#and now I've decided to actually write it

[ao3commentoftheday]

I know tag wranglers do a lot of work connecting tags etc. Is there anything authors can do to make their jobs easier for them like trying to mostly use canonical tags or not making tag comments?

Thanks!

This is a great question, and I'll do my best to answer it but I do hope that some wranglers add on in the notes! I'm also just going to preface this with the fact that you should still tag however you like to tag. This list isn't meant to be a checklist or anything. It's just info I've picked up over the years and you can take or leave each piece as you see fit.

Okay, so the first thing that most non-wranglers should know is that wranglers see tags separately from the fic. They get a big bin full of tags to sort through and match up in the system, but they'll only see your fic and the other tags you've added to it if they decide to go look.

That's important to know because sometimes a user will tag something like [character] is so sexy and then also tag by which I mean they're a huge dork. The wranlger won't see that second tag and won't know that they're connected so your sarcastic tag will end up synned (matched up to) sexy!Character or whatever the canonical is, as if that was the meaning you were going for.

Another good thing to know is that tags can only be synned if they only have 1 idea in them. So if you tag, say, [character] is gay and autistic then the wrangler can't actually syn that to either [character] is gay or character is autistic because it only half-fits either tag. To have them synned in the database, you would need to tag those two ideas separately.

You might have already seen the post I made referencing the fact that you don't have to tag multiple versions of the same idea (unless you want to for the aesthetic) because the synning that wranglers do makes sure that tagging one idea allows users to filter for all versions of that idea. But in case you didn't know that, now you do!

Wranglers are often members of the fandoms they wrangle, but they aren't always. Sometimes they'll take on a fandom that doesn't otherwise have a wrangler because they like to do research or because they like small fandoms or for many other reasons. But that means that if you're tagging your OCs by name, you should add (OC) to the end so that they know it's not a canon character that they aren't familiar with. This is double true in huge fandoms like Star Wars where there are millions of canon characters and just as many OCs.

Wranglers don't "seed" tags in fandoms. For a tag to exist, users need to create it. The rule of thumb is at least 3 fics from 3 separate authors, but that's very much the minimum and in fast-moving or huge fandoms the bar is probably higher. Also, for brand new fandoms, it's entirely possible that they won't know you exist until you tell them. Back in January I was the first person to write in a brand new fandom so I knew I had to start the tags, and I waited until there were 25 or so works by 15 or so creators before I emailed Support because I know I have to be patient - but I'm still impatient by nature lol.

Another thing to know is that tags are kind of like proton packs - they can't cross the streams. If you put a tag in the Character field by mistake, wranglers can't move it to the Additionals. This can also work in your favour, though, because if you have a minor character or minor relationship that you want to tag because there's some kind of fandom drama happening and people want to be able to avoid them, you can tag them in the Additional Tags so that people can know they're in there, but the people who like that character or ship can still filter the Character and Relationship tags without seeing a bunch of works that don't really focus on them.

This got super long, so I'll end with your question about tag comments. I know people worry that it makes extra work for tag wranglers if you get all chatty in your fic tags but I've been reassured by more than one wrangler over the course of several years now that it's no extra work. They just shovel those tags into the gaping maw of the Unfilterable Beast - which is the same thing they do with those tags that have multiple concepts in them. If it can't be synned, then that's where they go.

(keep tagging that way, though, if you like to because that's how new concepts get created and eventually canonized)

Alright, I that's all I can think of off the top of my head, and the list was actually longer than I thought! Wranglers: please do add on with other things you wish users knew, and please correct me if anything has changed since the last time I delved into this topic!

[viviansturns]

𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒊'𝒎 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 - wc 8k+

...every time chris has ever fucked up and apologized

cw: angst, crying, begging, repeated toxic actions, extremely toxic relationship, totally unresolved, codependancy, mentions of alcohol, no physical abuse

a/n- hi guysss i'm putting this in the text of fic so you read it!! so this is for my 1,000 follower special! i've done a long fic before (here) so i decided to do another but this ones terribly sad!

it's important to note that i did this is a completely different writing style than mine, especially nearing the end, and I really don't know how much I like it. in addition, i reached the maximum number of "blocks" due to the absurd amount of enters, so theres a continuation to this post. anyways, enjoy! and i'm sorry in advance

Sorry for being a dick

The party is loud enough that you have to lean in to hear what your friend is saying, but you don’t really mind. You’re not even sure you wanted to come at first—it’s one of those crowded, slightly pretentious housewarmings where everyone brings craft beer or overpriced wine.

Still, you like the kitchen best. It’s bright and a little too small for the twelve-ish people squeezed in, the chatter bouncing off white cabinets and cheap tile.

You’re perched on the counter, boot heels knocking softly, drink in hand, laughing at something stupid your friend tells you about her boss. You feel loose, relaxed. You’ve even forgotten for a second that you don’t know most of these people.

That changes when he walks in.

He doesn’t exactly enter the room so much as commandeer it.

Tall. Broad. Annoyingly handsome in that way you can tell he knows. He’s talking to someone behind him, voice a little too loud over the music in the other room, eyes flicking around like he’s casing the joint.

He sees the group in the kitchen, and his gaze lands on you for a second too long before moving away again.

You notice.

“Who’s that?” you ask your friend in a hushed voice.

“Chris,” she mouths. “He’s... you know. He’s cool.”

Which apparently means handle with care.

You shrug. Not your problem.

Except he walks over anyway.

He leans against the counter next to you, beer dangling between his fingers, sizing you up in a quick, dismissive glance.

“What are you all talking about?” he asks, all casual arrogance.

“Hey Chris. My boss,” your friend says.

You smirk. “We’re also mocking ourselves for being fake adults. And I was saying I still write poetry sometimes.”

“Poetry?” he snorts. “Christ. That’s—pretentious as hell.”

It isn’t said playfully. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it. Just tosses it out there like a fact everyone would agree on.

The conversation dies for half a beat.

You blink, then let out a sharp little laugh that has no humor in it.

“Wow,” you say, tilting your head. “Didn’t realize I needed your permission to have a hobby.”

That gets his attention. His eyes snap to you, startled.

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

For a second, he actually looks embarrassed.

“Shit,” he mutters. He straightens, rubbing the back of his neck. The air shifts—his arrogance deflating fast. “Okay. You’re right. That was... dickish. ’m sorry.”

You raise your eyebrows, a smirk tugging at your mouth despite yourself.

“That’s it? Dickish?”

He winces. “Super dickish.”

“Better.”

Silence stretches, filled with the muffled bass from the living room and the sound of someone laughing down the hall.

He huffs out a laugh, looking genuinely sheepish now.

“I really am sorry,” he adds, voice low enough that only you hear it.

You believe him. Which is stupid. You barely know him.

But he looks so uncomfortable.

You exhale, shoulders relaxing.

“Fine,” you say, smiling slow. “You’re forgiven.”

He blinks.

“That easy?”

You shrug, swirling your drink.

“I forgive way too easily. You’ll come to realize.”

His eyes lock on yours then, the apology softening into something else. He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t.

A silence falls between you that is surprisingly comfortable.

Finally, he clears his throat, suddenly awkward in a way that makes you bite back a laugh.

“Can I, uh���can I get you another drink? For being a pretentious asshole.”

You tap your glass thoughtfully.

“You can try,” you tease.

He grins—genuine this time—and holds out a hand for your cup.

You let him take it.

_______________

He disappears into the living room, leaving you with a flutter in your chest you’re definitely going to blame on the cheap wine.

Your friend gives you a knowing look.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the grin that creeps up.

“Shut up,” you mouth.

But you’re already looking at the doorway, waiting for him to come back.

Sorry for forgetting

You don’t really expect him to text you.

But you check your phone the entire next morning anyway.

Your friend teased you about it all the way home. “Oh my god, you like him.” Which is insulting, actually. You don’t like rude boys who say sorry too late.

Still, you left the party thinking about the way he’d looked when he realized he’d actually hurt you. The awkward apology. The hand rubbing the back of his neck. The real, messy way he’d said I’m sorry like he wasn’t used to saying it at all.

You shouldn’t care.

But you’re not immune.

So when his name finally lights up your screen, you have to bite back a smile before you even read the message.

Chris: hey. you around today?

You roll your eyes at the lack of capitalization.

You: Depends.

Chris: on?

You: On whether you’re gonna insult me again.

The typing bubbles appear. Vanish. Come back.

Chris: i was gonna try not to.

You laugh.

You: Fine. When?

Chris: like an hour?

You glance at the time. You’re not really free but it’s not like you have anything you can’t move.

Your thumb hovers.

You: Sure.

Chris: cool. i’ll let you know.

_______________

That’s how you find yourself sitting in the cramped back corner of your favorite coffee shop, half an hour later, pretending to read while checking the door every three seconds.

He’s late.

Not “five-minutes-traffic” late.

Twenty. Thirty.

You try not to care.

But you’re annoyed.

You check your phone. Nothing.

Finally, you toss your book onto the table and fish your phone out again, thumbs flying.

You: So was this the part where you show up or just leave me hanging?

You hit send. And immediately regret it.

It takes five minutes for the bubbles to appear.

Chris: fuck.

That’s all.

You scowl.

You: Oh my god.

A minute later, your phone rings.

You almost don’t pick up.

But you do.

“Hey.”

His voice is low, rougher than you remember.

“Hey,” you snap.

Silence.

“I’m… sorry.”

You snort. “You’re sorry?”

“Yeah. I… I forgot.”

Your mouth twists. “You forgot.”

He exhales, sounding wrecked. “Yeah. I don’t have an excuse. I just… lost track and I didn’t remember.”

Silence stretches.

You chew on the inside of your cheek.

“You do realize that’s actually worse, right?”

He groans softly on the other end of the line. “Yeah. I know. That’s on me.”

Your shoulders drop.

You didn’t want a fight. You just didn’t want to feel stupid sitting here alone.

“I cleared time for you,” you say quietly.

He’s quiet too.

“I know.”

Something about the way he says it makes your chest ache.

“I didn’t want to fuck it up,” he says finally.

You blink.

“Chris…”

“I know. Don’t say it. I’m an asshole. A coward. Whatever. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

You sigh. The coffee in front of you has gone cold.

“You did waste it,” you admit.

“I know.”

“But…”

You close your eyes.

“I forgive you.”

Silence.

He actually laughs—a short, disbelieving sound.

“Again?”

“Again,” you say. “But you’re running out of freebies.”

He hums, sounding a little relieved.

“I’ll pay you back for the coffee.”

“You will.”

“And I’ll actually show up next time.”

You let out a small laugh.

“You better.”

Another beat of silence.

“Hey,” he says, voice suddenly softer. “Thanks. For… not hanging up.”

Your chest twists.

“Don’t make me regret it.”

He lets out a breath.

“I’ll try not to.”

You hang up first.

You don’t finish your coffee.

But you do leave the shop smiling a little anyway.

Because you didn’t want to like him.

But it’s hard not to like someone who doesn’t know how to be good at this, but tries anyway.

Even if he’s late.

Even if he’s an idiot.

Because he said sorry, and you believed him.

Which is probably your biggest mistake yet.

-

-

-

-

-

-

You’re dating now.

It still feels weird to say out loud.

Not because it doesn’t fit, but because somehow it snuck up on you.

You can’t even say when it happened exactly. One minute you were teasing him about flaking on coffee, the next you were making out in his car, both of you too proud to admit you’d been waiting for it.

It’s not perfect. Nothing about Chris is perfect.

But it feels like it. He’s magnetic in a way you can’t describe. You don’t think you could stop liking him if you tried

—-- 1 month later —---

Sorry, work was crazy…

Tonight, it’s supposed to be your night.

You planned it.

A small, no-pressure dinner at your place. Just pasta, garlic bread, and that movie you keep saying he has to see because you love it and you want him to love it too.

You even clean your tiny apartment. Real cleaning, too, not just shoving socks under the bed.

You light a candle. One. You’re not that desperate…

You’re actually a little nervous.

Which is stupid. He’s seen you at your worst. (hair a mess, drunk at 2 AM crying)

But tonight feels like a test somehow.

And then he’s late.

You tell yourself it’s no big deal.

You know he’s busy. He works stupid hours. You knew that before you kissed him, before you let him press you against his stupid car door and promise to do better.

So you wait.

And wait.

You text.

No answer.

