#riot writes

[riotwritesthings]

new fic writer ask game

throw a trope, kink, or genre in my ask box and I'll list my fics with that tag. Or top three, if there are a ton. I reserve the right to have fun with it lol

other writers plz feel free to reblog and play too

[riotpoison]

downloading fics to my kobo rn so please enjoy this most recent tidbit of my killjoys fic!! man i wonder who st. jimmy might be

Over the next couple weeks, Jet thinks about what Venom told him, and asks around about the Mailbox.

Dr. Death Defying’s heard of it, and knows it’s in Zone 2, but not the exact location. The next few runners Jet talks to also don’t know anything useful. Then, Jet finds someone who does.

It’s a zonerunner named St. Jimmy, who approaches Jet at a market to get a hubcap put back onto his car. It’s a beautiful ride, too; a Mercury Monterey older than Dr. D’s grandfather, painted forest green. The body’s got some wear and tear, a few dents and spots where the paint’s seen some sandstorms over the years, and one of the headlights is burnt out, but Jet can tell it’s well taken care of.

The hubcap is a quick job, costing 15 of Jimmy’s carbons and 10 minutes of Jet’s time. They make idle small talk while Jet works, and it turns out Jimmy got the hubcap made custom by a buddy out in Zone 2.

“You very familiar with the landmarks out there?” Jet asks, sticking a lug nut in his pocket for safekeeping, then starting on the next one.

“Familiar enough,” Jimmy shrugs. “Something you’re looking to find?”

“Heard talk of a Mailbox out there, but so far no one’s been able to tell me where to find it, just that it exists.” Jet says.

Jimmy shrugs, leaning against the guardrail a few feet away. “It’s about ten miles southwest of the border with Zone 1. You take the first left after Route Diablo, then stop at the staircase. Then it’s a half mile to the north, in some short brush. You can’t miss it.”

Jet thanks him for the carbons and the directions, and Jimmy’s off.

The next day, Jet leaves Baby Girl with Dr. D and borrows the van, promising to be back before dark. It’s a good few hours to get to Zone 2, but Jet doesn’t stop or slow down, so he makes good time.

Jet eventually passes the crossroads diving Route Diablo and the Highway, then takes the next left turn he sees. Several miles down, standing freely a few hundred feet back from the road, is a rusted spiral staircase. Jet parks the van, gets out, and starts walking north. Then, he finds it, sticking out among the short, dry brush, just like St. Jimmy had said.

Whatever colour the Mailbox may have originally been, it’s a patchwork of rainbow graffiti and half-melted prayer candles now. In half-faded white paint over the drop-slot, someone had at one point stencilled on the word “FAREWELL.” Just above a large blue-green eye on the front of the Mailbox, Jet can make out the words “I FORGIVE U.” Scattered across the ground in front of the Mailbox are dozens of assorted, variously coloured flowers, all in different states of decay.

The surrounding area feels peaceful, almost sacred. The sight of it takes Jet’s breath away.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, just watching the Mailbox, studying all the details he can see, before he makes up his mind.

[tittydicktea]

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

Stanley fakes his death earlier, and Stanford mourns. (4,486 words. Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning. read the tags)

hey so i posted a thing. its been sitting in my drafts for a while so I've just posted it as it is. I might do a follow-up later but. that's if my Muse is Musing, yknow.

[thecolddeathfic]

Part 1

WinterIron, E, 2k - Horror, Body Horror, Injury, Illness

see pinned post for a list of tags and warnings for the full fic

Shout out to all my weird sexy horror freaks. This one is for us.

Anthony.

The word drifts through Tony’s feverish mind and he struggles to blink his eyes open.

He hasn’t heard that name in years.

Why-

Where-

Everything is so dark.

There’s a burning pain in his chest every time he tries to breathe and he doesn’t remember-

Anthony.

He doesn’t recognize the voice. No one calls him Anthony anymore.

Tony keeps blinking until he can barely make out a jagged stone ceiling above him.

Where-

The cave.

He knows no one here is calling him by his full first name.

When he drags in another sharp breath he swears he can feel the shards of metal working their way deeper despite the fucking magnet shoved into his chest.

Slicing through his lungs. Making their way to his heart-

Someone has replaced the bandages that he’d ripped away, re-covered the filthy metal and the gaping hole it’s failing to plug in his sternum.

In the dark of the cave, the blood already soaking through the fabric looks black-

Anthony.

Tony’s painfully fast breath freezes in his chest.

He knows he heard it that time.

