Erm Flintwood please if you're still doing 150. * Winning smile *
pairing: marcus flint x oliver wood
setting: modern, non-magical, soulmates-at-first-touch au
word count: 1394
Marcus punches his soulmate in the face the first time they meet.
It’s worse than that.
Marcus punches his soulmate in the face the first time they meet, the flats of his knuckles crunching against the guy’s jaw, hard enough to draw blood and leave a mark and hurt—and then there’s a strange fluttering sensation erupting in the pit of Marcus’s stomach, a comforting, calming warmth suffusing the blood in his veins and the marrow in his bones and it’s exactly like how they’d described it in Health class, the awareness—the connection—slotting into place so seamlessly that he’s astonished he’d never noticed something missing before now.
“Oh, fuck,” Marcus blurts out. “Oh—fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Marcus’s soulmate—who’s tall and lean and has the prettiest brown eyes, what the shit—is just sprawled out on the dirty arena floor, blinking and blinking and prodding gingerly at the bruise that’s already beginning to blossom—
“No,” the guy says firmly. “This isn’t happening.”
“Fuck you,” Marcus immediately snaps. “I rejected you first.”
The guy snorts, kind of irritatingly sarcastic, before grimacing. His emotions, so far as Marcus can tell, are all over the place; shock and dismay and frustration and—very, very deeply—a flickering, almost unwilling tremor of interest.
“It wouldn’t work, anyway,” the guy goes on, more loudly. “You have terrible opinions about hockey.”
“Fuck you,” Marcus snaps again. “You’re the one in the shitty jersey.”
“He’s won three Cups.”
“Yeah, and he was a fucking healthy scratch for two of them,” Marcus retorts. “Try again.”
“Hockey is a team sport,” the guy says hotly. “It isn't—it isn’t about individual accomplishments.”
Marcus rolls his eyes. “Sure, whatever,” he drawls, “but your shitty jersey is still shitty.”
The guy’s mouth falls open, and Marcus can feel the sour note of his indignation—the jagged spike of his outrage—as clearly as if it were his own. “Jesus fucking Christ,” the guy sputters, shaking his head like he’s got a nervous tic. “What are you so—what are you so angry about?”
Marcus raises his eyebrows. “Um,” he says slowly, because, really, what the shit, “I’m not angry. I’m confused.”
“No.” The guy frowns. “You’re definitely angry. I feel it, like—” He gestures vaguely to his chest and upper abdomen. “Right there. Like heartburn.”
Marcus’s nostrils flare, and he scratches viciously at the side of his neck to distract himself from the fact that this complete fucking stranger with boy band hair and, and Bambi eyes is apparently better at deciphering Marcus’s emotions than Marcus is.
“Oh, hell,” the guy sighs, “now you're—embarrassed, don’t be like that, I didn’t mean to—hey, come on, where are you—where are you going? You can’t just—hey! Come back!”
Marcus does not come back.
And the ensuing wave of regret that pulses through Marcus’s sternum is lukewarm and salty and depressingly difficult to pinpoint the origins of.
It’s not his, he thinks stubbornly.
Marcus lasts two and a half days before the persistent invisible tugging at his gut becomes too annoying to bear.
He follows it.
He follows it to a bench in Riverside Park that’s near where the gross little fish and chips stand is, and the scent of old frying oil undercut by whatever the fuck is currently decomposing in the Hudson is—less nauseating than it arguably fucking should be, seriously, what the shit.
His soulmate, his soulmate, is sitting with his legs spread obnoxiously wide, wrists crossed and hands dangling in his lap, squinting intently up at the clouds like he’s waiting for them to tell him what to do next. It’s endearing. Maybe. Marcus’s stomach is in knots—a tangled mess of dread and unease and, abruptly, relief.
“Oh,” the guy says, quirking his lips into something that Marcus chooses to generously describe as a smile. The bruise on the guy’s jaw is a lurid, chalky looking violet, partially obscured by the auburn of his stubble. “You found me.”
