#i might need to write a fic of this actually still ruminating

[avelera]

Headcanon that after they vanish into the rune, Jayce and Viktor travel the multiverse averting Hextech in multiple universes and it's remarkably easy to get past-Viktor to stop in a number of places, because Viktor had an emergency cease-and-desist code phrase for himself if he ever fucked up with science so bad his future self had to come back and warn him against it.

(Jayce thinks this is the coolest fucking thing he's ever heard. Everyone else is wondering why Viktor was so sure he'd fuck up with universe-altering science that he'd need a code word with himself to stop it.)

[anjaelle]

Hii I’m in loveeee with your writing I was wondering if you could write a Dave Lizewski x bimbo reader fic?

Oooh this sounds fun. I had to ruminate on this a bit, but I think I got it.

Pairing: College!Dave Lizewski x Bimbo!Reader

Rating: She's tame

Word Count: 1.3K

--

He was staring again. Every time you turned to look at him, he would quickly avert his eyes to the front of the room. In confusion, you turned to look behind you, only to see the blank wall of the classroom. You looked back at him and found him staring straight ahead like he'd been caught doing something bad.

You pulled your phone out of your bag and opened the front facing camera to check to see if you forgot to properly blend your makeup again. Or maybe you had crumbs on your face.

It didn't look like you had anything on your face. Though you did think you could use a re-up on gloss, and maybe a touch-up on your brows. You accidentally left your makeup bag in your dorm, and you kept losing all of your backup purse makeup, so all you had was a lip balm and school stuff. You supposed that you could use this as an excuse to do a quick drugstore run across the street to pick up another backup makeup kit. But you also felt like you'd be missing out on the sushi buffet in the dining hall if you got there too late. You hadn't had sushi in a long time, it would've been a shame to miss it. Then again you could always order it from that one spot you went to with that one guy. What was his name again? Something with a "F"--

"Hello?" The professor said, addressing you and pulling you out of your thoughts. You raised your brows in surprise, and smiled sweetly.

"Hi!"

Your professor tapped her chin with a beautifully manicured nail and looked you over with a funny look on her face. "Your presentation topic for next week?"

"Oh!" You said, looking down at your notes. "Well, I might talk a little about how hard influencing is and how it's actually harder than a 9-5 job. I'm still deciding. What do you think, professor?"

There were a few whispers in the class as she thought hard on the question. At least that's what you thought she was doing.

"Why don't you workshop that and get back to me tomorrow?" She finally said, turning away from you and moving onto another classmate.

You pouted at yet another presentation subject being shot down and made a note in the margins of your notebook to do just that. You hated going to her office hours, because you felt like you could never really do anything right.

When class let out, you pulled your phone out to text your friends about your change of plans tomorrow, when you felt a gentle touch on your elbow and turned to find Lizewski. Knowing that he was quiet and always a little bit stuttery, you smiled politely and gave him your full attention.

"Hi, how are you?"

"H-Hey," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets, "Uh...I saw that you've been having a bit of a hard time with our media class."

A few people passed by the two of you in the hallway and greeted you but shot a curious look his way.

"It's so bad isn't it?" You frowned, crossing your arms in front of your chest, "I'm literally so great at most Social Media outlets, I don't understand why this is so hard. I mean...it's all the same shit."

He nodded, wide eyed and eager as always, "You're so right."

"And I'm trying really hard, but I just can't get it."

"I can help!" He blurted out. "Only if you want. I mean, you probably don't need my help. But I'd be happy to, if you want."

"You'd help me?" You asked, genuinely touched. "I don't know if I can pay you much, but how much do you want?"

"You don't have to pay me, come on." He dropped his eyes to his sneakers and shifted his weight on his feet, "We've known each other since middle school."

This time your eyes widened in surprise, "We have?"

This time it was his turn to look at you in surprise and confusion, "You went to my Bar Mitzvah."

"I did?" Then you thought about it, "I only remember going to one, and it was this boy named David."

He let out a short laugh and nodded, "Yes, that was me."

"David?! But everyone calls you Lizewski! That's your last name?" He nodded again and you gasped. Your whole world turned upside down. Without thinking you pulled him into a tight hug, "It's so nice to see you again, David! I thought you moved away in high school!"

"No," he said against your shoulder, "I just grew my hair out. And got taller. And you can call me Dave, or David, or Lisewski. Whatever you want."

You pulled away from the hug with a huge grin, and you reached out to readjust his glasses which sat crookedly on his face. Then you looked him over, trying to see the skinny thirteen year old you remembered in the grown man in front of you. You could almost see it. If he cut his hair shorter, and lost about a foot of height, he'd totally look the same. You grasped his shoulders in appreciation.

"Well this is wonderful! I've never had a friend for longer than 3 years before!"

As you walked side by side across campus, you could feel people staring like you had three heads. After the fourth set of eyes on you, you nudged Dave with your elbow.

"Do I have something on my face?" You tilted your head from side to side so he could examine you properly, and he shook his head.

"No, why?"

"People keep staring at me." You frowned, "It's kind of weird."

Dave said nothing at first, but looked around to see the evidence of your suspicion and sighed. "I think it's because you're hanging out with me."

You snorted, "That can't be it. That's so silly."

He kicked a small rock down the footpath and hummed in disagreement, "Is it? I mean...you're you. I'm me. We don't really hang out. I think people are used to seeing you with guys from...Sigma Alpha Epsilon"

You still didn't get it, and you crinkled your nose in disgust at the mention of the name.

"I don't talk to them. They're losers," you shuddered again, "They all have a weird obsession with skulls too. Have you ever seen those skulls with the blue stripe down the middle? They all have them on their trucks. It's so weird."

You watched him raise a single brow as he kicked the rock further down the path, "Are you talking about The Punisher's symbol?"

Before you could ask, he showed you a picture on his phone and you nodded.

"Yeah that's it! What's The Punisher? Is that, like, a band?"

He chuckled, "It's a comic book character and his symbol gets misused a lot. He's a vigilante."

You frowned, thinking of why someone would choose to do something like that. That seemed kind of mean.

"Well can you really see me hanging out with a bunch of guys who like vigilantes?"

For some reason, Dave's step seemed to falter, and he peered at you curiously, "Oh. Are you--do you think vigilantes are bad?"

There was a hint of poorly disguised panic in his voice.

You were confused about why he was confused. The answer was obvious.

"Vigils are a good thing," you said, matter-of-factly. You were surprised that you had to break this down to someone as smart as him. "Sometimes people have vigils for their dead grandmas and their pets, and stuff. Someone who's anti-vigils is obviously not a good person."

Dave gave you a long, strange look and laughed. Like, actually laughed. You didn't understand what was so funny about being pro-vigils. You felt like that wasn't exactly a controversial opinion. Were you on the wrong side of history this whole time? Were vigils actually bad?

"Are they bad for the environment or something? Like, the candles?" You squinted at him. He rushed to ease your worries with an extended hand.

"No! No, it's--vigilantes aren't people who are anti-vigils. They beat up bad people."

Oh.

"What a weird name to have for that," You admitted rolling the word over in your brain. Then you brightened at the memory of something, "Hey there was a guy back home that was like that! Kick-Ass! Do you remember him?"

He said nothing for a moment, but shrugged in response.

"Yeah, kinda."

"All the girls in our grade were obsessed with him," you continued, fishing through your bag for your dorm key. "At first, we thought it was that one weird guy who used to try and sell us coke from the trunk of his car down the street from our school. But one girl said that he saved her dad from getting jumped, and he was apparently, like, young. At least college aged."

"Ha," Dave simply said, "Maybe. I kind of remember people thinking it was someone from our school, though. Someone most people wouldn't even really expect, because it'd be super hard to keep a low profile. Someone who's probably super strong and really cool, even though most people don't know it."

You suddenly giggled, "What if it was that guy Todd Haynes?"

Dave stumbled over his own feet and shot his hand out to steady himself.

"You know who Todd Haynes is?"

"Yeah, I know him. He was in my gym class!"

"He's my best friend, I've known him my whole life. I'm--shocked that you know him." You brightened at the new information.

"I didn't know Todd had friends! You sure are full of surprises today." He stared at you again. For a super long time. You weren't sure what was going on in his brain. You touched your cheek, "Again with the staring. I think you're lying. I definitely have something on my face."

[thedawningofthehour]

Hi!! Yes, hello, I cried again, thank you for that. Even though you said we „shouldn’t expect too much“, my heart is still very much cracked haha

ANYWAY, since the guessing game is still on, I was thinking a lot during this chapter. My guess is, either Raph has a really stupid idea that he‘s thinking through right now and that‘s why he‘s been so quiet OR smth happens to the Hueso place and he like sacrifices himself to get his family to escape like idk maybe EPF or smth knocks at the door and he holds them off

And so I was wondering if you could tell us when this stupid thing is gonna happen, I have a feeling it might be like the book 2 finale or somewhere close to that??

ALSO, I was wondering how you organise your chapters and the plot you write about. Do you have like a pinboard and put the NYC map on it and connect the dots with red yarn? (Detective style) or do you use some program or are just…weird and memorise it all?

Maybe he hasn't actually had the stupid idea yet, but he's definitely ruminating on everything that eventually compels him to make that decision.

The stupid thing will be a direct consequence of the final climax, so it'll be coming up here soon. I'm going to put up a poll probably after the next chapter.

I'm giddy that we're getting there, honestly. There's a foreshadow I put in literally in the single-digit chapters of Book 1 and when I wrote that I couldn't imagine actually getting to that point. I always feel like I'm going to die or something before I finish stuff, like, I was shocked when I finished doth.

Oh my goooood I am so terrible about plotting and outlines and stuff. I always, always feel like I'm in elementary school filling out a worksheet. I am basically this guy

except there is no paper because I haven't written anything down I'm just sleep deprived and rambling and smoking copious amounts of weed. (I have never smoked weed)

I know generally how the plots go, and as chapters draw closer I start thinking more specifically about where parts should go and where they would fit best. The whole war kick-off thing, that originally was going to happen after the third reverse-kidnapping, (the mall with the mercenaries one) but Gale and Mikey were still having their library trips, and that just seemed like an...awkward thing to have hanging over them. And it just didn't have to be. I could have cut that arc short, delayed the third reverse-kidnapping until after after the library meetings were discovered, or I could push off the war. And the war didn't need to happen then-if anything, it complicated the other plot points that needed to happen. And I think it worked out for the better this way.

I'm not totally satisfied with this method though. When I was writing Book 1, I had probably about half the fic written before I started posting-it was all in one document, Donnie's scenes were all together and Leo's scenes were in some incomprehensible order and often unfinished because I wasn't expecting to post anything and would just stop when I felt like it, when I finally committed to putting it to order I think I had like eight documents open at one point and three different highlighter colors to denote what I'd done in the master document, it was an ORDEAL-but it meant that I could group scenes together based on what was most effective, move things around very easily. The fact that Leo and Donnie's chapters were pointedly not happening at the same time helped a lot too. In Book 2, I end up writing with two, maybe three chapters planned ahead in my brain, and I feel like that forces me to sometimes rely on short-term climaxes that add to the word count but don't really do much for the story overall, or put off certain things that I don't particularly feel like writing at the time or don't know would work there. Book 2 would probably be significantly shorter if I'd plotted it out the way I did Book 1.

...What were we talking about? Oh! I do actually have a map of NYC open pretty much constantly in my fic window, it probably shows when they were driving around last chapter that I was literally going along the border with my pointer finger. But I'm terrible and I don't write any of this shit down. I usually remember, but there have been occasions where I've completely forgotten what I was going to do, and I think it was chapter 32 where I had pretty much finished the rest of the chapter and then realized I'd forgotten the final Leo scene-which was a pretty major scene. So I guess...yeah, weird and memorize sounds correct, but I don't actually do it that well.

[reyesstrand]

M and P for the fic asks <3

thank youuu jen 😙

m: got any premises on the back burner that you’d care to share?

here’s a handful from my ever-growing notes app where fic ideas either live or die:

- pottery au (it’s alive!!! and actively being worked on!!!! but mainly just in snippets. i need to actually sit down and work it all out still)

- the andrea & tk fic (it’s forever in limbo, and would explore different times andrea approached tk to talk about something and one time tk approached her about proposing. would explore their budding relationship and how their dynamic changes through the years)

- a nancy/tommy/tk grief introspective piece tied into tk and nancy having a Big Rescue and it resulting in ruminations on their friendship

- an idea that came to me literally in the middle of the night the other day and boiled down the realization that tarlos’ wedding anniversary will forever fall so close to the date of gabriel’s death, and how they deal with that

- tarloft + flowers (i think i noticed flowers in the background of a scene, and thought it might be good one-shot material)

- marjan/nancy dog park meet-cute au (idk. it’ll probably never happen but it’s a cute thought!!!)

p: are you what george r. r. martin would call an “architect” or a “gardener”? (how much do you plan in advance, versus letting the story unfold as you go?)

i feel like i’m much more of a gardener. usually i’ll think up one line/scene/chunk of dialogue and that’ll be the only thing i’ve thought of before sitting down to write. it’s a journey of allowing myself to get to that scene/line/bit of dialogue i really want to, and seeing what emerges to accompany it all. the only time i think i plan in advance is if it’s an episode coda and i need to rewatch to pull dialogue or make sure things are correct or it’s a canon-divergent fic/au and i have to plot out how i might fit in certain canon elements (like with my firefighter!carlos au, or currently with the pottery au).

fanfic asks <3

[sleepyowlwrites]

38 and 39 for the writer asks

38 I answered already and basically I said that I also think it's crazy that I write best when I'm going by the seat of my pants. like, just really, really pantsing it. NO plot, JUST vibes will get me the farthest into a story than any worldbuilding, brainstorming, outlining, or character sheet-ing will.

