#foreignobjecticus

[hadescavedish]

Major Mohn

I got your worm

The original post

[thisbluespirit]

35 + 95 + whatever you can think of to combine them eheheh >:)

Thanks! 35 Bathtub fic + 95 Sleep intimacy... Well, clearly two fictional characters are going to wind up as wrinkled prunes here, if they go around falling asleep together in the bath! Since it's @foreignobjecticus we'll say it's Avon & Vila, and basically two someones were VERY DRUNK, right?

(Vila's fault, according to Avon. Avon's fault, according to Vila, because it was his idea to nick that priceless rack of rare, posh spirits. Maybe he said nothing about testing the wares, but clearly that was implied! Who steals alcohol without tasting it? Right? And obv they had to drink it in secret because otherwise Jenna would have wanted a share of the profits or Blake would have confiscated it or Cally would have looked stern before asking to try it. It was v potent anyway, as they discovered a bit late.) As it's B7, we'll just have to count ourselves extremely lucky that no one drowned in this bathtub sleeping incident, but it's ok - Zen is stingy with the water, which they can at least both agree is Blake's fault because he went on about rations and repairs after that time Someone accidentally flooded the flight deck (for perfectly legitimate reasons that they will explain one day when they find someone capable of comprehending them). Sadly in the meantime, while they snoozed in the bath, Blake "discovered" the cache and used it to power Zen in an emgerency so now their computer might also be hungover, BUT the Federation are out of sight for a bit and Cally's contemplating serving prunes in brandy for lunch. For no particular reason obv.

[captain-aralias]

March, October, Today for the writing meme

thank yee, thank yee.

march: do you listen to music whilst writing? 

short answer - i do not.

october: name the darkest or angstiest fic you have written and/or posted?

i would say.... i’m not that angsty as a person. or dark! even in b7 where bad things happen, i would usually be like ‘hooray, everyone lives!’ 

so, i think it’s probably something from my early time in doctor who. there were a lot of, like, sad stories set during series three (so tenth doctor/simm!master) where the master was in charge of the world for a year until all his work was embarrassingly undone and he died just to spite the doctor. good times. but even these fics are by me so they’re quite hopeful....

maybe this? The Meaning of Forgiveness ?

also - a bonus cringe story prompted by me thinking about these fics again, is that i wrote what i thought was a VERY funny post about an eighth doctor novelisation, one of the few that was written by a woman - and i said it wasn’t nearly as good as the author’s other eighth doctor book and then pulled out every example of every single character thinking about how hot the doctor was 😂

it’s all fun and games until the author shows up on your livejournal, because doctor who professional fandom isn’t that far away from fandom-fandom, and tells you they’re sorry you didn’t like their book because they enjoyed your sad ten/simm!master fics. 

i tried to apologise but never heard back. this would have been ten years ago i expect and i’m still embarrassed, even though my post was a) funny and b) completely accurate!

otherwise maybe something like Human Nature (blake’s 7) where nobody gets what they want repeatedly, but it’s good fun because you’re hanging out with avon, and there’s a heist, and it’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to avon, is it? it’s definitely not DARK. 

today: have you made any progress in any wips today?

absolutely not. i did think briefly about spending some of the evening writing, though, before deciding to wait until the weekend.

[bloggish]

desert (b7) please!

hahahaha, this is yet another instance of Bad Things Happening to Tarrant, this time courtesy of THE MAN himself. Honestly, it’s similar enough to Sun and Heir that I could weld the verses together, except that would probably get silly.

This snippet is going under a cut bc for once I wrote the noncon first.

“Captain Jarvik picked you out especially, did he?”

Tarrant laughs as he packs his survival kit. “There's no need to be jealous, Samson,” he says. “You know it's a two person mission. The captain simply wants the best pilot with him, that's all.”

It's not a particularly subtle boast, but Samson isn't a particularly subtle man. “If you say so,” he smirks, but Tarrant ignores it, and whatever gossip or innuendo he's been listening to. “Oh well, good luck to you.”

[Rest of plot goes here]

Tarrant wakes up in the dead of a freezing night with a sharp pain ringing through his spine.

“Shut up, shut up,” he hears Jarvik whisper to him, although Tarrant hasn't said anything, but he does start to struggle as it becomes clear what's happening, trying to grab hold of something and coming away with nothing but handfuls of desert sand. “Shut up, you can take it, you're a man. This is what men do when they're alone together, this is fine, this is normal. You can take it, just let me...”

Tarrant whimpers under his breath. He is starting to process what's happening to him as his body comes back online; he can feel Jarvik's cock, thick and crude, pushing shallowly inside his tight rim and popping out again with each reckless thrust. But he can't understand it. This can't be happening, can it? Not to him. Jarvik wouldn't do this. Jarvik respects him, admires him, thinks he has a bright future ahead of him, why would he?

