#finally finished the first draft for the third chapter of 'A Little Left of Right'

[merlinfromberlin]

Accidentally doubling my word count on the third chapter of fics is turning into a bad habit I should really put a stop to.

Like, can you imagine if I did that for Nooks & Crevices? The first chapter alone of that fic is almost 6k words long. TwT

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

Has anyone asked for any proposal details for Break yet? It’s so fun to revisit all of your stories!

Hello, Anon! I'm so sorry it took me this long to get to this one. I've actually had this in my drafts for literally years but it never felt quite right, so I didn't post it. I'm so glad you asked for it, though. It gave me the kick I needed to revisit it and figure out what was wrong. Hope you enjoy! And also, here's a link to the last chapter of Break, since it kind of helps to remember what happened in it for this to make sense.

<3 kdnfb

He thought about doing it on the twenty-third. That’d be exactly four months. July twenty-third. But she’d be expecting that, and a part of him still wants it to be a surprise. Well, not a surprise, but spontaneous. At least seemingly so. Hard to be spontaneous when they not only set a deadline of sorts, but he’s also practiced what he’d say in front of the mirror when she’s not home and has planned the evening nearly to the minute.

Wanting to catch her at least a little unguarded, so he can see her real reaction, he decides to ask her on the twenty-fourth. Just late enough to make her wonder, but not enough to make her think he’s forgotten.

Only, she calls him at work over her lunch break on the twenty-fourth and spends fifteen minutes venting about her boss being an inconsiderate, drunk dickhead. Not keen on the idea of proposing to an angry Katniss, Peeta decides it can wait one more day.

The next day, he leaves work a little early to prepare, but when he walks through the door of their apartment, he’s greeted by laughter. When the door shuts behind him, announcing his presence, Katniss and Prim call out a cheerful greeting to him from the couch before returning to their whatever show they’ve clearly just started to marathon. No big deal. He adjusts, making dinner for the two girls and staying out of their way, keeping a smile on his face and not fretting over the ring still sitting in his bottom drawer, buried under his jeans. He can wait until Prim’s surprise visit is over.

Two days later, when Prim has finally left, Katniss herself delays his plans. He inserts his key when he returns home that afternoon, but before he can turn it, the door flies open and Katniss yanks him into the apartment by his tie. She doesn’t even undress him all the way, just unzips his pants, pushes them and his shorts down enough to free his cock, and shoves him down onto the first chair they come to in their living room. 

“Katniss, what—“ he doesn’t get to finish his question because she climbs on top of him, pulling the skirt of her filmy sundress up as she straddles him. He notices that she’s not wearing any panties. “Holy shit.”

He gasps as he feels her wet lips caressing over his cock. Her mouth descends on his and he grips the arms of the chair for a second, until he can’t keep his hands off her any longer and grips her hips instead, holding her steady as she rocks her body back and forth, coating him with her arousal.

He’s hard in seconds, aroused and dazed enough to go along with it when she sinks down on top of him and starts moving. Slow at first, her knees jutting up and her thighs working hard enough to quiver. He cups her cheek in one hand and kisses her softly, drinking down her throaty moans and gentle sighs.

Peeta’s heart aches with how beautiful she is when she lifts her head and looks down at him, her gray eyes like molten silver, overflowing with love and need. He whispers to her the truth, about how incredible it feels being inside her. Joined to her. Feeling her orgasms unfold around his cock. 

Something he says snaps her loose, though, because she whimpers his name and then bites her lip. Bucks her hips wildly. She curses loudly and digs her nails into his shoulders. She throws her head back on a tortured groan when he slides his thumb down in between her lips until its wet, then drags his touch up to her clit. She comes within minutes, the powerful clench of her walls enough to milk his own release from him. 

When she collapses onto his chest, moaning about how glad she is that their house guest is finally gone, Peeta figures now isn’t the time to propose. Not with his semen and her release mingling together and seeping from her body, soaking his shorts and his suit pants. He probably could, but he wants his proposal to be clear. 

Their relationship may have gone from friendship to sex to love on the surface -- he’d always been in love with her, long before that first game of strip pool -- but he’ll be damned if she has any reason to think he proposed to her because he was stupid with sex.

Besides, Katniss doesn’t seem to notice or care that their arbitrary deadline from their bet over four months ago has come and gone without Peeta asking her to marry him. Not when they spend it naked and grinding against nearly every flat surface and a few not so flat surfaces in their apartment. After that, there’s no chance to propose, since they fall asleep, tangled in sheets and one another’s arms.

But today, he is determined. He’s going to ask her. And hope to everything sacred to them both that she hasn’t changed her mind. She would never have sunk that eight ball if she didn’t want him to ask. It’s part of why he distracted her the night of their game. To give her a way out of her impulsive wager if she wanted it. But she hadn’t. She deliberately walked out the next morning, smirked at him, and took her shot, all but declaring to him that she wanted him to propose to her.

And while Katniss might be many things, he’s never known her to be deliberately cruel. If she wants him to ask, it means she wants to say Yes. Knowing the probable outcome does nothing to soothe his nerves as he leaves work early to get the dinner started. 

He’s just about got everything ready to go, except the flower petals he’d planned on scattering over the floor, when Katniss opens the door and calls out to him that whatever he’s cooking smells amazing. Peeta wipes his palms on his slacks. Well, he thinks, the flower petals would’ve probably been too much. Katniss doesn’t care for ostentatiousness.

“Ready in five minutes,” he tells her as she kisses his cheek and then disappears into their room to change out of her work clothes. While she’s doing that, he serves up the dishes and lights the candles.

When she emerges, dressed in maddeningly short cotton shorts and one of his ratty old college t-shirts, his heart sinks a little and he rethinks his plan. No girl wants to be proposed to in loungewear, do they? She smiles at the setup, the candlelight glinting off her irises, turning them a darker mercury lit from within, and he’s momentarily stunned by how beautiful she is.

“What’s all this for?” she asks, sliding into her seat that he holds out for her at the table and pulling her legs up to cross them on the chair.

“Just because,” he says nonchalantly and sits beside her. He’s not even settled before she’s begun eating, and he smiles at the relish with which she consumes the food. Katniss eating is one of the most pleasurable and erotic things he’s witnessed. The way she savors every bite and moans around both new and favorite flavors alike.

His cock twitches to life, and he flushes, mentally scolding himself for his unchecked lust. But it’s not just lust. They share small glances and talk over the meal. She snorts once when he makes her laugh, claps her hands with glee when he serves dessert, and in the soft glow of the candle light Peeta relaxes. This is who they are, after all, and ratty t-shirt or not, he wants more than anything for his proposal to reflect who they are to each other.

“Katniss,” he says, twining their fingers together when she puts down her fork and licks the last of her dessert from her lips. She lifts his hand to her mouth and kisses his knuckles. The gesture so tender and soft that he’s momentarily rendered speechless.

“Dinner was incredible. You must’ve worked so hard on it. Wait here while I clean up?” she murmurs.

All he can do is nod and let go of her as she stands, gathering both of their plates. She leaves him and as the water starts in the kitchen, he can hear her singing, along with the accompanying clanking of the dishes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Pull it together,” he berates himself. It still takes him until she’s done to work up the nerve to join her in the kitchen, and he starts talking before he even makes it there. He’s looking down, tugging the ring from his pocket.

“Katniss, there’s something I need to…”

But he trails off when Katniss comes into his line of sight. Kneeling on one knee right in front of him. She’s still wearing her comfortable clothes, but now an almost frightened smile quivers over her lips.

“I know you’re an utter romantic and I’m probably stealing your thunder here, Peeta, but I can’t wait any longer to ask you. And well, this is me after all, right? Impulsive and messy and more likely to propose in my pajamas than in a dress but you love me anyways.”

“Katniss,” he breathes out, his heart pounding so hard, he doesn’t care that he’s stealing his thunder.

“And I know the bet was for you to propose to me, but I need you to know that would’ve asked that day. But I really wanted to cream you in pool again and was definitely willing to play dirty for it.”

He laughs at this and then manages to pull his scrambled brain together.

“I play dirtier.” He holds the ring out in front of her. “Katniss will you marr--”

“Yes!” she shouts elatedly, cutting him off and practically leaping into his arms. He almost drops the ring as he slings his arms around her to catch her. Then she’s laughing and kissing him. “In a hundred different lifetimes, the answer is always ‘Yes,’ Peeta.”

He grins and pulls her mouth down to his, forgetting his carefully planned speech. He guesses he can save it for their vows.

[itsahotminuteinbetween]

Hey-o, back again with another chapter of that other thing! Apparently people actually liked it? I guess Imma have to start drafting an entire story now...Ah well, it's a good way to pass the time. I already finished the third chapter, I gotta type it up and edit it tho.

Anyways, here's the chapter! We get a peek through the boys' perspective this time...

On with the show!

(Ch 1 is here if anyone wants it)

Word Count: 1, 660

_______

Sun’s smile falls quickly into place as he greets the children, matching his persona of the sweet, bubbly animatronic he was designed to be.

He was quite literally made for the stage, which is why no one ever questioned how smoothly the daycare ran. He wrangled children and entertained them, attending to his charges and keeping the place up to date, organizing itineraries and schedules, effectively (running the place) entirely on his own…with Moon’s help, of course.

He made sure everything was perfect-and it was!-without anyone’s help. So he never could understand why management had hired that nuisance that clearly wasn’t wanted.

Ah, the “Daycare Assistant.” He stole a glance at you, smile faltering to a grimace before he corrected himself, watching you interact with the children. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t let them anywhere near you, but rules were rules. 

You apparently felt his eyes on you, because you looked up and gave him a small wave. His eyes narrowed, and he made no move to return it, taking small joy in how you faltered and shrank in on yourself. 

They couldn’t wait until your contract expired and they could finally have the place to themselves. Try as they might, they couldn’t find any loopholes in the document, Fazbear made it airtight. They had tried to scare you off and make you quit, but like the bothersome little imp you were, you refused to yield. They had expected Moon’s scare the first few nights to do the trick, but to their surprise, you just came back the next day. His taunts and tricks got nothing but an eye roll and a shrug. Sun kept pushing, making up rules that didn’t exist to no avail: you just went along with the changes and apologized for not knowing. 

There was that other thing that baffled them, how you kept trying to worm your way into their good graces. You played nice with the kids, you didn’t argue against their wishes, you apologized for your and their mistakes. You followed them around like a puppy, always desperately eager to please. Couldn’t you get the hint and realize that they wanted nothing to do with you, that your tricks wouldn’t work?

He took another glance out of the corner of his eye, noticing your change in wardrobe. At least it hadn’t been like last time, he’d caught you with earbuds in and a shirt that was not up to dresscode. Still, even with your efforts to make yourself scarce, it wasn’t enough. They knew why management had hired you: to keep an eye on them and report everything, the company’s little spy. You had no right to be here, in their daycare, nosing your way into things and writing little notes to management every shift, commenting on things and picking them apart. No one had asked for your opinion, certainly them, and they didn’t know what management saw in you to value yours over theirs.

(They noted begrudgingly that your comments had yet to say anything against them. It was mostly just recommendations for things or supply requests, little notes about how each day went.)

You did your job, but not well enough. You were absentminded, always staring off into space as if there was something more important to be done. You hung back and left them to do all the work, and even when you actually did what you were paid for, it wasn’t done up to standard. You didn’t play with the kids often, usually hanging back and leaving them to do all the work. Sometimes, you didn’t even show up! They could recall last month, when you had missed two weeks, two whole weeks, of work, citing your excuse to management and asking that it be kept private. They hadn’t detected any issues with your health (except for a slight increase in stress levels and lack of sleep, which would be worrying if they could bring themself to be concerned about the likes of you), so whatever excuse you’d given was probably invalid. And you left the daycare during work hours often, despite having the whole hour of naptime off, which you’d never used no matter how much they wished you would.

Speaking of naptime, the lights cut, and Moon comes out, quickly settling the children in. He selects a story from the shelves and spins a tale for them to drift off to. Soon enough, the air fills with soft, whistling snores and wafting lullaby notes in the comfortable silence. 

For a moment, everything is right.

Unfortunately, it’s interrupted by a certain someone.

A shame, really, that you insisted on staying. He was so sure you’d tire of it eventually and just out like every employee had thus far, and yet here you were, back just to spite him. 

No matter. He would find a crack in your facade eventually, and he’d watch you break.

He was content with just bugging you for now, finding the little chinks in your armor and chipping away at them, trivial as they were. You were quite fun to mess with, though he wished you’d give a proper reaction.

He stands up, calling his tether and launching into the air, scanning the daycare in search of you. As usual, you’re at the desk, eyes trained on its surface with a dim look, like you were seeing through it, beyond the dimly lit room. 

Carefully descending from the ceiling so as not to alert you, Moon sets two hands on the chair.

Nothing.

Without warning, he jerks the chair and swivels it harshly to face him, prompting a sharp inhale as you stiffen, tensing at the sight of him. He snickers, and you catch yourself, forcing your shoulders to lower. You give him a questioning look. “Hi, Moon. Need something?”

You sounded bored. That wouldn’t do. He resists the urge to roll his eyes and scoff, instead turning his faceplate slowly with a mocking grin. “Just waiting.”

Predictably, you tilt your head and ask, “For what?”

His grin grows wider, and he quickly snatches your bag and shoots back up to the ceiling, just out of your reach but still clearly visible as he begins to rifle through your belongings. 

You make a little sound of protest but don’t voice your annoyance, just watching him examining its contents with mild irritation, standing up and crossing your arms.

So he tries harder to rile you up and provoke you, taking more things out and messing with them before tossing them onto the floor half-hazardly. 

That seems to do the trick. Your eyes narrow slightly, lips pursed in restraint. You sigh and shoot him a tired glare. “Moon, can I please have my stuff back?”

He only chuckles, rummaging through the bag full of all sorts of things. You always made sure to take particularly good care of your things, which made it all the more easier to get on your nerves. Wire earbuds are pulled apart to an uncomfortable length before being discarded, along with a book he skimmed through. Knowing it was yours made him feel less guilty about stretching out the spine and dog-earing a page or two, especially with the satisfaction of watching you hold back your anger under your well-placed facade when he crumpled a couple.

Still nothing from you outside of your repeated request for your things back. 

He plucked your phone out, dangling it from a dangerous height to scare you before slipping it into his pocket and ‘confiscating’ for the day with the small declaration of “Mine now,” at your indignant look. His eyes landed on a small notebook, and he picked it up, weighing his options of whether he should open it or not, not noticing the way you tensed when he reached for it.

His thoughts were interrupted when you tried to swipe out of his hands, having gathered up the rest of your things. “Come on, Moon, give it back.”

Oh? How interesting…He shook his head with feigned apology, dangling it away from you but not opening it. “Sorry, security protocol gives me authorization to check luggage if I’m detecting suspicious behavior.”

You both knew that it didn’t apply in this situation, but he knew you hated confrontation almost as much as he liked pulling rank. You reluctantly allowed him to continue his unwarranted search (as usual). 