39. What keeps you writing when you feel like giving up?

I only felt like giving up the one time. and I did. I took a break. I also went to college during that time, so personally I think that was a very good reason to take the break separate from how nothing was working out the way I wanted it to, but yeah. I didn't write original fiction - minus a couple of shorts - for six years. I took a break for a couple years and then started writing fanfiction, which was a fantastic time. I built my original tumblr following with my fanfics, and I actually just had a spam of comments on ao3 from someone finding my fics and enjoying them. in 2018 I started writing original fiction again and I've been going reasonably steady since then - with the exception of November-December since 2020 because I'm too exhausted to write anything during those months.

nothing makes me want to stop writing anymore. this is, I think, due to a few factors.

a) I feel very positively about my writing. I don't always like it. I don't always think it's good, but I always feel positively about it in the sense that I'm glad I've written, I'm glad I'm writing. I don't get discouraged by crap first draft stuff. I also don't really write crap anymore, at the level I'm at. I write decent first draft stuff. not always coherent or going anywhere, but not bad. so it's easier to feel positive about it, but even if it were bad, I still wouldn't dislike it.

b) I write for me. my target audience is me. there is no purpose to my writing higher than the fact that I would like to read it, and right under the purpose is the fact that I enjoy the act of writing enough that regardless of quality, it is always a worthwhile pastime. there are no due dates, there are no rush orders, nothing is keeping me to being a writer except that I want to be. I write for me, because I like it.

c) if I need to take a break, if I'm getting burnt out, or if I'm just generally tired, I'll just do that. I won't write. I won't write plot, anyway. I might write character stats, or ideas, or set dressing, or vibes. or nothing. I'll just think about it. again, it's all for me, I've got the time to rest before I continue.

d) if I come to a point where something I've been work on isn't currently working any longer, I'll put it aside. by now you must know I have so many projects. I flounder if I try to work on only one wip at a time, and so I have current projects, backburner projects, lost in the shuffle projects, barely formed concepts, blank books, all kinds of stuff. there's always something new or reused that I can think about. I don't feel guilty about putting something down and picking up something new. soon enough I'll be picking up that old thing again.

I haven't worked on summon story in a bit because it wasn't working. so I was ruminating about guild story and answering asks about city story and I wrote that scene for apocalypse story. and then! I figured out what was going on with summon story! it was the tone. it wasn't goofy enough. I was trying to shove a plot in where it wasn't wanted. I know how I want to write it now. so I can, whenever I've got the spoons. and the soup. the brain soup.

thanks for asking, Rainstorm!

[epersonae]

ehehehehe time for fic writer asks! R, Z, AN, AP, BC, BV, and then BW, BX, and BY for carlita <3

GIRL THIS IS SO MANY

Do you title your fics before, during, or after the writing process? How do you come up with titles?

fuck titles, all my homies hate titles, etc etc. I don't think I've ever come up with a title first, but I can't say never for sure, so: sometimes during, often after. occasionally it'll be a significant line from the story itself, sometimes it'll be the classic thing of looking for a song lyric (and sometimes that means you are pitching me TMG lyrics), and once I just ended up with the dumbest description and couldn't think of anything else. (Looking thru the first page of my recent works, I swear there's one of every possible methodology, and actually I think Commit to the Bit I had the title either before or very early during the writing!)

Which of your fics would you call your wildest ride?

Carlita help (ie, for the benefit of all the broken hearts) - I say this both as a writer and about the story itself, the whole process has been a kind of extended madness, and also it's just a very odd piece altogether imho.

If someone were to make fanart of your work, what fic or scene would you hope to see?

we were talking about this on the phone yesterday! there is a scene in the next chapter of for the benefit of all the broken hearts that I would actually make good art. I also think there's some good visuals in the boss battle scene of The Reckoning Arrives that would be fun to have as art. (oooh, or Lucretia sitting at Taako's bedside after?) Oh, and Ed and Stede in the auxiliary closet in nice either way.

What’s the last fic you read? Do you recommend it?

I just read the second chapter of Respawn and it's very good. This AU gets something about Stede that I really appreciate, and Izzy's intro is fucking hilarious.

Of the characters you write for, which is your favorite? Has that choice been swayed at all by your followers/readers’ reactions to certain ones?

Is it possible????? that the unnamed wife (aka carlita) of for the benefit of all the broken hearts???? has supplanted my other faves??? Which is tricky because she is more or less an OC, so I don't know if that counts.

Honestly, even though it's been ages, it might still be Lucretia, if only because I am fairly evenly split in my enjoyment of writing both Ed POV and Stede POV.

I don't think? reader reactions comes into it much, except maybe specifically your obsession with Carlita lol.

You’ve posted a fic anonymously. How would someone be able to guess that you’d written it?

THIS IS A FASCINATING QUESTION THAT I HAVE ACTUALLY THOUGHT ABOUT. (I'm not digging it up now but I wrote a long rumination about that in re that collaborative Choose Your Own Adventure project, and trying to recognize writers I know.) Here's what I would say is particular to my unbetaed work: punctuation pokemon (gotta catch em all!), excessive parentheticals, "and then", and "is verbing". (I cautiously tag @gaypiratebrainrot who is by now exceedingly familiar with all my writing tics)

Thematically? idk. I'm pretty sure it's there, but I often don't notice those things until someone else points them out.

These three were requests about for the benefit of all the broken hearts specifically:

What scene in [Fanfic Name] took the longest to write? What was difficult about it? 

I don't know about the longest, but I'm pretty sure this most recent chapter (13) took the most drafts and the most reworking and rethinking.

There's so much going on, and all of the characters are finally "on deck" as it were, which means there's both a ton of conflicting emotions and motivations to keep track of AND "I am bedeviled by the matter of the pronouns" AND there's important action that takes place entirely off-page, and deliberately so, which meant I was resisting the need to write what that was because it was going to be throwaway writing, but it turns out I had to in order to make it work. The bit where Mary and Ed first meet backstage I probably ended up with four drafts altogether, including once where I threw out a huge chunk and just rewrote from scratch.

(oh plus I had a real life experience that necessitated a handful of little setting tweaks)

All of which is fair, because it's a big turning point and needs to be both surprising AND make sense in context. Which means I also had to go back to earlier points in the story and adjust in order to get some sense of foreshadowing, or at least plausibility. So thank you for pitching me on the idea for what turned out to the most difficult thing I've ever written in my entire goddamn life, I guess.

Did you have any ideas that didn’t make the final cut of [Fanfic Name]? 

I had this idea for something where Mary and Carlita would be painting together, maybe in the style of Jackson Pollack? (this may have been based on one of your pitches) And I can see it in my mind's eye but it just didn't work in context at all!

Do you have a favorite scene you’ve written from [Fanfic Name] story/chapter? 

I have two favorites, and one of them is the painting scene that I did write. I love the tension and the physicality of it. The other is in chapter 17, so a few chapters from now (YOU know the one), and I'm not going to spoil it but I like it a LOT.

[fic author asks]

[tea-with-veth]

how to write fight scene???help?

Hi anon. Don't know if you're still around, but I've been ruminating on this since it landed in my inbox in February of 2021. And I'm finally sitting down to give you my tips. Sorry for the delay...of like..two years...

How to write fight scene:

Figure out what you need the scene to accomplish. Where do you want the characters to be when the scene ends? What's the goal? Is someone dead or injured? Does someone flee the battlefield? You can use that information to build the scene toward its desired end goal.

Determine a flow of action for the scene. This one is the hardest step and the one that always takes me the most time. What actually happens during the fight? Visualizing things (like it's a movie in your head) helps. When I get stuck I sit down and draw a storyboard, to help me keep track of the characters and figure out who goes where.

Use the environment to keep things interesting. Where is your fight happening? Use that imaginary space to make the battle dynamic. If they're in a forest, describe the characters vaulting over rocks or hiding behind trees. If they're in a castle, have them swordfight on a table. Maybe one character gets his sword knocked out of his hands and has to use improvisational tools around him, like a kitchen knife or a poker from a nearby fireplace.

The rule of badass moments. Include at least two or three badass moments per fight scene-- particularly if it's a big one. Try and give all the characters a minimum of one, and rotate between characters getting their moment in the spotlight. For instance, in the ultimate fight scene in my first fic, and as he fell (you walked away), I have five characters on the battlefield: George, Sapnap, and Bad all fighting Techno, and Dream who is incapacitated. Each gets a badass moment-- George shoots Techno in the hand, Sapnap charges in from behind with a fallen sword, Bad does a feint where he drops his sword and instead stabs with a stiletto, Techno gains the upper hand and almost strangles Bad to death, and Dream comes in with a big last-minute rescue by stabbing him from the back. There's the connective tissue between each of these moments, but these badass moments give the fight structure.

The rule of suspense. Keep your fight scene interesting by making it seem like your protagonist might lose. Don't be afraid to let them get beat up, fear losing, or have to fight for the upper hand. It's tempting to make your hero an invincible badass, but they're going to be at their most engaging when you don't know what will happen. Plus, it will make your fight more active.

Get in the head of your protagonist. If they're an experienced fighter, they're going to observe the fight more clearly, notice more details, and keep their emotions from overwhelming their ability. You could show this by revealing their thought process, showing more environmental details, and using full sentences. If they're less experienced, or more emotional, you could show that by making things more choppy and confusing, to reflect what the experience is like from their eyes.

Pay attention to pace and flow. In my fic the words of an emperor (verba amici) I open with a fight between Technoblade and Philza when they first meet. In order to give the fight momentum, I use sentence fragments, sentences cut short, and long run-on sentences in combination to give the whole fight a stream-of-consciousness feeling. That way, even though the fight takes up a decent chunk of the chapter, it feels fast-paced and urgent. Communicating that sense of speed and momentum can make your scene more intense!

Ultimately, this advice will help you write a fun, though formulaic, Hollywood-style fight scene. I recommend watching movie clips or imagining your fight over and over again, letting it play out in your mind's eye. You can always mix and match recommendations as you see fit. I hope that this is at least a little bit helpful! Thanks for the question anon :)

[jaynovz]

Fics with John Silver Backstory/Past Rec List

Hello hello! 

In celebration/honor of me finally finishing my Gigantic Silver Backstory, I’ve compiled a list of other fics which either feature their own versions or heavily hint at Past Horrors. So not all of these have a full Deal, but they all hint at/touch on Silver’s past in some way. I was def inspired by a lot of these stories, but at the same time tried to carve my own path. 

(this doesn’t include any mod au stuff, only canon era)

Hope you enjoy~

--

el cuentacuento by straddling_the_atmosphere:

Summary: At the end of the day, John Silver is an unreliable narrator.

Or: a storyteller's story.

Notes: Exactly what it says on the tin. The format of this one is brilliant, wow, it gives me chills. Silver telling stories interspersed with flashback memories. Really quite phenomenal. Heed the tags!

More Than One Odysseus by Freudhood, mcicioni:

Summary: Reunion fic, about two years after 4.10. Quite a lot of talking and a little of the following: fishing, sex, hunting, bathtubs, Jewish surnames, books, stories, and Terra Australis.

Notes: This is a post-canon fixit with Jewish!Silver revealing a few things about his past, giving Flint something so he’ll start to trust him again. It has one of my FUCKING FAVORITE Silver philosophies on storytelling as a whole: 

“You start with a fact,” he says, and it’s still fucking general and vague, but it’s the best he can do for the moment. “And then you work it over, like you would with a piece of steel that’ll eventually become a knife, or a sword. You forge it.You hammer it. You file it. You grind it. You polish it. And you’ve got a story.”

Wow it’s so good. A really well-rounded and good story!

upon the tedious shores by Aisalynn:

Summary: He didn’t remember his mother. He didn’t know if she held him close to her body and rocked him in her arms, whispering his name into the top of his head. Didn’t know if she named him at all.

It didn’t matter. When you live a life as unremarkable as his, no one cares what you are called.

Notes: Silver ruminates on the names he’s been called over the years. A rehash of canon of sorts as well as a fix-it.

I read this wonderful little fic around the time I first started writing my own backstory and was struck by the similarities. Truly the Black Sails Silver lovers share a braincell at times.

Cloth of Gold by dornfelder:

Summary: "Tell me one thing," Flint says.

Silver lifts his head, eyes full of apprehension. "If I can."

"If you were to tell me about your past – about all the things you cannot bear for me to know – what do you think I might do?"

Notes: This might be my favorite story about Silver’s past that doesn’t actually reveal anything solid? The way it’s done is BRILLIANT. It is Flint Seeing him without needing any of the firm/finer details that Silver simply Cannot Speak. ABSOLUTELY INSPIRED.

To Be Free of Temptation by anselm0:

Summary: “What would you suggest we do instead, then?”

Maybe it was the way he said it, the way Flint was sitting with his knees sprawled out, or the secrets he guarded so closely; Silver didn’t know what it was, but somebody’s Devil took ahold of his tongue then and he said, “I think we should fuck.”

Notes: This story doesn’t have explicit Silver past, but it hints very heavily at past noncon/sexual trauma. Also it’s just a BRILLIANT Silverflint fic where they come together in a sort of alt early s3.

One of my forever faves for how awkward the sex is at first, the miscommunication, and then Flint taking the time to figure out What is Happening and fix it. I have def taken cues from this dynamic in other fics, as you’ve seen :P And I am ofc a FIRM believer of Silver having had sex work go very very wrong in his Unspeakable Past.

Ponce De Leon Avenue by flawlessassholes:

Summary: "Hey," He says, his eyes crinkling. "You think we've found the Fountain of Youth?"

Silver snorts. "I hope not. You'd be terrible at being immortal."

---

After the events of 2x01, Flint and Silver leave for St. Augustine and find the Fountain of Youth.

Notes: Another Jewish!Silver interpretation. A canon au after 2.1 that has the Most Fascinating OT4, wow. And wow this story in general is so so interesting and devastating. The Silverflint dynamic here is unique and choice. They’re immortals here, if that wasn’t clear from the summary.

let us possess one world by vowelinthug:

Summary: They return to Nassau after their defeat of the British Navy, only to be met by Agitator Billy and his propaganda machine. This is why Captain Flint tries not to let other people decide things.

In which: Flint wears a disguise, Silver tells a terrible story, one bathes the other, and only one man died the whole night which is, like, definitely a record for them.

Notes: More exploration of the Rise of Long John Silver, as well as a really great Silverflint fic. Silver shares a bit with Flint about his past. Written before s4 and 4.9, so the vibe is a little different, but it still fits beautifully.

slouches towards bethlehem to be born by straddling_the_atmosphere:

Summary: It takes two weeks to get Flint off of Skeleton Island.

Or rather, it takes two weeks for the island to let them go.

Notes: I’ve recced this one before, and here it is again lmao. It contains some terrifying hallucinations/flashbacks for Silver of his Unspeakable Past.