Everything aches as he slowly turns his head from side to side, squirting into the shifting shadows-

It’s so dark. It might be night, but he can’t tell for sure.

He thinks he’s alone, but he can’t be sure-

The cave is freezing, Tony can feel himself shivering, but his skin is coated in sweat.

“H-Hello?” He croaks out weakly.

The single word tears at his dry throat. Forcing out enough air to actually make a sound leaves his lungs feeling wrung out-

Dragging in his next breath sends hot agony lancing through his chest.

There’s no response.

He can taste blood in the back of his throat.

No matter how many times he blinks, he can’t get the darkness around him to stop spinning.

For a split second Tony thinks he sees someone, or maybe the movement of someone’s shadow-

But then it’s gone.

All he can hear is his own hitching, ragged breathing.

A bead of sweat runs down Tony’s cheek as he turns his head again.

The deep shadows on the wall almost resolve into the shape of a person before shifting away again.

It feels like the cave is getting colder, Tony can almost see his breath hanging in the air-

His fever must be getting worse.

Tony doesn’t fight it when his eyes start to drift closed again.

He must be hallucinating- He knows he should be more worried about it than he is.

He thinks he hears the voice again as he drifts off, but prying his eyes open again is physically impossible.

It’s probably all in his head anyway.

~

He’s dreaming.

He must be, because he’s back in his tailored suit, standing in a short, unlit hallway.

There are open doorways on both sides, and a closed door at the end.

Tony remembers this apartment.

He lived here with Ty, for a while- During grad school-

When he turns, he sees the kitchen table where he studied for his advanced engineering final. There’s the couch where sat staring at the wall for hours after his parent’s funeral.

The apartment is completely silent around him. It was never this quiet when he actually lived here, never this dark and still-

Why is he dreaming about this place now?

Tony turns back and moves slowly toward the end of the hall.

He remembers the dents in the walls and the framed photo of him and Ty hanging by the bedroom.

Ty’s office is across the hall. Even with the lights out, he can tell it’s neat and organized the way Ty always kept it.

The door at the end of the hall is Tony’s office, he remembers that now.

He remembers that he and Ty had quickly realized they needed separate offices, but he doesn’t-

It’s weird. He can’t remember what was in his office, now.

Why did he have to do all of his studying in the kitchen? Tony is sure that the room is a mess behind the closed door, but-

With what?

Most of his work was kept in the labs at SI or on campus. Why did he need an office, if he wasn’t doing his schoolwork in it?

Tony slowly moves closer, torn between curiosity and an odd sense of dread building in his gut.

He reaches for the doorknob and then pauses, fingers hovering in the air.

A cold sweat is breaking out across his skin and his stomach is in knots.

He doesn’t want to open it.

Why is this the only door that’s closed? Why is he even dreaming about this apartment after all this time, why is he remembering it dark and silent?

His hand is still hanging in the air- hesitating-

Why is his heart racing in his chest?

He doesn’t want to open the door, but-

It’s also driving him crazy that he can’t remember. He spent a ton of time in this office, maybe too much. He remembers that, so why not what he was doing?

Why-

”Anthony-“

The sudden voice makes Tony flinch, stumbling back a half-step and pulling his hand in towards his chest.

He thought he was alone, he was sure of it-

But then again, he is dreaming.

He knows he’s dreaming, so why is his blood running cold? Why is he still backing away from the door with sluggish, heavy footsteps?

”Anthony-“

The voice is low and rough, like it hasn’t been used in years. Despite the odd, echoing quality of it Tony is pretty sure it’s coming from his office-

”Open the door, Anthony," the voice says, like the speaker can hear his thoughts.

It’s not quite a demand, but there’s a distinct impatience to the words that has Tony’s breath catching painfully in his chest.

He tries to back away from the door faster, but the floor bucks and shifts beneath his heavy feet. His hand slides along the wall as he struggles to keep his balance, knocking the picture frame to the floor with a dull clatter.

”Anthony.”

His heart is racing so hard that it hurts- every frantic thud sending another sharp bolt of cold fear through his chest.

His breath wheezes out of his chest and then hangs in the air like smoke, like there’s a chill in the air that he can’t feel-

Tony doesn’t know what’s inspiring the deep terror in his gut, where the sinking feeling of cold in his chest is coming from-

Unless he does.

The fear feels as familiar as the apartment, linked to it, but he’s not-

He doesn’t remember.

He doesn’t want to remember.

Someone is still saying his name from the other side of the door.

Tony tries to back away faster, but his heel catches against the writhing ground and he falls-

~

“Stark. Stark.”