“God, you're so beautiful.” Jarvik bites violently the crook of his neck, making him cry out. “Such a beautiful boy, I had to, at least once – god–”

It's over within minutes. Tarrant feels Jarvik shout against his skin, and then the sickly feel of something hot and wet sliding between his cheeks. Jarvik falls asleep easily, still clinging to him for body heat, leaving him stunned.

He still can't believe that happened. It must be some sort of dream, right? People like him don't get–

Icy winds brush against his bare skin, revealed by his torn open uniform. The angry side of him wants to run. But it would be stupid – they are still waiting for the transporter out of here, and he won't survive in the desert on his own. It is his captain's duty to take care of him.

Tarrant tries to settle down, and get some sleep.

[anoddreindeer]

Oohhh for the tag game, can we please see some of that Mass Effect/Hobbit cross over?? (if you haven't already been asked. I'm still catching up!)

Well, the fic so far is here https://archiveofourown.org/works/9283415/

And the next portion that I have typed up that isn’t quite the next full chapter would be this chunk:

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Thorin, Bard, Balin, and - after a challenging stare-down with Dwalin - Shepard all seated themselves around the kitchen table. The rest of the dwarves made do with whatever seating they could manage, with Kili, Fili, and Ori electing to plunk themselves directly on the floor rather than challenge any of the older dwarves for their seats. Shepard himself waited until the last dwarf - Bofur, making a comfortable throne of several empty sacks and a bucket - had been seated before addressing what was to his mind the most urgent topic at the table.

"We need a plan of attack. What are our entry and exit strategies? Do you have a plan for dealing with the big lizard? What's the terrain like, inside? Do you have a layout of the interior?" Shepard's rapid-fire questioning seemed to take Balin and Bard aback, but Thorin merely reached into his coat and pulled out a large piece of heavy parchment. Unfurling it, he used some smooth stones from another pocket to weight the corners so it wouldn't curl up again and Shepard craned his head forward to get a good look.

The parchment appeared to be some form of local map, and Shepard set his jaw. He'd been through training in N-school that had included how to work without the benefit of a HUD or compass, but when planning an all-out assault on a fortified enemy position with an enemy force consisting of one unknown alien the approximate size of a house, he couldn't help but wish for at least a decent 3-d rendering of local topography. The map in front of him, with its hand-written legend and distinct lack of anything approaching a usable scale, was almost more a hindrance than a help. Still, it offered some insight, at least, and while he could wish for more Shepard would work with what he had in front of him.

"We will not be going in through the front gate; there is a better way. We will get in and out through there - or rather, our Burglar will." Bilbo looked deeply alarmed at Thorin's statement, but the king rolled on without giving the smaller being a chance to interject. "If all goes according to plan, we should not need to deal with the worm. We will need weapons, though, and supplies."

The last statement had been directed at Bard, who had gone terribly quiet when Thorin had spread the map upon the table. Shepard couldn't read Bard's expression, but there seemed an almost peculiar desperation behind his eyes that Shepard didn't like in the slightest. Desperation lead to doing stupid shit like facing off against assassins alone, or taking a one-way trip on an elevator to nowhere.

Of course, it also lead to stupid shit like going off alone to an unknown planet in the middle of some kind of energy field on the slightest off-chance of saving an entire race, so maybe Shepard wasn't in a position to throw stones. Still didn't mean he had to like it, though, especially when Bard murmured something to himself too quietly for Shepard's tanslators to catch. He frown at the local. "What?"

"'The Lake shall shine and burn,'" Bard said, a little louder this time. It sounded like a quote of some sort, but Shepard had never heard it before in his life. He didn't get the chance to ask for the full text, however, as Bard straightened up and glared directly at Thorin. "You mean to go into Erebor, into the maw of the dragon itself." He seemed incensed, though Shepard couldn't quite see why. "Do you know what will happen, if the dragon wakes? It would be the end of Laketown; the dragon would burn it all."

Thorin lifted his chin and returned Bard's angry glare with a challenging look. "I intend to get at least part of my Company into the Lonely Mountain, yes. But I do not intend to face the dragon that day; I simply need the Arkenstone, that I may call upon the armies of my brethren." Thorin seemed to think that was reassuring, though Shepard privately had his doubts. He wasn't quite certain what an 'Arkenstone' was or why Thorin needed it to summon up armies, but he couldn't help but think that - according to the bits and pieces he'd put together over the course of the journey - that Erebor had had an army, and it hadn't done them very much good the day the dragon first arrived.