Also it’s a true horror story! Featuring Skeleton Island as an ancient entity which Silver and Flint must sacrifice to in order to escape. Another case of things being both resolved and unresolved between the lads. A forever favorite.

There is Freedom in the Dark by i_ship_an_armada:

Summary: After Savannah, James is a lost, broken man until a bit of magic helps him see what he missed in his past so he may choose a different path leading to the peace he so desperately wishes for.

A story of mistakes and bitterness, magic and mysterious messages, forgiveness and love, with a little bit of hope thrown in.

Notes: An extremely in-depth and compelling post-canon Silverflint fix-it, with supernatural elements. Very satisfying, with a Silver backstory take that I found extremely interesting and creative. But I won’t spoil it. :P

The Tether Series by stele3:

Summary: “So you did find him,” the man says faintly. When Thomas looks up he finds himself caught in perhaps the strangest regard one person has ever given another, a gaze that absolutely does not dissuade Thomas from the notion that a feral, scavenging animal has broken into their home.

Notes: This is an amazing series top to bottom and contains many wonderful stories. It’s my favorite Jewish!Silver interpretation by far and might be my favorite Silver backstory period. 

My two specific favorite sections for Silver are A Dance on the Floorboards and The Snake in the Grass, but you really should just read the whole series. It’s very long and very sad at points, but well worth the investment. Truly a freakin’ masterpiece.

The Canterbury Tales by Wind_Ryder:

Summary: Pirates. Attacking Georgia. A part of Thomas wants to believe that there's nothing at all relating the events outside to the events in his personal life.

But when he turns around and sees John Silver slipping in through the backdoor, he very much doubts that's the case. "Tea?" Thomas asks blandly, throwing the latch and shutting his blinds like a good Puritan man.

James, of course, chooses that moment to rush up the steps to Thomas's shop. All but colliding with the door, not expecting it to be locked, and Thomas takes pity. Opening it and closing it behind him the moment he's rushed in.

At first, James' attention was solely on Thomas. A pleasant thing in most circumstances, but Thomas can only smile blandly and watch with slight amusement as James' attention wavers. "What the fuck are you doing here?" He hisses, spotting John within seconds. And John responds by doing what any sane man should do when the weight of James' full ire is directed at him.

He swoons.

Notes: Another huge story investment with many twists and turns and lots of slowburn character resolutions. As in, a Gigantic Fix-it. I don’t want to spoil the Silver take here, but I haven’t seen anything else like it in the fandom. The Novel Discussions series as a whole is well worth your time.

the aftershocks remain by pdameron:

Summary: For as long as he can remember, John Silver has been able to see ghosts. He has no trouble keeping this secret from Flint - until Charlestown. Until Miranda.

-

the working title for this was "the paranorman fic"

Notes: The Miranda-Silver bonding fic we deserved. Featuring a lot of ghosts from Silver’s past, literally, that he’s spoken to over the years. Full of delicious flashbacks. I absolutely adore this story. Spooky and sweet and sad and wonderful.

The Power of the Telling by Farasha:

Summary: In a quiet moment back at New Providence, in Miranda's house, John Silver ponders the man James Flint might have been once upon a time. Flint still knows so little about his quartermaster, it seems that John can still surprise him, even in the smallest things.

Notes: Silver likes to read!! They talk about power and books and there’s some kissing. A lovely story.

yes and no by youatemytailor:

Summary: "I can sit for an oil painting if you like,” Silver says with a grin.

Notes: Jewish!Silver again. He’s circumcised and Flint keeps noticing. Eyes Emoji.

lost on you by youatemytailor:

Summary: Silver is in the room when it happens. He’s not sure if he’s glad for it, in retrospect.

Notes: A Flint-is-sick fic that I ADORE where Silver reveals a few things about himself. A very good Silverflint fic in general.

to know the worth of my life by mapped:

Summary: So big a name for so small a man.

John Silver feels very small.

Notes: A post-series fix-it and Silver character study. Ends with a reveal of his true name. Good shit.

What’s in a Name? by Craftnarok:

Summary: Some conversations in the dark between Flint and Silver, set during episode 3x09. They have a moment alone in the Maroon camp, after Mr. Scott's death, and what begins as curiosity and sharing develops into rather a lot more.

Notes: Just a really good Silverflint fic all around, with them sharing stories and bonding. Another story written before s4 and 4.9, so take that into account. I still really like it and think it’s a good take.

And I? by depugnare:

Summary: When he’s blown off the side of the ship, the last thing he sees is Flint’s horrified face looking down at him from above.

Wonders if it’s the fate of all of those closest to Flint to die this way.

Notes: When Silver is assumed dead in s4, he “kills” his past self for good. AHHH THE CHILLBUMPS.

a few good words and the tide by samedifference61:

Summary: A man can be anyone if the truth is buried deep enough.

Notes: A loose s4 rehash with flashbacks from Silver’s past. Very sad, very poignant. 

With Nothing on My Tongue by RosieTwiggs:

Summary: "Silver thinks: Maybe God likes it when I fight with him.

He wonders now, whether he’s been playing into God’s plan all along. Because no matter how angry he gets, how defensive, how many “fuck you”s he flings to the heaven, isn’t it all just proof that he still believes God is there, despite it all?

Silver doesn’t know how to counter that.

Maybe he doesn’t want to anymore."

The Jewish!John Silver character study no one asked for, but you're all getting anyway.

Notes: A canon rehash as seen through the lens of a Jewish!Silver. Absolutely devastating but just AMAZING. This is not a fix-it. HEED THE TAGS.

a hopeless violence (i named it love) by MaymayC:

Summary: “I have no idea who you were.” Flint looks almost shocked at this realization. John tries not to shift, repressing the urge to run that immediately rises up. “Not before we found you, at any rate.” John has to laugh at that, like he’s some stray that Flint decided to keep, here on these godforsaken cliffs that Flint insists they train atop.

Notes: Here’s another brilliant take on Jewish!John Silver, written in a stream of conscious style that is EXCELLENTLY done. Pitch perfect with some very immersive historical details which show careful research. Gave me a lot of feelings about my own story.

“Jesus Christ, don’t do that,” he says. “If you want to know where I come from just ask.” It almost even feels like the truth to say it, like if Flint asked him in the just the right way, John could find the words that would make his life till now into something that could be understood.

-

or, John Silver grapples with the concept of identity.

Ner Tamid by notfelix:

Summary: "He takes Muldoon’s hand, flesh cold and thick as deepest water. It requires some maneuvering before he finds the right position. The only thing that feels comfortable is to grip Muldoon exactly as he had while fighting, screaming, to keep them both above the surface. Silver tightens his hold, and flexes and pulls: this time he will do it better. This time he will do it correctly. This time he’ll get the man so much fucking air he won’t even know what to do with it."This time he will lift him up properly, and when it’s all over he will put him down properly, too."

—

Jewish!Silver character study by way of doldrums cannibalism fic. y'know. normal stuff.

Notes: Another Jewish!John Silver take that packs a PUNCH straight to your guts.  A perfect character study, a perfect short story. No, but the craft in this is stunning from top to bottom, I could teach a class about it. I simply cannot recommend this highly enough. This one will get inside your flesh and stay with you like the most brutally emotional haunting. Mind tags as always.

--

Okay, phew, this list is long!

As usual, hit me up if there’re any really good ones I’ve overlooked!

[zorua-adorable]

Cut Out and Cut Short

This was inspired by this post by @blossomoranges. Additionally, @i-dont-need-socks-mom said they wanted a fic of this.

This is unbeta'd, so please let me know if you see any mistakes. Also let me know how I did with writing Ingo; I haven't written him before, so I'm unsure.

Trigger Warning for angst, character death, a broken leg, and a character panicking (let me know if you think it qualifies as a panic attack).

Word Count: 1187

Part Two

After being informed from Lian and Mai that neither clan could take her in, Akari decided to make for the Coronet Highlands. After all, if she was to fix this, she had to go to the source. It was quite a bit of a walk from the Obsidian Fieldlands though, which left her to ruminate on what had happened back in Jubilife.

‘Who am I? I am a Survey Corps member, or at least I was. But before that, who was I? Could I actually have had something to do with this and forgotten about it? No, that being… Arceus, it said it was called? It brought me here for some reason. But what if this is some sort of punishment – remove my memories and make me clean up my own mess?’

By the time she had reached the Heavenward Lookout, Akari was so lost in her thoughts and insecurities that she did not notice the Alpha Luxray nearby. The former Survey Corps member wasn’t anticipating one either, as during her field research, she had only ever found those in the Sacred Plaza by the Moonview Arena.

Regardless, Akari might not have spotted it, but it spotted her. The Alpha Luxray conducted some electricity and rammed into her using Wild Charge. She cried out in shock and pain as she was pushed toward the edge of a cliff. Upon realizing the situation, she pulled out her Celestica Flute.

‘Better summon Lord Braviary to get out of–’ Akari thought in a panic, but her thoughts and actions were cut off by a direct hit from a Thunder Fang. The force sent her tumbling down the side of the cliff, only to hear a definitive SNAP! when she reached the bottom.

‘Wait, was that a second snap I heard?’ the girl wondered to herself as she searched for the flute, but when she found it, it had snapped in two.

“Oh no no no no no.” Akari murmured to herself as her panic rose and it started to get harder to breathe.

‘No wait, calm down. I can recover from this, I just need to send out my–’ she rationalized as she reached for a Poké Ball from her satchel, only to find herself grasping air.

“What? Where is it?” Akari asked herself, looking around, when she spotted it a ways away from where she had landed.

‘That Thunder Fang must have cut the strap’ the fifteen year old realized. ‘It’s okay, I can still reach it.’ She started to crawl toward it, when she felt a strong pain in her leg; as she turned to check her leg, she found it bent in ways it shouldn’t be bending.

‘Definitely a second snap I heard.’

Then, Akari heard static generating above her, and looked up to see an unnaturally growing cloud.

“No no no no no!” Akari cried, the panic reigniting fiercer than before.

‘This is it; I’m gonna die. They all told me Pokémon were deadly, but I didn’t believe them for some reason. It’s kind of ironic; it’s ironic that it’s a Luxray when Rei was attacked by a Shinx not long before we met. It’s ironic that I was cut out of the only space I can recall considering home, and that my time is now being cut short.’

‘I’m sorry, Arceus, that I couldn’t complete whatever it was that you sent me here for.’

‘I’m sorry, Professor, that I can’t help finish the Pokédex.’

‘I’m sorry, Captain, that I couldn’t honor your last order.’

‘I’m sorry, everyone I knew before I ended up in Hisui. I’m sorry that I forgot you, and I’m sorry that you may never find out what happened to me.’

‘I’m sorry, Ingo, that I couldn’t help you with your memories more.’

