#technically TWO (three) fics

[causticsunshine]

show me your love (grow up and see)

for @momrryficfest round II ♡

explicit | H/L | friends to lovers, fluff, mutual pining, kid fic | 22k+ | ongoing

At only thirty two years of age, Louis Tomlinson has made quite the life for himself—he has his dream job, a place all his own, a nice car, and all the people closest to him are seeing success of their own. The only big thing he's missing now is having the right partner and starting a family with them, although he figures he has plenty of time for that yet. That is, until his best mate, Harry, comes to him with a proposition. Or: what happens when you become your best friend's baby daddy.

read on ao3

[crossbackpoke-check]

it’s all the rest of what i want with you

connor dewar/brandon duhaime :: 8k

Summary:

“Brandon,” Connor says with a sigh. “There’s no baby in there.”

“Not yet,” Brandon says. Connor feels his stomach twist, almost like what he would imagine a baby kicking to feel like.

in these trying times of dewvorce, may i offer you 8k of pwp inspired by @stillfertile’s wonderful art which i had. several breakdowns about 🫶 anyway please enjoy!!!

[catsafari25]

A/N: Hello again, and with this I think (?) I may have succeeded in writing enough bionicle fic to get it out of my system (unless another plot bunny hits me like a cannonball, but... eh, we'll see) and thus, here is the companion piece to the Vakama & Roodaka oneshot.

This time, exploring the scene where Vakama entered the Great Temple, from his side of things! This was also partially inspired by the scene in Challenge of the Hordika where Nokama is almost physically repulsed in trying to enter the Great Temple :)

x

In the tunnels beneath the temple, Vakama must stoop.

At first he shuffles, mutated arm tucked against him and his sole hand brushing only briefly along the floor to steady himself, but the passages are dark and deep and lined with creatures which seek out the weak. The eyes that watch him are not hungry. They keep their bellies too full for that.

In the end, it is easier quicker to drop to all fours, to share the weight between claw and tool that feet alone cannot. His altered form folds into the new stance with frightening familiarity. It's comfortable.

Natural.

The crown of his mask grazes the tunnel's ceiling, but only in passing. His gait is sure. Well. Surer than the ungainly slouch it had been before.

It was said – back when Matoran were awake to say such things – that even the strongest swimmers of Ga-Metru would hesitate before plunging into the depths of the protodermis sea. Not because the creatures there had any fondness for the taste of Matoran. In truth, it was thought that the rahi actively disliked the flavour. No, it was because the way Matoran swam was indistinguishable from the rahi's usual prey. Only when they had sunk tooth and jaw into their meal would they realise their mistake.

It was an annoying, if harmless mistake for the rahi.

Matoran couldn't say the same.

Vakama's early crawl through the passage had been like that of a Matoran swimmer: functional, but slow and indiscernible from wounded prey. Creatures drag themselves down into these depths to die, in hopes that they will be devoured only when they are too far gone to feel it. The eyes are patient. They will wait to see if this newcomer is similarly inclined.

And so when Vakama drops to his haunches, the eyes blink. Reassess. He moves less like the hunted and more like the hunter now, more predator than prey, and the eyes – and teeth – keep their distance after that.

The path Vakama stalks through was once a protodermis pipe, made obsolete even before the cataclysm. Newer conduits had been built, more efficient, more resilient, and this one had been disconnected but never dismantled. When he reaches its origin, it takes some effort – and his blazer claw – to break the seal across the hatchway, but when he does, one of the temple's protodermis purification chambers looms above him.

The room beyond is quiet.

Unmarked.

He doesn't realise he's stopped until the chittering of his audience draws closer. The snarl he throws back echoes off the pipe's walls, and the eyes retreat, but do not leave.

Vakama curls his hand around the lip of the hatch, and then falters.

Something is wrong.

It's not a pain, because the feeling does not hurt as it ought, but something is undeniably, fundamentally wrong. It causes his breath to catch, his hand to flinch, and it would be so easy, so easy, to turn and walk away, only...

Only he came here for a reason.

The wrongness flares, amplified for a moment, and then he pulls himself up. The eyes watch, but do not follow. Do they feel it too? Can even such base creatures sense the innate malice the temple exudes?

