#i have another fic about this that is slowly percolating

[kvothes]

basically i took a class in undergrad that was about the moral implications behind copying and ever since i’ve had a sincere fascination with fictional art that takes people’s real lives as its substance

[bitchfitch]

anon mohgwyn here! just read your mohg x miquella love in abundance series and hoo boy.

it's fucking fantastic. the way you write mohg as this devoted, almost zealous fanatic of miquella's amorphous form, how he is love and truth embodied. how miquella is characterised: he is the most fierce empyrean, and likely would not have let mohg take him if it did not play into his plans: he promised malenia he would return, after all. and yet miquella cannot help but control, in that bewitching nature of his, ironically the very thing he wishes to eliminate from the ring and order.

fhfhhfhfhrhhfhdhdhdhhdhdhdhdhdhdh I'm Soooo glad you're groking what im trying to do with them. Like, I know as soon SotE comes out literally every part of Miquella's characterization in that fic will be made ooc, bc let's be real, it's A Stretch with what's in the game as is (and Mohg is just an oc at this point). but For now he is a glorious manipulative selfish godling who represents half of the change from the stagnation that came before him while still carrying everything that caused that stagnation in the first place within himself.

Like, people more versed in the lore and development have said it better but there's So much that feels flubbed with Miquella's side of the story. And hindsight, it's probably because a chunk of it was cut out late in development to be used in SotE and so much of Mohg's everything was obviously scrapped at some point, But By God if fromsoft doesn't let him be more than a damsel in distress i will riot. Malenia the coolest hardest boss says Miquella was above even her, and in the game he got kidnapped by a shitty sewer cultist who lives in a gross swamp with his little chortling henchmen... without Malenia noticing or Miquella doing jack shit about it. It Doesn't line up.

Sorry i have So many thoughts about them in my skull at all times and they're all tripping over eachother rn bc I'm Excited about it. There's something There. If you squint. they're the exact type of fucked up that appeals to me specifically and I love them in a "by god what is Wrong with you?" way. They're the fuhken, reason i bought the game because i saw the bullshit going down with them in a let's play and just needed to get a closer look.

[bakedbakermom]

Enough.

Rated X / 4800 words / tagging @today-in-fic @ao3feed-msr / posted on ao3

Summary: Dana Scully has had enough.

Author's Note: This is the first fanfic I have written, in this or any other fandom, for almost 20 years. It felt great to stretch the old muscles, and I hope you enjoyed it. Comments will be printed, laminated, and hung on the wall <3

_________

God, I only meant to kiss him, Scully thought, gasping, before Mulder’s tongue swirled around her nipple and she lost the ability to think.

And it was true - thoughts of kissing Mulder had been brewing deep in her core for weeks, crowding out her ability to think of much else. She had found herself watching his mouth when she should have been listening to his words, and feeling vaguely envious of everything that touched his lips. He brought them some truly terrible vending machine coffee during an all-nighter at a crummy hotel in the midwest, and the way his tongue had toyed with the little opening on the lid as he waited for it to cool made her thighs clench. In yet another rental car on yet another nameless backroad, she watched his jaw work as he split the shells of his favorite sunflower seeds, wondering how that sharp tongue that worked them so deftly open would feel in her own mouth, if he would taste of salt and beer. He licked barbecue sauce from his fingers at an all-night diner in the middle of nowhere, his tongue swirling around tips, and she had nearly choked on her iced tea.

Oh yes, thoughts of kissing Mulder had been occupying her more and more. And from the way he would catch her eye, sending her an almost imperceptible smirk each time he saw her watching, he knew exactly the effect he was having on her. She kept waiting for him to stop being such a gentleman, to take that first bold step the way he so often did. But each time she felt that line rising up to be crossed, he pulled away.

And Dana Scully had had enough.

She’d decided tonight, as she rode up the elevator for one of their not-a-date-nights that had become their post-case norm of late, that she was ready - or more accurately, that she was so far past ready that she might actually die if she didn’t kiss him soon. She brought wine - nothing too fancy, nothing that would be out of place in the mismatched glasses he kept in the cabinet, but a step up from the usual ales and lagers they usually shared. And she wore a soft v-neck sweater cut just a tad lower than she would usually wear, the better to show off the enticing cleavage her new bra presented. 

When she had slipped into the matching panties, she had very firmly told herself it was simply a personal preference for symmetry, and not any sort of statement about where this desperately-needed kiss would lead.

From the moment he popped Tarantula into the VCR (for the fourth time, “It’s a classic, Scully!”), she had begun planning her move. She drained her first glass of wine faster than she should have, before he’d even finished making the popcorn, letting the liquid courage percolate through her system. He settled in beside her with a large bowl in his lap, loaded with butter and salt just how she likes it, just the way he’s talked her into liking it; and she eased herself slowly closer to him on the worn leather couch until the heat of his thigh pressed against her own. By the time Leo G. Carrol’s assistant went up in flames, she was nestled quite cozily against him. She watched him from the corner of her eye, and saw with some satisfaction that he was watching her as well. 

She had never let herself get quite this close to him before, or at least not without some life-threatening context. (Except for that time on the baseball diamond, when she thought maybe this was it, but he had done nothing more than flirt and hit pop-flies and leave her flushed and frustrated).

But there were no invisible forest men now, no cultists armed with rifles, no bees or beasts or black-suited thugs. Just them, and a cheesy sci-fi movie, and a bowl of popcorn in his lap so that each time she reached for a handful she was acutely aware of just what lay beneath it; with each bite he would slowly lick the salt from his lips, and something in her heart would sputter. She had the sudden sense he was doing it on purpose - that he knew exactly what she was thinking, and as always, their minds were traveling down the same road together.

When the giant spider crested the dry scrubby hills surrounding Desert Rock, Arizona, to devour the hero, he had draped his arm across the back cushions, the very picture of a nervous teenager at the drive-in. She took the chance to move more closely still, the heat and the scent of him nearly overwhelming. Her heartbeat seemed to thrum through every inch of her body, and she felt certain he could feel it through her skin. She had stopped watching the screen entirely, unable to concentrate on anything but the pounding of her heart and the body of the man beside her. When she couldn’t stand it another second, she took one last breath for courage, turned in the circle of his arm, and tilted up to press her mouth to his.

The first brush of their lips was tentative, soft, toe-curlingly tender and if he tasted like wine and popcorn instead of seeds and beer, well, she was absolutely not complaining. When his tongue brushed against her lower lip, she opened for him, and the way his tongue slid into her mouth felt like coming home. Scully had thought that it would be enough just to kiss him, just  to sit together on the creaking leather of his old couch, under the warm, scratchy weight of the Navajo blanket he kept there more for her sake than for his, and languidly lap at the font of his mouth until morning. 

What she hadn’t anticipated, but in hindsight should have known based on years of observing his oral fixation, was that Fox Mulder would be an absolutely amazing kisser. He was slow and exploratory and unrelenting, running his tongue along her teeth and her lips and the roof of her mouth as if he could read her desires written there in braille. He nibbled at her lower lip and suckled at the upper and still she really could have just kissed, just necked him like a teenager for hours, until he cupped her jaw with one wide hand and his thumb brushed against the pulse point in her throat and she whimpered. Actually whimpered, a wholly unexpected, desperate, animal sound that she would have found utterly embarrassing had he not answered with a soft growl that reverberated down her throat and straight into her pelvis, and it was all bets off from there.

A whirl of hands and mouths and somehow she is lying half beneath him, his shirt gone and her sweater pushed up and that pretty new bra pulled down to expose one rosey-peaked breast to the dual pleasures of his hand and his mouth. When her knee brushes against his growing erection, he bites her nipple just hard enough to make her gasp. He chuckles into her skin and looks up to meet her eyes, delighted to find her pupils blown out with lust and her cheeks turning a beautiful shade of pink. Her fingers curl in his hair and pull; he releases her nipple with a sinfully wet pop and crashes his mouth into hers with a force that clacks their teeth together.

He rolls her over his body until she’s straddling him, heat blooming everywhere they touch. The soft springy hairs of his chest tickle her oversensitive skin, and he runs his hands from her shoulders, down the fine curve of her waist to grip and knead at the firm flesh of her ass. She scratches her nails across the broad plains of his shoulders - softly at first, then more firmly when he hums his assent into her mouth. The muscles of his back flex beneath her hands, and his whole body shudders as she moves them to his front, his nipples pebbling beneath her touch.

He pulls her down against him and presses up at the same time, trying to find some relief for the near-painful ache in his groin. She moans into his mouth and he does it again, and she arches against him in pleasure.

Mulder uses this distraction to pull her top off all the way, unclasping her bra with one hand and bringing his mouth back to her breast before the fabric has even hit the floor. She writhes above him, panting and gasping as he learns the right combination of lips, teeth, and tongue to make her shudder. Always such a curious mind, single-focused and driven, now turned to uncovering the mysteries of her body, and she revels in being the object of his obsession.

“I want you, Scully,” he whispers as he moves to the other breast. She arches into his mouth but doesn’t answer.

He stills, eyes wary, that lost little boy inside peeking through. Waiting for rejection, waiting for her to say it was all a mistake and walk away. With their height difference, their eyes are level now even with her straddling his lap. He brushes a lock of hair out of her eyes and gently thumbs her cheekbones. The sadness in his voice is palpable.  “Do you want to stop?” 

She shakes her head just slightly, her brows knitting together and her mouth moving into a particular smirk that, in the complex language of Scully Microexpressions, means I need a second to find the right words. His hands skim along her sides, walking the line between comforting, tickling, and arousing. It takes a few deep breaths before she remembers how to speak; the last one comes out on a shudder as she presses her lips to his forehead. 

The credits are rolling on the TV across the room, the monster immolated and the town safe; shadows flicker over their faces as she looks into his eyes, unsurprised to find a sheen of unshed tears there that matches her own. She had thought that meeting his gaze after they had kissed - or, more accurately, after he had her nipple in his mouth and his erection pressing against her - might be awkward, but like everything else between them the last seven years, it somehow feels natural. They’re stepping across this line together.

“I don’t want to stop, Mulder,” she whispers, nuzzling along his nose, “I’ve just been thinking about kissing you for so long, I never really let myself think about what might come after.”

“Mmm,” he hums into her skin, peppering her face with kisses before moving down her neck and along her collarbone. “Good thing I have.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrow lifts; he can hear it in her voice even though his face is buried in her hair.

“Often, and in great detail.” His lips find that same pulse point, right where her jaw meets her throat, and he grins as her thighs squeeze his. One hand cups the back of her head, tilting her this way and that so his mouth can reach every possible inch of skin; the other hand comes up to her breast, kneading and rolling. She is soft and pliant above him, allowing him to explore, making soft sounds each time he finds a sensitive spot, and his profiler’s mind is tucking each one away for later.

“Tell me,” she pants as he presses a kiss to the hollow of her throat. She slips her hand between them and presses her palm against the thick ridge of his erection, grinning as he moans into her skin. “Show me.”

"Christ, Scully. Where should I begin?" Mulder presses another kiss to her lips, so soft and tender she forgets how to breathe for a moment. He sips at her like fine wine, savoring each taste of her tongue, her lips, the ivory ridge of her teeth. By the time he pulls back she is shivering, aching to see what happens next.

"There is one thing I fantasize about quite frequently," he husks close to her ear. The scratch of his stubble is intoxicating. "I can't stop wondering what you taste like." He reaches between them to cup her, hot and throbbing, through her slacks, and her blushing nod is the only answer she can manage.