As the Thunder came down, Akari let out a haunting scream until there was no more breath in her lungs.

~~~~~

Ingo was currently on track through Wayward Cave, pleasantly noting that the torches had not been removed. His destination was the Pearl Settlement in the Alabaster Icelands, having received a summons from Lady Irida. As he approached the cave’s terminus, he heard a shriek from the outside that sent a chill down his spine. He rushed out of the cave and spotted the tail end of a Thunder from… an Alpha Luxray?

‘Those are not stationed this far down the mountain,’ he noted as he approached the scene. As he got closer, he spotted a lump on the ground and realized that must have been the source of that scream.

“Gliscor, all aboard! Earth Power, strong style!” Ingo commanded. In one hit, the Alpha Luxray was defeated. Ingo shifted tracks from the battle to the injured passenger, but once he got closer, he noticed just who it was.

“Miss Akari?” he questioned, getting on the ground next to her for a maintenance check. Frankly, she was in terrible shape. However, in his inspection, he realized that she was non-operative – as was her pulse. Ingo started to feel a sense of failure well up in his chest.

‘She was my passenger, and she was lost in the lands I protect,’ he thought to himself as reality began to fade away. Recently, he’d been having more dreams about the man in white who looked like him; he recalled how he was very adamant about safety. ‘I wonder if he would be disappointed in me, that I allowed this to happen…’ The very thought made him feel a tremendous amount of pain in his heart. He tilted his hat down – whether to keep from crying or to hide the tears, he was unsure.

Ingo was brought back by his Gliscor, holding something in its pincers.

“This was Miss Akari’s satchel. Where did you find it?” Gliscor pointed to a spot not too far from where he was currently stationed. As Ingo turned back to the girl, he noticed her Celestica Flute on the ground in two pieces.

“She must have been trying to call for help, but ran out of time.” As Ingo went to put the pieces inside the satchel, he found some photos.

‘Ah, these are her copies of the pictures we took together after she quelled Lord Electrode.’ Ingo kept his copies in a pocket in his coat. He was now immensely glad he agreed to taking them, for if something were to happen to his memory again, he would have a physical reminder of Akari.

“We cannot leave her here to rust; we shall bring her with us as we depart again for the settlement.” Gliscor nodded, before being recalled to its Poké Ball.

Ingo removed his coat to wrap up the young girl’s body. Typically, he felt wrong without his coat; it was one of the few things he had of his previous life. However, the situation at hand was far more pressing. The Icelands were, well, cold, and her body must be kept warm on the journey. He stored her belongings with his own, lifted her up, and said in the quietest voice he had ever used:

“Well, Miss Akari. All aboard to the Alabaster Icelands.”

Part Two

[avelera]

I've been thinking a lot about 'joy' in fiction lately.

This rumination began back when I described 'my novel' to my dad. Yeah, that novel. The novel we're all working on but that we're too scared or too busy or too hung up on outlining to actually write. The details of the novel are immaterial but it is something of a tragedy, and when I finished describing it my dad said, "Where's the joy in it? Where's the fun?"

At the time I was indignant, the point of the novel wasn't to be "fun", but it was styled as an adventure so it was a fair question. I didn't have an answer. I was consumed by the tragedy of that story and hadn't really thought about where the other pleasures of the genre, like fun or joy, would fit into the story. He and I disagree about a lot when it comes to fiction so I was tempted to write off the comment as him 'missing the point' but we also agree on many things and he was the one who introduced me to a love of reading at a young age with his nightly storytelling, so the critique stuck. And grew. And worried at me. I began to really, really think about where the joy and fun were in stories, even in tragedies.

This was several years ago and the world has become a grimmer place since then, or perhaps I've simply aged and become more aware of what's around me. The latter is more likely. Perhaps it is with age and awareness that I began to really see his point. As a teenager, craving the most extreme of experiences, I longed to read and write stories of the most aching anguish: the world is ending and my lover is dying in my arms, that sort of thing. It was about teasing at emotions too big and operatic for me to have experienced yet at that age. Pain and anguish and drama and tragedy are all wonderful seasonings, they allow us to live vicariously feelings outside what we've experienced. Fiction allows us to safely, on our own terms, and at our own pace, experience destruction, and self-destruction in ways we'd never want to permanently impact our real lives. With experience and lived pain, though, I believe one loses a bit of one's taste for the banality of endless pain and unmixed anguish, even in fiction.

There should be joy somewhere, perhaps not in every story, but as a maxim to myself for future creative endeavors, I believe this is important. It's hard to see the depths of a rich, inky darkness without a bit of light. It's hard to appreciate a character crying if we've never seen them laugh. Even as a writer, it can be hard to live in the lowest depths of a character's despair if there's no break from that emotion. It's hard for audiences, I think, to cheer for a character if they never see their happiness as well as their suffering.

On a more personal, fandom note it's one reason I'm reassessing some of my older WIPs in fandoms like Pacific Rim, where Newt/Hermann as a couple were a comedy ship for me at first but the events of Uprising made Newt's fate so gutwrenching, and in my own fics as well, that I feel I abandoned some WIPs just because I could no longer live in that place. Even if the story still calls to me to be finished, I feel I need to rediscover the joy there. For OFMD I feel it a personal mission that anything longer than a one-shot that I might write contain some glimmer of the humor of the source material, or else it feels like a disservice to the text. In my own novel, I’m mentally writing and re-writing the outline (maybe someday I'll write the actual book!) trying to find where the joy should go. It feels like the latest key to unlocking the story.

Joy has a place in stories. Not always a central place, but like Hope in Pandora's box of horrors, we need a glimmer of it, I think. Or at least I do, these days, to be fully engaged. It's where my head is at lately. It's what I hope to impart in whatever I do next.

[mearcatsreturns]

Okay, so you KNOW I'm now inevitably forced to ask for the actual fic prompt of Ivan trying to give his boss romantic advice, casual-like. (No need to confine yourself to 100 words. I mean what.)

I thought I could just write a thousand words of jokes, but then all these fools came and had the audacity to put feelings up in here. *Ivan voice* Disgusting.

Initially I was going to have this all as one chapter, but it was getting crazy long and I wanted to publish it tonight, so you get chapter 1 of 2, with the rest to follow in the next day or two.

Without further ado, Ivan, Interrupted:

Looking back, he should have seen the signs. The Sun Summoner is trouble and has been from day one.

He called that one, at least.

It’s not his fault. How is he supposed to recognize the stupidity of heterosexuals? He and Fedyor fell in love as young teens and haven’t parted in anger since. They look out for each other and try to spoil each other in all the small ways the other enjoys.

The General and Alina Starkov are a different story.

&&&

Ivan is there when the oprichniki drag Alina into General Kirigan’s tent in Kribirsk. She looks all for the world like the otkazat’sya he’s fought near the border of Shu Han. He can’t hold it against her, though; he knows better than anyone that appearances can deceive.

What he can hold against her is her denial. Even after twice showing that she can indeed summon sunlight, the little fool somehow believes she’s not Grisha. General Kirigan, a human amplifier and probably the most powerful Grisha on the planet, touches her and confirms it, and she still clings to her past. Ivan can’t understand why someone would want to deny something so intrinsic.

More worryingly, he sees his commander’s face as he tries to figure out the Starkov girl. It’s not a look he’s ever seen on Kirigan’s face, and it fills him with dread. The bemusement at her reply to his questioning about what she is turns to something...joyous and darkly yearning, in the General’s understated way.

People consider Ivan stoic and difficult to read, but he learned from the best, and his boss is the best.

Ivan is very discomfited to see Kirigan showing signs of experiencing emotions.

&&&

His unease only grows when Kirigan commands him and Fedyor to escort the Sun Summoner to Os Alta.

“Ivan, I need you and Fedyor to accompany Miss Starkov to the Little Palace. Make haste, and use all your formidable talents to keep harm from coming to her.”

“But the mission to West Ravka—”

“Will have to wait. Everyone in a twenty-mile radius saw her light show, and that may well include some of Ravka’s enemies. She—this—is more important than anybody knows. Keep her safe, and I’ll keep you and Fedyor off the front lines for six months.”

Ivan clears his throat.

“Yes?” Kirigan asks with a lift of his brow.

“Will you be staying, or do you need me to send word ahead that you’ll be arriving as well, sir?”

The General’s face smooths into its usual mask of power and calm. “No, I imagine I may well arrive before you all, as you’ll be taking my carriage.”

“As you say, General.”

Kirigan dismisses him, and he stomps off to find Fedyor so they can leave posthaste.

Ivan’s exasperation only grows when the Starkov tries, of all things, to stay and find some tracker friend of hers, tries to deny who she is. She even questions the General’s judgment, something not even Ivan dares to do.

(Privately, he agrees that this whole endeavor is a mistake. Alina Starkov is trouble, and he has an uncomfortable feeling that all their lives are about to change in ways no one can predict).

He hauls her into the carriage, plopping her on the seat across from the one he shares with Fedyor. Perhaps one of them ought to sit next to her to make sure she doesn’t get into any further foolishness, but Ivan’s crabby enough he wants to sit next to his husband.

Once they get out of Kribirsk and on the Vy, she settles down a bit, but she radiates nervous energy and it puts him on edge.

Fedyor, bless him, does his best to put the Sun Summoner at ease. But she’s resentful and afraid, and it irritates Ivan. He knows he should try to be understanding, but with all the fear and resentment he’s put up with from the otkazat’sya—his own family, even—he struggles to find the patience to explain why she should trust in the General and the Grisha. Nonetheless, he tries to soothe her the only way he knows how: by reminding her of the power she now holds.

Ivan’s thoughts drift to what might await them all in Os Alta, but his ruminations are interrupted by the shouts of the oprichniki warning them of a blockage in the road.

The dread he was feeling dissipates in the face of the familiar. He’s ready to fight against an ambush by Ravka’s enemies. He’s not ready to confront the existential questions Alina Starkov brings.

And fighting side-by-side with Fedyor never grows old. His blood sings, his heart pounds with the fierce excitement of a fight with his beloved at his side.

The fucking Fjerdans. Ivan hates the drüskelle for their hatred of the Grisha, and that fire burns hotter when Fedyor is hit in the leg. Fear twists in his belly as he examines Fedyor’s wound, though he claims it’s fine. Ivan, the most feared heartrender in Ravka, can’t concentrate enough to tell how many their enemies number, so he delegates it to Katya. He remembers the Summoner in the carriage, and issues a command for one of the other Grisha to protect her, but the screams fade into the background of his mind as he does his best to heal Fedyor.

Then he senses the shadows that accompany Kirigan—the reason the people mutter in fear, call him the Darkling—and the Fjerdans melt back into the wood. Shame mixes with his fear for Fedyor, and Ivan swears to himself when, after a few moments he hears the General speak to one of the Etherealki who’ve made it back to the carriage.

“Tend to the wounded. Then tell Ivan to make sure everyone gets back to Little Palace as quickly as possible and report to me. I’ll be waiting.”

“Yes, sir.”

Shit. He had one job, and she’s now riding off in the General’s arms.

Alina Starkov is definitely trouble.

&&&

They finally arrive back at the Little Palace late that night. Once everyone, the Grisha and the horses, are all seen to, Ivan makes his way to General Kirigan’s rooms. The oprichniki guarding the door nod at him and make way for him to knock. The General calls out in that even tone of his for Ivan to enter. He does so, anxiety and defiance mixing in his chest.

Nonetheless, Ivan is deferential. “Sir.”

Those dark eyes sweep over him from head to toe, and where there’s normally amusement or quiet affability, he’s unreadable as he is when meeting with the tsar and tsaritsa. “I see you’ve made it back. Are you well?”

“Yes, sir.” Ivan begins to sweat under the woollen collar of his kefta.

“And Fedyor?”

“Much better. He’s recovering.”

“Good,” the General says, pausing for a long, uncomfortable moment before continuing, “now, perhaps you could explain why you disregarded my clear, express orders to guard Alina.”

Alina, he notes. Not “Miss Starkov” or “the Sun Summoner.”

Ivan’s jaw tenses. “My apologies, moi soverennyi. Fedyor was shot while we were attempting to protect the carriage. I thought we’d be better able to protect her with both our powers.”

The Darkling—for that’s who he is at this moment—turns to face the windows. It’s black as pitch outside, but it wouldn’t surprise Ivan if Kirigan could see through the shadows of the night. “I don’t want excuses, Ivan. Had I not been nearby, Alina would have been lost, and Ravka would have lost its greatest hope in centuries.”

Ivan waits, knowing there’s little he can say.

Kirigan turns back. “See that it doesn’t happen again, or I will see to it that you and Fedyor are put on different assignments for the foreseeable future.”

Anger rises in his throat, but Ivan stomps it down. It will do him no favors to argue. The only thing he can do is go to bed, hold Fedyor close, and hope things settle soon. “Yes, General.”

&&&

The next day, a contingent of the Grisha accompany General Kirigan and Alina to the Big Palace. Ivan is used to walking by the General’s side, but Alina is there instead. With Fedyor still recovering in their rooms under the care of the healers, Ivan is alone, distant from the group. He feels a pang of melancholy so fierce it threatens to overwhelm him.

The Sun Summoner looks much better today than she had when he last saw her, and it seems Kirigan thinks so too. After he greets the King and Queen, he can hardly take his eyes off the girl, that same awed, wondering look in his eyes again.

Through the shadows his boss conjures, Ivan sees the way he looks at her, the way he leans over to whisper in his ear, the gesture nearly a caress. The Summoner lights up the darkness, and Ivan can’t take his eyes off the two of them. Alina Starkov smiles at Kirigan, and instead of the polite, unknowable smile he’d normally return to a courtier or even one of his rare mistresses, Kirigan looks back at her like she’s his every dream come true.

After the display is over, the King tries to bumble his way through negotiating over Alina’s training. And in front of the entire court and a good number of the Grisha,the General claims Alina. She will stay in the Little Palace with him, Kirigan states, his tone brooking no argument, not even from the sovereign ruler of Ravka.

Kirigan takes Alina’s hand and leads her away from the throne, and the two pause to speak in quiet tones. Ivan can’t hear them, but Alina’s eyes glow with admiration and the General is looking back at her with...warmth.

It’s not right, Ivan thinks, even as the General departs and the Grisha welcome Alina. This situation is getting more and more troublesome.

&&&

When Ivan arrives back in their room, he’s relieved to see Fedyor awake, though he’s lying in bed with a book. Fedyor sets the book on the bedside table and smiles at him, and Ivan feels some of the tension in his shoulders melt away.

“Why so grumpy, my love?”

“Not grumpy, Fedya. Worried.” He takes off his boots, middle of the day be damned, and climbs into the bed next to his husband.

Fedyor opens his arms, and Ivan goes to him, snuggling in and leaning his head against his shoulder. “About what, Vanya?”

He shrugs as best as he can while in his favorite person’s embrace. “The Sun Summoner is dangerous.”

“So are all of us Grisha, and even the otkazat’sya with training.”

“Not like that. I mean...I-I think General Kirigan has feelings.”

Fedyor had been running his hand through Ivan’s hair, but he pauses. “In general? Or for Alina?”