Tony snaps awake, his entire body jolting as he tries to prepare himself for impact with the hard wooden floor of his apartment.

But there’s no impact, just burning agony shooting through him as the shredded muscles in his chest try to pull tight-

As his bones shift and grind against the disk of metal set into his sternum-

There’s no apartment.

He’s lying on a rusted cot in a cave in the desert.

He’s still so cold-

“Stark.”

Tony tenses painfully again. His eyes flash around the dark cave for a second before landing on Yinsen sitting beside the cot.

“You need to drink,” the man says, his face creased with concern.

Tony blinks and there’s a chipped glass in front of his face, filled with cloudy water. Condensation runs down the side and it looks so good-

But Tony can’t work up the energy to raise his arm, or even his head.

Breathing is too much energy, too painful. Even keeping his eyelids up is-

“Stark,” Yinsen says and Tony reluctantly pries his eyes open again. “You have a bad fever,” he says, and Tony almost wants to laugh.

What had he called it, 'the walking dead? ’

Tony certainly feels more than halfway there, one way or another.

Focusing on Yinsen’s face among the swirling, dancing shadows of the cave is nearly impossible-

But Tony eventually manages it. The other man’s furrowed brow is dotted with sweat, but all Tony feels is cold.

“Sorry,” he croaks, struggling to stay focused, “you’ll prob- you’ll get in trouble if I die, huh?”

“It’s possible, but I’ll worry about that if it comes to it,” Yinsen replies dryly, a thin smile on his face.

Tony nods weakly, even though it makes his skull throb.

He slowly shifts his gaze to the glass Yinsen is still holding out to him. It almost looks like a thin layer of ice has formed on top of the water, but Tony knows the cave isn’t that cold.

He starts to lift his hand toward the glass and pain lances through him again, the jagged edges of his muscles screaming and the shards of his sternum grinding, shifting-

It hurts- The rapid beat of his heart is agony-

He can’t-

Burning pain is consuming him- But he’s still so cold-

He blinks slowly and the glass of water is gone.

Tony can’t be sure if he drank it or not.

He tries to look at Yinsen again, but he can’t manage that either.

“You must fight Stark,” Yinsen says urgently as Tony’s gaze drifts around the cave, unseeing. “Death is reaching out for you, do not take his hand.”

Tony forces himself to nod and suck in a shuddering breath- Even though it aches- Even though he can feel the pressure of the magnet pressing against his scorched lungs, the shrapnel slicing deeper-

Everything goes dark.

“I understand the urge to give in,” Yinsen says, his voice soft now, haunted. Coming from so far away.

Tony can’t turn his head, but after several long seconds he manages to to locate Yinsen’s shadow on the wall and at least that’s something.

Some kind of connection.

“But this is not your time,” Yinsen continues, “not here. Don’t give in.”

His voice is even more distant now, but his shadow is steady on the wall. Comforting-

Part of Tony wants to swear that he’ll try, but even the thought of forcing out words again makes his eyes fill with tears.

And the rest of him isn’t sure that it’ll matter if he fights.

Tony’s eyelids are heavy, breathing hurts- but he struggles to stay awake. To stay somewhat focused on Yinsen’s oddly smooth shadow cast on the rough stone wall.

Hopefully that counts for something.

He watches Yinsen’s shadow move as the man leans in over him, hair falling loose over his shoulder-

Wait-

Yinsen- He doesn’t have hair long enough to-

Who-

The shadow tips its head and more of its profile comes into view.

Tony blinks rapidly, his vision spinning as he sucks in a sharp, agonizing breath.

That’s-

That’s not Yinsen.

Everything starts to go dark again as Tony’s heart races, like it’s trying to reach out for the waiting metal shards.

He thinks Yinsen is talking again, but the words are too far away to make out.

The shadow is still moving closer.

There’s an odd shape to the face, like its wearing some kind of mask-

It’s almost familiar- Isn’t it-?

Despite his best efforts, Tony can’t keep his eyes open anymore.

He’s so cold-

[fairytaleriots]

Aspect Collection - Time

For a while now I've wanted to create a poetry collection in which each poem is based on one of the aspects from Homestuck. The idea of writing poetry as fanfiction fascinates me and I wanted to try too. The only problem: Poetry is scary and I've not written one since I was 12 years old. That was actually my very first published fanfic! I wrote it at one in the morning, it was about 6 lines long and very angsty, and then i posted it directly to fanfiktion.de without proof reading it. I've taken a lot more care with this one, but I think I need to start channeling 12 year old me's confidence. So I'm throwing my first attempt on here to figure out how I feel about it. This might not be the final version and I will share links once I've officially uploaded it to ao3. Anyway here is my poem based on the Time Aspect!

