#oops i fic'd

[onceinabluemoon13]

“Soulmate AU in which instead of having your soulmate first words, you have the words they say right before they kiss you for the first time.” (Based on this post)

“Molly, I meant it. I-”

“Sherlock? Shut up.”

[ace-pidge]

What do you think Zarkon was like when he was still a paladin and not Evil?

Ooohhhhh thank you for sending this Nonny it’s really interesting to think about!

Assuming Zarkon was the black paladin as seems to be likely, that would mean he was the head of Voltron, the leader. I think he was very responsible and took his role very seriously. As the leader he was often faced with very tough calls, situations where there was no right answer and no matter what he did people would get hurt. He always did his best to lead his team with honour and integrity, but at the same time he had so much guilt weighing on his conscience. 

I think he was very empathetic, and every person who died because they weren’t quick enough, every world lost to an evil dictator, every petty stupid war they got caught up in hit him hard. He took it very personal as the leader, no matter how many times his teammates said they were all in it together. So he started walling himself off, shutting down his emotions, and that was the first step to becoming the Zarkon we know.

A small nugget of bitterness took root in his heart. It seemed like every time they resolved one situation they were immediately caught up in some other crisis. Why couldn’t the universe stay saved for half a tick? Why couldn’t people just get along? Why did they have to drag Voltron into every squabble? He never asked for this, never wanted it...

He hid the darkness in his heart well, and for a long time no one suspected anything, not even Black.

And then...

Imagine if you will, the Galra home world is a jewel of science and technology, with most efforts concentrated on developing weapons. The weapons are used first and foremost for defending the Galra transport routes (the ones Allura mentions) and way stations against raiders. Things are peaceful, at least for a while. 

But eventually resources start to run out. They’ve mostly depleted the planets in their system and it’s getting too expensive to import everything they need. 2 views emerge: one faction wants to halt production of new weapons and just concentrate on upkeep and maintenance of their current transportation network and its defenses, thus reducing how many resources they need. The other faction advocates colonizing resource-rich moons and planets outside their solar system to ensure continued access to the materials they need to keep expanding. The justification is that they’re the ones in charge of this transportation network that so many people in the universe take advantage of, the least the universe can do in return is provide them with what they need to keep it running securely. 

Tensions rise between the two groups, to the point that all manufacturing actually stops. There are campaigns and protests for and against both sides and the government has no idea what to do. In the middle of the chaos one small group of radicals seizes power and promises that they will put a moratorium on weapons production for 1 year while the question is debated. 

What the people don’t know is that this is a group of clever liars, and in secret they recruit people who were pro-expansion and start sending them out to various moons and planets to establish secret mining and weapons construction colonies. Their ultimate goal is to conquer enough worlds to establish a Galra empire. During the promised year of “debate” they bribe and threaten and assassinate all the big pro-moratorium players, until they’ve removed all resistance and they’re free to start expanding in earnest. 

News of this eventually reaches Voltron via encrypted distress beacon (the sender of the message was killed when their treachery was discovered), but by the time the team gets there it’s too late to resolve things diplomatically. Voltron is forced to fight against fleets of Zarkon’s compatriots, most of them just civilians doing this against their will. It’s not the puppets they want it’s the puppeteers back on the home world. Team Voltron does everything in their power to minimize casualties and hold off on using lethal force, but they’re being attacked from all sides and if they don’t defend themselves they’ll be killed. 

Zarkon is stuck watching his brethren fall, some even by his hand, and it feels so wrong. He can feel their quintessence winking out. Everything about this situation is wrong wrong wrong. A piece of Zarkon’s psyche splinters that day, paving the way for his final descent into darkness. 

Voltron eventually takes out the group in power, but now the Galra are left without a leader, lost and hurt and confused and that’s just a bad situation. So Zarkon takes some time off from Team Voltron and stays on his home planet to help guide his people back onto the right path. He had good intentions, but then he’s faced with the question of what to do with those mining colonies on those other planets. The obvious answer is destroy them, but really, they’re already all set up... what if they just... kept them running?

His people are hurt and hopeless and he wants to give them something to believe in again, something to be proud of. So using the resources from the new mining colonies he builds a fleet of battleships, beautiful sleek machines that his people are so happy about and it all goes to his head. They’ve got all this amazing technology and know-how, why don’t they share it with the rest of the universe? I bet other races would welcome learning from us.