“For Alina. Fedyor, it was very strange. He looked warm and like he wanted to kiss her, in front of all those people. And then he held her hand.” The Darkling has had lovers, and Ivan is very aware of this, but he’s never seen him act this way around any of them.

With a huff that might be a laugh, Fedyor says, “He deserves a chance at love, too, especially after he’s been so good to us. He tried to help us when we were younger and more foolish.”

That’s true; Kirigan has been nothing but supportive of them when not everyone else has. He even tried to advise Ivan when he was sorting out his feelings for Fedya more than a decade ago. It hadn’t been good advice, but an attempt had been made, at least.

“He seems...lonely,” Fedyor continues.

Ivan nods. “There is no one like him, no one at his level, so who could stand beside him?”

“Maybe Alina.”

Fedyor seems to like the girl, but Ivan isn’t convinced. Is she strong enough to stand next to their leader who has done so much for not just the Grisha, but for Ivan and his beloved?

&&&

The next day, Ivan joins the rest of the Grisha for dinner. Kirigan is off doing something statecrafty and Ivan has the place of honor at his boss’ right hand, so he is ostensibly in charge of the gathering in the General’s absence.

Except he knows Alina was given the choice to sit in Kirigan’s seat in his absence, or to sit at his side were he here. Instead, the girl chose to sit with the other Etherealki. She’s there laughing with Marie and Nadia, indulging in this opulent meal provided for the Sun Summoner, because apparently their usual hearty peasant fare wasn’t good enough.

Resentment curdles in his stomach as he reads out the casualty list, staring down Alina the entire time. She looks stricken, but her concern seems to be more for the otkazat’sya than her fellow Grisha.

Something in him snaps. “Why are you here eating figs? Hmm? You should be training every waking moment to tear down the Fold.”

But when he sees her face, hurt and downcast, he feels a pang of regret for how he handled this.

Kirigan will not be pleased.

&&&

It turns out that Fedyor isn’t pleased either. He had accompanied the General to the dinner he’d gone to, as Fedyor is far more diplomatic than most of the senior Grisha. It’s because of that diplomacy and open friendliness that it takes him less than three hours to hear about Ivan’s outburst.

Ivan is sitting in his chair in front of the fire, doing his best to wind down after the day. Fedyor enters the room, closing the door behind him.

“How was dinner and politics?”

Fedyor scowls at him, and his heart sinks. “Don’t try to be cute and solicitous. I heard about what you did to that poor girl. Badly done, Vanya, badly done.”

“Can we go back to the part about me being cute, please?” Ivan rubs his hands over his face. He and Fedyor rarely disagree, so when they do…

“No. Alina Starkov just found out days ago she’s Grisha, and she’s been pulled away from the only life she’s known, from her friends and comrades. She’s fended off the volcra, almost been murdered by the drüskelle, and has had to get used to a new training regimen for skills she barely knew she had, to say nothing of the high stakes of her every move now.”

“She’s an orphan of Keramzin. How is this not better than anything she’s ever known?”

Fedyor stops pacing for a moment. “Ivan, that’s why we should be kind. She’s never known the love of a family beyond that of the First Army. And you know what they whisper about the Grisha. We were children when we got here, and our families sent us here out of love. It was easier for us to adjust. She’s grown up her whole life hearing the lies most of the otkazat’sya believe about us. She needs time and understanding.”

“But we don’t have that much time. Zlatan is agitating in West Ravka, Fjerda is worse than ever, and Shu Han is causing as many problems as ever. Why can’t she see that unless she is at her best and soon, Ravka is in danger? The Grisha are in danger?” Ivan is furious, but more than that, he’s exhausted.

At that, Fedyor softens. “Ah, my love. You carry a heavy burden. But she’ll have to bear an even heavier one soon,” he says, coming over and placing a warm hand on Ivan’s shoulder.

Ivan reaches up, placing his hand over Fedyor’s. “I just want her to be ready.”

“She will be.”

With a sigh, Ivan pulls Fedyor into his lap, nuzzling his neck. He’s ready to make up.

“Ivan?”

“Hmm?”

“You do realize that people also have to eat in order to be able to train, don’t you?”

&&&

He knows he should, but Ivan can’t bring himself to apologize to Alina. He does try, however, to be more understanding of the enormity of what she faces, the pressure on her to succeed. He tries to be kinder, less abrupt. But he can’t change who he is.

Fortunately, General Kirigan seems more amused than anything else at Ivan’s dinner outburst. It’s a week or so later, and Kirigan is ready to dismiss Ivan for his next couple of days off. “I would tell you to enjoy your time with Fedyor, but maybe you’ll be training instead, since that’s apparently what we all must be doing every waking moment.”

Ivan shoots him a panicked look, but calms down when he catches the amusement in the General’s eyes.

“Indeed. We will train ceaselessly and closely, moi soverennyi.” Somehow, he manages to keep a straight face.

Kirigan just snorts, and Ivan is extremely disgruntled when he mutters under his breath about needing some of that kind of training of his own.

[coffeebanana]

8, 9, 20 for the new years ask game?

Thanks for the ask!! (From Fanfic Asks For The New Year) Uh. I'm putting this under the cut because tw: sui attempt for question 8

8. Is there a story idea in your mental vault that you’ve never been brave enough to try writing? Is this the year? Can you tell us about it?

Mmmm well I don't know if this counts or not because I haven't actually been sitting on this specific idea for a long time. But it's slightly angstier than what I normally feel comfortable writing (in that the beginning involves a failed suicide attempt on Adrien's part). I don't have a lot of the details worked out but long story short it's aged up, post-reveal and post-HM, and Adrien moved away (haven't 100% decided on where yet, but likely New York or Montreal). Nino's his emergency contact so he gets the call about Adrien being in the hospital. For some reason Nino can't get a plane ticket (weather or something I guess?), but Marinette happens to be on a work trip in the area, so Nino asks her to go check in. Only problem is...she and Adrien haven't spoken in years, and he's not exactly thrilled to see her at first. Still, she ends up staying in town and to help him get back on his feet so to speak. So yeah...this one starts really heavy but ends happily. I don't know if I'll actually get to it this year (or ever) because I have so many other projects and I'm trying not to start new ones at the moment. But...it's kind of calling to me. I just love angst with a happy ending too much akjsdfbsf 9. Short term goals… what do you hope to complete this week or in January? In the next few days (ie as soon as I have the time and energy) I need to finish my secret santa fic!! There are only two chapters left and they're not so long, so it should be doable! Then...I want to hopefully write something for DJWifi December even though it won't be December anymore. I had like 3 different ideas for that event but this month I just haven't had enough time lately 😭 For the rest of January I have no goals except trying to update Say Something and Ladrien roommates at least once. I'm trying not to push myself too hard because last year I got kind of burnt out from writing at some point and I don't want that to happen again.

20. Any plans to work on original fiction this year?

Not concretely, no. I have a handful of novel ideas I've had bouncing around for years but right now I'm happy working on my fics and letting those ideas ruminate a little longer haha. I feel like...2024 might be the year for that though. Just maybe.

[terapsina]

E, N and T from the writing meme reblog (i'm very excited right now😂)

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

Honestly, I don't know. I don't really identify with characters in that way, I've never really seen a character and thought 'they're a lot like me', for me it's always more like 'that's an interesting reaction, I wonder what's behind it' and 'I wonder how they would have reacted in a slightly different situation', and 'I hated that, how do I make them react differently and still make them feel like the character they are?'.

I guess I go in the opposite direction, I try to get into the characters' heads instead of seeing bits of myself in those characters.

I mean I do have the characters I really enjoy writing for but not because I identify with them. At least not consciously (who the hell knows what my subconscious is up to).

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

Well, I've been talking with @isagrimorie and during that she mentioned how Lizzie might react to Hope having inherited her uncle Elijah’s car collection and never mentioning it to her (her, the person who would murder anyone who scratched Lizzie's blue 1969 Chevy Camaro Convertible).

And my brain basically dropped this tidbit into my lap.

"I'm breaking up with you" Lizzie said, staring at the string of beautiful, beautiful last century cars that her girlfriend hadn't had the decency to inform her about during all the time they'd known each other.

Which, fine, she supposed was fair enough back when they hated each other. But they were friends for two years after that and dating for the last six months.

Hope Andrea Mikaelson was dead to her.

So now I'm ruminating on what I can do with it to expand it into an actual Hizzie fic.

But if the idea gets too long I'm shelving it for after my current Elejah fic is finished.

T: Any fanfic tropes you can’t stand?

A bunch.

Never saw the appeal of Hanahaki Disease fics because the logistics and the ethics drive me nuts (it's not actually unrequited love that's the problem if all the other character needs to do is admit they loved the dying one this entire time, but that means the other character doesn't even need to be telling the truth they just need to be convincing enough for the dying one to believe them, but then that means the healthy character is put in a corner of 'say you love them, even if you don't, because otherwise you're literally letting them die, and then what? you're forever forced to stay with them, otherwise they die?').

Also not a fan of Aliens Made Them Do It and Sex Pollen. Cuz of the lack of consent inherent in those. (I do sometimes enjoy the kind where it starts out with someone accidentally dosed with sex pollen but the person who's sober doesn't take advantage and makes sure that the dosed one is safe until the 'pollen' is out of their system).

[zet-sway]

@the-wip-project day 100

What have you learned over these 100 days? How will you apply this new knowledge to grow as a writer from here on?

First of all how the fuck did I make it this far? When I started, I never actually thought I would finish.

So the number one thing I've learned is not to take myself too seriously.

That seems like an oversimplification but my favorite parts of this endeavor were the small writing challenges along the way, stopping to write things that aren't smutty oneshots. Little exercises to fluff my writing skills and try new things.

I learned I can write about my own experiences to help put the bad ones to rest and the good ones to my heart. I learned I don't have to write the feeling, I just have to frame it. Give it context. Fill in the edges around the thing and let it indirectly give shape to what I'm trying to say.

Believe it or not, the interaction these posts got has been extremely inspirational.

I learned that people are far more supportive than I give them credit for. And I don't need to prove myself to anyone. I can just be. It felt good to write nonsense even if no one saw it. In the last 100 days I actually do feel like I've put some ghosts to bed. Life is no less complicated than ever, but I have never felt this unburdened by the events of the years before 2020.

I learned I don't care to be a professional writer, but I still want to grow. And I learned I need to actually *read stuff,* like, actual THINGS that aren't just reblogs of writing advice. Advice is good, but reading other shit is also just as valuable. Reading in and of itself counts toward growth as a writer.

I learned that I am older, and more tired than I have ever been before. But I still attempted a chaptered fic anyway. I only posted two chapters (technically 3 but you know), but that's still the first time I did that!! It's a big deal for me!! And yeah it may not have been a fucking earthshattering fanfic but it's still work I ruminated very much on, an actual plotline I thought out in my head. New information and new headcanon. I have a story in my head! That's new and exciting.

And allow me a soapbox here for a second because my heart feels full right now -

I'm a skeptic and I really have not been very touched by the supernatural or divine in any way that is obvious to me. Except this year. When I was suddenly and randomly struck by the desire to look back on my old fanfiction for no reason in particular. I felt swelled with pride. I felt so good, like I could flatten whatever stood in my way. While I was reminiscing, I wondered - when is the new Mass Effect coming out? I looked it up, and lo and behold, it was coming out in two fucking days. I don't believe this was an accident. For some fucking reason, forces I don't understand wanted me to experience this again. I was called. I was pulled back in. For whatever reason, whatever purpose, I'm here because of a random blip on my radar that came like serendipity out of the fucking sky. It all happened so fast. The legendary edition, the Spiritual Shrios Summer challenge, the 100 days challenge. I was certain I wouldn't finish. But I did. So holy fucking shit, right?

I'm prone to losing interest in things - so everyone knows. It might be more accurate to say I get distracted and pulled along by another shiny thing in my life. I didn't think about fandom for years but I never forgot. And if I was called back to it, that means it's important to my heart and not something I did as part of a "phase" or whatever. This is a positive outlet, a creative endeavor, something that has actually enriched the lives of strangers, many of whom have never spoken a word to me but likely read and enjoyed anyway. I've touched lives in whatever small way. That's so cool.

Finally, I learned an awful fucking lot about my characters of choice. Shout out to you guys who are always feeding me new information. You know who you are. All of you. If you think this might be about you, it probably is. Please accept this digital hug from me. A handmade quilted hug from yours truly. Thank you.

And of course thank you @barbex for your enormous and appreciated effort of hosting this event. Thank you for being so supportive, I have never seen you say a bad thing about anyone and I respect you so much. Thank you for hosting :) I had so much fun, and learned so much, not all of which I expected to learn but I am so grateful for anyway.

[heartofsnark]

This Is Love (Chapter Twelve): Evil Comes In Disguise

Notes: This one is shorter than others but it felt like it took me so much longer, I blame Cyberpunk 2077 for stealing my one braincell for a while. Also, I have a tendency that the longer it takes me to write something, the more insecure I feel about it, so I ended up cutting this chapter a bit shorter than I originally intended. But I think it works and I hope you enjoy!~

Word Count: 8686

Chapter Warnings: Talk of physical assault, hospitals, POV switches, Joseph visions, me trying to write police investigations/interrogations to minimal success and struggling to write Jerome for the first time properly. 

For chapter one and the warnings about this fic’s overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

And the clock ticks and ticks and ticks and ticks. Every second feels like an eternity. Every moment of silence seeming to stretch on for hours. Her nerves fray with each one, worry blooming like a flower in her chest. The tension palpable as the three deputies and Sheriff wait to hear what will become of the town pastor. Dahlia’s mouth starts running before she can stop it; to distract herself or her distraught friends, she doesn’t know. 

“How long have you all known Pastor Jerome?” 

“Oh, Jerome’s been in Hope for…fifteen years or so,” Whitehorse tells her, thinking a minute over the exact timeline. 

“He took over the Falls End church when I was thirteen,” Hudson adds, “so yeah, fifteen years.” 

“Wow,” Dahlia can’t help but exclaim, astounded by just how long they’ve all known the pastor, he’s been with the county for more than half of Hudson and Pratt’s lives. 

“St-,” Pratt swallows his words then starts again, stuttering, “still remember my mom making me give my first confession to him…I was terrified I was gonna go to hell, get kicked out of church, break my mom’s heart.” 

“What did you do?” 

“His mom caught him looking at porno mags,” Hudson rats him out, laughing. Whitehorse cracking a smile and Dahlia snickering. 

“I was eleven, shut up,” he tries to defend himself through his own laughter, “yeah, Jerome thought it was funny too, told me everything was okay and then it was.” 