Satisfied with having aggravated you, he took his leave, content with his minor torment. He returned to the children, watching his work pay off.

__________________________

You survey the damage. He’d been relatively tame with it today. You recall the last time he did a search. You’d had to buy new headphones and tape a couple things together, not to mention being locked out of your apartment until he graciously returned the keys he’d ‘borrowed’.

You ran your hand over your book, grimacing at the creases. You’d just bought it, needing something to do during the hour of naptime after having been banned from using your phone, which currently sat in Moon’s pocket.

(You realized you’d need to ask Sun for that afterwards.

Great.)

Technically, you could go on break during naptime, it was the given block of free time management had provided for lunch. The issue with that was leaving your things here, with a certain someone who had a knack for making your stuff disappear. 

So no leaving the daycare, which meant doing absolutely nothing for what felt like an eternity. You’d considered sleeping like the children, but you didn’t trust them not to pull something.

Your stomach growls, crying out for food, and you wince. Right. No break meant no lunch. You’d tried eating in here once, only to be stopped by Moon, who claimed that food with unknown substances wasn’t permitted because of the children’s allergies.You hadn’t had breakfast this morning either, but that’s alright. You’d make up for it afterwards. You just had to survive for three more hours…

Aaand that's a wrap! Hope that was up to standard, I'm still trying to figure out how to make the dialogue more tense, sorry. Moon's teasing here is a lot less drastic than it usually is, but it still annoys MC because it they have a certain order that things need to be in. I did base y/n heavily off of myself, as this was more of a personal thing before I decided to make it a fic. But yeah, the boys are kinda just assholes for now. It'll get better eventually, although I do need to figure out how not to rush the plot too fast...

Third chapter'll be out in a couple days, maybe? I don't like submitting what I have without having something else prepared, so it's gonna be on pause until I start the fourth one. The third is...not to my liking, but we'll see.

Also thanks for reading, I do appreciate the comments :) Criticism and suggestions are also welcome, as I am new to this whole thing.

[the12thnightproject]

*jumps in*

Gonna fly in and drop a ⭐star⭐ because I know there's probably Director's Commentary you probably are dying to talk about in Ten Things I Hate About Mitsuhide. No pressure, though. Thank you!

Hi and thank you for the ask!

And you're right, I haven't had as much chance to talk about Ten Things, the way I have about Shingen and Mitsunari's longfics.

Loong, long answer below the cut...

Mitsuhide's longfic wasn't intended to be the third story. Originally, it was going to be Shingen, then Hideyoshi, then Mitsunari, but when I finished Shingen's story, I realized what I had planned for Hideyoshi had too many similarities to Shingen's story, so I bumped up Mitsunari. I was loosely considering Ieyasu as after Mitsunari, but Mitsuhide and 'Okatsu' had so much chemistry in Mitsunari's story, that it kind of felt like it needed to be next. He was in fact the love rival in Mitsunari's story, but because we never get his POV, it's not obvious (I think if you skim over his chapters in Mitsunari's story with that in mind, you can sort of see it, but it was never stated).

I still hesitated, because Mitsuhide is so popular that I was afraid if I didn't 'get him right,' it would go down very badly. And while I think I did ok with his character, I still feel like I rushed the story, and it could have used another edit on plot. In the first draft, Mitsuhide and Katsu were separated for most of the last third of the story. Once she left Sakai, they didn't reunite until almost the end (when he joins her in modern Kyoto). But I really hated keeping my two main characters apart for so long, and I was afraid people would lose patience with the story if they were separated for all of Act III. I spent a lot of time fiddling with Act III, and kept changing stuff, even up through nights before I posted the chapters.

So let's really talk about Act III, since the first three quarters of the story were fairly easy for me to write, but that final 25% took me almost as long to write as what came before. Honestly, Act III gave me fits (granted I was writing it last winter when I was working two jobs, and I had far less time to write than normal).

Oh, aside, I'm using film terms to describe the length of my acts... Act I is the first 25%, Act II is the next 50% (although usually is divided into two parts midpoint plot twist being an emotional mid-story climax), and Act III is the final 25%. I consider Act I to go through the point where Katsuko and Mitsuhide contract to work together. Act II through the midpoint goes through when they are taken prisoner by Motonari, and the rest of Act II goes through when Katsu leaves Sakai and Mitsuhide).

In my first attempt at Act III, once Katsuko leaves Mitsuhide's townhouse, she goes to Motonari and bargains with him to take her to Tsuruga - which was my original location for Act III. For reasons (that I no longer remember) Yoshimoto was also onboard. I got about 5 or 6 thousand words into that section, realized it wasn't working (at that point, Motonari was supposed to be the love rival), and backtracked to when she left Mitsuhide. In the revision, she goes to Yoshimoto, who agrees to take her to where Yoshiaki was hiding out. By this time, I realized that Yoshimoto made a better love rival (so when I did my second draft, I gave him a lot more to do in earlier chapters). This was all part of the original handwritten draft, so that Motonari section didn't even get typed up.

As I was working on my next attempt at Act III, I wasn't really sure exactly where Yoshimoto and Katsu were specifically going. I was going to create a new location where Yoshiaki was hiding out, and as I started to describe the area they were riding into, I realized, 'wait, I already created a dark remote castle for Mitsunari's story, I know what it looks like, and the area of that is more or less where this one needs to be too, so lets just use it again.' (I'm also using it in the next story, but just a little bit near the beginning of the fic. So far.) This also allowed me to drop a couple of vague Easter egg clues for the ongoing multiverse story.

Anyway, in that draft, it wasn't Mitsuhide who doubled around and ended up there as he too searched for Yoshiaki, it was Kyubei, who, sent by Mitsuhide, was following Katsu to ensure she was ok. Katsu was aware he was following her, and when she and Yoshimoto discover Yoshiaki's plans to team up with Motonari and Kennyo in order to attack Sakai, she sneaks out of the castle (Yoshimoto creates a diversion), finds Kyubei, and gives him a message to give to Mitsuhide. Then she sneaks back in rejoins Yoshimoto (and then the plot continued more or less the way it played out in the posted draft).

I always write the "his POV" chapters last, and since I changed my mind on Act III prior to writing the his POV chapter, this never did get written, but what my original plan for "what was Mitsuhide doing while Katsu was in Genba was that he had figured out where Toshiie was, and he'd found her brother, and was 'drying him out.' He doesn't learn what happened to Katsu, until Yoshimoto visits Azuchi and tells him. Anyway. That didn't get written, because by the time I was writing the stuff that was taking place in modern Kyoto, I realized that the Act III wasn't working as written. So I dumped the Kyubei chapter and replaced it with the chapter where Mitsuhide connects with Katsu in Genba, the scene in the garden, and then I rewrote the scene on top of the castle wall to include Mitsuhide. I'm happy with that particular decision, because I think it ended up stronger that way. (Sorry Kyubei for dumping your chapter).

I don't think there was that much else I deleted between the first and the second drafts, but there was a fair amount added. Originally the priest who tries to buy Katsu on the slave ship was a one and done character and we never see him again. I later brought him back to that scene on the grounds of the temple that was used for the city managers meeting because the original scene felt a bit flat and needed more danger (originally Katsu just overhears a few different conversations, but that got repetitive). The decision to have him show up on the old video from Katsu's childhood was a last minute right before posting the chapter decision (originally the person in that scene was just a random stranger, but that didn't really pay off).

A couple of other more active scenes got added between the second and third draft to help the pacing. Most of that was in the second half of Act II, the stuff at and around the area where Mai and Hideyoshi were being held prisoner.

Oh a weird BTS thing for the chapter where Mitsuhide teaches Katsu how to pick and code crack locks, is that I actually ordered a couple of cheap antique lock knock-offs from Amazon, watched a few lock picking videos, and taught myself how it worked, to help write that chapter. That was a really fun chapter to write - I enjoyed trying to figure out the sexual tension subtext.

There is also a scene that I didn't write (because the modern section had gotten too long, and it didn't add anything except my personal fan service) but that I consider canon to the story (in my head), is that when Mitsuhide and Shingen were in modern Japan with Katsu and Sasuke, there was one night where they went to a games center and played Beat Saber. Maybe someday I'll go back and write it as a short story.

Again, thank you for asking. It's always fun to revisit this stuff, especially when I'm in the middle of breaking a new story and feel frustrated during the moments where I'm stuck. Helps to remember that the first draft is always messy and will change.

[scullymurphy]

I’ve just finished BL/FD and they have moved to the top of my all time favorite fanfics. I am going to immediately reread them because the stories and characters were so rich and so moving. I have felt all the feels while reading these stories.

I never knew how much I needed a Hermione/Lavender BFF love story until you gave it to me! She has now become one of my favorite characters. I adore the friendship they built through these two stories. What a beautiful balance and compliment they were to each other!

The dual POV kept me on the edge of my seat and rooting for Draco and Hermione throughout. The tension and attraction and passion you were able to convey was palpable. The pain and angst of the love triangle felt so very real. I think it triggered my own memories of that time in life.

And Theo…my god, Theo! 😍🥹

I didn’t think anyone could replace Draco or Rhysand as my absolute favorite book boyfriend and then you gave me this version of Theo. This funny, beautiful, vulnerable, supportive gem of a human and now I have an obsession with Theo. I can’t get enough of him!

While I ultimately knew he would end up with Daphne and Draco would end with Hermione, and that was as it should be, I was absolutely devastated when things ended between him and Hermione. It brought me to literal tears when he left her to go and comfort Daph bc I knew it was the beginning of the end. They were just so good together. 🥹

With Lavender’s divination background and her cryptic statements about choosing a different path I kept wondering if there would be an epilogue or extra Lavender POV chapter where she has a vision of H and T choosing each other and what that path would have looked like. Does that exist somewhere and I just haven’t found it yet?

This is how consumed I’ve been with this story…I had a dream last night that there was an epilogue that flashed forward like 30 something yrs. After long and beautiful marriages, T & H have both become widowed and they find comfort and healing with one another again. Their paths finally reunite and their love story has its turn. But alas I woke up, finished the book and it was not to be.

All this to say, I would love for you to revisit this world again some day. These characters are beautifully written! I love them all! Thank you

Thank you SO MUCH for this beautiful comment. I can't tell you how much it means to me that the stories touched you in this way. You even DREAMED about them! And to class my Theo with Rhysand!!?? I die! I die! I love Rhys so much too -- it's kind of a problem because I compulsively re-read his scenes. In fact, I read the ACOTAR series right around the time I was writing BL and FD, so there may be a little of Rhys's charm in Theo! I like this theory...

And as for your questions and intuitions about the continuation of this story, I can tell you that I do have a pretty strong headcanon for what happens down the road. I even have a rough outline/zero draft of what could be a third installment someday. I'm still waiting for the time to be ripe to start writing it, although I can't definitively promise it will ever happen. Part of me thinks I should just leave it as-is and let everyone have their own ideas about how it turns out. Also, I'm currently shopping an OC novel around for representation, drafting another OC romance, and preparing to launch a detective noir Dramione multi-chap WIP tomorrow (you heard it here first!!). So my plate is pretty full, lol. But someday, maybe someday. I do miss that world so much and would love to hang out with those characters again.

Anyway, thanks again for coming all the way to Tumblr to tell me that you loved the stories. Your words really touched me. 🥰🥹 xoxo ~ Scully

[quokkaholic]

Playlist🖤h.j

Warnings: cussing, drinking, (Pls check the masterlist for updated warnings for the entire fic. lmk if I missed any)

Synopsis: after thinking about it way too much, fmc reconnects with Han

Chapter 5

Shadow (I’m Breaking Down)

——————————————-

You need to sit down.

You rush to a nearby cafe and treat yourself to herbal tea.You need to avoid caffeine; your heart is already pounding. You sit down and start drafting your response. Your contemplation borders on excessive; typing then deleting then typing and deleting again. Finally you settle on a response.

“Why are you sorry? I’m so glad you messaged :) I’m free! I just can’t be out too late because I have to be at the airport by 9am.”

You send the text and can finally take a deep breath. Once you finish your tea, you decide to get back to your day. As much as you want to wait for Han’s response, you can’t let this stop me. You wander your way through the streets stepping into any store that calls to me looking to fill the remaining empty spaces in your suitcase. In your third store you feel your phone vibrate in your pocket.

“You never messaged… I just didn’t know if you’d want to hang with me again.”

What?! You can’t help but respond on impulse this time.

“I didn’t text because I didn’t have your number! I’ve been hoping you’d text me!” He texts back right away.

“You’ve been waiting on me? I thought-“

“I thought I gave you my number”

“now that I think about it-”

It’s a rapid fire; by the time he’s sent three messages, you finally have one typed out.

“You got my number, but I never got yours.” you send.

“Fuuuuuuck. I  must’ve drank more than I thought. I totally forgot! I must’ve dreamt it. you're so sorry!” Han sends a few moments later.

“Stop apologizing! It was an unfortunate misunderstanding!” you try to console him, but you are just the tiniest but irked that you potentially could have seen him more. The annoyance swiftly passes. He dreamt of me. You're pulled from your thoughts by another text.

“I’m working till 5. Have you been to a sauna here? There’s a foreigner friendly one near my work, and I could meet you there when you get off? We could grab some food and go from there?”

We set our plans, and it’s already early afternoon. You set out in the direction of the sauna still taking your time to soak in your surroundings. Han assured you that the sauna would accommodate your luggage. It will be very nice to not have to carry these things around.

The sauna is so luxurious. you're very jealous of the sauna aspect of Korean culture. you loved the onsens in Japan; you can’t believe you didn’t think to visit a Korean sauna. There is something so insecurity melting about being naked as the day you were born, besides your wristband, with a bunch of strangers. It’s terrifying at first, but once you realize that no one cares what you look like even in the slightest, it can be so freeing, especially coming from a culture that demonizes the nude human form. Going to the sauna is about nurturing both physical and mental health.

You clip up your hair into a Pebbles style updo on the top of your head to keep it from getting sweaty in the steam rooms, and after scrubbing down in a seated shower, you spend time hopping from pool to pool each at a different temperature with different additives for skin benefits. You checked your funds before entering, and with a little money you have left over in the budget, you decided to pay for a massage. Once all your knots are released, you put on your provided uniform and again bounce around to each sauna. Each one is set at a different temperature, has different materials lining the walls, and has different aroma therapy components. You got a sauna egg as a snack; before you knew it, you had spent hours there, and it was now time for me to meet up with Han. You toss your uniform in the bin, take a final rinse, dress back in your street clothes and grab your bags before scanning your wristband and checking out.

You check your phone after exiting. It’s a little after 5pm and Han messaged that he was on his way four minutes ago. You look around for a place to sit and wait. While scanning the area your eyes land on a man sitting on a bench. He’s wearing a bucket hat and sunglasses, but you think that’s him. You slowly approach and have an internal debate on how to get his attention. Fuck this you're leaving tomorrow.