You end up sitting cross-legged on your couch, cold pasta in a pot on the stove, arms folded over your chest.

You’re not angry. Not yet.

You’re hurt.

Which is worse.

___________

When he finally knocks, you think about not opening the door.

You do it anyway.

He’s there, hands shoved into his jacket, eyes tired, hair a mess like he’s been running his hands through it all night.

He doesn’t look arrogant now.

He looks like someone who knows he fucked up.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You don’t move.

“Hi.”

He winces. “Can I come in?”

You hesitate.

Finally you step back.

He closes the door behind him carefully, like it might explode.

You don’t look at him.

“I’m sorry.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Yeah?”

“I am,” he says. He actually sounds wrecked. “I lost track of time. Work was crazy. I meant to text you, but—”

You hold up a hand.

“I don’t want excuses.”

He flinches.

You sigh, pressing your fingers to your eyes.

“Chris, I don’t care if you’re busy. Just tell me.”

“I know,” he mutters.

“Seriously,” you say, voice shaking a little. “Do you know what it feels like to be sitting here like an idiot? Stirring pasta for someone who’s not coming?”

He grimaces, biting his lip.

“I do now.”

Silence stretches.

You can hear the candle burning.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

He looks up sharply.

“Say you’re sorry.”

He doesn’t even hesitate this time.

“I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

Your chest tightens.

“Yeah.”

He steps forward cautiously, like he’s worried you’ll bolt.

“I don’t want to make you feel like that again.”

You sniff, blinking fast.

“You probably will,” you mutter.

He actually huffs a laugh.

“Yeah. I probably will.”

For a second neither of you says anything.

Then you let out a shaky breath.

“I saved you some pasta.”

He breaks.

Laughs, low and a little relieved.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get excited. It’s cold.”

He grins, eyes softening in that way that ruins you.

“Can I have some?”

You roll your eyes but turn to the stove.

He follows you, close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back.

When you set the pot on the counter, he slips his arms around your waist, pressing his forehead to your shoulder.

You stiffen for a second.

Then relax.

Because he’s warm. And he’s here.

And because even if he’s bad at this, he’s trying.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

You sigh.

“I know.”

He kisses the side of your neck.

“Still like me?”

You snort.

“Maybe.”

He chuckles, mouth brushing your skin.

“I’ll take that.”

Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that

He’s got one arm around you, phone abandoned on the coffee table. You’re telling him about your latest project for work—except you’re excited. Animated.

You don’t even realize you’re babbling until you hear the edge of your own voice.

“So anyway, if this client approves the new pitch, it means I could actually lead the whole campaign, which would be insane. Like, it’s not that big of a company, but still—”

You’re cut off by his laugh.

Not a mean laugh. Just dismissive.

“Babe,” he says, squeezing your arm. “You’re really geeking out about this.”

You go still.

Your face warms.

“I’m… what?”

He raises an eyebrow, still smiling, oblivious.

“You’re geeking out. It’s cute, don’t get me wrong. Just—I don’t know, you’re acting like it’s some world-changing thing.”

You pull away a little.

“Wow.”

His grin falters.

“What?”

You set your jaw, swallowing back the stupid sting in your chest.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Hey.” He sits up straighter. “What?”

You shake your head.

“It’s just funny, I guess.”

He frowns. “What’s funny?”

“That you think it’s cute. Me caring about my job.”

He blinks, mouth opening and closing.

“That’s not—Jesus. That’s not what I meant.”

“Really? Because it sounded like ‘Aw, look at you pretending to be important.’”

His face falls.

You hate the way your throat tightens.

“It’s not pretending,” you add quietly.

He scrubs a hand over his face.

“Fuck. Okay. Wait. Hold on.”

You stand up, pushing off the blanket.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m getting water,” you mutter.

“Please don’t walk away. Can you—just. Listen to me?”

You freeze halfway to the kitchen.

Your fingers curl against your palm.

“Fine,” you bite out, not turning around.

He gets up too, crossing the tiny space between you.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

He exhales sharply.

“Please.”

Slowly, you turn.

He looks miserable.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately.

You stare at him.

He lifts both hands, palms up, as if surrendering.

“I’m an asshole. I didn’t mean it like that. I was… fuck, I don’t know. Teasing? But it was stupid. And dismissive. And—just wrong.”

You cross your arms.

“It matters to me,” you say. Your voice cracks, which you hate.

He winces.

“I know.”

“It’s the one thing I’m proud of.”

He steps closer, carefully.

“I know,” he repeats, voice low.

He’s so close you can smell his cologne, can see the tiny scar on his eyebrow.

“I love that you care about it,” he says quietly. “That you’re… passionate. That you can talk about it for hours. It’s one of the reasons I fucking like you so much.”

Your breath catches.

He swallows hard.

“I’m sorry I made you feel stupid about it. That’s on me. It was careless.”

Silence stretches between you.

He waits.

And waits.

You sigh, deflating.

“You are an asshole,” you say.

He nods immediately.

“Certified.”

You try to glare at him. Fail.

Your mouth twitches instead.

He sees it.

“Forgive me?” he asks, voice small.

You roll your eyes.

“God, you’re pathetic.”

He grins.

You let your arms fall to your sides.

“Fine,” you mutter.

He steps in, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you flush against him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles against your hair.

You huff.

“I know.”

I’m Sorry I Didn’t Trust You

It’s one of those nights where you don’t expect anything to go wrong. That’s the worst part.

Because you’re actually happy when you get there—half-buzzed on cheap wine, buzzing from texts with Chris.

You’d invited him.

You told him about this gathering all week.

“Low-key,” you’d promised. Just friends from work and a couple of their partners. Nothing huge. Nothing to worry about…

He said he might come.

Didn’t promise, but you’d hoped.

So when he shows up halfway through the evening, you’re actually thrilled.

You spot him in the doorway, holding a six-pack, eyes scanning the room.

You wave.

You’re laughing when you do.

Because you’re in the middle of a story with Daniel—who’s literally your friend from work. Who’s engaged. Whose fiancé is in the kitchen.

Daniel had just made some dumb joke about your mutual boss’s hair transplant.

You’re giggling helplessly, cheeks flushed with cheap cabernet.

“Hey!” you call when Chris finally notices you. “You made it!”

But the second your eyes meet, you see it.

The way his jaw tightens.

The flash in his eyes.

Your heart sinks a little.

“Chris,” you say brightly, patting the couch cushion next to you. “Come sit—”

But he doesn’t.

He glances at Daniel. At your hand resting lightly on Daniel’s arm.

Your platonic friend.

And his face goes cold.

“Didn’t realize you were busy,” he says flatly.

You blink.

“Chris.”

Daniel gives a polite, awkward smile.

“Hey, man.”

Chris’s answering nod is so sharp it could cut glass.

You bristle.

“Sit down,” you try again.

“I’m good,” he mutters.

“Chris.”

He sets the six-pack down a little too hard on the coffee table.

“Didn’t know you had company.”

Your friend’s eyes widen.

You swallow.

“Daniel’s my friend,” you bite out.

Chris’s lip curls.

“Yeah. Looks real friendly.”

Silence slams into the room.

Daniel coughs.

“I’m gonna… refill my drink.” He escapes, shooting you an apologetic look.

You watch him go, then whip around to glare at Chris.

“Are you serious?”

Chris doesn’t back down.

“What? You two seemed cozy.”

You stand up so fast the blanket slides to the floor.

“Don’t you dare.”

He lifts his chin defiantly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t accuse me of… whatever that was.”

He folds his arms, eyes hard.

“You tell me. You were laughing, touching him—”

“He’s my friend. And he’s engaged!”

Chris’s jaw works.

You see it, the way he wants to back down. But he doesn’t.

“Didn’t look like you remembered that.”

Your mouth falls open.

“That’s low. Even for you.”

“Maybe don’t act like you’re single, then.”

The words are quiet.

Mean.

You flinch.

It’s like getting slapped.

People are staring.

You feel your face burn.

“Fuck you,” you hiss, voice shaking.

He blinks.

You don’t wait.

You shove past him and storm toward the door.

You hear him mutter something, but you’re already outside, cold night air hitting your face like a wall.

Your eyes sting.

You’re furious.

Humiliated.

Hurt.

You don’t even know where you’re going, just that you have to move.

You make it half a block before you hear footsteps behind you.

“Wait!”

You don’t stop.

“Wait. Please.”

He catches up, grabbing your arm.

You spin, shoving him away.

“Don’t touch me,” you spit.

He recoils, hands up.

“Okay. Okay.”

You glare at him, breathing hard.

He’s pale in the streetlight.

“Chris, what the fuck was that?”

He swallows hard.

“Please. I’m sorry.”

You laugh, bitter.

“Sorry? You just called me a fucking cheater in front of my friends.”

He winces.

“I know.”

“You embarrassed me. You made me feel like—like shit. For laughing with someone.”

“I know.”

Your voice cracks.

“Why would you even think that about me?”

His face crumples.

“Because I’m an insecure piece of shit.”

You blink.

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard.

“I saw you with him and I just—snapped. I was jealous. Fuck. I hate that I’m like this.”

You clench your jaw.

“You didn’t trust me.”

“I know.”

He sounds wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice cracking. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.”

Silence.

Your arms are wrapped tight around yourself.

You want to leave.

But you can’t.

Because he’s standing there looking like the ground just gave out beneath him.

“Look at me,” he pleads.

You do.

He steps closer, slowly.

“I trust you,” he says desperately. “I do. I just—sometimes I get scared I’m gonna lose you. And I don’t know how to deal with it.”

You swallow, throat raw.

“You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I know.”

“You can’t accuse me of shit because you’re scared.”

He nods rapidly.

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll—I’ll work on it. I swear.”

You’re quiet for a long time.

He waits.

Finally you whisper, “Say it again.”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I’m so sorry I didn’t trust you.”

Your eyes burn.

“I didn’t deserve that.”

He shakes his head.

“No. You didn’t.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t.”

“I won’t,” he repeats, voice breaking.

Silence.

You take a tiny step forward.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t touch you without permission.

Finally, you sigh and collapse against his chest.

He wraps his arms around you so tight you can barely breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your hair.

You close your eyes.

“I know,” you whisper back.

But you’re still angry.

I’m sorry I took it out on you

You know he’s had a long day.

You can tell from the moment you hear his keys hit the door.

It’s the way they don’t just jingle—they clatter.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, stirring something on the stove. The apartment smells like garlic and butter and the candle you lit an hour ago.

You want it to feel like home.

You want to be the good part of his day.

When the door swings open, you can hear him sigh.

Not relief, but exhaustion.

You peek over your shoulder.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just dumps his bag on the floor. Runs a hand over his face.

“Hi,” he mutters eventually, voice scratchy.

You swallow.

He looks… bad.

Hair a mess. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes shadowed.

But you don’t say that.

Instead, you smile gently.

“I made dinner.”

He snorts.

“Of course you did.”

You freeze.

The words are flat. Not grateful.

You stare at him, spoon paused over the pan.

“…Excuse me?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Nothing.”

You set the spoon down carefully.

“No. Say it.”

He exhales, jaw clenching.

“Just—fuck. Can you not do this right now?”

Your stomach twists.

“Do what?”

He finally lifts his eyes to yours, and they’re sharp.

“This.” He gestures vaguely. “The whole perfect-girlfriend routine. Cooking. Candles. Acting like everything’s fucking fine.”

You go still.

Your throat tightens.

“I wasn’t… acting.”

He scoffs.

“Sure.”

Silence.

You can hear the pan sizzling.

Slowly, you turn off the burner.

You swallow hard.

“Okay.”

You walk past him toward the bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

You don’t answer.

“Where are you going?”

Your voice cracks.

“Anywhere you’re not.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

You don’t wait.

You shut the bedroom door behind you.

It’s not a slam.

But it’s final.

You sit on the edge of the bed, breathing hard, wiping at your eyes furiously.

You hate crying over this.

Over him.

You hear nothing for a while.

No footsteps.

No apology.

Just silence.

Your chest aches.

Of course. He won’t come.

He never—

The door creaks.

You look up sharply.

He’s standing there.

He doesn’t look angry now.

He looks wrecked.

His shoulders sag.

“Don’t,” you croak.

But he steps in anyway.

“Please.”

You turn your face away.

“Just—go away.”

He crosses the room in three strides.

