#me writing 1.2k of incoherent shit like Yes Me Give Me Nothing

[impossible-rat-babies]

@elmshore tagged me to talk about my fic our reflections!

gonna put this mostly below the cut bc it might get long + im ewbarressed 2 talk bout my fics bc often there is a lot of imagery behind them sdjfls

i’m gonna tag: 

@bitchesofostwick, @trvelyans, @mournholdmushroom, @wayhavn, and anyone else who is a mutual who writes who wants to be just. jabber on about their fic i would love 2 hear it

the idea rumbling around in my head, if I’m remembering this correctly, came after the book three demo came out and there is the bounty on the detective’s head for their capture. this got me thinking about how “well it would make sense if the trappers actively went after the detective when they were alone, or otherwise indisposed.” 

That got me rolling on the idea of what happened in the aftermath of such an incident. I wanted more the aftermath rather than the whole omg the detective is in danger haha they’re saved by their LI! I don’t find that as compelling or interesting personally compared to them saving themselves, but they’re injured or had to find a way out of the situation themselves. Or both--I’m not picky.

It was also a sort of fic born out of the desire to see where pollux and mason get on each others nerves/where their conflicts reside. I love fluff between couples, but I also love exploring the more difficult and organic parts of two people together. which this fic was a really great place to explore that between the two of them, mostly because pollux is antagonistic towards asking for help or letting himself be helped. he doesn’t need to be babied in this instance and he had everything under control. the fact that mason is upset over the fact that it actually happened and pollux didn’t tell anyone is irrelevant in pollux’s mind. he got out of it with his life and he can tend his wounds in peace--he doesn’t need help. thus, we have a nice little conflict.

but a bit of dialogue or action that got stuck in my head when i was first drafting it was:

“....fucking hopeless.” Mason grumbles to himself and Pollux bunches his fingers tightly in his shirt.

“If you’re gonna talk then shit say it to my face, Mason.” Pollux spits his name and he knows he’s playing chicken with a speeding car—sooner or later he’s going to get hit.

Mason turns on him, anger drawing his lips into a snarl and frustration tensing his shoulders,

(take one more step, I swear to god)

“I said...” He starts slow, meeting his grey eyes and there’s a vicious storm in that grey, “you’re fuckin’ hopeless, Pollux.”

“Good.”

we’re gonna ignore how pollux definitely would’ve decked mason if he had gotten much closer.

this part really stuck because in all my writings i’ve done with them, both published and unpublished, it’s often pollux who presents the conflict between them verbally. It’s more in his nature to have that confrontation compared to mason. but this is a flip on that, where mason is just so fed up with this sort of crap from pollux where he says something he doesn’t mean. it does sort of put a stop to the argument though, both of them sort of putting each other in their places. mason unintentionally saying an extremely hurtful statement to pollux, and pollux asserting both that yes mason you said that and yes i am hopeless glad you finally got the picture there chief.

moving on, I didn’t really write one of these scenes before all the others. I skipped past a majority of the main argument to get to the meat of that and then built everything up around it. I did skip to after the argument where pollux is in the bathroom alone too. fun fact: the ending is the least edited and most free flowing part of it because i got on a roll + i just didn’t want to edit it. is it less polished and more rushed feeling? maybe. but i did like a lot of the prose i put into the ending. (looking back it’s definitely sort of sparked my obsession with writing about hands and the minuscule movements of hands in fic. if i don’t spend a couple sentences of a character paying attention to hands then what sort of gay writer am I?)

--

the image in my mind when writing fics is often playing things out as a movie scene. it’s all constructed in my head, the environment, the placing of the characters in the space, their interactions. i pick out what seems the most relevant even if it seems rather mundane. blinds or curtains being open, the color a lamp sheds--if it’s more blue or yellow. (bluer whites always read more clinical or impersonal, where more yellow lights feel more homey and personal). or like the color of the tile. I love thinking about the color of bathroom tiles/the inherent cold touch of bathroom tiles. i also like thinking about bathrooms as much as i like thinking about vintage hotel rooms.

but in this fic I was really wanting to hit on the “this is the middle of the night when no one should really be awake unless you’re getting into trouble” but also “this is the middle of the night when people say things or get into arguments because the dark hides everything.” 

also i dunno why i’m so stuck on only having one light source in a scene i write, it’s become a habit and i dunno why.