All she can do is moan in anticipation as he leans her slowly back, supporting the full weight of her in his arms, until her shoulders come to rest on the arm of the couch, his body nestled hard and hot between her trembling thighs. 

She will never again be able to smell leather without remembering this moment.

He kisses his way down her body with a slow deliberation that borders on agonizing, nipping and sucking and licking every inch he can reach. When his tongue swirls into the dip of her navel she nearly cries with pleasure. He runs his teeth over the ridge of her hip bones as he parts the zipper on her slacks. His mouth leaves her body only long enough to shuck the pants to the floor, and then he is nosing along the hem of her panties. 

"Fuck, Scully, I can smell you." He runs his fingers over the lacy fabric, scraping his nails along the gusset until she shakes. "You're so wet, you're soaking through."

With anyone else she might have felt embarrassed, but Mulder's words only enflame her further. She rolls her hips, shamelessly rubbing herself against him. "Please," she pants, "please touch me."

He laughs darkly, continuing to run his fingers slowly up and down the length of her slit, and rubs his stubble against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. He licks her, once, over the lace, and she bucks desperately towards his mouth. “Easy there, G-woman,” he murmurs, pressing her back down with one firm hand on her hip. “I’m living my dream, here.”

She laughs, a short huff that eases some of the tension in her gut, and tries to relax into his ministrations. He smiles as she softens beneath him, and rewards her by sliding one long finger under the sheer scrap of fabric, just barely grazing her entrance. “So wet,” he says again. 

He looks up to see that her eyes have fluttered closed. “Look at me,” he says, and when she finds enough will to meet his eyes, he lifts his finger, glistening with her wetness, into his mouth and sucks deeply. "You're just as sweet as I imagined."

“Fuck,” she whimpers, and knows she is dripping. “More. Please.”

Apparently he renders her monosyllabic.

“How much do you love these?” he asks, appraising the delicate lace, the tiny stitches along the seams.

“Not at all. Hate them. Please.” She is gasping, writhing, and when he rips her panties off she nearly keens with pleasure.

He stares at her for so long she begins to feel nervous, and a flush creeps up her chest and floods her cheeks. He takes in the auburn thatch of curls between her thighs, the dark pink swell of her labia, the tiny freckles sprinkled across the creamy expanse of her skin. He drags his fingers down the length of her slit, marveling at the way her lower lips spread for him, at the moisture leaking from her sweet little cunt. “Beautiful,” he breathes.

“Mulder,” she huffs, squirming, “if you don’t quit staring and touch me soon, I’m going to shoot you. Again.”

A quick grin and then his mouth is on her, his tongue lapping at the entrance to her sex, and the first brush of his lips over her clit nearly sends her over the edge. 

If the way he kissed her felt obsessive, he eats her out with something that borders on worship.

He slides one long finger inside her, then another, curling them against her front wall until he finds the spot that makes her gush and shake around him. He flicks his tongue over the hardened nub of her clitoris - slow, fast, gentle, hard - and she fists her hands in his hair when it’s just the right combination. He presses the hood back with his thumb and suckles directly on the little bundle of nerves; her belly coils tight with pleasure and she manages to gasp, “Yes, there, I’m so close, oh -” before she can’t make sense anymore.

He swirls and suckles on her clit, pumping gently in and out with his fingers, and experimentally runs his little finger down her perineum to brush gently over the tight pucker of her asshole. She shudders and her whimpers reach a new, higher pitch. He hums his satisfaction into her dripping sex, and that’s all it takes - she is gone, shaking and gasping and making strangled little cries that might be his name.

Mulder continues to lap tenderly at her sex as she comes down, riding out tremors and trembles until she is heavy-limbed and boneless beneath him. Her smile looks almost drunken as she cards her fingers through his hair. “Good, Scully?” he asks, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh.

She nods and hums, riding a cloud of oxytocin. He eases out from between her legs; her smile begins to fade into confusion until he slides one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her easily, and carries her down the hall to his bedroom.

His sheets are softer than she had expected, as if he had been hoping for company; she wonders if this is the first time he has prepared a bed for them, how many movie nights he has slept alone on these soft sheets after the door snicked shut behind her without so much as a kiss. The thought strikes a surprisingly sad chord in her heart.

The bed dips as he settles in beside her, and she curls into his open arms with a happy sigh. “A girl could get used to this,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss to his bare chest.

“I sure hope she does,” he answers.

She drapes one of her legs over his and - “Oh.” She lifts the sheet and sees he somehow still has his jeans on, and is still sporting a rather impressive tent. “You appear to be overdressed,” she teases.

“Don’t worry about me, Scully. This has already been so much more than I -”

She puts a finger over his lips and shoots him one of her more serious looks. “Mulder. Shut up.”

And, for perhaps the first time in his life, he does.

Scully’s legs are still a little weak as she climbs on top of him, rubbing herself shamelessly over the bulge in his pants. She’s wet again already and hungry for him in a way she hasn’t felt in years. Her hair falls around them in an amber curtain as she leans down to kiss him, long and slow and deep. He’s grinning like an idiot by the time she pulls away, and she decides that looking down on Mulder may be her new favorite place to be. 

She grinds down harder with her hips, the seam of his jeans pressing right where she wants it the most. He moans, trying not to buck beneath her and throw off her rhythm. He has to clench his fists in the sheets. She’s making a wet spot on his pants; he’ll have to wash them - and the sheets, and the couch - in the morning, but he couldn’t care less about any of that because Scully’s breasts are bouncing just in front of his face and she is writhing on top of him like an animal in heat. He reaches for her hips, trying to get just a little more pressure, but she grabs his wrists and holds them down.

“Nuh-uh,” she huffs. “You made me beg. Now it’s your turn.” She waits until he stops trying to lift his hands, then rakes her nails down his chest, leaving little streaks of pink in their wake.

“Fuck, Scully,” he moans, throwing his head back and thrusting up with his hips, which only makes her lift herself away. “I don’t know how much of this I can take.”

She only casts him a wicked grin before lowering her mouth to his, plunging her tongue deep inside and moaning. He is the first to break away, gasping for breath, and she waits for his eyes to find hers before she leaves a trail of hot, wet kisses down the length of his torso. He is not as sensitive as she had been, though he does jump when she runs her tongue across the firm plains of his stomach. She finds the fine trail of dark hair beneath his navel and nips and sucks her way down it until it ends at the waist of his pants.

He expects her to undo the fly and pull them off, but instead she rubs her cheek against the stiff bulge of his cock, as if to mark it with her scent. She catches his eye again, to make sure he is watching, and then runs her tongue slowly over the full length of it. She can taste herself on the fabric and is surprised at how erotic it is.

“God, Scully. Please.”

“Mmm,” she hums against him and thumbs open the button on his fly. “Begging. I see the appeal.” She slides one hand under the waistband and scratches through the coarse hair just above his cock.

“I would get on my knees but I think something might break off.”

“Then allow me.”

She kneels between his legs, pulling down his zipper and shimmying his soft jeans down the length of his legs. She has a moment to wonder at the fact that he doesn’t appear to be wearing any boxers - does he go commando in general these days, or, like the sheets, was he hoping for something to happen tonight? - and then her eyes land on his cock and she forgets how to think.

She’s seen him naked before, of course, but always under the guise of a medical professional. Glimpsing his body while treating injury or disease is one thing. Never has she seen him hard, and now faced with the full monty - or rather, the full Mulder - she is only slightly more impressed than intimidated. She takes him in her hand, pumping up and down slowly, and a small bead of precum leaks from the purple tip. Her heart jumps, her mouth begins to water, and she licks her lips as she realizes it’s all for her.

“Oh Christ, don’t do that,” he moans, eyes glued to her mouth. “I’m trying to be cool here.” So of course she stares into his eyes, parts her lips, and then very slowly runs her tongue in a full circle around them.

He’s about to say something else but it cuts off with a gurgle when she takes him into her mouth. He’s too big to take in too deeply just yet, but she licks the tip of him like an ice cream cone, her tongue moving in lazy circles as she pumps him languidly with one hand. The other comes up beneath to cup the soft weight of his balls. He is salty and tangy and strangely sweet, and she moans as the taste of him floods her senses. She is so aroused it’s almost painful, and she wishes she had a third hand so she could touch herself as she sucks him. She takes him deeper, surprised at how much she enjoys this - the twitching of his thighs as he tries not to thrust, the way he is moaning her name between strings of curse words, the startling way his cock bumps against the back of her throat.

She’s just beginning to wonder if she can relax her throat enough to swallow him further down when Mulder’s hands land suddenly in her hair, pulling her mouth away from him with a wet and undignified slurping sound. “Hey,” she protests, donning an exaggerated and teasing pout. Her mouth and chin glisten with a mix of saliva and precum. “I was enjoying that.”

He sits up and slides his fingers between her legs. “I can tell,” he says, circling her clit and making her gasp. “And don’t get me wrong, I was too. But…”

He pulls her up the length of his body until she is nestled in his lap, her thighs braced on either side of his and his cock only inches from the wet heat of her cunt. “Please, Scully.”

“More begging?,” she purrs as she takes him in her fist again. She shifts so she can rub the tip of him between her wet and swollen folds until he moans. She positions him right against her entrance, his tip just barely inside. “Is this what you want?” she pants. For all the playfulness in her voice, she is trembling with want, and shudders as she feels herself dripping around him.

“Yes,” he hisses into her ear, crushing her tight against him and pressing his hips up. He slips another inch inside her. “Fuck me, Scully, please.” Another small thrust, another inch of her clenching around him.

Enough teasing, she decides. Enough begging. Enough waiting.

She doesn’t trust her voice not to break, so she only nods and kisses him as if she could devour him whole.

She slides down onto him slowly, adjusting to the width of him until he is buried to the hilt. They are both shaking now, their panting breaths a humid cloud between them. A long moment passes before she can move, before her body can handle the way he stretches and fills her. She is slow and deliberate, rising until he nearly slips from her body, then easing down to grind her clit against his pelvis. Waves of pleasure wash through her with each stroke, and she drops her head to his shoulder, overwhelmed.

He reaches down to cup her ass, spreading her wide and taking some control over her motion. They moan in unison as he begins to thrust in counterpoint to the slow roll of her hips.

It doesn’t take long before Scully begins to feel the flame of another orgasm kindle deep in her belly. The moan that comes from her throat belongs to another woman, one who is wild and wanton and apparently capable of coming more than once in a night; and oh how she wants to be that woman.

“Mulder,” she pants, “I need - I’m -” Another moan, and the coil inside her tightens further, closing off her ability to speak.

He understands, he always understands, licking his thumb and then sliding it between their sweating bodies to press hard against her clit. “Fuck, yes, Scully,” he says as she grinds down on his hand. “I want to feel you come.”

His mouth seeks out that same damn spot on her neck that started this whole thing, sucking and nibbling with the same rhythm of his thumb circling her clit. “Come for me, Scully,” he growls into her skin, and then bites down hard enough to bruise.

She shatters around him, bucking her hips wildly against him and muffling her cries of “Mulder, oh God, Mulder,” into his shoulder until she is hoarse. He tumbles over the edge right behind her, hot and pulsing, and the feel of his cock twitching as he fills her with his cum is nearly enough to set her off again.

They stay entwined for a long time, shudders passing back and forth between them, until their sweat cools and their mingled fluids begin to leak onto his thighs. 

Mulder leans back first, brushing damp hair from her face so he can look into her eyes. “Hey.”

Her answering smile is almost bashful, but there’s not an ounce of regret in it. “Hey.”