“Of course I fucking found you,” Marcus says, dropping down next to him. Their knees brush, just for a moment, and it’s like—lightning, bright and fierce and sizzling, coiling around the base of his spine. “There’s been this—this buzzing, in the back of my head—”
“Yeah,” the guy interjects glumly. “I know. I would've—if you hadn’t. I would’ve tried to find you.” He pauses. “I missed you, I guess, which is—weird.”
Marcus scowls down at the sidewalk. There’s a crack in the cement, and it’s dirty, gritty with loose gravel around the edges, splintering off into a dozen hairline fractures before disappearing into the grass. He can feel his own surprise at the guy’s admission, and it’s so—uncomfortable, knowing that there’s nothing he can hide behind. Making himself smaller, holding himself still; they’re not antidotes for anything, not anymore, and this guy—his soulmate—he’s got a rabbit-fast heartbeat and an intimidatingly focused way of feeling things. Marcus wonders how he’s supposed to get used to that.
“I’m Marcus,” he eventually offers, voice emerging gruffer than he’d have liked. “My name, I mean. It's—Marcus.”
The guy turns, slightly, to look over at Marcus. “Oliver. I’m Oliver.” He hesitates before he goes on, sounding nonplussed, “I still can’t believe you fucking hit me. Over a jersey.”
Marcus huffs. “It’s a really shitty jersey.”
Oliver grins, short and sweet and self-deprecating, before nudging at Marcus’s ribs with the point of his elbow. “I’ve, uh. I’ve been told I’ve got kind of a…bad habit of, of taking things too seriously.” His mouth twists, and the stabbing ache of some long-ago insult, or argument; it lances through the pads of Marcus’s fingers, stinging and sharp. “Obsessive. That’s what—I dunno. That’s what I’ve been told. I can be…obsessive. About—whatever.”
“Obsessive,” Marcus repeats, shaking out his hand. “That’s your—one big fault. Enthusiasm.”
Oliver shrugs, easy and casual, like it doesn’t matter, like Marcus can’t literally feel the crippling uncertainty—the tension, swampy and thick—weighing down his limbs. “Enthusiasm is…too nice of a word for it, I think.”
“Bullshit,” Marcus hears himself say, with absolutely zero fucking direction from his brain, or his conscience, or his admittedly flimsy sense of self-preservation. “Enthusiasm is the perfect fucking word for it.”
Oliver startles, slightly, eyes widening a fraction. There’s a coolly refreshing burst of—happiness, maybe; gratitude, definitely—coating the back of Marcus’s tongue. Citrus. Summer. Chlorine and coconut. It’s fucking nice.
“Oh. Um. Okay,” Oliver says, haltingly. “Thanks.”
A tentative silence descends between them on the bench. Marcus drums his fingers against the inseam of his jeans, jiggling his foot and glaring at a rotting spear of tree bark and swallowing around a metallic-tasting lump in his throat that he instinctively wants to label curiosity.
“Sorry,” Marcus grunts, slouching forward. “About the—hitting you. I just—sorry. I was angry. I get angry.”
Oliver stares at him, bottom lip clutched between his teeth, and there’s a swirl of something taking root in his lungs, something chewy and rich, like caramel, so that every breath he takes in is like burnt brown sugar crystallizing against the roof of his mouth, but then there’s more, too, a champagne bubble pop of amusement, and—
“It’s alright,” Oliver says wryly. “I heard I was wearing a pretty shitty jersey.”
Marcus snorts, and then groans, and then laughs, almost despite himself, before confessing, as quietly as he can manage—
“howdy…im mccree. im..37 years old. 38 in a moons turn. im..gay. i like…guns. i really like….my spurs. they jingle fine. i like horses. they ninny ‘n they neigh. guns are cool too. my belts shiny. pardon my french but it stands fer B, Bad, A, fer Ass, M, fer Mother, bless her heart, n F, fer…..Fucker. ‘n i pride myself on bakin’ a real mean huckleberry cobbler, jus’ like my meemaw taught me”
Hey would you mind recommending ur fav cophine fics?
You mean other than my own? Hahaha.
