of the situation.

Luke opens his mouth and shuts it again, his eyes darting to Simon, and Simon feels suddenly sick.

“What’s happened?” he asks. “Luke, what’s happened?”

“It’s not Clary,” Luke says, and it hits Simon how much has changed when he’s surprised that’s Luke’s first point of call. He hadn’t thought for a moment it would be Clary, and even if he had, Luke wouldn’t still be sitting here looking like the doctor delivering bad news to a patient’s family if it were.

“Who?” Simon asks, echoing Alaric and hearing the broken bite in his own voice.

“I don’t know the details,” Luke says, and there’s a dark shadow across his eyes that suggests he’ll be finding out soon enough, “but apparently there was a fight. Some of Valentine’s goons. I guess the Clave must have called in some of the clan…?”

Simon’s out of the room before he’s finished the last word, using speed to distract him from the pounding in his head and the tightness of his throat. He has no idea where he’s going, thinks about the Hotel for a split-second before changing direction and blurring by the streets leading to Magnus’. Even if it’s not the right place, Magnus will have answers or help or both, and Simon thinks how strange it is that he trusts a Warlock who barely tolerates him more than anyone else right now.

(He knows why, of course he knows why, but it doesn’t make it any less weird.)

The door opens before he reaches it, magic that says everything Simon needs to know, and he stops only when he’s next to the bed, Magnus’ eyes filled with something that borderlines grief and the sharp smell of lightning on the air.

Raphael’s so still.

“It’s magic,” Magnus says against the silence. “It’s magic, but I can’t place it, I can’t— It’s something Valentine’s concocted, a weapon, I don’t know, and damn whichever warlocks are helping him to the seventh circle of hell.”

“How did you—?” Simon asks, choking on the words, and Magnus shakes his head.

“I didn’t, not in time. I knew something was going on, everyone was being so sketchy, but it wasn’t until—” He cuts off, running fingers through his hair and looking on the verge of collapse himself. “I felt it. Raphael’s family, and I felt it.”

“He’s alive though,” Simon says, but it comes out more of a question.

“For now,” Magnus says, “but the others…”

Simon’s never been so glad he doesn’t need to breathe.

“No,” he says, shaking his head roughly. “No.”

“Not everyone,” Magnus says. “A lot of the clan have already gone back to Camille out of fear. She’s still technically the leader, after all.”

“But those loyal to Raphael…” Simon says as names and faces flash across his eyelids. “Fuck.”

Magnus reaches shaking fingers out to the stockpile of potions he’s dumped in the corner. “The Clave have a lot to answer for.” Simon blinks, and Magnus gives him a pitying look that could just as easily be directed at himself. “They weren’t on the front lines. Coincidentally, the Shadowhunters were all stood just far enough back not to be hit.”

Simon clenches his jaw and wonders if every day of his afterlife is destined to be a new study in betrayal.

+

Clary eyes him warily when he arrives at the battle site, an arsenal of weapons and fellow Shadowhunters around her, and Simon hopes she didn’t know and hates that he can’t be sure.

It’s chaos, the signs of the dead and injured etched against the very ground, and Simon wants to rip the streets apart at the seams. The Shadowhunter wounded are being treated on the sidelines, but the real damage is further forward, trapped against a spill of spellwork that shouldn’t exist and the smell of it alone makes Simon want to throw up.

A faint moan catches his attention, and he’s moving before he can think about how dangerous the air could still be, flinging rocks away and pulling the broken body free.

“Lily,” he says, wiping away the blood and only just recognizing her through the bruises that are too slow to heal.

“Raphael?” she says, love and loyalty and pain threaded through.

“He’s alive,” Simon says, and she relaxes a little, lets him carry her back to safety. “He’s bad, but he’s alive. Magnus has him.”

“The others?” she asks, and Simon shakes his head and bites back tears Lily can’t, holding her to him as her body wracks with sobs. They’ve never been close, barely exchanged a handful of words when he was still living at the Hotel and most of those were about the stacks of paperwork Raphael pretended were part of Simon’s official duties, but that doesn’t matter now.

“I’m sorry,” Simon says, and means it about so much more. “I’m so sorry.”

He calls Luke who’s almost there anyway, and Luke has Alaric take Lily gently from Simon’s arms and to Magnus. The look in Luke’s eyes in pure fury, and Simon nods and hopes he knows he feels it too.