“So. Wine. Fancy underwear. That sweater.”

“No boxers,” she counters. “Clean, soft sheets?”

She quirks an eyebrow, he tilts his chin and smiles.

And just like that they are themselves, again, still, always, but now with a new layer of togetherness to explore. He moistens a washcloth in the bathroom sink and tenderly cleans them both, and they curl up on the soft - if rumpled and damp - sheets together.

They do not share “I love you”s. Not tonight. Not yet. But they both feel it in the brush of the other’s fingers, taste it in the tenderness of the last kiss they share before falling asleep together.

And that is enough.

[pynkhues]

I just finished the scripts for Succession S2 and I think some of your tags indicate you have as well. The finale script left me with two questions I thought you might have a view on. 1. Maybe it's me but I read the "summer of competitive eating disorders" line from Connor as non-literal. Like there was that one summer where everyone was messed up about food (and maybe everyone did have eating disorders) but it wasn't a literal competition. Is that a weird read? I keep seeing fics that are taking it literally so I may have misunderstood. 2. What is up with Logan being so possessive of Kendall? It's there in the episodes but the way he talks to Naomi is crazy in the scripts. I don't think Logan's really interacted like that with Tom or Willa or Tabitha - is it because Naomi is a Pierce or is it another one of those weird Kendall and Logan things?

Yeah, I have only recently finished reading the s2 scripts, and I've just started on s3. I've actually been enjoying reading them pretty slowly and percolating on them, but I was even more slowed down the last couple of weeks because my nephews were staying with me for the school holidays. It's meant most of my reading has been with and for them, haha, but I can highly recommend Mike Lowery's Bug Scouts book series for the five year olds in your life!

But yes! To your questions.

The Summer of Competitive Eating Disorders

I don't think that's a weird reading at all.

I think a lot of people have a tendency to view things mentioned on the show as very literal (the dog pound being probably the most obvious example, but also Roman's comments about being molested and all of the Roy siblings' insistence around things they did or didn't know about cruises / the wolf pack [especially after reading the s2 scripts and starting the s3 scripts, I think it's pretty heavily implied that Shiv and Roman ignore the things that they knew while Kendall does know more than them, yet not as much as he thinks. He postures his insider knowledge when his dad kept him more in the dark than he cares to admit, which of course falls apart over the course of s3).

That said, all four kids do have textual issues with food, and way back in 2022, I talked about the way the show utilises food as a symbol for power, particularly in the sense of who has it and who doesn't, which is something I stand by.

In tha sense, I think you're right - there wasn't a literal Summer of Competitive Eating Disorders, but I think the memory of it as one is probably reflective of a period of time where either Logan was particularly neglectful, or particularly present. Something abnormal that triggered a new way of dealing with food - enough for Connor to notice and remember it - and personally I'd kind of read it as the former? This is of course totally a headcanon, haha, but I could see it as the summer after Logan pushed Caroline out and the kids were left with the lingering aftermath of that.

In other words, I agree with you, haha, but I can absolutely see why it captured people's imaginations too.

Logan's possessiveness of Kendall

I actually have another ask in my inbox that I've been circling for ages on this, so I'm going to try and answer that tonight (finally!), but yes, I do think his possessiveness around Kendall is specific even among his children, and I agree that it was definitely even more explicit in the scripts.

It's an interesting sticking point that Naomi is a Pierce, but I honestly don't think that's entirely an issue - if it was Roman, for instance, I think Logan would think it was a great in or a strategic move for him, and he clearly didn't think anything of Connor's friendship and political partnership with Maxim.

Logan's possessive of all of his kids, of course, but it does feel different with Kendall, and I think there are a few reasons for that which I'll talk about in this other answer (and I'll try and link back here so it's easy to find!), but it really does make me so curious about how Logan was with Rava.

Bad, I imagine, especially because I do think the show wants us to view Rava as canonically Jewish.

[emryses]

20 questions for fic writers

thank you @postmodernau & @queerofthedagger for tagging me!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

35. what the hell lmao

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

379,505. again. what the hell!!!

3. What fandoms do you write for?

at this point i would say the main one is stranger things. i tend to only be able to successfully write for one fandom at a time apparently lol. but i imagine i'll dip my toes back into merlin one day.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

you looking at me, looking at you (steddie) / run your fingers through my hair (steddie) / eat me alive (steddie) / when the party's over (gallavich!!) / you want it straight from the heart (steddie)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

i do! most or try my best to. often in the first week-ish after posting something, and i do sincerely try to respond to every comment but i've fallen behind on that a lot recently.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

this is a hard question to answer because i literally have thrived off of angst, specifically in the merlin fandom, for many years. i think i'll say winter always turns to spring which is a canon compliant merlin/will fic i wrote that has a tinge of....unrequited feelings, which is probably what bumps it up into the most sad.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

is it bad that i don't write a lot of "traditional" happy endings? i kind of make them work to get there lol. bittersweet my beloved. i would say my hairdresser steve au is the most lighthearted thing i've written with a happy ending?

8. Do you get hate on fics?

not really! i've gotten the occasional weird ass comment that i'm sure the commenter THOUGHT was "kind" but i've kind of side-eyed.

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

i do! i don't think i'm very good at it & it takes me ages when i do. i guess all kinds??? love it when they're pathetic and desperate iykwim.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

not often, but i have a steddie btvs au i am slowly percolating on.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not that i'm aware of! but i doubt it, even then lol.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

yes! there was a merlin translation fest a while back, and my merwill fic, winter always turns to spring was translated into portuguese!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

no..........but mona & i have been percolating some thoughts..............................................monaaaaaaa.........is this a sign................?

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

this is such a hard question !!! i think i have to say at this moment in time it's steddie. they truly just scratch all the shippy itches for me. honourable mention tho to merthur, who have had my soul in some way or another for 10+ years.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

i have this shameless canon divergence fic. the summary i wrote describes it best: "When Ian was 3, his birth father Clayton Gallagher and his wife Lucy were granted full custody, ripping Ian away from the only family he had ever known. Fifteen years later, Ian has been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and is looking for answers. Here, he reconnects with Fiona and Lip, his brother and sister who watched him be taken. Ian also meets his brother’s friend, Mickey, who conveniently is the guy Ian has been meeting in bars and dark alleys for the past few weeks."

part of me wishes i could go back and finish it, but i haven't written for gallavich in so long & i have so many other fics for other fandoms i'm more inclined to finish first. i guess never say never, but i also don't know when the time for it would be. alas.

16. What are your writing strengths?

how dare anyone make me talk positively about myself....sigh. ok. i think i'm good at character tone/voice. the way characters speak has always come pretty easily to me, and so i'm often most proud of my dialogue. i think it's why a lot of my fics often are dialogue heavy & have people working out problems together.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

does my own brain count? i feel like i can be repetitive in my descriptors of things. everything is "says softly" or "he smiles" or "he laughs" etc. my brain tells me every single goddamn sentence has to be Unique or something, and then i get in my head about Everything. it's the worst !!!

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

i haven't ever done it! not sure how i would go about it tbh! i don't speak any other languages other than english, so i would be hesitant to put any other language in a fic of mine because i would have to rely on google translate or something.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

HMMM. if i'm really honest, probably peter pan when i was like. 10. then it was icarly LMAO. all on ff.net babeyyyy

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

hands down, fields of gold. i consider it to be my merlin magnum opus of sorts, my eternal love letter to the show. i took 2 years to write it, and genuinely no joke some of the aspects/themes of that fic date back to headcanons/meta i wrote in 2012. so. i poured a lot of my heart into that fic, and i hope it shows.

zero pressure tags: @stargyles/@pushrope, @mojowitchcraft, @magicinavalon, @stevespookington, @lady-lostmind, @thefreakandthehair, @snapshotmaestro, @glaftwlet, @andonandon & truly anyone who sees this and wants to answer these questions. tag me!!! i am nosy and love stuff like this lol.

[shivunin]

e, n, & x from the fanfic writer asks? :3

Thank you for asking, friend!! c:

(Fic Writer Asks)

E: What character do you identify with most?  Is there a certain fic of yours that captures these qualities particularly well?

Oh man, this is hard to answer. Each of my OCs is like a little piece of my personality, so I identify with all of them at different times lol. Right now though? Complaining long and loud about something of little consequence (for the bit), so Maria and Sportsmanship c:

N: Any fic ideas brewing that you’d care to share?

A couple percolating! I have another chess smut piece I've been slowly outlining and I had an idea click into place for this piece about Hawke falling into a crevice in Sundermount and Fenris falling after her (and it's weird because it's before they get back together, and of course they're both injured, and so on)...As well as some Exchange treats I'm trying to get a solid concept together for haha

X: How would you categorize your fanfic reading?  Are you a voracious reader?  Do you carefully pick and choose?  Something in between?

Ooh I answered this here, but the short answer is I am very picky. It's compounded by the fact that I have much less time than I used to for reading fic (tragically) so I really rely on recommendations to find things to read!

[wellhalesbells]

Hi! This is inspired by your reblog of the talk shop tuesday post -- do you have any secret-until-now fanworks you're working on that you want to talk about? any ideas that have been percolating and you want to share?

I think - because I've started doing WiP Wednesday with ... some (not a lot, haha) of regularity that there's very few things that I'm actively working on right now that I haven't talked about to some extent but I have no problem gathering them all here. I have five fics that I'm noodling on at the moment.

How to Breathe 101. I've probably talked about this one the most because it is absolutely the closest to finished. I have random snippets all over the place on my tumblr that I've collected here: 1 2 3 4. And it comes from my love of the dynamic of Character A falls first, Character B falls harder as well as giving Derek the time and space to work out his trauma and form relationships beyond romantic ones.

Heartbeat Hustle. This was such a nothing idea that I kind of just farted around on because I wasn't feeling adding a hundred words (my daily word count goal) to any of the things that I was already working on and I came up with this: here. And it's another one I just keep randomly chipping away at. The basic premise is Derek finally hears Stiles' heartbeat at rest around him and it becomes the background noise of his entire universe without realizing it because it's just such a comforting sound for him.

PvW, Chapter 3. Yes, I'm working on it. Slowly, but I am. Chapter 3 of Prostitute vs Werewolf. (1 and 2 here). I'm still hoping it'll end at Chapter 6. I... sort of have a plan here, lol.

Steter Hanahaki. I accidented myself into this fic, which I posted about: here. Sometimes I like to just search tags on AO3 rather than fandoms and all the most popular Teen Wolf ones for Peter and Stiles that I came across were, well.... not the fun way and I have unfortunately kept chipping away at this even though writing Peter (and it is from his PoV, ugh) is such a hard thing for me to do!