--

I didn’t really take inspo from another piece of media. i mean, it’s undoubtably got bits of tropes and such stuck into it, but such is writing. im not saying this is entirely original because it isn’t, i just can’t think of anything.

and like i said before, the book three demo with the trapper bounty really got me thinking. well that and the realistic part of what would happen if pollux got jumped by three or four trappers intent on kidnapping him.

me taking the idea of the detective possibly never having killed someone and tossing that shit out the window.

not that pollux is eager to kill people, or is fine with it. tensions just run high when you’re being attacked and slamming a person’s head into the bonnet of your car until they stop moving in a viable tactic for him. did the trapper live? i dunno, pollux certainly doesn’t.

--

i guess the cornerstone going around with this fic was stated above--the strained, realistic, not getting along parts of relationships between people. the subjecting these characters to a possible thing that could happen and seeing how they deal with it in their ways and the conflicts that brings.

but there’s also this chance to grow, to figure things out and avoid a repeat of the situation. it’s as much about the nitty gritty as it is the learning process of being with someone. like when mason explicitly asks/says in his own way for pollux to not do something like that again, whether thats fighting the trappers on his own, or refusing to be helped. or pollux not outright saying no, but rather saying he’ll try. it’s a step along the way towards making it work.

i know i write a lot about the rough and angsty parts of a relationship, but it’s also partially about the growth between characters. the realism of the bickering, the fights, the missteps along the way when you’re trying to make a partnership work. it’s the caring enough to make a mess, to not turn ones back on someone for being difficult. 

i love writing gross--both angsty gross and fluffy grossly human stuff!

[wyn-n-tonic]

My Turn

Pairing: Santiago Garcia x f!reader Word Count: 1.2k Warnings: Daddy kink (but not explicit). Sick Santi. Fluffy, dialogue heavy bullshit. Author's Note: Santi's always taking care of reader, I wanted to write about reader taking care of Santi.

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You run the back of your hand across the soft stubble of Santi’s cheek, an act he leans into as he catches your palm in his and holds it there.

“My love,” you whisper to him, “you’re burning up, do you feel well?”

He’s been acting strange all day but was stranger still at dinner, didn’t even have the energy to raise his eyebrow at you let alone keep up with your usual dance. You pushed his buttons, gave him shit, and all he did was smile at you.

“Hmm,” he brings your knuckles to his lips now, “bit of a headache,” another kiss to your wrist, “throat hurts,” he drags his lips down your forearm, “nothing I can’t handle, baby girl.”

“No,” you stand and tug him up to you, “come with me.”

He shivers when he stands, a cold trembling reaching down to his fingertips and right into you now.

You lead him to the bathroom and begin to fill the tub, a sprinkling of menthol and eucalyptus bath salts along with lavender bubbles.

“Strip,” you command, turning around and making your way to the medicine cabinet.

“That's my line, princesa.”

You shoot him a look while you fiddle with the cap on the ibuprofen, “I'm not telling you twice.”

He begins complying, his shirt falling with a small plop against the cold tile. When you turn back to him, a glass of water and the fever reducer in your hands, he’s struggling to bend and kick his pants off.

“Baby, stop,” your footsteps are quick as you press the pills into his hands, “take this, I got that.”

He carefully grabs the glass from you as you kneel, pulling the waistband of his sweats down with you.

A groan escapes his lips as you guide one leg, then another, out of the confines of the soft fabric.

Looking up, you catch a shade of embarrassment cross his face, “what’s going on in that head of yours?” 

“I must really feel like shit,” he presses the empty cup back into your hands, “usually a sight like that would have me standing at full attention, I’m sorry.”

“Hey,” you shake your head, “don’t apologize, get in the tub.”

You turn the tap off as he steps in gingerly, lowering himself to settle in the warmth as steam fills the room. 

“Where are you going?” His voice is quiet but it reaches for you where his arms cannot.

