#I am stepping off my soapbox now thank you for your time

[musical-chick-13]

I will clown on Spn. I will even clown on BBC S-lock despite my continued nostalgia and unironic enjoyment of it. But I WILL NOT clown on DW.

[macfrog]

Hello…..San Angelo?!?!?! 🙏🙏

they way you wrote joel’s perspective had me on the FLOOR??? i’m in so much awe of your beautiful brain!!!! really curious as to how you manage to write the characters perspectives so deeply and beautifully.. is it a whole process of getting yourself in their head or does it just come naturally?

also rereading scom is my only grasp on sanity right now so thanks for that masterpiece✨

aaah thank you so much! cries

it's sort of fifty-fifty, i guess? like, on the one hand, i am conscious of joel's character as i write him. it's always in the back of my mind - the things i think he would or wouldn't do. everything he says, does, thinks and feels has to track with who he is (and, in the case of san angelo, who he becomes). it's just an important part of the process, for me.

that being said, i don't think i'm doing any of it intentionally. he's just a very well-rounded character who i've spent a fair bit of time playing, watching, admiring lol, so he feels quite easy at this point to predict and imitate. i think (hope) i know him pretty well - so i just guide the story where i want it to go and watch how the dude reacts.

joel and reader always just feel like active agents in my head. when it starts to feel like i'm getting too involved and directing or positioning them a little too heavily, that's when i figure i've bled outside of his character. if i have to convince myself that he's doing something, then he probably wouldn't realistically be doing it.

i hope that makes sense. i'm stepping off the soapbox now, dw. but thank you for such a lovely question! i love talking about this man.

and thanks for reading! so glad you're enjoying :-) x

edit: make that old man do whatever the fuck you want him to, though. who the hell am i and who the fuck cares - it's fanfiction!

[smallcrystals]

pls pls pls i need some flashspruce headcanons, idc what they're abt i just NEED

i've been on the verge of insanity lately

this is so real and honestly your insanity brought back mine so thank you

i feel like part of the reason i've kinda fell off my eqg soapbox is bc i felt like i've said all i've ever wanted to say abt them, but i don't think i have actually! if you do not mind me repeating myself occasionally:

between flashspruce, flash has the most experience with boys despite having realised his attraction to them later than timber did. this is mainly because flash is surrounded by more boys because high school, the maths is pretty simple

timber, on the other hand, had a more complicated relationship with sexuality because his gender was doing all sorts of funny things. he had an idea that he was pan (of course, he didn't have the words for it yet) but he was never sure if he was romantically interested in boys or just admired them so obsessively he wanted to be one. as timber grew into his teen years he realised it was both lol

timber hides this with his confidence but flash can see right through it because he's dealt with boys like this before when they've hit on him previously (though they're never quite as cute as timber is. pretty privilege i tell ya)

when they're friends, they have this specific dynamic that idk how to explain (the closest i can think of is hyung-dongsaeng in korean culture), but essentially it's this feeling of wanting to dote on your friends that are younger than you (even if it's just by months). that's how flash treats timber in the early stages – flash finds out he's older than timber by a few months and now he cannot think outside of timber = baby

timber loves the mane 7 but if flash is tagging along with their hangouts (which is usually the case, timber only rarely hangs out with them as a group by himself), he's very clingy and has his arm hooked with flash's. flash finds it adorable, especially when timber refuses to let go in public

i see 2 ways in which they can go from friends to lovers; either it's very natural and it doesn't feel like anything's changed, OR they've reached a breaking point where they're just seconds away from devouring each other. sunset says that sometimes flash looks at timber like he will leave bite marks on the guy if he doesn't stop whatever he's doing (existing). both are good i'd say

timber has always filmed little candids of flash when they start being friends, mainly on his phone but whenever they're out by themselves, he brings his fancy camera out. flash doesn't know this, mainly because timber doesn't show him out of embarrassment, but you can really tell the person who filmed the videos loves their muse

flash sends over lyric docs whenever he feels like it and usually these are without any context, literally no "hello" or "how are you", just [text].doc and timber's like ???. but then timber reads them and is like sad™. timber's never admitted to this, and it'll take him a while to do so, but there have been certain lines in flash's lyrics that had him crying. how many chances do you get in life where your muse considers you their muse too?

flash sometimes buys timber books that he's read just so timber can also read them and then freak out the same way he did. most of the time timber's reaction is "why would you make me read this i am now clinically insane" which was exactly flash's goal

i would try to debate who would be the pathetic lover between flashspruce but there is no answer to that bc they are both equally pathetic in their own ways sorry loverboys

flash actively joins timber when he goes to get more wood just so he can see timber in a tanktop and an axe but flash will deny this every step of the way

timber can't say anything though bc man does this as well during the summer months when the flash drive are performing at bars; flash is Not about to wear leather in this weather and timber's gonna enjoy every moment of it

and yeah flash teaches timber the guitar bc what is he if not a lover of music and queer rockstars (he thinks timber could make a really cool queer rockstar if not for the fact he would steal a million of girls' hearts in one second and a smile)

these two make me want to chew a wall. dead serious

(i see your ask about flash, i will get to that soon i promise 🫡)

[kirythestitchwitch]

'First Base' - Mafia AU Sequel - American Pie

Caroline is attempting to negotiate some terms.

Caroline hummed, super convinced. "And we're going to eat hot dogs?"

"I'm not going to have a heart attack from just one, am I?" he asked, like he didn't order a pizza with everything on it last week when he came over for a marathon of Chopped on Food Network. It was probably a secret that Caroline would take to her grave that Klaus greatly enjoyed the culinary competition show. He'd come over and make himself comfortable on one side of her couch–now that he was allowed on it–and he always brought an offering of food for her coffee table.

To anyone else, it would have been a surreal sight, seeing Klaus with a paper plate balanced on one knee gesturing at the tv with a half-eaten slice of pizza. "Mint isn't going to be as surprising with that citrus as you think it will, basil would impress the judges more."

"Basil, on a cake?" Caroline said, picking artichoke hearts off her slices. The pizza place Klaus used had been a Kol recommendation, which meant it was a hole-in-the-wall hipster start-up with some truly off-the-wall ideas of what constituted 'everything.'

Klaus put a hand to his heart. "I promise you, it's a subtle combination.” Going back to his pizza for a moment, he chewed while watching the contestant chop herbs frantically on the screen. “There's a bakery off North Avenue, they have a Lemon Basil Meringue Pie in the summer and it is divinely refreshing. I’ll order one for next time.”

Leaning back against the armrest, Caroling nudged his thigh with her sparkly pink-painted toes. “It’s nice that you’ve accepted our country’s lax definitions of pies.”

Setting his empty plate on the table, Klaus shoved the last bite of his slice of pizza in his mouth and chewed, wiping his hands on a napkin. He turned his body so that his back was in the crook of the couch arm, one black jeaned leg bent on the seat. Nabbing one of her feet, he pulled her toward him a few inches and she slid down the padded arm with a squeak, her plate wobbling precariously.

“Your pies,” he said with the air of a man stepping up on a soapbox, “defy any kind of logic.” His thumbs pressed into the ball of her foot and rubbed, and Caroline may have let out a noise that was a little obscene. “I’ll be under the presumption that that’s just a tart in the wrong baking shell, but no, you’ve put meringue all over it and toasted it with a torch.”

Caroline hummed blissfully and started in on her pizza. “And it was a brilliant plan, wasn’t it?” 

“And then,” Klaus said, ignoring her question but continuing to massage her foot, “You Americans made a pie out of a potato, but you insist it’s a dessert pie. It’s orange, and it’s still not as suspicious as whatever a 'Hoosier' Pie is. They neglected to put anything other than sugar into that one.”

“Wait wait, I know this one!” Caroline cast around in her memory for an episode of maybe Good Eats on Pies she saw once. “Those were invented by the Amish or the Quakers or something for winter when they didn’t have any fruit and everything sucked.” 

"It's a custard, it belongs in a bowl. I'm not even going to touch your savory pies, the less said about those the better." He made a disgusted face.

She giggled to herself. "Someone tried to feed you a Cheeseburger Pie, didn't they?"

"Spaghetti Pie and I'll thank you to never bring up either option again."

"Okay technically," she said around a bite of bread and cheese. His hands really were magical as they eased the tension in the arch of her foot. "Those belong to the 'casserole' family and not the 'pie' family. The name is misleading, you can't technically categorize those as pies. There are also liars like the Boston Crème Pie and the Cheesecake, which each belong to the opposite family."

"And we're back to my original point: they defy logic."

[independence1776]

19 Questions Meme

Supposed to be 20 questions, but one seems to have vanished along the way. Thank you to @spiced-wine-fic for tagging me.

1. How many works do you have on Ao3? 120, though some of those are moodboards instead of fic.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count? 492,336 words. I'm not prolific.

3. What fandoms do you write for? Star Wars, in the Kanan comics niche of the Rebels subfandom but I also work in rather a lot of Prequels-related material and I love the JFO/Survivor era. I also wrote a lot in the Tolkien fandom, Silmarillion side, but I'm only dipping my toes into the fandom at the moment and I'm not sure I'll return in depth.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos? 

I am not the world's biggest fan of sorting by kudos; kudos doesn't mean best, it simply means popular. And often in the case of AO3, it means "in a popular fandom" so it skews results. There are plenty of fantastic fics that don't have a lot of kudos. And just because they're in the top-5 doesn't mean the author thinks they're their best works.

I'll step off my soapbox now. In order from most to least: To Remake the Universe (MCU), In Deep or In Darkness (MCU-Young Wizards crossover), Never Discussed But Silently Acknowledged (Star Wars), An Unexpected Welcome (Tolkien), Evolving Roles (Star Wars).

5. Do you respond to comments? Always. On one level, it's simply polite to say "thank you" to compliments. On an entirely different level, commenting on fics was how I found fandom friends, especially in my early years in fandom.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? The one where I killed (BBC) Merlin.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? *shrugs* I mostly write happy endings. Readers' choice of which is the happiest. 

8. Do you get hate on fics? A few times. I'm generally able to laugh about it now. There are a couple of hate comments I find truly hilarious.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Nope.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? Love 'em. I write a lot of Star Wars-Tolkien crossovers. I have no idea which one people would think is the most out there.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated? Yes. The two I know of are on AO3 but there have been a handful of others over the years that people asked if they could translate and I have no idea if they ever were, where they were posted, or (at this end of time) even what stories they were.

12. Have you ever co-written a fic before? A fic, no, but for a bit, I co-wrote a short-lived series.

13. What’s your all time favorite ship? Elrond/Celebrían for Tolkien. For Star Wars, Han/Leia and Padme/Anakin. Favorite noncanon Star Wars is Owen/Beru/Obi-Wan.

14. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? ...So I posted a WIP a couple of weeks ago. It is the only WIP I've posted because my policy is to only post completed fics. I'd hoped that I'd get some encouragement to write more but I'm honestly not sure anyone realized it was a WIP because I didn't get encouragement to continue or a single "looking forward to more!" type of comment. I lost the little bit of enthusiasm I had because I'd been stalled on the fic for a while (I began writing it in fall 2020!) and it really feels like I could walk away from it and no one would care.

15. What are your writing strengths? I am sadly the type of writer who has a hard time seeing her strengths.

16. What are your writing weaknesses? Description is my go-too weakness. You can probably add writing romance to this.

17. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? I prefer not to except for dramatic effect. I'm, for better or worse, monolingual. And I refuse to learn conlangs just to read a fic. If there's too much dialogue in a conlang, I'll hit the back button.

18. First fandom you wrote for? Mutant X.

19. Favourite fic you’ve written? I don't have an answer for that. Or at least a permanent one; there's a handful of fics that rotate through that position depending on mood, time of day, opinion toward the fandom, etc.

[sunriseverse]

💚 and 🏳️‍🌈 please?

oh no fixa i am so sorry i utterly forgot about this ask! getting to it now, my apologies! thank you for the ask :) these are all very fun questions!

💚: What does everyone else get wrong about your favorite character?

i have...........a lot of things to say about fanon characterisations for so many characters but the fanfics where wu xie is written as this bright-eyed ingenue who is not only unaware of how the world works but clueless about this fact ticks me off so horribly badly. wu xie is not an idiot. he is, i cannot stress this enough, called tianzhen specifically in the context of being wet behind the ears in the tomb-raiding business. and, also, as canon shows, even then that's not necessarily the full truth! i think this comes a lot from people wanting to shoehorn his ships (usually pingxie) into archetypes and the most common archetype is the dichotomous "naive virginal younger man-older loner guy who's more experienced", and, fine. if you want to write archetypes, i guess that's your prerogative. but it's not canon and, more than that, it's a little bit insulting? both to wu xie, and to the fact that, canonically, he's a human being who is complicated and is, in fact, more aware than people give him credit for. but i shall step off my soapbox now before i say something that comes off as too bitchu.

🏳️‍🌈: Which character who is commonly headcanoned as queer doesn't seem queer to you?

uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh oh god. um. i'll be honest the majority of the time i think that characters can have some argument for them being lgbt made based on canon, because so much media is just........wildly unaware of the fact that things could even be read as lgbt in some way, because it's mostly aimed at straight people! since, you know, they're the majority of the population. but i guess from things i can think of, i've seen people headcanon jung sunah from tdj as sapphic in some way and i'll be frank. as wildly attractive as i find that frankly despicable, reprehensible woman, i cannot see in any world her being anything but painfully heterosexual. like, generally in my experience gay people, especially sapphics, don't act like that because we spend our entire lives fully aware of the fact that the people we're attracted to aren't probably ever going to be attracted to us, coming to terms with that, and, on top of that, having a very firm awareness of the danger pursuing people who aren't attracted to us. so yeah, while it would please me if i were able to believe this, i just can't. sorry sunah, you are forever straight to me.