So under his guidance and buoyed by their pride in themselves the Galra go out on “humanitarian” missions to “teach” other races their ways. It’s a very fine line between helping and imposing, and soon pride becomes a sense of superiority. And from there it’s not hard to tip over from teaching to conquering...

[treefrogie84]

Ok. The Samulet thing.

(sourced from @mooseleys via @canonspngifs)

This is how I interpret this. Because by closing one plot hole, Robbie opened up a whole bunch of others, most of which aren’t character appropriate.

And... I fic’d. again. damnit. I wasn’t planning on doing that here.

So.

Sam grabs the amulet out of the trash, for whatever reason (5.16). Sentiment, thought Dean might regret it in the morning, whatever. He keeps it in his bag for a few weeks, maybe hoping that Dean will ask for it back, maybe for lack of a better place to keep it. After a couple weeks, the next time they’re at Bobby’s (5.18 at the latest), he tosses it into storage. And it stays there, gathering dust in Bobby’s attic alongside soccer and mathlete trophies, prom photos, their parent’s wedding rings.

Both the boys keep some sentimental trinkets in their bags, so they don’t lose everything when Bobby’s house burns (7.02)... but they lose a lot. Including the Amulet.

Sam’s not thought about it in years by then. There’s no photos to remind him, most of those were lost too.

There’s a pang of regret while they’re sifting through the ashes, trying to see if anything can be salvaged, but honestly? Sam’s just happy that everyone made it out alive and that most of Bobby’s lore books have back up copies elsewhere. Those are a lot more needed than some bits and bobs of a shitty childhood.

The amulet burned and Sam pushed it out of his memory. He was alive, his brother was alive, he didn’t need anything else. Bobby is dead and with him, the last connection to their childhood anyway.

He misses it, having a physical reminder of Dean’s presence when he’s with Amelia. Somehow, it was easier when Dean was in Hell because he could reach up and squeeze the amulet when Sam missed him. Now... he’s just got the Impala.

Time passes.

Sam catches Dean glancing at the prop-amulet for weeks after the run-in with the Muse. For the first time in years, he thinks that maybe Dean would wear it again if he had it, but it’s too late. It burned.

When Chuck pulls it out of his pocket? He’s pulling it from a melted puddle of bronze deep under the bulldozed remains of Bobby’s house. 

[treefrogie84]

here. let me make this worse. because i’m an awful human being and if i have to suffer, so do all of you:

BENNY Out there? You’re sleeping. You make the right choice in here, you’ll sleep forever, and you won’t ever hurt anyone ever again. No one needs to know, Dean. What happens in Purgatory stays in Purgatory.

DEAN I always did love it here. It’s as good a place as any to call it a day, huh?  I’d do it. If I really had to, I would. But the real Benny, would never let me.

Dean knows Benny would never let him. Dean knows because after days and days of fighting, a non-stop cluster fuck... he forgot to be careful. He was tired, thirsty, and the bone-deep exhaustion that happens when nothing is ever going to change. Purgatory is forever, the fighting is forever, he’s going to walk in circles until something gets a (not-so) lucky shot and then... he’ll be done.

Dean forgets, because he’s tired. The sort of tired he was for Sammy’s 24th birthday, every time he looked at the Impala during the year he doesn’t think about, the same way he was when Cas walked into that reservoir and never walked out...

He doesn’t go looking for a fight. It’s not necessary, not when they’re in Purgatory. But he also doesn’t run the fuck away when what he thought was a group of 2 or 3 vamps ends up being 7 ghouls and a couple of gorrilla wolves they’re keeping as pets.

He just stands his ground, fighting. Waiting for the slash of claws that will send him on. Dean’s sorry he’s not holding up his end of the deal with Benny, but Benny’ll forget it, forget him. They always do.

It’s Benny that rushes in, late to the party, and takes out more than his share. It’s Benny that drags Dean away, finds some place secure for them to take a breather. And it’s Benny who understands why Dean’s lost hope, but refuses to let him lose his way as well.