There’s a puzzle in a frame hanging on a wall. Providing the wherewithal to recall the joy found in the hours spend matching part to part. Now never to be undone or given a new start

There’s a blank page being filled. Graphite smudged and ink spilled. What’s now a work of art was once a pen, was once an oak. The pencil growing smaller with each and every stroke.

There’s stars twinkling in the sky. Loud, but colorful and bright, pleasing to the eye. Not suns, enduring and distant, but fleeting, man-made moments of gunpowder and fire, a beautiful explosion to admire.

There’s a story being told again. From mouth to ear, from brain to brain. Reshaped trough listener and teller. Pieces of the old and pieces of the new shining trough, the half forgotten made anew.

There’s things to be broken and things to be made, for each creation a price to be paid, but no grief for gunpowder, old puzzles or pens, when there’s fireworks, stories and art. The old thing found in the new in each part.

[riots-unterzee-au]

Scrap 1

“We need to talk.”

The voice of the ship’s surgeon breaks Steve out of his thoughts, and he tears his gaze away from the false-stars shining weakly above them. He finds Sam fixing him with a flat stare, and Steve sighs.

“Is this about-“

“-Yes it’s about the state of the ship,” Sam cuts him off.

Steve sighs again. “It’s still floating, isn’t it?”

“Barely,” Sam says, “but you didn’t see the way it pitched when Clint and Thor started loading up the stone-“

“Well-“

“-And,” Sam barrels on, “we probably would have blown up on the way here if your ghost of a First Officer hadn’t emerged from his cabin just long enough to literally pinch a leak in one of the engine pipes closed.”

“You saw Bucky?” Steve asks quickly, perking up.

“Not the point.”

“How did he look?”

“Not great,” Sam says flatly, and then softens when Steve feels his face fall. “He just… he needs more time,” he adds.

Sam’s voice is gentle, but he doesn’t sound convinced, and Steve can only nod weakly. Whatever marked Bucky, stealing his memories and most of his humanity, it isn’t letting go easily.

“But he won’t get that time if we all sink and die on our way back to Fallen London,” Sam continues, determined.

“Are you suggesting we stay here?” Steve asks dryly.

They both look up, unwillingly. The massive, distorted stone shapes looming above them almost seem to move in the flickering lamp light. The one that still has a face is watching them.

“Yes, I want to live on the Salt Lions,” Sam says sarcastically, but there’s a shiver in his voice. He fixes Steve with another unimpressed look. “What I’m saying, is that zailing on a ship that’s about to break down isn’t exactly good for morale. If we do make it back…. I don’t know how much of the crew will sign on for another run.”

Sam doesn’t need to say that he might be one of the zailors not to return. He doesn’t want to lose another crew, it’s obvious even if he doesn’t say it.

“Point taken,” Steve says, his shoulders falling. “We need an engineer.”

“Need,” Sam repeats with feeling. “I mean, what we really need is a new ship, but I’ll settle for an engineer.”

“I’ll try to find one,” Steve promises, but he’s not sure this load of sphinxstone will pay for repairs and a new crew member.

Sam nods, and they turn when Thor hollers that the boat is loaded. The tension on the ship is obvious as Steve boards, everyone tightly strung and huddled around the running lights.

Clint is smiling as always though when he turns away from the deck weapon. “Back to London?” He asks.

Steve shakes his head. “The Cumaean Canal, we’re going to meet with someone for The Director on the way.”

Clint’s nose wrinkles at the mention of the one-eyed man, but he doesn’t say anything. His shoulders are squared as he spins back to his gun.

They launch from the small dock cradled between the feet of the massive stone lion, gas lanterns fading behind them, and in no time they’re swallowed up by the inky blackness of the Neath. Bats chatter and screech somewhere far up above them, nearly drowning out the sounds of the dark water against the hull.

Steve triple-checks that their course is set correctly and then heads below deck, where the pained whine of the engine is nearly deafening. The door to the First Officer’s cabin is locked, and there’s no response when he knocks as loudly as he can.