Oof. You probably don’t know this, but I have always hated being asked for “favourite” anything. I always feel these things are dependent on context, mood, memory (and my memory is notoriously poor)… all that jive. It’s why I never make “Top 10” lists. I realize I’ll have to weed out things I love for other things I love, leaving me a dull garden in the end.
So I can’t always remember good stories, what they were called or where I found them. I feel like novelconcepts had a lot more fics than I can find, and other writers have purposefully withdrawn their fics. However—O, Happy Day!—The Never Home Girl by thecirclesquare, one of my all time faves (despite us coincidentally both writing WWII cophine fics at the same time and subsequently making me feel inadequate,) has just been reposted after the author finished reworking it as an original piece!
Of course, I recommend almost everything by OBFrankenfics, but especially Going Up, which I wish on a star will someday be finished. I’d really like to see Kindred Spirits finished, too. It’s just one chapter to go, people!
So, here, in no sensical order, is a random selection that came to mind and I could find (I may find more later.) You should know that I’m a big Cophine slut, so this is almost all Cophine-centric. (Edit: I misread this as fave OB fics, so a few of these are NOT Cophine.) Also, Warning: I tend to like my fics long, which is fine, except that a lot of these fics are also unfinished—some still regularly in progress, some long dormant. It kind of makes me feel better about the few I still haven’t finished, and kind of makes me want to suggest a mob of torch-wielding readers (okay, fake, battery-powered torches) show up at the authors’ doors to urge them to carry on. Then again, it’s not like fan fic writers get fame or fortune for their work. So, proceed at risk of your own frustration, or find shorter pieces by the same writers, mayhap, but either way, please share a little thanks for what you enjoy.
Thank you for asking this question, because it gave me an opportunity to poke around and find some fics I hadn’t seen in a long time, make a nod to some newer ones that tickled my fancy, and remember some good reads that pulled me into the fandom, which I hope will continue despite the show’s end.
the weirdest thing about woody’s roundup is that we all just go with it. like there’s over a thousand woodys saying howdy pardner? thank you sheriff, we all say in unison, both pleased and weirded out by this new cowboy overtake.
Mornings in Konoha were each of them a spectacle, bright and
blazing. The sun finely caressed the crests of the mountains, a lover’s morning
kiss, filled entirely with heat.
Hinata blinked her eyes open and pointedly ignored the crick
in her back, just there above her right hip. She could feel grains of stone
pricking her palms as she pushed herself up, rising none too steadily before
clutching the still-healing wound over her ribs. She rested her shoulder
against the rocks, waning, lightheaded. An inn would’ve been much preferred, as
far as halfway houses go, but she’d been weak and bleeding and so damned tired; this small cutout cave was her
She’d dreamt of home, hot and bright and overcast with every
shade of welcoming morning. Now, she lifted her fingers in front of her tilting
vision and watched them shake. There was a coolness, here, amid nothing but
rock and stone; It leeched into her body, her bones, and she thought of the
Shout-out to Jaal Ama Darav, who not only managed to catch Ryder by using his preserved and dissected pet as flirtation support, but who also told the entire fucking Initiative that Ryder is a screamer.
hey ummm i dont know who else to ask about this but what the fresh fuck is the "woody collective" and should i fear them
the woody collective started off as just one person who would take old deactivated nazi blogs and change the profile picture to a specific picture of woody from toy story and set everything to default besides the title, which they changed to “Howdy Pardner”
eventually more and more people joined, taking old nazi urls and woodifying then. the mastermind behind the woody collective no longer has control over all the blogs.
a blog called “woody’s roundup” was started that currently serves as somewhat of a central hub for all of the woodys. i’ve seen instances where the woody collective rounds up not just nazis, but also pedophiles and terfs.
there’s a new meme going around where people take the url of a popular tumblr user known for being “bad” (i.e. sixpenceee and even the staff) and edit their profile pic to the woody picture and put in a post that just says “Howdy”
tl;dr it’s an awesome thing going on but it’s probably gonna end up getting way out of hand but i hope it can continue to act as controlled chaos for as long as possible
When Mrs. Wilde and Judy's-heretofore-unmentioned-older-sister Victoria Hopps get married, will Nick have to call Judy, Auntie Carrots?
y’know what, this did occur to me!