He kneels in front of you, palms on your knees.

You try to shove him off.

He doesn’t let go.

“Look at me,” he says, voice raw.

You don’t.

“Please. Look at me.”

Slowly, shaking, you lift your eyes.

He’s pale.

Eyes glossy.

“Say it,” you whisper.

He swallows so hard you can hear it.

“I’m sorry.”

Your lip trembles.

He squeezes your knees gently.

“Say it better.”

He closes his eyes.

When he opens them, there’s nothing but desperation there.

“I’m sorry I took it out on you.”

Your breath catches.

He keeps going, voice cracking.

“I had a shit day. Everything went wrong. My boss was on my ass. I didn’t want to come home because I knew I’d just… ruin it. And I did.”

He lets out a choked laugh.

“I ruined it. Like I always fucking do.”

Your eyes burn.

He shakes his head, jaw clenched so tight you see the muscle twitch.

“You didn’t deserve that. Any of it.”

You sniff.

“No. I didn’t.”

He nods, tears welling.

“I know.”

Silence stretches between you.

Your hands are clenched in your lap.

Finally, carefully, he covers them with his.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean any of that. Not one word.”

You swallow.

“I just wanted you to be happy to see me,” you admit, voice tiny.

He breaks.

“Fuck,” he rasps.

He surges forward, arms wrapping around your waist, face pressing into your stomach.

You stay stiff for a moment.

Then your hands move.

They tangle in his hair.

He shudders.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your shirt. Over and over.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens.

“I know.”

He doesn’t move.

He holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

You stay like that for a long time.

Silent.

Breathing.

Trying to forgive him.

I’m sorry I shut you out

It starts small.

A text left on read.

No big deal. He’s busy.

You tell yourself that the first day.

By the second, your stomach’s twisting a little when you check your phone.

He’s not ignoring you exactly.

He answers.

Short.

Flat.

“How was work?” you ask.

“Fine.”

“Want to hang out tonight?”

“Can’t. Busy.”

No smiley faces. No jokes. No “I miss you.”

Just… silence.

You’re used to him being hot and cold.

But this feels different.

It feels like talking to a wall.

_____________

On the third day, you call him.

He doesn’t pick up.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

Instead you show up at his door.

It’s late. You know he’s home because his lights are on.

You knock.

Nothing.

You knock again, harder.

Finally, the door creaks open.

He peers out, looking wrecked.

Eyes red-rimmed.

Like he hasn’t slept.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer.

Just steps back and lets you in.

The place is dark.

Messy.

You stand in the middle of his living room, arms folded tight over your chest.

“Chris.”

He sinks onto the couch.

Elbows on knees. Head in hands.

You wait.

He doesn’t look at you.

You swallow hard.

“Talk to me.”

Nothing.

Your voice cracks.

“Please talk to me.”

He drags his hands down his face.

“Don’t,” he mutters.

“Don’t what?”

He lifts his head finally.

Eyes glassy.

“Don’t try to fix me tonight. I can’t do it.”

Your heart lurches.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” you whisper.

He huffs a bitter laugh.

“Sure.”

You blink fast, willing tears not to fall.

“You’re shutting me out.”

He flinches.

“You know you are.”

Silence.

You step closer.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” you say carefully. “I just need you to let me in.”

He shakes his head.

“You don’t want in here,” he says, voice breaking.

You go very still.

“Try me.”

He swallows hard.

Then he breaks.

“I’m scared,” he rasps.

Your breath catches.

“Of what?”

He lets out a choked laugh.

“Of this. Of you. Of fucking it all up.”

You exhale slowly.

“Chris…”

He grips the back of his neck.

“I don’t know how to do this. Be good at this. Every time I think I am, I fuck it up. I say something shitty or push you away or… I don’t know.”

He wipes at his eyes roughly.

“I don’t want you to see me like this. Like some fucking mess.”

You move before he can stop you.

You sit beside him and pull his hands from his face.

He resists for a second.

Then gives up.

Your fingers wrap around his.

“Hey,” you whisper.

He won’t look at you.

You squeeze his hands tighter.

“Look at me.”

Finally, he does.

Broken.

You blink back tears.

“Do you think I’m here because you’re perfect?”

He huffs a miserable sound.

“Do you?” you demand.

He shakes his head.

“Then stop shutting me out,” you whisper fiercely.

Silence.

He breathes hard, chest rising and falling.

Finally, voice wrecked:

“I’m sorry.”

You squeeze his hands tighter.

“Say it better.”

He blinks, tears threatening to spill.

“I’m sorry I shut you out.”

Your throat tightens.

“I hate when you do that,” you whisper.

He nods rapidly.

“I know.”

You sniff, tears falling now.

“I don’t want to be on the outside.”

He swallows.

“You’re not.”

“It felt like it.”

“I know,” he chokes.

Silence.

You let go of his hands only to wrap your arms around his neck.

He freezes.

Then melts.

Buries his face in your shoulder.

Breathing ragged.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your hair.

You nod against him.

“I know.”

You feel his arms wrap tight around you.

Desperate.

Needing.

You hold him just as hard.

Neither of you says anything else.

But you both know this isn’t fixed.

Not really.

You’re just holding the pieces together.

I’m so sorry I wanted to hurt you

It starts over the dishes.

You can’t even believe it later.

But that’s all it is.

A sink full of plates and mugs and silverware that smell like old takeout.

You’re tired.

He’s tired.

You’ve both had long days.

You’re the one who says it first.

“Can you please help me clean up?”

Your voice is gentle. Careful.

But he’s sitting on the couch scrolling his phone.

He doesn’t even look up.

“Do it later.”

Your jaw tenses.

“I don’t want to do it later. It’ll be worse.”

He sighs—exaggerated, rolling his eyes.

“Jesus. It’s fucking dishes.”

You feel something snap.

“You said you’d help.”

“Yeah, well I’m tired,” he bites out.

“So am I,” you say, voice sharp.

He finally looks at you.

Eyes cold.

“Why are you always on my ass about this shit?”

Your mouth falls open.

“My ass? Chris, I just want you to keep one promise. Help with one thing.”

He snorts.

“Oh, one thing? Fucking hilarious.”

Your chest tightens.

“Don’t.”

But he’s not stopping.

He stands up.

“Here we go. The fucking lecture.”

You throw the dish towel down.

“Because you don’t listen!”

“Because you won’t shut the fuck up!”

Silence slams down.

You both freeze.

You blink rapidly.

Your lip trembles.

His chest heaves.

He doesn’t back down.

“Seriously,” he sneers. “It’s always something with you. Always needing me to do this, do that. You’re so fucking needy.”

You feel the tears immediately.

You try to swallow them back.

He sees.

He sees and he keeps going.

“God, it’s pathetic,” he spits.

You flinch.

He sees it.

He knows.

But he doesn’t stop.

“You act like I’d fucking fall apart without you. You think you’re so goddamn important.”

Your vision blurs.

“Stop,” you whisper.

But he’s shaking.

Voice rising.

“Maybe I’m sick of feeling like a fucking project you’re trying to fix. Like I’m some loser you can save.”

You gasp, choking on a sob.

He freezes.

It’s silent except for your breathing, ragged and wet.

You see his face crumple.

“Wait.”

You take a step back.

“Don’t.”

“Wait—fuck. Wait.”

Your voice cracks.

“Get out.”

He flinches.

You’re crying in earnest now.

“Get out. Get out get out get out—”

He doesn’t move.

He’s shaking too.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“Get out!”

He drops to his knees.

Your eyes go wide.

He’s on the fucking floor, palms flat, head hanging.

“I didn’t mean it,” he sobs.

You hiccup.

He sounds broken.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes.

You try to back away, but he scrambles forward, grabbing your legs.

“Please.”

You push at his shoulders.

“Stop it—Chris—stop—”

He clings harder.

“I’m sorry. I wanted you to feel small because I felt small. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You can’t even see through your tears.

He’s crying too.

Loud. Ugly.

He presses his face to your stomach, sobbing.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your shirt. “I’m sorry I wanted to hurt you. I’m sorry I’m like this. I’m sorry.”

Your hands hover over his head.

Shaking.

You want to hit him.

You want to hold him.

You do neither.

You just stand there, crying, as he clings to you and begs like his life depends on it.

“Please,” he sobs. “Please don’t leave me.”

You close your eyes.

Your fingers twitch.

Finally, they sink into his hair.

He chokes on relief.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

I’m sorry I cant be better

It starts quiet. Too quiet.

He’s been different lately. Not in the way that used to scare you—the shouting, the biting sarcasm.

This time it’s worse. He doesn’t shout at all. He doesn’t say much of anything.

You catch him reading something on his phone in bed. He closes it before you can see. You spot the dog-eared therapy book on the table, spine cracked, pen tucked inside with notes you’re not allowed to read. He goes. Every week. He even tells you. But he never talks about it.

It’s like he’s built walls you’re not allowed behind.

You’re lying on the couch together. Except you’re not together. He’s at one end. Staring at the ceiling.

You finally can’t take it. Your voice cracks when you speak.

“Do you even want this anymore?”

His head turns slowly. Brow furrowed like you’re speaking another language.

You swallow hard. “This. Us. Because if you don’t, just tell me.”

He blinks. “You think I don’t want you?”

You huff, eyes stinging. “I don’t know what you want. You won’t let me in. You don’t laugh, you don’t fight, you don’t—”

You stop. Breathing hard.

He’s silent. Eyes flickering. Like he’s fighting with himself.

You watch his throat bob as he swallows.

“I’m trying,” he says finally.

Your chest squeezes. “I know.”

“But I’m… fuck.” He sits up. Rubs both hands over his face. “I’m scared if I don’t try I’ll hurt you. So I’m trying to… not feel anything.”

Your lip trembles. “Chris.”

He drops his hands. He looks so small. So young. So tired.

His voice breaks. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, blinking away tears. “That’s not enough anymore.”

He lets out a wet, hopeless laugh. “I know.”

Silence.

He sniffs hard. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be better.”

You exhale shakily. “Look at me.”

He does. Eyes red.

“You don’t have to be better. You just have to be here.”

He nods like he understands, but you see the fear in his eyes.

You crawl across the couch, pressing your forehead to his. He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t touch you.

He just breathes you in. Shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.

You close your eyes. “I know.”

I’m so fucking sorry.

It’s late when he shows up. You’re already in pajamas, teeth brushed, trying not to cry. He’s been at “work” for hours later than he should be.

You open the door anyway. He’s standing there swaying, hair a mess, eyes red.

He reeks of cheap liquor.

“Hey,” he rasps.

You stare. Say nothing.

He runs a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but you. “Can I come in?”

Your throat works. “Why.”

He flinches at your voice. “Please.”

You don’t move. He steps forward anyway, close enough you can smell the sweat and alcohol. Close enough you see it on his face.

Something dead in his eyes.

Your voice cracks. “Chris. What did you do.”

He breaks. Shoulders shaking. He chokes on it. “I’m sorry.”

You feel the floor tilt. Your hands tremble. “Tell me.”

He shakes his head violently. “I can’t. Fuck—I can’t.”

“Tell me.”

He covers his face. Muffled: “I fucked up.”

Your stomach lurches. “Chris.”

Silence. He won’t look at you.

Your voice is a whisper. “Did you sleep with her?”

He makes this awful, broken noise in his throat.

You feel your heart stop.

“Answer me.”

He finally lifts his head. Eyes glassy, tears streaking down his cheeks. He nods once.

You can’t breathe.

He sobs. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, backing away like he’s poison. “Get out.”

He steps forward, desperate. “No—please—”

“Get out.”

He drops to his knees. Your vision blurs.

“Don’t do this,” he begs. Voice wrecked. “Please. I didn’t mean it. I was drunk—I was so fucking lonely—I didn’t want her I just—I just wanted to feel something.”

You cover your mouth with your hand. He claws at your leg.

“Please look at me.”

You can’t. You’re crying so hard you can’t see.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m sorry I did this. I’m sorry I broke us. I’m sorry I’m so fucking weak. I’m sorry I ruined everything good in my life.”

Your voice is raw. “You did. You ruined it.”

He chokes. “I know.”

“You ruined me.”

He collapses against your legs, face buried in your thigh, crying like a child. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

You try to shove him off but he clings tighter. Begging. Mumbling.

“I’m sorry I broke us. I’m sorry I broke you. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know how to fix me.”