[storiesofsvu]

Journey to the Past Ch 12

Bryan Kneef x reader Warnings; language, alcohol, smut, daddy kink, semi-public sex. Also dont worry, there will be a direct follow up to this in the next chapter, it was just getting long so I split it lololol

You were glad that STR had high quality coffee and a decent catering room, because you’d been spending almost as much time there as you were at your actual firm. And unfortunately, it wasn’t because of Bryan. Your top partner had watched how well you’d worked with Diane and a couple of the other attorneys and thus sent you over to be liaison between the two firms when you worked through cases with the same clients, or similar type situations. You didn’t mind it, it was a nice distraction from sitting in your office all day, your case load was pretty small at the moment anyways, but it certainly wasn’t helping your commute.

You were in a boardroom, waiting for everything to wrap up as everyone said their closing remarks and finally a decision was made, signifying the end of the meeting. Despite Bryan’s reservations when it came to Diane you’d found yourself getting along rather well with her, she was at least the one who you knew you could catch her gaze from across the room in a joint eye roll when someone said something ridiculously stupid. Or like in the moment right now, where things had already been dragged out twenty minutes longer than they needed to.

“Someone needs to get off his fucking soapbox.” She muttered and you chuckled as the two of you packed up your things.

“At least he finally shut up.” You huffed out a breath as you pushed back your chair to stand.

“It’s like he doesn’t understand some of us have places to be and weekend plans.”

“Yeah, you got something exciting going on?” You asked with a laugh, following Diane out the door.

“Shouldn’t you?” She asked with a chuckle, glancing over her shoulder as you fell in pace beside her, “and I’d say more dreadful than exciting.”

“You’ve lost me, did I zone out at something important in there?”

“No.” She laughed once again, “I just assumed you be going to the Archibald silent auction dinner Friday.”

“Fuuuccckk.” You groaned, “yeah, I am, I just completely fucking forgot. My weekends have been reserved for… other things recently.”

“Yeah, what’s his name?” She smirked and you let out a laugh, not wanting to bring that up quite yet and you were happy she immediately dropped it, letting out a little sigh before she spoke again. “And of course it’s black fucking tie, you think they’d let us have at least one of these things be casual for once.”

“You’ve gotta be one of the top wins for the year to get invited to those ones, and let me tell you, the one in Turks and Caicos is worth the amount of ass kissing you end up doing.”

“Oh now you’re just bragging.” She teased with a laugh, stalling in her step as she reached the door to her office, swinging it open and heading inside. “Sunshine and white sand beaches beats four course meals and an open bar any day.”

“Hey, at least you’re married, you’ve got a permanent date to these things.” You huffed, leaning against the door frame and she glanced up at you with a small grin.

“Just bring that new weekend friend, he won’t know how treacherously boring these things can be.”

You let out a little laugh, ever thankful for her phone ringing and interrupting the conversation as she picked it up, giving you a little wave that you returned before leaving the doorway. You wandered through the firm, checking a couple of things on your phone while you thought about the upcoming gala. You abruptly halted when you passed Bryan’s office, realizing he was inside and the door was open, circling back you propped yourself on the door frame,

“Do you have plans Friday?”

“What?” He glanced up at the sound of your voice, brow furrowed, not even realizing you were at the firm.

“Stupid question, why am I even asking. You’re going to the silent auction, right?”

“Fuck…” He muttered, glancing down to his calendar to confirm that he was supposed to be in attendance, “yeah.”

“I completely forgot about it.”

“If you don’t have a ticket you can be my plus one.” He offered and you laughed, stepping into the office while your voice lowered, grin still on your face.

“Really!?” You barked out a laugh, “your plus one? That’s it?”

“That’s what the ticket says.” He defended and you laughed once again, shaking your head.

“I have my own ticket but thank you. I was more hoping that I would have some company, Kim tends to disappear at these things long before they’re over and I hate having to do all the schmoozing myself.”

“Okay, so…how about instead of plus one, you can be my date?”

“Mmm…” you murmured, pretending to think about it for a moment, “that does sound a lot nicer.” You let out a small giggle, “thank you.”

“I promise not to leave your side if you promise not to leave mine.”

“I feel like we’re about to make a pinky swear.” You teased and he chuckled.

“You said you forgot about it, you have something to wear?”

“No.” You grumbled, “I meant to go shopping with Kim on Tuesday and she got pulled into court early. I’ll have to go tomorrow.”

“Well, why don’t you take this...” He reached into a desk drawer, pulling out a black credit card from his wallet, “get yourself something nice, and something even nicer to go underneath.” He grinned as you took the card from him with a small laugh.

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Hell, take Kim with you, hit up the spa, you girls deserve a break.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He cast you a small smile, feeling that warmth in his chest again, “hey… how’s the whole Catrina thing going?”

“Is that why you’re spoiling me?” You did your best not to roll your eyes as you slid the card into your wallet.

“I’m spoiling you because I want to.” He replied with a smirk, reaching out to squeeze at your hand, “and because I can.”

“And you really claim you don’t want to be a sugar daddy?” You teased and it was his turn to roll his eyes as you let out a small sigh. “It’s going. From what I know he still doesn’t have a lawyer, big surprise, the first step in dragging everything out as long as possible and making it as expensive as possible for her.”

“Did you take it pro-bono?”

“I’m still on the fence about taking it at all.” You shrugged, “if I don’t end up having to leave the city, I’ll probably give her a pretty big discount. At this point all I’ve done is give her a couple of names for good lawyers out there and processed the order of protection.”

“Keep me updated, okay? And please let me know if that piece of shit tries to contact you at all.”

“Bry…” you practically warned with a soft smile.

“I’m just saying.” He defended and you leant over to leave a kiss on his cheek.

“You’re cute when you’re worried.” You picked up your bag, “and thank you. However… it appears I’ve got some shopping to do.”

“Do me a favour and don’t max it out.”

“Oh please.” You laughed, letting out a quiet squeak when Bryan stood, pulling you back to him for a more intimate, deeper kiss.

“I’ll pick you up Friday?”

“Sounds great.”

**

Bryan was punctual as ever on Friday, knocking on your apartment door right on time and he practically had the life kicked out of him when the door swung open. You were in a stunning floor length black gown with a slit up to the middle of your thigh, it was off the shoulder and you’d pulled your hair up into an elaborate updo, a gorgeous diamond necklace around your neck.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Bryan swore and you let out a little giggle.

“I take it you like what you see?” You raised a brow, scooping up your purse as you stepped into your heels.

“Let’s just say now I’m wishing I was early so I had time to savour every inch of you.” He murmured, his hand sliding around your waist to pull you to him, lips meeting yours gently yet with a fire behind them. His tongue slid across your lower lip and you parted yours, letting him into your mouth, groaning as his tongue danced with yours before you reluctantly broke the kiss.

“Like you said, not enough time.” You muttered, “but maybe if you behave tonight I’ll let you fuck me in the bathroom at the Ritz. And I do have a special surprise for you.”

“Oh… well then I suppose I’ll be on my best behaviour.” He smirked, wrapping an arm around your waist, waiting for you to quickly lock your door before escorting you down to the car.

The ride over to the Ritz Carlton was rather uneventful, mainly because Bryan wanted to keep on your good side in order to find out what your surprise was. You caught each other up on your weeks and helped prep each other for the evening ahead, breaking out the sides of you that were ready for mingling, schmoozing and self promoting.

Bryan escorted you inside the hotel, hand on the small of your back as you made your way upstairs. The event was being held in one of the more private, chic ballrooms on the top floor, extending onto the outdoor terrace for the cocktail hour and after dinner. The space was set up elegantly, the hallway leading up to it acting as a lobby, tables against the walls filled with items for the silent auction. Inside the main room were round tables scattered through the space, a stage at the opposite end set up for some speeches later on, and most importantly, a very fully stocked bar running along the side of the room.

“Red or white?” Bryan asked.

“At a place like this? Bubbly to start.”

“Good call.” He winked, leaning in to kiss your cheek before sneaking across the room. You caught Kim’s eye and she very quickly wrapped up the conversation she was having and made her way over to you.

“Oh thank god, I was beginning to think you’d abandoned me.” She greeted with a quick hug and peck on the cheek.

“Were you not shopping with me yesterday?”

“Yeah but with how good you look it’s a shocker you guys even got out of the house.” She replied and you let out a laugh.

“I specifically told him to save that for later.”

“I’m kind of surprised you even brought him.” She muttered over a sip of her drink and you raised a brow.

“I mean he was already on the guest list.”

“Yeah but you don’t mix work and pleasure.”

“Kim, when have I had pleasure to mix with business before?”

“Way too fucking long ago, that’s for sure.” She shifted back into her almost work mode as Bryan returned, handing you a champagne flute.

“You must be Kim.” He greeted with a warm smile, “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Likewise.” She accepted his handshake, “and I must thank you for the girl’s day, can’t say I’ve ever had someone else’s date do that for me.”

“Well I’ve gotta keep my girl happy, don’t I?” He replied with a grin, his arm resting on your back, hand lightly tickling at your skin through your dress as the conversation continued.

The three of you ended up in back in the entry ray, wandering through the silent auction, putting a bid down on things here and there. You spent some time chatting with other coworkers, potential new clients and socialites through the city. Bryan was lightning fast to refill your drink and brought one back for Kim too, you were nearly finished it when a man you didn’t know but recognized from STR came up to Bryan, clapping him on the back.

“Well if it isn’t Kneef showing up with two dates, always gotta uphold that reputation, don’t you?” The man let out a boisterous laugh before he disappeared into the crowd. Bryan glanced over at you and you raised a brow, but there was still a grin on your cheeks as you sipped your champagne so he didn’t bother trying to explain his way out of it.

It wasn’t much longer after that that champagne was replaced with wine and you were seated for dinner. Courses of butternut squash soup, beet and goat cheese salads, roasted salmon or filet mignon were served between speeches and some fun little awards. Bryan’s hand stayed on your bare thigh every moment it could, tickling higher and higher at the slit in your dress, drawing random patterns on your skin that left you shivering in anticipation. By the time dessert was served the drinks had been steadily flowing and the conversation was doing just that as well. Laughter and teasing jabs shot across the table, some guests in much deeper conversation that were more work related. People started to wander easily between tables, the bar, the silent auction and the terrace. A classy yet upbeat playlist of music echoed through the space. Bryan leant in, leaving a kiss on the side of your neck as he muttered something about changing out your drinks for scotch and you nodded, watching him wander away to the bar before you got pulled into a debate with Kim and another table mate.

Bryan sauntered his way up to the bar, nodding a greeting to a few people here and there before settling against the wood, ordering two high end scotches from the bartender. While he was waiting, the man from earlier, Ronald came up along with another one of his drinking buddies Ben, someone who Bryan could actually stand and went out with on the regular. Ron nodded at him, clasping at his shoulder as they settled in to the bar.

“You really bring two dates tonight Kneef?”

“No.” He chuckled.

“So which one is it?” Ben asked, glancing over towards the table, “cause I was at the Turks conference and you should see Kennedy in a bikini.” The men chuckled darkly and Bryan felt a surge shoot through him.

“I don’t need to see her in a bikini if I’ve already seen her naked.” He muttered into the rim of his glass and the men burst into a chorus of small cheers and laughs, “and believe me, you’re the ones missing out.”

“What, you’re saying you’ll share?” Ben asked with a wicked grin and Bryan scoffed out a laugh.

“Not this time.”

“Yeah, Kneef you usually bring bimbos to these things.” Ron noted, “and Kennedy, she’s far from a bimbo. She’s a fucking shark.”

“Just because she’s a shark in the courtroom doesn’t mean she’s one in the bedroom.” Bryan continued to speak softly, not wanting the comments to be heard over the music by anyone else, then again, this was the normal kind of guy talk that happened at these events.

“Shame she’s not on the auction block then.” Ben’s gaze drifted over towards your table and Bryan felt that surge again as the other man’s eyes dragged up your form, lingering a little too long on the swell of your breast. “Something tells me she gives great head…”

“Oh she probably takes it so fucking well, doesn’t she Kneef?”

“I think it’s about time you two start bringing your own dates to these things.” Bryan muttered in return, taking a hefty swig of his drink.

“Why? Looks like yours is on the prowl anyways?” Ben chuckled, taking a sip of his own drink and when Bryan looked up you were sauntering through the room towards the bar.

“Sorry to interrupt boys.” You greeted, lips pursed as you leant between the two of them to pluck your drink off the bar from in front of Bryan, “hope you’re not trying to steal my date.” You teased, pulling laughter and muted comments from the two of them, and just enough time for you to lean in, kissing Bryan’s neck and husking into his ear, “you have four minutes to meet me in the back bathroom.”

Shooting him a wink you nodded to the other men and wandered away through the room, ducking into a back hallway. The bathroom back there was as lavish as the rest of them, but most importantly, private, and not a lot of people knew about it. You had just enough time to down the rest of your drink, the alcohol warming through your entire body, feeling the tingles of arousal shooting through you after Bryan’s teasing touches and filthy words. The door swung open and you turned toward it with a smirk on your lips, watching the way Bryan swiftly locked it before he pounced on you.

“Do you have any fucking idea how absolutely gorgeous you look tonight?” He growled against your lips, hands gliding around your body, squeezing at your ass.