[ace-pidge]

I saw that alternate reality machine ask and your response and thought it was really cool! I especially liked the Pidge one, but what if they figured out it wasn't real because they knew in the back of their mind that that's not what happened? like they really wanted to stay, but they knew the real Matt and Sam were still out there, and broke free because they knew they had to find them?

In reference to this

I like this Nonny! 

What if in this alternate reality Pidge has no memory of Sam and Matt disappearing, of alien radio chatter, of Voltron, of ancient princesses and a war raging through the cosmos

Pidge is just living a normal life, well as normal as life can be when one’s a genius and one’s brother and father are famous space explorers. Get up, walk the dog, have breakfast with mom, watch the morning news for the latest from Kerberos, go to school, deflect all the curious questions from classmates, go home, work on that project for the “reach for the stars” contest (winner gets a full ride scholarship to Galaxy Garrison’s space program), watch the evening news with mom, have supper, homework, walk the dog, bed. Rinse and repeat

It’s all routine, it’s all normal

Or it would be... if it weren’t for the dreams. Unclear, confused dreams. Pidge can never remember what exactly they’re about, only the great sense of loss and urgency, like something (someone?) important has been ripped away and needs to be found right now. There are other images too in the dreams, things that don’t make sense, can’t exist. Creatures (aliens?) that resemble a bipedal cat-bat cross, a huge green mechanical lion, a castle unlike anything found on Earth... 

The margins of Pidge’s school notes fill up with doodles of these impossible things, and interwoven through it all is one word: Voltron. It’s a nonsense word, Pidge isn’t even aware of writing it, but it’s there, repeated over and over next to algebra equations

This goes on for weeks, months maybe, same old same old during the day, weird flashes of half-remembered things at night. Pidge starts to feel like the real world is the dream, coasting through the motions every day without conscious thought

And then the big day arrives: The Kerberos Mission is coming home. They’ve been on the way back for months now, every day dad and Matt getting closer to Earth. As Pidge’s excitement grows, so does this sick sense of wrongness. There’s no explaining it, no understanding it, but Pidge has a hunch it’s tied to those dreams

Pidge and Mama Holt head out to the airfield where the shuttle will be landing, each carrying a bouquet of flowers. The whole ride there the sense of wrong grows, Pidge is antsy, can’t sit still. Mama Holt interprets it as excitement

They’re standing side by side at the head of a mass of people all gathered to welcome the brave explorers home. The shuttle appears in the sky, a great ball of fire that descends slowly until it reaches the tarmac. For a few tense moments nothing happens, then the door hisses open and there’s movement inside, the glint of sunlight on all-too-familiar glasses and--

“No!”

Pidge’s bouquet tumbles to the ground. People are staring, an uneasy murmur passing through the crowd. Mama Holt turns and crouches in front of Pidge, concern written in every line of her face

“Sweetie? What’s wrong?”

“It’s not right!”

“What’s not right?”

“Dad and Matt! This isn’t how it-- they’re not-- this can’t be-- it’s not real!”

“What are you talking about baby? Of course it’s real, look, they’re right there.”

Pidge’s fingers are trembling, but certainty grows with every passing second; there’s something weird and wrong going on here

“It’s not! Dad and Matt are-- they’re gone!”

Pidge wakes up to utter darkness, heart broken anew as though Sam and Matt have just been lost again 

[alexenglish]

pls tell me your opinion on college age stiles stilinski getting drunk and waking up the next morning with a tramp stamp that says "property of scott mccall" or VICE VERSA

OH MY GOD, K U R I 

It probably starts with another pack, because it’s the McCall pack and even in college they can’t escape douche bag werewolves who think their breeches are bigger than they really are – Considering their track record with wolves like Jackson, Ethan, Aiden, Theo, Stiles was hoping that out of all the things that “got around” about the True Alpha’s pack, “dealing with dbags” would have been at the top of their resume, but alas, there’s still some stuck-up posturing assholes who get their panties in a bunch about the True Alpha, surprise surprise. 

Of course, there’s members of the Other Pack scattered in each one of the McCall’s pack’s classes. They goad every single member of the pack, but there are no outright challenges so Scott forbids any fighting. They dig into Lydia about how long it took her to control her banshee powers, scoff at Kira’s lack of kitsune knowledge, they even mock Scott about Liam losing control on the super moon, about almost losing his pack when everything with Theo happened.