Rook can just imagine it, Pratt as a kid, terrified that god’s going to smote him for looking at a tit. There’s a bittersweet quality to the four smiling and laughing at the memory; the anxiety and fear still looming but it’s a little easier to breathe. The weight crushing down on them is a little lighter than it was before. 

“If he makes it out of this, we need to go back to church,” Hudson tells Pratt after a beat of silence. 

“We do, don’t we?” 

“Officers?” A man in a doctor’s coat calls out to them, the same one who stitched her head back together before. 

“Is he okay?” 

“We stabilized him; we got the bleeding under control and it looks like we won’t have to transfer him after all, he should be fine to recover here. We’re still monitoring him, but things are looking up.” 

There’s a sigh of relief; maybe just from Whitehorse, maybe from all of them. She can’t even tell. Things are looking up, Jerome is likely to live and none of them will lose someone who clearly means so much to them. 

“What exactly is it that happened, doctor?” 

“Someone out in the valley called 911; the heard scratching at the door and when they looked he was collapsed on their front step. That’s all we know at this point, but as I told you, this was clearly an assault. The bruises, the bleeding, it all matches with brute force assault and with the severity we do believe it was multiple people who attacked him.” 

“Who the fuck would wanna hurt Jerome?” Hudson asks, more to herself than anyone else. 

“You’re all free to stay in his room, so you can question him when he wakes up, but I don’t know how reliable his memory will be with what he’s been through.” 

“Thank you, doctor.” 

 The four go into the hospital room and Dahlia clenches her jaw when she sees him. Bruises mottle and color the friendly face she’s seen around the county; a myriad of red and purples across him. One eye swollen, stitches and bandages in places where the skin broke. They were trying to kill him; that’s all Dahlia can think. This was an attempted murder, his body is hidden under a hospital gown and blankets, but she can see from his arms that the damage extends over his body. A IV gives him a steady drip of fluids to keep him stable, a heart and oxygen monitor letting the staff know he’s staying that way. 

“Jesus fuck…” Pratt whispers under his breath. 

Hospital coffee and more stories of the pastor pass the time as the four settle in; the time Jerome comforted an emotional fourteen year old Hudson when she spilled communion grape juice on her white dress. Whitehorse talks about how often he’s visited the church to talk with Jerome. 

Hours pass of the four talking, Dahlia downing five or more paper cups of coffee across the time. And then a cough sound rings out, a shift of fabric, the pastor slowly waking up. Whitehorse calls out for the nurses; the deputies shifting in their seats as he comes to. 

The nurses flood in, checking on Jerome’s vitals, ensuring he can comfortably sit up in his bed. He’s an older man, not as old as Whitehorse, but probably as old as Jacob or Joseph. Mid to late forties. With short dark textured hair and a dark beard.

“What the hell happened?” Whitehorse asks when the nurses are done checking on the Pastor. 

“John Seed,” The pastor begins, and Dahlia clenches her jaw, “he and members of Eden’s Gate kidnapped me, he tried to force a confession from me and when I didn’t comply; they beat me and left me in the woods. I tried to get help the best way I knew how, but I passed out before I could speak to anyone.” 

Dahlia doesn’t have time to think, to ruminate on what this means, what might be going on; Whitehorse telling her to grab the evidence collection kit he brought in. There’s not much to be collected, but their best bet of getting any conclusive evidence is swabbing Jerome’s fingernails. There’s nothing to get fingerprints off of, no weapon, no duct tape, no bindings. No bodily fluids exchanged, thankfully for Jerome’s sake. But, if he fought back, grabbed at his attackers, there’s a chance the blood under his fingernails could belong to them. That he managed to gouge their skin deep enough to leave a trace. 

“Sorry, this might hurt a bit,” Dahlia gives a gentle warning when she sees the broken and bloodied state of his nails, gently swabbing blood from under them, making sure to collect from each finger before dropping it into a vile. 

“I think I’ll make it,” he manages to say, a slightly dry laugh, his voice deep and resonant.

“I know you will, but still don’t wanna add to it.” 

“Jerome, you said John Seed, did you recognize anyone else?” 

“Lonny, Theodore, and Patrick were the only ones I know I saw…The way John talked he was doing it because of Joseph, that he ordered it… Eden’s Gate is getting worse every day.” 

“Don’t worry, Jerome, we’re gonna do everything we can, Hudson, take the sample back to the station to see if we can match it to anything already in our database.  Pratt, Rook, want you to start pulling the peggies in for questioning and getting DNA. Start with Lonny Stevenson, Theodore Rossi, and Patrick Michaelson. No arrests, not yet, just questioning. We’ll handle the Seeds later, alright?” 

“Understood.” 

There’s a heavy tension in the cruiser as Pratt and Dahlia climb into it. Jerome is alive,  there’s a weight to what he’s told them and to their duty to get justice for him. Pratt’s knuckles are white as he grips the steering wheel, jaw clenched, and shoulders wrought with tension. Pastor Jerome has been an important figure in his life. She can’t imagine how hard this must be for him. She thinks of how much worse she might feel if it were Lloyd or Whitehorse in that hospital bed, someone she were close to. Dahlia squeezes Pratt’s shoulder as they drive, hoping her empathy shows through the touch. Even as strangers, her stomach is in knots, though it may be because of her…connection to the accused. 

Despite their constant encroachment on boundaries, stepping on the line but never quite over it, Dahlia had maintained her hope that the Seeds and their flock were good at their core. That’s why she turned Cassie into their hands, but everyday there’s something new. And this is the worst yet. If they’ve truly done this, if they’re ordering full out assaults on people, that does a lot more than just cross the line. 

One of their three main suspects, outside of the two youngest Seed brothers, works at the Green-Busch Fertilizer Plant, an Eden’s Gate owned business. And for possibly the first time since she began working in Hope County, Dahlia is the one leading the charge as they get out of the cruiser, Pratt not trusting his own voice. 

“Patrick Michaelson,” she calls out and a man steps out, “we need to have a word with you down at the station.” 

He’s generic by Eden’s Gate standards, too long hair and a scraggly beard. His arms are covered, so she can’t check for scratches or bruises along them. 

“I in any trouble, deputies?” 

“Just need to ask some questions; Theodore Rossi or Lonny Stevenson here? We need a word with them as well.” 

“No, but I could ring ‘em for you?” 

“We’ll chat first, then you can call them from the station, alright?” 

“Whatever you say, officers.” 

The last thing she wants is for them to have a chance to put together a story and alibi before they start questioning them. They allow Patrick into the back of the cruiser, he seems to be maintaining his cool. And the tension in the car only strengthens as they take him back to the station. Dahlia watches him in the mirror along the way, waiting for some sign of anything to peek through, for a sleeve to ride up and to see scratches from Jerome’s nails, something. But nothing of the sort happens. 

Dahlia has never actually had to interrogate or question anyone, she realizes once they’re at the station and having Patrick take a seat. She doubts he’ll give them much information. If he’s innocent, he won’t have anything of interest to tell. If he’s guilty, he won’t want to tell them much of anything. Getting a DNA sample is what’s going to be the most important thing, if they get some conclusive evidence, something that links one of the Eden’s Gate members to Jerome’s assault the rest will come much easier. 

“Coffee?” She offers, as she pours black coffee into three paper cups.

Patrick murmurs a small thanks before he drinks from the cup before they start asking him questions. Hours pass of trying to ask the same questions in slightly different ways or tones. Dahlia trying to stay friendlier in her tone while Pratt is terser, due to his personal connection. But getting more than a ‘I was at home, last night,’ is like trying to get blood from a turnip. He refuses to give a DNA sample as well. 

“We about done here?” Patrick asks with a hint of annoyance in his voice. 

“Fine,” Pratt grumbles, “I’ll walk you out and you can ring Lonny and Theodore for us.” 

Dahlia taps her fingers against the table as the two men walk out, breathing a sigh of relief when Patrick leaves his coffee cup. It takes a few minutes and then Pratt comes back, he collapses into his chair and groans, she can feel the stress radiating off of him. 

“Well, that was a waste of fucking time,” he grumbles. 

“How you figure?” 

“How you figure anything else?’ He looks at her incredulously, like she’s grown a second head and breathed fire. 

“Left his cup,” Dahlia pokes at the little Styrofoam cup, “our property, we wanna swab it for DNA, our business and don’t need anyone’s consent for it.” 

“I’ll run it down to evidence, you brew another pot for the next two.” 

“On it.” 

Pratt runs that down, the cup bagged and labeled with Patrick’s name, she’s sure. Lonny and Theodore aren’t far behind. And their questioning goes much the same. They don’t give particularly direct answers and refuse to give DNA samples. Theodore avoids talking as much as he can, mostly opting to glare at the deputies after his first insistence that he has no idea why he’s here and has no obligation or desire to talk. But, he does at some point break his sourpuss expression to take a drink of coffee. Lonny is cockier, more aggressive, making snide comments but he drinks coffee at some point too; so that’s all that matters.

By the end of it all, three cups are sent down to evidence to be swabbed for DNA to be tested against the DNA found under Jerome’s fingernails. If it’s from any of them, they’ll know by hopefully the end of the day. Evidence based cases are rare around here, so the forensic team stated they can fast track it, hopefully

Pratt and Dahlia rest in the bullpen office, Hudson joining them. There’s a somber air to the entire office. Hudson’s leg bounces with nervous or angry energy, Dahlia isn’t sure which. Meanwhile, Pratt is wringing his hands until the skin rubs raw. Their worry is palpable as they wait for either more information or direction. The oppressive silence has started to weigh on Dahlia’s shoulders, she’s tapping her fingers against a table. 

“You know,” Dahlia says after too long, “you guys can go see Jerome if you want, I’ll call if any info comes in.” 

She knows they’re worried about him and want to be there to check on him. There’s no reason for them to sit here and suffer when she can just let them know when the analysis comes in. 

“We’re not gonna leave you to man the station by yourself,” Pratt dismisses her out of hand, as if the idea that she can be left alone is ridiculous. 

“I think I can manage for an evening, anything happens, I know how to reach you all.” 

“I’m going,” Hudson declares, “I trust Rook and I’m driving myself crazy here.” 

“Thank you, Hudson…” Dahlia says with soft smile, Hudson actually trusts her and isn’t acting like she’s a child. 

“You coming?” Hudson asks Pratt, looking at him expectantly. 

“I’m not leaving Rook here alone.” 

“I’m an adult, you know that, right?” 

“If Eden’s Gate was willing to attack Jerome, who knows what else they’ll do. And you’re already on their radar, were before this.” 

“What, you think they’re gonna storm the station?” 

“Who knows anymore.” 

“I don’t have time to listen to you two bicker, I’m leaving,” Hudson tells them before walking out of the station. 

Dahlia chews her lip once she’s left with Pratt. This is already a stressful day and not the time to let her wounded ego guide her behavior. But it is wounded. She’s not a child, young sure, but not a child and by no means incapable. Pratt has been coddling her and trying to limit what she does since the beginning of her job, she thought it was lessening, but… Does Pratt seriously not think she’s competent enough to be left alone for a few hours? Is she that unreliable? Incapable? Does he think that little of her? 

She doesn’t lend a voice to these insecurities or anger; not the time or place. 

“Don’t pout,” Pratt says after a few minutes.

“I’m not.” 

“You are, I can physically see you pouting.” 

“Even if I was, it’s not important.” 

“Seriously, Rook? You wanna be a brat right now?” 

“Seriously, Pratt? You wanna be a patronizing dick right now!?” Her voice is harsher than she intended. 

“Deputies?” A voice calls out, one of the workers in their piddly little forensic department poking their head into the open office. 

“Yeah?” 

“We got a match for the DNA found under Jerome’s fingernails.” 

“Who’s our guy?” 

“Patrick’s matched, we couldn’t find any traces of Lonny or Theodore’s.”

“I’ll call Whitehorse,” Pratt says before getting out his cellphone, “figure out what we’re doing next.” 

Dahlia only nods, not trusting herself after her outburst. Her fingers still tap tapping against a desk as Pratt speaks to the sheriff. She can only hear Pratt’s side of the conversation as he explains what they were just told and agrees to whatever Whitehorse is telling him, before he hangs up. 

“So, what’s our next move?” Dahlia asks, voice cracking more than she’d like. 

“Arresting Patrick and questioning the Seeds. He wants a lighter touch with John and Joseph, his words, not mine.” 

“Lighter touch meaning…?” 

“They can be questioned together if they want, given a day and the chance to come in on their own terms. Whitehorse doesn’t want us ruffling their feathers unless we get something conclusive on them.’ 

“I’ll never get why he wants to walk on eggshells around them.” 

“Because they’re nuts and got a good hundred or more people who’ll fight for them.” 

Dahlia shrugs, she gets that, she guesses. But its still hard for her to wrap her head around that the men she’s met could order an assault on someone else. A part of her is still holding onto the hope that Patrick just acted on his own, that John and Joseph had no idea. But, Jerome says John was there. And John’s not exactly a face he could confuse with someone else… 

“C’mon, let's go get Patrick.” 

He’s at his house at this late hour, knocking in the door of his little farmhouse. Patrick answers the door, face souring the moment he sees the officer. His lips are sealed, not speaking a word to the deputies as they read him his rights and bring him into the station. He refuses to speak for a long while, even as they book him and try to ask him a few more questions. 

“I wanna call my lawyer.” Is all he says after an entirely too long drag of silence. 

“John, your lawyer?” Pratt asks. 

“What of it?’ 

“We need to have a chat with him too,” Dahlia informs him, “so we’ll be happy to call him for you.” 

“Fine.” 

Dahlia stretches out her back as her and Pratt leave the interrogation room, this day has been her longest yet, but they seem to be getting somewhere. She looks over to Pratt. 

“Want me to call up John or you wanna do the honor?” 

“I will, they like you too much.” 

“Have zero idea what you mean by that, but alright.” 

Pratt grabs the station phone and rings up John’s number. Dahlia chews her fingernails as she waits, biting away at them and chipping her nail polish in the process. When she runs out of nail that goes past her fingertips, she chews at the skin. Mind racing as Pratt talks to John, she feels like her thoughts and feelings are tearing into two directions. What she wants to be true and what evidence supports. The older deputy hangs up the phone and Dahlia looks up at Pratt expectantly. 

“John says him and Joseph can be here in a few hours, chances are Jacob will be with them.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Anytime either of them have been questioned, Jacob’s there, just to look mean I guess.” 

She nods, thinking of what she read so far in the Book of Joseph, of the abuse in the Seed family. It doesn’t shock her at all that Jacob has a protective streak, that he wouldn’t want his younger brother’s far out of sight. She does find herself wondering why Faith isn’t following alongside her siblings as well. Her fellow deputies didn’t seem to know much of her at all, Hudson not even knowing what she looks like. Hell, the youngest sister hasn’t even been mentioned yet in the Book of Joseph. Though given the hefty age difference, perhaps she wasn’t born yet during the memory Joseph chose to open it with? 

Dahlia takes a seat while they wait for the Seed brothers, graciously accepting the cup of coffee that Pratt offers her. Her leg taps as she drinks at it, listening to the clock tick away as she waits for the Seeds. Her fellow deputy sits next to her and she can tell the day has been wearing on him. She doesn’t know why, what it is that pushes the impulse forward, but she thumps her head onto his shoulder. A soft form of contact, comfort, whether it’s an offering to him or a selfish desire of her own, she isn’t sure. 