“Han?” you question, and his head whips around. He looks worried at first then his face shifts to surprise, jaw dropping a little and making an O shape with his mouth. He lets out a quiet “Whoa” before he is attempting to hold back a laugh. You're kind of disheartened by his behavior, and you don’t make an effort to hide that from your face. Do you not look the same with a sober mind? Your confused response breaks him, and his giggle busts from his lips, his hands fly up to cover his mouth. A moment later, he looks up at me with the most innocent eyes and just points above his head.

“It’s cute,” he states timidly.

The dots connect; you forgot about your hair clip. You feel the heat rising in your face, and you rush to pull down your hair and shake it out. Neither of us really know what to say next, consumed by embarrassment. He’s definitely less charismatic without the aid of liquor. Somehow that just makes him more attractive. You were so excited to see him again that you forgot to be nervous, but now that we’re together, the nerves are getting to me.

“So…um shall we go?” Why the hell did you say it like that? He just gives a little nod, stands up, and begins to lead the way. We walk slowly next to each other.

“I was thinking…” he says “would it be cool if we just got take-away and ate at my place?”

“Ummm…” you're a little put off by his request, and you think he can sense that.

“I’m sorry! I didn't mean it in a…. umm… rude way. I just have had a long day dealing with a lot of people, and I don’t want to… I don’t know how else to say it but… be around people anymore.”

you get where he’s coming from, but it definitely doesn’t instill confidence in me about this evening. He jumps into action once again.

“God! I didn’t mean it like that either! Ughh”

He says as he brings his hands up to cover his face. His clumsiness with his words is endearing. you remember him mentioning something about struggling with anxiety in passing the other night, yet another thing we had in common, so you can understand where he’s coming from.

“Take-out is fine with me” you say, offering him a kind smile, and he sighs in relief. We start off walking again. You begin to wrestle with your stuffed backpack trying to get it back into a comfortable position without letting your suitcase fall and remain walking.

“Here. Let me have that!” Han grabs your suitcase out of your hand so you could comfortably adjust the straps. When you’ve got everything in place, you go to get your bag back, but Han just starts back towards the station.

We wait for the train side by side. We don’t talk much beyond polite conversation due to our combined tenseness. When the train arrives, we take our seats. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a little black case, flicks it open, and gingerly wipes off an earbud before handing it to me. You can’t help but grin at him as you place it in your ear, and he does the same. You try not to watch as he scrolls through his phone, not that I’d understand the words anyway. He lands on a playlist and music starts in your ear. you guess he’s in the mood for rock. Most of the music is in Korean, but it doesn’t bother me at all. You don’t have to know the words to enjoy the music. you get a sense of Dejavú as we sit and bob our heads. He skips a few songs before he finds what he wants. You instantly recognize it. You haven’t heard this song in a minute; you turn to him and whisper that you love this track. He doesn’t say anything, just blushes and nods his head. How does he know this song? 

——————————————————————-

A.n.- Thank you for reading! To all my fellow American stays, I hope your fight in the ticketing war was fought valiantly and you found yourselves victorious in the end. I’ll be at the DC show alone….. so hml if you or any cool stays you know will be there.

-Mo💕

Previous | Next

Masterlist

[themarydragon]

Trouble the Water Continuation

It will be AWHILE before I have anything written, as I am still working to finish my first playthrough, I have a lot of things happening in my life, I am 75% done with the first draft of the first book of my own original world, and my only coherent thought about TOTK right now is SUFFERING 

but

Issues and contemplations below the cut. Some reference to TotK in the fifth paragraph that is spoilery. I tried not to make it explicit, but you have been warned.

First, IDK if you caught it, but the very last chunk of Chapter 2 in Born a Storm talked about sages. Let the record show, I posted that in June of 2020. I have a lot more I had planned for Born a Storm, and stopped writing it due to completely unrelated (cough cough Covid cough cough Loved and Lost) issues. Also, I realized if I was going to turn it into a complete work, like I kinda wanted to, I was either going to have to take it down, or somehow move chapters around as I went and I never actually decided how I wanted to manage that. I am still undecided, and I have to make that decision before my brain will allow me to work on totk in that universe. THE POINT, though, is I thought of a way to tie in sages (just a hundred years too early) that would be satisfying for me to write and not contradict TotK.

Second, SO FAR nothing I’ve found in TotK has completely screwed up my Trouble the Water [TtK] storyline. I’m not FINISHED yet, so that might change, but it really looks like the TotK worldstate is more or less compatible with where I left off in The Quiet River Rages [tQRR] with just a very little bit of handwaving.

Third, YOU CAN’T JUST GIVE ME THIS ANGST AND EXPECT ME NOT TO RUN WITH IT. 

Fourth, I feel like I have all the jumping-off points already loaded into the existing work. For example, tQRR, Chapter 5:  “I would have waited millennia if that’s what it took to get you back. Link, I chose-” Or Zelda’s gentle commune with the sword from Chapter 12 of CWRD.

Fifth, I want to write two parts. One is [spoilers] Zelda’s POV from-then-until-now just like Remember the Spring, and with the same flavor (and for the same reason). Again, I haven’t FINISHED it, but the Master Sword IS sentient and DOES talk to her, canonically, so it’s NOT EXACTLY ALONE and I don’t think forgetting was allowed, not entirely. The final Tear, which is NOT ancient, but rather we witness being shed, indicates possession of Sense of Self or at least Memory that I am definitely going to run with because angst. The other part is Our Boy desperately searching, finding Tears, and reflecting on how F’d up it is, given Zelda’s canonical parental history (her mother, then Rhoam). I don’t know yet exactly what I will include or exclude, but I’ve been in this place before and I know I have to write about it eventually. 

Last, if anybody expected me - ME - to see an amputee kilted tattoo’d protagonist and leave that shit alone, you got another thought coming. My husband has had some REALLY great insight into some of the cinematic moments (Link’s pause before taking Zelda’s hand for the Reverse Time ability) that I think deserve some love.

[thistle-and-thorn]

1, 4 & 18 please 🫶🏼✨

AHHHHHH HELLO thank you for helping me procrastinate on the chapter I swore to draft today.

What is the last line you wrote?

“You think you’re pretty enough for that?” she says into his neck. 

From the domestic post-canon fluff that is if your cascade ocean blues come.

4. What is a story idea that you have that you haven't written yet?

I am going to write my Sanrion Macbeth AU if it kills me. It will be the grand finale in my apocalypse AU series. The general conceit is like....what if Sansa and Tyrion really did kill Joffrey and also like vaguely 18th-century Scotland vibes. It's super dark and thorny and bloody and delicious. They're sooooo bad in it. But I have to finish the third installment crows + locusts first. :(

18. Share a deleted scene from a published fic?

Hmmmmmm....I have a little nsfw snippet of crows + locusts that I don't know if I'm going to include? I'm still drafting but it's on the cutting room floor atm until I figure out the next chapter and the arc of the rest of the story.

“We’re dying, Jon.” Sansa says, “We’re dying.”

And then it comes to her, an image so sharp and clear and specific that it would seem foolish to not accept it as being true: her brother, slight with youth, on his belly before her husband. Tyrion feeding his sex between Jon’s lips, holding it still on his tongue. Her husband’s unmarried hands cuffing her brother’s neck, circling her brother’s shoulders, stroking her brother’s spine. His right hand thumbing Jon’s hollowed left cheek and the timber of his voice saying, Atta boy. 

[ballerzleagueap]

2024 Ballerz League Regular Season Recap

For some, the war is over, for the others, it simply just started. Either way, this officially marks the conclusion of our third year of dynasty football.

Your performances and point totals have officially been recorded, as they will now slip away with the passage of time. In what is nothing but a fleeting moment, take this time to reflect, as you must prepare today for tomorrow's war.

Nick Harmon:

A historic season stained by a mere Week 1 upset. Finishing with a 13-1 record, the #1 overall seed in the playoffs, and breaking the record for the league's all-time win streak, there's little room for criticism.

All that's left to be determined is whether or not Saquon is enough to propel Mr. Harmon towards his first ever Super Bowl in Ballerz.

Cameron Paschal:

A controversial flip on Breece Hall proved to be just what was needed to deliver Cameron his first ever playoff appearance.

Finishing second in overall scoring, his team has risen where others have fallen. There is now a sense of both immediate danger and longevity that is present within his roster. A dark horse to win the crown, caution is advised when dealing with this owner.

Jordan Thomas:

The rentals may not have paid off, but all good things must come to an end. The founding champion of the league and a tank race winner in your own right, it can't always go your way.

Your first setback has officially come, time to go back to the drawing board! 6-8 isn't so bad, right?

Jordan Yount:

An unfortunate result, but experience gained nonetheless. Each team has their own struggles, however, not as many control their own destiny the way you do currently.

Holding onto two 26 firsts, there's plenty of room for optimism despite the 4-10 finish.

Shaundrel Hairston:

Despite a plethora of injuries to numerous key personnel, Shaundrel managed to survive the early storm and finished with an 8-6 record and a playoff spot.

Seemingly now at full strength, he's poised for a playoff run. However, depth remains a concern and will continue to be an issue in the future.

Drew & Connor:

The buyout deal, while anticlimactic, ensured that both teams got what they desired. After 3 years of tanking, Connor will finally make a selection with 1st overall pick in the draft. After 1 season of tanking, Drew has now accumulated 5 first round picks, in addition to 3 second round picks, for the upcoming draft.

Jake Scott:

The final chapter of this playoff run for the Porch Dogs will determine whether the story of Scott will be a cautionary tale or one of glory. After going all in for a third consecutive season, the final result is a 9-5 record and a playoff appearance. Anything less would've been a disaster.

In chasing the dragon that is a Super Bowl victory, you have traded your future. With no picks on the horizon, it's all or nothing from here on out Jake, best of luck.

Grey Cook:

A quite yet dominant performance was turned in by Grey this year. A 10-4 record coupled with an emphatic Week 12 performance secured the divisional crown.

His 2063.36 PF was the most in the division. He'll sit comfortably on his first round BYE before attempting to make his first Super Bowl appearance.

Tyler Lipford:

Hoping to recapture the magic that brought him his first Super Bowl, Tyler fought through much more adversity than anticipated.

He essentially lost his best player for the entire season, however, his ability to make the right decisions brought him to a 9-5 record and a playoff performance. With no draft picks until 2026, here's to one more Nick Foles' style run!

[dreamcatcher139]

A FEW LIES AND THE TRUTH - part IX.

Author’s note: First of all, I would like to thank every single one of you who took the time out of their day to read my mediocre writing. You truly are the best!

Second of all, I am somehow proud to say that this is the last part of my first ever series and I am glad I finally finished it and managed to put my vision into words. (I know it’s weird to finish with part 9, but number 9 is my favorite number and why does it always have to be 10 chapters or some other round number, right?)

And lastly, I think I may have another project in my drafts and I hope we will see each other again, dear reader. 

Warnings: slight swearing, extremely awkward ending (because I don’t know how to wrap it up) and probably some mistakes because I didn’t edit this.

Catch up with the rest here!

                                            IX.

“You’re sure Rafe is not home?” You repeated the question for the third time since you started the phone conversation with Sarah.

She called to ask for a favor – to bring her your purple dress for her date with John B.

“(Y/N), I’m sure.” She sighed. “He finally went for a walk or something after a week and a half of not leaving his room.”

Was it possible that Rafe was getting over your fight and you? Or did he busy himself with something stupid just so that he doesn’t have to think about you all day?

The steady ache in your chest became your everyday companion. But it wasn’t just the pain. It was also longing – you missed him very much ­– and a fair amount of fear. You were afraid you would forgive him for everything the moment you saw him again.

The silence on the other side of the phone made Sarah assure you once more that you wouldn’t run into her brother when dropping off the clothing item she asked for.

“I don’t know where he is and you know I don’t care.” She spoke again. “But I do know he’s not home now, so can you please bring the dress to me?”

“Yeah, sure.” You said, shaking your head a little to remove the thoughts about Rafe from your brain. “Be there in 10.”

Her house on Tanneyhill never looked as big and scary as the moment you started crossing the courtyard with the purple dress in your hands. How was it possible that one person and their stupid mistake could make you dread the place where you also had so many happy memories with Sarah?

Climbing up the stairs to her room, you couldn’t help but look in the direction of Rafe’s room, feeling some overwhelming desire to go there instead and just wait until he was home again. Since you had no idea what you would do if he really got home while you were still there, you decided to keep your eyes trained on your shoes and concentrate on your steps instead. Like a horse with blinders – if you don’t look around and see things that remind you of him, maybe you wouldn’t get distracted.

With your eyes still glued to the floor, you hurriedly entered Sarah’s room and threw the dress on her bed, needing to get out of that house as soon as possible. The door of her room was slam shut after you entered, and you heard the key turning in the keyhole. You were being locked from the outside.

“Sarah?” You asked.

“What the fuck?” You whispered to yourself, turning toward the door.

Just then, you sensed the presence of another person in the room, also catching a silhouette sitting behind Sarah’s desk in the left corner of the room with your peripheral vision. Turning your head slightly toward the figure, you saw Rafe. He was doing something on Sarah’s laptop but stopped every motion once you entered the room. His eyes were wide in panic and surprise, his mouth slightly agape.

You walked over to the door and tried turning the doorknob, only to convince yourself you were indeed locked inside Sarah’s room with Rafe.

“I can’t believe you lied to me.” You said, knowing she was standing right outside.

“Sorry.” She cried weakly.

“You set me up.” You sighed.

“Now you can finally talk about it!” She offered through the door.

You slowly turned around to face Rafe again. There was something new in his eyes. Was there a glimmer of hope?

Sarah was right – he finally had a chance to talk to you. So he hastily stood up from her pink chair but remained rooted to the spot. He didn’t want to scare you away by sudden movements.

“Sarah asked me to fix a nonexistent problem on her computer.” He said. “I didn’t know about this either.”

You nodded your head and crossed your arms before your chest. You didn’t do it because you felt angry. No, you did it to try and hold yourself together.

When you saw him after ten days in his full 6 feet and 2 inches glory, wearing a simple grey hoodie and looking like home – you just wanted to run into his arms. His eyes held tender sadness as they surveyed your features softly, his hair was messy, and he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Rafe Cameron was nervous.

But he was also determined to try and make things right.

“Can we talk, please?” He asked.

“Thanks for all the gifts you sent.” You spoke finally. “You really didn’t have to.”

“(Y/N), I’m so sorry.” He rushed, taking a step towards you. “I’m so fucking sorry it turned out the way it did. It was never my intention to hurt you.”

“What was your intention then, Rafe?” You furrowed your brows, your arms lifting up in the air for a split second and then dropping back down to your sides.

Rafe could sense you were frustrated.

“I wanted to buy some time.” He exhaled, running a hand over his face. “I needed some time to just be your friend and show you I’m worth it.”

“Show you I’m worthy of you.” When his eyes met yours, you felt something inside you melting. The stone-cold ache of betrayal was melting into something sticky and sweet. Rafe was being honest and vulnerable, but you also hated that he thought of himself like that.