Stiles is pissed because it’s messed up, and he knows Scott could take them all, but Scott is so docile about the whole thing, despite having more power in one bicep than the entire other pack combined. Stiles might just say that to one of the pack members in his math class, take a jab at them being so obviously weaker, and the beta has the nerve to laugh in his face.

“Why do you care?” he asks, smirk reminding Stiles of Jackson so vividly, Stiles starts getting kanima flashbacks. That’s enough to make Stiles’ hackles rise.

“Because he’s my alpha,” Stiles snarls, barely keeping himself back from punching the dude. 

“Except that you’re human,” the beta says, in a low voice. Stiles’ heart thuds in his ears. “So you’re not actually pack, you know that right?”

“But –” Stiles falters, because what – No. There’s so many factors. There’s scent and what happened with the nogitsune, Scott’s roar torn them apart. That’s the definition of pack. Goosebumps break out over Stiles’ skin as the beta smiles at him sharply. 

“Humans aren’t pack,” he says, innocently. Faux innocently, rather. “There’s no real connection. Packs are for supernatural creatures. You just wish you were pack, sticking to their sides because you don’t have a place with anyone else.”

“You punched him in the face?” Scott demands, voice tight and annoyed. Stiles feels immediately chastised, but irritation wells up inside of him. He was defending Scott’s good name, his good name. Stupid bullshit betas.

“It wasn’t a challenge,” Stiles says, sharp and angry so he doesn’t sound as miserable as he feels, reality of the beta’s words sinking into him. “I’m not technically pack.”

“What?” Scott asks, faltering. His eyes go all hurt, like Stiles is denouncing him, but that’s not what it is, not at all. “Of course you’re pack, Stiles. What are you talking about? Is this about –”

“No,” Stiles says, immediately, waving his hands to clear the air of any flashbacks he’s going to start having. He still gets a sick, desolated feeling in his chest when he stands outside of the clinic at night, sometimes, thinking about that night, how close they came to losing everything. If there’s a conversation he absolutely doesn’t want to have again, it’s that one. 

“They just don’t recognize me as a pack member,” Stiles says, shifting guiltily. “I’m not a supernatural creature.”

Scott blinks at him, face screwed up in confusion.

“You smell like us,” he says, biting his lip. “I’ve called you with my alpha roar so many times. How –?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles says, frustration breaking apart in his chest. It’s bullshit. After everything they’ve been through. He’s not pack, not technically, because a bunch of bullshit rules about the supernatural dictate it. Bull-fucking-shit. 

He’s suddenly so angry he’s blinded by it. A frustrated noise tears out of his throat, heart pounding, and Scott’s looking at him with a deep concern. Stiles groans, and flails his hands. 

“I’m going to go,” he says. He knows Scott can probably smell how anxious and out of sorts he feels, but Scott doesn’t question it. After everything happened senior year, they rebuilt their boundaries differently, and now Scott lets him go without protest. 

Stiles tells himself that it’s fine, that Scott is reacting just right, giving him room to breathe so Stiles doesn’t explode. He wishes he knew why he felt so miserable about it.

Stiles is drunk. It’s a heavy sort of feeling, probably a deeply terrible idea to be this drunk and sad and miserable, but he is. When he stumbles into the tattoo parlor, the artist makes him drink water and lays him down on the couch until he can actually pee straight. When Stiles assures him that he’s far less drunk than he was before (but still kind of fucking tipsy, but that’s not the point), the tattoo artist chuckles at him and snaps his black gloves on in a way that’s probably not supposed to be menacing, but has Stiles’ balls crawling up into his stomach in fear anyway. 

Stiles rolls off Scott’s couch in the morning with a pounding headache and a burning lower back. It’s his skin, not his ass, so Stiles knows that him and Scott didn’t have any wild drunken make up sex. Or, at least, Stiles didn’t receive it. If he fucked Scott, though, he assumes he’d be in bed, as opposed to on the floor, previously the couch. Not that Stiles forgot what he did the night before, but he was hoping it was a dream as he jolted awake, desperate for any other explanation for the soreness.

He stumbles into the bathroom, blinking against the bright lights. He’s already shirtless, eyes skipping over the tree tattoo that’s already inked along his ribs and twisting in the mirror. Sure enough, there’s a tattoo on his lower back.