“Setting a timer so I can give you more ibuprofen in six hours.”

“That’s in the middle of the night, we’ll be asleep.”

“Yes,” you turn back to him as you begin to remove your own clothes, “that’s the point of the timer, to wake me up so I can check your temperature.” 

Instinctually, he leans back, opening his legs to create a space for you but you shake your head.

“No, baby,” you’ve grabbed his shampoo and body wash from the shower now, “scoot forward.” 

Doing as he’s told, you settle in behind him and pull him back against your chest.

His approval, his comfort, hums deep in his being; vibrating your body under his in the enveloping heat.

“Does this feel good?” You press your lips softly to his hairline, sweat beading along his brows.

He whines, “you're using all my lines and moves against me right now.” 

“Not against you, baby,” you drag your fingernails across his scalp, “for you.” 

You lose track of time as the water cools, the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed against you. You wash his back and chest, gently scrubbing the body wash across his skin. 

But what makes him melt is when you pull him closer to your chest, encouraging him to slip down further beneath the suds and gently begin to wet his hair.

Santi moans at your touch as you rub the shampoo through his hair, flexing your fingers down into the sides of his neck. 

“How do I always forget how amazing you are at this?” His voice rasps in a way that’s not usual, raw at the edges of his words.

“Shh, my love,” you kiss his cheek, unable to tell if the heat is from the fever or the bath, “you always forget because usually you’re the one doing this for me.”

He laughs as you begin to cup the water, bringing it up to rinse through the soap that’s curled around those of his own, flattening the locks back down against his scalp.

“Mayb—“ another sinful sound escapes his lips, “maybe we can take turns, you can treat daddy sometimes.” 

As you rinse the last of the shampoo free from his hair, you feel a rattling building in his breath.

“Okay, baby,” you agree with a kiss to his shoulder, “scoot up and let me get out.”

He leans forward and opens the drain as you stand up and wrap yourself in a towel.

“Come on,” you reach for him, “give me your hand.” 

You wrap him in a towel and take him to sit on the bed, his big hands coming out to chase your warmth as you walk away, busying yourself with grabbing his pajamas.

You kneel in front of him again, coaxing each foot into the legs of a clean pair of sweats.

Gun calloused fingertips brush the sensitive skin of your cheek and you look up to meet his eyes, warm and dopey under the soft lamplight of your bedroom, “what's up?” 

A shake of his head, “I'm just overwhelmed with how much you love me.”

“Shh,” you press your lips to inside of his knee, “stand up for me, let’s get these pants up and then I want you to lay down.”

“Think I like it when you’re bossy,” he smiles, standing up and dropping the towel, “like what you see, baby?” 

“Mm,” you hum at him, standing to pull the waistband of his joggers upward, “I do, but you’re sick so I need you to rest.”

He paws at the edge of your towel, “may I kiss you?” 

“Lay down,” you command with a quick press of your lips to his, “let me get dressed.”

When you come back from the closet, his shirt hanging limply against you, the heel of his hands are pressed to his eyes with a whine.

“How are you feeling now, my love?”

“I'm so fucking hot, baby girl.”  

“I know,” you call to him as you walk back to the medicine cabinet, “just lay there, baby.”

“Keep using my lines, prin—“ he coughs then, “I dare you.”

The mattress dips under your weight as you straddle him, his hands instinctively moving to rest on your hips, “as much as I would love this, baby girl, I don’t think I can tonight.”

“Shut up, Santiago,” it’s half a laugh as you unscrew the lid off the jar in your hands.

“I can feel your pussy throbbing, princess.”

You lay your hand a little too hard on his chest, digging the menthol rub into his collarbone, “think that’s your headache.” 

He breathes deeply, a soft sigh escaping his lips, “how are you so nice to me?”

You don’t answer him, you don’t answer any of the incoherent babble that begins to slip from his tongue; the English, the Spanish, the soft praises he has for you and your hands.

Eventually, his snores fill your ears and you climb away from him with a kiss to his fevered forehead.

As you turn the bedside lamp off, you whisper, “sometimes, it’s just my turn to take care of you.” 

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