“Worthy of me?” You repeated. “Rafe, I – “

You took a step closer.

“I didn’t know you think you don’t deserve me. Why would you think that?”

“Because – “ He smiled a little. “ – You’re sunshine, and I’m a gray cloud. You’re the person that believes in me and helps me, and does everything right. And I’m just a screwup. I couldn’t help but feel like I’m going to ruin you and hurt you.”

He averted his gaze to the floor. “And I did just that. I’m sorry.”

There was a moment of silence during which you contemplated if you should rush over to him, cup his face with your palms and tell him you love him.

“I was selfish and stupid.” He admitted. “I needed time to change for the better, and I selfishly didn’t want you to end up with anyone else while I was trying to become a better person for you.”

“But you’re a great person, Rafe Cameron.” You nodded your head, taking another step toward him. “In the last two years that we’ve been hanging out, you’ve changed a lot. And I don’t want to take all the credit for it. You did it yourself.”

“And you also had some impact on me and my life, too.” You added. “So I wouldn’t say you’re that gray, really.”

A small smile was teasing in the corners of Rafe’s lips, his eyes still shyly glued to the fluffy carpet on Sarah’s bedroom floor.

You, on the other hand, felt a sudden boost of confidence.

“So what are you trying to say, Rafe? That you like me?” A smile was threatening to occupy your face.

“No.” He finally looked up again. You felt confusion taking over your body.

“I’m way past the ‘I like you’ phase.” He grinned. “I’m in love with you, (Y/N).”

It took you a few seconds to process what he was saying, but Rafe decided not to give you a break.

“I guess I needed some time to find my balls, too, to tell you this.”

“Am I that scary?” You asked with a smile, crossing your arms on your chest once again. “You never had a problem with other girls before.”

“You’re not like other girls, (Y/N).” He shook his head. “And the things you make me feel scare the shit out of me.”

You didn’t fully process what happened in the next few moments – Rafe somehow closed the distance that was left between you in a few swift steps, his arms wrapping you up in a tight embrace, his face burying in your hair. Your arms circled around his torso, fists full of his grey hoodie, holding on to him like your life depended on it. When you crashed against his chest, it felt like your face hit the softest cloud. His familiar scent attacked your senses, your craving for Rafe finally satisfied.

You stood there, breathing each other in and holding each other close, for what felt like forever before he slightly pulled away to look down at your face. One arm still securely wrapped around your shoulders, while his other palm cupped your cheek, the distance between your faces was just enough to look at each other clearly. His thumb was gently running over your cheekbone when he quietly asked a question.

“Do you forgive me, sunshine?”

As if he needed to use a nickname to win you back completely - you already felt like your body was melting in his arms, your limbs going completely numb.

“You made a stupid mistake.” You started. “But I am also stupidly in love with you, just the way you are, Rafe Cameron.”

A smile managed to break onto your face before Rafe decided to kiss you.

He kissed you slowly and carefully, testing the waters. Once you climbed up on your tiptoes, the hand that was already wrapped around you only pulled you closer. The other one moved from your face to your neck, his fingers getting lost in your hair.

Rafe was going crazy by your taste but allowed you to determine the pace and deepen the kiss when you felt it was right. He just wanted to keep you close and never again lose the warmth you bring everywhere you go.

An innocent kiss turned into a passionate one, making you completely forget about your basic need for breathing. Tongue against the tongue, before he gently ran your bottom lip through his teeth, a soft moan getting stuck in your throat.

“All this silence means that you’re kissing, right?” Sarah suddenly interrupted. Of course, she was eavesdropping the entire time. “Can you guys stop it please, because I need to get in and start getting ready?”

You reluctantly pulled away from him a little, breaking the kiss. You tried to catch a breath, your chest asynchronously bumping against Rafe’s, who was also panting.

“I didn’t know you were the kind of guy who tells a girl he loves her before you even take her out on a first date.” You teased, your eyes searching for his.

“I didn’t know that either.” He said, running a finger over your bruised lips.

“I will be late for my date!” Sarah whined from outside, turning the key to unlock the door.

She found her best friend tangled up in her brother’s arms when she entered the room. The looks on their faces radiated a ‘crazy in love’ vibe, and she had to fight the urge to gag. After all, she told you she would support this relationship.

“No need to thank me!” She shouted sarcastically on her way to her closet. She already planned an outfit for tonight’s date, and it never involved your purple dress.

“Thanks, Sarah!” You said weakly, hiding your face in Rafe’s chest.

“Hey, can I take you out on a date tonight?” He whispered in your ear.

“Yeah, I would like that.” You looked up at him. “Just need to go home to get changed, and then you can pick me up later?”

“You can change here.” Sarah interrupted. “You brought a dress with you, after all.”

When you looked at her confused, she winked and proceeded to run around her room in search of all the items that her outfit was supposed to consist of.

Rafe agreed to change in his room and wait till you were ready, leaving you with a small, quick kiss and a gentle look on his face.

“I’m sorry in advance, but I won’t be able to listen to your love life any more since it involves my brother.” Sarah shot you an apologetic look.

“And please, please, don’t ever have sex when I’m home.”

The disgust on her face sent you into a fit of laughter.

You felt light as air, happy, excited.

The truth was out, and everything seemed to be alright after all.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Tags: @totallynotkaibiased​ @fairyprincess223​ @alexandracheers

[shurisneakers]

shut in [7]

Summary: When your high profile mission goes terribly wrong, you’re forced to hide in a safehouse with a man you’ve never met before. With seemingly nowhere else to go, you’re forced to work together to figure out who is trying to have you assassinated before it’s too late. (Sam Wilson x Reader, Hitman AU)

Warnings: cursing, implied abuse, death, implied ptsd, injuries, broken bone, origami and paper planes

Word count: 3.7k

A/N: ONE MORE WEEK !!!!!!!!! ONE MORE WEEK !!!!!!!! also gif is somewhat related except steve isn’t there sorry to crush any hopes

i also appreciate feedback so if you would like to, please consider dropping me an ask or comment ly guys!! also if you want to be on the taglist, it’s mentioned at the bottom of the chapter.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing <333

Previous Part || Shut In Masterlist

“Is there a reason you’re back so early?”

Both of the men nervously glanced at each other, silently urging the other to talk. A quiet form of encouragement.

“We chec- we checked all the neighbouring towns. All your safehouses,” one of them finally sputtered up after his partner elbowed him in the ribs.

“And?”

“We coordinated with all our guys across the country to look for them-”

“All I’m hearing are a bunch of excuses,” they twirled the gun on its barrel like it was a plaything. “Get to the point.”

“No one knows where they’re hiding,” he finished, swallowing thickly. “We’re still looking though. We just thought-”

“What?” their voice was surprisingly calm. “That your little status update would impress me? That I’d feel sorry for you for working so hard?”

“N-no boss,” his partner finally pitched in, saving face for his companion who opened and shut his mouth wordlessly. “Just keeping you in the loop. We’re close, I can feel-”

“Do you remember what I told you the last time you were here?”

Both of them shut their mouths immediately. Knuckles white, nails digging into their skin as they clenched their fists shut.

“That you wanted them dead,” the first one said with faux confidence. A waver in his voice gave it away.

“Yes, but you’re forgetting the important part,” they tsk’ed, shaking their head, eyes downcast.

They didn’t give anyone a chance to react. They slammed the gun down, swiftly picking it up before taking aim at his partner’s face.

“I said I’d blow your brains out.” They pulled the trigger.

Bits of bone fragment and blood splattered across the first agent’s face. He inhaled sharply, chest rising and falling haphazardly. He had his eyes shut tightly, face away from the carcass slumped over next to him..

“I want every fucking part of this country searched,” they roared, throwing the gun to the side carelessly, leaving someone else to scurry after it. “And since it’s so fucking hard for you to finish two tasks, just get me their location.”

The agent barely nodded, looking like he was about to throw up. His partner’s blood trailed down the side of his face like sweat.

“I’ll kill them myself.”

Hugh Grant was starting to look less appealing on your 6th rewatch of Notting Hill. In fact, he was starting to blend together with the characters from Die Hard and it was becoming difficult to differentiate which part belonged to which movie.

Sam sat opposite to you at the dining table, a set of papers assigned in front of him. The TV was left on, serving as background noise and occasional fillers to substitute the lack of conversation.

“That movie is not making sense anymore,” he stated objectively.

“It stopped after the third time for me.” Your words were hushed, your focus remaining on the swan you were trying to create from scratch.

“If I hear her say ‘I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy’ one more time, I actually think I’ll projectile vomit.” You could tell that his eyes didn’t shift from the screen though. “I can feel the bile. It’s going to happen.”

You only hummed in agreement, more interested in his lamenting than the actual movie.

Although origami wasn’t one of the skills you picked up in the fucking mafia, you still knew a few basic things. The rest you just folded with confidence and prayed it would work.

What other options did you have when you were stuck together in a house with no WiFi?

Sam had made a paper bowl to hold the car keys and the few dollars you picked up from Pierce’s place. It looked like it would fall apart at any given moment, its structural integrity questionable at best.

You had made a small flower that rested on the table in front of you. You were sure it would go missing the minute a draft entered the room.

He had given up after his contribution of the bowl. Apparently his creative expertise extended only towards that and paper airplanes, not that that stopped him. He was folding and manufacturing them with a vengeance.

“How is this supposed to help, Wilson?” you questioned, unable to contain the smile that grew on your face at the sheer number of planes he was making.

“Just because it’s not a decorative marvel-” he shot back in its defence, “-doesn’t mean it’s useless.”

“Oh, yeah? What else can it do other than not fly?” You watched as he launched one of them. It did a loop before falling miserably to the floor.

“Hey, you can put a message in it. Maybe one of those button trackers, a microphone. The possibilities are endless.” He laughed, folding another one out of the limited supply of paper he had left. “Besides, your thing won’t even lift off the ground.”

“Yeah, but this one can float.” You held up the swan that you had created. That about concluded your knowledge of origami.

“That’s actually… pretty cool,” he admitted. “Teach me how to make one.”

“A true master never reveals their secrets,” you eluded, placing it on the table.

“I dare you to make another.” Sneaky bastard. He knew you wouldn’t be able to replicate it. He saw you struggle the first time.

“Why, so you can just copy off of me?” you dodged, and Sam narrowed his eyes at you. You followed the same.

Neither of you blinked for a while.

“I’m out of paper,” he finally relented, gesturing to the fleet of planes that littered the table.

“I’m out of ideas.” You paused, looking down at how you’d spent the last hour. “Do you wanna go test these outside later?”

Sam looked up eagerly and you could just tell he was intending on getting competitive. “Hell yeah.”

“I’m going for a run in some time.” You got up to stretch your limbs, shrug off the fatigue that was setting in. Along the way you left the swan and one of the paper planes on top of the mini fridge alongside the car keys. It was cute. “We could do it then?”

“Sure,” he affirmed. “What time?”

“At around 6-” your eyes landed on the clock on the wall before widening, “-shit, shit, shit, I didn't realise it was five thirty. We have a call with Ransone.”

“Phone’s on the couch,” he mentioned to the living room, sitting up straight. “Why are you freaking out? We still got a few minutes to go.”

You pushed yourself away from the table, forcing yourself to shakie off the drowsiness that had begun to set in.

“You wouldn’t get it,” you mumbled, “He gets pissy if I don’t do things his way.”

You grabbed the phone, punching in the buttons and having it at the ready.

You noticed Sam focused on you with knitted eyebrows but not voicing whatever he had on his mind.

“Ready?” you questioned, but more as a formality. You had to do it regardless.

He simply nodded, looking on as you let the phone ring. If he had noticed your antsiness towards the call, he didn’t bring it up.

Ransone picked up on the last ring, not skipping a beat in answering, “Y/N.”

“Hey Ransone.” You switched the call to speakerphone.

“Are you alone?”

You glanced at Sam. He shook his head, arms crossed over his chest, edging you to continue with the arrangement you had planned the day prior.

Ransone trusted you more. He was more likely to communicate openly if Sam wasn’t around.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Where’s the other one?”

Sam silently scoffed.

“He’s taking a nap.”

“Ah,” Ransone’s tone was condescending. “How have things been?”

“It’s fine.” You press your lips into a straight line, not elucidating. “What’s the update out there?”

“Everything is a mess. We’re trying to figure out who attacked you but since there wasn’t anything left behind or any kind of trace, it’s proving to be... inconvenient.”

“Is it safe to travel?”

“What, with your face on national television?” he laughed. “Nah, I’d say it’s a little too early to be thinkin’ of a road trip. Just stay where you are, I’ll tell you when you can come out.”

Your fingers were thrumming at the table rhythmically, peeking at Sam every now and then for anything he found suspicious or wanted you to ask about.

“Listen, we’ve paid off every big guy to keep this under wraps as much as possible but Pierce was an important person. All the higher ups want this to be solved as quickly as possible. They don’t care about sacrificing a player here or there.”

Pinning the blame on you was easy enough. The faster you were put away, the faster they could stage an “accident” in prison so that none of their secrets were exposed. Wasn’t like they hadn’t done it before.

“Others in the business aren’t likin’ us accusing them of attacking one of our own. Our best bet right now is Serpentine but we haven’t gotten anything to prove it.”

You doubted they ever would. Even if they did do it, Serpentine was notorious for being cunning and stealthy in their operations. They made sure there would be no tracks leading back to them.

“So, we’re at a dead-end,” you verified. There was no telling when this would end, your exit looking further and further away. “We’re fucked.”

“No. We’ll just- Y/N, listen to me,” Ransone called out, drawing your attention back to the call.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve always protected you,” his voice was noticeably softer. “Don’t you trust me?”

You felt the temperature in the room drop.

“You said there would be no one there!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ransone scoffed. “I never said that.”

“I walk in there and there’s four people, completely armed.” Forcing yourself to recall it was making your head spin. Maybe you could ask the nurse for a painkiller. “It was supposed to be empty.”

“I think the blood loss is making you delirious,” he chided, looking at the bag of drips hanging above your bed. “It wasn’t even that bad-”

“You’re lying.” The words slipped out before you had the chance to think it over.

“Excuse me?” he tilted his head, tone suddenly sifting to that of warning.

You knew he was. You had agreed to this mission because it was supposed to be easy. It was a break.

“Ivan was there when you briefed me.” You lifted your good arm to point at him shakily. “He knows you’re lying.”

“Does he now?” Ransone quirked an eyebrow, studying his aid who stood in the corner of the dingy hospital room.

A beat of silence passed where Ransone stared at Ivan, waiting for a reply of confirmation.

Ivan only lifted his shoulders in unawareness. “I don’t remember you sayin’ that.”

Your mouth fell agape but you quickly rushed to shut it. Fucking liars. You shouldn’t have expected anything better.

“Told you.” Ransone shrugged. “You’re a smart one, Y/N, so I’m going to let that slide this time. But next time you accuse me of something I didn’t say…”

He trailed off, resting a hand on your broken shoulder. You flinched, jaw clenched so tightly you thought your teeth might break. You tried to imagine yourself somewhere else, desperate to reduce the quivering of your body when he squeezed it lightly.