“I think I caught onto a hint or two.” You muttered back, surging toward him for a deep kiss, a hand slipping between your bodies to palm at his hardening cock through his tux. He’d already rid himself of his jacket, rolling up his sleeves before dessert to prepare for exactly this.

“Yeah?” He groaned, lips trailing across your chin and down your neck, teeth scraping at your skin, “you gonna tell me what my surprise is yet?”

“You’re almost there already.” You replied, a grin on your lips as he squeezed at your ass again. Your free hand moved behind you, shifting one of his hands so his fingers were tickling between your cheeks. They brushed up against the plug and you let out a little gasp, pulling a chuckle from Bryan.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“You know it is.” You murmured back, letting out a small moan as he pushed against it, “figured you can fuck my pussy right now, then take me home and fuck my ass after.”

“Fuck!” He grunted, rocking into the hand you had on his cock, “you’re so fucking perfect.”

You didn’t have the chance to reply as Bryan’s lips stole your breath for another kiss, this one deeper and more passionate than the last as he backed you into the wall. Your hands easily wound around him, one of his pinned between you and the door as he continued to squeeze at your ass, toying with the plug through your dress, the other resting on your hip. The kiss got more heated, his tongue surging into your mouth and massaging against your own as you moaned into the kiss, your breath swallowed down by Bryan.  Your fingers began to cling into his body, the leg exposed by the slit in your dress coming to wrap around his waist.

“You that needy kitten?” He chuckled against your lips, his mouth tracing down your neck once again.

“Why don’t you find out daddy?” You husked back, gasping as his beard scraped against your skin.

Bryan’s hand sunk from your hip, delving under the slit in your skirt to cup your heat and you let out a quiet whine, your head dropping back against the wall as he started to massage you through the delicate lace of your panties. He flung back the material of your dress, pinning it between you and the door and exposing the pristine white of your lingerie, the patch between your legs already darkened with your wetness. He chuckled darkly looking at it before kissing you again and one of your hands shifted up, scratching into his hair, holding him tightly to you as you whined into the kiss.

The hand he hand between your legs slid your panties to the side, trailing through your folds and you gasped into the kiss, your hips rocking forward to the touch. He simply teased you, fingers toying with you, spreading your juices around as you whimpered against his lips until he broke the kiss, lips meeting your skin between each of his words.

“Is my baby girl needy? Does she remember who this pussy belongs to?” He spanked at your clit at the end of his sentence and you gasped.

“You daddy.” You moaned softly.

“That’s right.” He sucked two of his fingers into his mouth in response, his eyes on you as he did so, watching the way you were watching him, the way your eyes darkened while you watched his lips wrap around the digits before popping them out.

His spit slicked fingers dove south, sliding through your wet cunt before they sunk in and you let out a moan, your pussy fluttering around them already. Bryan’s mouth was quick to return to your neck, biting and sucking at your skin, determined to mark you as his as his fingers pumped and curled within you. Your body was already on fire, skin prickling with pleasure with each thrust of his hand,

“Hurry, we don’t have much time.” You managed between pants, “want your cock daddy.” You let out a little whimper as his fingers crooked within you before scissoring, stretching you out, “now!”

“So fucking needy.” He growled, his hand sliding out of you, grabbing at your chin for a messy fiery kiss all tongue and teeth, pinning you to the wall.

Your hands sunk between your bodies, easily undoing his belt and pants, pulling his cock out, hard and heavy in your hand. Bryan couldn’t help the groan as you began to squeeze at him, teasing his balls. He reached into the back pocket of his pants, pulling out a condom, nipping at your lips as he did so. You heard the telltale sound of the wrapper ripping before he tossed it towards the trash, pulling the condom towards his throbbing cock. Your head fell back against the wall, already panting for breath as he went to slide it on.

“Shit. Fuck!” He growled.

“What?” Your eyes barely cracked open; hands still loosely clasped behind his shoulders.

“Fucking ripped it, I don’t have another one.”

“I don’t fucking care.” You replied, surging forward to steal his lips in another kiss, breathing your words against them, “I want to feel you.” Your voice had drifted into that dreamy tone and Bryan felt his entire body throb with desire at your words, “fill me up.”

“Yeah?” He grinned, “you want daddy’s cum spilling out into these pathetic things you call panties for the rest of the night? A nice little reminder of who you belong to?”

“I do.” You nodded, “and once we’re home I want you to fill my ass too.”

“Jesus Christ sweetheart.” Bryan couldn’t help but laugh, “you really are perfect. Are you sure?”

“Are you gonna keep talking or are you going to fuck me?!”

Bryan chose not to waste anymore time, his hand lining up his cock with your dripping pussy, sliding it in bare and you both let out a wanton moan of pleasure. Your head dropped forward onto his shoulder, whimpers echoing directly beside his ear as he set a steady rhythm fucking you against the wall.

“Oh my god..” you whined.

“You’re so fucking wet princess.” He groaned back, “such a fucking good pussy.”

“Fuck…” You moaned, “feels so good.”

Bryan picked up the pace, hips meeting yours with vigour as you did your best to control your moans. You could feel every ridge and vein of his cock and it was driving you absolutely wild, you wanted, him you needed him. Your hands clawed at his back, one of them managing to wrap around his neck, directing his lips back up to yours for a breathless kiss as his cock thrusted deeper into you.

“Oh fuck Bry!” You cried out as you broke the kiss and he chuckled, feeling his cock twitch inside your warmth.

“Quiet princess, we can’t have anyone knowing what’s going on in here.”

His hand cupped around your mouth to silence your moans and whines while he pounded you into the wall. Your hands grabbing at his body, meeting his hips with just as much power as he fucked you. You felt the fire shooting through you and couldn’t help but gasp when his free hand wrapped around you, grasping at the plug as he started to ease it in and out of your ass. The double stimulation was almost too much and you whimpered, feeling the tears pricking into your eyes. Bryan could feel your cunt pulsing around him, his hand vanishing from your mouth to rub at your clit while he fucked you.

“That’s it princess, I know you’re close, I can feel it, come for daddy.” He grunted between thrusts. You bit down on your lip, doing your best to hold back as the pleasure rocketed through your body, a small cry escaping your lips as your orgasm shot through you and you clung to Bryan. He let out a series of grunts as you shivered in his arms before you felt his cum shoot through you, filling you as his hips slowed.

“Holy fuck…” you muttered breathlessly and he let out a little chuckle.

“You really like that, don’t you?

“Mmhmm.” You replied and he stilled against you, kissing up your bare shoulder, up your neck and across your chin before finally finding your lips smiling back at him and he kissed you gently. This series of kisses were tender, his hand coming up to cup your cheek as he softened within you. He slipped out with ease, sliding your panties back into place to catch all of his cum, carefully wiping up any mess on your thighs, laying a soft kiss on one of them before coming up to standing.

“You alright?” He asked with a laugh.

“I will be when we get out of here.” You replied with a grin, swatting at his arm, “but go, go schmooze so we can leave early.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.” He grinned back, stealing another kiss before washing his hands and vanishing from the room.

You took another few moments to collect yourself and freshen up making sure your hair and makeup was properly in place before finally returning to the event. All things considered, your first destination was the bar, you needed a fresh drink after all.

__________________ @detective-giggles @plaidbooks @thatesqcrush @witches-unruly-heart @beccabarba @bisexual-dreamer02 @amelia-song-pond @madamsnape921 @whimsicallymad @mrsrafaelbarba @mysticfalls01 @ssaic-jareau @caracalwithchips @barbasbodaciousbeard @alwaysachorusgirll @beardedbarba @michael-rooker @rafivadafreddy @lustvolle-liebe @anlin2058 @fandom-princess-forevermore @tinyboxxtink @alexusonfire @xovalliegirlxo @nobody-important1212 @somethingimaginative17 @momlifebehard @misscharlielulu @fighterkimburgess

[shootybangbang]

Hi. I had to psych myself up to ask un-anonymously ☺ I feel like a stupid derp new kid bc I'm new to tumblr & struggling w/ fanfic. Anyhoo, I absolutely adore & look up to your writing. Your descriptions are always so brilliant & lovely, sth I struggle with. Your nsfw pieces perfectly mix spicy & moving. I especially love "In Which You Both Demonstrate How Not to Ride a Horse." I was so touched & wanted to cry, & with so few words. Waiting to read "Things Asked & Promised" bc I know I'll enjoy it & want to give it undivided attention.

Could I pls ask for a nsfw Arthur x fem reader piece where they're accidently voyeuristically discovered in a hot n spicy moment? If not it's ok. Thank you for your writing!

I realize that what I am doing is the equivalent of handing someone a cup of tuberculosis after they asked for ice cream and for that I am sorry

[Ao3 link] [Part 2]

In which quills are shed [Part 1/2]

Bluegill scales cover the oak slats like a scatter of half moons. Or, viewed through the lens of your current mood, a scatter of torn fingernails, each one ripped clean. Glancing up at the man at the other side of the table, you drag the back of the knife viciously against the dead fish’s decimated mail, and another shower of parts falls against the notched wooden surface like a morbid spray of rain. 

Micah asks. “You and Morgan still fucking?”

He says the words loud enough to carry across the whole of what ragged remainder is left of the camp at Beaver Hollow. The two strangers sitting by the cave’s open maw look up from their card game, and you feel a faint, falling sensation in your chest. The kind that flutters through when you miss a step going down the stairs.

Keeping your head down, you continue scraping at the bluegill.

“Nah, can’t be. Doubt that miserable bastard can even get hard, the state he’s in now. And even if he could, can’t see him lasting more’n two minutes without, y’know…” Micah wheezes dramatically, adopts a wet, hacking cough that sounds despairingly close to the real thing.

You put the tip of the knife to the seam of the bluegill’s belly, then rip it open with unwarranted violence. Droplets of fish blood spatter against the front of your dress.

“Now, if what you’re looking for is satisfaction, I’d suggest you head on down to my tent.” From the periphery of your vision, you can see Micah jab his thumb towards the lean-to set up in the shadow of Dutch’s tent. A hint of bile rises to the back of your throat. “I’ll show you how a real man fucks a woman.”

Come any closer and I’ll show you how to skin a snake, you think, groping for innards with your fingers. Grasping the bluegill’s pebble-shaped heart, you yank out a string of entrails that glistens dark red and gleaming, and let it drop from your hand onto the table with a wet plop.

“Best time to do it’d be now, while Morgan’s out gettin’ himself killed.” Micah says this affably, as though you’ve acquiesced. “And on the off chance that he does come back, what he don’t know won’t hurt him, right?”

You lever up the flap adjacent to the fish’s cheek with the tip of the knife, then reach in to tear out the gills. The fanned red edge nicks the pad of your thumb. Wincing, you jerk your hand away to check the cut.

“Aw, didja hurt yourself? Here, let me see—”

The moment he steps towards you, you flinch and brandish the knife like a weapon. “Alright, alright,” he says, holding up both hands, retreating. Under his breath, he mutters, “Goddamn touchy little bitch.”

Beside the mouth of the cave, the shorter of the two strangers (what were their names? Joe and… Clem, or something?) stands up and rests his hand on the hilt of his holstered gun. 

You flick your eyes towards the overturned soapbox beside the campfire. There, Dutch glances up from the book in his hand and holds your gaze just long enough to acknowledge your plight. He raises his eyebrows, then deliberately turns his head away, returning his attention to what might be his millionth perusal of Evelyn Miller.

All of your potential allies are either departed or well out of sight: the girls at the river, Charles on the hunt, Sadie on guard duty. John, scoping out a potential lead up north somewhere.

And with him, Arthur.

With exaggerated precision, you lower the knife and lay the edge of its blade at an outward slant adjacent to the bluegill’s puckered mouth. You lift your head to look Micah in the face, then slam your hand against the dull heel of the knife hard enough that it decapitates the fish in one swift motion, slicing through scale and muscle and bone with a beautifully crisp thunk.

He doesn’t seem impressed. Micah says, “You really gonna keep on pretendin’ you can’t talk? I heard you well enough the other night, while I was sittin’ out here on guard duty.” In a high, breathy voice, he squeals, “Ohhh, Arthur!”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. Hot with shame and anger, you duck down and glare instead at the dead fish. Its round, sightless eyes stare pointlessly back at you.

“Alright. If you’re still gonna play at bein’ a deaf-mute, lemme spell things out real clear for you.” Micah makes an obscene gesture, points at himself, then rubs his fingers together to indicate that he has money, all the while enunciating loud and slow, “HOW… MUCH… TO… SUCK MY—”

“I am not for sale,” you snarl. “And I would sooner cut off my own tongue than put it anywhere near your diseased prick.”

“So she can speak,” he says, unfazed by the insult.

“Probably speak better than you and every other contemptible fuck in this camp. Van der Linde included.”

“Wouldn’t say that if I were you. If word got to Dutch that you were disrespecting him— well, ain’t no telling how he’d react. Might even find it… disloyal. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want that.” As he speaks, he nods towards the northern stretch of woods banking the cave, where the blackened and twisted branches left from an impromptu pyre still lie scattered. And beside it, the shallow grave of what little had remained of Molly O’Shea afterward, unmarked and unmourned. 

A cold trickle of fear runs down your spine. “Arthur wouldn’t—”

“Arthur this, Arthur that.” Micah pronounces the name as though it were something foul in his mouth. “Open your eyes, you dumb cunt. Black Lung’s gonna be dead within the week. If not from the fuckin’ plague, then for sure by the Pinkertons. Just look at him. He can barely walk.”