“You should go to your pack,” Simon says, and Luke blinks at him in surprise. “I’ll find out what I can, but you shouldn’t be here. Not if— You shouldn’t be here.”

“Simon,” Luke says, ever the protector and the cop and the father figure they all desperately needed.

“It’s okay, Luke,” Simon says, and hopes Luke understands. The darkness is here, it’s real, and they’ve all been prepared for war in the most arbitrary of ways but now it’s coming from sides they weren’t expecting and if the werewolves have enough of a head start to keep safe then they need to take it.

“Call me later,” Luke says, and Simon reaches out to bump his fist, something normal and childish and necessary.

“If you can get a message to Meliorn…” Simon says, and Luke nods and looks as worried and resigned as Simon feels.

+

Someone’s saying, “We now have more information about the weapon that Valentine’s building…” but Simon can barely hear it through the buzzing in his ears. They all look so calm, like this was just a science experiment, and Simon thinks about every history lesson he’s ever sat through with a new understanding.

“But the vampire clan,” someone else says, Isabelle, sounding shocked and confused and that’s better, that’s something. “They’ll react, they’ll—”

“Ah,” the first person says, and of course it’s some ordinary white man, trying so hard not to look smug with his own importance. Simon wants to rip his throat out. “It was actually the clan leader, Camille Belcourt’s, suggestion we use this particular group as reinforcements…”

“Camille?” Simon says, and he’s sure he’s barely managing to force the words from his lips but everyone goes silent and turns to him anyway. “The same Camille responsible for the bloodbath around the city? The one who Turns unwilling victims and doesn’t care if they live or die? The one who couldn’t give a flying fuck about your Accords?”

“Simon,” Clary says, hand at his elbow. “You signed the disclaimer. It’s legally binding…”

He pulls out of her reach, turning eyes he’s sure are nothing but black on her and wondering if this is about Jace and the new mission she’s put upon her own shoulders or if the lure of power and importance have grabbed at her too.

“I signed that for you,” he says. “I signed that for your crusade, and now you can’t even see…Do you get it, Clary? Your Shadowhunters, the protectors of the Shadow World, just massacred a dozen people as an experiment.” He turns back to the group as a whole and doesn’t miss the way hands are clenched around weapons. “How long have you been planning this? Months at least. Did it matter which group of Downworlders you used or were you just waiting to see which would involve the least backlash? I suppose the seelies were more on guard after you tried to take Meliorn last time, and the pack’s too strong right now for you to risk it. Clary’s — our — coup against Raphael must have worked out perfectly for you; the clan were already fragile after they rebelled, and Raphael was managing to keep things together by a thread, and then we set Camille loose and it would have been so easy for you to offer to turn a blind eye if she just did this one thing for you…”

He can see Alec watching him with horrified eyes and knows he finally gets it, understands that it’s through chance alone it’s not Magnus and friends buried under rubble.

“It’s the Downworlders duty…” a voice proclaims, and Simon feels hysterical laughter bubbling beneath the surface.

“No,” he says, strong and clear and finite. “It’s not. You can fight this war however you want but if you think any of us will lift a hand to help you again then you’re crazy.”

“This is about survival,” the man says, and Simon nods.

“You’re right, it is. And as of right now every Downworlder knows that it’s not just Valentine they’re having to survive.”

+

“I heard you gave quite the speech,” Magnus says when Simon gets back, and Simon collapses into the chair that appears next to Raphael’s bed and groans into his hands.

“I wanted to kill them all,” he says honestly, and Magnus just nods and doesn’t look like he judges him at all for the compulsion.

“Lily’s recovering. I think the rubble must have taken most of the magical hit so it’s just taking her a little longer to heal.”

“Good,” Simon says. “Great. And Raphael?”

“The same,” Magnus says, magicking up a chair of his own with an exhausted sigh. “I’ve called in a second opinion, but Caterina isn’t always the speediest at picking up her messages.”

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Simon says, because he needs to be sure he’s not alone, and Magnus looks at him sadly.

“Of course I do,” Magnus says, and Simon doesn’t need him to say I’ve lived through it before to hear it.

“This is my fault,” Simon says, because it’s been bubbling inside him for days, for weeks, for months. “I did this.”