[therollingstonys]

The absolutely INCREDIBLE @baneme-art created this for @riotwritesthings and I for our series Bound To You and I for one am SCREAMING over how perfect it is!! If you’d like to commission amazing artwork for yourself, you can do so here! Thank you so so much for this stunning artwork Mero!! Riot and I can’t thank you enough!! ❤️

[wingsanddimples]

Danville, VA; July 1988

Dean wants to get Sammy a puppy. Not a real one (John would make some big show of...well, probably putting it down to teach them a lesson, if Dean was honest with himself), but a stuffed one. He’d seen the kid hugging the extra pillow on the motel bed at night and thought back to before the fire, when he would hug a blue bear to sleep at night.

He wants to find a puppy, but he also knows he’s at the mercy of whatever is easiest and most available for him to grab.

He stares at the kids on the playground, dutifully babysitting his younger brother in the sandbox, waiting for a good opportunity with a kid who’s just forgetful enough and a parent in just enough of a hurry.

The opportunity comes and Dean sees it immediately. A little girl, probably not much older than Sammy, has dropped her purple hippopotamus by the swings. Dean tells Sammy it’s time to go home.

“But Deaaan,” he whines at his brother, “I’m not done with my castle.”

“I know, we’ll come back tomorrow and I’ll let you build as many castles as you want, but we gotta go right now, okay?” Sammy pouts and Dean is tempted to let him finish his castle, but remembers the mission he’s on. “Go on, get started, I’ll catch up. I need a drink, ‘kay?” Sammy continues pouting, but gets up and stares woefully at his half finished ‘castle’. It’s more like a lopsided pile of dirt with a dirty pigeon feather stuck into it as a makeshift flag, but Sammy has also had to make due with the broken shovel and no bucket. He sighs loudly and starts walking to the sidewalk out of the park with his shoulders sagging dejectedly.

Dean takes the opportunity and sprints to the swings, sliding in the gravel and grabbing the stuffed hippo, as if he’s sliding for the game winning home run in the World Series.

He manages to stuff the hippo beneath his jacket with deft fingers that have lifted many a candy bar out from under gas station clerk’s noses. He then casually walks toward his younger brother and quickens his pace, grabbing Sammy’s hand and tugging him along and far away from the park and back toward their dingy motel room.

~

Sammy is eating the spaghetti-o’s Dean put in front of him and watching the static-laden cartoons they managed to get to come on the old motel TV when Dean decides to give him the hippo.

“Sammy, I wanted to give you something,” he says, clearing his throat and talking louder than the TV to get his brother’s attention. Sammy turns from the screen, his face a pasta sauce mess with random noodles stuck to his cheeks.

“What is it?” he asks, putting his spoon down and standing up on his chair, leaning toward Dean. His eyes are bright and curious and Dean beams as he pulls the purple hippo out from behind him and presents it to his baby brother with a wide grin.

“It was supposed to be a puppy, but the uh, the store was out, so I got you this instead.” Sam’s eyes widen and he squeals with delight, snatching the hippo and joyfully hugging it to his chest, the spaghettio’s transferring onto the plush.

“Dee, it’s the best puppy ever! I love it!” He clambers off the chair and hugs his brother, the hippo under one arm. “I’m naming it Puppy.” Dean ruffled Sam’s hair and hugged him back.

“Sure, sure, Sammy, I’m just glad you like it.”

~

Sammy wakes up to his father picking him up out of bed and taking him into the sticky air of the Virginia night and only groans a little. “Daddy, my Puppy,” he manages to croak out, his throat dry from sleep. John ignores him and puts him in the car, Dean beside him, rubbing his eyes and yawning, trying to get back to sleep. He starts to whine again about the stuffed animal, but John snaps at him.

“Enough! I don’t want to hear another word, Sammy.”

Sammy is too tired to insist and, feeling he might be dreaming, falls back asleep beside his brother in the back of the Impala.

The hippo had fallen off the bed, as stuffed animals are wont to do when a child tosses and turns and thrashes about in their sleep, and lay on the motel room floor, half under the bed.

It isn’t until they’re in a new motel Kentucky in the morning that it sinks in to Sammy that Puppy is nowhere to be found beside him, nor in the small backpack of his belongings. He sits on the bed and cries, inconsolable, for what feels to Dean like hours.

Dean sits at the table in the motel room staring at the ugly green patterned wallpaper. He didn’t know that they’d be leaving so soon, that John would grab them in the middle of the night and leave the state. It wasn’t a rare occurrence, Dean should have known better. He should have checked when John woke him up for the hippo. He could have stuffed it into his own bag. But he didn’t.

Eventually, Sammy’s wails calm down into soft sobs and sniffles, then into silence as he cries himself to sleep. Dean looks over from the table at his brother and sighs. He wonders how many more times he’s going to let his little brother down.

inspired by @godtrials post