Hey guys, I figured it was about time I explained why there haven't been any updates to Counted Out.
There's a long and convoluted story involved, but the short of it is that, at the moment, my family and I are sort of homeless. We're currently living out of an air B&B for the next couple of days. After that, things are pretty much up in the air.
That aside, I've been in a pretty dark place for a while now, for a lot of reasons that I won't go into, and writing hasn't been much of a priority for me, all things considered.
But, with any luck, we'll have somewhere to live soon, I'll have access to a computer again, and I'll be able to continue Counted Out.
Fingers crossed, right?
In the meantime, I will officially be putting Counted Out on hiatus for the time being.
Thank you guys for your patience and support so far. It means the world that you've stuck with me this long; I can only hope that you hold out a little while longer.
Fandom: DC’s Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Relationship: Rip Hunter & Sara Lance
Characters: Rip Hunter, Sara Lance, mentions of Gideon
Warnings: mentions of violence
Summary:
“So you remember,” Sara says.
In his mind, the memory of her blood on the snow sticks, like an after-image.
I’ll never forget, Rip thinks to himself.
“So you remember,” Sara says.
It is not a question.
I’ll never forget, Rip thinks to himself.
He recalls the weight of the gun in his hand, the feeling of the recoil when he’d fired it.
He looks at her and say, “Everything.”
He looks at her and says, “I really am very sorry, Sara.”
In his mind, the memory of her blood on the snow sticks, like an after-image.
Here, in front of him, Sara conjures up a careful smile, and she tells him, “It wasn’t you. This is you,” in a tone that assures him that he’s forgiven.
But Rip can still feel the delicate skin of her throat against his fingers, and he can still hear the last noise she’d made when he snuffed out her life with nothing more than a quick press of his hand.
It had sounded an awful lot like the huff of breath that she passes off as a laugh when they both answer to Gideon at the title of “Captain.”
Just like that, Sara Lance forgives Rip Hunter.
Just like that, Rip Hunter knows that he will never forgive himself.
Boyd bolted through the door, practically wheezing as he rushed to her side. He held the tub of ice cream out in front of it, keeping it raising as if it was baby Simba from The Lion King. “I got it,” Boyd announced, beaming. “I had to go to five different stores to find it but I did.”
“That’s great, baby,” Erica smiled, turning away from the episode of Grey’s Anatomy she’d been watching. “Get me spoon. A giant one.”
“You need a bowl?” Boyd asked as walked into the kitchen to fetch her one. He returned with only the tub and the spoon in hand like he already knew the answer.
“Nope. Just need ice cream. Now.”
“The cravings are already that bad?” Boyd frowned and Erica nodded as she scooped up a mouthful of cookie dough ice dream. It was only a few weeks ago that they found out Erica was ‘with child’ and yet the mood swings and cravings were already becoming frequent.
“Yeah. Ugh not only am I a pregnant women with cravings but I’m a pregnant werewolf with cravings. I don’t have much to compare it to but I’m certain this is so much worse,” she frowned around another spoonful of ice cream. Boyd nodded and took a seat on the couch next to her, curling up beside her in a way that he knew she’d find comforting.
“It’s going to get better.”
Erica laughed and rolled her eyes. “You’re using what as your reference, exactly? What to expect when you’re expecting - werewolf edition?”
“No,” Boyd frowned. He lifted her leg and slowly rubbed her calves. They had a routine at this point. He didn’t even have to ask what hurt anymore, he just knew. “But we’ll figure this out. Maybe I’ll write one after.”
“I’m not sure publishers would be interested,” she murmured as she rested her head on Boyd’s shoulder. The pregnancy wasn’t planned, they were still young, both only in their early twenties but Boyd was handling it in the same manner that he handled everything else; with grace. He’d read nearly every guide written for new parents (humans ones), he’d helped paint the nursery green, he’d built the crib and he’d downloaded all the music from classical pianists onto his ipod.
Boyd wrapped his arms around her waist and splayed out his palms, resting them there so that he could feel the steady beat beneath his hands. “Who knows? There might be a market for it,” he smiled and bent forward to kiss her belly.