Within the week. God. No, he’s not… he’s not quite that bad…

(not that bad yet, a voice murmurs from inside your head)

“And when he’s six feet under,” he continues. “You’re gonna have nobody on your side. That is, unless you start courtin’ new loyalties now.”

Micah Bell has laid all your worst fears out in front of you as frankly and bluntly as an assortment of dead fish at market. And to this, there is but one response. Not denial. Not anger. Only the deepwater chill of utter despair.

“You ain’t that stupid. I’m sure you can see the writing on the wall.” His voice smooths to something unctuous and oddly familiar. It takes a second for recognition to click. This is the same voice he uses when flattering Dutch. “So what’s it gonna be? You gonna cast your lot in with a corpse, or you gonna make the smart choice and go with the man with the highest chance of making it outta this place alive?”

“I’ll go to the grave with him before I go to bed with you,” you hiss.

Micah laughs. “Oh sure, you’re all bravado now, but we’ll see what you really are when the shit hits the fan. A whore. Just like every other cunt here.” He raises a hand in farewell and starts walking away, calling over his shoulder, “You know where my tent is, honey. Come find me after you ditch Morgan.”

With a great deal of effort, you force yourself to train your focus back on the bluegill. You slip your knife to a space just above its spinal cord and angle the blade parallel to the table, then begin carving its pale meat away from the thin, clustered bones. 

Filleting has always seemed inordinately wasteful to you– throwing away perfectly good meat, that’s what it is. A stupid and tedious method, and truth be told half the reason you hate doing it is because you’ve never been particularly good at it— but Arthur always complains about spitting fish bones otherwise, so… so…

The realization sifts in as soft and cold as autumn rain. So soon I won’t have to do this anymore.

No. No, no, no— that’s not true at all— you’ll be filleting fish until your dying day, and you’ll roll your eyes and sigh all the while, and he’ll be just as annoying, asking melodramatically whether you want him to choke to death on a fish bone, and… and… 

A teardrop falls onto the back of your hand. Another falls onto the half-stripped bluegill, then another, and another, all raining down in rapid succession until you have to put the knife down to wipe at your eyes with your sleeve.

— — —

You hurry to the hitching post at the first, faint rumble of hooves, standing next to the grazing horses straight-backed and overeager. The light blue dress you’d borrowed from Tilly looks nearly white in the pines’ damp shadows, and it cuts through the gloom so starkly that when John emerges from the woods, he startles.

John is alone. 

“It’s alright,” he says, answering the anxious, searching look on your face. “Arthur’s just a little ways back. Shouldn’t be more than a minute.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’s wrong. Said he was gettin’ somethin’.”

A white-hot curl of contempt coils tight in your chest. You narrow your eyes. “Dutch is sending him out on another errand before he’s even back from this one?”

“What? No, nothin’ like that. S’cuse me,” he adds, swinging his leg over the saddle to dismount. 

Gathering your skirts in your hands, you hastily backstep a few paces away to give him space enough to maneuver. “Shit, I’m sorry,” you apologize. “I’m pelting you with questions before you’re even out of the saddle—”

“You don’t gotta apologize,” John interrupts. “You ain’t done anythin’ wrong. And hey, uh…” his voice drops low with the gentle lilt that seems to always accompany well-intentioned white lies. “He’s… I think he’s doin’ a little better. Weren’t coughin’ as much as he usually does.”

Over and over again, you’ve played along with these small farces. Little fictions woven for your benefit. The only one who’s taken it upon himself to tell it to you plainly is Micah, and in a sick, bitter way you’re almost grateful for it.

You force a smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

John sighs. He looks at the thin path that picks through the mountains and into camp and sets his mouth to a stubborn, flat line. “Listen,” he says, and there is conviction in his words now, whether true or misguided not for you to determine. “Arthur’s gonna be alright.” Awkwardly, as though sympathy were an undertaking largely unfamiliar to him, he pats you on the shoulder. “He’ll pull through,” he says. “He always does.”

It’s another twenty minutes before Arthur finally arrives, his clothes gritty with buffeted dust and his shoulders slumped with apparent exhaustion. Bedraggled and drained, and when he spots you standing by the hitching post, his smile is weary, worn thin by the long miles he’s traveled.

“Hey there,” he calls out.

“Hey,” you reply. “What kept you?”

“I’ll show you in a bit. C’mere.” He sets himself on the ground, and pulls you into what’s clearly meant to be a quick embrace before he unsaddles Athena. But when he lets go, you don’t. Bemused, he rests his gloved hand on top of your head, runs his fingers through your hair. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you say, hiding your face against his chest. “I’m just glad you’re back, and not— shot full of holes, or skewered, or something.”

“Course not. Just scopin’ the place out for now. Gettin’ shot full of holes and skewered comes later.”

You raise your head to fix him with a severe, unamused look, and his smile quickly fades. “You’ve been cryin’,” he says, frowning. “What’s wrong?” 

What isn’t wrong? The blood flecked at the corner of his mouth and shirt collar, the quietly pursuant eyes of the strangers by the cave, the cold portent of what might come next, all of it building up day by day like a red rime of rust. 

“Nothing’s wrong.” With a note of mechanical cheeriness, you tell him, “Hey, that net Charles set up in the river finally worked out! Caught a bluegill, so I—”

From the staging ground behind you comes Dutch’s voice from on high, shouting his name. A master calling for his errant hound. Arthur doesn’t even look up. “Tell me what happened.”

You shake your head. Reluctantly, you step away from and gesture towards camp with an unenthusiastic wave of your hand. “He won’t be happy if you keep him waiting. Especially on my account.”

“Dutch,” Arthur says, and he sounds more tired than angry, as if even resentment has been ground out of him by the sheer weight of his fatigue. “I won’t be long,” he says. “Meet you at the tent.”

— — —

His cot is uncomfortable without him in it. Especially these days, as the first tinge of autumn begins to assert itself. The evening chill that much sharper, the afternoon that much darker. Pulling one of his jackets over your shoulders, you sit yourself on the cot’s rickety edge and lean towards the crate set at his bedside, gently lifting the chipped saucer you’d covered the plate of roasted bluegill with to keep it warm.

It’s long since gone cold.

With the tent flaps drawn down, everything here dims to an ambient blue, tinted by what light manages to filter through the navy canvas. Rather gloomy, really. Near impossible to read anything without squinting hard at the print.

But with the tent flaps up, they’ll accuse you of eavesdropping. Which is an activity that you’d partake in enthusiastically, you admit, were it not for your precarious position in camp. A position predicated solely on Arthur’s wellbeing and Dutch’s (extremely conditional) goodwill.

They’re having some sort of protracted argument up there on the ridge. An argument which has lasted— you check your pocket watch, peering irritably into its cracked glass face— about sixteen minutes now. It takes some effort to make out who exactly the participants are. Dutch, of course: his booming baritone is difficult to mistake. And Arthur, and John, and… Bill? Micah, too. And a voice you don’t quite recognize. 

Bill shouts something that carries the tone of accusation, and Arthur snarls something in reply. And… now it seems like they’re all yelling. Then Dutch again, cutting in to mediate. 

Things quiet down after that, diminishing back to just a muted murmur of dissent. You hear Arthur’s heavy, plodding footsteps a short while afterward, crunching against hard-packed dirt and the scattering of dead leaves that have begun to fall. He pulls up the tent’s left flap and pins it back and you throw a hand up to shade your eyes against the blinding mid-afternoon sun.

Against that brightness he is momentarily cast in silhouette. In that shadow, he is imposing still, his broad shoulders and looming height undiminished. But when you’ve blinked the dazzle out of your eyes, it’s just Arthur again, looking well and truly expended. 

He doesn’t even bother taking off his coat or setting his satchel down before he sits down beside you. The cot’s metal frame lets out a pitiful squeak.

“What was that all about?” you ask.

“I ain’t sure myself.” Idly, Arthur presses a palm between your shoulder blades. Tentative, then firm, as if feeling for a solid surface in the dark. With things gone to vapor, something to hold onto, to follow through to the end. “Lot of bluster. Lot of talk about ‘loyalty’. And faith.”

“I thought I heard you snap at Bill.”

“Yeah. He called you a Delilah.”

That’s a new one. “A Delilah,” you repeat, smiling a little. “That’s surprisingly literate, for Bill. I’m almost impressed.”

Arthur’s voice is quiet and worried. “He sure as hell didn’t come up with it himself.”

“Then who do you think…”

He doesn’t answer this. Just briefly curls the hand at your back into a fist, bundling the cloth there between his fingers. Holding on tight before he lets go in that way that says, later. “Anyway,” he says. “I got you something.”

“Arthur, you don’t have to—”

Rummaging through his satchel, the straps and leather of the thing just as battered and scarred as himself, he pulls out something small and round, and tosses it into your lap.

An apple.

“Found a little cluster of fruit trees not too far from here,” he says. “Someone’s attempt at an orchard, looks like. They’re only just comin’ in to season, and most of ‘em are still green, but I found a few ripe ones. Could take you there later today, if you want.”

“You were late because you went apple picking?”

“You’re always whinin’ about how much you miss sweets, and I figured this was the next best thing.”

Ah. He’s caught you. As he does again and again. Without even meaning to, he’s trapped your heart in his hands like a child catching a grasshopper: guilelessly, heedless of the desperate, dire flutter between his fingers. No escape, but you’ve never been more willing to die like this, so long as he keeps smiling at you the way he does now. Soft and focused, as though everything else has fallen away.

You bite your lip against the inopportune swell of emotion and argue, “Twice is not ‘all the time’.”

“Oh yeah?” His smile turns to a smirk. “Abigail said you keep openin’ that biscuit tin she keeps her sewing supplies in and lookin’ all disappointed. Like you think those needles are gonna magically turn to biscuits the forty-seventh time around.”

“It’s not a biscuit tin. It’s a macaroon tin,” you say, your voice petulant with longing. “I love macaroons.”

“Yeah, well. Eat your apple and pretend then.”

You run your thumb over the plump curve of the apple. Speckled gold and striated with crimson, it’s smaller than what you’d find at the grocer’s, but with a richness of color that makes it look like something plucked from a fairytale forest. You almost can’t stand to eat it. 

Almost. When you bite through to the apple’s white flesh, the clarity of its sweetness catches you off guard. Like a last, golden taste of departed summer.

“It’s good, right?”

“Thank you,” you say through a mouthful of fruit. “I really… I— um… ”

It’s not something you’ve ever gotten good at, showing appreciation. With kindnesses like this, it’s all you can do to stumble through the words and lay your hand on his knee, hoping to convey with touch what you cannot do with words.

He lays his own hand over top, keeping you there. Arthur traces over the ridge of your knuckles as you gnaw the fruit down to its knobbly core, then asks gently, “So, you gonna tell me what happened?”

No use in putting it off any longer. He’s more persistent than a dog at a bone, with some things. You happen to be one of them. Staring down into your lap, at the apple’s yellowing hull held loosely in your hand, you say, “Micah told me I should fuck him if you… you know.”

“If I die,” Arthur says flatly.

You give a single, reluctant nod.

“I’m gonna kill him.” He says this calmly, as though it were a task as mundane as any other. Chop wood, draw water, murder Micah. Arthur starts getting up, and you have to grab at his coat to drag him back down.

“I told him I’d sooner die than fuck him,” you tell him. “And I mean it.”

At this, Arthur sours. He fixes you with a long, hopeless look, too exhausted to be angry but with just enough energy left for irritation, then sighs and passes his hand over his face. “You think I like hearin’ you say shit like that? Scares the hell outta me, the way you keep talkin’ like you’re gonna follow me to the grave.”

“But I—”

“But nothin’. Listen” he interrupts, and he drops his voice down to little more than a whisper. “I’ve been talkin’ to Sadie and Abigail. When I’m gone, you go to them and they’ll—”

“Stop it,” you say in a small, shrill voice. “You’re not gonna die. I won’t let you.”

And then you start crying so hard that your shoulders shake. Big, heaving sobs that you’re sure half the damnable camp can hear, but you’re past caring. Let them hear what they’ve done. How they’ve ruined you, ruined him until he’s become but the torn up shadow of his former self. An apple core chewed to its very stem.

Arthur pulls you against his chest. He tucks your face against the junction of his neck and shoulder, and you can feel the heave and fall as he draws in a deep breath, then lets it out shuddery and slow. “No,” he murmurs, gripping you tight as you soak the collar of his shirt with tears. “Of course I won’t.”

When your sobs abate to hiccups, he shifts to press a kiss to your forehead. Then another to your cheek, and another to your mouth. And though it begins chastely enough, it deepens almost immediately into something urgent and hungry. Clutching at each other as though drowning, your hands frantically working him out of his coat and the nip of his teeth at your neck— until abruptly, he shoves you back and turns away, shoulders hunched as he shoves his hand over his mouth and coughs.

Relatively speaking, it’s not so bad this time. Just a few frightening seconds of hacks and wheezes. The terrible whistle of air through his ruined lungs, and then the short, choppy inhales afterward as he tries to catch his breath. At this point, there’s nothing unfamiliar in it, but the sharpness of that newly ruptured horror— the jagged ridge of horror at that first glimpse of blood at his lips— splinters through with each iteration. The wounds of the past do not mitigate those yet to come, and so it is with this. 

You scramble off his cot and start towards his trunk, but he grabs the sleeve of your dress and shakes his head. He’s not yet recovered enough air to talk. Panting hard, he holds out the hand he’d covered his mouth with and flips it palm up to show you the absence of blood.

“I still think you should take some,” you reply, frowning. 