Bard seemed to agree, judging by the stormy expression moving onto his face like a Noverian blizzard. Shepard sighed internally; if he wanted inside the mountain, he'd have to back Thorin's play no matter what he actually thought of the idea. Reaching under a pouch on his belt, he unhooked his folded Executioner pistol from its magnetic moorings and flipped the combat settings on it. He set it on the table as it finished unfolding, heat sink and biotic enhancement readouts blinking a bloody red light up into the assembled faces, and met Bard's stormy gaze with what he hoped was something reassuringly steely.

"I will do my damndest to make sure that doesn't happen," he said in his I'm-Commander-Shepard-Saviour-of-the-Galaxy-I-Got-This voice, "but stopping here isn't an option. Too many people are counting on us to get back objects stored in that mountain; besides, I'd rather have the dragon wake when I was ready for him, and not whenever he got bored and I wasn't ready. So the question is," here he tapped the side of his gun for emphasis, though he made sure to keep his finger well away from both the safety and the trigger. "Will you be ready?"

Bard stared at him for a long moment before striding almost angrily - but still quietly, so as not to disturb the children, nearest Shepard could tell - to a bundle of netting strung up near the ceiling. A quick tug had the whole kit and kaboodle unrolling into his arms, revealing several crude polearms made of billhooks and fishing blades strapped to long lengths of wood. The edges glinted in the light of the dying fire, their rough appearance apparently belying a very sharp edge. Shepard flipped the Executioner pistol back to standby and re-holstered it before walking over to help Bard with some of the more awkward weaponry.

Thorin sputtered like a malfunctioning comm-piece as Shepard and Bard managed to get all the weapons laid out on the table without gutting any of the dwarves who were crowding around the table to see. Apparently he'd expected something a little more professional, or at least that's what Shepard could make out from his outrage. Shepard himself couldn't see what the problem was; despite their somewhat ramshackle appearance, they stayed solid when moved, had a nice heft to them, and the pointed ends looked plenty sharp enough to gut a man as easily as they'd once been used to gut fish and other wildlife.

The other dwarves apparently agreed with Shepard's assessment as Thorin was thoroughly ignored in favor of examining the weaponry. Nori tested the attachment points of the blades to the wood with a satisfied expression while Bifur tapped along the wooden hafts for reasons Shepard couldn't quite make out. Dwalin looked like he wanted to swing one of the billhooks to test it out, but a hand from Balin stopped him; there was just not enough room inside the house to swing a dead cat without hitting someone, let alone a makeshift halberd, and Shepard gave Balin a grateful look after Dwalin sullenly returned the billhook to the table.

Surprisingly, it was Bofur who actually interrupted Thorin as the royal dwarf really started to gather steam about the necessity of proper weaponry. "No, actually, these look like they should do fine," he said as he waved a particularly cruel flensing knife around in what Shepard privately thought was far too negligent a fashion for a weapon that sharp. Bifur plucked the weapon away from the be-hatted dwarf even as Bofur continued "they'll be more useful than swords - got more reach to them - and besides, anything we'd find in the armory here would be of Mannish make and not much better than this anyway."

Shepard raised an eyebrow as Thorin subsided into more general muttered complaints; why would being of 'Mannish' make be a problem? It's not like the weapons they had in hand weren't of 'Mannish' make.

Nori caught his skeptical look, and snorted. "Mannish smiths don't make weapons for Dwarven strength," he said sotto voce. "It doesn't tend to end well for the weapons. Besides, their steel is inferior; these blades look like they came from Erebor itself, back when it traded with Men for more than just gold."

He tapped one of the larger blades for emphasis, and Shepard could just barely make out some sort of heavily worn symbol underneath the pointing finger. "Some kind of maker's mark?" he asked quietly, and Nori nodded.

"Aye. One of the smaller foundries that made tools instead of weapons; it was shut down before Erebor fell as the king ordered all forges switched over to only the higher-value weapons and armor that would bring in more gold." Nori's lips curled in disgust over the last statement, and Shepard found himself agreeing with the sentiment. Reducing the diversity of production just for the sake of short-term gain just sounded like a bad idea overall, and after everything he'd done for the galaxy...Well, he had a lot more fondness for the tools of creation rather than the weapons of destruction right now.

While he and Nori had been speaking, Balin and Thorin had been having an equally hushed - if possibly more fraught - conversation, and Thorin knocked on the table as a consensus was reached. "While I would prefer weapons that were forged for the purpose of being weaponry," here Thorin shot Balin a baleful look, which the older dwarf ignored with aplomb "we do not have access to them, and getting access would take more time than we have left." He tapped one of the makeshift harpoons for emphasis. "So, we will use what we have. Dwalin and I will each take a spear, as trained warriors. Bofur and Bifur will take the other two, as their normal weapons are polearms as well and they have the most experience. The rest of you will arm up as you can with clubs or slings." He looked around the room. "Any questions?"