“You know I’ve always tried to protect you.” He put a finger under your chin, tilting your head to meet his eye. “Don’t you trust me?”

A beat passed before you responded.

“I do,” you said through gritted teeth, pulling your face away from him.

“I’ll ask them to up your dosage.” Ransone took a step away from you, dropping his hand. “I’m going to need my best player on the field as soon as possible.”

You didn’t acknowledge his statement. Every part of your body felt like it was going to combust.

Did he really say that no one was going to be there or was it just the injuries playing with you?

“Get well soon,” he offered, one step out the door. “Buttercup.”

“You trust me, don’t you Y/N?” he repeated when you didn’t respond.

“Yes.” You swallowed, gaze falling to the floor.

“And I trust you. You wouldn’t do anything to break that, would you?”

Sam raised his one hand questioningly as if to ask what the hell he was talking about. An intimidation tactic. He had been using it for several years to reinforce your loyalty.

“I wouldn’t.”

There were things you weren’t telling him, of course. Details about that day or where you and Sam were hiding right off the top of your head. More if you thought about it deeply.

“Good,” came his response. “So if there’s anything you need, let me know. I’m always a call away.”

“Thank you.”

“Talk to you soon.” He ended the call there.

You stood there blankly for a while before dropping the phone to the ground and crushing it. Usually you wouldn’t have to do that; removing the battery would be enough. This time you wanted to.

Your chest rose and fell heavily. You loathed him. Yet, you couldn’t fucking leave. 

“Hey.” Your eyes snapped back to Sam. “We still going on that run?”

__

The wind felt good.

Your muscles were burning and you could feel the constriction of your lungs but you liked it. The endorphins were working their charm.

Sam was right beside you, not questioning why there was so much aggression in your movement. You had lost track of how long you had been running. You couldn’t bring yourself to focus on that.

The path was paved with fallen branches and roots sticking out, forcing you to hop over some of them to avoid falling. It only annoyed you further.

You wanted to punch something. Or someone. The tension was rolling off your back in waves, and if someone saw you the’d probably believe you were going to commit an act of violence.

It was a while before you felt your steps begin to falter, the need for a proper breath taking precedence over the want to run more.

“Timeout?” you asked Sam breathlessly, slowing your pace to a jog.

“Sure about that, Usain Bolt?” he huffed, slowing his pace to match yours.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he dismissed it. “T’was fun.”

Now that you had slowed down, it forced you to come to terms with how much energy you had just burnt out.

“You wanna talk about what’s on your mind or ignore it?”

“Rather not talk about it for now.” The more you thought about him, the angrier you got. And as of late, you had realised that your method of dealing with that anger wasn’t the best.

The air was getting colder. It was getting harder to see what was in front of you, relying on the few rays of sunlight that shone through the treetops. You took a roundabout at your self declared checkpoint, changing course back to the house.

Sam followed wordlessly, but his presence was strangely comforting. Warm.

“Thank you.”

“For...” he trailed off, prodding you on.

“I don’t know. This.” You gestured to the path ahead of you. “I didn’t think you’d agree to it.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” His eyebrows knit together in puzzlement.

You didn’t have an answer to that. Probably because you weren’t used to people just doing nice things for no apparent reason.

“How are you so calm all the time? I’ve never seen him get under your skin,” you asked quietly. “How do you do it?”

He didn’t answer straight away. He mulled over it as he dodged broken sticks and upended roots on the ground. You would be fine if he didn’t answer either; as long as he knew that you appreciated it.

“I just realised that everything he put into me was destructive. Actively worked on unlearning it,” he replied after a while. “It took me years to even begin.”

You expected to hear that but it didn’t make it easier.

“I don’t even know how to start,” you mumbled. It was so tiring, even thinking of where and how it began. It was all you knew. All you were taught.

“If I could add something?”

You looked at him questioningly.

“You had a different relationship with him than all of us, Y/N. A deeper one. It’s not easy to forget that,” he pointed out. “But… you’re not him. That takes strength.”

These weren’t new revelations. It was things you had told yourself earlier to rationalise all your actions. You knew it on a surface level but it was difficult to convince yourself sincerely.

You didn’t say anything, just continued jogging with an eye on the ground. 

It felt better to hear it from someone else. A starting point to maybe get to where he was, too.

“I just can’t believe anyone took him seriously enough for him to get this far,” Sam added, a tick of annoyance in his voice. “I don’t condone bullying but someone should have just punched him in the face as a child.”

It wasn’t even the funniest thing you had heard him say but for some reason it elicited a snort from you, soon giving way to a laugh.

His face snapped to yours at the sound of your laughter, a small smile growing on his face.

His brief moment of distraction was all it took for him to not notice the tree root sticking out in front of him. His ankle got caught in the wood, sending him stumbling to the ground face forward.

“Oh shit,” you cursed, halting in your place immediately, dropping to your knees to where he was.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, turning onto his back. “I think I broke my face.”

“That may be a bit excessive but your nose is definitely bleeding,” you knew this was serious but you were finding it difficult to control your laughter once you realised it wasn’t a life threatening injury.

“Just leave me here to die.” He covered his eyes with his elbow, refusing to look at you.

“C’mon, Wilson. Let’s get you fixed up.” You stood up, offering your hand. He grabbed onto it, hoisting himself up.  “Can you stand up straight? Do you think you have a concussion?”

“World class assassin,” he grumbled, shaking his head to imply he was fine other than a possible broken nose.

“Promise I won’t tell. Your reputation is safe,” you said it humorously but with conviction, hoping to make it less embarrassing for him. Not that you’d let him forget it any time soon.

It took longer to walk back considering how far you had ventured out, along with the fact that you had to guide him as he held his nose in the air to try and control the bleeding.

You pushed open the door to the house, holding it open as he walked in. Sam made his way to the dining room after you told him you’d get the first aid kit for the second time during your stay there.

By the time you returned from the bathroom, grabbing an old t-shirt along the way, he had a single ice cube pressed to the bridge of his nose.

“That’s not going to be enough.” You dropped the kit onto the table, opening the mini fridge. You emptied the ice cubes from the tray onto the t-shirt, twisting it into a small ice pack.

“These are my battle scars.” You could tell that he was trying not to use his nose. He sounded ridiculous. 

“Whatever makes you feel better, Sam,” you chortled. His mouth eased into a half smile and you didn’t get why until you realised it was the first time you had called him by his name. You didn’t acknowledge it, surprised by how easily it slipped out from your mouth when you weren’t actively stopping it.

You gave him a bit of cotton to wipe off the blood that had dried on his face.

“Look up,” you instructed, standing over him so you could assess the damage. He complied, letting you cradle his jaw softly, tilting his head to see if there were any signs of a fracture or anything worse.

It was a bad fall, but nothing he hadn’t been through before in terms of severeness. It wasn’t going to leave a mark.

“Definitely going to bruise but it’s not broken,” you concluded, going over it once more to make sure.

“Thanks, doc,” his voice came softly from below you. Only then did you realise how close you were standing to him. You could feel his breath on your wrist that was still caressing his face.

It felt like eternity, but he didn’t make an effort to move or shove you away. Your eyes flitted down to his lips for a second. If you just leaned dow-

“Right,” you cleared your throat, taking a step back. “Just hold this to your face for a while to reduce any swelling.”

You handed him the makeshift ice pack, feeling the heat creep up your neck.

“Your turn to use the bed tonight, right?” His voice was significantly lower than what it had been a few minutes ago, something you weren’t acclimated to hearing. It only made your face feel hotter.

“Yeah.” You avoided meeting his eyes, using the time to close the first aid kid. “Unless you want it.”

“No, go ahead.”

It was too early to retire for the evening but suddenly you weren’t all that hungry anymore. Apparently neither was he.

“See you tomorrow, then?” you inquired, turning away before he could see you cringe.

“See you tomorrow,” he confirmed, “Good night.”

You just gave him a short wave over your shoulder and physically restrained from walking to the room, shutting the door and never looking at him again. You hoped he didn’t notice or at least never bring it up if he did.

You couldn’t do this. Not again.

Not when you knew the consequences.

Next part

[snelbz]

Light Up the Ice - Chapter 10

Summary: Aelin Galathynius has never really been into sports. Yes, she likes to keep in shape, and she works out, but watching people run up and down a field, trying to keep a leather ball away from each other? It’s always seemed a bit childish to her, and decidedly NOT a way for a grown adult to make a living.

Rowan Whitethorn has recently been drafted by the Terresen Staghorns, one of best teams in the EHL (Erilean Hockey League). And since he moved to Terresen from Wendlyn, it’s been hard for him to get more than 30 seconds alone from someone demanding a picture with him. Getting drafted straight out of college wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but he’s not complaining. Until he accidentally meets a girl. More specifically, until he accidentally meets his neighbor. She seems to have no idea who he is and for some reason, that’s refreshing. But will she still want to be with him once he shows her the truth?

Light Up the Ice Masterlist

My Masterlist

Tara’s Masterlist

Co-written with @tacmc​.

Warnings: language, smut - this chapter is 18+.

Rowan’s phone rang for the third time since he’d made it home from practice less than an hour ago. He had two papers due in the morning and his professors didn’t give a shit if the Warriors were heading to the finals in less than a week. They cared about the history of Wendlyn and its allies.

His girlfriend, however, clearly didn’t give a shit about either.

He answered, his tone clipped. “Hello?”

“You never called me when you finished up.”

He pulled the phone away from his ear and sighed, before returning it and saying, “I’ve only been home for about fifteen minutes. Coach made me spend some extra time in the weight room.”

“You’re going to put on too much bulk if you keep going to the gym,” she said, pointedly. “You won’t get drafted into the EHL if you don’t have the speed, babe.”

Another heavy sigh. “I’m just doing what my coaches say, Maeve. They’ve gotten me this far-.”

“No, Rowan, you’ve gotten yourself this far, with your ability, not your coaches,” she said, and he could hear her getting into the car. “You need to quit going to the gym and focus on your puck-handling.”

When Rowan had met Maeve his freshman year, after Lyria’s accident, he thought dating someone in the sports medicine program would make his life easier. A good distraction from life and his feelings, but the longer they stayed together, the more Rowan regretted ever asking the dark-haired beauty out to dinner.

She’d been great at first. She was as interested in hockey as he was, so he didn’t feel like he was bothering her by asking her to come to his games. But as she inserted herself into his life in more and more ways, Rowan knew that they weren’t going to last.

“I’m leaving my apartment now, I’ll be there in just a bit,” she said, completely ignoring his lack of reply to her suggestions.

He sighed. “I’ve got a lot of homework, Maeve, I really think I should-.”

“You’re in college to play, baby,” she replied with a scoff. “You need to focus on your future, your studies are just a stepping stone.”

This was becoming a frequent conversation between the two of them. Maeve was adamant that Rowan should drop out and see if he could get drafted as soon as he could. Rowan knew that even if he was to get drafted early, one game, one bad hit, one concussion, one injury could end his career. He didn’t just study to ensure he could play for the University of Wendlyn.

He studied because he wanted a backup plan.

Maeve, as single-minded as she was, didn’t understand that. She didn’t understand a thing, not about Rowan, anyway. All she saw was a man that made her look good, a guy that was well-liked around campus and in his hockey community and their group of friends.

“I need to-.”

Maeve was already interrupting him. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

She hung up.

With one last heavy sigh, Rowan closed his laptop and prepared for her arrival.

Rowan pulled out his phone the moment she left. It was on his ear, ringing, as he checked the stovetop clock to see if it was too early to be drinking.

Brello answered on the third ring. “Whitethorn.”

“Hey,” Rowan began, hesitantly. “I-.”

“Did you see the new therapist?” Brello interrupted. “Havilliard mentioned you were planning on getting started today.”

“Aye, coach, I did, but there’s a minor problem-.”

He was cut off again. “You can’t get back on the ice for at least two games, Rowan, I’m sorry. Those are the rules. Just follow the at home therapy routine Dorian left you and you can come back to practice on Sunday.”

“The problem isn’t me not getting to play.” He rushed the words out, not meaning to sound disrespectful, but wanting to speak before Brello hung up the phone. “It’s with the new sports therapist.”

Silence met him on the other side of the phone. “Give her a couple weeks, Whitethorn. I know you were used to Sorscha, but even she says Maeve is highly qualified, and highly recommended.”

“I’m sure she is, but it’s more of a, ah, personal conflict,” Rowan said, pacing around Aelin’s apartment. He’d come back after Maeve was done. Dorian had left a note on top of the stack of paperwork he assumed was his therapy, letting him know he’d headed back to the arena and to call him with any questions.

Another pause. “A personal conflict?”

“Maeve is my…” Rowan cleared his throat. “Maeve is my ex, sir.” Brello was once, again, quiet on the other line. “Sir?”

Brello sighed, long and heavy. “Look, Whitethorn. I respect you, and you and I have never had any real issues. You’re a great player, and a great asset to the team. Because of that, you need to get the hell over your personal issues and keep your eye on the end goal here.”

Rowan closed his eyes. “But-.”

“You need to take the treatment being given to you or you won’t be playing any time soon and that’s final,” Brello said, his voice conveying one thing: that his words were very much final.

When Rowan didn’t answer, Brello’s voice filled the silence, yet again. “Is that clear?”

Rowan’s voice was strong but quiet when he replied, “Yes, sir.”

Brello hung up without another word, which left Rowan standing there, his phone still held up to his ear. After a moment, he pulled it away and looked down at it, at the ridiculously adorable selfie Aelin had set as his lock screen . He wasn’t sure when she’d done it, but he couldn’t help but smile as he looked into her gorgeous eyes.

He froze.

Shit. How was he going to tell her?

Good news, babe, I called the team therapist. Bad news, she’s my ex.

His phone lit up in his hand, taking Rowan by surprise. “Hey, man,” he answered, falling back on the couch. Which was a mistake. He immediately groaned.

Lorcan snorted. “I take it you saw Maeve. I have the same reaction when she puts her hands on me.”

Regardless of the fact that he loved Aelin, regardless of the fact that he could hear the joking tone in his teammate’s voice, Maeve was still his ex. And Rowan hated the feeling that rose in him at the thought of her hands on someone else’s body.

When Rowan said nothing, Lorcan followed, “That was a joke, asshole.”

Rowan cleared his throat. “I know, I was just thinking of how I’m going to tell Aelin.”

Lorcan snorted. “Tell Aelin? Tell her what?”

Rowan blinked, even though Lorcan couldn’t see him. “About Maeve.”

“Why the hell would you do that?” Lorcan asked, without missing a beat.

“Because I’ve learned my lesson about keeping things from her,” Rowan snapped. “Last time it didn’t work out so well for me.”

“Didn’t it?” Lorcan chuckled. “You got the girl, I think it worked out alright.”

Rowan was about to reply, about to tell him that Aelin wasn’t a prize to be won and that he was lucky as hell she decided to forgive him. But Lorcan cut him off. “On top of that, all it’s going to do is make the princess pissy and jealous, which is only going to make her hate hockey more. And I don’t see that working out well for you in the long run.”