Sciles, Slow Burn, Codependency Fic. I don't really know where this one came from but I think, pretty unsurprisingly, being ace, I like when friendships are the be all and end all for people and I also like when they sort of just slide into.... oops, somehow you're my whole world. And since I haven't posted anything about this one yet and it is my second longest fic on here at the moment, here's a snippet:

It’s an almost-casual college girlfriend who alerts Stiles to exactly the level of codependence he’s now sporting with Scott.  She laughs and clarifies to an acquaintance that the ‘casual’ is at her insistence and the ‘almost’ is at Scott’s.  The follow-up, the ‘why’ is nothing more than a pointed look in Stiles’ direction. Stiles feigns offense, lazily twirls a less-than-dextrous pointer finger back towards his own chest.  Perks an eyebrow.  “Moi?” She grins widely and Stiles senses a sharpness to it that’s likely fueled more by the fewer inhibitions everyone at this party is collectively experiencing, rather than true ill will.  He hopes anyway and, not to brag, but he has gotten pretty good at knowing when things want him dead. Scott chooses that moment to saunter over and instead of perching on the arm of her chair or sliding onto the large cushion of the recliner with her, he bumbles into Stiles, an arm falling around his shoulder as he pushes his drink into his hand so he can set down a plate of steaming nachos on the table in front of them. He’s a warm, familiar weight and only after he’s leaned the whole of himself into Stiles’ side does Stiles realize, if he’d planned this in advance, no part of him would’ve expected Scott to sit anywhere but exactly where he did. Stiles holds Scott’s beer and Scott scrubs a hand over Stiles’ buzzcut, frowns as he peers at Stiles’ expression.  He’s not sure what his face is doing but it prompts Scott to say, “All good?” Stiles blinks.  Swallows.  “Yeah, all’s peachy keen over in this here neck of the woods.” Scott smiles and, as though ‘neck’ was some cue word, he leans over and buries his nose in the crease between neck and shoulder, breathing deeply, and yeah, okay, they’re basically dating.  Stiles can see that but.  You know.  They’ve nearly died how many times between the years of sixteen and nineteen?  They’re entitled to be grotesquely into each other as far as he’s concerned. Maybe they’ve gotten a little worse after the nogitsune.  And the siren that nearly drowned Scott.  And the Lamia that ripped open Stiles’ torso last year.  It’s not unusual for them to fall asleep in the same bed or press lingering kisses to each other’s foreheads, cheeks, necks, but Stiles is pretty sure Scott’s one hundred percent into vagina and, while Stiles’ appetites are more varied, he’s not super interested in Scott’s dick. He’s just interested in Scott, really.  All of Scott, however much of Scott that Scott would like him to be interested in basically.  And since that doesn’t include his dick… that doesn’t include his dick.

Thank you so much for the ask and the interest! <3

[fancy-a-dance-brigadier]

⛅️🌧️🌩️☔️ (hey it's concerto for a rainy day! :D)

Concerto for a rainy day hell yeah!! Anyway, thank you so much for the ask, and I’m sorry that it took me a little while to get to it.

🌤️Share your favorite piece of dialogue from your WIP.

Here’s a brief conversation between Padmé and Qui-Gon from the Jedi Padmé AU!

“We can say a proper goodbye to Anakin, if it would comfort you. I know you consider him a friend.”

Padmé shook her head. “I wish I didn’t.”

“Because it hurts you to see him in pain?”

She hesitated, and she sighed out a gentle breath in an attempt to stem the tide of her tears. “Because if he wasn’t my friend, leaving him behind wouldn’t hurt so much.”

🌧️Share something angsty from your WIP.

Just to prove that I am actually writing fics that aren’t the Jedi Padmé AU, here’s a little extract from a Wolfwren oneshot I’ve been working on:

“If you bleed,” the girl began, lost in the mist of her own mind. “I cannot contain you.”

“What?” She was too tired to comprehend it, and the girl’s words mixed and melded into confusion. She could not help but chuckle in her light-headed delirium. “You’re not making any sense.”

“I want to be the only one,” she growled - and she thrusted forward, her face almost pressing against Sabine’s, breathing heavily into her air. “I want to be the only one who knows how to hurt you. I want to be the only one who knows the truth of how you died tonight.”

🌩️ Share something funny/cracky from your WIP.

I don’t know if I actually have anything for this one 🙈 If I eventually write anything cracky you’ll be the first to know about it!!!

☔Is there a fic concept you have that you'd like to just explain and share because you're not sure you'll ever write it? If so, what is it?

Ooh this is a good question! And be prepared because my answer is somewhat long 😅

I have vaguely entertained the idea of writing a T’Poshi Carbon Creek AU, where T’Pol comes to earth during the 50s/60s/whichever decade that episode was set and has to live undercover while slowly falling in love with Hoshi. Knowing me, I’d probably rope in the other characters from ENT too, because you know how much I love an AU with too many subplots 😂

Another one is the Voyager/DS9 crew swap AU, which is an idea I very much enjoy! I’ve had an outline of the ‘DS9 does Caretaker’ fic collecting dust in my draft for ages, and there’s also a partially complete ‘Voyager does Emissary’ outline lying around somewhere too. But it’s an AU with a lot of scope and would require a lot of different fics to tell the story fully, and since I’ve already lowkey committed to rewriting the entirety of Star Wars, it might be a bit too much to pursue seriously. But who knows! Maybe once I get the Star Trek brain rot again I’ll finish that ‘Emissary’ outline and start writing it.

Lastly, I have in fact been percolating a Star Wars Blade Runner AU, but it’s so vague and unformed in my brain that I don’t have too much to say about it at this stage. But I’m also hesitant to write this one because, like, Blade Runner is just so perfect. I almost don’t want to touch it in case I cheapen it somehow, if that makes sense??

(There are also a few that I’ve already discussed with you in DMs, like the ‘My favourite Star Trek characters get traumatised in the Mirrorverse’ AU and the Padmé lives AU, but I won’t bore you too much by repeating what I’ve already said in DMs!)

[faux-fires]

my fav part about ai-generated nonsense is trying to trace what fics the bot was fed to produce the end goal. here’s a sample of procedurally-generated vomit spat out by the “ai” from the example above:

"Sokka took a deep breath. "Okay, so I'm just gonna ask, and please don't take this the wrong way, but... do you have any connection to the sun spirit? Or, like, any potential of turning into the sun?" Zuko's eyes widened, his confusion evident. "What? Sokka, that's... a strange question. Why would you think that?" Sokka's face flushed with embarrassment, but he pressed on with his ridiculous line of questioning. "No reason! I'm just curious, you know, for, uh, science. So, let's say hypothetically, if I were to call you 'Sunshine,' would that, uh, trigger any cosmic transformations?"

- and here’s a suspiciously similar scene from the fic “Blue” by hollypunkers, written in 2020:

“I,” Sokka said, his voice strained, “I really,  really need you to promise me something.”

The skin along Sokka’s nose and cheeks was much darker, flushed with pink, and this close Zuko could see gentle brown freckles on his skin which would’ve been imperceptible from any other distance. Sokka’s words, and in fact,  everything, existed in his brain behind a kind of fog along with the rest of reality. “Yeah,” Zuko’s voice was breathless, barely even sounded like him, “I promise.”

“I didn’t tell you what it was yet,” Sokka pointed out.

Zuko blinked. “Oh.”

“I just,” Sokka’s hands lowered from Zuko’s face slowly, falling onto his shoulders, one bunched up into a fist. He looked serious. The part of Zuko’s head that was still far from the moment was preoccupied with how nice Sokka looked when he was serious. “I need you to, I really,  really,” Sokka closed his eyes. He took a deep, shaking breath.

[...]

“I need you,” Sokka said, something dark flashing across his eyes, “to  promise,” one of his hands raised and he held a finger in front of Zuko’s face which was almost accusatory, “that you will  not turn into the sun.”

All emotions and thoughts in Zuko’s head gave way to utter confusion. Sokka seemed  serious. “What?”

“No matter  how tempting it may be!” Sokka said, leaning back to carefully gesture with his hand while the other clutched Zuko’s shoulder tight, “No matter  how good  of an idea it seems in the moment, do  not. I mean it! Do  not become the sun.”

“Is that… a concern?” Zuko asked, shifting his weight between his feet.

“It  is,” Sokka said incredulously, “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but people I kiss turning into gigantic celestial bodies  is  actually, something that I discovered  can happen. And if it happens again, I’ll- I’ll-" He trailed off, looking lost.

“blue” is a very popular fic for the pairing, and i haven’t read all 6k fics posted for it, so it’s possible the bot drew on something written by another fan inspired by this one as popular ideas and funny scenes do tend to percolate through fandoms. but still, 6k fics isn’t that large a dataset to draw from, so it’s not surprising recognizing plot hooks/arcs. it’s creepy, right? like seeing a zombie shell of a human staggering around pretending it’s a person.

im not trying to cause a moral panic or w/e, just letting my moots know that pickpockets are operating in this area so keep a close eye on belongings and personal effects etc. ao3 have a post up here about archive-scraping and what they are doing (and what they cannot do) to stop it. the tl;dr is it happened, anything before dec 2022 is already scraped, and the recommendation is if the thought of someone’s bot puking up a paraphrased version of writing you spent time and effort producing bothers you, to lock your fic to archive members only to avoid it being “wide-net” scraped again.

it's also not against AO3's Terms of Service for bot-generated content so this isn't an invitation to harass the person uploading the bot stuff to ao3. more of a general "caution" notice for people who don't want their shit stolen.

Prompts Gone Wrong - Sokka/Zuko Edition

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48437071 by ai_adventures Or have they gone right? Short snippets that include the best of the worst in AI-generated stories. Misinterpretations, goofy quotes from bad results, and anything else that made me laugh. No, you don't get context... where's the fun in that? Words: 236, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Avatar: The Last Airbender Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar) July 08, 2023 at 03:08AM

[benafee]

Hi benafee! Here’s a few qs for ✨variety✨

If you had to pick a side character in one of your fics to write an entire long fic about, who would you pick? What would that fic look like?

What is your writing process like? How much do you prep/outline beforehand? Who are your style inspirations?

In Remaking the World, how is Sarah doing? Is she spiraling as badly as David, and does she know how badly or why he’s having a bad time? Does she know that he’s in love with Jack? Also I JUST noticed that this last chapter doesn’t have a word in the title- am I reading too much into it, or is that because David has lost so much control and can’t pin anything down right now?

Oh these are good.

First though, I'm just going to quickly respond to your answer about the most memorable scenes thing here

the scene describing Jack’s mom from his picture. Idk why it stuck so much with me, but I think about it all the time. It’s an imagined person from an imagined picture and neither of them knew her, but not even close to imaginary at all at the same time. I feel like I haven’t read an “I love you” like that before

I mean thank you so much. This was one of the first scenes I'd planned out for this story and I'm very happy the emotional weight I attached to this moment came through to you.

However my gratitude is somewhat tempered by indignity at the fact that I now must admit that I have spent an inordinate amount of time planning out a Kloppman-centric pre-canon (and pre-remaking the world) fic. I am writing it almost entirely for the sake of one (1) scene but isn't that always the case? Anyways, here's the rough summary:

All things considered, Bram knows he ought to be content with his lot in life. 

But Sister Martha keeps “checking in” and Mrs. Oliver’s on the warpath and Otto wants to introduce Bram to his sister and Danny won’t tell him what’s wrong and Nick and Louis aren’t being careful and Charlie keeps asking hard questions and and Patrick has it out for the new kid and Race keeps scamming Albert in the dice games they shouldn’t be playing in the first place and Jack’s up to something.

Or: the longest six months of Bram Kloppman’s life. 

Should be fun!

My writing process is, in a word, involved. I do indeed work off a plan. Many plans. For long fics (all my fics) I like to develop a few outlines - one full outline of the work, separate outlines for each chapter which I will work into, a document for developing/tracking themes, recurring motifs, and other important elements in the story, a few documents about important background information and research, and then another document where I'll jot down lines, elements, and scenes that I'd like to include and have yet to find a place for. From there I'll either proceed to slowly write into the chapter outlines based on my whims or I'll let it percolate in the back of my head for months or even years, often feeling incredibly guilty about my lack of progress, only to have it come together when I least expect it. I'm learning to accept the latter as part of my process and trying to release the guilt aspect. Most of my fics are still largely a result of process rather than planning, and sometimes a not small amount of dumb luck - I'm still tickled that the Latin root words of one of my recurring motifs built into a full transitional section which included a reasonably good metaphor about David's complicated feelings towards his schooling. You can't plan that shit. Well you probably could but I sure didn't.