He clambers out of the purification chamber – empty and abandoned now – and stumbles upon his landing. He catches himself, but does not rise back to his feet.

Wrong.

This is wrong.

And at the edge of the wrongness there is a strange sort of terror. It dreads the same way the fire fears the sea, the same way the prey fears the predator; it is the meeting of two primally antithetical forces where only one can survive. It whispers turn back through his mind.

He moves into the next room.

It's one he knows well. Light filters down from the rot-stained windows, centering – as it had the day he'd first seen it – on the suva, and casting long sentinel shadows of the columns standing to attention around it. A crack mars the suva, its stone dome now split cleanly in two from the quakes, and – drawn by some desire he cannot identify (instinct, curiosity... nostalgia?) – he approaches.

It seems so small now. Even bowed and altered in his Hordika form, he looms over the Ta-Metru symbol he'd once had to stretch to reach.

Unbidden, his hand moves to the niche where once he'd placed a Toa Stone – where once he had though himself chosen, duty-bound, destiny-gifted – and falters a breath from the stone.

The wrongness spikes.

Screams.

And with a twist of something he will not call horror, he understands it is not originating from himself.

But from the temple.

It is repulsion. It's alienation. It's recognising him, but as other, as rahi.

It's disgust that a monster would dare enter its sanctuary.

In the Ta-Metru carving, stone once polished to the point of fragmented reflection, he sees a glimmer of his own face. Neither Toa nor Matoran. Nothing blessed by Mata Nui.

Vakama recoils.

And then a wave of his own disgust, propelled by that fury that runs so close to the surface now, rolls through him. If you didn't want us as the Toa, you should've stopped Makuta from choosing us, he thinks, and digs his claws into the stonework.

The wrongness sings.

But he knows it for what it is now, and his morphed, clawed hand gorges scars through the carving. The stone is soft. Its makers had never imagined someone would take a blade to it.

There comes a tapping from across the room, echoing brazenly off the ancient stone walls, and Vakama retreats instinctively into the shadows. A Rahaga enters.

Norik?

No, this Rahaga's armour is more akin to a Po-Matoran than a Ta-Matoran's, the colour of dust and stone. Vakama tries to recall the Rahaga's name – and then dismisses the attempt.

It won't matter, in the end.

The Rahaga walks as he always has, stooped and slow, but clearly unhindered by the temple. He passes by the suva and runs one gnarled hand across the stonework, his movements marred by curiosity rather than reverence.

The rage arrives a fully-formed creation. It drowns out the wrongness, floods the apprehension, and he is moving before he's decided that this is the path he wants.

It is not pain, for it does not hurt as it ought.

But it does still hurt.

x

Whatever the Rahaga might once have been, they are old and weak now. Four are captured before Vakama's rage has a chance to cool, but the ire is no less dangerous when it does.

(That's the thing about Ta-Metru; it's not a place of fire so much as it is of magma. And magma doesn't extinguish with the cold; it sets. It moors itself into place, an unmovable, burning force.)

The rage settles, solidifies around his heart and lungs and carves a home between his breaths.

(Magma is not fire. It does not leap blindly from one source to the next. Instead it advances. Slowly. Steadily. It finds a channel, a destination, and it engulfs all in its path until it reaches it.)

He finds the last two remaining Rahaga, pathetically ignorant to their brothers' fates and still scavenging the temple for answers. He hears the way Norik appraises his sister's translation, relief clear in his voice that they are one step further on this wild rahi chase. Relief, surely, that the Rahaga are one step closer to regaining their Toa form.

(And Vakama's anger has found its destination.)

He does not descend on the Rahaga's leader the way he has the others. No. Norik will know what's coming for him first. He gets to fear. Vakama waits until Gaaki has gone, until Norik is alone, and then he circles. The wrongness thrums in his veins, weighing him down and labouring his breaths. It doesn't matter. Let Norik hear his approach.

Norik doesn't try to run. Vakama will give him that much. (A wise choice. Vakama intends for this encounter to last, but if Norik runs, Vakama cannot be sure he won't chase.) Instead, the malformed once-Toa calls out and actually tries to approach him. Stupid. Doesn't he know that he won't win any fight, transformed as he is? As both of them are? No, instead, he tries to talk. As if they are equals, as if Norik has done anything to deserve his respect rather than his scorn. As if he has earned the temple's forgiveness for his trespassing.