N: Wait, wait, wait. Hold the phone. I don’t want to - I mean, obviously I’m glad my mom’s happy, but… if my mom marries your sister, that’ll make the two of you sister-in-laws, won’t it?
J: That’s right.
N: Then - you’ll be my aunt! I’ll be your nephew!
J: Haha! Yeah.
N: …And this doesn’t freak you out?
J: Oh, Nick. 300 siblings, remember? Thanks to marriages like that, I’m already related to basically every family in Bunnyburrow. Often in a bunch of overlapping ways. When I was a kid, pretty much everyone in my school was some kind of cousin to me.
J: Oh! Except Travis the ferret. He’s my uncle.
B: Good work, you two. I’m not one to encourage literal nepotism, but I have to say - you’re an excellent role model for your nephew, Hopps.
J: Thank you, Chief! I just know he’ll be a great cop when he grows up!
This woody thing is so bizarre but wonderful. I’m just imagining a swarm of woodies eating/obsorbing nazis and pedophiles to feed their collective hive of supernatural justice. And all happening with that stupid fucking dead pan grin of that Pixar character saying “Howdy partner!”
“Next time get one of us to go with you, Ponyboy. Any of us will.”
“I was plannin’ on getting boozed up tomorrow night. If I don’t, I’ll walk over and find y'all.”
“Okay, greasers, you’ve had it.”
“Who’s this, your great-aunts?”
“Sorry, kid. I forgot.”
“Shoot. You’re ninety-six if you’re a day.”
“Brother, you’re a sharp one. Where’d you two ever get to be picked up by a couple of greasy hoods like Pony and Johnny?”
“Five. They don’t talk Arabian, I don’t think. Say somethin’ in Arabian, Johnnycake.”
“Hey, where is ol’ Dally, anyways?”
“He’ll probably find the fight. That’s why I came over. Mr. Timothy Shepherd and Co. are looking for whoever so kindly slashed their car’s tires, and since Mr. Curly Shepherd spotted Dallas doing it…well…Does Dally have a blade?”
“Good. Tim’ll fight fair if Dally don’t pull a blade on him. Dally shouldn’t have any trouble.”
“A fair fight isn’t rough. Blades are rough. So are chains and heaters and pool sticks and rumbles. Skin fighting isn’t rough. It blows off steam better than anything. There’s nothing wrong with throwing a few punches. Socs are rough. They gang up on one or two, or they rumble each other with their social clubs. Us greasers usually stick together, but when we do fight among ourselves, it’s a fair fight between two. And Dally deserves whatever he gets, ‘cause slashed tires ain’t no joke when that was his fault. Our one rule, besides Stick together, is Don’t get caught. He might get beat up, he might not. Either way there’s not going to be any blood feud between our outfit and Shepard’s. If we needed them tomorrow they’d show. If Tim beats Dally’s head in, and then tomorrow asks us for help in a rumble, we’ll show. Dally was getting kicks. He got caught. He pays up. No sweat.”
“You dig okay, baby. Anyone want a weed?”
“Me, too. Get Johnny some, too. I’m buyin.”
“You must make such interestin’ conversation, you keepin’ your mouth shut and Johnny not sayin’ anything.”
“Who is it? The F.B.I.?”
“And a few other of the socially elite checkered shirt-set.”
“Who’s acting? I’m a natural normal.”
“Don’t get mouthy, Ponyboy.”
“No…no, Ponyboy, that ain’t right…you got it wrong…”
“Shut your mouth, kid. If you wasn’t Soda’s kid brother I’d beat the tar out of you. You know better than to talk to Johnny like that.”
“He didn’t mean it Johnny.”
“Shut up talkin’ like that. We couldn’t get along without you, so you can just shut up!”
“I know. The chips are always down when it’s our turn, but that’s the way things are. Like it or lump it.”
“Who you callin’ bums?”