As far as inspiration... I'm not sure. I'd say my writing is pretty typical for fiction writing. It's likely that there are people that unconsciously influence my writing. I reread The History of Love by Nicole Krauss a while ago and noticed that she also has a habit of slipping deeply sad lines into the middle of her narration like they're innocuous sentences. I've also taken a lot of inspiration from poetry, but that's more contributed to an awareness of form and approach than any directly trackable path of influence.

As for Sarah... I mean she's already had two pretty major breakdowns during this fic so she's not doing great. As far as how much she knows... there's definitely more revealed over the course of the fic so I don't want to get too specific here. She definitely knows something is wrong and she definitely does not know the full story, and, combined, this will lead to problems.

And finally, you really should have more faith in your interpretive abilities ;)

[eirenical]

*drops by to yell about "post-canon Huo Daofu and Xiao Ge… time-sharing Wu Xie"* <3 <3

AHAHAHA-- RIGHT. So, @elenothar when I told you I wanted to hold on to this ask and let the fic percolate, I didn't think it would then CONSUME MY THOUGHTS for the next several days until I had to get some of it down on paper. O_o;;; So, this is shaping up to be longer than originally intended, and this bit is still on the rough side, but here's the first (1200+ word) scene? To gauge interest, maybe? (...oh who am I kidding; interest or no interest, I'm gonna write it anyway. XD) Enjoy? ^_^

*

It was quiet. The party that had raged and roared like a living beast for hours before now slumbered. Huo Daofu threaded his way carefully through the sleeping and unconscious bodies it had left in its wake to take up a careful perch on one of the few remaining upright pieces of furniture. As he settled in, the bench's occupant lifted his bottle to clink aimlessly against his, then briefly raised it before taking a pull. Huo Daofu obediently took a sip from his own bottle; there was little enough left in it.

Lowering his bottle, Huo Daofu let it dangle loosely from his hand as he leaned over to brace his elbows on his knees. It had been a long time since he'd indulged himself this way. A very long time. Beside him, Wang Pangzi leaned back to rest his elbows on the table behind them, tipping his head back. He was smiling. "Now *that* was a party."

The corners of Huo Daofu's lips pulled up in an answering smile before he even realized they had. They'd been doing that a lot lately. Smiling without his express permission.

They used to do that often. Before.

The smile fell from Huo Daofu's lips as though it had been washed away by a bucket of cold water. He'd been down this road before. He'd been down this road before, and it had only led him to heartbreak. He had no desire to travel it again now that he knew where it led. He looked up, gaze catching on the only other upright person in the room. Zhang Qiling. Xiao-ge. Wu Xie's Menyouping. Wu Xie's—

Huo Daofu tore his gaze away, closing his eyes to the sight and finishing off his bottle in one long pull. By the time he had finished, Pangzi's leg was a heavy line of warmth against his own, his outstretched knee lazily nudging into him. He laughed. "Now, where have I seen that look before, I wonder?"

Taking advantage of the few inches remaining on his side of the bench, Huo Daofu shifted away, frowning to discourage Pangzi from claiming the inches he'd ceded. Pangzi, of course, took no notice. Wu Xie had ruined his understanding of personal space, like he had for so many others… if Pangzi had had any to begin with. Pangzi had rolled onto his hip to face Huo Daofu, one arm propping his head up on the table, the other bracing his own bottle on his hip. He raised an eyebrow.

Huo Daofu matched that look, stare for stare, for as long as he could before breaking. He twirled his empty bottle idly back and forth between his hands, wishing he hadn't finished it, that he could take another drink in lieu of answering the question so clearly waiting in Pangzi's open expression. Finally, he sighed, leaning back against the table. Quietly, he said, "How do you let him go? When the mission is over, when the wounds are healed, and to the victor have gone the spoils… how do you let him go?"

Pangzi's snort ruffled the short hair at the back of Huo Daofu's neck, and he repressed a shudder. "Xiao-ge?" Pangzi's hand waved wildly across the room for a moment before he snorted again. "He's like a feral cat, that one. Happy to accept food and skritchings and pettings when it pleases him, but restless and aggressive if tied down to one place for too long. It's better for everyone concerned to let him wander where he will and when he will. Eventually you just…" he shrugged. "…learn to accept it." There was a brief pause, then Pangzi reached out and poked Huo Daofu hard in the shoulder. "Aiyo. You're not turning into another Sang Bei'er on me, are you? One Xiao-ge superfan is already more than we can handle."

Huo Daofu turned to face Pangzi, his face hardening. Zhang Qiling. Really.

As their eyes met, Pangzi's face abruptly softened. "Ah. Ah, ah, ah. OK." That last came out in English, and Pangzi reached out again, this time to pat the spot on Huo Daofu's shoulder that he had just poked a moment before. "Apologies, apologies. I misunderstood." Another pat.

If Huo Daofu could have moved further away without falling off the bench, he would have. He wasn't used to… this. Pangzi sat up beside him, finally, taking another pull of his bottle before turning his own gaze across the room. Zhang Qiling was still sitting upright, looking down at a boneless Wu Xie, who was sprawled across his lap like some oversized cat, with a softer look than Huo Daofu had ever seen on his face. His fingers slowly sifted through Wu Xie's hair and Wu Xie curled *closer* and— Huo Daofu's stomach clenched at the sudden sense memory of his own fingers sliding through that same hair. He dropped his head into his hands, doing his best to convince himself when Pangzi's overly heavy patting resumed moments later, that it was reassuring and not intrusive.

Softly, and with almost more sympathy in it than Huo Daofu could bear, Pangzi said, "I hate to say it, but I think you're very much barking up the wrong tree here. I don't have a great track record, myself, of being able to let him go. Exhibit A being me literally falling to my knees and begging for his life outside your very own youtiao shop, not all that long ago… in case you forgot."

Quietly. "I haven't forgotten."

How could he?

It had been years at that point, since Huo Daofu had last set eyes on Wu Xie, years since what they'd had had ended in a fiery explosion of tempers that had left a hole inside him that had still been only slowly healing when Wang Pangzi showed up on his doorstep. He'd seriously considered, then, leaving Wu Xie to die, had still been considering it days later when he joined them on that frantic rescue mission from which Wu Xie should not have returned. But being near him, supporting him, taking care of him, day after day after day… of being subject to that wry, unassuming smile and the dry sense of humor that they'd always shared… of having that body back in his arms, no matter how dire the circumstances… it had weighed on him until he'd reached a wary sort of peace with himself and an even warier sort of peace with Wu Xie. Huo Daofu had bid him goodbye on that last desperate mission fully expecting it to *be* goodbye, that having made their peace, they could let each other go, and Huo Daofu would be left to remember him fondly after his death, instead of with the bitterness that had so overshadowed their last parting.

But then Wu Xie had returned.

Whole.

Healed.

With Zhang Qiling at his side.

And now Huo Daofu was faced with a Wu Xie who had let *him* go… and he being unable to return the favor.

Pushing himself off the bench, Huo Daofu gave Pangzi a pat of his own in return. "Never mind, Pangzi. I'll find my own way." Softly. "I always do." And then before Pangzi could say another word, Huo Daofu turned and left. He had responsibilities. He had his pride. He was no longer 20 years old, willing to pine forever after the unattainable. It was time to let go. Angry words hadn't worked the last time, formed as they had been of barbed hooks that pulled both ways. This time, Huo Daofu would simply… wish Wu Xie well. And hope that that would be enough to cut the ties that needed to be cut, for both their sakes.

[auntieclimactic]

To be clear, I want answers for all of them, but:

K: What's the angstiest idea you've ever come up with?

L: What's the weirdest AU you've ever come up with?

M: Got any premises on the back burner that you'd care to share?

K: What's the angstiest idea you've ever come up with?

Oh boy. I'm actually toying with the third installment of Blood Is Compulsory being a total angst fest—mostly using themes of monstrosity to delve deep into the problem of Henry. I've got a big beef with how Ted Lasso is portrayed as a father figure on the show to everyone except his own son. And while COVID does not exist in the Ted Lasso canon, it very much exists in my vampire series. So Henry has been living in the USA for three to four years at this point, going at least a year without seeing his father in person. Then he has to move to England, uprooting his life for a father who he probably feels abandoned by, and, by the way, his dad's starting a new family with this vampire dude and his daughter. Can you imagine seeing your estranged dad give piggybacks to another kid? If I were Henry, I would blow a gasket. Act out, start fights, etc.. I even considered writing a scene where Henry breaks one of Alice's favorite toys, leading to Alice shoving him, leading to a sprained wrist or something. If Ted wants to embrace his monster, he's gonna have to come to terms with the damage he caused to his son. Not sure if I wanna go there though, lol.

L: What's the weirdest AU you've ever come up with?

I mean, The Merry Adventures Robin Hood AU was pretty bonkers. But I also came up with an idea to age up both Henry and Trent's daughter and have them get married with Ted and Trent meeting at the engagement announcement dinner. But then I realized if Ted and Trent got together, Henry and TD would technically be step-siblings sooooooo.

M: Got any premises on the back burner that you'd care to share?

God, I have this long, slow plotty fic that's been percolating for months where Trent is a cis woman. I love the idea of female!Trent navigating the world of sports and single-parenthood. I have this crystal clear vision of her breast pumping in the loo and then Rebecca walks in. After Rupert leaves, I want to have her torn between her respect, admiration, and honest fondness for Rebecca and her need to stay unbiased. I want to see Rebecca's camaraderie with Trent turn into something cold and distrustful and watch how they both find their way back to each other and slowly build a kinship. I want to see post-firing Trent be taken out for drinks with Sassy, Keeley, and Rebecca where they talk shit about Man City fans. I want to see how her experience as a female reporter would change her relationship to Ted—how she would love him and loath herself for it. It would be a story of female friendship, women in traditionally masculine spaces, and all the scarifies we make to get to the top only to realize we hate the view. If I do ever write it, it would be a massive undertaking that would span the length of the show, and the thought terrifies me.

I'm also planning a Mandalorian story with a Cobb/Din/Luke DP, but whatever.

[dinomight]

Tagged by the lovely @foxofninetales to do this Last Lines challenge! on mobile finishing this so not gonna copy the rules over but basically it’s the last lines of my most recent fics. (included two sticks and stones ficlets to buffer it out so they’re all dmbj) thanks for tagging me! ❤️❤️❤️

1. enter this place in peace

“Follow,” he says, and turns on his heel.

Flowers cannot help but reach for the sun. Water cannot help but flow. Liu Sang cannot help but listen.

awww okay so this is honestly one of my favorite last lines I’ve written! I mean, objectively it’s not the best, but it just came so naturally when I was writing, and I love the idea of Liu Sang being just as devoted to Xiaoge in an entirely different universe, yknow? and the last bit—I loved the listen part because it felt like a little wink at his hearing in canon lol

2. always the light falls

Xiaoge closes his eyes, the warm glow of the lights still imprinted on the backs of his eyelids, and he lets himself be held.

warmth!!! warmth!!! that’s all this little fic was trying to be and that’s why this felt right as a last line <333 also I’m a whore for ending on a hug

3. sticks and stones chapter eight

“Good.” Tianzhen curls a hand around the back of Pangzi’s neck and brings their foreheads to rest against one another’s. “Good. You did good. We’ll get Xiaoge fixed up, and then we’ll go home.”