“…s’alright,” he gasps, not looking it at all— face flushed from exertion and eyes bloodshot, spacing every cluster of words with a strained and shallow breath. “Besides, we’re gonna… go through that bottle of tonic in no time if you…  keep givin’ me a spoonful every time I cough.”

“Water, then.” But when you pick up the pitcher by his bed, you find it empty. “Goddammit, I keep on forgetting to— alright, give me a second,” you say, skirt flaring out like a dervish as you turn and sprint out of his tent.

 The barrel of rainwater is a ways up the ridge, wedged behind the chuckwagon. On your way there, you run past Charles, who calls out to you as he carries a clutch of dead pheasants that hang from his hands like bloodied feather dusters. You return his greeting with a hurried “hold-on-i’m-getting-water”, then promptly slam into someone very large and solid and fall on your ass, dropping the pitcher in the process.

“I’m so sorry,” you start to say, but the last word dies in your mouth, because halfway through saying it, you decide no, you’re not very sorry at all, actually.

The black-coated stranger, the one who’d put his hand on his gun when you’d pointed a knife at Micah, looks down at you with an inscrutable expression on his face. The pitcher has rolled to a stop right beside him, and when you reach for it, he steps on its handle with his boot. 

He, Micah, and that other skinny bastard. You’d like to gut them. You’d like to see them choking on the gallows, legs dangling and dancing feebly in midair. You’d like to fasten the noose yourself, see in their eyes the same fear you feel now. Instead, you smile very sweetly and say in as polite a voice you can muster, “I sincerely hope to see you get hit by a train someday.”

The man spits on the ground and the smile he returns resembles the rictus grin of rigor mortis. “Micah did say you had a mouth on you. See if we can’t put it to some other use.”

“I bite,” you reply tersely.

“Not without teeth—”

“That’s enough.” Charles interrupts, striding over. His voice is calm and forceful, in that quiet way those assured of their own strength eschew volume. He stands over you, and you find yourself face-to-face with one of the dead birds he’s carrying, its round amber eyes glassy and still. A compatriot, you think. Both your fates wholly dependent on the volitions of men with guns. 

The stranger’s mouth tightens to a half-sneer, but he raises his boot. You snatch the pitcher away as though he might change his mind, clutching it to your chest like it’s precious. 

For perhaps a second— a second that seems to stretch to minutes— he stares Charles in the eye. And though you can see neither of their faces very well from your place on the ground, you can well imagine the line of tension drawn between them, taut and electric as wire. Then he shrugs and steps to the side. He continues down the ridge, deliberately clipping Charles by the shoulder as he stalks towards the hitching post.

You wave away Charles’ outstretched hand and get to your feet by yourself, patting dirt from your dress in faint puffs of dust. “Thank you,” you say. The second time today that you’ve had to subject yourself to the uncomfortable ordeal of gratitude.

“Don’t know what Dutch was thinking, letting Micah bring in men like that,” Charles says in a low voice. “The way he looks at you and the other women…”

“Yeah, I… think I’ll stick closer to the girls from now on.”

“You do that.” He watches as the stranger’s back diminishes with distance, the black coat melting in with the shade of the pines. “And I’ll keep an eye on him.”

As he walks with you towards the chuckwagon, you wipe the pitcher clean with your skirt and briefly mention the day’s catch, the bluegill bright and iridescent in its panic as it had flapped against the netting. The foolishness of fillets. The abundance of wild game in spite of the dearth of everything else, and poultry dishes. But for all your blathering, you’re unable to steer the conversation away from the inevitable. All roads lead to Rome, and all talk leads to Arthur. 

“I don’t know,” you reply dully when Charles asks after him. You balance the lid of the rain barrel against its wooden rim, and the reflection that stares back from the crescent of revealed water is dark-eyed and wan with uncertainty. You dip the ladle through the image like shattering a mirror and splash the water into the pitcher. “John said he was doing better. But I think he’s losing weight again, and he’s so pale, and…” Humorlessly, you huff out a bleak laugh. “He did promise not to die, so we’ve got that going for us, at least.”

Charles is quiet awhile. The rain water sloshes a little less noisily against the pitcher with each addition until it is nearly silent. Finally, he says, “I’ll see if I can’t convince Dutch to let me take on some of the scouting jobs in his place. Have him focus on hunting instead. It’d be easier on him. And he’d come back to you every night.”

The third thank you of the day, and by far the most meaningful. There is no simple phrase that springs to mind that doesn’t feel grossly inadequate. 

“Charles,” you say, and the measure of trust you have in him makes him one of the perishingly few men you’d ever offer this to. “If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all…”

“Just be well,” he says. “Both of you.”

It’s funny, actually. You’d made this same proposition to Arthur early into your acquaintance, and his answer had been much the same. A simply stated, don’t die.

When you get back to the tent, Arthur’s lifting the saucer and peering at the roasted fish with some curiosity. “You cut me a fillet?” he asks.

“Yeah.” You fill the tin cup from his mess kit until there is scarcely a millimeter between rim and ripple and set it carefully on the bedside crate.

“Well, thanks. Appreciate it. Guess I should be sick more often if it makes you this sweet.”

The possibility of future illness is dementedly reassuring. He’s clearly trying to needle you a little, drive you to irritation to distract from despair, and you have to bite your lip to fight down wretched sentimentality.

“I still think it’s a stupid way to eat fish,” you say.

“Right,” he replies, groping in his satchel for a fork. “Because it’s so much smarter to risk my life every time I want a cut of trout.”

“Only because you think it’s appropriate to try and inhale half the fish with a single bite. You’re supposed to take small bites. You ever heard of savoring a meal?”

“You ever heard of efficiency?” he asks, and you playfully kick at his boot in response.

He says something impolite about your general taste in food. Impractical, he snickers, before gracing you with the worst mispronunciation of “hors d’oeuvres” you’ve ever heard. And you fall easily into the old pattern of banter, an ersatz normality at best. Like a single strip of gauze over an axe wound, fragile and frayed, but it’s something. It’s something.

He drains the cup only after a considerable amount of coaxing, and you suspect that it’s rather on purpose. Caretaking has never been your strong suit. It must be bizarre, and not without a considerable amount of confused satisfaction on his part, to watch you fuss over him like this, trying hard to turn the reticent, abrasive impulse to something gentle. Like a porcupine pulling out its own quills, shedding that which has cloistered its taciturn heart for so long.

When the plate is empty, he sets it aside and wipes his mouth with his sleeve, then makes as if to set out again. You pull at his coat with both hands and state rather than ask, “What the hell are you doing.”

“Told you I’d take you out to that orchard.”

“Not when you’re half-dead on your feet, you’re not.”

He scoffs. “Can’t tell you how many times I been sent out on jobs in even worse shape than this.”

You say, “I know.”

“If you know, then—”

“It’s because I know!” you snap at him, a little spark of anger flaring like a sputter of hot oil. But not at him. “I’m not Dutch. I’m not about to ask you to drag yourself back on the road when you’re sick and exhausted and… and like this.” You sweep your arm horizontal as if presenting him for show. “And all for my sake.”

He stares at you like you’ve just recited something blasphemous to him. And him sitting there like a penitent silent to this new heresy. Not a word of denial.

“You keep doing things for me,” you say, voice breaking. Both your hands are balled up in your skirt, wadding up the worn linen with your knuckles white. “Even when you’re…” 

Dying is the word that you won’t say. 

… even when it’s supposed to be the other way around,” you amend. You kick his boot again. “You stupid man.”

The added insult has him quirking up the corner of his mouth. “Guess we’re well matched, then.”

“Two idiots.”

“Two idiots,” he agrees, kicking off his boots. Arthur shrugs off his coat and tosses it expertly against the back of his chair, where it hangs in a perfect parabola, then heaves the rest of himself onto the narrow cot, squirming to the left until there’s just enough room for you to lie sideways.

When you pull down the tent flap and crawl in beside him, he stretches his arm out to accommodate you, letting you rest your head against his shoulder as he unties the ribbon binding your braid with one hand. He loosely combs through the plait until your hair curtains your back, the ends still waved.

“I talked to Charles about fish bones today,” you say, cheek pressed against his shirt.

“What’d he say?” His voice is vague and drowsy. A good sign. It’s the nights he can’t sleep that worry you the most.

“He said fish bones are thin enough that you can just eat them if you chew long enough.”

“And what do you think?” 

“I think it’s awful.”

“Thank god,” he says. “For a second there I was a little worried you might agree with him. And that I’d have to beg you to never serve me fish again.”

You flick him on the shoulder and he kisses the top of your head, which seems an appropriate microcosm of your usual interactions. And as he drifts into sleep, you lay there awake for a long while, listening to the cadence of his breathing. The slow in and out of it, and the occasional wheeze interspersed like an afterthought. By the time you’re able to fall asleep, the bright line of sunshine splashed at the gap beneath the tent flaps has deepened to orange, stained red by evening.

[313tarotmechanic]

It never ceases to amaze me.

Every time I’ve basically lost my faith in humanity because, well, people are shitty a lot, the universe throws some instance, some overwhelming experience that proves my opinion wrong. I don’t mean just some moment like, “oh, that person just held the door for me” or “hey look! Someone just said thank you or excuse me!” It’s not just some menial moment where humans simply behave like they have fucking manners for once in a blue fucking moon. No, no.

Allow me to provide some context before the actual story, though…

I live in a neighborhood in north Texas. While the city itself actually houses a couple of major sports teams, we are still considered a suburb of the metroplex. However, it’s still a fairly large city; driving across town from the south end to the north end usually takes at least 30 minutes, and that’s if there is no traffic because it’s after 11pm.

It is a suburb that has fallen somewhere in the midst of forgotten, over-populated, rapidly developing with shitty little pop-up shops in retail plazas and business parks for which there was no room to build anyway, steadily occurring violence and crime, brand new apartments, and just shitty behavior from people who are tired of the shittiness surrounding them. The lower income nature of this particular area shows itself mercilessly most of the time. Most people say fuck it to holding doors, saying things like please or thank you, or just treating each other with basic respect and, again, MANNERS.

*Side-note: I’m such a huge advocate for basic etiquette. I think the world might just be a more peaceful place if we could all just say please and thank you, and hold the damn door for each other more often than once in awhile. Thank you. *steps off of soapbox*

Anyway, now that I’ve set up the basic emotional weather for you… The location: A convenience store/gas station typically attached to a neighborhood market version of the big box store to beat all big box stores. (Rhymes with “small smart” and “smurphy doofus eh…”😂) I’ve experienced occasions when I’ve congratulated myself for not stabbing anyone while at this store, y’all.

I went in expecting some usual or typically disappointing transaction to buy cigarettes and gas. (Ya, they’re bad for me. Got it. Thanks in advance to those of you inclined to remind me.) Instead, I wound up stuck waiting while some lady was talking the cashier’s ear OFF. I thought they were arguing or something.

But then I heard her say something about “just write down your feelings, get them out on paper, and then burn it.” Hippie that I am, I thought maybe she was talking about full moon ceremonies and whatnot. So, I chimed in.

“Are y’all talking about full moon stuff?” I asked excitedly.

“Naw, this guy’s having a rough night with people being mean and stuff. I’ve just worked in customer service, and I know how hard it can be,” she said.

I agreed, noting my experience working in retail and service industry jobs. We all nodded at the reference to how atrocious people can be sometimes.

She went on to say, “People just don’t realize how much it can mean when you’re nice to somebody! It could be something so small, like saying you like somebody’s shirt, or their hair looks good, or they just look nice. But you don’t even know! That one, little comment could mean that person doesn’t go jump off a bridge in a little bit. I just try to tell people to be kind.”

“Because everyone you see is fighting a hard battle that you CAN’T see!” I replied.

“Yes, girl. YES.”

Our shy, quiet, cashier friend was grinning as we fist-bumped in agreement. My cohort-in-random-kindness waved goodnight, and carried on. I stepped up to the counter, and asked for the cigarettes I wanted with a please and a smile.

As he set them on the counter, I asked his name.

“Sam,” he said through a half-smile.

“Well Sam, thank you very much for everything. I hope you don’t have to deal with any more assholes tonight. I feel your pain. I play music now, and I promised myself I’d never go back to retail or customer service.”

Sam openly smiled. He perked up a bit more, and then said, “Oh, hey! By the way, I really like your hair!”

“Thanks, Sam. Have a good night, and stay safe!”

I walked out to pump gas smiling to myself. I’m not sure if it was that lady’s kindness, Sam’s absorptive nature and response, or both. It just struck a positive nerve. It felt nice.

As I started pumping gas, some douche canoe in a muscle car peeled out of the gas station and gunned his ridiculously loud motor. A lady and her daughter were getting into the car at the pump in front of me.

“Oh my gosh!” I exclaimed. “I want be just like that guy when I grow up! He’s soooooo cool!” I laughed at my own joke and the dude bro with ego issues.

She turned, shocked at first. As she processed what I was saying, I saw her break into a chuckle. Her adolescent daughter looked at her dumbfounded and lost. She took a breath as if to explain, but I suppose a 9-year-old with red slushee stained lips seems like a daunting audience to whom one might explain sarcasm. She let it go, and just chuckled some more.

The gas pump hanging from my Jeep clicked as she closed her front door. I replaced the nozzle, closed my gas cap, and smiled bigger than I have in a long time as I got into the car. I paused after buckling up and cranking the motor. I paused, and I just said, “Thank you.”

I thanked the stars, the humans around me, the universe, my higher power, cosmic energy, the experiences that lead me to that moment, and just about everything in between. It’s been quite a hot minute since I felt that kind of joy just because other people were kind to each other. My 4 minute drive home was euphoric. My night has been transformed.