Lorcan had begun to call Aelin the princess and Rowan sighed as he used the nickname. “Shit. I didn’t think about that.”

“Exactly. You gotta think long term. You tell Aelin that your ex is your massage therapist and she’s going to be so jealous, she can’t see straight,” Lorcan said, and Rowan could hear the beeps of the treadmill as he picked up the pace.

“Are you at the arena?” Rowan asked, praying that they weren’t having this conversation while Lorcan was around the rest of the team.

He sounded offended when he replied. “Hell no, I’m at home. You know I don’t run at the rink. But speaking of being at the arena, we need you there. Not in the box, not suspended on the bench, and sure as shit not on the injured list. You need to quit this dumb shit with the fighting.”

They’d had this conversation once before but rather than over the phone, they had been in person.

It ended in a fist fight.

Rowan sucked on his teeth. “I promise, it’s done with. Now that I have Aelin back, I just-.”

“Stop, stop with the mushy shit, I don’t want to hear about it.”

Rowan frowned. “You’re a jackass, you know that?”

“I do,” Lorcan said, between heavy breaths. “A fact that I’m proud of.”

Rowan just shook his head. “Of course, you are.”

“Be at the game tonight?” Lorcan asked.

“Yeah,” Rowan replied. “With Aelin.”

“Good,” Lorcan huffed. “Bond, keep her happy up in that box of yours. Keep Maeve to yourself. Trust me.”

Trust me. Those words from Lorcan Salvaterre typically didn’t sit well in the pit of Rowan’s stomach, but Rowan had to admit that this time, Lorcan had a point.

He just got Aelin. He didn’t want to ruin it with petty jealousy coming between them.

Besides, it was just a little, white lie.

Right?

When Aelin got home, she found Rowan on her couch, wearing a very nice suit, that was tailored to immaculately accent his muscular form, watching highlights from the games the night before. Her eyebrows rose as she took him in. “I already feel underdressed and I haven’t even changed yet.”

Rowan chuckled as she set her purse down on the kitchen counter. “If I didn’t have to wear this to games, I wouldn’t. Unfortunately, I don’t get much of a choice.” He stood and met Aelin in the middle of the room. “How was your day?”

“Insanely busy,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist and smiling up at him. “But that meant it flew by. So it was good.”

Leaning down to kiss her, he replied, “Good.”

She raised up on her tiptoes and met his lips with hers before pulling away and heading for her bedroom. “I need to get ready, come tell me about your therapy appointment today. You look like you aren’t hurting as bad.”

Rowan rubbed at the back of his neck, but waited until she had rounded the corner to answer. “Nothing of consequence happened. Got the massage, my trainer gave me some physical therapy exercises to do at night, and relaxed the rest of the day. Just like I said I would.”

Rowan walked into her room and found her in the bathroom, piling her hair into a messy bun on top of her head. She looked at him in the mirror and raised an eyebrow. “Nothing of consequence? You sure about that?” She asked, before reaching for her makeup bag underneath the vanity.

Rowan swallowed hard, the abrupt change in her tone having immediately put him on edge.

How had she found out? Lorcan was the only person he’d told about Maeve. Rowan was fairly sure that he hadn’t said anything, since Lorcan didn’t even want him telling her himself.

“No, nothing,” he replied. “A pretty boring day, honestly.”

Aelin ran a spoolie brush through her brows, but smirked and said, “Liar.”

Rowan’s blood went cold.

The smile on her face surprised him until she said, “You didn’t tell me Dorian was your trainer!”

He released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He chuckled and scratched at the stubble on his jaw.

“We’ve known each other for years,” Aelin went on, checking herself out in the mirror. “He’s such a good guy. I didn’t even know you knew him, which is ridiculous, considering how often I talk to Dorian.”

“Yeah, he’s great,” Rowan said, nodding along. No more questions, please, no more questions.

“Maybe we’ll see him at the game tonight.” Aelin reached up on her toes and gave Rowan a kiss on the cheek. “Let me change and touch up my makeup, then we’ll go?”

Rowan cleared his throat. “Sounds good.”

Rowan had hung his jersey on the door so Aelin could wear it, but after holding it up to her frame, it was agreed that it was far, far too big.

“We’ll get you another one from the Pro Shop when we get to the arena, get one in your size, yeah?” He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her forehead as she pouted about being unable to wear his.

She tossed on a light jacket and they were out the door. True to his word, as soon as they emerged from the stairwell leading from the staff and player’s garage, Rowan took her into the Pro Shop, much to the amazement of the crowd inside. They were hardly stopped though and a handful of minutes and one Jersey purchase later, they were all alone. The privacy of the box was a nice reprieve for Aelin. She was not used to being stared at for such long periods of time and she found she didn’t much care for it.

“Is this always how it is?” Aelin asked, as she sat her purse in one of the chairs. “Everyone being starstruck?”

Rowan shrugged. “Only when I’m here. I’m rarely recognized elsewhere. You know, unless they’re diehard hockey fans.”

“Which explains why I didn’t know who the hell you were,” Aelin chuckled.

Rowan grinned. “I liked that about you.”

Aelin smiled and walked toward the open end of the small room, facing out over the ice. The plush chairs were set far enough back that unless you were standing right on the railing, you couldn’t be seen. But the railing is where Aelin ended up and she whispered, “It’s so much to take in.”

The arena opened up before them. He knew exactly what she meant, but on a completely different scale. He’d ruined two hockey games for her though, and he wanted her to enjoy this one.

“Do you want a drink?” He asked, brushing a long, loose strand of hair behind her ear

“Yes, please,” she smiled. “A Jack and Coke.”

He nodded and pressed a kiss to her forehead, before placing their order on the small iPad on the counter. A beer for himself and her drink, plus miscellaneous things they could snack on.

“So what do you want to know about hockey? He asked, after they’d sat down on one of the many plush loveseats. The box could seat as many as twelve, but Aelin and Rowan weren’t complaining about their privacy. He wrapped his arm around her and drew small shapes on her shoulder as he watched his teammates warm up.

She shrugged, snuggling into his embrace. “I’m more of an ‘ask as you go’ type of person. I’m sure I’ll think of something though.”

Rowan snorted. “Fair enough.”

It wasn’t five minutes later that someone showed up with their drink order and appetizers, then politely left them alone.

Aelin took a sip from her drink as she watched the players skate gracefully around the ice. Aelin could faintly remember the last time she had been on ice skates, she couldn’t have been older than ten.

And she hated every second of it.

She had constantly fallen down and her ankles were sore as hell afterwards. After that, she had never wanted to go ice skating again. Even if she found the sport beautiful.

Hockey players skated in an entirely different way, though. They were brutal, ruthless, but still so graceful with every glide of their skate.

“You look mesmerized,” Rowan muttered, cup of beer tipped against his bottom lip.

“It’s…intense,” she admitted, trying to follow just one of the little black pucks sliding across the ice as the players warmed up.

“It is,” he said, focusing on the activity below. He watched as his line followed through the warm ups he did with them every night. It felt so foreign to be up here, so far from the ice, instead of with them.

Aelin’s hand rested on his arm. He tore his eyes from the ice and the figures gliding around.

“You really do love this game, don’t you?” Aelin asked, smiling at him.

He paused and gazed back out over the ice. “More than I can explain, Aelin. Hockey… It may just be a game to some people, but it’s my entire life. Everything I am, everything I have, I owe to this sport.” His pine green eyes caught hers when he turned back to look at her and he cupped her face with one hand. “You have no clue how much it means that you’re here with me, darlin’. Thank you.”

Aelin melted. “Thank you for asking me to come with.” He took her hand in his and she chuckled as she ran her thumbs over his knuckles. “I can honestly say that I wouldn’t have come to a hockey game with anyone else.”

Rowan snorted. “Fair enough.”

The game began and Aelin wasn’t ashamed to say that Rowan had to explain every little thing that happened.

When the crowd would cheer, she’d try to decipher what had happened. When they’d yell and boo, she���d try to observe the game. It didn’t help that she couldn’t see the puck, sliding across the ice at ridiculous speeds. More often than not, she’d have to ask what caused the reaction from the crowd. And the goal horn nearly made her spill her drink the first time it rang out, after Gavriel scored a goal on the power play.

He never acted like her questions were a bother, though he may hold up a finger to indicate he needed to watch for a second longer to process what had just gone down. But then he’d grin and explain what happened, or if it wasn’t in the Staghorns’ favor, his brow would crinkle and he’d tell her what went wrong.

Then he’d tell her what he would have done that would have kept it from happening and wink at her, and she’d shake her head, laughing quietly.

She understood the basics of the game, but after her third stiff drink in the first period, Aelin wasn’t really worried about learning the in’s and out’s. There was time for that at a later game and the way Rowan’s warm hand was resting on the inside of her thigh had her focused on something else entirely. His calloused thumb rubbed small circles into the denim of her jeans, but even that touch was enough to ignite something within her.

All the while, her own hand was resting on his leg. Through those expensive suit pants, she could feel his muscular thighs and every time something major happened, he’d scoot forward. The first couple of times, Aelin would write it off as something from the game, but she knew what lie beneath those silk-spun slacks, beneath the boxer-briefs.

Right before the end of the second period, Aelin turned towards Rowan right as he turned to ask her a question, and she felt it.

Rowan’s cheeks were heated. He stammered an excuse out. “There’s a lot of adrenaline running through me, Ace,” he breathed.

He was rock hard inside of slacks.

It may have been because of the game, he may have not been lying, but Aelin couldn’t resist.

“How private is this box,” she whispered, brushing her fingers along the definite bulge in his pants.

Rowan hissed quietly, his pine-green eyes went wide, but his tongue darted out to wet his lips. “No one can get in unless we open the door. No cameras either.”

“Hmm.” The response was quiet and Aelin went back to watching the game, sipping on her drink.

For another few seconds, Rowan watched her, all too aware of the ridiculous hard-on straining against his slacks. The regulation clock ticked down to 0:00 and as the players skated towards the benches for the intermission, Rowan was about to suggest ordering one more round of drinks, when Aelin slid off the couch, settled on her knees, and started undoing his belt buckle.

He didn’t dare move, didn’t breathe. He was perfectly aware of every one of her movements, perfectly aware of where her eyes remained as she unbuttoned his slacks, and moved down the zipper.

Rowan’s jaw hardened as those slacks slid down, just to the tops of his thighs. His cock stood proud.

Her hands were like ice, frigid, thanks to the arena being, well, literal ice, but he didn’t care. Not when her touch made him feel like he was on fire. She stroked him, slowly, carefully, but not like the other night, when she’d surprised him after the shower.

Her grip was more firm, and Rowan could see the lust in her own eyes.

“Does this happen every game?” She crooned, spreading his legs wider and scooting in closer.

His eyes fell closed of their own accord and he nodded. “Mostly all of them, aye.”

“Hmm.” Once again, a short, quiet answer. He didn’t have to press her through. She continued, “And you usually take care of it yourself?”

His eyes opened and he looked at her. He nodded once.

“Maybe I should come to more games then,” she said, smirking. He groaned softly, and she leaned and pressed a soft kiss to the tip, before looking up at him again. She was almost sure he wasn’t breathing, but his eyes… His eyes burned for her.

He cleared his throat, and his voice was husky when he said, “I can get pretty…rough after games, baby. What we do out there, it’s a pretty aggressive sport.”

Aelin ran her tongue along the underside of his cock, from the base to the crown at the top, which glistened with Rowan’s precum. It was practically begging for her lips around it. “What if I told you I like it pretty rough?”

Rowan had to fight the urge to take her then and there.

“Nothing to say to that?” Aelin crooned, her grin wild and mischievous.

“Wouldn't be the first time you’ve left me speechless,” Rowan answered, attempting a joke, but his voice was far too rough for humor.

“I call that a success,” Aelin breathed, her breath warm against the tip of his cock.

Rowan fell back in his chair as her lips wrapped around him, and he couldn’t stop his hand from slowly reaching out and gripping the back of her head, her fingers tangling themselves into her golden locks.

Twice now, he’d had Aelin’s mouth on him, and twice now, he felt as if the blood in his veins had turned to fire. He tugged on the strands and Aelin’s turquoise-and-gold eyes opened, finding him gazing down at her. As she bobbed her head, taking him deeper and deeper with each pass, a quiet whimper left Aelin and Rowan’s grip tightened on her hair, groaning as Aelin began to work him with her hand as well.

Rowan had the vague recognition of the teams retaking the ice and roar of the crowd, but his sole focus was the woman on his knees before him, worshipping his cock.

He began to hope that his words before had been true. Hopefully no one would walk in. Hopefully, no cameras would find a way to catch them. Then again, did he truly care?

No.

The feeling that swept through his body made him not care a single bit.

“Aelin,” he breathed.

He could feel her lips curve upward as she worked him.

He growled, “Fuck the rest of the game,” and pulled himself from Aelin’s mouth.

He quickly resituated himself and Aelin, bless her, had the foresight to sit back in her seat before standing up. She adjusted her hair and grabbed her purse, asking, “You don’t have to stay the whole time?”

“Didn’t have to come at all,” Rowan said, coming up behind her. He turned her around and tilted her chin up so that she was looking up into his handsome face. “But you do, so we need to go, and we need to get home as quickly as possible.”

Aelin blinked, staring up at him for a moment, shocked by how upfront his words were. The grin that graced her lips though, was one of wicked delight.

“Who says we need to go all the way back home for that to happen?” Aelin whispered, caressing his cheek with the palm of her hand.

Rowan looked around the box, even though they were alone. “Are you saying what I think you are, Galathynius?”

Her grin only grew more feline.

Licking his lips, watching Aelin, Rowan warred with himself inside his head. But he wouldn’t fuck her in a private box at a game.

Not the first time, at least.

He leaned down, his lips at her ear, and breathed, “I want to take my time with you - to learn…every inch of you. And this box doesn’t have the thickest walls. I don’t want to have an audience,” he added as he pulled back and let his lips just barely brush against hers, “when I make you moan, Aelin.”

[pikapeppa]

Varric vs. Solas: Wake Up

I watched the Dec 2020 DA4 teaser trailer, heard Varric and SAW MA VHENAN, and I had to write a little something. Behold: a little post-Trespasser, mid-Tevinter Nights chit-chat between Varric and Solas, with a twist.

2400 words. Read here on AO3.

************************

Varric scrawled his signature one last time, then put his plume down with a sigh. He resentfully eyed the pile of documents he’d just finished signing; most of them were orders or requests that Bran could easily have signed on his behalf. Varric suspected that this was his comeuppance for telling Bran that he didn’t care that the new signposts in Lowtown were two centimetres taller than the regulation standards. 

“Not like the signposts will help,” he muttered to himself. “People are gonna get lost in Lowtown no matter what. It’s just the charm of the place.” Sure, maybe the real reason people got lost in Kirkwall was that the city design was based on some old magister’s crazy blood magic plan, but that didn’t bear thinking about right now – or ever, really, considering the other shit going on in the world right now. 