“Home,” Pangzi agrees, even as their breaths intermingle, even as that hand grounds him, even as he knows, truly, simply, that wherever these two are is already home.

yeah ngl this one fucked and it fucked unexpectedly. is this platonic is it romantic does it matter no. iron triangle forever <3

4. sticks and stones chapter five

Finally, he gives up, irritated out of his sleepiness, and opens both eyes. Pangzi looks down at him with a triumphant, shit-eating grin that slowly fades into something softer the longer they look at each other, until he taps again, so carefully that Liu Sang only hears it, rather than feeling it.

Okay. No question mark added, but it’s not a declaration, either. It’s a promise.

Liu Sang nods, knowing it’s one that won’t be broken.

okay I’m not sure if this was clear to the readers or not but I do love this as my own little exploration of what the tapping language is? bc a lot of people write like whole conversations in it and that’s cool! love that but I imagine realistically a language of only tapping patterns wouldn’t be very expansive in vocab—more like a way to communicate distances, simple call and responses, and actions if they need to. so what Pangzi is really trying to say here is “you’re gonna be okay, they’ll come for us, we’re gonna be fine” but all he has is the pattern for okay, and yet—Liu Sang gets it anyways, bc he trusts him. sobs

5. percolate

When he comes out, though, the shop is empty. Confused, Liu Sang almost calls out, but then he sees the to-go cup sitting on the counter by a bright pink post-it note.

Work emergency, the hastily scrawled characters read. Text me! And right below that, a phone number.

He glances at the coffee cup. There’s doodles on it, little patterns and flowers, all surrounding two figures: a raccoon with sunglasses, and a fox wearing what he’s pretty sure is a barista apron.

With a huffy laugh, Liu Sang pulls out his phone and opens a new contact.

looking at this now idk how I feel about the word huffy lmao but the image of the cup doodles is worth it. I knew right when this fic came swinging into my head (and it came SWINGING like it may have taken me awhile to get around to writing it bc I was focused on writing my gift but have no doubts that one second I was looking at fox’s prompts and laughing and the next I was looking up the most heinous coffee orders to write hxz’s regular) that I wanted it to be pre-ship and end on Liu Sang begrudgingly adding hxz to his phone and it happened 😭 the prickly bitch gets raccoon-ed

6. every word in every tune

Jiang Zisuan smiles, that small, precious thing, and starts toward the exit, pulling Liu Sang by the hand alongside him.

man if I had a shot for every time I ended with a character smiling I’d be dead of alcohol poisoning but god I love doing it. and it felt right here bc his smile was mentioned in Liu Sang’s flashbacks when he hit the water, so it was like a nice little circling around

7. clear water to the bottom

Tomorrow, Wu Erbai will call all of them into his tent to explain themselves. Tomorrow, before Liu Sang gets a chance to speak, Pangzi will blame the whole thing on Ma Gang, and Wu Xie will back him up, and Wu Erbai will point out that Wu Xie wasn’t even there, and then Zhang Qiling will say it’s true and end the whole discussion there. Tomorrow, Ma Gang will turn on Liu Sang, red in the face, only to be met with Pangzi standing in his way. Tomorrow, Liu Sang will lead the expedition into the tomb, and the Iron Triangle will follow, and everything will be okay.

Today, Liu Sang takes the first step to allowing that, by rolling his eyes and putting his hand in Pangzi’s.

ah yes another one of my go-to ending strategies, the “I’m sliding the resolution to this in here real quick so I don’t have to write it as an actual scene oop” XD I think it worked pretty well here tho! I liked ending on him taking Pangzi’s hand as a callback to the tent when he refused Pangzi’s hand

8. pacrim au chapter two

And as the two run, and shout, and eventually start flinging sand at one another, the ocean keeps to her soft routine, washing away their footprints, settling every speck of sand and stone back into place.

this is probably overly soft for an au fic combining pacific rim with tomb raiders (every time I remember what I’m writing I have to stare at the wall for a second bc hello. how am I supposed to explain that to literally anyone) but damn I love the little ocean bit. idk I just wanted their ridiculous bickering laid over with some softness bc this scene marks them getting closer (even if Liu Sang won’t admit it, Pangzi has officially pack bonded so this is the point of no return)

9. pacrim au chapter one

For a good minute, Liu Sang stares after him, mouth still hanging open. Then, with a rough shake of his head, he shoves the interaction to the back of his mind to deal with when he’s not swaying on his feet, goes back to his room, and falls asleep before he even hits the mattress.

yeah okay ngl I got to their little exchange post-fight and I was like. this chapter needs to end. so I knocked him out. simple, perhaps a bit blunt but if it ain’t broke don’t fix it

10. things that scream and shout

Liu Sang ducks his head, and quietly says, “Okay. Friends,” and this time, he’s beginning to believe it.

another callback to an earlier line in the fic! this one was about beginning to accept that the iron triangle are more to him than just coworkers and that they see him the same way, so it felt right to end it on this. also again I didn’t want to write another scene so 🤷

I think what I’ve learned from this is that my actual strategies for end lines are a smidge more varied than I previously thought (though you’d certainly see more repeats if you look at my other fandoms lmao) but the feeling is absolutely almost always the same. even if it’s not perfect it’s hopeful. usually with some softness in there. what can I say. I claim to be a cold hearted bastard for gender purposes but I am in fact quite squishy

tbh idk who’s been tagged for this already so I’m not gonna risk repeats but if you see this and want to do it consider yourself tagged! (yes you. I mean you. even if we’re not mutuals do it)

[spicycreativity]

Soft-Shoe Shuffle - Ch 1

Chapter: 1/12 Rating: T (for language) Content Warnings: Canon-typical Remus content. This chapter only: alcohol use Characters: All Pairings: Moceit, background Prinxiety, background Intrulogical (yes I played a little game of "pair the spares") Additional Tags: Hey it's the fic I published on Anon because I was embarrassed of how utterly pretentious it is!, post-PoF, sickfic, dirty poetry, humor interspersed with philosophy and Janus-typical pontification, this is VERY speculative and will get Jossed in the future lmao Summary: After claiming his place in the Light and coming face-to-face with the consequences of his actions, Janus finds himself unwillingly re-calibrating his moral compass. For selfish reasons, of course. But one apology snowballs into several, and soon he's running around the Mindscape with a low-grade fever and a guilty conscience as he desperately tries to regain some sense of self. Oh, and he's definitely not falling in love with Patton, so don't even bring it up. One Last Note: I wrote this in an ADHD fugue state. It is HEAVILY influenced by Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment, but there are also references to poetry and various other works of literature. I also deliberately used symbols, themes, and motifs. Most of them are pretty in your face except for the recurring ouroboros, which is used as a symbol of rebirth. ...Told you it was pretentious.

When you wake up to the promise of your dream world comin' true With one less friend to call on, was it someone that I knew? Away you will go sailing in a race among the ruins If you plan to face tomorrow, do it soon

Janus appeared in the Dark side of the Mindscape, elation swelling in his chest. Even the ringing headache and bitter taste in his mouth couldn't hollow the unfamiliar triumph that warmed him to the core. Caught up in his own thoughts, it took a moment for him to register the sight before him: Remus, upside-down on the couch, his brow furrowed and face an alarming shade of purple.

For a moment, Janus stood stock-still as he tried to get his bearings. He must have been more flustered than he'd realized-- He'd been aiming for his bedroom.

But here he was, staring down at Remus, who was definitely going to burst a blood vessel (or several) if he didn't flip over soon.

"That's not horrifying at all," Janus said, thinking it would be rude to dismiss Remus, especially since he had probably been eavesdropping. He had likely heard everything. Everything. Even the ugly parts.

"Do you remember when Thomas read that post about Nutty Putty Cave?" Remus asked in a strained, strangled voice. "That spelunker who died because he got stuck upside-down?"

"No," Janus said, before realizing his mistake. "Yes." He definitely wanted Remus to remind him of the gory details.

"That's what I thought," Remus said with a wicked grin.

Janus sighed through his nose. Remus, though he thrived on attention, seemed content enough to continue his experiment by himself. On the other hand, if Janus didn't bring up a certain insult he'd levied at Roman, Remus most certainly would, and at a time where it would cause the most upset and turmoil. Better for Janus to deal with it now, even if he would have to fight the tension pulling his muscles taut. He wanted to dance. He wanted to scream.

Hesitation proved to be Janus' downfall, and by the time he'd opened his mouth to broach the subject at hand, Remus had beaten him to the blow. "You're not usually this quiet, Oralboros. Snake got your tongue?"

Janus, again, sighed. Rather than answer, he doffed his hat, set it on the coffee table, and clumsily arranged himself upside-down next to Remus. The change in position immediately made his head throb. He ignored it. "I definitely meant it when I called you 'evil'."

Remus' eyes widened in faux-shock. "You called me evil ?" he shrieked, voice ringing out high and clear. "Me? How dare you. I'm an angel!"

At least Remus was taking it well. "Sarcasm is my thing," Janus said, realizing that he might make it out of this without having to properly apologize.

For some reason, Patton's face flashed into his mind, and a subsequent twinge of guilt made his tongue go sour. Fine. If there was ever a time to start telling uncomfortable truths… "But I am sorry I said that."

"Wow!" Remus laughed. "You must be upset." A red stain began to spill across his left eye. "You don't apologize."

"It’s not like I care about your feelings or anything." Janus would have liked to have drawn himself up to his full height, but it was impossible to do while upside-down. "As much as I'm enjoying watching your blood vessels slowly burst, would you please turn over before you hurt yourself? I've suffered enough psychological trauma for today."

"Oh, fine." Remus kicked his legs and landed neatly on his toes like a gymnast.

Janus, by contrast, got his arms tangled in his capelet and nearly folded himself in half before he found his balance again. "I meant to do that," he said, turning to grab his hat so Remus wouldn't see the blush on his face.

The sudden sensation of blood draining from his head made the room whirl. He steadied himself against Remus' shoulder until it slowed somewhat, but nothing could dampen the horrible ringing in his ears.

"Well," he said, adjusting his shirt. The sudden appearance of his conscience had taken the wind out of his sails more than he cared to admit, and all thoughts of dancing bled out of him along with a good deal of energy. "I'm not going to go scream into my pillows until I tire myself out."

"Being an agent of chaos is hard work," Remus said with a sage nod, "but that doesn't sound very relaxing, Mr Self Care."

"It's a form of meditation, if you think about it," Janus said.

Remus made a face. "You know I don't do that."

"...Meditate?"

"No, think."

"Ah. Well." Janus made only a token attempt to hide his fond smile. "Good night, Remus. Please stay up late and injure yourself."

"Can do, Snakeypoo.”

Janus turned. It was close enough, he might as well walk to his bedroom, especially considering how well his last attempt at appearing in it had gone.

The reason why that had been so difficult became apparent in mere moments. Janus froze in the hall and dropped to his knees at the giddy wave of horror and delight that made him too light-headed to stand.

He knelt in front of the empty stretch of wall where his door had been previously.  Heat flooded his face.

"Jay?" The rounded toes of Remus' boots appeared in his line of sight. Janus zeroed in on them, the mud splatters and stains on the soft leather. "You have an aneurysm or what?"

Janus, unable to speak, motioned for Remus to turn around. He couldn't deal with this right now.

"Ohhh," said Remus. "Well. Good luck with that ." He hauled Janus to his feet. "So you're a boner fide good guy now, huh?"