You finally wrench free. You stumble back, gasping. Sobbing.

“Get out,” you scream.

He flinches. Truly sobbing now.

“I love you,” he chokes.

Your heart splinters. “Get out,” you whisper, voice dead.

He stares at you like he’ll die if you say it again. But you just stand there shaking.

Finally he stands. Sways.

You watch him stagger to the door. He turns back one last time. Tears streaming. Voice shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

You slam the door in his face.

Then you sink to the floor and scream as hard as your lungs will allow you.

—- 1 month later —---

You sit at the edge of the couch, knees bouncing.

He’s across from you, elbows on his thighs, head bowed.

Silence.

Your throat is raw from crying for hours before he even got here.

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t dare.

Your voice cracks. “Say it.”

He flinches.

“Say what you did.”

He swallows hard. “...I cheated on you.”

Your eyes burn. Your nails bite into your palms. “Why.”

He chokes. “Because I’m fucking broken. Because I hated myself. Because I wanted to hurt me more than I hurt you.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Congratulations,” you rasp. “You did.”

He sobs once. “I know.”

Silence.

Your voice is dead. “Why are you here.”

He finally lifts his head. Eyes ruined. “To tell you I’m sorry.”

You breathe. Shaky. He waits.

“You think that fixes it?”

He shakes his head violently. “No.”

Silence.

Your jaw trembles. “I hate you.”

He nods, tears falling. “I know.”

You sniff. Your voice breaks. “I don’t want to.”

That shatters him.

He cries for real. Ugly. Loud.

You lean forward, grabbing his shaking hands. He startles like he’s been burned.

“Look at me.”

He does.

Your voice is shredded. “I forgive you.”

He chokes on it. “No.”

“I forgive you,” you repeat, voice rising. Angry. Sobbing. “I forgive you, okay? I fucking forgive you.”

He sobs so hard he can’t breathe. Collapses forward onto your lap.

You card your fingers through his hair. Both of you crying.

But you whisper, so quiet he almost misses it: “But I don’t know if I can ever love you the same way.”

He clutches you harder. “I know,” he sobs. “I know. I’ll take anything. I’ll take whatever you’ll give me.”

>> continuation (sorry, tumblr only allows 1000 blocks per post and i'm trying this goofy ass writing style)

[scannainscanrula]

shadowed corners (iii)

part one here \\ part two here

author's note: grma for being patient divas. i've a cheeky jimmy fic in the works for those interested and i'll probably have another femmick fic out too! i just wanted to say i've been so so stunned by how kind you've all been about my writing and i'm so glad you all enjoy it so thank you again and enjoy! warnings: horror elements, vampire violence, lots of talk about shark attacks, fingering, hand jobs, f/m sex, riding, biting

PART THREE

One week passes and you don’t see Remmick. He didn’t come over that next day, and once again you don’t have a way to contact a guy you asked out. So you don’t see him. You just can’t. 

You have a few phone calls with your agent and she loops your publisher in on what’s happened. 

You talk to your therapist, your friends. 

You learn, based on the tox report, that Chris the lifeguard was drunk and very, very high. That dispels the misplaced guilt you felt over his tragic and accidental death. The only thing inside of you now is pure dread.

Because the dreams persist. They happen more frequently, and they become more intimate. Every night the monster visits you. Every night he becomes more of a man. Every night he claims you, but you want it. You’ve become more feverish. On one occasion, you fall asleep on your couch and when you awake to the absence of your otherworldly admirer and his delicate touches to your face, you actually cry. 

Mo shíorghrá. My eternal love. 

A new page is opened in your notebook. A new concept is drafted. Something old, something ancient that loves you. 

Loves her. Her, not you.

You sigh, dragging both hands down your face as you lean back in the chair. 

“Fuck,” you hiss.

It’s early. Very early. You woke up sweating after the you from your dreams let the monster take you from behind. You need to stretch your legs, to get your blood pumping. It’s daytime, no chance of running into Remmick out there. 

You want to see him again. You’re desperate to apologise for the awkwardness of that night a week ago, and even more desperate to kiss him again. His touch lingers on you. His lips against yours, the snug fit of his hips between your thighs, his handprints seared into the skin at your waist. 

Instead, your curiosity gets the best of you as you go to the browser and search for the shark attacks that happened up the coast. You just want to know if there were any similarities, or if this was the same shark. You had researched the ones in Jersey Shore Chris told you about, and they were as gruesome as you imagined.

So you begin to read. You find a YouTube video about it from a true crime channel you vaguely recognise.

So the rabbit hole begins. 

At 1PM, you start with the shark attacks three years prior at the Atlantic Tranquility Resort and Spa. Then you’re taken to something similar six years ago in Rhode Island. And the cycle continues. Every three or four years, all men, always at night, always missing a limb. When you get to seventeen years ago, they start traveling down the coast and you reach Delaware in year twenty two.

This is when you decide to go to the library. The library in town is small and humble, but the librarian is chipper and kind to you when you explain what you’re researching.

“You’re the author, right? The one who found him?”

You hesitate, but nod.

“Word gets around in a small town.”

She smiles at you.

“You have any titles I would know?”

“Oh, um… well, I’ve only got three published works. Um… Ivory Fortress was the first, then Gut String Empire, and my most recent is Shadowed Corners?” 

Her eyes go wide and she shakes her head, laughing.

“You know there is a group of college girls in this town who have been begging me to order those.”

“Well, I have copies of each of them. I’d love to donate to the library.”

“That’d be very generous. The real problem is that I just don’t want to explain to their parents why I let them check it out!”

You laugh at that and she points you to a study room. You take your laptop to set up in there, collecting archives of newspapers and weather reports that stack around you. 

You log onto archival websites, keyword searching shark attack so many times it hardly looks like English. You scan through the newspapers delicately, as the old paper is brittle. 

You use the printer and print out a map of the East Coast, marking the spots with your pen. You take down particulars in a document on your laptop. 

After you’re there for far too long, you make the last mark. 

Corolla, North Carolina. 

North Carolina. 

Where have you heard that recently?

You do a quick search, your leg bouncing as your eyes follow the words on the page. Corolla is an extremely small town, it was a hunting ground for English settlers in its early days, in 1875 the Currituck Beach Light was built-

Lighthouse. 

Remmick.

Remmick is from North Carolina, you remember, blinking. 

There’s a knock on the doorway.

“Miss? I’m so sorry, but the library’s closing.”

Shit, have you really been here for four hours? 

“Oh, I… um, let me help you put these away.”

“That’s very kind, thank you.”

After helping the librarian put away the dozens of newspapers you took out, you pack your things.

“Um… I just have one more question.”

“Sure, sweetie.”

“The man who works at the lighthouse, do you know his name?”

“The older one or the younger?”

“The younger one.”

“I believe it’s Remmick… oh, Kirby or Kerwin, maybe? Something like that, I’m not sure.”

“Right. Thank you.”

“Of course.” 

You head back to your place on the bike. As you ride You get home and decide to skip weed or wine, you’re zeroed in on a particular subject and you have got to be clear headed and laser focused. 

You’re going wild, pacing around as you listen to a video explaining the types of sharks who most commonly attack. 

You stare at your laptop, biting your nails as you fight the urge to type in the name. You lose the fight, sitting at the desk and tying in Remmick Kirby. 

Nothing. So you try Remmick Kerwin North Carolina. 

Did you mean: Rory Kirwan? 

You click on the correction and lead yourself to another archive website, a newspaper clipping from 1935.

ATTACK NEAR CURRITUCK BEACH LIGHT SPARKS SHARK HUNT  -Corolla, NC  Late in the evening last Tuesday, the body of Maryland crabber Jim Barnett appeared on shore. The body was by lighthouse worker Rory Kirwan. Barnett was missing his left arm, which had been bitten off by a great white shark. The hunt is on for the beast. Kirwan, an Irishman who recently immigrated to North Carolina, said the body was “a proper awful sight”. 

Are you so weird that you just discovered this guy’s relative? 

You close your laptop and shake off the icky feeling inside of you, deciding you need a hot shower.

You let the water run over you and sigh, feeling the warm water calming your nerves and your back, creaky from sitting all day. You take a long and slow shower, just content to stay under the steady stream of hot water. 

You lay in bed wrapped in your towel, scrolling through various other authors talking about new projects and book deals and adaptation rights.

You drift off with your phone in your hand.

The monster’s large clawed hands curl around your chest, lifting you up like you weigh nothing.  

You’re a sack of grain in its hands, just looseness in the shape of your body as you melt into his touch. You still can’t speak. You try though, only managing to moan softly.

“Mo chroí,” it rumbles. “Lig isteach mé.”

My heart, let me in. 

“Le do thoil,” it begs you.

Please.  

It sets you down gently and parts your legs, leaning down to press its fanged maw to the soft and sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You gasp and twitch, cunt tensing up.

The pointed teeth pierce your flesh, a sharp pain that makes you twist and cry. A hand plants on your stomach and holds you down as it drinks your blood. 

“Le do thoil, mo ghrá. Táim ag an tairseach.” 

Please, my love. I’m at the threshold. 

You wake up and groan, slick between your thighs. You dress groggily and pad down the stairs, sighing as you open the fridge. You flinch at the sound of a knock on the front door. The clock on the oven says it’s 10:46 PM. You sneak over and peer through the peephole. 

Remmick stands there awkwardly, hands in his pockets. He reaches out to knock again and you open the door.

He says your name in surprise, like he didn’t think you would answer.

“Hey,” you greet him softly.

“Hi.” 

He stands there for a moment.

“I’m sorry, I… I was just gettin’ worried about you. I ain’t seen you in a while.”

“Sorry. I kinda ghosted you.”

He doesn’t quite know what that means, but he can work it out.

“Well, I’m the one who didn’t show up. And I didn’t give you any kinda way to… talk to me.”

“It’s alright. I um… I think I needed some alone time.” 

You look rejuvenated. Like something caught you again. He knows what an artist in their element looks like, and that’s you. 

“I should probably go,” he starts.

“Oh, no. Come in, please.”

That please makes him bite back a groan more than your last one. You mean it. You’re desperate, you’ve been aching for him.

He steps in through your doorframe and stands by you, unable to meet your eye.

“Um… you’re doin’ okay?”

“I’m weirdly… good.” 

“Yeah?”

“I um… I spent all day in the library, actually,” you explain, leading him over to your desk.

He shuts the door behind him and follows you.

“I get hooked on something and I just have to chase it.”

He knows the feeling.

“And I just couldn’t stop thinking about all this shark stuff-”

“That wasn’t your fault-”

“Oh, yeah. I know. He was… super intoxicated when he got in the water. Whoever he was doing that with is the guilty one.” 

Remmick is a bit shocked by your response. remembers feeling loose and airy after drinking the lifeguard’s blood. 

He was secretly hoping you were holed up in here, going mad with guilt or regret or fear. He’d swoop in and make you feel better.

He just blinks at you and you point to the map.

“Anyway, so, I was looking up those attacks at that resort and then I sort of… spiraled.”

“Right.” 

“Um, but I wanted to ask you, I’m going down the coast, right, and I get to North Carolina, in… Corolla?” 

His heart skips a beat.

“And I see this name, and- I asked the librarian but she didn’t know your name-”

“It’s Kirwan,” he answers quickly. 

It’s been a long time since he last gave someone his family name so willingly. But he wants to give it to you.

“Kirwan. Right. Um… so there’s this lighthouse worker, he’s called Rory Kirwan.” 

You show the scanned newspaper clipping on your laptop.

“Is that… are you related to him?”

You cringe, feeling so vulnerable suddenly. He has no expression on his face for a split second. 

Because Remmick only has a second to think before whatever he says next sounds like a complete lie.

“That’s the lighthouse in Currituck?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, that was- well, we called him Uncle Rory, but he was a great, great uncle.” 

He lies effortlessly. Like it’s just another one of the languages he speaks. 

You grin at him.

“I couldn’t find any pictures. Is that how you spell it?”

“Well, in Irish it’s Ó Ciardhubháin. The English changed it.” 

“Right.”

“But that’s it. With an I and an A.”

“Um… do you want to make up for that movie night, Mr. Kirwan?”

He smirks at you.

“If you’ll have me.”

You scroll through the options on the TV for a while. It seems like Remmick really doesn’t watch a lot of TV or movies. He recognises a few older titles, ones you remember from dusty VHS tapes at your grandparent’s house. 