“No,” Magnus says. “I’m not saying your choices were brilliant, but this isn’t your fault. Everything about the Clave is built on a faulty power structure, and it doesn’t matter how many good people are part of it, there’s always the ones who let their bias and bigotry rule.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Simon admits, watching the way Raphael’s eyelashes cast shadows against his cheeks. “I’ve only been a part of this world for five seconds and I’m already responsible for the destruction of the vampires.”

“Sorry if it bruises your ego, but Camille was responsible for that long before you came along,” Magnus says, and then there’s a coffee mug of warm O-Neg in Simon’s hands.

“Thank you,” he says, and hopes Magnus knows he doesn’t just mean for the blood.

+

He falls asleep and wakes up hours later with an ache behind his eyes and voices in the next room.

Alec’s murmuring soft nothings, and Simon debates leaving before this becomes super awkward, but he comes around enough to notice another presence, and, oh.

Okay.

Already awkward then.

“Hi,” he says when he opens the door, and Clary stands up immediately, her teacup almost overbalancing.

“Hi,” she says. “Simon, I’m so—”

“Don’t,” he says, because he can’t right now. He knows she means it, knows she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t, but all he can hear are Raphael’s shallow, labored breaths and the buzzing in his own ears.

“What can we do?” Alec asks, hand curled around the curve of Magnus’ jaw but eyes sweeping unexpectedly across the room to include Simon.

Simon wants to say ’Nothing’, to let his anger push them away until it’s just him and Magnus and Lily in the apartment looking after Raphael, protecting him the way Simon hasn’t before and should have, should have. He stays quiet, though, and that’s good, that’s right, because Magnus doesn’t.

“Spellbooks,” Magnus says. “At the Institute. There’s some locked away somewhere, very old, very…dark.” He waves his hand and summons paper and pen from thin air. “I don’t know if they’ll help, but maybe…”

“We’ll find them as fast as we can,” Clary says earnestly, eyes still on Simon, and he nods and accepts it for what it is.

Alec presses a gentle kiss to Magnus’ lips; for all their dramatic wedding day shenanigans he’s not one for casual PDAs, so the silent ’I’m glad you’re safe’ isn’t hard to hear.

“Life’s too short…” Magnus says when they’re gone, and Simon frowns.

“Too short for what?”

“Oh,” Magnus says. “I don’t know. We’re practically immortal, life’s anything but short for us, but it seemed like the thing to say.”

Simon frowns. “I have every right to be furious.”

“You do,” Magnus says, seriously. “We all do. Maybe I’m just saying that sometimes the best thing we can do for our own sanity is to move on. Forgiveness or not. Self-responsibility or not. The past doesn’t always have to define the future.”

He offers a self-deprecating smile before heading towards Lily’s room.

He’s right, Simon knows he’s right, but when the person you’re most mad at is yourself it’s—

Well.

It’s a process.

+

He finds Lily sat next to Raphael’s bed, fingers tangled in the sheets like she wants desperately to touch but knows she shouldn’t, and he passes her a mug before leaning back against the dresser.

“Should you be out of bed?” he asks. Lily shoots him a glare and Simon raises his hands in surrender. “Hey,” he says, “I just wouldn’t wanna be on the other end of Magnus’ wrath is all.”

“That man’s a terror,” she says, but the words soften her expression.

...and that’s it, folks. uh, for actually finished versions of the same basic story, let me direct you to when there’s no ground and back, to the time. as i said, i had very specific feelings back in 2016. i love and miss this corner of fandom a lot. someday i’ll remember that i still have to take these boys into the future, into a different world of magic, and to prom. promise 💖

[factoffictionwriter]

Tiva Fic Amnesty #4

Just a few marginally related flirting scenes that were too short of post alone. 

“Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo’s phone,” Ziva chimed into the speaker as she walked toward the bedroom door and pulled it shut, locking it with a wicked smirk on her face. Tony watched her from where he was sitting on the bed, back up against the headboard.

She listened to the person on the other end, slowly walking toward the bed and leaning her knee against it, “I’m afraid he is busy, McGee. Can I take a message?”

She crawled saucily toward him, catching his eyes and maintaining contact as she listened to her former teammates' explanation. She threw a leg across his hips to straddle him when she approached.

She leaned back, making him squirm at the - uh - pressure on his lower stomach, and walked two fingers up his chest as she clucked her tongue in disapproval, “Sorry, Tim. Tony can’t come in to work right now. He’s about to do something very important.”