But Pratt responds by leaning his head towards her, over top of her own. His hair tickling at her skin and his scruff scratching at her skin. She can’t help but smile and press in a little closer, just appreciating his presence in this quiet moment after such a drawn-out day. 

“Shit!” 

Pratt’s sudden yell jolts Dahlia awake, her skull knocking against his. She blinks sleep from her eyes, when did she even drift off? How long was she sleeping against his shoulder? Her hands and the bottom of her jeans are wet; the cup of coffee and it’s contents now on the floor as well as her shoes. 

“Fuck,” she curses under her breath, she must have dropped it when she fell asleep, “sorry.” 

Dahlia goes and gathers up paper towels, cleaning up the mess. She didn’t even realize she was that tired. 

“Don’t sweat it, shit has been crazy around here lately, I nearly dozed off myself.” 

“You telling me this ain’t typical.” 

“God, no, county’s usually more boring than watching paint dry. Lately, feels like county’s gone nuts.” 

“Eh,  I prefer the crazy, keeps things interesting at least.”

“Deputies,” the on shift desk worker pops their head into the room, “the Seed brothers are here.” 

“We’ll be there in a second.” 

Dahlia finishes cleaning up the mess and sighs, that weight back on her shoulders. It’s way past their usual shift hours and the day as a whole has been a lot. But they may finally be getting to the root of what happened. They’re getting some justice for Jerome, Patrick is a damn near guaranteed arrest. They just need to get to the bottom of John and Joseph’s involvement. She took this job to help people and that’s what she’s doing, Jerome has a right to feel safe in this county and as much as she hopes the Seeds are good, if they’re hurting others, it needs to be shut down and now. 

Mess cleaned; Dahlia and Pratt go out to the waiting room to greet the Seeds. John and Joseph look relatively cleaned up. Though John always looks some version of prim and proper. She’s positive she’s never seen the youngest sibling in a shirt that wasn’t a collard button up and she’s certainly never seen his hair in any state other than slicked back. His shirt of choice today is purple, no vest or trench coat, just the buttons left undone to show the sin marked across his chest and the sleeves rolled up to show the tattoos across his forearms. 

Joseph is wearing a shirt which is an accomplishment for him, a stiff white button up done up to his throat and a black blazer over it, nearly overkill in the heat of August. Perhaps he only wears clothing in extremes, either half naked or completely covered. His greasy dark hair is pulled back as usual and despite the late hour, his yellow aviators are on. 

And then there’s Jacob, black tee and jeans with his typical camo shirt tied around his waist. Dog tags, key, and rabbit’s foot hanging from a chain around his neck as they always do. 

They’re superficial observations, what the brothers wear, but she can’t help but take in the stark contrasts of the brothers. Joseph trying to look more put together and less crazy, John in that same state but every day, and Jacob genuinely not seeming to give any sort of a fuck. 

“Deputies,” John is the one to greet them, grinning and Dahlia folds her hands behind her back, trying to still her body and straighten her back to present a confident front. 

“John,” Pratt returns the acknowledgement with a nod, “I-“

“It seems you have one of our flock members contained on the bas-“  John cuts off Pratt. 

“We actually would rather speak with you and Joseph before we discuss that case,” Dahlia cuts the youngest brother off in turn, not letting him dominate the conversation or set the tone for this. 

“Is that so?” 

“Yes, I assume, you’re both comfortable with answering some questions for us?” She cocks her head to the side, trying to stay nonthreatening, not that her five feet of being could ever be threatening. 

“Of course, that would be no problem at all,” Joseph is the one to speak next, giving her a smile, eyes soft despite the circumstances. 

“Actually,” Pratt cuts in, a twitch in his jaw, “I’ll be asking those questions alone.” 

“You’ll what?” Dahlia levels a glare at her partner, ready to throw him through a window, but unable to do so. He’s pushing it, he keeps pushing it. 

“I think it’ll be best if I conduct the interrogation alone.” 

“Oh, do you?” 

“You girls need a minute, or can we get this shitshow on the road,” Jacob says, the deep rasp of his voice cutting through the spat. And she doesn’t miss the clench in Pratt’s jaw at the emasculating choice of words. 

“Come on back; sorry for the trouble,” Dahlia says, a tight lipped smile as she leads the Seed brothers to the interrogation room. She’ll deal with Pratt and his overprotective bullshit later. It’s a quick walk down the hall and she politely opens the doors for them, she thinks she sees Jacob rolling his eyes. 

“Go ahead and take a seat, we’ll be just a moment,” Dahlia tells them, giving a small nod when Joseph thanks her. She lets the door shut behind the Seeds and turns her gaze back on Pratt. 

“Rook-”

“What the actual fuck, Pratt?” She keeps her voice low, but her tone is terse, how could he try to strong arm her out of the interrogation. 

“Look, you’ve spent a lot of time with them, regardless of if you’ve wanted too or not. They’re fixated on you and you’re just too close to them to be interrogating them.” 

“You’ve known them longer than me! You’ve known them for years! This is a rural county, it’d take me longer to meet all the cows here than it would the people!” 

She wants to wring his neck, he’s entirely too protective of her and for no real reason. More now than ever she realizes she made the right call not telling anyone about the mute “angel” Eden’s Gate member who swung on her or the vandalism of her trailer. Pratt already barely wants to let her handle ticketing people and now he doesn’t want her interrogating suspects. It’s ridiculous. She’s a grown adult woman, she needs to be allowed to do her fucking job. 

Dahlia is done listening to this nonsense, she decides, and makes a beeline back to the interrogation room. Pratt isn’t going to stop her from doing her damn job. She opens the door, her coworker trailing behind her, as she steps into the interrogation room.

The Seed brothers are sat at the table. Jacob’s legs open wide, sat relaxed in his chair, completely disinterested by most appearances but he still watches the deputies from the corner of his eye. She’s reminded of a predator lulling prey into a false sense of security before it strikes. 

Joseph sits between his elder and younger sibling. His elbows on the table, hands politely folded, not a hint of anxiety in him either. Seemingly calm, but his gaze is intense on the young deputy as she enters, never straying away from her.  He never looks over at Pratt, the other deputy’s warning that they’re fixated on her ring through her mind. 

John is sitting back in his chair and his gaze is just as intense, but there’s more manic energy behind it. In him in general. Perhaps he’d look calmer, more serene like his brothers, if not for the constant bouncing of his leg, the movement starting to  shake the rickety table. 

“Sorry about that,” Dahlia starts before Pratt can find a way to force her out of the room, “would either of you like any coffee or anything before we chat?” 

“No, thank you. We’ve done this song and dance before, deputy, you can’t sneak dna off of us,” John dismisses her off with a sneer. 

“Okay then, no coffee, understood,” she rescinds her off  as she sits down at the table across from them, Pratt sitting next to her. 

“Look, let's cut the bullshit,” Pratt speaks up, “a person was attacked, beaten badly. We got evidence, won’t say what, that connects one of your church members to the attack. And its being alleged that he did so on Joseph’s order with John supervising the whole thing, and...you’re just hear for window dressing I guess.”  He gives a dismissive look to Jacob at that last part, no doubt his attempt to give a little revenge jab for his comment earlier. 

“Why I’m here ain’t any of your concern, princess.” Jacob says, voice low and the threat within it not subtle. 

“Okay…” Dahlia cuts in with a clap of her hands when she sees the way Jacob and Pratt are glaring at each other, this is an interrogation not a pissing contest, the last thing they need is Pratt trying to fight Jacob and getting his ass kicked, “this is already going off the rails, good job everyone. Now, while his wording was...abrupt, uh that is the reality of the situation. There are some heavy accusations being levied at you two, so we were hoping to ask you a few questions.” 

“This is absolutely ridiculous,” John responds, rolling his eyes, “these are completely baseless accusations.”

“We do have evidence linking one of the men, a member of your church, to the assault. Our witness and survivor is credible. At this point we have no reason to believe they’d lie about what occurred.” 

“They persecute us the same as they did the prophets before us, the faithful handed over to courts and councils, sheep sent out amongst wolves,” Joseph speaks sudden, voice intense as he stares into Dahlia’s eyes, a chill rolls up her spine, a tension pulling in her shoulders that she can’t quite shake. 

“Seriously,” Pratt scoffs and for the first time Joseph’s eyes leave Dahlia, harsher and colder at the older officer, “you really think this is about your church, that someone would make this shit up just to get at you, think they beat the shit out of themselves too just to spite you?” 

“Of course not,” John speaks next and she can’t help but notice the jolt in his body language, “I’ve yet to speak to our flock member you’ve find evidence of. But even if he’s done what he’s accused of, surely, you can’t expect us to be held responsible for the actions of every member of our church. We have hundreds of followers, you cannot reasonably expect us to be accountable for any of them who may stray from our ways.” 

“The witness specified you were there, John. Not just accountable, but physically present for assault.” 

“And there’s no evidence of that, you said so yourself, and as I’ve told you before, there are many in this county who aren’t above taking any chance to sully mine and my family’s name. Who’s to say, they didn’t see their assault as an opportunity to bring down our entire church.” 

“May I ask where you were last night?” 

“Had dinner with my family, as I always do, and stayed in for the night. Rather boring, I’m afraid.” 

“Anyone who can confirm this story?” Pratt asks and Dahlia tries not to roll her eyes; his family would be the ones who can confirm it and ...they’re mostly here and biased. 

“My brothers who are sitting right here, my sister if you feel the need to ruin her night as well.” 

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” 

“Then are we done here?” 

“This isn’t a formal arrest or detainment,” they don���t have anywhere near the evidence or that, “so,  you’re free to leave if you so please. Though, there’s still the issue of Patrick who requested counsel with you.” 

The brothers have made it clear they want to leave and that the deputies won’t be prying any more information from them. So, Dahlia escorts them out. 

“You two can go on home,” John tells his brothers, “I’ll call someone to get me once I’ve sorted this out.” 

“We couldn’t possibly leave you behind, we’ll wait,” Joseph squeezes John’s shoulder than looks to Dahlia, “assuming that would be okay.” 

“Of course, don’t expect you to ditch your brother.” 

“It is tempting sometimes,” Jacob mumbles under his breath, a smirk pulling at his lips when John glares at him. Rook has to press her hand to her mouth to avoid laughing at the brotherly teasing. 

“Jacob…” Joseph gently chides. 

“Regardless, you two are welcome to sit out in the waiting room, there's a vending machine if you need anything or if you’re not interested in that I’m sure Nancy can get you set up with coffee or food from our break room.” 

“Thank you, deputy.” 

“I’ll be out, shortly,” John says the final word pointedly as his brothers go to the waiting room, then turns to the deputies, “which room is my client in?” 

“Room 103, I’ll be right in, go on and get settled,” Pratt tells him and John leaves down to the room where Patrick is being held. Dahlia holds her tongue until the youngest Seed brother is out of hearing range. 

“Think we can get anything else out of them?” 

“Fuck no, he’s going to tell Patrick to keep his mouth shut, insist that there’s another explanation. Like getting blood from a turnip, we’re just going to have to deal with what we have. DNA should be enough to convict Patrick, as for the rest, we’ll have to see if Whitehorse feels we got enough to do a full investigation. But, we don’t have much.” 

“The evidence against Patrick might be enough to subpoena Joseph’s sermons, get warrants to search the church and houses?” 

“Maybe,fuck,” Pratt rubs a hand down his face, he looks exhausted and she’s sure she’s not much better, “what time is it?” 

“Nearly four in the morning.” 

“Fucks sake, okay, their foul mood makes a bit more sense.” 

“Yeah, I can take care of the talk with John and Patrick, like you said won’t be getting much from them, so you can head home or check on Jerome.” 

“No, no, absolutely not. I’ll take care of this, you go home and get some sleep.” 

“Pratt-” 

“Rook, you were the one passing out on top of me. Go home and sleep.” 

“I-” 

“Please, for once in your life, just listen to me.” 

“Okay, just this once,” she bows her head, feeling like a scolded child, “but we do need to have a serious conversation about you babying me, you know that right?” 

“I don’t baby you.” 

She blinks and widens her eyes, has he heard a single word he’s said to her all day. Refusing to let her stay at the station alone, not wanting her to call John, and not even wanting her to be involved in the interrogation. And that today alone, she can’t count the amount of times he’s told her not to be the one to issue tickets, to stay in the car during calls. She knows they’ve lost an officer in the line of duty. And she knows she’s a lot younger than Pratt or Hudson. But this is her job as much as it is theirs. 

“Okay,” Pratt scratches at the back of his neck at the incredulous look, then gently puts his hands on Dahlia’s shoulders, “serious conversations can wait until we’ve both slept, alright?” 

“Fine, I’ll go home and crash, get yourself some sleep when you finish up here, okay?” 

“Okay, will do.” 

He drops his hands from her shoulders and gives a small pat to her arm as she turns to leave. As much as she’d rather Pratt be the one going home to get some much needed sleep, she can’t say she won’t be thankful for a chance to crash. 

“And Rook,” Pratt calls out before she can get through to the waiting room, she turns to look at him, “stay away from the Seeds, please.” 

“Don’t push it.” She rolls her eyes, overprotective ass, she pushes through the doors to the waiting room. 

Dahlia gives a friendly nod of acknowledgement to Joseph and Jacob as she moves past them, looking towards Nancy. 

“I’m gonna go home and crash for the night, any news comes in, don’t hesitate to call me, alright?”  She explains to dispatch, not fully trusting Pratt to let her know if it’s up to him, throwing on her leather jacket and already searching for her pack of cigarettes. She’ll catch a smoke break before she rides home, her nerves needing the nicotine fix. 

“Alright, dear. Drive safe.” 

Dahlia waves a quick bye to both Nancy and the Seed brothers before she leaves the building. The air is cold, temperatures drop quick at night out here,  a start contrast to the hot muggy days. A dark sky hangs above her except where stars breach the abyss. Goosebumps prickle up along her neck where the air hits, she put a cigarette between her lips and lights it, breathing nicotine deep into her lungs. She tilts her head back, blowing smoke from her mouth, white billowing around her. 

“Deputy,” Joseph’s voice calls out and chills run along her spine, “you know, smoking is really a terrible habit.” 

“We all got our vices,” she says, shrugging her shoulders, making sure to blow the smoke away from Joseph. 

“That is true, I know that better than most…” 

She nods when he trails off a bit, his church seems to focus a lot on sins and vices, overcoming them she assumes. Sins marked across the skin of so many of its members. Silence falls across the two, for once Joseph breaking eye contact, a rare moment for him. 

“Is there something you wanted…? Can’t imagine you’d rather wait out here in the cold.”

“Yes, actually, I think there’s a lot we need to discuss. Faith told me you have concerns about your friend, Cassandra.” 

“Cassie, yeah,” she corrects, not sure why it bugs her so much to hear them using Cassie’s full name. 

“Yes, John always was wishing to speak with you regarding the orchard and… I’d hate for this… incident to color your opinion of me and my family.”

“I understand and I’d love to talk all this out with you, but-” 

“It’s four in the morning.” 

“Yeah, sorry,” she frowns, feeling bad about it, “its been a rough day and I just am ready to crash, I’m sure you must be exhausted too.” 

“Of course, I understand, which is why I’d like to invite you to have dinner with me and my family.” 

“Uh, what?” 