Even when Vakama raises the fate of Norik's fellow Rahaga, Norik attempts to sway him with the illusion of reason, talking of duty and unity, as if he's not using the other Toa Hordika to chase after a rahi myth for his own desires. As if their roles are in any way comparable, both Toa of Fire once, both leaders, it's true, but Vakama hasn't forgone his duty to chase after selfish needs.

And it stops now.

Vakama circles closer, and Norik is still talking, unease in his voice, but not fear. Still searching for the right words to turn Vakama to his bidding as he has the other Toa Hordika. Ever the voice of two-faced logic.

Why won't he just shut up?

Does Norik think him to be as gullible as the others? As quick to desert his duty as them?

And Vakama knows he wants – needs – to shake that assurance, that arrogance out of Norik. Needs to see that facade of self-righteous wisdom crumble into the terror of his situation.

The growl begins deep in his chest and, unleashed, it becomes a roar. He rears out of the darkness, into the weak sphere of light surrounding Norik – and there, there he finally sees true fear fill the old fool's eyes.

Something slams into Vakama and he reels, his roar cut short. His hand reaches automatically, defensively, to his mask. He finds only water there. It clings to him, imbued with some sort of power – he can feel something other in it – but otherwise impotent.

"Leave my brother alone," Gaaki snarls. She stands in the doorway, small and hopelessly overpowered, but her shoulders are tensed with a stubborness Vakama recognises. Already, her spinner is powering up for another shot.

Well. Two can play at that game.

Vakama's rhotuka fires into motion, but the water has seeped into the mechanism, and dowses the fire before it has a chance to catch. He gives it a withering look, before turning the expression onto Gaaki. "Very clever."

Another water spinner hits him, but this time he is braced for it and all it does is wash harmlessly off him.

"Is that all you have?" he asks. His blazer claw splutters, but the claws on his hand flex. After all, there's more than one way to defang a muaka...

Gaaki steps back. Good. She knows she's outmatched. "It's a devastating attack underwater," she offers, and her words are strong but there is a cracked edge to them.

"Then you'd better start finding a puddle," Vakama growls, "before my claws find you," and he drops into a run, feet pounding and fangs bared and that ever-present wrongness humming about him.

She doesn't flee. Just like Norik, she stands her ground, gnarled fingers wrapped tight around her staff. Her eyes are hard, but he sees the way her hands shake.

How long will her resolve last, Vakama wonders. Before or after the claws find their mark?

He never finds out.

He's knocked off his feet before he reaches her, and when he hits the ground, ropes of energy pin him to the earth, like a water-bound rahi caught in a net.

What–

Norik.

He'd forgotten Norik.

He thrashes against the restraints, but they hold strong – for now. His blazer claw splutters again, but it does nothing to the energy that binds him.

He stills as he hears footsteps approach.

The two Rahaga hobble into his line of sight. Gaaki is breathing hard, as if only now is she allowing herself to feel the fear. "You left that late, Norik," she says, and even the breath that follows sounds more like a shaken wheeze than a nervous laugh. "Almost too late."

"I only had the one shot. I couldn't afford to miss," Norik replies. "He's got our brothers. Gaaki, go find–"

"I'm not leaving you alone with him," she retorts. "I only went for a moment before, and look what would have happened if I hadn't returned."

Vakama tilts his head as well as the energy net will allow. He grins at the Rahaga, anger curdling it into a sneer. "Yes, Gaaki, you're very good bait, congratulations." He shifts his gaze to Norik. "But you've always been so good at getting others to do your dirty work, haven't you, Norik?"

Norik doesn't even have the decency of guilt. Instead, he simply looks tired. "Whatever you think you know–"

"I know the truth! You don't care about the Matoran, you only care about yourselves!" He strains against the ropes, and although they do not break, there's a little more give in them than before. He slumps back to the ground, breathing hard. "You might have the other Toa fooled. You might even have the temple fooled, but not me," he growls, and the temple's hatred presses down on him, straining his last words.