"Er, I have one," ventured Bilbo somewhat uncertainly. "It, well, it's more of a statement, really." He held up his little sword, still in its sheathe. "I rather managed to keep my weapon with me throughout all that unpleasant business in Mirkwood."

Shepard could see the calculations going on in Thorin's head, and it didn't surprise him when the dwarf gestured to Fili. "If you'd be willing, Bilbo, I believe Fili would be of mot use wielding a sword. His preferred style is paired long and short swords."

Bilbo nodded and handed his sword off to the younger dwarf, though Shepard thought he saw a tinge of regret in his eyes. Shepard had his own arms, of course - the elves had taken his knife, but they hadn't recognized the folded-down Executioner or the heavily-modified Viper as weapons and he had conveniently forgotten to inform them of the fact. He'd miss the knife, though, and Grunt would give him shit for losing it. He'd have to try and bargain with the elves to get it back when all this was said and done.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tbh I have it handwritten out to the end of the fic, but I just haven’t had the wherewithal to transcribe more of it - transcribing is obscenely boring, I can’t even listen to music with lyrics or I start transcribing that instead. Very irritating

[voicesfromlastnight]

03OCT2020 Edited for B7 stuff: long dream.

Orac was hidden in the outhouse out the back of my current flat, on the sink with his key resting on him. I slid it in and told him that the crew were in danger and they needed his help, so he did something through tariel cell magicology and saved them all. Only, turns out, it screwed up the timeline and now we had to go and fix it. Avon, Blake, Vila, Gan and I took an old coal train (driven by Lenny from The Simpsons) up a mountain, through thick pine forests and over old stone bridges, up to this place where we would spend the night on our journey to fix the temporal anomaly Orac had created. I sat up in the enginehouse while Blake and Avon clung to the boiler. Vila hung between the engine and coal carriages looking moody and deep, the cool mountain air ruffling his hair as we sped along in the fading evening.

Along the way, Avon (in his studded leather outfit) alighted the train and ran ahead to this strange little wicker outpost in the forest that was not much larger than a toilet block. There, he killed the inhabitants (who had done nothing wrong but, I knew he reasoned, but we should not be allowed to see) and then covered the bodies and the wall with the toilet signs with a wicker screen so that when the train passed this building, we wouldn’t know Avon had been there.

At the top of the track, we spent the night in this pastel blue fibro house where we had to hide all these things from Vila. Because of Orac’s fix, the Vila we had with us was from this alternate timeline where people had died and things had been lost (idk what exactly - stupid things like frying pans and pillows). So I locked the cat in the bathroom while Blake and Gan cleared the house of things that Vila shouldn’t see. Avon got annoyed with Blake when he found a single fishbone on the floor from the cat’s dinner and went off about how that could ruin the whole plan and put us all in mortal peril.

Then the whole dream cut to a series of clips between the Flight Deck and the White House. I was watching an old video of Avon and Vila from their university days. It started with Avon and Vila (with other randoms) on stage singing and dancing to something and then cut to a black and white image of them with Lyndon B. Johnson and Hank from King of the Hill on the lawn outside the White House (the video being filmed through the iron fence).

This scene morphed into them playing football on the lawn with Vila in the middle of the scrum with lilac face paint on. He ran back to catch the ball, backed up into the fence, and the ball caught him on his chin. He yelped and swore “oh, fucking mouth guard”. How rude, Vila.

The dream briefly changed to this really awful edit of Avon on the FD with a giant pink guitar. It was real life but also a video - his hand was strumming behind the guitar like the editor got the layers mixed up and his mouth was a poor edit of someone else’s mouth singing. His whole look was like those horrifying puppets from the Land of Confusion music video (this scene came up once before in my dream, I recall, and even asleep I hated it).

The dream changed one last time, back to the stage, where a concert was in full swing. Avon and Vila were performing as part of their degree, with Avon at the front of the stage in his leathers and S3 Liberator gun pack, Vila on a levelled stage upstage SR in his soft blue tunic & gunpack. The crowd was SCREAMING. Vila was clapping and singing while Avon was doing some sick moves, breakdancing. He did that move where a dancer falls to his side, one foot up in the air, and then bounces up, and then dived into the crowd who BARELY caught him and surfed back to the stage. The camera panned over the crowd and everyone was standing less than a metre apart in tidy lines. We (who? me and Blake??) joked that this is what mosh pits were like in the eighties and I wished they were the same today. 

[headcanonsforcompanions]

Vault Tec rep for the character ask please!

More of an afternoon person but Morning

Waffles 

Coffee or tea, but coffee

Ice cream

Both but paper

Beach

Pen

Board games

Both but handwrite

Too cold

Singing, he loves it but he can’t sing at all

No otp or notp

The reason he was excited to get the steak knives what that he’s really good at cooking, especially when it comes to meat.

[titanium-alloy-automaton]