16 Works by ratisnotcrying
Listing Works
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Nobody at torchwood three knew Ianto. Not really. When he first joined, fresh out of the battle of Canary Wharf, the screams still ringing in his ears, the dust still in his hair, nobody had tried to get to know him. It was better that way. He didn’t want to talk about it, he couldn’t remember who he was before it, and he had Lisa in the basement.
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or: ianto just wants everything to be fine. he wants everything under control.
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Ianto woke up.
There was a brief moment, barely a second where everything was okay. His head was swimming with something just to the left of a hangover – must have been a good night. He could still smell Jack, as if he were in the room over and had only just left, he could still feel his thumb brushing tenderly over his cheek, careful to avoid the gash that barely had time to stop bleeding before he died.
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jack and ianto make me SICK. this started as 3k max and it ran far far away from me... also this will be cross posted on tumblr
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Naively, Tom thought that this whole situation would be okay, that the first day had been the worst day and it could only go up from there. He had helped unpack Josh’s things, ordered a take away, and realised that, actually, what he said was true - Josh was still his son, Tom still loved him, and that was that.
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Josh is struggling and Tom gets completely the wrong end of the stick
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Every day since Geralt had left him on the mountain, Jaskier had been off kilter. He had still performed and fucked his way across the continent but it hadn’t felt right and it pissed him off more than anything. It was, ultimately, pathetic. So he turned it to his advantage and wrote song after song about how much he hated Geralt now, though he isn’t sure who he was fooling.
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Inspired by this post by wren-of-the-woods on tumblr: https://wren-of-the-woods.tumblr.com/post/674200012768542720/dont-think-about-jaskier-lute-less-and-alone-in
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Contrary to all evidence, Buck didn’t really enjoy writing - or rather he did enjoy writing, would even say he was good at it, but he never wrote for pleasure. He looks over at the countertops, freshly cleaned; looks at the sink, empty of dishes and wonders if he should have cleaned the drawers as well but he shakes his head, wipes away the tears blurring his vision and looks back down at the page he was writing.
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It was a week before Morse was allowed to go home - the wound on his neck didn’t take to healing as quickly as the doctors had hoped, and it was still tender, stark scarlet against ghostly white. He had only had a few visitors - Thursday had come in almost every evening, updating him on Sarah’s case; Dr. Debryn had popped in once, and even Mrs Thursday had stopped by for half an hour, but Jakes hadn’t been.
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this is part two to 'youll get him back' and would make more sense if u read that first but honestly just live ur life
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Martin’s written poetry for as long as he can remember - he thinks the first poem he wrote was in year one, probably with some questionable rhyming and no actual link to whatever the task even was, but he had enjoyed it, a lot, and had entered every poetry competition (under a pseudonym) right up until sixth form.
Then, in year twelve, one of his teachers had lent him a photography guide and Martin became obsessed with the idea of taking pictures to go with his poetry.
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“Well, maybe if you weren’t so goddamn useless then we wouldn’t be stuck here.”
Juno hadn’t meant to say it. He didn’t even really believe it. Maybe he would have, when he was still a PI, before he had first met Peter, but he had changed so much since then. He still had bad days, but he handled them better now. He knew when he was in the wrong.
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Prompt: "You're useless." from palettes-and-prompts on tumblr
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Juno Steel and how to pretend you're fine by ratisnotcrying
Fandoms: The Penumbra Podcast
23 Jul 2021
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Juno hasn’t had a bad day in a long time. Okay, maybe he has, but not a bad-bad day, not a self-sacrifice-and-gun-fights bad day, not a what-if-I-crash-my-car bad day. He especially hadn’t had an I-need-to-hurt-myself-and-I-don’t-care-who-I-take-with-me kind of bad day.
Except today. Today felt like all of those wrapped into one and multiplied by a thousand.
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Prompt: “What if I just crash this car and make it all stop?” from prompt-dealer on tumblr
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Thomas hates summer, he always has.
Jimmy loves summer. To Jimmy, there is no better time of year - how could there be?
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A mystery illness has swept through Camelot - or, more specifically, the sorcerers of Camelot. Arthur is at a loss, Morgana is angry, and Gwaine is, well, Gwaine is a nosy, stubborn bastard.
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Morse had done foolish things before, on several occasions, often running alone into whatever half formed theory he had, and Jakes or Thursday usually found him bleeding, but mostly okay. Jakes used to be annoyed whenever he did this, thinking it a waste of time, but now he feels much the way he imagines Mrs Thursday does every time her husband leaves each morning.
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Technically, they weren't dating. Neither Sonny nor Rafael had ever tried to raise the issue of labelling their friends-with-benefits-who-also-go-on-unofficial-dates-at-least-once-a-week situation. Actually, Sonny had mentioned it once, a few months after it all started, when he thought Barba was asleep and neither of them mentioned it the next morning.
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Of course Merlin knew this day would come. As convincing as he was as the bumbling fool of a man servant, he was actually quite intelligent. So he knew that, one day, Arthur would find out that he had magic. But he didn’t prepare for it, he didn’t prepare because he still clung to the blind hope that maybe, just maybe, Arthur wouldn’t find out.
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I'm a sucker for Arthur-finds-out-fics and happy endings, so here we are.
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Sebastian was a soldier; he was a skilled marksman; he was the right-hand man and lover to the most dangerous criminal mastermind in the UK. Sebastian was also fairly certain he was hallucinating. Seeing a deceased loved one was normal, he knew that, but he wasn’t so sure that having whole conversations with their disembodied voice was the same.
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Should I give a fuck who you are?