He sighed and regarded his paper-strewn desk. There was the tidy pile of documents he’d just signed, and the untidy larger pile of documents he had yet to review. A little stack of coded letters sat in a tray by his left hand — letters that he’d be sending out by raven once he was done here. And finally, poking out from underneath a dog-eared copy of the latest Randy Dowager, was the long-neglected draft of his most recent chapter of Swords and Shields 2. 

A pang of guilt penetrated his fatigue. It had been months now since he’d sent Cassandra a new chapter. He could try to get a little writing done now, while the Viscount's Keep was quiet in the middle of the night, but his eyes were stinging with tiredness…

Ah, what the hell, he thought. He couldn’t deprive his most loyal reader. He pulled out the chapter pages and quickly skimmed the last one to see where he’d left, off then dipped his plume and began to write. 

He had barely gotten out two paragraphs before he heard a soft knock on his office door – so soft he thought he’d imagined it. When the knock happened again, he looked up warily.

It was almost midnight. Who would be coming to his office this late? Whoever it was, it couldn’t be urgent. If it was urgent, they’d be banging, not knocking quietly. 

He leaned back in his chair and idly ran his thumb over the small stiletto blade he kept in a hidden pocket on his thigh – you could never be too careful these days. “Come on in,” he called. 

The door opened slowly, and a tall hooded figure stepped into his office. “Master Tethras,” the figure said. “It’s good to see you.”

A ripple of shock shot down Varric’s spine. He recognized the voice long before the hood was pushed back, revealing a shiny bald head and a subtly tragic expression.

Solas? he thought incredulously. Solas was here? Here, in his office? Impossible. For years they'd tried fruitlessly to track Solas down using any means available, and even with the knowledge of his last known whereabouts from his encounter with Charter, they hadn’t been able to find him. And now here he was, in Varric’s office, strolling in as casually as though he’d just come out of the rotunda at Skyhold? 

It was ridiculous. Totally ridiculous. But since when did things ever make sense, really?

He quickly gathered his wits and leaned back in his chair. “Chuckles. Funny seeing you here.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or should I call you the Dread Wolf?”

Solas let out a little laugh – a very tired-sounding laugh. “Please don’t.”

Varric smirked. “What, reputation getting too heavy for you?”

“You would know, I suppose,” Solas said softly. “You have written about the crushing weight of a reputation several times over.” 

“Sure have,” Varric said. 

Solas nodded. For a long moment, they were silent as they looked at each other, and Varric got the impression that they were sizing each other up, almost like–

Don’t use a wolf-related simile, Varric scolded himself. He gestured at one of the visitors’ chairs across from his desk. “Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” Solas said. He seated himself on the chair, somehow managing to make his rich dark cloak drape elegantly around himself without making a show of arranging it, and Varric took careful note of the elegance of the gesture. It was… different than the Solas he was used to. More reserved but more powerful at the same time.

Lavellan mentioned he’d changed, he thought. Well, here was the proof. But just how much had Solas changed in the years since Varric had last seen him?

He sat back comfortably. “So,” he said.

“So,” Solas agreed.

Another moment of silence ensued, and the back of Varric’s neck began to prickle. Solas’s expression was calm and neutral, almost alarmingly neutral, and Varric hoped he looked equally unfazed by the strangeness of the current situation. It might be as weird as a giant nug with a beard and a pirate’s hat to be sitting across from an elven god, but Varric didn’t want to show it.

The silence thickened between them. Varric itched to break it, to know what Solas was doing here, but he didn’t want to ask. Something about this visit felt like a power play, and Varric was fairly sure he’d lose if he asked a direct question.

Instead of asking why Solas was in his office, he asked something far more innocuous. “Any interest in a hand of diamondback?”

Solas’s posture relaxed slightly, and he gave Varric a faint smile. “I would like that. Thank you.”

Varric nodded and pulled a deck of worn cards from his desk drawer. He shuffled the cards and dealt a hand, and for the first time in years, Varric and Solas played a game of diamondback together.

They played a couple of hands in silence. Varric won the first round and Solas won the second, and by the time they were on their third, Varric was feeling much more in control of the situation.

He discarded a card and selected another. “It’s been a while, Chuckles. What have you been up to?”

“Travelling, mostly,” Solas said. “Observing. And yourself?”

“Signing my life away,” Varric said dryly, and he nodded to the pile of signed documents on his desk.

Solas’s smile widened slightly. “I see.” He glanced at the unfinished chapter under Varric’s elbow. “You have continued to write as well, I see?”

Varric huffed. “Eh, not really. This is just for Cassandra.”

“For Cassandra exclusively?” Solas said.

Varric nodded. “Aveline — she’s the inspiration for the main character — she demanded that I stop writing it. I told her that making me choose between her and Cassandra would be putting me between a rock and a hard place. Literally.” 

Solas chuckled. The rare sound of Solas’s amusement was strangely familiar, and it only served to highlight the weirdness of the situation.

Varric dealt another hand. “How’s Cole? You seen him lately?”

“Yes,” Solas said. “He is happily dwelling in the Fade once more.”

His tone was very bland, Varric noticed. With Solas, ‘bland’ usually meant ‘something very significant’. Had something happened to Cole, then?

Varric’s gut twisted with concern, but he carefully kept his expression calm. “Tell the kid I said ‘hi’ during your next Fade nap. We miss him around here.”

“I shall,” Solas said softly. “It is your turn.”

Varric nodded and selected a card. They finished the round, which went to Solas this time, and as Varric shuffled the cards, he carefully considered what to say next. Everything he and Solas said to each other involved giving up a piece of information. Even admitting that he and Cassandra were still in touch was a piece of information that could be used – though not one that would be hard to discover even by a fairly poor spy. But in such a fraught situation, Varric needed to be very careful about what he said next.  

It was time to try and unbalance Solas. And there was only one thing — or rather, one person — that had been able to soften Solas up in the past. Would a mention of her still be enough to unbalance this especially placid and self-possessed version of the elven apostate?

Only one way to find out, Varric thought. He dealt out their cards, then looked at Solas. “She’s fine, by the way.”

Solas met his eye. And for a split second, swift as the blink of an eye, an expression crossed his face — an expression that landed like a strike to Varric’s gut. It was a complicated mixture of heartwrenching longing and regret: the kind of regret that could haunt a person for decades. The kind of regret that spoke of near-misses and what-ifs that would never be resolved. 

The kind of regret that could twist and fester in the walls of a once-loved fortress until it became literally monstrous. 

Then, just as quickly as the weight of emotion crossed Solas’s face, it was gone — but not quickly enough for Varric to miss it. 

Solas still cares about Lavellan, Varric thought. This was very useful information to have. If Solas still loved Lavellan, if the Dread Wolf still had some kind of attachment to their world, then there was hope. A little hint of hope, sure, but Varric was well-accustomed to seemingly-hopeless situations by now. 

Hope is good, he thought. Hope’ll keep us going. He couldn’t take any pleasure from this information, though — not when he knew Lavellan still loved Solas too.  

Solas, meanwhile, had returned his now-neutral gaze to his cards. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “You see her often, I take it?”

“Nah,” Varric said. “She’s still out in the Hunterhorn Mountains.”

Solas looked up with a tiny frown. “The Hunterhorn Mountains?”

“Yeah,” Varric said. “With the rest of the Seekers. What’s left of them, anyway.”

Solas blinked. Then his face cleared with comprehension — and a whisper of disappointment. “Ah,” he said. “Cassandra. Of course.”

Varric raised his eyebrows in faux-innocence. “Who did you think I meant?”

Solas stared stonily at him, and Varric steadily returned his gaze. Then Solas huffed softly, and a hint of a smile touched the corner of his lips. He looked at his cards once more without replying, and Varric watched him carefully as they played out the remainder of the round, but his face had resumed its unnervingly placid expression.

Varric won the round. When he’d collected the cards once more, he paused and gave Solas a frank look. “Listen, Chuckles, the personal visit is nice, but I’ve gotta wonder what it’s about.” 

Solas leaned back and crossed one ankle over his knee, looking supremely comfortable for an ancient god who had just been called out by a mere mortal. “Truthfully?” he said. “It was an experiment.”

Varric frowned.  This was not what he expected Solas to say. “An experiment?”

“Yes,” Solas said. “I am both interested and somewhat alarmed to see that it worked.”

“Okay,” Varric said slowly. He couldn’t decide whether to be amused or annoyed that Solas was being his usual cryptic self. “So… what happen next, then?”

“That is largely up to you,” Solas said.

“What do you mean?” Varric asked.

“I mean that the choice is yours. It is your mind, after all.” He gestured at the cards in Varric’s hands. “We could continue talking and playing, if you like.”

Varric narrowed his eyes. What did Solas mean, ‘it is your mind’? “And what if I don’t want to?” he said suspiciously. “Are you going to kill me?”

Solas’s smile widened into something indescribably sad. “No, Varric. If you don’t wish to continue playing, then I suggest you wake up.”

Varric jerked and opened his eyes. “What?” he blurted.

Solas didn’t reply. In fact, Solas wasn’t there. 

Disoriented and alarmed, Varric looked around his empty office. What the hell? he thought. So… wait. He was confused. How — what had just happened? He’d been asleep, so how had he been playing cards with Solas? 

A sudden realization gripped him. Thinking or doing things or seeing people while he was asleep: Varric had never done this before. In fact, he didn’t know any dwarf ever who had done that before. 

“Did… did I just have a dream?” he said incredulously to his empty office.

No one answered — of course no one did, because Varric was alone. But… Andraste’s knickers, that had felt so real. If that was a dream, how did humans and elves and qunari stand it every night?

He rubbed his face roughly. He was spooked; there was no denying it. And he couldn’t make sense of how this was even possible. Everyone in Thedas knew that dwarves didn’t dream; it was a fact, like the sky being blue and grass being green. But if Varric had just had a dream, and Solas said it was an experiment… 

Shit, he thought. Maybe that meant Solas was doing some kind of weird new magic, which didn’t bode well. If that was the case, he needed to talk to some mages about this. Good thing Lavellan was in Kirkwall at the moment. He could talk to her and to Dorian through her sending crystal thing, and they could explain what had just happened. 

He stood up and stretched, then quickly locked the coded letters in the hidden compartment in his desk before leaving his office. As he made his way through the silent Viscount’s Keep, he tried to remember what he and Solas had talked about during the dream, but it was becoming indistinct. He remembered playing cards, and he remembered Solas saying it was an experiment, but the things they’d discussed… 

He rubbed his forehead, frustrated that his memory of the dream was so fuzzy. Had they talked about lyrium? Varric didn’t think so. Maybe… maybe about Varric’s books? That was possible. Was it normal for dreams to just disappear so quickly? He thought he remembered humans complaining about this, but Solas always made it sound like his dreams were so clear… 

Then Varric remembered something very clear: the look on Solas’s face when he was thinking about Lavellan. That wistful, yearning expression that spoke of hope and tragedy at the same time — the same expression that Lavellan wore when she thought no one was looking.

His heart sank, and he sighed. It looked like shit was about to get weird again for Lavellan, and soon. Then again, when had shit ever not been weird? 

At least we’re never bored, he thought wryly. With that semi-positive thought in mind, Varric stepped out of the Viscount’s Keep and into the heart of Hightown.  

[awildgingeishere]

https://equalizersoccer.com/2021/03/05/christen-press-forward-position-training-profile-uswnt/

Christen Press is known for scoring world-class goals. The onlooking public swoons over the final product which is so often a picturesque finish bent into the side netting or hammered into the upper corner. Press often does this with such confidence that she makes the extraordinary look easy, even though it is anything but.

That final product, though, is in some ways the simpler part of the process. Press’ training habits and approach to the game embody the notion that most of an athlete’s work is done away from the public eye, on training fields and when nobody else is watching. Her unique approach to the game starts with individual training, where her focus on off-ball movement and manipulating tight spaces — rather than shooting for the sake of it, or individual dribbling drills — develops her ability to distinguish herself from any other forward. More than most, she can seamlessly transition between wide and center-forward roles.

“I think especially in the U.S., we don’t have as many players that manipulate space with off-ball movement,” Press said in an interview last year. “[It’s] something I learned in Europe and I think all European forwards do this, but we don’t often have players who do that. We typically have had players who are using strength to create space. So, I think when I play in the nine specifically, but even wide, my strength is off-ball movement, being very unpredictable, hard to mark, being dynamic and being kind of like blindside, off-ball so that I’m always stretching the line. And I think that’s a huge strength because it gives the midfield more room to play.”

All goal-scorers require a certain level of selfishness to be successful, which Press recognizes. What sets her apart is the execution in those moments. To paraphrase her teammate, Megan Rapinoe, you can always make a selfish decision to shoot and not pass… as long as you score.

“In the final third, I think I’ve always had a goal-scorer’s mentality,” Press said. “Once I’m in range of shooting, I don’t think about anything else. If I happen to pass, it’s because I couldn’t have shot. And I think that there’s a breed of players that are just wired that way. And then there’s a breed of players that play the same position that aren’t. I am wired like that, and there’s also pros and cons to it, but my first thought is always setting my feet to score, setting my feet to take a touch and then score. And then anything else that happens in that space is just a second option, honestly.”

***

Press blazed her own path to being a United States women’s national team regular. She left the U.S. club scene in 2012 to play in Sweden, feeling as though she needed to make a change after largely being left out of the U.S. picture by then head coach Pia Sundhage. Her back story has been recounted ad nauseam over the past decade, but it is still essential to understanding the person and the player – a do-everything forward who has been shaped by these experiences. Her path is unique among her peers of the same generation, and it shows in her different approach to playing forward.

Press famously thrived in Gothenburg, becoming the first American to win the Damallsvenskan’s golden boot. That move abroad — at a time when U.S. internationals not only were not playing abroad, but were actively discouraged from doing so — ironically solidified her place in the United States team ever since. Her goal in last month’s SheBelieves Cup against Argentina was her 60th, tying her with Shannon MacMillan for ninth in U.S. history.

Press grew up as a pure No. 9, a goal-scorer. She carried on with that through college, lighting up the scoring record books at Stanford, and used that to her advantage during that glorious first stretch of her career in Sweden. Cracking the national team was a different story. Abby Wambach was the incumbent No. 9 at the time, often alongside Amy Rodriguez, and Alex Morgan — who graduated college the same year as Press — burst onto the scene as the U.S.’ up-and-coming No. 9, meaning Press was often relegated to wide positions.

For a long time, Press’ place there felt shoehorned, no doubt a contributing factor to a relatively quiet World Cup in 2015, when she was pegged by so many to be the breakout star. Slowly, however, she adapted, choosing to accept whichever role she was given if it meant playing for the best team in the world. Now, she thrives in both wide and central roles. The difference was tangible at the 2019 World Cup, where the wide role which once looked so uncomfortable for Press was the one which she stepped into for the semifinal against England, due to Megan Rapinoe’s injury. Press scored 10 minutes into that impromptu start, helping the U.S. reach (and win) a second straight final.