“Fright Night, that one’s a riot,” he says, pointing to the screen.

You always love a sexy vampire. You click on it and he squints at the TV.

“Dude, I forgot McLovin is in this,” you snort, seeing the trailer autoplay. 

Remmick blinks at you. 

“Is this… did they make it again?”

You scroll down and see a listing with the same title from the 80s.

“Yep.”

“Aw, hell.” 

“We could watch the old one.”

Remmick huffs. You make him feel like an old man. He is an old man, he’s literally thousands of years old. He does his best. He’ll do better once he turns you, and gains your memories and your thoughts. 

“You seen this one?” he asks, pointing to the remake.

“Yep.”

“Any good?”

You shrug.

“It’s fine. But the vampire is hot,” you joke.

His mouth twitches when you say that.

“Put it on.”

“Fright Night twenty-eleven it is.” 

Remmick watches you more than the television, observing the way your face twitches or the way you giggle at the jokes. He sees you shift in place when the vampire appears. Something in you changes, and your gaze focuses. You’re like a hawk scanning for mice.  

You catch him staring at you.

“The TV is over there, y’know,” you joke, pointing forward. 

“I know,” he answers, eyes still on you.

You feel that need again. The one that lives in your ribcage and grips your lungs.

You’re both just staring at each other, breathing softly as the movie plays on.

You scoot closer to him and lean on his shoulder as you watch the film. 

Remmick feels your heartbeat in your temple, the heat from your skin radiates through his sweater. He aches for you. Being with you in dreams isn’t enough, it doesn’t heal even the smallest bit of hurt. It’s torture, that your soul and his know they’re meant to be together and you are so lost. 

He’s still gazing at you. You turn your head to look at him and smirk, sitting up slowly.

“Can’t help yourself, huh?” you tease, getting up on your knees.

You kiss each other feverishly, like something might rip you apart at any moment. You climb into his lap again, his thighs flex as you do.

“Yes, fuck,” he groans, feeling you grind on him. 

He’s hard and thick, you finally feel all of him. Your hands brace on his pecs as he holds your waist. You’re wet, gushing into your panties as you push down on him. 

“She droolin’ for me?” he jokes, a strand of spit hanging from his lip.

“You wanna find out?” you egg him on.

He looks at you for a moment and kisses you again, his hand cupping the nape of your neck.

“I been thinkin’ about you all week,” he confesses against your skin, kissing your jaw and trailing down your neck. “You smell so fuckin’ good,” he groans. 

His hand slides over your hip and to the front of your body, splaying over your tummy over your womb.

“Fuck,” you whisper. 

You love a tummy touch. It’s in all of your books. 

“You need me, too, I can feel how much you need me,” he tells you, almost begging. 

His hand slips into your waistbands, pushing to your pussy. 

“S’like a goddamn river down here,” he mumbles against your temple. 

You see him smirk.

“She need me? She need these fingers?”

You nod, nipping at his ear as your hand slides down his chest and to his pants. You unbuckle his belt and undo his pants, shoving your hand in his underwear. 

“Oh, shit,” he breathes, his face in your neck.

You grip him and he slides a finger inside of you. You knew his hands were big but his fingers are thick and rough. You gasp, your back arching. Your grip tightens on him.

“Fuck, baby, b-be gentle with me,” he croaks.

You meet his eyes and bring your hand away, loving the whiny sound he makes when you do. You squeeze his cheeks and collect some drool, using that to slick your hand over his cock. He bites his lip, eyes closed. He starts to pump his finger inside of you slowly, your hips keen as you try to follow his fingers, desperate for his attention.

“She’s tight,” he murmurs in a voice that makes your cunt clench.

You’re both so touch-starved it’s almost embarrassing, pushed close together like you want to be glued to him. He adds another finger and you swipe your thumb over the velvet tip, making him twitch in your hand. He pushes his fingers in all the way, the heel of his hand crushed against your clit. 

“Remmick,” you whimper, grinding your hips forward as he curls his fingers, stroking that soft spot inside of you. 

He makes some sort of noise, like he might be trying to say your name, but it fails on his lips. He just moans, his head lolling back as you speed your hand up.

You feel pressure in your stomach and he curls an arm around your waist to hold you upright.

“C’mon, baby, c’mon. Give it to me, please, I wanna feel it,” he begs you, fingers driving in and out of your cunt as you slick, slick, slick your hand over the length– the fucking insane girth and length– of his cock.

The way he says please, the gasping breaths, and the way his hair sticks to his sweaty forehead have you trembling. You howl as you cum, digging your nails into his shoulder. His breath quickens and he makes a sound like you gut-punched him, bending his back and whimpering as he cums. 

You both sit there for a minute, catching your breath and lazily moving your hands.

You take a shuddering breath and laugh, brushing away hair from your forehead. He quickly wipes at a rivulet of drool that was traveling down his neck.

“That good?” he murmurs, his voice thick.

“So fucking good,” you answer, kissing him again.

“You,” he swallows, “you good to go again?”

“Greedy,” you snip at him. “I need this fucking thing in me, now,” you growl, patting the front of his pants.

“Do you wanna… do you wanna go to your bedroom?” he asks softly.

“I said now, Remmick,” you remind him firmly. 

You both strip like your clothes are on fire and he moves forward on the bed. His body has you drooling too. On his ribs and his side he has a large cross tattooed. He’s strong and broad where it counts, with a waist your readers would call slutty. He looks like a slut, sitting there with his legs spread, panting expectantly, waiting for you to ride him.

“You’re a fucking manwhore, baby,” you tease.

You see something behind his eyes change and he leans forward. You mount him again, grabbing his cock at the base and stroking it once as you line up your cunt. You only just take the head, moving it in and out as you keep eye contact with him. His mouth falls open and he winces.

“Oh my God. You are such a fucking slut,” you laugh cruelly.

Remmick says nothing, just squeezes your hips in a silent plea.

“I really thought you’d be this… sexy dominant lighthouse guy, but you just want to get used,” you tell him, sinking down on his cock.

“Yeah, baby, use me,” he echoes, his eyes rolling back in his head. 

You curl a hand into his hair and tug his head back. He fucking mewls, yelping as you push him back against the sofa cushions. 

He’s still holding you, still subtly guiding your hips. It’s almost an illusion of control, the way he’s restraining himself. 

“Y’so fuckin’ tight… pussy so hot, baby, she grippin’ me like hell,” he babbles, his throat straining as he speaks.

You lean down and kiss his neck. Your teeth scrape against his skin and you bite him, sucking a hickey right by his Adam’s apple.

You bit him. You bit him before he bit you.

It would infuriate him, but he can hardly think more than one word at a time, only feeling that velvet grip of your pussy as you bounce on his lap.

“You gon’ eat me up, baby? Huh? You takin’ this cock like you own it- shit, you fuckin’ do,” he pants, watching you move. 

He moves a hand to brush on your clit, moaning when he feels you tense up around him.

“That’s it, girl, take this fuckin’ dick, s’all yours. All yours, honey, don’t stop now,” he encourages you.

He’s pussydumb now, babbling as you drip down his length and onto his balls, which makes him feel faint. He hasn’t felt faint in decades. Not like this, not from pussy.

He’s never had it so good in his life, never had someone take it from him like this. 

You’re not just using him as a fucktoy, you’re claiming him. You’re breaking him like a wild stallion and you won’t stop until he’s yours, body and soul.

You got his soul already and the way his balls are tightening he knows you’ll have his body soon, too. 

You feel him grab your ass and pull you closer. He plants his feet on the ground and fucks into you, punching whines out of you every time his cock kisses your cervix.

“Remmick- fuck! Shit, oh my God!” You sob as you cum, filled to the brim with him and fucking overflowing. You feel him so deep, you feel everything so deep. 

“That’s it, baby, that’s my girl. She done so good, she took this fuckin’ cock so well,” he praises you as you cry.

You kiss him and he swiftly pulls you off of him, settling you on his flexed thigh to ride out your orgasm as he pumps himself towards his own. He cums, over his hand and onto your thigh, jerking and groaning as he does. 

You sigh, leaning forward and resting your head on his shoulder. He chuckles hoarsely and pulls you to sit in his lap sideways, kissing your temple.

“Fuck me,” he breathes.

“I just did,” you joke.

He pinches your hip.

“Smartass.”

You trace the hickey you left, already blooming as a bruise.

“That’ll look so pretty next time,” you tease.

“You want a next time?”

“Shit, that was the best I’ve ever had, handsome.”

“Ah, well. I try.”

“You could um… you could stay the night, if you want?”

“I’d have to leave early,” he says, trying to craft a better lie.

He’d rather burn alive than tell you no, he’s caught.

“You can leave early,” you murmur, kissing his cheek.

He wants you so bad. Wants to turn you, to bite you.

“You wanna see the lighthouse?” he offers.

“Now?”

“Right now,” he answers, echoing your words from before.

You climb up the steps of the lighthouse and look out at the void of the night. It’s foggy, and the beacon lights up what can’t be seen, but it’s still dark.

“You scared?”

“The ocean looks so… terrifying like that.”

“Can be,” he answers you. “But I’m here.”

He stands behind you, boxing you in. You don’t mind it. You feel safe with him.

Protected.

“Y’know… I don’t know what you saw in that guy,” he starts, his lips ghosting your neck.

“What?”

“All those guys, the real ones and the ones you write about. Nobody’s good enough for you. Nobody knows you.”

“Yeah, because you know me so well,” you quip.

Remmick is done joking.

“You’re all mine, love,” he whispers to your skin, his fangs sliding out. 

You gasp and try to squirm away, but he has your wrist in a clawed grasp.

“You’ve been mine for ages. I’ve waited for you for centuries.”

“Let go of me!”

“Don’t fight me, mo ghrá,” he tells you, tugging you toward him and dipping you down like some sort of cruel, sick dance. “It’ll only hurt for one second, love. Only one second.”

You see a flash of white fangs and red eyes.

You watch rolling clouds, laying back on lush green hills. Of a fjord that stretches miles and miles, of cool air that whips your hair. You see sheep grazing and hear someone’s voice.

“Ruairí!” a woman’s voice calls. “Tar anseo!”

“Táim ag teacht!” you tell her, standing as you run down the hill and follow her voice.

She embraces you. You’re small. Just a little child in her arms.

“Mo mhac,” she murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Is breá liom tú, mo chuisle.”

“Is breá liom tú go mór, mhamaí,” you tell her.

You wake up feeling everything. You can hear a lamp buzzing, the sea moving in waves.

You sit up slowly and feel nervous. But it’s not your nerves you feel. 

Remmick sits across from you on his knees. His mouth is bloodied. He smiles a fanged grin at you, his red eyes blinking in the night.

“You saw it,” he says.

His voice sounds different.

“The fjord. She wasn’t from there, my ma. But she fit there like a glove. Like she’d been there all her life. And the Catholics came. And the priest who gave me this…” he gestured to himself with his clawed hands, “this curse. He told me it was God’s will. So I… I remained in my home, like a parasite. Killing sheep and evil men and when the English came I was like a plague. I killed so many soldiers I forgot how to be a man. Even when I left the only place I’d ever known, came here. I haven’t been a man in ages, but you…”

He exhales, shaking his head.

“You make my dead heart beat and my cold blood pump.”

You feel tears in your eyes as you listen to him.

“You know me. From your dreams. I… I wanted to claim you, to make you my bride, but you claimed me. You won me.”

He sniffs, looking at you from the floor.

“Mo shíorghrá,” he murmurs. “My bride forever.”

You finally find your words, though they’re slurred and lispy with your fangs.

“What’d you say, baby?”

His tone is dripping with adoration. You feel it in your chest, how much he loves you. How much he wants you, needs you. His instinct to protect, to keep you safe.

“I’m hungry.”

He grins.

“Then let’s eat.”

[victusinveritas]

Wait, what?