“Then pity the back seat.”
“Why? We ain’t scared of them.”
“Well, those were two good-lookin’ girls if I ever saw any.”
“Marcia’s number. Probably a phony one, too. I must have been outa my mind to ask for it. I think I’m a little soused.”
“Y'all goin’ home?”
“I don’t know why I handed you that busted bottle. You’d never use it.”
“Gonna go play a little snooker and get hunt up a poker game. Maybe get rip-roarin’ drunk. I dunno. See y'all tomorrow.”
“Hey, Ponyboy. Long time no see.”
“Man, dig baldy here! I wouldn’t have believed it. I thought all the wild Indians in Oklahoma had been tamed. What little squaw’s got that tuff-lookin’ mop of yours, Ponyboy?”
“What I like is the ‘turn’ bit. Y'all were heroes from the beginning. You just didn’t ‘turn’ all of a sudden.”
“Why is it very bad?”
“I’ll babysit him. I haven’t got anything better to do.”
“Work? And ruin my rep? I wouldn’t be babysittin’ the kid here if I knew of some good day-nursery open on Saturdays.”
“…anyway, I was walking around downtown and started to take this short cut through an alley…and I ran into three guys. I says ‘Howdy’ and they just look at each other. Then one says 'We would jump you but since you’re as slick as us we figure you don’t have nothin’ worth takin’.’ I says 'Buddy, that’s that truth’ and went right on. Moral: What’s the safest thing to be when one is met by a gang of social outcasts in an alley?”
“No, another social outcast!”
“This house ain’t messy. You oughtta see my house.”
“Shoot, kid, if I ever did that my mom would die of shock.”
“I would drive us, but the breaks are out on my car. Almost killed me and Kathy the other night. You oughtta see Kathy’s brother. Now there’s a hood. He’s so greasy he glides when he walks. He goes to the barber for an oil change, not a haircut.”
“You know the rules. No jazz before the rumble.”
“They treatin’ you okay, kid?”
“Don’t talk. Just listen. We’ll bring you some hair grease next time. We’re havin’ the big rumble tonight.”
“It’s too bad you and Dally can’t be in it. It’s the first big rumble we’ve had—not countin’ the time we whipped Shepard’s outfit.”
“Did you know you got your name in the paper for being a hero?”
“You want anything besides hair grease, kid?”
“Okay. Don’t y'all run off.”
“I wish it was any one of us except Johnny. We could all get along without anyone but Johnny.”
“No wonder he hates your guts.”
“Oh, lordy! He has to live with that.”
“We just left him. I don’t know about stuff like this…but…well, he seemed pretty bad to me. He passed out cold before we left him.”
“You feel okay? You’re awful hot.”
“All right. But Darry’ll kill me if you’re really sick and go ahead and fight anyway.”
“You know somethin? You’d think you could get away with murder, living with your big brother and all, but Darry’s stricter with you than your folks were, ain’t he?”
“You know, the only thing that keeps Darry from bein’ a Soc is us.”
“I never knew you to play chicken in a rumble before. Not even when you was a little kid.”
“Somethin’ is gonna happen. We’re gonna stomp the Socs’ guts, that’s what.”
“What’s up with the big-times?”
“Welup, I see we’re in prime condition for a rumble. Is everybody happy?”
“Get thee hence, white trash. I am a Soc. I am the privileged and the well-dressed. I throw beer blasts, drive fancy cars, break windows at fancy parties.”
“I jump greasers!”
“Shoot, everybody fights.”
“They’re running! Look at the dirty —— run!” (Ponyboy isn’t sure if Two-Bit says it or not, but we could count it as him.)
“So he finally broke. So even Dally has a breaking point.”
“You really would have used that bottle, wouldn’t you? Steve and me were backing you, but I guess we didn’t need to. You’d have really cut them up, huh?”
“Ponyboy, listen, don’t get tough. You’re not like the rest of us and don’t try to be…”
“What in the world are you doing?”
“You little sonofagun.”
“No, but that’s what I’m wishing was all that’s bothering me.”