Gaaki places a frail hand on her brother's arm. "Norik," she says, and there is such unbearable sorrow in her voice. "He looks in pain."

"It's not my doing," Norik assures her softly. "My snare spinner only binds."

Vakama snarls. "I don't need pity from the likes of you. I know what you are."

"We're allies, Vakama," Norik says, in that insufferably reasonable way of his. "Friends."

"You're frauds," Vakama snaps. He twists against his restraints. They slacken, just a touch. "Liars. You don't deserve to walk these floors."

And the Rahaga stand there, unburdened by the temple's hate, strangers to this land, to Metru Nui, and yet it is Vakama the temple repulses? After everything he has forgone, the life he's abandoned, the friendships he's lost, Mata Nui punishes him?

His rhotuka fires off a fire spinner, and it goes wide, cracks a wall. Norik and Gaaki stumble back, Norik preparing another snare shot, but the energy net holding Vakama snaps. Vakama lurches forward, suddenly free, and slams into Norik.

The snare spinner wraps itself around a column. It lights up the room with crackling energy.

A blast of water grazes past his shoulder, too shy of hitting Norik to commit to taking the easy shot, and Vakama reels towards Gaaki. He fires with a snarl, but hears the snare spinner coming again and ducks at the last moment.

Again his own attack misses and the shot cleaves clean through a wall. Something on the other side begins to smoulder.

Then it begins to rumble.

It's a low sound at first, as deep as the earth and just as vast. Almost like a distant growl. But then the cracks begin to spiral out across the roof, along the columns, and the room buckles.

The light flickers. The frames of the high windows above collapse.

The world becomes fragmented, filled with flickering images. Falling masonry and toppling pillars and dust – but the sounds never relent. Even in the depths of the passing darkness, the thunder continues.

And when the dust settles, so does an awful silence.

Vakama straightens, or does his best approximation of it. Fragments of cracked protodermis fall from his shoulders, his head, his back. He withdraws the hand which has somehow found itself raised above Gaaki, knocking aside the stone slab caught against his arm.

Where's Norik?

Both Hordika and Rahaga stand side by side, that quietness disturbed only by the skittering of stone shards settling. There is wrongness in his breath, his head, and it's impossible to separate where the temple's ends and his begins. But any moment now, Norik will reappear from the wreckage, bearing that ever-same holier-than-thou look, and the anger will rise anew in Vakama.

Any.

Moment.

Now.

"You've killed him," Gaaki says, and her voice breaks that terrible stillness. She draws in a half-breath that cracks into a sob. "You've... oh, Norik..."

No.

No, it was an accident. He hadn't meant to– Norik had simply been in the wrong place. It wasn't as if he'd taken a blazer claw to Norik, or hit him directly with a fire spinner. He'd only meant to... what? What had he only meant to do?

Something swings towards him and he grabs the staff before he even registers what it is.

"He's not dead," Vakama says, and maybe if he says it, he might even believe it. He snaps his gaze to Gaaki, as if her grief is bringing it to pass. "He's not. He's not as easy to kill as that. When the others– when the Toa find him, he'll be fine. Fools like him always find a way to survive."

Gaaki attempts to pull her staff free, but her strength is no match for Vakama's. He wretches it out of her grasp and tosses it aside.

"Stop that."

She doesn't listen to him, only steps back and charges up her rhotuka. The grief in her eyes fogs into hatred.

The water spinner hits him but does little more than rock him.

"Stop."

Gaaki screams, a sound of rage and anguish, and releases a volley of spinners as ineffectual as the first.

Vakama's patience – or whatever had held him in place until now – snaps. He lunges forward. His claws close around the joints of Gaaki's rhotuka and pins the mechanisms harmlessly into place, in the same manner one might pick up a baby ussal crab by the widest edge of its shell. She thrashes, but Vakama's grip holds.

"I said, stop," he snarls.

She's breathing hard, her gasps sharp-edged with agony. "You killed him," she says, voice hoarse and hateful.

His insides twist, and – Gaaki hauled by his side – he starts the ascent to where the rest of the Rahaga are trapped. He doesn't look back to the rubble. Doesn't glance for one last glimpse of Norik's resting place.

He's not dead. He's not dead he's not dead he's not

The wrongness, the hatred, has woven so deep into him, it's almost a part of him now.