Janus stared over Remus' shoulder at the empty stretch of wall where his door used to be. "That depends entirely on who you ask."

Remus shrugged and rose up on his toes. "You can scream into my pillows instead, if you want."

"As tempting as that is…" Janus trailed off, his eyes still fixed on the wall. It was tempting, despite the constant chaos in Remus' room. But he'd have to face the Light side sooner or later. It wasn't like he could move his room back, not without psychologically damaging Thomas and undoing all the work he'd done. "I'm really looking forward to getting insulted some more."

"Alright," Remus said with a shrug. "Try not to throw me under the bus this time, alright? Unless it's a real bus…" His gaze became dreamy, unfocused. "And it's doing 50 in a school zone and there's a whole pack of screaming kids in the crosswalk--"

"Goodbye, Remus." Janus turned and left.

--

The barrier between the "dark" and the "light" sides of Thomas' brain had been a joint venture. It would have been there in some form no matter what, but it was Janus and Roman (with Patton's tacit blessing) who had worked to put up something more physical between them.

Janus ducked under the red curtain, trepidation percolating in his stomach, but what he found on the other side was anticlimactic to say the least: It was dead silent on this side of the barrier.

Janus wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. He knew by now that the so-called "Lights" had issues working out their interpersonal issues, and this most recent conflict wasn't the kind of thing you just got over. It did follow that they would all go off to lick their wounds for a time.

Hesitantly, toe-to-heel, Janus crept down the hall. It felt for all the world like he was sneaking around a vast hotel, right down to needlessly ornate design on the plush carpeting. That was probably Roman's doing.

Janus focused, trying to call the Mindscape to work for him. He wanted to go to his room.

The Mindscape listened. Janus turned a corner and found a row of doors stretching down yet another brightly-lit corridor. His eye was immediately drawn, not to the brilliant yellow of his own door, but to the figure huddled in front of it: Patton sat with his arms wrapped around his legs, forehead resting on his knees.

"Looking for someone?" Janus asked, slightly louder than necessary.

Patton jerked his head up. "Oh! Janus!" He plastered an unconvincing smile on his face. "You sure pop star-tled me."

Scaring Patton hadn't brought Janus nearly the level of schadenfreude he'd thought it would. He crossed his arms over his chest, extending a third to help Patton up. "Take your time getting to the point.”

"Oh." Patton accepted Janus' proffered hand and got to his feet. Warmth spilled from him, permeating the fabric of Janus' glove and gently heating his palm. "Well, it's just…" He took a deep breath. "I noticed your door and I thought-- Well, I wanted to make you feel welcome!"

A high-pitched tone resonated in Janus' skull. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from wincing at the mounting pressure-pain-exhaustion in his temples. "Aren't you just a saint ." Patton's face fell. Janus fought the urge to swear aloud. He usually had a better handle on himself, and he knew better than to alienate potential allies. "I mean, thank you, Patton. Truly. I appreciate it." Patton had proven himself useful. Janus should at least cultivate that relationship, even if it meant a little discomfort.

"Have you eaten?" Patton asked. "It's a little late, but I could make something if you wanted." He paused. "Maybe we could play cards or something." Another pause. "O-only if you want to, I mean."

Janus let his face remain impassive even as he internally cringed at the idea of staying awake for even another second. It would be so easy to brush Patton off with a few honeyed words and disappear beyond the barrier of his door. But Patton had stood up for him today, or at least he'd tried to. Janus sighed. Quid pro quo. "That sounds like an utter waste of time."

"Are you… I'm sorry, sometimes I can't tell when you're…"

"Yes, Patton. That sounds lovely."

Patton actually hopped in place, an adorable little jig that absolutely didn't send a confusing little shockwave of fondness through Janus' ribcage. "Really?"

"Really," Janus lied.

He followed Patton down the hall into the living room, which opened into the dining room and the kitchen. Janus studied his surroundings, trying to take in as much as his exhausted faculties would allow. Even in the absence of other Sides, the living room felt warm and welcoming. All the lights were on, and they bathed everything in gentle golden light .

"You're awfully quiet," Patton said.

Janus shook himself. "I was just getting my bearings."

"I guess you've never really been over here, huh?" Pattton opened the refrigerator. Was he actually going to cook , instead of just manifesting something? How quaint. "Do you like grilled cheese?"

It had been a long, confusing day. Doublespeak came to Janus as naturally as breathing, but he was obviously running circles around Patton even when he wasn't trying to. "Yes," he said, hoping to telegraph his sincerity by not emoting at all.

It seemed to work. Patton studied him for a moment before turning back to the fridge. "Then that's what I'll make."

Janus took advantage of this temporary distraction to clamber onto one of the barstools. The slick velvet of his capelet tended to disagree with surfaces like wood and vinyl, and he needed a moment to arrange things so he didn't look as unbalanced as he felt.

He watched Patton work in the kitchen, a detached coolness washing out the scene. Quid pro quo, he reminded himself when he felt his facade begin to slip. He owed Patton this.

He certainly didn't feel the slightest twinge of guilt, that he had been the one to orchestrate this breakdown. Yes, the Light Sides had loaded the gun, but in the end it was Janus who had pulled the trigger.

He shook his head and thought about playing cards, good Bicycle playing cards with holes punched through them like they'd come from a casino. "What should we play?" he asked, pulling the deck from his breast pocket.

Patton looked up from the stovetop, his eyes flicking to the cards in Janus' hand. "Do you know Kings in the Corners?"

"Not personally, no."

Patton laughed, but there was something cold about it. "It's really simple," he said. "I'll show you how to play and you can tell me if you like it."

--

It was nearly impossible to cheat at Kings in the Corners. Janus doubted this had been a calculated measure on Patton's part, doubted he had the capacity for that kind of foresight, but he respected it just the same.

They played in funereal silence, staring each other down across the light wood of the dining room table. Janus, ill-inclined to take off his gloves, utilized a napkin to keep from staining them with melted butter from the grilled cheese Patton had made. Neither one of them smiled. Neither one of them spoke.

Janus pulled a card from the deck to indicate the end of his turn and glanced up at Patton. His face was somber, almost sorrowful, and it clashed against the gentle domesticity of the dining room, with its floral table runner and mismatched placemats.

Janus started to laugh.

"What is it?" Patton asked, cheeks darkening. "What? Do I have something on my face?"

Janus swallowed down another peal of laughter and cleared his throat, unable to wholly restrain the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You look like I’m holding you here at gunpoint." It was somewhat ironic, considering Janus was the one who felt like he couldn't leave.

"What?" Patton smiled, but it was more akin to an offering than an expression of joy.

"It’s not really funny. " Janus wasn’t quite sure how to make Patton understand.

Patton sat back with a sigh, placing his cards facedown on the table. "But I guess it is pretty funny, huh? In a really sad way."

Janus almost asked what was sad about it before realizing that Patton probably missed his friends. Instead he said, "Yes" and stifled a yawn behind his free hand.

"I'll make coffee!" Patton leapt to his feet and was off to the kitchen before Janus could so much as blink.

The newfound solitude made it that much harder for Janus to ignore his headache, which had only worsened in the hour or so he'd been playing cards with Patton. Despite the nonchalant facade he'd tried so hard to project, he'd been holding himself tense.

Maybe the night (or morning, at this point) would be easier to tolerate if he had, say, a bit of gold rum.

The corner of a flask dug into Janus' hip. He smiled.

"Just how late are you planning on staying up?" he asked Patton when the latter returned holding two mismatched mugs.

"Oh, I don't know," Patton said. Lied. He set a mug down in front of Janus and then resumed his seat, the cards forgotten by his elbow. "I'm… A little scared of what tomorrow will be like."

Janus eased the flask out of his pocket. "Rum?"

"Oh, um," Patton said, staring at the flask. "I don't know…"

Janus raised an eyebrow, working something out. He landed on it a millisecond later: Patton wanted to be convinced. Easy enough. Janus opened the flask and poured what he hoped was a shot into his own mug. It was black, he noticed, except for the yellow snake that wrapped around it, its tail firmly in its own mouth. Ouroboros. "Surely you don't intend to make me drink alone?"

As Janus had expected, Patton buckled the second he was pushed. "I guess not."

It was funny, Janus mused as he carefully tipped rum into Patton's coffee, how lying was only off-limits when Janus suggested it. Hilarious.

But now wasn't the time for bitterness, now was the time to repay the debt he owed Patton. "Cheers," he said, pocketing the flask once more.

"Cheers."

Janus sipped his coffee. "You put milk in this," he observed.

Patton's smile was surprisingly sly. "I know you want me to think you take it black. Virgil did too, at first. I know you ‘Dark Sides’ have an image you like to uphold."

"And how does Virgil take his coffee now?" Janus asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"With Snickers-flavored creamer."

"Well, I do take my coffee black," Janus lied.

Patton's smile never faltered. "We'll see, kid-- Uh, Janus."

"Patton," Janus said, before he could start thinking about the implications of Patton wanting to call him 'kiddo,' "you are planning on sleeping tonight, aren't you?"

"Maybe eventually," Patton said, suddenly unable to look Janus in the eye. "At some point."

"Tomorrow will come whether or not you sleep. It's definitely better to pull an all-nighter and feel like garbage instead of facing everything with a clear head."

"I know." Patton leaned forward so he could rest his head on his hand.

For a moment, Janus was tempted to mirror him. Sitting up straight was becoming quite the chore. "I know how the others love a calm, rational discussion."

"Oh, I wish." Patton's expression turned wistful.

Janus stifled a yawn behind his hand. He had half-expected the coffee to counteract the depressant effect of the alcohol, but all he had to show for the combination was a racing heart.

"I'll be fine out here if you want to go to bed," Patton said. Without seeming to realize he was doing it, he brought his hand to his mouth and bit down on his thumbnail.

It was a tempting offer. A day ago, Janus would have taken it. After all, it wasn't like he cared about Patton outside of professional courtesy. They weren't friends. But guilt nagged at him and wouldn't let him entertain the idea of abandoning Patton for longer than a second.

"That's a remarkable impression of a window," Janus said, waiting for Patton to look confused before elaborating, "I can see right through you."

"You got me." Patton smiled sadly. "That's something I've always admired about you, Janus."

Now it was Janus' turn to be confused. "What?"

"You're so… clever."

Janus narrowed his eyes. "Please do keep trying to change the subject."

"It's just… I don't want to have to lie there and, and think about today and everything I did wrong. I hurt Thomas. I hurt my friends." Patton's eyes were shiny behind his glasses; the unshed tears sparkled in the light when he locked eyes with Janus. "Aren't you going to think about the same thing?"

Anger flared, perhaps prematurely, in Janus' chest. "About what you did wrong today?"

"About what you did wrong," Patton said timidly.

"I," Janus said icily, "didn't do anything wrong." He stared Patton down across the table, jaw set, daring him to push back. Let him lecture and nag, let him prove that he hadn't changed no matter what he said.

But Patton only nodded, his face lined with misery. "Okay," he softly. "I think you're right, Janus. We should go to bed."

Janus thought about how much faster he could get to bed if the table was cleared, and all the dishes and cards vanished in a blink.

"Um, Janus?" Patton said.

"Yes?"

"I don't regret everything that happened today."

"Oh?"

Patton only nodded and sank out.

Janus made a beeline for his own room; better to find his way there on foot rather than risk appearing in the wrong spot.

Once inside, he looked around to ensure nothing was amiss, eyes roving over the dark wood of his bookshelves and desk, his mirrored closet doors, the leather armchairs across from his bed.