“I think that I have more of a responsibility than any other forward to play in all the roles as needed and I think that’s historically been because I’ve been a substitute coming on,” she said. “So, you kind of have to be ready for whoever’s coming out; you’re the first sub on. And now, I think it’s just flexibility because I’ve done it and I’ve done it okay in several positions that everyone’s like, ‘oh, well she can.’ So, I think that’s a blessing and a curse. It gets you on a roster to be versatile, but I feel like having a stake on the field is like you’re in one position and you’re always going to show up in that position. I think that that has its pros as well.”

Today, it is accepted as fact that Press can play across all three positions on the front line: center forward, wide left and wide right. For years, that versatility was a burden she carried, a struggle through the purgatory of being an elite player without a defined position. Now, however, she has leveraged this to her advantage. Press has for so long juggled different forward positions that she has mastered each of them. Her lack of a defined position contributes to the outside world’s inability to explicitly qualify her greatness, but it is also the very thing which makes Press such a singular talent.

Her shift throughout the front line illustrates how the forward position varies between certain roles, even if in nuanced ways. Press said the definitions are a little more blurred in this system, and that each forward shares the responsibility to get in behind and score, but the physical difference in where each position lines up on the field affects how she plays each position.

“I think technically it is very different playing in the different positions, because your orientation is just completely changed,” she said. “And I think my whole career, I played with the offside line behind me. That’s a nine. So, playing wide for the first time was really hard because you see the whole game through one eye. And your dominant foot and your mobility of your hips — I know it sounds crazy — really affects what you can and can’t do on each side. But now I’ve been passed around so many times, I feel like I’m like, okay, my second eye is — I can still see out of this one.”

***

Press views each offseason as a little book of its own. In past years, she would write a draft of what those figurative chapters would be, listing the things she wanted to improve in her game and designing drills to achieve those goals. Press said that she has had trainers in the past, but nobody knows what she needs better than her.

She tries to balance the design of her training sessions to work on skills she thinks she is exceptional at and areas where she thinks she is not very good. Anything in between gets lost. This is where those subtle foundations are formed daily.

“I have a very regimented way that I train, a flow of when I control practice, this is how it flows,” Press said. “Within each segment of my training, I’ll have specific things that I’m working on, and always starting in the beginning of training with the most simple drills that you would never actually see a professional do —really, really childish and then just working on the mechanics and growing from there.”

Press points to quick-release shooting as one of these simple things she trains: she starts as basic as lining up a bag of balls on the six-yard line and quickly shooting with only one step, to work on generating power. Press executes this better than any other teammate and that is because she has, through the years, taken what is seemingly a disadvantage and figured out a way to create an advantage out of it.

Instead of viewing the ball as stuck under her feet, Press sees an opportunity to catch a defender between steps or a goalkeeper flat-footed. Whereas many forwards are especially dangerous when barreling down the field at speed, Press might be the best goal-scorer in the world from a standing-still position in open play. She trains that — again, by beginning simply. Press will line up a bag of balls on the six-yard line and shoot in quick succession, taking only one step back to reset. This is the foundation of generating power.

“I think that if I look through the years [at] the space I train in, it’s in that exact ‘D,’” she said, referencing the arch at the top of the 18-yard box. “And I think the way that you most often score there is using your defenders as a shield and a little bit into negative space, and then bending the ball. I think that’s absolutely my best way of scoring.

“And I think that’s because of my strengths. I can get into the pocket with speed often. I don’t actually like dribbling around defenders very much. I don’t practice dribbling so I’ve got one way to get by them, but I often work on manipulating my defenders so they can’t block my shot, rather than working on manipulating them so I can get by them. And I think that’s why then I developed a shot that I can take basically with the ball under my feet and generate a lot of power, because it’s unexpected for the goalkeeper and it’s out of reach for the defender.”

Training this type of skill is very intentional. Even on a field by herself, with no active defenders, Press knows that if she takes four steps before a shot, she has failed. In a game, with real defenders, she will have been tackled or her shooting window will have closed.

Soccer is about a feeling, Press says. U.S. Soccer sends film to players after each training session so they can self-evaluate. Press says she does not look at how she performed technically, but rather what her body language said about her approach to a given training session.

She has not gone without dry spells or rough patches, from the more subtle grind of transitioning to wide roles and changing teams, to the more obvious and overt moments, such as the penalty-kick shootout miss in the 2016 Olympic quarterfinal against Sweden.

There is a notion that forwards need short memories, to not dwell on such misses. Press said she views things slightly differently, borrowing some inspiration from fellow teammates.

“I think instead of even a short memory, I always told myself since I was a young person: the more I miss, the closer I am to my next goal,” she said. “Because it’s almost like once you play long enough, you’ve missed so many times that it’s no longer emotional. I guess a certain miss in a certain moment might be, but even those, I’ve done it; I’ve missed as bad as you can miss and I’ve let the team [down]. So, life goes on and I feel like if I’m in a game and I’ve missed an easy goal, that means the next one, I’m gonna score. Because I’ve missed a million easy goals before, and I’ve always scored again. So, that’s kind of how I approach it and I actually think I see this a bit in Carli [Lloyd]. If she ever misses an easy chance, she kind of becomes ravenous. She hunts and hunts because she wants to replace that memory with something else, and I try to even embody that a bit, where I’m even more hungry in the final part of that field.”

Lloyd and Press combined for a goal against England at the 2020 SheBelieves Cup. The play was a microcosm of all these things: Press intentionally drifting into open space on the opponent’s back line before receiving the ball, opening her hips to face up to goal in one fluid motion, and firing a quick shot which caught England’s defenders and goalkeeper by surprise. The camera angle from behind Press showed just how much the ball bent to tuck into the side netting. ESPN announcer Sebastian Salazar screamed a phrase which quickly made its way to a t-shirt: “Christen Press, what have you done?!”

It was another spectacular goal from Press, one worthy of all the plaudits it received. What had she done? Well, it was the same she has been doing for a long time, drifting between forward positions and scoring a noteworthy goal from skills she has developed away from the public eye."

[tlbodine]

Reverse-Outlining Revision Method with Plottr

So in my editing guide, I give a step-by-step method for structural editing that I find really useful, and I wanted to do a visual follow-up to kind of show what that process looks like. I’m using Plottr for this, because I was gifted a copy of the software in exchange for them using my horror-writing beat-sheet as one of the templates, but you could just as easily do this with Scrivener, scrap paper, or any other organizational system you like. 

Whether you’re a fellow pantser who struggles with story structure (hi!) or you’re an outliner who needs to make sure your draft matches up to your vision (or the second draft has a good structure), this will work for you! 

Step One: Write a one-sentence log-line of the story + jot down the major themes 

There’s space for this in Plottr. I’m doing Neverest.

Premise: A woman’s search for her missing husband’s body on Mount Everest sends her into the grip of ancient forces that don’t want her to leave. 

Themes: Putting your name on something doesn't make it yours; colonialism and the urge to conquer and codify; relationships as a form of control and change vs understanding

You’ll also want to write a one-page overview summary of the story, similar to what you’d put in a query letter. Here’s mine: 

One year ago, Sean Miller -- journalist and mountain climbing enthusiast -- reached the summit of Mt. Everest, and was never seen again. Unable to move on without knowing the truth of what happened, his wife Carrie flies to Nepal to meet with Sean’s best friend and former climbing partner, Tom. They assemble a small crew and begin an expedition up the peak in search of Sean’s body and a better understanding of what might have happened in his final days.

Guided by a travel journal left behind from her husband's expedition, Carrie ventures into the frozen, open-air graveyard of the world's tallest peak. But as Sean’s diary and Carrie’s experiences reveal, climbing the mountain is more than a test of endurance; it’s a battle of wills with an ancient and hostile force protecting the mountain — and the dead do not rest easy at the summit.

Doing this helps you to identify the core elements of your story -- the characters, the conflict, and the stakes. You should be able to answer the questions: who is the main character, what do they want, what’s stopping them, what happens if they succeed/fail. 

In this case: 

The main character is Carrie, the wife of a journalist who disappeared while summiting Mt. Everest (character) 

She wants to find his body and get closure about his death/understand how and why he died (what does she want)

But there are supernatural forces at work that led to his death and now have the same in store for her (conflict/stakes) 

Step Two: List out every scene in the book 

Plottr is an outlining software, so it makes this step really easy (and conveniently color-codes things for me at the same time!). There are multiple views this can take, but this one screenshots well so I used this one for the example. 

Basically what you want to do is write down everything that happens, scene by scene. You can color-code them however you want -- in my case, I have three narrative threads, so I made a timeline for each one. Then I just mapped out all the scenes -- across 24 chapters, each dot is a scene, and you can see that some chapters have multiple scenes and also that the primary and secondary plot alternate chapters. 

When you look at it this way, you can tell really clearly that the tertiary plot needs some work -- it’s only there for four scenes in the first third of the story. I either need to cut it completely and incorporate any essential information into the other plots, or I need to expand it. 

In this particular case, I decided to expand because 1.) my word count is low, and I’d like to fill in more story and 2.) a big theme I want to explore in the story is what it’s like to love someone who’s deeply passionate about something you don’t understand -- so this tertiary plot is a great place to explore that and fill in more characterization that should add some depth to the primary and secondary stories. 

I can also see at a glance that I have a variable number of scenes in each chapter. Sometimes that makes sense (the green ones are diary entries, so it’s logical that one chapter = one entry) but sometimes it hints that those chapters could be a little thin and need more content. If I’m looking to add additional conflict, I should do it in those blue chapters that only have one dot as opposed to the ones with multiple dots! 

Step Three: Look at the overall shape and adjust for pacing and genre

Plottr has a bunch of templates pre-loaded into it that make this easy, but you can also just google various different story structures and beat sheets such as Save the Cat or the 3 Act Structure etc. But just look at the overall map of story beats and see how they line up with the outline you’ve made: 

This is just a small snapshot view, but you get the idea -- when you look at the scenes side-by-side with the beat sheet, you can see some things. For example, it sure would make more sense if the flashback scene where Carrie decides to embark on this journey got its own chapter and lined up better with the “putting the players in action” plot point rather than being smooshed into the first chapter with the introduction to the world! The fact that I’ve got it smashed into that first chapter is probably a sign that my opening scenes/chapter itself is a bit thin and needs to be fleshed out a little more. 

Step Four: Figure out what you need to adjust and make the changes accordingly 

So after looking at everything mapped out this way, I’ve got a little list of things I need to do: 

Come up with more scenes for that red plotline

Rearrange some things a little bit to better fit the structure I want

Figure out some more blue scenes to fill in the gaps caused by rearranging things and smooth over the pacing/amp up the conflict/alleviate some areas where critique partners hae expressed confusion

I also moved around the categories in Plottr (you can drag-and-drop storylines and chapters) to make it a bit easier to see everything all at once. Basically you can edit the story’s outline first, to save you the confusion of manually moving around whole paragraphs/chapters in your actual story document. 

Now, I haven’t finished that step yet for this particular project (there’s a lot of brainstorming to do re: filling in those gaps!) BUT I did want to skip ahead to show you the next step (let’s pretend this is a TV cooking show where the finished pie is pulled right out of the oven). 

Step Five: Re-Type everything based on your new scene list

This is a really neat thing about Plottr. If you swap from the “Timeline” view to the “Outline” view, you get these editable text windows where you can type whatever you want, and it’ll keep it organized into chapters and scenes. 

So, just pull up your original in one window, and the Plottr screen (or other outlining/drafting device) in another. Dual monitors are great for this but we make due. Now, retype the original document into the new document, making changes as you go to fit the new outline and also cleaning up language and so forth as you go. For example, this time around I’ll be changing Carrie’s blue timeline scenes to present-tense instead of past, so I’ll rewrite them in present tense in the new window. 

Once all that is said and done, in Plottr you can export the file directly into Scrivener or Word. (If you’re not using Plottr, you’ll have to figure out for your own self how to transfer the final product into a final document -- I trust you can sort through that). From there you’ve got a fresh clean copy of a second draft all ready to go for the final copy-edit/proofread/polish/formatting and then you’re off to the races! 

I hope this was helpful for you! I talk more about editing in my Gumroad guide here: https://tlbodine.gumroad.com/l/jkLpr

If you’d like to receive all of my existing + future guides and support me in making more content like this, consider subscribing to my Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/tlbodine

And you can pick up a copy of Plottr here: https://plottr.com/

This post isn’t sponsored or anything, but I did get a free copy of the software from the developer and I think it’s pretty neat. It’s still in beta so new features keep getting added, and the team that makes it are very nice and responsive to feedback. 

[ziggy-of-stardust]

FIRE ON FIRE: chapter five.

Two hours.

Two hours of pure lateness and Sander couldn't believe that he couldn't just be on time, or answer the phone just to say "Hey, I'll be there in a minute" or whatever.

It was already the third cup of coffee he had ordered and the waitress had already stopped asking if he would like another, she just brought it.

The papers of drafts of a story they were supposed to create were spread out on the table full of unfinished versions, versions too personal to be finished or put into that project, but for some reason everything Sander wrote always seemed to come too close to home.

— Good morning! — Robbe's voice echoed, causing them to turn their heads to make sure it was indeed the boy, following him with their gaze until he removed his jacket and leaned back in his chair before finally sitting down.

— You are late.

— Yeah, sorry about that. — There was something wrong, Sander was aware that he knew nothing about the boy beyond his first and last name, but there was definitely something wrong with the way he apologized and looked at the cafeteria floor, seconds later he raised his head as if remembering that he was being watched and smiled weakly at the blond.

— Don't do that again, we need to finish this today.

Robbe nodded, watching in confusion as Sander collected all the drafts, organized them, and put them in the backpack.

— What is this? Are you finished yet? — He pointed to the backpack. — Typical.

— What?

— Why did you call me to do this when you could have done it all yourself just like you did?

— Why would you be two hours late for an important assignment and think that you have the right to interrogate me about whether or not I am finished? No, I haven't, Ijzermans!

Silence took over, as if completely ignoring the clients who were in the same scenario and all that was left was one refusing to look at the other. Sander put the money under the cup and stood up pulling his backpack to leave, but at the same moment, the weight of responsibility was what made him sit in the chair again facing Robbe who looked at them confused and wondering if he should get up and go away.

— Listen, there's no chance of us getting along, but I really need this opportunity to finish the sculpture. Without a partner, there's no grade so can we just... finish it soon, please?

— Is Sander Driesen begging? Not even in my wildest dreams did I imagine this.

— Okay, forget it.

— Wait! Sorry, I just needed to make a joke to lighten the mood. I need that note too, so how about a deal?

— A deal?

— We finish at least half of the work today, but no fighting.

— Can you be punctual and at least a little responsible?

— And can you be less arrogant and smile more?

I like your smile, Robbe thought.

— Okay, it's a deal.

— Nice doing business with you, Driesen.

In the late afternoon, when the moon appeared in the sky, the completed story left both satisfied as they returned home.

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