And maybe I’ve found my way back to my awakening path. I think I feel alive again, especially after a very long, Dark Night of the Soul. I know I have more lessons, but lessons are so much easier when you have faith. And how cool is that I’ve found a little bit of faith in the world around me?

[qqueenofhades]

pel!ivan and fedyor went through a lot of ups and some downs from the end of pel and 2021 but they also celebrated 10 years together 🥳 i hope fedyor shoved cake into ivan’s face and also you know, im sure they were mushy like the saps they are

Ivan was supposed to be out of here ten minutes ago – actually, at this point, more like twenty – but the clients are still fucking talking, and if they keep it up much longer, he’s going to add it to the bill for “initial consultation.” Drew has a man-bun and unbearably hip black glasses, and works as a developer for some start-up app that he’s tried to convince Ivan to download at least twelve times. (What does the app actually do? Don’t know don’t care.) Mia is thin, blonde, waifish, smells like essential oils, and has been flitting around with her smartphone the entire time, getting in Ivan’s way as she snaps perfectly filtered pictures of the “developmental process” and posts them nonstop on Instagram. They both have a lot of opinions on how they want the energy of the space to feel, and a preapproved list of ethically sourced suppliers. They have paid some ludicrous price for this converted loft in Prospect Heights and chose the location for its proximity to the best farmer’s markets and hippie coffeehouses. Did Ivan die? Is this hell?

Somewhat ostentatiously, he looks at his watch. “Okay,” he announces. “I think that wraps up. You have work number, so – ”

“Oh, just one more thing!” Drew has recently read one (1) book on home design and thinks he’s an expert, so Ivan is forced to suffer his idiotic opinions about the kind of tile they want to use on the kitchen backsplash. Somehow, he manages not to roll his eyes directly out of his head, for which he should be commended. Ivan has discovered that the secret of successfully dealing with people, especially clients, is to smile and nod at everything they say, while mercilessly mocking them in your head. Amazing, the things you learn as a small-business owner in Brooklyn in the year of our lord 2021. Especially when it comes to renovating overpriced tiny gentrified apartments for insufferable techno-douchebags and their vapid influencer girlfriends. And people think Ivan might want to live like this more often? No fucking thank you.

Finally (it’s another ten minutes after that, this is definitely going on the bill), they more or less wrap up, except for the fact that Mia then wants a picture with the three of them. “It’s just so important to us that we’re supporting the immigrant community,” she explains earnestly. “After all, being open, tolerant, learning from our neighbors, people who are different from us, that’s what life is all about. We just love that you’re foreign. The energy feels so right, you know?”

Ivan wonders whether to inform her that he has lived in this country for eight years and been a full citizen (passport and voting rights and everything) for three, then decides that this would venture into sharing-personal-information territory and he is having none of it. His English has improved to the point where he can handle almost all business transactions by himself, but feigning incomprehension can sometimes get him out of them when they turn really stupid. Unfortunately, that isn’t an option here, and so he diligently leans into the frame, smiling half an inch, while Mia snaps a picture of “us and our adorable Russian contractor!!” Ivan informs her of the correct flag emoji to add to the filter, decides that he’s going to add an extra fifty bucks just for that, and finally, finally, makes his escape.

It’s rush hour, and the Q is crammed as Ivan heads into midtown. So much for social distancing and not getting too close to anyone, which is the only thing from the pandemic that he wouldn’t mind keeping. Only about half the crowd is wearing masks, including him, and so he gets off at Times Square, dodges the latest lunatic standing on a soapbox and shouting about how it is all a hoax, and walks several blocks uptown, just to get some space. He finally reaches the restaurant, where he has to flash his vaccination card to get inside (Ivan, who remains Russian to the marrow of his bones, is a little irked that he couldn’t get Sputnik here and had to settle for Pfizer) and climbs up to the open-air rooftop terrace. It is only when he spots his husband, waiting at a table that overlooks the glittering evening lights of the city, when Ivan pulls off his mask and allows himself to properly smile. “Sorry I’m late,” he says. “They are the worst.”

“I figured it was something like that.” Fedyor musters a smile in return, though his eyes look permanently tired these days and Ivan would bet that he’s been scrolling through more depressing emails on his phone. Technically Fedyor is on a two-month sabbatical from work, but he can’t stop himself, and Ivan has had to pry it from his fingers on a number of occasions. “But you’re here now. That’s what matters.”

Ivan nods stoutly, they are furnished with the drinks and appetizers list, and when the waiter asks if there’s any special occasion tonight, tell him that they are celebrating their ten-year anniversary, albeit somewhat late. This was supposed to happen last spring, but obviously, nobody in New York was going out to a restaurant in the early months of 2020, and Ivan himself had barely gotten home from the hospital and still could be knocked over in a strong breeze. They’re celebrating a lot of things tonight, in other words, even if it’s now been eleven years, not ten, since the day Ivan marched into a Red Square coffee shop and engaged in – well, Fedyor has made sure to inform him that the first date didn’t go nearly as well as Ivan always thought it did. But it worked, didn’t it? Here they are, wedding bands on their fingers, a couple of successful American urban professionals who have built a nice life for themselves and are, if anything, even more madly in love than they were when this whole nutty adventure together first began. So really, if you ask Ivan Sakharov Kaminsky, it went just fine after all.

The waiter congratulates them, gives them two drinks for the price of one, and they both relax and start to talk, fully at ease in the way they only are in each other’s company. Ivan does his Mia impression in an extremely convincing falsetto (after all, [NAME REDACTED] has practice at this) and Fedyor almost dies laughing. They hold hands on the table – no need to hold them under the table – and gaze into each other’s eyes all they want, order dinner and dessert, and take a long time about it. They raise several toasts to this, to them, to ten years, may there be many more. Ivan pays the bill, his treat, and they walk slowly back to Times Square, hand-in-hand, Fedyor’s head nestled on Ivan’s shoulder. It’s New York. Nobody cares.

They ride the Q home, in all its smelly, secondhand glory, taking an hour to bang out to Brighton Beach and descending the elevated stairs into the familiar down-at-heel comfort of their Russian-American neighborhood, neon Cyrillic signs glowing in windows and somebody shouting about how if Sergei ever shows his face here again, she is going to cut his dick off. Ivan and Fedyor look at each other and snort, resisting the urge to shout up and ask what exactly Sergei did, and walk a few more minutes to their building. They climb up three flights of stairs to their apartment, unlock the door and the deadbolt, and step inside.

The instant they are home, Rasputin shoots out of nowhere, yowling as if he has been neglected for months, and curls himself around Ivan’s ankles (he is still liable to give Fedyor evil looks when he feels that this interloper has been stealing his human too often). Ivan sighs, trudges to the kitchen, points out to Rasputin that his food bowl is still half full, gets a wounded look in return, and adds an extra scoopful. Once the cat is happily snarfing down, Fedyor pulls Ivan by the hand, into the dim living room with its blowing curtains. “Come here, my love,” he says. “Hold me.”

Ivan does as ordered, because it’s his favorite thing in the world: cuddling Fedyor close, nothing but the two of them in all of time and space, swaying slowly in the blue hour with fingers and arms and hearts entwined. Ivan kisses Fedyor’s temple, and Fedyor nestles even closer, melted into his embrace. “I love you, Vanya,” he mumbles against Ivan’s collarbone. “I love you so much. I love you more than anything in the world. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you too, Fedya.” Ivan leans down and kisses him properly, sweet and slow and lingering, as they continue to waltz in stately time to a music that nobody except the two of them can hear. “I’m still not always sure why you married me, but I am very glad you did.”

[whiskeynwriting]

I just now saw your post about your break (as I messaged you a few days ago, I've been pretty down the past several weeks myself) But just wanted to reiterate, you are lovely and your writing is AMAZING! ( with very hot smut, I might add 😜) The way you write Frankie is PERFECTION, and I'm a big fan of you weaving Spanish into his stories. The one-shots? OMG. And the Red String series? Such a well written series, i cannot wait for the next part.

Take all the time you need, I understand you needing to take a step back. But know you are amazing, talented and sweet, and you have lots of people here (like me ❤️) to support you when you come back.

Ok, off my old lady soapbox now. 🙂

I 110% know who this is and I love you with all my heart 😭♥️ I appreciate you so much, and I am very grateful to have your support!

Thank you for your incredibly flattering compliments. Frankie is one of my favorite character’s of P’s and my Red String series is like my safe place lol. I’m so glad you love it too ♥️ thank you for being so supportive and understanding 🥰🥹♥️

[buriedlove]

9 & 24 for Alex and Lily?

Thank you so much for your ask! Here are Alex and Lily’s answers ❤

Alex

9. Are they a liar? Are they good at lying?

Alex's eyes widen. "I'm just a ...terrible liar. Truth is important to me. There have been a few difficult situations with the pack. Ones where the ability to lie about my whereabouts would have been an advantage. Times I should have been with them, scouting out lairs of rival packs, when instead I was watching the moon on the beach. But even if I try to lie, even if it's about something insignificant, I stutter, go red and then lose all words from my head. Seriously, every single one. So I learned to tell the truth and deal with the consequences. I think it's a good thing, though. Because it's all about trust, isn't it? If we don't have that then what do we have?"

24. What are their biggest pet peeves?

"Animal cruelty," he answers without pausing. "Any mistreatment of animals. I hate seeing them used for entertainment. Humans can be so cruel with that. What gives us the right to demand an animal performs? To have their freedom taken away. I...I know how that can feel. It's not fun. We need to learn to respect the life around us more. Sorry, excuse me while I just step off my soapbox. But yeah, animal cruelty. Maybe it's the wolf in me speaking. But I don't think so. It's just basic human decency, you know?"

Lily

9. Are they a liar? Are they good at lying?

Lily looks down at her nails and then back up again. "Babe, I'm a Demon, we're born to manipulate. Sometimes a little lie here and there is what is needed to achieve a goal, and honestly that's really all that matters. So yes, I lie, but it's a means to an end. Am I could at it? Oh honey, I could tell you right now that there's a poisonous snake slowly crawling it's way towards you. If you looked in the direction I'm pointing you'd even see it. Hear it. Maybe even feel it. But it's not there. Not really. But the power of suggestion is one of the darkest powers we possess. The irony is that humans can wield it just as strongly. It's just that most of you don't even realise that."

24. What are their biggest pet peeves?

"Ah, I have so many. People who eat with their mouths open. People who walk too slowly. People that take things that belong to me without asking. Sorry, did I say things? I meant lovers." Lily's eyes stare into your soul and you realise it's the end of question time.

OC Asks

[romanceimp]

Hey love! I was wondering if you could do some aftercare with shikamaru, or maybe the morning after yall fucked realll good but just make it pretty fluffy (it's fine if u don't want to! ik soft isnt ur style😉)

Absolutely! I am actually so soft but also just a total perv with no chill hahaha. It is an interesting dichotomy. But yes! After all the stories I’ve written about him completely destroying you, I think this is definitely in order...

One thing I would like to just quickly discuss is a lot of subs experience, subspace, or a sort of high from a BDSM scene due to the chemicals in the brain being released. Subdrop is the result of those hormones balancing back out to a more neutral state. Some common side effects of subdrop are feeling cold, moodiness/slight depression, lethargy, and sometimes a feeling of being disconnected from the space around you. The drop can happen immediately or sometimes a few days later. Aftercare is always important immediately after and the days following a scene. I don’t include it in every story I write bc of time, but know that if someone is unwilling to provide aftercare, they are not worthy or deserving of you at all, let alone your time in the bedroom. Aftercare is specific to the individual (I personally want tea and frozen grapes and cuddles) and in many cases, it is reciprocal between the Dom and sub. Remember, real Doms respect your limits and always always give aftercare. 

I’ll get off my soapbox now, I just want yall to have all the love and respect you deserve. Because every single one of you reading this are important.

AfterCare : 

WARNING: mentions of sexual things, D/s dynamics, subdrop, but mostly just super fluffy Shika caring for you and lots of cuteness

Your body was spent, breathing ragged and your skin was sticky with a mixture of sweat and cum. You were laying on your back, the afterglow of your orgasm, lighting up your aura. Shikamaru peppered kisses all over your face. “You’re such a good girl,” he said, “my beautiful girl.” You could only manage a smile in response to his praise. You reached up to cup his face and noticed the heaviness to your movements. Shikamaru traced over your face, down your neck, and to your collarbone. His light touches caused a shiver to ripple over your skin, goose pimples following in their wake. He kissed your neck tenderly. “You’re cold,” he observed. “I think we should get cleaned up before we cuddle, yeah?” he prompted. You did want to get cleaned up but you felt so tired. “Can we cuddle now?” you asked softly. He rolled over onto his side and pulled you into him. “We can but then we need to take a shower, we have to get you back in your body, my love.”  You nodded, eyes closed, hands clasped around his, pulling it into your heart. 

You weren’t sleeping, in fact your mind felt as if it was buzzing with no thoughts in particular, just strange random images that seemed to pass like clouds behind your eyelids. Shikamaru’s breaths were slow and deep, and you instinctively began to match the pattern. As soon as you’d calmed, Shikamaru kissed your cheek, “I love you.” You smiled and kissed his hand, “I love you too,” you replied, snuggling into the curve of his body. He kissed your head once more before moving to get out of bed. “Don’t go,” you pleaded. “I’m just gonna turn on the shower okay? I’ll be right back.” You shook your head, holding onto his arm. He laughed softly, “you’re so cute, do you wanna come with me then?” You nodded, you weren’t sure why it happened this way, but sometimes even the slightest distance from him could feel like an uncrossable abyss. “Up we go,” he said sweetly as he helped you move to sit. He gave your head a second to adjust to being upright, holding your face and kissing your cheeks, forehead, and nose. He then helped you stand up, “good?” he asked. “Mmhmm,” but you paused slightly, “can I go pee before we shower?” you asked. He laughed, “you don’t need to ask, love, just go.” You laughed and then padded into the bathroom. 