She traced her fingers down his jaw before feathering them across his cheek, the dark desire in her eyes making heat spread across the back of his neck.

Her hand dropped from his face as she looked toward the clock on the side table, “I suppose I can send him in after he has finished.”

He ran a hand up the back of her thigh, letting it rest just below the curve of her ass.

She looked back at him and smiled at his action, “I will tell him. He should be there in an hour.”

He pulled on her leg, causing her to lean forward, hovering over him as she balanced on her hand place right next to his head. He moved his grip to her waist, causing the thin material of her shirt to ride up and reveal the ever-growing bump on her lower stomach. He ran one of his hands over it, appreciating its size and roundness, before dropping it lower to dip under the fabric of her silky panties.

She bit her lip, blinking several times before she remembered she was on the phone. She held back a groan and exchanged it instead for a content sigh.

“Make that two,” she practically whispered into the microphone before ending the call and leaning over to put the phone of the table.

“Thanks,” he mumbled as he brushed loose hair out of her face.

“For answering your phone?”

“For getting me out of work.”

“Oh, Tony,” she mused as she ducked her head to press her lips to the soft skin just below his ear, “You may not be going in to the office yet, but trust me, you are going to do work.”

---

“I should have gotten one of these years ago. Babies are total chick magnets.”

“Down boy,” she teased as she drew in close to his side, sliding a finger through one of his belt loops, “Am I going to have to put a ring on your finger to keep you subdued?”

His eyes sparkled as he watched her brush a stray curl out of Tali’s face before leaning up to press a kiss to one of her small, fat baby hands, “Is that a threat or a promise?”

She winked at him before holding up her arms, wordlessly asking him to hand over their daughter. He did so reluctantly before bending down to pick up the diaper bag which had been discarded in all the excitement of college girls fawning over the baby.

“I missed you, einayim sheli,” she held Tali up in the air before bringing her down to plant a huge kiss on her cheek, “Did you and Abba have a good day together?”

“Well, she came out in one piece, so that’s good,” he mumbled as he tossed the bag over his shoulder and moved to slip his other arm across hers. Babies weren’t just chick magnets, and he had seen more than one young, good looking college guy turn her way since he handed her Tali.

She rolled her eyes, “I told him you’d be fine. He is a better father than he realizes.”

---

He pushed her back against the metal wall, capturing her lips in a kiss and letting his hands slide up her side, causing her shirt to ride up and expose the soft skin of her lower stomach. 

She responded enthusiastically at first, before seeming to come to her senses and realize where he intended for this to go. She pushed at his shoulders, separating their lips and causing him to move on to licking and sucking on the sensitive skin of her neck. 

“This is not happening. We are not conceiving our child in an elevator, Tony.” 

He moved to face her, amusement brimming in his expression, “Okay. How about the break room?” 

“No.” 

“Copy room?” 

“No.”

“Supply closet?” 

She pushed back against him harder, but the soft smile on her lips told him he wasn’t in too much trouble, and she ran her fingers along the collar of his shirt, “We are going to make this child in a bed, just like we did the last one.” 

“Hm. Are you sure it was in a bed? Because, from what I remember, it could have been the bed… or the shower… or the couch… the kitchen table… the kitchen floor…” 

She pulled his lips to hers, smiling through the whole kiss. She wrapped her arms around his torso and pulled him against her, thankful, yet again, for the gift of being married to a man who was not only her lover, but her very best friend, and the only one who knew just how to make her laugh, no matter how ridiculous the situation. 

She pulled away one final time, untangling his arms from around her and moving to turn the elevator back on. She didn’t say anything as it ascended to the second floor, just straightened her blouse and ran her fingers through her hair, trying to remove the signs of their activities. She felt him step up behind her, not touching her aside from his chest just barely brushing her shoulder while they waited for the door to open. The elevator came to a stop, and he leaned forward to whisper in her ear. 

“You know, the back seat of my car is surprisingly roomy.” 

“The same back seat that we drive our daughter around in?” 

“She sits in a car seat. She doesn’t actually touch the leather. Besides, if we stopped having sex everywhere we put our daughter, we would have to be much better at practicing self-control.”

[factoffictionwriter]

Tiva Fic Amnesty #8

Some distantly connected scenes involving Tony/Tali interaction. Way too short to post alone, so here they are. (The third one is years after the first two, just to be clear.)

“Come on, Waddles, throw me a bone here,” he begged. 