Property of Scott McCall

Stiles groans and knocks his head into the wall, trying to distract himself from how much of a fucking idiot his drunken self is. It’s not a bad tattoo, not at all. The lines are smooth, skilled, stylized so that despite how utterly terrible the words are, it looks good. 

“What the fuck is that?” Scott asks, blinking at him from the bathroom door. Stiles groans, wishing that there was a hell mouth right under their dorm bathroom, so that it would just swallow him whole. 

Scott manhandles Stiles so that his back is towards him, hands skating down Stiles’ back, stopping before the skin gets hot around the swollen tattoo. Stiles feels some of the soreness dissipate as Scott leeches away his pain. 

When Stiles turns, there’s something like adoration and flattery on Scott’s face. 

“Stiles,” Scott says, voice sounding wrecked. Stiles chokes on his spit. “You got a tattoo –”

The for me goes unsaid, but Stiles can read it all over Scott’s face, in his sparkling eyes.

“Only you would come to the conclusion that this terrible drunken decision was the ultimate romantic gesture,” Stiles says, sighing as Scott grins at him, all pink-cheek and blown away by Stiles’ petulant declaration of pack belonging. 

“You love me so much,” Scott says. Sings really, before he pulls Stiles in for a kiss. “Oh my god, you were so pissed that they said you weren’t pack –”

“Don’t remind me,” Stiles mutters, because it’s literally permanent in his skin now.

“A fucking ‘property of’ tattoo,” Scott says, unrestrained glee in his voice.

“Scott,” Stiles says, and that’s definitely a whine. Scott cackles and kisses him harder.

“I can’t wait until that heals –”

“Scott –”

“I’m going to jizz all over it.”

“Scott!”

“You’re pack Stiles!” Scott yelps in his face, and grabs him around the legs so he can dump him on the counter and kiss him harder, pressing into him. 

They definitely have sex right there in the bathroom, which Stiles counts as a win.

[alexenglish]

kristsune replied to your post “Mother’s Day”

AHHHHH YESSS *sobs a bit at the last one* I don't know if it's from reading so much fic, but anytime I picture Stiles at Claudia's grave, Derek is always lurking at the edge of the cemetery

Creeper Derek strikes again! 

Oh, maybe they’ve just started dating, after Derek comes back of course, and Stiles is at the cemetery visiting his mom, telling her about Derek. Literally everything. 

“I know I haven’t mentioned him before,” he says. “I liked keeping you out of all the drama, I didn’t want to worry you. Things are changing though, so maybe you should know everything.” 

He tells her about all of it, from Scott being bit and the kanima and being possessed -- that one hurts, he chokes on the story more than once. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t want her to be disappointed in him or pity him for what happened. He wonders if she was alive, would she look at him differently? Like his dad does sometimes. Not disproving, but just sad, like he wishes things were different. 

Stiles wishes they were different, too, sometimes.

He tells her about Derek regardless. How when he came back to Beacon Hills the first time, he was broken and angry. How Stiles could see it all. The rage and heartbreak, it was all so close to the surface, broken shards of glass under his skin. It was a slow change, a meaningful one. A journey of relearning himself, beginning to trust. Trusting Stiles. 

The mercenaries and thinking Derek was going to die -- Stiles rushes through that, hating it so much. He thought he was going to lose Derek and he didn’t do anything, he didn’t acknowledge it, he pushed away Lydia’s warnings and he doesn’t know why. 

Maybe it was the feelings that lurked just under the surface. Stiles has cared about Derek for a long time, but it changed in Mexico, when Stiles thought Derek was dying, it changed everything. Then, Derek disappeared and Stiles buried that part of himself. 

That is, until recently. 

“I know I’m going to love him more than anyone,” Stiles says, his last confession. “I can feel it. It’s like I’ve been on a slow simmer, but it’s coming to the surface. I can’t imagine my life without him.”

Stiles tilts his head back against her grave stone and closes his eyes, smile on his lips. It only takes a minute for him to hear the crunch of leaves in front of him. When he peels his eyes open, Derek’s there, shifting his weight nervously. 