A few moments later you opened the door to let Shikamaru in. He turned the water on and carefully watched you as he waited for it to warm. You were spaced out, dreamy, sitting on the lid of the toilet seat. Your elbows were resting on your knees and your chin in your hands. It both amazed Shikamaru and slightly concerned him when you fell this deep. He understood it was just a part of the process, he just wanted to make sure you were okay. “Whatchya thinking about, gorgeous?” he asked. You turned your head to him and giggled. “This funny video that my friend sent me,” you replied. Shikamaru raised his eyebrows and then took your hand and lead you into the shower. 

He let you be underneath the water first, standing back behind you and the stream of the water. He admired the dark marks that covered your ass and the back of your thighs. He rubbed your shoulders and kissed your neck, he could still feel your muscles tensed and he worked his thumbs into your flex, coaxing you into a deeper state of relaxation. You stepped forward to allow him to get into the water as well. You turned to look at him and your face lit up. “Hey, you have your hair down!” He chuckled, his hair had been down for the last hour and you were just now noticing. It was a testament to how deep you had been in subspace, but also a sign that you were coming back to yourself. “I like it down,” you added. “Thank you beautiful,” he replied . “Okay now turn around so I can wash your hair,” he said and you did. You loved this, when he would massage the shampoo into your scalp. It was the way he did it, it was so conscious and done with care. It was as if he was trying to wash all the negative thoughts from your head. You felt loved and like you were being restored. He tilted your head back, careful to not get the soap in your eyes as he washed it out of your hair. Your hair and mind now feeling much more clean, you turned to Shikamaru. “Can I wash your hair too?” you asked. He smiled wide, handed you the shampoo, and said “go for it.” You moved behind him and began to lather his head. You had to reach up to soap all of his hair and then tipped his head back and rinsed his hair, using your palm to help remove the soap. 

When the water ran clear without soap you leaned forward, wrapping your arms around him. You rested your head against his back. He laughed softly, you were so cute, how could he resist. “Hey,” he turned around and hugged you back. You thought he was going to continue speaking but he finished his thought by locking his lips onto yours. It was a passionate kiss, reserved for the times where words weren't enough to communicate what he was feeling. 

He spun you around and did your conditioner and then this time did his own. He knew he had to get you cleaned up and into bed, it was already getting pretty late. Shikamaru took a cloth and lathered it with your soap before using it to scrub your body down, removing any of the evidence from your previous activities. Any marks that were left were washed gently and given a kiss to show his appreciation and affection. You took the cloth from his hands and repeated his movements, on his body this time. Shikamaru was surprised, you hadn’t washed him before but he didn’t complain. It was a nice testament to how much you cared for him. He rinsed off quickly and took your face in his hands. “I’m gonna put new sheets on the bed for us, okay? Can you stay here for a sec?” You nodded and watch as he exited the shower. You stood underneath the water and listened as he got himself a towel and began to dry off. The sound of Shikamaru exiting the bathroom and the rush of cold air that accompanied snapped something inside of you. A deep sadness welled from inside your chest and tears began to trickle down your cheeks. ‘It’s just the drop, it’s all okay,” you told yourself. You wanted to go back out to Shikamaru and lay wrapped in his arms. ‘He’s just outside making the bed, he’s not that far away, it’s okay,” you consoled. You felt embarrassed now, that you’d been crying for no reason. It made you feel anxious, worrying that Shikamaru would be frustrated with your up and down emotions. But you also knew that stewing in your current state would make it worse, so it would be better to se him. 

You turned the water off and grabbed a clean towel from under the sink. You wrapped it around you and opened the door to your shared bedroom. Shikamaru had just finished putting the fitted sheet on the bed. He had dressed himself in a pair of grey sweatpants, but still had yet to put a shirt on. Small beads of water rolled down his chest from his hair. He was unfolding the top sheet when he saw your eyes red and puffy, standing wrapped in the towel. His face dropped into concern as he looked over at you. “Hey, hey, what’s happening?” he asked gently. You walked over to him and nuzzled your head into his chest. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you into his lap. He rocked back and forth holding on to you. “It’s okay love, I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered as you began to calm once more. Your breath slightly shaky. You relished in the feeling of being enveloped by his warmth, his clean scent filling your senses. He slowly slid you onto the bed, pulling the towel from around you, folding it and placing it under your head so the bed didn’t get wet. “I’m gonna make the rest of the bed around you,” he explained smiling. He flipped the top sheet over you, then the comforter and then he cased the pillows and arranged them around you, like you were in a nest. “There you go, perfect,” he smiled down at you. You reached for him and he leaned down to kiss you. “I’m gonna get something for you to eat, okay love? Will you be okay?” You nodded back up at him and he disappeared down the hall. 

When he returned he had a bowl with apple slices, powdered with cinnamon and drizzled with honey, and a glass of water. He set the bowl down on the side table and grabbed a sleep shirt for you from the drawer. “I don’t want you getting cold,” he grinned. You reached for the shirt to put it on but he slipped it over your head for you. Shikamaru climbed into bed next to you and handed you the bowl of apples. “For you, my beauty,” he admired and you smiled as you ate your snack. “So do you wanna show me that video your friend sent you?” Your eyes lit up and that was the reaction he was hoping for. He needed to bring you back down to the present moment, back to your body instead of you floating outside of it. Shikamaru knew that this deep of a drop could last a few days but the sooner he got you even just a little bit more grounded the easier the transition would be for you. “Hold this for me will ya?” you asked and he took the bowl from your hands as you reached for your phone. 

One video led to many and soon you were laughing and talking more while munching on your apples. Shikamaru took the empty bowl and handed you the glass of water. You took a few sips and then held the glass to his lips, “you too,” you beamed. He drank and then thanked you before setting the glass on the side table. He rubbed your tummy and kissed it, “feel better?” he asked. “Yeah, much... thank you, I love you.” He kissed you, “I love you right back.” He coaxed you up and back to the bathroom to brush teeth and properly get ready for bed.

You both climbed back into bed and Shikamaru turned out the light. His arms encircled your body as they did every night. His warmth was comforting and you entertained your legs with his in an effort to feel ever closer to him. “You take good care of me,” you murmured, half asleep. “That’s because, I love you, and we belong to each other... for however long you want it to be that way,” he whispered. Your eyes opened and you turned to look at him. “For forever,” you said almost hurt at the implication. He kissed you for the last time that night, “alright then, I’m yours forever.” You fell asleep with a smile on your face that night. 

Your eyes fluttered open, the golden light of morning filtered through the blinds. You took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling. A kiss on your cheek alerted you that Shikamaru was awake too. “Good morning Princess, how are you feeling?” You rolled over so that your head was on his chest. You drew small patterns with your fingertips over his heart, little flowers and other simple shapes. “I am wonderful, how are you?” “Even better now,”he responded with a kiss to your head. “Now, what do you want for breakfast?” You laughed softly, “no, you can’t do it yourself, I wanna help.” You paused, and snuggled deeper into his chest. “But in a little while,  I just wanna lay here with you for a little longer.” Shikamaru stroked up and down your arm, “we can lay here as long as you want.” “Forever?” “Forever.” 

[notmydayjob]

a walk in two worlds | john laurens x reader.

words: 1.8k

warnings: a little bit about slavery just because its john, parent death, fluff and some possibly sexual comments if you think on it

desc: your father is british general whose been called to fight in georgia, with him gone and you alone in new york things are bound to happen, especially after you meet a certain soldier boy.

this is my first hamilton fic and I wanted to say a couple things before it got it started. First of all I am white writer and I write my fics to be inclusive but there may be things that I may not realize are excluding people because I’ve had the privilege of not being excluded so if you notice anything then please message me and I’ll be more than happy to edit it. second i wrote this at 3 am and even if nobody reads it i’ll probably make a pt2 but lemme know.

i kinda picked and choosed what i wanted to use from hamilton and real life so obviously not historically accurate 

There’s nothing quite like summer in the city, children running in the streets, the sound of hooves on the brick laid roads, and the hot sun shining down on busy men and women. You had just moved into the city with your father but soon after you arrived your father was called away to join the fight in Georgia. You were left behind with only your housekeeper who functioned as a Nanny when you were a child. Your mother had died when you were very young and your father worked so Joan was the closest thing to family you had. Before your father left he gave you three instructions. One, the city can be a dangerous place for a young beautiful girl, don’t go downtown. Two, if you must stray from the house never go anywhere unaccompanied. Three, the revolutionists are reckless and ruinous, stay away. Your father was a smart man but often worried too much especially for you. It took nearly three days to convince Joan to let you leave the house. “I will come with you then, just let me finish my chores, and then we may go, but we are staying uptown, it’s nice here, awfully quiet too.” She said when she finally caved. You thanked her profusely but unbeknownst to her when she turned her back to you, you slipped out the back door. When your father left he took the carriage with him and the coachman had not yet returned so you had to walk into the city. You weren’t complaining though, the weather was warm and the fresh air was refreshing after a  week of house arrest. As you approached the downtown district of Manhattan you noticed a noticeable drop in wealth due to many of its residents being either college students, revolutionists, or merchants. A young man stood on a soapbox in the city square ranting about the unjust taxes and the recent events in Boston while a large crowd cheered around him. Propaganda flyers were hung on every storefront and street lamp, you took one and quickly shoved it into the bottom of your basket next to a small bag of coins. For about 20 minutes you strolled around going between stands of vendors selling fruits, fans, furniture, and everything in between. You stopped at the stand of a man selling vegetables and began picking out a few. You clearly felt a presence behind you but stayed focused on your task. “What is a pretty young lady like you doin’ in the city all by herself.” The presence spoke smoothly. You looked up from under the brim of your hat to see a man around your age maybe a few years older. His curly black hair was tied up tightly at the back of his head. Your eyes then traveled to the rich blue coat he proudly wore. “Minding my own business.” You said flatly as you turned back to what you were doing. “You know there are a lot of dangerous people out here who might want to take advantage of such a pretty girl.” He said clearly thinking he was very smooth. “Is that so?” You responded as you paid for your goods. Maybe you were naive but he didn’t seem threatening, he seemed young, reckless, and a flirt which could be just as bad. “Yes ma’am, maybe I should be your escort to-” He began again but you cut him off. “What’s your name, sir.” You asked him curtly and for once turned to fully face him. “John Laurens.” He tipped his head to you. “Don’t you have something to protest Mr. Laurens.” You brushed past him and continued down the street but he was quick to follow you. “I’m a wonderful multitasker.” He chuckled softly at his own joke. You wanted to hate him, you wanted to believe everything your father said about revolutionists but this man was charming and had a gravitational pull that was nearly impossible for you to resist. You knew if he stopped following you then you would follow him, you just hoped he didn’t know that. “I’ve never seen you around here before.” “Is that supposed to be a question, Mr. Laurens.” From the side of your vision, you could see the grin on his face, he liked having you riled up. “My father and I just moved uptown.” “So a rich pretty girl.” He said to himself with the full intention of you hearing to which you scoffed. “Am I wrong?” He stepped out in front of you locking his honey brown eyes with yours. You simply rolled your eyes in protest. “That’s what I thought.” His smirk was so genuine and charming it made you smile back to which he beamed brightly. “So what does the pretty girl’s father do for such wealth.” He posed. “Old money.” You stated simply to avoid the topic but he was clearly not satisfied. “He’s a general.” You stared intently over at him to gauge his reaction. John immediately stopped in his tracks and the smirk on his fell. “I take it we’re on different sides of the war.” He nodded slowly not meeting your eyes. His sudden quietness intrigued you, it seemed like that would have only made him mouthier. “That’s right.” Your voice was nearly inaudible but your beg for him not to turn away was loud enough for him to stay even for just a moment longer. You were not content with those being your last words so you continued: “My father believes that the King is a just one.” You chose your words intentionally, hoping he would take the bait yet shocked when he did. “And what do you believe?” You didn’t quite know how to respond to his question. No one had ever asked for your political opinion, especially not a man. “Well,” The small grin was already appearing on your face. “The price of tea is far too high nowadays.” The smile was quick to come to his face though he played it off with a joking scoff and eye roll. “So, does the beautiful young lady have a name?” “Y/n.” “Y/n,” He repeated your words testing it out to see if he liked it, apparently he did because the next thing he asked was where the two of you were headed next. You went to the silversmith, and he talked about growing up on a plantation in South Carolina and the things he saw happen to his father’s slaves. You went to the bakery and he told you his dreams of giving those men their freedom so they could join him in fighting in the war. You found him more endearing the longer you talked to him. You let your guard down and showed him your interest in what he had to say and you no longer tried to hide the laughs and smiles that he pulled out of you. “What about you?” He asked as he held the door to the general store open for you. “What about me?” You asked promptly. “Oh, come on, I’ve done nothing but talk, you have to return the favor.” His smirk grew quickly. You simply rolled your eyes but let yourself smile to show that you found the joke at least a little funny. “There’s not much to tell until two weeks ago I stayed in my home back in London and did what I was asked.” You explained. “Will you grab the jam jar on the top shelf for me?” You could probably reach it but you wanted to see how quickly he would please you. He in fact did follow your request but not before taking a step closer to you, pressing you against the shelf as he reached over you to grab the jar above your head. “You don’t seem like the type to quietly obey.” John’s voice was low, lower than you’d ever heard it before and quiet enough so that you were the only one who heard his words. He did this on the purpose of course, what he said was only for you. He brought his hand down to give you the jar, your hand resting on his for just a moment. That’s when you realized this was the first time you’d touched, and now that’s all you wanted to do and the brushing of hands wasn’t nearly enough. As you went to stutter out an answer the shouting that was coming through the front door pulled both of you out of your moment. “Y/n M/n L/n, there you are, oh my god!” Joan ran straight for you. Her pale cheeks flushed and grey hair falling loose from her low bun. “I thought you’d run away, do you know how upset your father will be?” “Father isn’t here, you don’t have to tell him anything.” You proposed. “Is this your mother?” John interjected as he held his hand out for her to take. “No, she’s my handler.” You said with a hint of annoyance. Joan gave John her hand and he promptly placed a kiss on the back of it, you felt yourself become envious of her hand. Her cheeks turned bright red, you were sure she would tell you about how she hasn’t gotten this much attention from men since she was 20. “Joan this is John Laurens, John Laurens this is Joan.” You nearly groaned out. Joan quickly spoke up again right when you saw her eyes fall on Johns’s coat. “Oh my! Y/n we must be headed home now!” She grabbed your hand and began to drag you to the door. “Joan, Joan!” You shouted for attention before dangling your basket in front of her face. “I’ll pay for these.” She took the basket from your hands. “You wait outside.” She shooed you away. You exited the shop making sure that John was following. “Maybe we should make a run for it.” You turned to John as he chuckled. “I don’t think so, you’ll give the poor woman a heart attack.” He said then a silence fell between you. “I don’t want this to be the last time I see you though.” “Neither do I.” You said softly. “May I write you?” John quickly turned towards you, swooping your hands into his and holding them close to his heart. “Yes.” You nodded as you stared intently and how he held you. “John, this won’t be easy, my father would never-” “I know.” He said simply as he smiled at you and for just a moment you didn’t care about what your father would say. “Alright, Y/n, it’s time for us to head home,” Joan said as she came out the door. “Goodbye, Y/n.” He took your hand and placed a kiss on the back of it. “Goodbye, John Laurens.”