Ziva pursed her lips, “She doesn’t like when you call her that.” 

He rolled his eyes, “How do you know? Did she tell you?” 

She sighed and held out a hand, gesturing for him to give her the spoon. He did so reluctantly, accepting the fact that this must be a mommy-day.

“Tali, open up,” she said in her best mommy-voice, moving the spoon slowly towards the squirming child. 

Tali hesitated, seeming to look between her Ima and Abba as if weighing her odds of winning in the situation, before finally opening wide and letting Ziva feed her. 

Tony stared, dumbfounded, “How do you do that?” 

She shrugged as she picked up the jar of food and loaded the spoon up again, “It’s like training a dog. You have to establish dominance.” 

“I’m dominant.” 

She tossed her head back as she laughed, “You think you are dominant over her? Tony, you walked sideways for a week after you slept on the floor because she fell asleep on your chest and you didn’t want to wake her.” 

“She looked too peaceful to wake up!” 

“And what about the movie posters she tore up because you didn’t have the heart to take them away from her?” 

“She was interested in bond, babe! What am I supposed to do, squash her interest in one of the best ongoing franchises of all time?” 

---

“Alright, little booger. What will we have to eat on this fine morning?,” Tony held up two equally unappealing tupperware containers to read as he slid onto the chair seated in front of his daughter’s highchair, “Do we want some mushy baby oatmeal? Or mushy baby cereal?”

Tali scrunched up her face as she twisted back in forth in her seat.

“That’s what I’m saying. Oatmeal it is.”

He twisted open the jar and dipped a spoon inside. He held the goop up to her face and she kindly declined by turning her cheek.

Tony sighed, “Can’t say I blame you.”

Ziva came around the corner in tight leggings and a loose tank top. She dropped her gym bag, or more appropriately her work bag since she really only used it when she was meeting with clients, on the floor beside the table and went to get some water.

“Babe, do we have anything for Tali that is… I don’t know… edible?”

She shook her head as she set down her glass and reached for the bag of bagels, “I am afraid we do not. Mush and goop are the best we can do for now. Until she decides to grow the rest of those teeth.”

“Can she split a bagel with me? If I tear it up into little pieces for her?”

Ziva hesitated as she looked down at the grain-filled snack. But when she looked back up, both her boyfriend and her daughter were giving her equally pathetic puppy dog eyes. It just wasn’t fair.

“Fine. Very small pieces,” she said as she reached into the bag and pulled one out.

Tony turned to his daughter and held up his hand. She pushed her palm against his in what was clearly meant as a high five.

Ziva shook her head, this time disapproving, “You two are a dangerous together, you know that?”

She went to put the bagel on the plastic ‘table’ in front of Tali and Tony stopped her, “Can you put my half in the toaster?”

She looked at him skeptically, “Can you not do that yourself?”

He scoffed, “I am feeding our daughter, Ziva. I’m a little busy.”

She sighed and pulled the bagel apart, leaving one half in front of her daughter and moving to shove the other in the toaster oven for a minute.

He was smiling at her when she turned around, “Thank you.”

“Mhm.”

---

Tony gnawed on his lower lip, carefully turning the inflated piece of latex over in his hands. He fiddled with it, twisting and bending different parts until finally, finally, he got an idea. 

“Alright,” He muttered while carefully holding the bottom half of the glove and twisting it a few times, “How’s this?” 

He held his modified glove up to the flashlight, causing it to cast a shadow on the far wall: a particularly round top with three strategically spread out fingers emanating from the bottom. It seemed like a slam dunk. She had to recognize this one, right? What other animal had a bulbous head and several- 

“Chicken!” Tali exclaimed, whipping her head in his direction and sending her canopy of curls flying in her wake. 

Chicken? Tony squinted at the shadow for a few seconds. How had she landed on chicken?

“Uh, no, T. Not quite. See, these are like-” 

“Fishie!” 

“Well, that’s closer. It’s like-”

“Puppy dog!” 

“Puppy…” He let out a sigh, feeling genuinely defeated for a long moment. But then he caught a glance of his daughter, having rolled onto her knees and pressed her lips together in an all too familiar smirk, and chuckled. “Alright, alright. You’re messing with me.” 

She nodded, reaching out to flick one of the ‘tentacles’ for emphasis, “It’s an octopus… with only three legs.” 

“Everyone’s a critic, eh?