This guy [center, tall, wild-eyed crazy bastard, not wearing a hat]? She's related to this guy? I mean, we can't help where we come from, only what we do now, but...like anyone encouraging her to restore the Mongolian Empire is...whooooo-boy. One of the good things the Soviets did was put a bullet in his batshit-as-fuck head. I mean they could have just let him wander Siberia continuing to be an absolute laugh riot as long as he didn't have a way to murder people. Twitter is evil, but if you want the full post with some video content from Tiktok added, go for it. One comment sums up everything fairly well: "I'm not sure I've seen a post lately that more fully captures the weirdness of the last 100 years. From the Bloody Baron to Matcha girl wearing ear buds. My head is spinning." Yeah that...that's pretty much it. This is actually a good video response from a Match girl wearing earbuds. Like I wouldn't really try to paint him as a figure with redeeming features, but...I get it. If I had family dating back to the 10th century (I mean, we all do, that's kinda how people work, we all go back to a few people in a cave that decided to hump and then keep that cave-born humpspawn alive), I'd probably attempt to handwave away a war crime or two by saying "Well, he did some good things."

Just imagine Pravda writing up "Well, we decided to catch up with old Comrade Baron Roman NF von Ungern-Sternberg in Tuva this week. How's it going Comrade-Baron?"

CB-RNFvUS: "It's Khanrade Baron, you Red bastards, I keep telling you in my letters. [Editor: Missives sent entirely on birchbark attached to sparrows, remarkably they reach our offices fairly often, we just don't read them because we think it is funny not to.] I know the difference. I have arranged a choir of Young Khanate Throat-Singers to sing my glory wherever I go so that the fine citizens from Omsk to Chita may know of my exploits. I have also determined that I should also reclaim the Byzantine Empire from the Turks, and recruited a company of Pontic Greeks and Maniots to help me in this endeavor." [Editor: He will, of course, not be allowed to leave Siberia, but it we have given him a broken compass and it will probably take him a while to realize that. This was on the suggestion of Comrade (Ivan Nikolayevich Redactedov, shot in the name of the People before going to press), and caused a merry chuckle around the offices.] He was seen by some Mongolians as a reincarnation of a god of war (Really, dive into the guy's Wikipedia if nothing else, it's...a ride.). So that's, you know, who you want as a leader, especially one who tortures and murders so much that his own commanders (nominal) and subordinates (also nominal) kinda back away from him because he's absolutely bonkers. Any of his biographies are worth reading, but my preferred one is by The Bloody White Baron by James Palmer. However, Hopkirk's Setting the East Ablaze: on Secret Service in Bolshevik Asia is also a riveting read. If you want a look at RNFvUS, check out Buddha's Little Finger (Clay Machine Gun in the UK, Chapayev and Void in Russia) by Viktor Pelevin. Even there, in a full on surrealist romp through the Russian Civil War, he's toned down a bit from the historical figure.

Side note: I know there are Habsburgs and Bonapartes running around today, and I think that's kinda awesome, and I like that some of them are tech savvy. Even Eddy Habs on Twitter is entertaining.

[alexanderlightweight]

Anything in not all who wander are lost (the teleporting soulmates one) or back in may of 2023 you had an au where alec met ragnor first that never got titled and that au was a straight up banger that has haunted me to this day would be 10/10 chefs kiss delightful as to whether its sfw or nsfw thats dealers choice and i hope youre having a great wednesday :)

it has been so long since i've worked on this verse but i'm happy to go back! i just went with the first prompt because i do love that verse but yes! i need to go look and see if i've named that yet (i love when some of the more obscure fics get mentioned or prompted). i might have but my brain is a bit holey. last part here

i'm having a wednesday with a lot of prompts and writing and while the comptuer didn't work for a couple hours its working now and thats what matters!! so it's very nice ty! i hope you're having a good onee too! Nightshade has decided that he will let me write as long as i pause every time he comes over for kisses or a snoot boop. i hope you enjoy!

<3 lumine

not all who wander are lost

Alec processes things slowly through the fog of his mind.

He has a soulmate.

He does.

A male soulmate even.

Someone who won’t crush his heart and soul to be with.

Does that matter?

When Alec can’t do anything to protect himself, let alone his soulmate?

There are words exchanged.

Alec doesn’t remember them.

There’s hands warm and firm and steady on him but he can’t remember the feel once gone.

There’s questions he answers, but Alec isn’t sure what was said by either of them.

There’s a portal, at the end.  Something ominous and looming and Alec welcomes it like the embrace of sleep he begs for every dawn.

—

Alexander is fragile.

Perhaps not in body, but he’s at the breaking point of his life.

Magnus can tell.

This is where he’s reforged.  When his will is broken and remade to what the Clave demands and Magnus will not let them remake Alexander into their image.

This is his soulmate.

Alexander is his.

By law and claim and the call of a soul echoing the yearning of his own.

The dissociation is strong.

Alexander seems more instinct than thought and he’s drowning in his own mind.

Magnus summons everything he can — allowed to because he’s inside the wards and was summoned by a magic more ancient than even the alarm systems of the Institute.

Then he asks what Alexander wants.

There isn’t much.

It doesn’t seem like his boy is used to wanting things.

Except there are a few things that even in this state, Alexander seems capable of remembering.

Obviously his siblings aren’t something Magnus is interested in retrieving, but knowing they exist is helpful.  However Magnus doesn’t think they’ll do much if any good, considering Alexander is hiding from them while panicking.  They’re either too young and immature to help, or are a part of the problem as well.

Magnus won’t pass judgment so swiftly, that’s not his priority.  His only priority is to get Alexander out of here and behind Magnus’ wards, where he can bond Alexander properly and ensure that legally, Magnus has every right to swiftly take Alexander away.

And refuse to return him.

—

Magnus doesn’t take Alexander to the loft.

No, that’s far too common of a place for Magnus to be found, even just by other downworlders.

Instead he takes Alexander to a small but comfortable cottage in the Welsh countryside.  A property bequeathed to Magnus by Ragnor — during one of his many excursions playing dead — and while Ragnor always teased gentle that it would be perfect for a soulmate bond to take place.  Magnus never actually dreamed that it would be a reality.

The garden is lush and green and the sun’s glare harsh but the heat faded before it reaches.  Cool breezes rustling the plants and bees and dragonflies and butterflies of magical properties — because all things mundane, creatures and beings — are kept out.

It’s an oasis for all things magical and Alexander breathes easier, even if the dark emptiness of his eyes remains.

Magnus portals them to the walkway, the luggage and Alexander’s things already inside.  It’s because he wants Alexander to see where they’ll be staying. 

To give him information without overloading him with words he hears but doesn't comprehend.

Alexander pauses as the walk up the path, his fingers lingering on the polished bone of the fence and his fingers gently — hesitantly — brushing against the soft petals of a luridly pink bloom.

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to.

Magnus still feels the rage swelling in his heart, untamed and smoldering yet being held in reserve for a better time.

Alexander is young.

He’s far too young for the kind of despair and pointless exhaustion that weighs him down.

The world is trying to break him — his own people are succeeding at ruining him — and Magnus will not let that continue.

Magnus protects what is his.

To the point of destroying his own self to do so.

In protecting Alexander, Magnus will also be protecting himself and for the first time that doesn’t feel like a weakness to admit.

Alexander is worth the protection and Magnus has a soulmate,  which means he also is worthy.

Regardless of how his father feels or what poison Camille spat or what seductive whispers of him being unlovable that she whispered into his ear.

AN:

Magnus does not tie the selfworth of others to soulmates. That’s reserved for himself. A special little trauma leftover from his mother and father. So like. Cheers to that. 

Like Magnus is incredibly powerful and intelligent but lets not forget how much trauma he’s gone through or how he’s had to dig himself free out of depression and spirals with every bad relationship that tried to knock him down (romantic, parental, familiar, friendship I’m not just talking romance).

Alec is drowning in his brain.  He’ll wake up in a few hours or days and be like ‘okay no, I want to be your soulmate. I do. But I can’t just abandon my responsibilities to play house in a cottage with you!’

Magnus entirely unbothered and not insulted because this is tame compared to what he’s prepared for: why not?

Alec: what?

Magnus: why can’t you? Are you so irreplaceable that someone can’t fill your shoes?

Alec: well no. It was made very clear to me that I am replaceable and if I don’t do better, someone will take over for me.

Magnus: so why is that a problem?

Alec: but I’m supposed to uphold the ligthwood name?

Magnus: oh… you’re a lightwood? Well I don’t mind. One can’t chose their parents and I doubt you wanted yours to be genocidal terrorists.

Alec: … are you. Wait. Are, you saying my parents were int he circle? (he can read behind the political lines. It’s innuendos he’s still working on)

Magnus: oh, you didn’t know? You’re not upholding the lightwood legacy darling, you’re rebuilding what your parents broke and the clave doesn’t trust them to fix.

Alec: … wait so all of this? Is because someone else fucked up. Not because I did?

Magnus not realizing the extent of Alec’s trauma being hinged on his parents and being a good lightwood heir etc: I mean, your parents even killed the last leaders of the NYI. I’m surprised they weren’t mobbed by the hunters who survived the attacks when they came back to lead what they destroyed.

Alec: …. So all those hunters who hated me for no reason and who I was never good enough for… that’s not because I was lacking or they could secretely tell I was gay?  It’s because of my parents?

Magnus: yes? …. Darling. Alexander. Sweetheart I am very new to this. Are nephilim supposed to start glowing like that? Alexander your runes look like they’re on fire what is goingon?

Alec: I think I just magically disowned myself.

Magnus: oh. So you’re in the market for a new last name? I happen to have a very nice one. Picked it myself.

Alec: …. Okay. Sure.

Magnus: I cannot beleive this worked and darluing…. Wait why are you crying? Shit. Alcohol? No. That creates bad habits. Sex? No that creates bad precedent… HOW TO STOP SHADOWHUNTER FROM CRYING??

Cat: … kill or comfort? I don’t know. This is a stupid question can shadowhunters even cry?

Ragnor: they can but mostly out of rage or disgust.

Magnus: no this is like, panicked sad crying. Quick. OPTIONS

Magnus: BESIDES ALCOHOL OR SEX

Ragnor and Cat: … neither of those were options we would send but now we’re curious

Ragnor: wait. Magnus. You’re at the cottage? You’ve found your soulmate then! How wondrous… oh dear. A shadowhunter then? Cat and I will create a carepackage but you’re on your own for the tears. Maybe give them a knife? Shadowhunters like sharp things

Cat: DO NOT GIVE THEM A KNIFE!!! NO WEAPONS

Ragnor: no you’re right. Unhelpful. A demon? Is it too bright? Do shadowhunters even like light?

Magnus: both of you are utterly unhelpful. I’ll text you later.

[loverstrings]

Domestic as Hell - Established Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Following the events of Chapter 8 of Project Spindle. Alexei decides the team needs to have a breakfast together.

a.n - I PROMISE I'M ALIVE!!! I've been writing the final two chapters of project spindle and that sent me into writers block. so i've been doing drabble after drabble so these few weeks will be lotta oneshots :3

| can be read as a standalone or apart of project spindle |

——

BUCKY & Y/N’S ROOM – 5:03 AM

The door slammed open with the force of a sledgehammer.

“GET UP! IT IS TIME FOR BREAKFAST!” Alexei’s voice boomed through the room like thunder, followed by the unmistakable sound of his heavy boots stomping across the hardwood.

Y/N groaned and buried her face into Bucky’s chest. “Tell me that’s a dream.” Bucky blinked at the ceiling, still half asleep. “Unless you’re  dreaming about Soviet Russia, no. That’s real.”

Alexei beamed at them like a proud bear. “Come, come! I already have ‘lena and Wanda cracking eggs like champions. Joaquin is cutting the fruits. And both Captain Americas on the grill, real teamwork. Now I need you lovebirds—you make pancakes!”

Y/N sighed, throwing a pillow at his broad chest. “You woke us up at five am to make pancakes?”

Alexei caught it with a grin. “It is called bonding.”

Bucky grumbled something under his breath and kissed Y/N’s forehead before slowly rolling out of bed. “If I have to flip pancakes with the Russian Santa Claus, I need coffee.”

“Coffee is brewing!” Alexei called cheerfully as he exited, leaving the door wide open behind him. “Three pots!”

Y/N stretched and yawned. “We’re gonna burn down the kitchen, aren’t we?”

“Absolutely,” Bucky muttered.

From her spot curled in a sunbeam at the foot of the bed, Alpine lifted her head and gave a judgmental mrrp, as if annoyed that she had also been woken up. Y/N leaned down to scratch behind her ears. “Sorry, baby. Blame the loud Russian.”