[yelpfic]

2020 Writing (Year in Review)

In 2019, I posted 3K words on AO3.

In 2020, I posted 214K words on AO3.

I have probably written more fic this year than I have in my entire life... and I didn't even start until April.

Since I feel like I'm new to writing all over again (the last time I wrote regularly was probably about a decade ago), this has been a year of experimentation. One obvious change is that I'm writing from this "alt" account, where I've been posting whatever the hell iddy, gratuitous, self-indulgent stories happened to fall out of my brain. (Perhaps as a consequence, I noticed that the ratio of public bookmarks across all my fics clocked in at around 50%. In other words, half the people who bookmarked my works chose to do so privately!)

I also experimented with:

participating in fic exchanges and prompt memes

writing for a variety of fandoms: big and small, new and dead

varying up my writing style: using present and past tenses, ranging from super florid descriptions to conversational prose

self-promotion on Tumblr, which meant attempting to learn how to use it. I'm sure I still don't have all the etiquette down, but no one's complained yet I guess.

My main project this year has been Once a Runner, the fic that got me started writing again, so I owe quite a lot to it. It's also sucked me deep into Eyeshield 21, a fandom that was active 10-15 years ago but still somehow has a few loyal fans. I am deeply grateful to these folks for... well... existing! In addition to OAR, I've written four other ES21 fics this year, each with a different pairing. In all but one fic, I managed to use a different obscure character tag that has never been used before!

This year, I've done a decent job (mostly) working on one big project at a time. I'm starting to get used to the feeling of always having an active writing project again, letting it churn away in my brain in a background process. Sometimes I'm rewarded with a scene or a plot idea that comes out of nowhere, like a plant that produces mysterious fruit - both delightful and worrying at the same time.

I wrap up this year embarking on a new project, Solid as Stone, which, as currently planned, is going to take me even further out of my comfort zone.

AO3 stats and meme responses below the cut.

My AO3 stats at the end of the year:

Meme questions:

Best title: Cloak and Dagger, Cape and Cowl

Worst title: Lightbringer Mine

Longest title: Their offers should not charm us (their evil gifts would harm us) (65 characters)

Shortest title: Talisman (8 characters)

Best first line: "Don't," the witcher's arm shot out, barring his companion mid-step, "touch."

Worst first line: Yeah, in hindsight, Sena shouldn't have answered that doorbell.

Best last line: "It will be done," he agrees, and presses the lilies into her hands. "My promise is solid as stone."

Worst last line: "I can't win or lose until you bring your strain to market. All I ask is that you hurry up and regrow, so we can really compete."

Conclusion: I need to work on endings.

Looking back, did you write more fics than you thought you would this year, less than you thought, or about what you predicted? I wrote more than I could have imagined in my wildest dreams.

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted last year? Everything. I wasn't into any of these fandoms last year.

What’s your favorite story this year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you the happiest. OAR, for sure. It got me back into writing, and I devoted an enormous amount of mental energy to it. Runners up (pun intended) were any ES21 rarepair fics where I lamented the lack of content for a pairing I loved, tried to explain everything I loved about them in fic form, and basically turned into my ship manifesto/soapbox. In fic form.

Okay, NOW your most popular story. Solid as Stone. OAR comes close by sole virtue of being a long, multichaptered work posted over 8 months, but with a single chapter of under 3K words, and having been up for under two weeks, SAS is already beating OAR in some statistics. I never realized Genshin Impact was such a hot fandom, even for a rarepair like this.

Story most underappreciated by the universe? All my stories got quite a bit more attention than I expected (thank you, everyone, sincerely), but I'd say Cloak and Dagger, Cape and Cowl. It's original, it was written in an exchange, and it has a decent plot (if I do say so myself) and even a bit of smut. Perhaps F/F work is not so popular?

Story that could have been better? I could probably list multiple things I'd want to improve about each story, but let me just limit myself to one. Lightbringer Mine had more story in it that I didn't get around to telling, and the ending felt a little abrupt. I feel a little awkward extending it now, though, as it was a gift fic.

Saddest story? Hmm, I think just about every story I wrote had a happy-ish ending. I suppose I'll go with C&D,C&C.

Most fun? TBH, the same? There are several lighthearted moments and a heist scene. 

Most fucked-up story? Stars and Stripes Forever (lack of link intentional)

Hardest story to write? Once a Runner

Easiest/most fun story to write? Always Knew I'd Fall. I went skeet shooting once, and as soon as I had the idea that Kid and Hiruma might be good at it, the story basically wrote itself. I also thought the song from the title was too perfect of a Kid song to pass up.

Top five scenes you would like to see illustrated: I would die happy to see any scene from OAR illustrated. Off the top of my head, the Hiruma and Sena bathtub scene, haircutting scene, or Hiruma taunting Monta in the car when we first meet Monta. From other fics, Kid walking around the course with Hiruma and making him carrying his gun properly in "Always Thought I'd Fall", and Sara Spectacular blocking the shadow bolts in "Cloak and Dagger, Cape and Cowl".

Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them? I experimented with posting explicit works, and as it turns out, sex sells. I also really put my kinks out there (sexual and otherwise) and was surprised and gratified to find others who appreciated it. Conclusion: it's okay to write the fic that you've always wanted to write. Even if it's embarrassing, or if some will judge you for it, writing for likeminded souls makes more sense than writing to avoid critics.

What are your fic writing goals for next year? I have a lot more ideas for SAS, so I'd like to make that my next big project. I'm also signed up for Five Figure Fic Exchange, so that means I have a 10k fic due by the end of the month that I need to... start... Beyond that, I'd like to write more original works, perhaps something that I can even publish under my real name?? Is that crazy, brain??

Some specific things I've struggled with this year that I'd like to improve: titles and character names, physical descriptions, making my endings less abrupt

[stina-is-a-punk-rocker]

donna tartt’s ‘the goldfinch’: an attempt at a comprehensive review

Includes spoilers, because I still haven’t mastered the art of reviewing something without spoiling anything, because I am a dumbass.

It is with great trepidation that I step on my soapbox for this book, partly because I don’t want to be Sandra the Soccer Mom at a modern art exhibition who eyes the work with a disdainful sniff and, “My Bobby could do better than that with Crayola and construction paper!”, partly because too many people like this book for me to be comfortable with dragging it through the mud. Not that I particularly hated it; I view The Goldfinch with the same detachment I reserve for vanilla ice cream and jazz music: it exists, and some of it is good, but it’s not something that has me frothing at the mouth.

Having read (and loved) The Secret History, I was expecting beautiful writing, excessively dramatic and melancholic characters that I will hate with every fiber of my being, and a plot that will keep me hooked till the end. Having read The Goldfinch, my sentiments can be summed up in nine words: when you order a Coke but get a Pepsi.

Theodore is insufferable, pretentious and just an overall boring protagonist. I’ve read books with main characters I hate (*cough* Gone Girl *cough*), and I can tolerate arseholery, as long as it’s interesting arseholery. Theodore Decker couldn’t do me the courtesy of doing even that. That last monologue of his? Skimmed over the entirety; I couldn’t be fucked to go through pages’ worth of introspection and Analyses of Life. RIP to Theo and his sad boi hours, but I guess I’m just different. Almost everyone else in his life is far more interesting than him- Hagrid Hobie, Boris, Mrs. Barbour, Kitsey- hell, even Andy the Weeaboo.

Pippa’s essentially a watered-down version of Camila. I don’t have much to say about her except: :/.

And then we have Boris. A caricature if there ever was one- the over-glorified alcoholic, the drug-addicted genius. Utterly cartoonish. Draco in sparkly leather pants, but not too sparkly, because our man’s Heterosexual.

I’m assuming Hobie was supposed to be the big, loveable gentle giant- the one character we all loved no matter what, the only saving grace- but he falls short. Again, Hobie’s painfully boring and I couldn’t bring myself to care for him.

The beginning is one whiplash after the other- we go from adult Theodore to young Theodore after he has a dream about his mum (who I became fond of, for some reason), to his first encounter with Fabritius’ painting that sets off this series of very improbable events, to his mum being blasted to smithereens (RIP Mrs. Decker, I liked you), to Welty giving him the painting- which, now that I think about it: how did Welty take the painting in the first place? He obviously obtained the painting before the bomb went off, but given that the story takes place in the twenty-first century and they’re in the Museum of Modern Art in New York, you’d think there’d be tighter security. And where was Pippa in all of this (the book might’ve mentioned why she wasn’t with Welty at the time of the explosion but I’m not about to leaf through eight-hundred pages to find out)?

The part where Theo waits for his mum to come home is genuinely painful. My heart hurt for him and his mum; in other words, it made me Feel Sad Things, and I respect a book which can make me do that.

But the fact remains that most of Theo’s problems could’ve been avoided if he did away with the fucking painting. At first, I assumed that Welty’s instructions to find Hobie meant that they were both part of some art smuggling gig. Why did Welty give Theo the painting in the first place? What was he supposed to do with it?

Theo had plenty of opportunity to hand over the fucking thing- he’s thirteen, just barely a teenager, and admittedly I didn’t make the best of decisions at that age (that’s an understatement), but allow me to say this: Theodore, you fucking dumbass.

What’s even worse is that at the end, that’s all that happens. They hand over the painting, get half a million dollars, and that’s it. And I get that if Theo had done that in the first place, that would mean no story, but if your character has to make the dumbest decisions to move the plot forward, maybe you should reconsider.

There’s of course the argument that Theo’s attachment to the painting has to do with his mother’s love for it, and him holding onto that last memory of her, but it’s not like he’s holding onto her favorite necklace or her diary, or something she owned. I dunno, it just doesn’t make sense to me. I just can’t get over the fact that he just hands it over and walks away unscathed at the end- it makes zero sense to my reptilian brain. To describe what I felt after that anticlimactic conclusion: much like I did at the end of Guy de Maupassant’s The Diamond Necklace, only far less entertained.

The plot drags on for far too long, not to mention there’s large chunks of it that could be lopped off. The large section of the story that takes place in Vegas- easily disposable. Boris is the only catalyst to the plot that comes out of it- Xandra and Theo’s dad are pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

And then, near the end, much of the actual story is crammed into a relatively small number of pages. And this is going to be nitpicky, but by the time that rolled around (reuniting with Boris and the sequence of events afterwards), I was… pretty fucking bored. So instead of turning the last page with the euphoria that ending should’ve warranted (minus Theo’s #deep life analysis), it was more of a ‘thank god THAT’S over!’

The final few pages- oh, fuck, no. It’s the sort of angst-riddled pretentious bullshit people write in English Lit. It reads like the musings of that one weepy drunk uncle who stays way past he’s invited at family reunions and goes off on tangents about Life and His Experiences and the World and the Futility of Human Existence and Nature and Death. In other words: it’s fucking boring. No one cares, Theo.

Going through this might make it seem that I strongly dislike The Goldfinch. I assure you that’s far from the truth; it’s wonderfully written, and a decent read if you’ve got time to spare. I just tend to rate a book based on whether or not I would reread it, and I doubt I’ll ever reread The Goldfinch. It made me Feel, and there were parts of it that I want to frame and hang on my wall, or make a throw pillow out of. The book just wasn’t to my taste, overall