Toa don't kill. Vakama can't remember who taught him that (he recalls, briefly, the flash of a gold mask, but it comes with pain – grief – and he pushes it aside before it can take root) but it gnaws at him like a trapped stone rat. Toa don't kill.

But he was never meant to be one.

And if the Great Temple – if Mata Nui – thinks a mistake was made in Vakama's destiny....

Well. That's somebody else's problem.

x

The Hordika that returns to Roodaka is different from the one she sent out. There's something new in his eyes... or perhaps something lost.

"How was the temple, Vakama?" she asks when it's just the two of them.

He looks to her. Beneath the anger, beneath the rahi, there's almost a haunted look to those eyes. It vanishes a moment later, but Roodaka never doubts her own eyes.

"Unwelcoming," he replies, and Roodaka smiles. She could have suggested Vakama pick the Rahaga off one by one in the chaos of Metru Nui, outside where her Visorak could have been an aid... but the temple had been too good an opportunity to miss.

"Good." She sets a hand on his shoulder. "You owe no loyalty to Mata Nui, Vakama. Not anymore."

He rolls his shoulder, but not sharp enough to dislodge Roodaka's hand.

"One thing I do not understand," she says. "What happened to the sixth Rahaga?"

The Toa growls. It is a gutteral sound, rooted deep in the chest and at home in a way it wasn't before. "You wanted a message left for the other Toa. I needed a messenger."

"Alive?"

Vakama shrugs his shoulder again, and this time she lets him roll her hand loose. "Does it matter, so long as they understand?" he growls.

No, Roodaka concedes as she surveys the remains of the Toa before her. She supposes not.

[cactusnymph]

Srry ur having a bad night 🍨 maybe a warden of your choice w zevran + shielding the other w their body?

Being an Antivan Crow means that Zevran has always been a priceless asset and absolutely disposable at the same time. As long as he does his job and makes himself useful he's somewhat safe—as safe as one can be as a hired assassin.

If he stepped out of line or got killed, he would have quickly been replaced by someone else and no one would have shed a tear about him. Zevran decides not to dwell on this fact for too long because being depressed is counterproductive to his survival.

Being in the Warden's company has meant a lot of tiptoeing, making himself as useful and desirable as possible—to little success.

Nerian Mahariel never seems to need anything and his stoic demeanor betrays the sexual attraction of a brick wall at most. Whenever he says "Thank you" after Zevran hands him something or asks if Zevran is alright after a fight, Zevran jokes about it despite feeling decidedly weird.

He's hardly more than a prisoner. At least that's what he thought. It's the deal Zevran made with Mahariel after his failed assassination attempt. Mahariel though seems not at all interested in treating Zevran like a prisoner or a personal guard dog.

No.

In fact he goes out of his grumpy, stoic way to treat Zevran with respect.

An absolutely insane move on Mahariel's part, but Zevran can't help but be intrigued. So far Nerian has offered to mend Zevran's pants ("If you wanted to see me out of my pants you need only ask, dear Warden."), keeps bringing him food whenever he's done cooking ("I know they say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, but I assure you there's no need to charm me with stew") and asks his opinion during group discussions ("You know me, I like being ordered around").

None of Zevran's sexual innuendos are ever perceived with any flicker of either annoyance or interest.

Nerian oftentimes just shrugs, nods and carries on with his life.

Zevran has no idea how to deal with it.

He knows how to secure his survival through means of seduction and that has always worked for him. Up until now.

This respectful behavior on Nerian's part distracts Zevran more than it should, especially when they're in deadly combat with a whole group of abominations.

Zevran is covered in blood, templar intestines and gunk and usually he doesn't mind much, but the smell of this entire tower overrun by demons is horrendous and the impending possibility of getting his mind controlled by one of them doesn't much appeal to Zevran.

Nerian's face is grim and determined as he fires arrow upon arrow into their opponents. Zevran knows that his bow means a lot to him—as one of the few connections to his clan. It's covered in blood now, much like Nerian himself.

Zevran stabs one of the abominations into what used to be a human's face and the shriek it gives off reverberates through the hall like a cacophony of death and misery. It takes more force than Zevran anticipated to get the dagger out of the torn flesh.