Dahlia blinks and coughs on cigarette smoke, taken aback by the sudden invitation. He’s here for an investigation, she just interrogated him, and he’s concerned with inviting her to dinner to… preserve some sort of good image? While a formal investigation isn’t opened on him or John yet, needing warrants and authority to do anything more, but one is right around the corner. 

“We try to have dinner as a family, my brothers, sister, and I, as often as possible. A luxury we couldn’t indulge in for so much of our lives, I think it’d be a wonderful opportunity for us all to speak and for you to know my family separate from church or police interrogations. So, would you like to join us for dinner tomorrow night?” 

“Uh…” 

This could be her only chance to talk to him about Cassie before a formal investigation is launched and it becomes a conflict. 

But it could already be a conflict, since they are hopefully not far away from launching that investigating. 

But, she could use it as a chance to probe around, see if she can unearth anymore evidence in the Jerome case. 

But, anything procured without a warrant wouldn’t be admittable, so the most she could do is see it and then know what to go back for once they secure a warrant. 

But, even just getting a chance to ask questions without the environment of an interrogation room, might get some truths out. As well a chance to ask about some of the other strange things going on in the county. From roadblocks to the issue of the weird “angel” that assaulted her. 

But, they could be dangerous, if they do have anything to do with Jerome’s injuries… 

But, she’s not weak and it’s not like she's looking to antagonize them. She can ask her questions and be polite. 

But, Pratt would kill her. He literally warned her to stay away from the Seed family five fucking seconds ago. 

“Sure, I’d love to,” she tells him, ultimately unable to say no to his earnest little smile. 

“That’s wonderful, our dinners are at John’s ranch house, I’m not sure I have anything to write the number down on…” 

“I can use the memo app on my phone, what is it?” 

“Oh.” He seems taken aback for a moment when she gets out her phone, but recovers to prattle off the address, Dahlia typing it in. 

“Did I get it right?” She asks, moving to stand closer to Joseph’s side, so he can see the phone screen.

“Uh, yes, that’s,” he reaches out to touch her phone and accidentally closes the memo app, pulling his hand away like it burned him, “oh.” 

Dahlia can’t help but laugh, watching the older man fumble to deal with tech. He’s older, sure, but he’s not pushing his sixties or anything. He ducks his head and she can see a very subtle flush of red flare up his cheekbones. Its the most human he’s ever seemed to her, just an older man who hates phones, embarrassed that he has no idea how to use one. 

“Don’t worry,  it saved,” she explains, pulling it back up. 

“Yes, that’s correct.” 

“Alright, see you and your family tomorrow.” 

She tucks her phone back in her pocket and waves bye again, getting on her motorcycle. Dahlia slides her helmet on and starts the journey back home, mind racing and heart heavy with the events of the day. 

Joseph sits in the passenger side of the truck, Jacob driving and John sitting in the back, as they leave the police station. It's late, nearly early enough for him to be waking up. John made a grave mistake, trying to punish Pastor Jerome for leading people astray, away from Eden. A noble intention, but he did it out of wrath and anger, letting someone else’s sin fuel his own. His impulses placed them back in the sight line of the police. They can recover from this easily enough, as frustrating as it is. The bigger issue is once again working to reign John in and working to change the junior deputy’s view of them. 

The Lamb plays a vital role in the collapse, she was chosen to be the one who brings about the end, how exactly she will do so remains to be seen. But, he’d rather she do it alongside them stepping into New Eden by their side after she helped cleanse the world, rather than doing so in spite of them with no understanding of the gift she was given. 

“What the hell were you thinking?”  Jacob scolds their younger brother, always protective of the project and them being found out by law enforcement, he’s more than a little irate about John’s mistake. 

“Jacob…” Joseph still chides him for cursing, a nasty habit his eldest brother struggles most to break. If Joseph’s being completely honest, he’s not certain Jacob is trying to break it all. 

“Pastor Jerome is a fraud, he is leading people astray and spreading lies about The Project, he had to be taught a lesson.” 

“Who cares? His people abandoned him for us, John. He can talk all he wants, no ones fuckin’ listening.” 

“Oh, so suddenly you’re above corporal punishment, are you going soft on me, Jacob? Do you allow your soldiers to say whatever they please, reward them for their insolence?” 

“Jerome’s not a soldier and unlike you, when I teach outsiders a lesson, I’m not dumb enough to let them walk away from it.” 

“Brothers, stop,” Joseph speaks over them, not yelling, but his tone stern enough to end their incessant arguing, he makes eye contact with his youngest brother through the rearview mirror “Jacob is right, John.” 

“But Joseph-” 

“You endangered The Project, our mission, our family; for the sake of satisfying your own wrath. You put all of us at risk and for what? So, you could indulge in your sins?” 

“He was spreading lies, telling people you were dangerous-” 

“And that made you angry, it made you wrathful. And so you lashed out to make yourself feel better, instead of speaking to me, instead of seeking out the word and confronting the sin inside of yourself, you sought to quell your anger through violence.” 

“I’m sorry, Joseph.” 

“I know. Righteous anger and swift justice has its place. There will be times to cut off the hands that wrong us, but this was not one of them.” 

“I understand… I already spoke with our flock members in the station, they’ll dispose of the evidence and secure Patrick’s freedom. Without it, the investigation will end and he won’t be punished for my mistakes.” 

“I knew you’d take care of it in the end,” he tells him, watching the relief flood John with the smallest amount of praise after being scolded, “I invited the junior deputy to dinner.” 

Jacob slams on the brakes on a thankfully deserted back road, causing Joseph to jerk against the seatbelt and John to slam his face against the seat in front of him. John yells out from the sudden impact and Joseph turns to look at his eldest brother in confusion. 

“God damn it, Jacob!” 

“John!” Joseph scolds when his baby brother takes the lords name in vain, he can see a bruise forming on John’s forehead already. 

“He tried to kill me!” 

“Am I the only one who understands that we’re criminals?!” 

“In the eyes of man, perhaps, but in the eye of -” 

“Eyes of man are the ones that matter, right now, Joseph! You’re inviting a fuckin’ cop into our lives, into John’s house. A cop who just interrogated us less than a fucking hour ago and you want to feed her for her trouble.” 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were scared, brother. Jacob Seed, scared of a little girl.” 

“Well, its a damn good thing you know better, or that shiner would be the least of your problems, brother,” Jacob nearly spits the word brother, glaring daggers at John. 

“Jacob,” Joseph gets his older brother’s attention, Jacob has always been the strongest willed, has always asserted his opinions even if he’d do anything for the family, “are you doubting me?” 

“No, of course not, I just don’t understand why you’re doing this?” 

“We have cops within our flock, Jacob.”

“Yes, converted cops who benefit us. This deputy can’t walk into a church without puking her guts up, she’s a problem waiting to happen.” 

“She has been making a problem out of herself, trying to keep me from purchasing the orchard, enabling the greed of this county.” 

“Look, I know it can be difficult to understand, you’ve not heard what I’ve heard. The Voice hasn’t spoken to you, as it has to me, my decisions are not without reason. Reasons that will be revealed in time, the junior deputy is important, bringing her into our flock is a priority. Understood?” 

“Of course, understood, Father,” John concedes, using Joseph’s formal title. Joseph looks to his eldest brother, who’s scarred jaw is still clenched tight. 

“Understood?” He repeats himself, he knows Jacob wouldn’t go against him, but his willful nature… something Joseph was envious of in childhood now leads to the occasional butting of heads. 

“Understood.” 

Jacob starts the car back up, driving Joseph and John back to their homes. John to his ranch house and Joseph up to his church, where he has a cot in the back of it. The sun is starting to come up when Jacob drops him off at the church compound, before driving back to Saint Francis. 

Eyelids heavy with exhaustion, Joseph is quick to return to his quarters, a headache starting to creep up along his temples. He changes for bed, then kneels before his bed, bowing his head for prayer and folding his hands together. Hands pressed together tightly, his rosary pressing into his skin. 

And he prays. 

He prays for John to find his way, to battle his sin and win the fight. 

He prays for Jacob to one day fully let go and accept the word. 

He prays for Faith not to stray from the path. 

He prays for his flock and family, he prays for their faith not to wane, he prays for them to be strong enough to weather the collapse, he prays for the persecution of his family to end, and he prays that he can save more souls; specifically the junior deputy. That he can find a way to reach her heart, help her see her gift, and learn the importance of her role before it’s too late. 

Then a sharp pain shoots from his temple across the rest of his head, like lightning shooting through his skull. The darkness of his closed eyes fades away into a new world, a vision of New Eden, a paradise he’s been shown and promised so many times he knows the sight of it by heart. The bright blooming pink flowers and modest homemade homes of a commune, a return to nature, to innocence. 

His family and flock there, older versions of themselves, dressed in more rustic handmade clothes. Less clear and less certain than last time. But he sees John, Jacob, and Faith with children clinging and playing around them. And he can’t explain the feeling, that they’re all his children but his siblings as well. 

The five year old boy with a head of dark curls and blue eyes that looks so much like Joseph as a child, the boy who called him papa. 

A girl around three with bright ginger hair, a face covered in freckles. She grins and blinks, sun in her eyes. She reminds him so much of Jacob, head held high with a crown of red. 

Maybe a year younger, another girl has straight dark brown hair and big wide blue eyes. Eyes that remind him so entirely of the young baby brother he cooed at as a child. 

The oldest of them, clings to an older Faith’s skirt. A young boy of ten maybe tweleve, so much older than the smaller children. Hair dark as pitch, olive skin, and green eyes setting him apart. He looks different from the others, perhaps his family tie not one forged by blood. 

His family, those he has now and those he will gain, the family he will be gifted. But, there’s something missing…. Pieces of the puzzle not yet in place. 

Weak clumsy fingers grab onto his bed as his vision subsides, the reality of the world he’s still in returning to him. His head pounds and throbs, agony radiating throughout it, as the collapse draws closer his visions are getting more and more frequent. He can only hope as he falls into bed that he’s keeping himself and his family on the right path to find paradise.

[cupstealer]

Re: your last ask.

I am also no longer into the fandom side of hockey anymore and hardly ever read fan fic anymore. (A senior thesis will do that to a person 😔) Buut I want you to know that I think about contact high on a regular basis. Once a week maybe type of regular, when I’m wishing I was reading something fun and not a science journal. Is that weird?! I mean I know that sounds a little crazy- but it might be the greatest fic I’ve ever read. While I was reading it I got the sense that it would be one of my favorites, but I had no idea how much it would still ruminate with me a year and a half later. I don’t think I can recall a single other rpf work like I can that one. You are such an amazing writer! And I hope you continue to write- whatever it may be that your writing about! 💕

(Sorry to keep putting these on y’all’s dash, but it’s the only way I can THANK these anons and they definitely need thanking.)

Your timing OP ;.; I really got this ask when I needed it most. 💕 Thank you thank you thank you! Sorry for the delayed response—it’s so hard to figure out how to thank somebody and explain how much words like this mean while not sounding like a flu patient or something.

To answer your question, it’s not weird! There are absolutely fics that live rent-free in my head to the degree that I’m basically sponsoring them on a permanent residency program [cut to footage of bring it if you really want it by staraflur]. And god, what an honor that Contact High is like that for you 🙏 Contact High is my favorite thing that I’ve written. A lot (pfff, all) of the content was so self-indulgent for me, just utter wish-fulfillment, which I usually try to dial back, but I wanted to see what might happen if I really leaned in instead. (The thing with toothpaste/walking in on someone actually happened to me when I was staying over at a friend’s house in high school... Sorry again to her brother, I promise I barely saw anything.) There isn’t a single element of that fic that I wasn’t excited about while I was writing it. And it’s that much more touching when the work that feels the most ‘me’ is someone’s favorite.

Anon, I hope you get some free time to read fun stuff soon! You deserve it. And good luck on your thesis! Defend that sumbitch like you’re Connor Murphy (no idea if it’s the kind of thesis you defend, but you get my meaning). Thank you again 💕

I am still writing, by the way! Just as slow as ever though, and for a very mixed bag of subjects! No hockey lately, though I have a few unpublished 1988 WIPs that I haven’t touched in a long stretch yet haven’t let go of either. Every fall, I pump myself up to roll up my sleeves and edit/finish this genre-confused frankenstein of a haunted house-type fic, and I haven’t given up hope yet! (Plus if I finish it, I can finally read jezziejay’s witch Jonny fic—which got posted while I was writing mine, and I made myself bookmark it for later so I wouldn’t be influenced or in my head about any overlap even though they’re almost certainly totally different in every way. I’m dying to read hers ;.;)

Hmm I hesitate to say this, but... If anyone is really interested regardless of fandom, there’s also an unorthodox fic I wrote as a Christmas present for my sister back in 2017 that she keeps telling me to post. (I know, and it gets weirder from there.) I think I want to but I’ve hesitated for several reasons. First: I need to re-do the ending now that I’m not scrambling to finish it on Christmas Eve. Second: It is a pairing that does not exist and kind of bananas. More info under the cut if you’re interested.

Basically, years ago, one of my sisters and I had a looong conversation about who was worthy of being shipped with Stacker Pentecost from Pacific Rim, and when none of the characters from the movie satisfied us, we reached out into the vast universe of basically anyone from any media to find him love, guess-and-check style. After literal hours, I brought up one of my favorite under-appreciated characters, Linus Caldwell from Ocean’s Eleven (Matt Damon). Which makes no sense, but doesn’t it a little? It became a running joke, and then a running a joke that I was gonna write it, and then not a joke. Ain’t that the way?

So yeah—Third: I’m hesitant to get somebody excited about a new hockey fic only to open the email and see it’s a batshit crossover that literally no one (except my sisters) is asking for. That being said, I started it as a joke/challenge, but ended up making something that I find quite a fun little ride because I was so loose with it (because, like, who’s ever gonna see this, right? Some real dance like nobody’s watching shit). I’ve written a bunch of stuff never meant to see daylight, but this fic in particular feels complete. It just has a lot going on (Hidden identities! Never Been Kissed-style fake student/professor tension! Chase scenes! Cameos! Close-up magic! Heist crew banter! Idris Elba’s North London accent! My total lack of military knowledge!). Also it’s over 30k words. (Yeah.)

Is there any interest in me posting this?? To be clear, I’m definitely not expecting it to be popular or anything, but taking the time to fix it up only makes sense if I know at least two people will lay eyes one it, lol. You don’t have to know both films really well for it to make sense, but familiarity with the Ocean’s trilogy and characters probably helps a lot for context since it takes place in between those movies. Goes without saying that no offense will be taken if there isn’t clamoring demand amongst hockey rpfers for 30k of Pacific Rim crossed over with a George Clooney movie franchise in a fic that has neither giant robots nor giant monsters (nor George Clooney, in any appreciable quantity)... Think I’m capable of taking that sentiment on the chin. 🤙