Alpine flicked her tail once, then slowly and regally stood, stretching with feline indifference before hopping down and trotting after them like a ghost in fur.

——

Yelena and Wanda were stationed at the stove, locked in a heated debate over when to add the cheese—before the eggs set or right at the end. Joaquin, unfazed, expertly sliced fruit at the counter, casually munching on apple slices between cuts. Every so often, Wanda would pause mid-rant just to glare at him. 'Are you helping or snacking?' she snapped. He shrugged, popping a grape in his mouth. 'Both.'

Sam and Steve stood by the patio grill, flipping bacon and sausage with practiced ease, the scent wafting through the entire floor. Jazz played softly through the speakers—something old and smooth, like Chet or Fitzgerld. It filled the space like sunlight.

And at the center island, Bucky and Y/N stood shoulder to shoulder, flipping pancakes with surprising skill. Alpine had claimed the corner of the counter, perched like a tiny queen observing her court. Bucky occasionally passed her a tiny piece of plain pancake. “You know,” Y/N said, nudging him with her elbow, “we’re actually good at this. Domestic as hell.”

“Don’t let Alexei hear you say that,” Bucky deadpanned, “he’ll ask us to cook for every mission debrief.”

“Too late!” Alexei shouted from across the kitchen, holding a whisk in each hand. “You are now the official pancake flippers!” Bob stepped into the hallway first, hoodie half-zipped and brow furrowed. Ava followed, rubbing one eye, and Walker trailed behind, blanket still draped over his shoulders like a cape. None of them spoke. They didn’t need to.

The moment they rounded the corner into the kitchen, they stopped short. The trio in the doorway blinked.

“…What the hell,” Walker muttered.

Ava tilted her head. “Did we… miss a memo?”

Bob just stared, then slowly nodded. “This is... new.”

Alexei spotted them and lit up like a stage light. “Ah! You are awake!” He pointed one dramatic whisk toward the dining room. “Set the table, sleepyhead!”

Even Alpine meowed once, as if agreeing with the assignment. Ava blinked. “Is the cat giving orders now?”

Everyone was gathered around the long table—plates stacked high with eggs, pancakes, fruit, sausage, toast, and a pitcher of syrup so full it sloshed when passed. Laughter bounced between walls. Jokes were told. Food was stolen off plates. At some point, Joaquin accidentally sneezed into a napkin and knocked over a glass of juice, causing an eruption of laughter.

Alpine curled up under the table near Bucky’s feet, tail flicking contentedly as bits of egg and bacon mysteriously fell her way.

And then—

CLINK CLINK CLINK

Alexei stood up, glass of orange juice (we hope…) raised in one hand. “I will make a speech.” 

Everyone groaned playfully, but the room fell quiet.

“I used to be hero,” he started, voice deeper now, more thoughtful. “In Russia, they called me Red Guardian. They gave me medals. Told me I was strong. Important. But they never told me how lonely it would be.”

He glanced at Yelena, then around the table.

“But now… this? This—” He gestured broadly to the mismatched group, the food, the sleepy faces and warm light. “This is family. Not better than the glory. And very not cooler than fame.”

He raised his glass higher. “But we are still family, big, strong FAMOUS family!” 

“To family,” they echoed, in their own quiet ways.

——

a.n. - writing this got me giggling and kicking my feet LMAOO

[kogetaikid]

(DELTARUNE CHAPTER 4 SPOILERS!!!)

/

/

/

❤️ It's okay not to smile.

Decided I'll quickly redraw that one scene to practice perspective, and also sad scenes in general.

Even decided to queue this for 13am... This is the scene that made me declare Ralsei as my favorite character. Though obviously not to the same extent as Ralsei, I know what it's like to involutarily know way too many things that I shouldn't know.

Please forgive me if I'm misinterpreting this as I'm once again writing queueing this post at 10pm and need to SERIOUSLY replay chapter 4 (and am too fidgety to watch a playthrough), but it seems terrifying to know, or at least assume you know how you, your friends, your world, universe, everything is gonna end. (I won't to go too into personal experiences, but I've been in a similar situation, though it was more "when" than "how" for me. Either way, It still felt relatable on my end. )

Also, I think it's an interesting concept to have a character who, despite being a mere illusion of a living, organic being, is treated as if he was real. Kris and Susie, Susie especially have done nothing but prove that as long as their in the dark world, he's real. The only person who can see that is Ralsei himself, causing him to feel as if he was just a thing and not a person who can feel emotions, have desires, interests, likes, dislikes, a personality and friends. He constantly calls himself selfish throughout chapters 3 and 4 for wanting things for himself when all he does if just give to others, hoping to stay useful to them as long as possible, assuming, and wanting them to forget he even exists when he's no longer of use...

Admittedly, I didn't like Ralsei much in the first two chapters, but that's because we knew little about him. Now that we have a little more insight, I feel like I connect with him the most.

Also, when I played through this cutscene for the first time, it kinda awakened a headcanon/theory in me. I know I'm infamous for getting things wrong in my theories, but I think I may actually be onto something this time:

THAT SAYING DIDN'T COME OUT OF NOWHERE. PERHAPS KRIS IS EITHER PROJECTING AND/OR REPEATING SOMETHING SOMEONE CLOSE TOLD THEM.

If I recall correctly, there was a survey (that I missed completely) before chapter's 3 and 4's release called "How long did it take for her to smile". It's most likely referring to Noelle most likely after Dess's disappearance.

Maybe Asriel, or one of Noelle's parents said that to Noelle and either Kris as well or Kris overheard. Maybe I'm speaking complete baloney again, but something tells me this isn't gonna be a one off line, especially when smiles are so prevalent through Deltarune and heck even Undertale, (there's a video I remember watching from YouTuber HalfBreadChaos on the smiles in UT/DR, but I need to watch it again...), but what are your thoughts? I'm once again writing this at 10pm night and losing sleep.

[takaraphoenix]

Tagging Etiquette: Don't Tag Things That Aren't IN THE STORY

I honestly feel like this shouldn't need to be said? And yet, inexplicably, it does.

If you choose to write your story as a series of individual oneshots, instead of one multi-chaptered fic, that is your prerogative.

However. The first fic in that series is a stand-alone story. It is not the first chapter in the story. It does not get to carry all of the tags of future fics that haven't even been written yet!!

You have the option to post this story as one multi-chaptered fic and post this first fic as the first chapter in that story and then, due to the nature of all other following elements also being posted in this very story, that story can have all the future tags you want!

But if you decide that your story is better told as a series of individual oneshots, you also need to tag the individual oneshots appropriately.

Just because you have intentions of a ship somewhere down the road, you absolutely do not get to tag that first fic for the ship if multiple members of that ship aren't even in the story and the character who is barely has "acquaintance" things to say, at best, about the rest of the ship who, again, aren't in the fic.

So you want to really slow-burn that? Good for you! That first fic is a Gen Fic and it deserves neither the ship tag, nor the character tags for the rest of the ship if said characters aren't even in the story and only get mentioned once, in passing.

I know the tagging etiquette about romantic/sexual relationships as A/B and platonic/general relationships as A&B is already very lost on people and it's a bit exhausting to see fics that are just the most generic dynamics between two characters tagged as / with an additional "Pre Slash" and often with a note that "the reader can read this as romantic if they squint", because that's deadass just canon, I read the canon as romantic while squinting and I came to AO3 to actually read about them together, in a relationship, but you didn't even give me pining, there is not an ounce of desire or romantic interest put onto paper. Pre-Slash, in my opinion, is a valid tag to use, if you write a fic about onesided or mutual pining, where the slash is pre, they don't get together, but the feelings are there, unvoiced.

Tangent aside (though tangent also deserved because this very much applies to these mistagged series oneshots), it's not even just about relationship tags. I've now repeatedly seen people put plot-points into the tags of a first fic in a series and none of these plotpoints are touched upon because they will only happen in a later fic. You click the series and you see more fics in it that build upon it but also still haven't even reached the ship.

This isn't how tagging works. You decide to post a fic as a oneshot and it needs to stand on its own, even if there are sequels to follow. The story itself is self-contained and this has to be reflected in the tags, the tags can and should only show what is in this particular, individual fic.

If you're worried nobody is going to read it because it doesn't feature the ship yet and because the plot you plan for 10 fics down isn't happening yet? There is the fantastical option of making it a multiple-chapter fic and then you can put all of the tags in it that you plan on working! These are your choices and you have to pick one.

[t1oui]

awkward jason grace. jason grace who speaks more like a politician than a teenager. jason grace who secretly beats himself up long after he and piper break up not because he wants her back, but because he thinks he's supposed to want her back. jason grace who becomes best friends with nico di angelo. nico who isn't straight. nico whose internalized homophobia reminds jason of himself, even though he's straight.

jason grace who isn't straight. jason grace who might not even be cis, but who is too busy focusing on leo's curls and his smile and his stupid jokes to think too hard about that, at least not right now. jason grace who doesn't understand sex and who doesn't want to. jason grace who is the least cisallohet member of the seven, and who learns to love himself after spending years not knowing how.

[nanenna]

This Blind Panic Could've Been a Q&A Session

Sleepy King masterpost

-----

Clark was disappointed, to say the least, that they were giving up on Danny so quickly. Whether the Ghost King was Pariah Dark or Phantom didn’t change much, the poor boy had still been stolen from his bed in the middle of the night and had an unknowably powerful being stuffed into him. It was a comfort, small as it was, to know that Phantom likely would be just as horrified at the situation as the rest of them and likely would do his best to save Danny. But that’s all it was: a hollow comfort.

Still, the decision had been made and it wasn’t as though there was much Clark could do in this situation. It’s not as if he knew much about magic, even if he did decide to spirit Danny away there wasn’t anything he could do to actually help the boy.

So back to the town that was magically hidden from everyone it was.

He tried not to sigh as he led their strange little procession through empty hallways towards the zeta tubes. Well, mostly led, Constantine and Raven had enough of a lead on them that Danny didn’t seem to smell their demon blood. It was them both stopping short and spinning around that alerted Clark to something happening, barely having time to halt himself before something simply appeared out of nowhere near them and flew at Danny.

“Ow!”

Clark looked down to see Danny picking up some kind of… was that a boomerang?

“Guess Jazz got imp-... uh… what?” He looked around at them, fully awake and clearly confused.

“Well, it’s a good thing we were just taking you home then, right?” Clark asked with a nervous chuckle.

Danny looked at the group of heroes around him, then down at the strangely glowing boomerang. Clark reached forward, ready to get back to guiding Danny towards his home.

Danny ran.

Clark reached for the boy, but he seemed to slip right through his fingers and then right through a wall.

“Shit,” Constantine said loudly as he hustled up to the startled group. “Congrats, the Ghost King is awake and loose on yer fancy space station.”

Diana frowned and Clark frowned along with her, they’d both heard him talking about his sister before fully realizing where he was and who he was with.

“Look, there’s still a chance we can take care of things peacefully if we can find the little bugger and get him back to his egg before the council of mother hens shows up. And trust me, no one wants a bunch of angry gods looking for their missing godling.”

“I recommend asking J’onn for assistance,” Bruce suggested.

Clark nodded along, he seemed like their best option.

Everyone’s comms pinged, “Unidentified vessel approaching the Watchtower.”

✨🌟🌟✨

Danny stopped when he felt like he’d put some space between himself and flipping SUPERMAN! He took a moment to try to get his heaving breaths back under control as he looked around the room he’d ended up in. It was pitch black, no lights on, no windows, the door shut tight. It didn’t mean much, what with Danny’s ghost eyes. A gentle green glow reflected in the cramped space of what seemed to be some kind of storage. Okay, time to take stock.

Danny looked down to find himself still in the clothes he’d gone to bed in: an old, stained T-short and the ragged Marian Manhunter pajama pants someone had given him for his 12th birthday that he’s technically since outgrown but keeps wearing because do you know how hard it is to find Martian Manhunter merch?! So that means Superman and everyone else in the Justice League saw him wandering around in a stained T-shirt and pants so short they were half way up his shins. Great. He also had a couple new additions: namely a pair of plain white house shoes and some kind of… blanket?

Danny held up the dark cloth he’d grabbed on instinct when it started to slip from his shoulders during his blind panic. It was… well it was dark. And strangely heavy. He tucked the booo-merang into his waistband so he could use both hands to spread out the blanket(?) and get a better look at it. It was kind of shaped like a half circle, but with these spiky edges on the round part? And it had a kind of dip? In the center? And… latches? What?