"Zevran!"

He lets go of the dagger immediately to swirl around and raise his second weapon, but there's no need. Nerian has interposed himself between Zevran's back and one of the other abominations, his bow discarded on the ground and armed with nothing but a hunting knife.

Something very weird happens inside of Zevran's ribcage but he has no time for sentimentalities, because the abomination rakes its claws across Nerian's chest and throws him to the side. Zevran doesn't hesitate to swing his short sword, tearing through the abomination's torso and making it fall backwards.

He's at Nerian's side before he can check if there's any more abominations left.

"What would you do that for?", he asks, quickly rummaging through his pack to find one of the healing potions. Nerian huffs as he holds the claw wound on his chest, his warm blood seeping through his fingers.

"You're not disposable, you know", he grumbles and takes the potion.

Zevran doesn't know what to say. He can't even make a joke. The so important bow was discarded without hesitation, as was Nerian's own safety. Just to keep Zevran from taking a hit to the back.

"I suppose thanks are in order", he says and does his best to ignore the slight quiver in his voice. Nerian nods.

"It's not a problem."

Oh, Zevran thinks foggily as his heart stomps in his chest like a mad Bronto, but it absolutely is.

[phoenix--flying]

the most impulsive decision (rewriting a fic i havent touched in almost a year)

[decaflondonfog]

thinking of kent parson and the aces and all that symbolism... and specifically the ace of spades, which often mirrors the death card in tarot... kent parson as the bringer of death, kent parson as the something that jack needs to leave behind, to let die, so he can start again, so change can happen, so he can become his best self

kent parson knowing he is that to jack but not being able to fully accept it... MY. GOD.

[tacticianlyra]

okay so while I'm def still very on the fence on if I want to actually pick my TSS fics back up (partially because I've been stuck in Edit Hell with my non-TSS complete and absolute BEAST of a fic since last year and partially because I'm still hung up over even watching an episode) I'd be happy to take asks on either of them

The two fics are as follows:

Serendipity - what started as a stray what-if thought snowballed into more of a canon-diverging AU, based around the idea of Drew being the Kur reincarnation instead of Zak...except Zak still has powers, and that's where things get fun.

The Life and Times of the Pacific Coast Bird-People - AKA the Maximum Ride-inspired Wing AU, except I actually do more bird reseaerch because Hyperfixation. Lots of trauma-handling with this one, not always in the best way.

just note that I likely won't hold back with spoilers due to said fence position.

[discordiansamba]

next up... ignis!

[sisterdivinium]

Asymmetry

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Categories: F/F, Gen Relationship: Jillian Salvius/Mother Superion Characters: Mother Superion (Warrior Nun), Jillian Salvius

Mother Superion almost wishes she had not lost her scar at the thought of Jillian's own.

[millenari]

Drop a wip update? It’s been a minute 👀

Well I've made very little progress on the Tugger pov gold rush. I've been stuck on the Skimble argument scene for weeks at least, though I worked on part of it a few days ago. Luckily after this single hard scene is like 20-30k or so of easy scenes that I'll be able to breeze right through.

Otherwise I started editing my human/celeb/soulmate au and I've discovered that the first draft is actually in excellent shape in comparison to my other first drafts. I've gone through 60k worth of the first round of editing for that one in like three days. And admittedly 60k of 300k doesn't feel that impressive in context but for the Tugger pov gold rush I'm basically killing it if I edit 1k a day.

Haven't made significant progress on anything else other than a new fic I started writing; it's a shorter one about the junkyard flooding. It looks like it'll come out to around 40-50k and it's more of a tribe fic than a tuggoff fic. I initially started out with this one with the intent of giving every single character a chapter but I Dont Think That Will Be Happening.

[espithewarlock]

i heard you wanted some trick or treaters......... so, hi! trick or treat!💕

Fun fact! I got just as many trick-or-treaters on Tumblr as I did in real life! So thank youuuuu!!!

(two...I got two...)

So...anyways...have a bit from my current WIP:

“Hello Max,” Pierre said as he settled into an adjacent lounge chair, “how was your afternoon?”

“He was being turned into a human pincushion, last I saw him,” Lewis winked at Max.