His phone rang and Erica sighed. “That’s your work phone. Leaving so soon?”
“I guess so,” he nodded, still not moving from her side as he glanced over his shoulder. “I won’t be gone for long. Call my work phone if there’s any emergencies,” he teased.
“The lack of ice cream in our fridge was an emergency,” Erica retorted, sticking out her tongue. Boyd got up from his seat and she reached out a hand, tugging him back down. “Wait. Please don’t leave yet. You can afford to miss one day of work. Stay and watch Greys Anatomy with your fiance.”
Boyd bit his lip, his gaze flitting between her and his phone. “I-I yeah. Yeah okay. I can do that,” he smiled, his eyes soft as he took her hand in his.
Willy Wonka - something involving chocolate. I decided to go with Sciles
Scott comes home to Stiles in his kitchen. They don’t live together, not yet anyway, but Stiles got into the habit of letting himself into Scott’s house when they first started hanging out in high school and bringing it up years later, especially since they’re dating now, would be pointless.
The first thing he notices is that the kitchen looks like a bomb went off. A chocolaty one. There’s dishes piled up high in the sink, a coat of flour covering the kitchen counters and a sticky substance that Scott presumes is matter mix that’s smattered basically everywhere. The second thing he notices is that his boyfriend’s wearing the same expression as a puppy usually does when it’s caught digging through the trash or destroying its owner’s couch.
Scott glances up and a dollop of icing falls on his forehead. “There’s chocolate on my ceiling,” he states because he doesn’t know where to start and obvious seems to be his default.
“Whoops?” Stiles winces, spatula still in hand as he rushes over to dab at the icing with a cloth. Scott squirms as the wet towel presses against his face, squeezing his eyes shut until Stiles pulls away. When he opens them, he finds Stiles staring at him in concern. It’s the first time that he’s taken the time to process how Stiles looks and he suppressed a laugh at the powder on his nose, the batter dripping off his chin. The strands of Stiles’ hair are stuck together, his shirt’s caked in flour and his feet are bare.
“Did you get into a fight with the mixer?” Scott grins and Stiles’ raises his eyebrows in reply. “Because if so, you lost. Badly.”
“Very funny,” Stiles grunts, untying the apron he’s wearing around his waist. “I was baking, asshole.”
He takes in the mess again and taps a finger against his chin. “And the mess is because…?”
Stiles sighs loudly and rubs his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing chocolate across his forehead. “You’ve been working late lately. I wanted to surprise you. I thought I’d try- I’ve never made cake from scratch before.”
“You made me cake?”
“From scratch,” Stiles confirms, still looking guilty as he tries dusting himself off. It doesn’t help much, his palms are covered with flour that leave giant streaks of powder along his clothing whenever he tries. “Or at least, that was the plan.”
“What happened?” Scott asks as he takes a seat. He watches as Stiles paces around the kitchen.
Stiles bites his lip and groans. “I sort of- I wasn’t going to,” he pauses, taking a deep breath.”I ate the cake. I’m officially the worst boyfriend ever. I got so wrapped up in trying to make the perfect cake that I forgot to eat and then it smelt so good by the time I finished that I decided to have a piece. And then one piece became…,” he explains, waving his hands in front of him.
“The whole cake,” Scott finishes for him, laughing as he takes in Stiles’ sheepish expression.
“You’re not mad?” he asks, taking a seat beside Scott who shakes his head in reply.
“Nah. How’d it taste?”
“Delicious,” Stiles admits, eyes darkening as Scott lifts a hand and dips his finger in the dollop of batter that still smeared across his jaw.
“I bet I can think of a way that you could make it up to me,” Scott grins. He licks a trail along his finger before sucking on it, mouthing along his knuckles when Stiles’ gaze drops to his mouth.
“You’re gonna get salmonella.”
Scott laughs and pulls his finger out of his mouth. “Says the one who ate half a package of raw cookie dough out of my fridge a week ago.”
“Okay, fair. We should,” Stiles says, moving forward to kiss him when Scott stops him by placing a hand on his chest.