Danny flipped the blanket? Shawl? Poncho? Whatever it was so it sat over his shoulders like he’d been wearing it earlier. It settled comfortably, hanging down around him and pooling on the floor by his feet. Heh, with how well it sat and how dark it was he kind of felt like a vampire. Danny grabbed an edge and held it up, “I vant to dwink yur blüd!”

Holy shit, this is Batman’s cape!

Danny threw the cape on the ground and tried not to panic. He was pretty sure the guy in all black with the little devil horns standing near Superman had been Batman, and he definitely didn’t have a cape. There had also been others, like Wonder Woman and Captain Marvel and some lady dressed up to do magic tricks at Vegas or something.

Danny kicked aside the cape and started pacing furiously in the small space. “Okay, focus. What do I remember?” What did he remember? It was all kind of blurry, he’d been half asleep and not really paying much attention. He’d been lost? But Dad and Pandora were there? Trying to find a way home? Except he hadn’t seen either of them after he got smacked by the booo-merang. And it was pretty clear he was somewhere with the Justice League and they’d said they were taking him home. That was a good thing, right? He was starting to feel kind of silly for panicking and running away.

But then why had he been hit with the booo-merang? That meant his family was looking for him, so did they not know where he was? And the way it’d hit him it had to have come through a portal, which means they’d thrown it in the Infinite Realms, which means they really, really didn’t know where he was and were trusting it to lead them to a portal. So they didn’t know the Justice League had Danny? Did… did Danny get kidnapped by the Justice League?

Danny wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Well, first things first was to get home and find out what he’d missed. If the Justice League came after him again at least he’d be awake and have his family backing him up. Now, he just needed to know where he was. Considering how canned the air smelled he was probably underground, so up it was. He was about to start flying and phasing through floors when he was hit upside the head by an incredibly loud sound, like being attacked by static that stabbed straight into his brain.

Danny collapsed to the floor, clutching his head in agony.

[laundrybiscuits]

So......as is blindingly obvious by now, the final chapter's going to be quite late!

This is in large part because I was reeeeeally not thrilled with how underbaked the last one felt to me; I've now actually CREATED AN OUTLINE like some kind of. I don't know. a planner or something. What has become of me.

Basically, I want to re-break some of the story beats in a more coherent way and introduce some stuff that I need to set up the ending, which has been written and more or less finalized at this point. (I might add a coda.)

And writing is actually currently happening! I just don't want to post something that I'm actively not thrilled about again, and I very much need to rework some of the recently posted chapter first; way too much of it was essentially in first draft form. Most of it should stay more or less the same, but I have about four and a half scenes to add, I've a fair bit of editing/rearranging to do, and I miiight decide to cut the chapter at a different point because now the thematic focus is a little different than I thought it was going to be.*

I don't want to promise anything in terms of timeline, mostly because I'm also hosting multiple overlapping guests continuously for the next few months, but I do promise that I'm not going to stop working on it—and historically, dissatisfaction with stuff I've already posted has been a pretty powerful motivator!

*tbf I did not have a super concrete idea of what it was going to be! I was just going for, like...fluffy shenanigans, but the type of fluff I personally enjoy, which is laced with some degree of real-world trauma. I really do not fw cosy queernorm, if I'm honest! But that's a much longer conversation.

The third but shockingly (to me) (I was shocked) not the final chapter of young man is up! I've been editing all evening and I have absolutely no idea at this point if it's even any good, but it exists.

I know it’s been about a million years, and genuinely, thanks for all your patience; I haven’t gotten even one remotely impatient message/comment about the two-year gap. Y’all are the absolute best.

Like I said in the A/N, I went: “well I have about 4k words written, which is more than either of the other chapters, so OBVIOUSLY I’ll just have to tidy it up a bit and fill in some of the gaps, easy as.” And then I blinked and the draft was twice as long, and I was asking myself “…does this need a sex scene? would a sex scene be thematically and structurally appropriate?” (There’s no sex scene in this chapter, but I’m still on the fence about the next one…)

There was a reasonably natural break at about 4.6k words, so I decided to split it into two chapters. Next half should be up within a week or so!

[arek-ian]

“don't cry tonight”

[emeraldthelynx]

Alright! Let's have some sunbathing! I've decided to write something Battle Network. Because Lan will always go overboard.

Megaman kinda wondered what sunbathing felt like.

In the real world at least.

The Net, especially in the networks of tropical resorts or health centers, had 'sunbathing' options. To Megaman, it felt like his frame was warm and tingly with energy. It was always nice for a boost. In the real world, however, if his PET got left out in the sun too long, well… In Megaman's experience, his PET was pretty specific about what its temperature perimeters were supposed to be.

Which was why Megaman was currently hanging out on top of a table with an umbrella overhead. Maylu and Yai were also in the shade, done with the sun for now. Megaman sighed, watching Lan through the screen of the PET.

"He's going to get sunburnt. Lan never remembers sunscreen." he said. Yai rose her sunglasses.

"Even if he did, he and Dex have been in the water so much that whatever they did remember to put on probably washed off." she said. Megaman nodded sagely. Lan and Dex had apparently moved from their game of beach volleyball to a competition to see who could stand on the hot sand the longest. Megaman sighed again. Maylu groaned.

"When he comes complaining to me with a red face that his feet are too sore for skating, he is not getting any sympathy from me." she said. Megaman leaned back, resigned.

"Actually, he's probably going to have only one spot that's not red. There's going to be a big, white spot where his bandana is." he said.

"Make sure to send me a picture of that, Mega!" Roll piped up from Maylu's lap. Megaman chuckled.

"Sure, Roll." he said, watching Lan dance around in the water, trying to cool off his feet. Sure enough, Roll found a picture in Maylu's inbox of a tomato-red, sleeping Lan with a single white stripe of protected skin on his forehead.

All done! I tag

@shreedle @absolutely-normal-about-x and @ichilemonwritruoo

And the prompt from me is "whatchamacallit!"

Ya know what

Heck it

I'm gonna try something, feel free to ignore.

@waythroughtheice @nitkat360 @emeraldthelynx @sneakyswag @lum164 @theladyhibiscus @a-weirdo-works @crystalclear365 @pale-opal @shreedle @bean-with-a-knife @afniel

Just... for fun.

Maybe we do a sort of prompt tag game thing?

Like obviously, tag whoever you want to add but...

Basically someone offers a one word prompt and then everyone who wants to can either write a short fic involving it or draw some art for it, whatever floats your boat. No minimum or maximum. I'm just tagging people I've had either brief interactions with or just know to be active, but yeah. Absolutely no pressure. (I am but the tiniest blog in a sea of others lmao)

Only thing I would ask is to keep it PG-13 so everyone can enjoy it, yeah?

Anyways!

Prompt word!

Sunbathe

Because the idea of reploids sunbathing is funny to me. But it makes sense.

So with that in mind, my prompt fic:

Word count (according to my note app thing): 308

The sound of the balcony door opening has X opening a lazy eye in the late July sun.

Only to see Brook stepping out with an amused look on her face. "Trying to get a tan?" she teased.

"Mmm... not quite," he replied. "Trying to recharge, actually. Solar." Brook's mouth opens to a perfect 'o' shape, as though just remembering that reploids have that. "Why don't you join me?" the blue clad reploid asked. "You could benefit from some vitamin D."

"...Do I *have* to?"

You know what? "Yes," X answered dryly. "Consider it part of your punishment for running off and *stealing money.*" The ruddy-haired girl flushes at that and nods. Even going as far as to mutter an apology under her breath.

"...Would it be okay if I grabbed something to do while I'm out here?" Brook asked.

X considered the request, humans *were* more fidgety than reploids, after all... "...Alright," he relented. "But if you don't come back out in ten minutes, I'm going to make it *worse.*" Rolling her eyes, Brook heads back into the apartment. "Yeah, okay *Dad,*" she retorted.

And while *yes,* it *was* sarcastic-

He can't help but feel ever so slightly pleased at the fact. She's come a *long* way since September when he first found her...

Briefly, he wonders what it is Brook will bring out with her... It won't be schoolwork, much to his chagrin. After all, it *is* summer break. And she's already on a good pace with her make up work. But, X doesn't have to wonder long. Brook comes back out with a small bag he recognizes.

Her knitting bag.

Nodding in approval, X slips back into a light recharge.

With only the occasional clacking of her needles to break up the outside sounds.

[fishnoodles]

what i've been drawing for The Strokes is just my fantasy au and just putting maid outfits on them no inbetweens lets all explode

[zolo-san]

hey @ people who write long fics/chapter fics: what do you do when you have a fic idea and you've got a lot of good stuff to make up the actual fic, but you don't really have a real ending?

asking for a friend lol

So I don't normally write long fics and I really don't write chapter fics (Like one of my longest posted fics is a little over 14k but most of my stuff averages around 4k) but the Lawlu university AU that has been consuming my brain for the last month or so is an idea that has to be a chapter fic and I have a lot of ideas for it, but I don't have a clear ending point. Most of my fics have always had a very clear and natural end Like I've never really planned the ending out per say, but I just knew when the story I was trying to tell was finished and never had a problem wrapping it up But right now I'm close to finally getting all the ideas I had for this AU down and I don't know that I have a "clear" ending, ya know I know that I don't (at least right now) have much more that I'd like to include in the story, but idk if I can really end it where my ideas/desire to continue the story drops off like idk if it'll feel like a proper end there...........this is also so hard to explain if you're not living in my head and don't know where the planning doc currently ends, so sorry lol

I also have this irrational fear of writing chapter fics Like I get anxious at the implied commitment of it all and dumb things like how long a chapter should be? (I don't believe in filling up stories with filler just for the sake of length, if it's not relevant to the story or character development I generally won't include it - it's the script writer in me >.<) I know there's no real "rules" to how long a chapter "needs" to be and there's no such thing as a chapter being "too short" (this applies for writing in general, but double for fanfic) but it makes me STRESSED that I might not have enough for certain ideas to make a "full" chapter idk why I'm more comfortable with creating a bunch of short fics as part of a series and calling it a day (maybe because there's also no implied "total" amount of chapters even tho ao3 does the 1/? until you mark a chapter fic as complete) I also get anxious because I like the permission series fics feel like they give me to skip large chunks of time and I feel like I can't do that with a chapter fic (again I know there are no "rules" I'm just stressing out for nothing lol) I also just like that with a series I could randomly pick it up and write another piece to go with it on a whim if say, I get another idea out of nowhere after completing the story that I have currently planned (tho I guess there's nothing that stops me from adding a chapter to a fic even after it's marked as complete is there? 🤔) BUT if I were to write it as a series, then I'd have to have a title for every fic and the thought of that makes me want to jump out a window (naming fics is truly the bane of my existence), but with a chapter fic it's one title and I'm done (I also already know what I want the title to be sooooooooo) I can also make a series for the AU and have the chapter fic be a main fic and then have the freedom to write sort of spin-off one-off fics in the same universe for other couples 😈

idk man........I'm having a CRISIS over a fanfiction and something about that is very funny....but still lol Especially because I'm mostly worried about breaking non-existent "rules" idk I think I just have to accept that I'm a little weirdo when it comes to fic writing~

tho I still have the problem of not having a clear ending..........

help i'm going crazy i know none of this matters but still >.>

[not-poignant]

Daily excerpt from (yesterday's) writing, chapter 60 of A Stain that Won't Dissolve:

As they watched TV – Haley with her legs up on the couch, curled up with a cushion and yelling at a particular guy every time he came on-screen –  Alex got his phone out and composed a message. Hey, Haley said you thought it was your fault I bailed, but it wasn’t. It was lots of things, not you. I’m sorry I freaked you out. I didn’t realise it would look the way it did, and I’m not angry at you. Are we cool? Only two minutes later Alex got a response: Totally, brotally, followed by three thumbs up and a smiley face, and then a few seconds later, like Sam had been wavering on it, a little black love heart emoji. Alex showed Haley his phone. ‘He’s a dork.’ ‘Oh yeah,’ Haley said, bursting into laughter. ‘I’ve had to deal with brotally for two weeks. If I start saying it ironically, it’s going to become a permanent part of my vocab, so I’m staying strong. Wish me luck.’ ‘You’re gonna need it,’ Alex said, staring at the response.