Everything was exactly as Janus had left it. He nodded, satisfied, set his hat on the nightstand, and sprawled out of top of the covers without bothering to further undress.

One hazy thought crawled to the surface of his mind before he fell asleep: At least he wouldn't be one of the regrets haunting Patton tonight.

[cactusandfir]

i’ve been catching up on reading rather than writing the last couple weeks, and it’s been a nice break after posting. i almost pulled an all-nighter finally reading all 300k of  the hockey at the end of the world series in like, two days, and it felt so indulgent and inspiring!

i’ve also been throwing random bits into drafts here and there. i kind of want to write one more small thing before the end of the year, partially because i have a couple ideas percolating i’d like to explore, and partially because i want to hit 50k words published. i’m having a hard time even believing i’ve almost done that! this month has kicked my butt in a lot of ways and i’ve been feeling a little down abt myself (unrelated to fandom!), so it would feel super nice to accomplish that.

lastly, i thought i was going to have more to say about keep the lanterns lit, but when i went to write a postmortem, it ended up being pretty short. those thoughts under the cut!

i’m still not sure how exactly i feel about this fic! i’m not sure i did very well at communicating some key character motivations and i had so much time to work on it, but ended up having to take quite a few life breaks, and i think that was overall not good for like, continuity. i felt like i lost the plot (literally and figuratively) several times while writing it. 

BUT i didn’t want to just abandon it, there’s still like quite a bit of it that i like, and i felt that posting it now, rather than withdrawing and working on it longer, was the right way to go. i think i tried to do more than i was capable re plot and character building so i don’t think having another few weeks was going to change anything significant.

things that went well: 

i like a lot of the language i crafted, i think i had some really nice descriptive phrases. 

i like how much i was able to spread out, i think i’ve slowly been improving on extending the pacing and i felt like i did well with it here. 

i liked thinking about the little world i built in my head, and although i don’t feel like i did it justice in portraying it, it was very soothing to me, personally lol sometimes i wish i could be one of those people who tagged atmospheric things about their fic on their blog, but truly i am too nervous to reread my own writing so soon after posting, much less talk about it immediately after!

lessons learned:

taking long breaks from projects is maybe not ideal, unless there’s a significant enough chunk of time at the end to finish. i wasn’t expecting life to get in the way this much, so i spent more time writing than i probably would have if i was working on it all in a row, because i had to refamiliarize myself with it after every break.

i’m not sure i enjoy writing longer fic! i love it when a project comes together, but i don’t have any formal fiction writing training, so it’s more work than i want to do to in my spare time to write longer stories. the words just don’t come easily to me and that’s okay! this was the longest thing (in general: for fun, for work, or for school) that i’ve ever written so i’m super proud of finishing it, but i’m going to happily go back to no-pressure word limit situations.

[statusquoergo]

'tis the season ... for prompts:) May I ask for Marvey with 13? I think we are all in need of a bit of cheering:} And thank you for doing this, and all of the fics you've written so far, your words always manage to brighten my days! <3

Absolutely you may, and thank you for the prompt! And for saying such kind things about my fics, I really appreciate that a lot. Indeed we could all do with a bit of cheering, it’s been one hell of a year... Well! I hope this helps a little!

Things you said at the kitchen table

[Read on AO3]

They don’t always have time for breakfast. Well, that’s not strictly true; they run the firm, they can show up whenever they feel like it and no one would say a damn thing. Breakfast could take three hours, if they wanted it to, they could waltz in the doors at half past eleven without anything that even sounded like an apology. Not that they would; not that Harvey would be so irresponsible, not that Mike would leave their employees hanging like that, but if they wanted to, theoretically. The option is there.

Sundays, though. Sundays are for them.

What that usually means is that Sundays are for sleeping in, but every once in a while, every now and then, the day hits a little different, the sun shines a little brighter, and the rich aroma of a freshly brewed pot of coffee tempts Mike out of bed toward the sizzle of frying bacon or a slab of french toast or whatever Harvey’s in the mood to whip up that day. Those mornings are the his favorites. Not that Sundays aren’t always great, but those Sundays are the best.

Usually.

This Sunday morning in particular, Mike is lured into the kitchen by the percolating coffeemaker to find Harvey at the stove, flipping blueberry pancakes and tending to a small saucepan of maple syrup warming over a low flame with a very private smile on his face that vanishes the instant he notices Mike settling in at the island. And Mike appreciates the indulgence of it all, and the effort Harvey is putting in and everything, but that smile thing, that’s a little…odd. Is Harvey going to tell him something he doesn’t want to hear? Ask him to do something he doesn’t want to do? There’s not much in the world Mike would deny him, he should know that much, so what…

Wait. Wait, shit, wait, this is about the Andretti case. This is about Yorker and Harrison suddenly threatening to pull out of the merger agreement Harvey’s favorite associate has been working on for the past six months if Andretti doesn’t double his capital investments by like…Friday, or something. Harvey is going to ask him to storm the barricades and pull a solution out of thin air to save the day. This isn’t breakfast, this is a bribe.

God dammit, Harvey. He’s not falling for that one, not again.

He can’t come right out and refuse it point blank, though. For one thing, Harvey might suddenly stop cooking like the petulant little shit he is, and Mike really doesn’t want to waste all that food when he could eat it instead. For another, it’s not as though Harvey would give up trying to get him to sign on to the project after one measly rejection, and Mike doesn’t particularly want to spend the entirety of the next week on pins and needles, sunk into a paranoid haze where every nice thing his boyfriend says to him is a just another stepping stone toward begging him to pull out his white cape and play Avenging Attorney.

Fine. He can play the long game, too. Putting a big old smile on his face, Mike leans across the counter and takes a pointed sniff of the oncoming feast that makes Harvey turn around with an answering grin, the spatula nearly slipping from his hand before he tightens his grip.

“Morning,” he says, turning back to the stove.

“Morning,” Mike echoes, settling back into his chair. “Blueberry?”

“Sorry, we were out of chocolate chips.”

“We definitely aren’t, but I might be able to forgive you if the orange juice is fresh squeezed.”

Harvey snorts an undignified little laugh; he must know Mike is going to turn him down. “Have you always been this needy?” he asks lightly.

“The word you’re looking for is ‘driven.’”

“The word I’m looking for is ‘demanding.’”

Mike shrugs. “At least I know what I want.”

Or don’t want. Go on, just try passing this one off. See how far you get.

Harvey plates a couple of pancakes and shakes his head. “The crap I put up with from you…”

Kind of a weird segue into asking such a big favor, but Mike won’t be fooled into dropping his guard just yet. He’s no rookie.

“I’d say we’re on pretty equal ground there.”

“Yeah.” Harvey turns off the burners and reaches into the cabinet for a carafe for the syrup. “You might be right.”

Mike frowns. Harvey isn’t even going to make a token argument against that? No fight at all? Huh. It’s not the worst tactic he could’ve chosen; too bad for him, Mike came prepared.

“I know I am.”

Harvey just smiles as he sets a plate down in front of Mike, and this is starting to get a little creepy. Might as well start the ball rolling, then; better to get it over with.

“So,” Mike says, pulling the carafe toward himself, “anything special you wanted to do today?”

Harvey shakes his head and picks up his fork.

“I didn’t have anything in mind.”

Mike nods slowly. “Right,” he says. “So… Okay then.”

They eat in silence until Mike’s stack of pancakes is reduced by half, and Harvey seems to have finished about…one.

Mike drops his fork down on the counter. “Alright what—”

“Actually there—”

They both cut themselves off, and Mike narrows his eyes as Harvey widens his.

“What?”

“No,” Mike says. “No, what were you going to say?”

There are only so many hours in the day, and the sooner this is over and done with, the sooner he can relax and enjoy them. He grits his teeth as Harvey takes a breath and drops his hands down to his lap.

“Actually,” Harvey repeats, “there was something I wanted to do today.”

“Oh yeah?” Mike smiles tightly. “What’s that?”

Harvey casts his eyes down for a minute, not completely closed but definitely turned away. Wait, so, wait, actually, maybe this isn’t about the Andretti case. Maybe this isn’t about work at all. Or— Is it? Anything with as much buildup as this has to be big. Maybe—maybe Harvey is sick of the firm. Maybe he’s finally gotten sick of the grind, sick of the hours and hours of his life he’s given over to the law, everything he’s lost, all the sacrifices he’s made. Maybe he needs a change, maybe he wants to start over in some little town in Iowa where nobody knows his name, to throw away the life he’s built for himself, the life they’ve built for themselves, maybe— Maybe he wants Mike to throw his life away too, to go somewhere else and find something new, to start from scratch and build themselves from the ground back up.

And maybe he’s afraid to ask Mike to make that kind of sacrifice, maybe he’s afraid he’ll say no, because he would, wouldn’t he? Would he? Would it be so bad, really, to start over together? To make a life together, something just for them where they could be whoever, whatever they wanted? Could they do it? Would they make it? Would Mike be willing to try? Would Harvey go without him if he wasn’t? Would Mike let himself be trapped into a relationship so lopsided, so dismissive of his wants and needs, so shaped around Harvey’s sudden wanderlust? Would Harvey be able to stand it, doing that to him? Knowing he was doing it to himself? Is that what this is all about, is that what all of this is hurtling toward? Is it?

Rationally, probably not. In all likelihood.

But what if it is?

Mike blinks a couple of times, coming out of his own head to find Harvey looking at him with the most intensely calm expression Mike has ever seen on anybody, anywhere, ever.

“Mike,” Harvey says. “You— Do you like your life? Our life together?”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. All these goddamn questions and no fucking answers, how dare Harvey spring this on him without any warning? That bastard, what’s he trying to pull?

“Yes,” Mike says slowly. “Are we breaking up?”

Harvey’s lips twist into a smirk, his shoulders twitching back. “Not on my account. Do you want to?”

Mike frowns. “No?”

“Well that’s good.” Harvey’s arm moves like he’s put his hand on his hip, or into his pocket, and he leans forward as Mike’s eyes dart toward the motion and then back up to Harvey’s face. “Because I was thinking about making my mistake official.”

Making— What? He isn’t— This isn’t— This couldn’t—

What?

Harvey grins in that way he has where his eyes sparkle and crinkle up at the corners, his mouth wide like he’s trying not to show his teeth because it’s the only way to keep himself from laughing, and he pushes a little black velvet box forward that can’t possibly mean anything other than exactly what it means, that can’t possibly hold anything other than what Mike knows it must, and this is— He can’t— This doesn’t—

What?

“Mike.”

With enormous effort, Mike wrenches his eyes away from the box and fixes them on Harvey’s.

“So will you marry me or what?”

“I.”

A second ticks by, and then another, and two more. Maybe three. Harvey reaches out to open the box, the heavy platinum band glinting as he nudges it closer.

“What do you say?”

What—

“I say— I say yes.” Mike stares down at the ring. “I mean. Obviously. Yes.”

Being that Mike seems to have more or less frozen in his seat, Harvey slips the ring from its velvet pillow and motions for him to lift his hand.

“You seem surprised,” Harvey teases, sliding the ring onto Mike’s finger. A perfect fit, naturally; Mike doesn’t even know his own ring size, how the hell did Harvey figure it out?

“A little bit, yeah,” Mike says, tilting his hand to catch the light. “I thought you were going to ask me to take over the Andretti case.”

Harvey tilts his head. “Well, now that you mention it…”

“No.”

“Yeah, fine, so are you gonna kiss me or what?”

“God, Harvey, have you always been this needy?”

(But Mike kisses him anyway.)