“First shower, kissing later,” Scott tells him as he leads Stiles into the washroom.
An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth this one’s for punifa, who is the beautifulest of beautiful people….
The man watched at his prey approached the trap set for him. It was the perfect trap, if he did say so himself. He was exacting devastating revenge for the most foul crime, and he had put a tremendous amount of thought and effort into this. It would be one of the greatest of his life. His unsuspecting victim drew nearer, unaware that a place so familiar to him, was now rigged for maximum damage. Closer. He kept out of sight, but watching closely as the man he watched reached that fated place.
...
With a tremendous shriek, Anderson jumped straight back up from his office chair, cutting off the wailing alarm that had started when he took his seat. this caused his foot to come down heavily on the new mat under his desk, letting off that classic from all revenge seekers arsenals- the whoopie cushion. The man furiously pushed his chair backwards, but regretted it the instant later, the instant after he had noticed the suspicious string tied to the handle, but the instant before he was deluged by a shower of confetti.
Amid the delighted laughter of the rest of the office, Anderson glared towards to hugely grinning Dimmock, who declared 'That's for the wax donuts last week, Dan' his smile slipped a bit 'Never mess with a mans donuts!'
Patience is a virtue (there is a little rhyme here, but not particularly relevant) ~I'm writing 'beautiful people' ficlets (based on sayings apparently)~This ones for mybelovedcheshire
It had never been his strong point, patience. But in this instance it was the only option. Move too fast and everything went pear-shaped. And he did mean everything. When Sherlock realised that it was possible he felt more for Greg Lestrade then he had initially anticipate, he was at first stunned, and then disbelieving and finally reconciled to the idea. But then, well then his stupid body, that 'transport' that didn't know its place, started demanding he do something about it. And so he had. Very slowly. There was the gradual lessening of out and out insults, the increase of somewhat helpful behaviour, he even bought the man a coffee once (that had earned him a funny look, and a question about what he was after, after which he never tried that again, and went back to just not calling Lestrade an idiot). He'd had a number of funny looks since it started but the man had never said anything, so he hoped he was going slow enough for him. But today was the day. This was it. It was going to happen. Today was the day Sherlock was going to take the next step. He had it all planned out. He'd run it through in his head several time. He'd consulted several sources that it was the thing to do. Today was the day Sherlock was determined to hold a door open for Greg.
A picture is worth a thousand words~ this is the first of 10 (actually it should be 20, because I didn't do the first lot) 'beautiful people' ficlets.... rather than askboxing...This first one is for heaven-is-full-of-otters, who left love in my askbox
3 months, 5 days and 15 hours since he'd left John. That very last time, that time at the cemetery, when he'd watched John make his heartfelt request, then walk away. 3 months, 5 days and 15 hours (and approximately 24 minutes) since he'd last seen the man in the flesh, disappearing around the side of a large grave and out of Sherlocks' view. Not that he hadn't seen him in other forms. Mycroft sent him all the security footage he had, and he had a photo. The photo wasn't particularly good, being one he had stolen from Johns room the day after he 'died', he'd snuck back for it, not having thought to get one before. He had taken longer than he'd planned, lost in thought, holding his ill-gained photo and sitting on Johns' bedroom floor, when he'd heard the sound of Johns' distinctive step downstairs and was forced to beat a hasty retreat down the fire escape.The picture was getting rather worn now. He hadn't realised when he'd taken it how much he would just want to hold the stupid thing. Sherlock grimaced to himself in the half light. It was only when he'd noticed how rumple the thing was becoming that he'd realsied how much he'd handled it. John wasn't that observant, he should have taken two... he couldn't let this one become completely worn out, not when he didn't have a chance to get another one, the security footage was noting like the same, and not when he had no idea when he'd be able to hold the real thing next...
Ooh, now that's interesting (although I watched only one episode of Glee sometime last year, so most of my Glee knowledge is Tumblr-obtained...)
It was hard, not being able to perform for a crowd. The angels practiced their moves to perfection, but all their hard work was useless. It saddened them greatly that they could not perform their dance when anyone was looking, but they still wiggled and shimmied as they ran away screaming.