“Did you mean it?” Derek asks, not bothering to excuse his presence. It’s probably a coincidence, them being in the graveyard at the same time. The Hales are buried just over the crest of the hill. Derek probably heard his voice when he was seeing Laura or his mom. 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, still sitting. There’s a desire to be honest around his mom. He wants to open his heart, spill his guts. Derek sits next to him and presses their shoulders together. 

“It’s the same, with me,” he says. Stiles grins and turns to press his face into Derek’s shoulder, happiness welling up inside of him. He feels tingly, floating. Moving up, he presses a kiss to Derek’s lips, quick and sweet. 

“Not yet though,” Stiles says. No true love confessions yet. No great proclamations. Soon, though, it’s been a long time coming. Soon Stiles will turn to Derek and whisper “I love you” into his skin and Derek will say it back with a grin on his lips and Stiles will kiss it and be happier than he’s ever been in his life.

[trinaweisenbachfeld]

Portal fic, Caroline-centric, pre-GLaDOS procedure

She screams until her voice is hoarse.

Even when her time is up, she arrives early for work. They find her at quarter to nine seated in her office, quieting signing off on papers and documents that would be rendered obsolete by the day's end.

No one bothers to knock. The scientists enter wordlessly, a single medic within their small mass. Setting down her pen, Caroline glances up, lower lip quivering slightly.

"You're late." Her cheeks are damp, and there's a glassy sheen to her eyes, but her expression is cold and her tone unforgiving. She speaks sharply, spitting out the final word as if it were their tardiness that troubled her restless mind. Under any other circumstance, on any other day, perhaps the scientists would have faltered, shifting uncomfortably under her piercing gaze, flinching at her sour tone. But not today. Today, they hold the upper-hand. She is powerless.

She knows it, too, sitting erect behind her desk, clenched jaw hardly stilling the quiver of her lower lip. Aperture might be her company now, but the control remained in the hands of a dead man who declared his intentions in a recording, words echoing on a constant loop : "If I die before you people can pour me into a computer, I want Caroline to run this place. Hell, put her in my computer."

Maybe he had thought he was saving her, saving Aperture, in a strange and warped way. Instead, she feels condemned, rising for her own execution. Someone steps forward, approaching her with brisk strides, but Caroline isn't paying attention, eyes downcast and focused on her hands, folded neatly atop her lap. Every muscle in her body in tensed, shivering ever so slightly with every breath, hitching slightly in the back of her throat.

Numbly, she can hear someone reciting a list of risks for the procedure -- surely it's been condensed. She can think of a dozen more horrors that she could endure that aren't included on the paper.

"-- Do we have your consent to carry out the procedure, ma'am?"

"No."

The scientist merely shrugs, having anticipated such a response from her. "Too bad."

Someone places a hand against her shoulder, and she snaps. Thrashing out of the man's grip, she shrieks, stumbling into her desk and sending the papers flying.

"Get your hands off me!"

There's a feral look in her eyes, wild and furious -- she's not going down without a fight. A second and third scientist approach, stepping carefully towards her, arms outstretched as if preparing to make a grab at her. Gazing shifting between the men, she shouts, words sounding strained and strangled in the back of her throat.

"No, no, no, no, no, no!" There's a panicked edge to her tone, desperation leaking through. "Don't touch me!"

It strikes her suddenly that she is stuck, blocked by the desk and surrounded by the three scientists, the medic closing in slowly from behind. With a shuddered inhale, her hands clench into fists by her side, knuckles turning white.

Someone has the gall to tell her everything will be alright. Another says it won't hurt at all. Neither deserve a response beyond the deafening shriek that passes her lips. Something touches her skin, at the base of her neck ; fine and sharp, she falls silently instantly as the medic croons his assurances behind her. The syringe breaks past flesh, embedding itself deep in her vein, and oh, it burns, this poison now coursing furiously through her throbbing veins.

She collapses against her desk, suddenly finding her muscles lack the co-ordination to keep her standing. With a quiver, she exhales, perfectly helpless as one of the scientists approaches, lifting her as easily as if she were a ragdoll, and just as easy to toss away.

"That's better," he remarks dryly, and someone laughs. "Alright, boys. Let's get this over with."

With a final intake of breath, she screams until her voice is hoarse.

Then she's nothing more.

[ "Say goodbye, Caroline!"

                                                                           Goodbye, Caroline. ]