“Oh my God, I am not that bad,” Charles said as he swam up beside Lewis, “I didn’t stab you even once, Max, tell them!”

“My ankles will never recover,” Max deadpanned solemnly, resulting in laughter from the other two and an exasperated sigh from Charles.

“Oh, really,” Pierre chuckled, “how many times did he get you?”

“Ah, maybe ten times?”

“Ten!?” Charles outraged, “I maybe hit you once. Maybe.”

“I don’t know, calamar,” Pierre teased, “I think I believe Max here.”

“You all are so mean to me,” Charles grumbled.

“Honestly, it wasn’t that bad,” Max admitted, “I don’t understand much about fashion but I am looking forward to seeing the collection completed.”

“What I saw you working on today looks very interesting,” Lewis agreed, giving Charles a friendly nudge.

“Thank you,” Charles said and hauled himself out of the water. He walked a couple steps over to Pierre and collapsed on top of him without any preamble.

Pierre yelped as soon as Charles landed. “You are freezing!”

“Water’s cold,” Charles muttered, snuggling closer, “and you’re warm.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Pierre said fondly as he hooked a finger under Charles’ chin to bring him up for a kiss.

[optiwashere]

Okay I love the way you write toys in dnd. Elvish comforter LMAO GALE! Yesterday's fic and the one with the shock prod are PRIMO FOOD TY

Love to hear it, anon! Thank you for reading the fics and enjoying them 💜

As a longtime DM/GM, coming up with magic items is one of my favorite things in the world. Coming up with kinky ones is just like a slight tangent from that lol.

[soyoursoulisgreen]

15 and 32

15. Do you prefer writing one-shots or multi-chapter fics?

I tend to prefer writing one-shots! I love to read multi-chapter fics, but I always get so worried that I'll lose motivation and just, never come back to it :') My first fic on AO3 is loosely a multi-chapter, in the sense that I've left it open to return to someday, but haven't had any interest to pick it back up in years lol. There's something very punchy about one-shots as well - I have a pretty solid split between short and long one-shots, but it's so satisfying when I Finally have a long one finished!

I also like making connected one-shots, or sequential one-shots, but letting them stand on their own so?

32. What’s a fic you’d love to write, but probably never will?

I think I had a Vargas fic idea at one point that I so badly wanted to read but didn't want to write, and made some concept sketches and an outline for and everything lol - something with the Jake/Edgar/Scriabin dynamic ♥ I do know that someone made a missing scene-fic about Scriabin and Jake's first interaction that I've been quietly making eyes at - next time I'm into Vargas for sure 👀

As for love to write, hm... Probably this overly-convoluted Osmosis Jones NTR fic that I've had in my back pocket for way too long honestly lol - ever since I learned about netorare they were my first and only choice but it's so all-hurt-no-comfort and kinda dark and sad and while it sounds really fun, the self-consciousness monster in the back of my head is like "Really? The White Blood Cell Movie? For that?" lol

[dbphantom]

maybe i should have gone into practical effects instead of computer science...

[jack-the-fool]

Okay not to delve too much into the disc horse BUT the issue isn't really "should Din become Mand'alor or not" seeing him actually struggle with whether or not to accept the path that's been offered to him. Everyone keeps saying that Din never wanted the saber, and I'm not saying he necessarily does but he also hasn't really made too much of an effort to get rid of it either. Yeah, he offers it to Bo-Katan on the cruiser but that could very well be chalked up to him trying to fulfill his end of their agreement. After all, part of Bo agreeing to help him get Grogu back in the first place was her trying to lay, claim to the Darksaber. Plus we don't see what happened that led him to keep a hold of it, but we do see that he DOES keep it--we even see him fight to keep it against Paz. Yes yes hah hah Cain instinct/anyone but him but still. If he really just flat out didn't want it, he could have let Paz take it by his familial claim. Or he could have simply left it with the covert when he was declared apostate (why should someone shunned like that keep a hold of such a powerful artifact). Hell, he could have just chucked it in a corner of the cruiser on his way out and let Bo decide if she wanted to take it.

So there's something that prompts him to keep a hold of it. There's something drawing him to it, highlighted by the fun movie magic of the lingering shots when he's putting it in his checked bag (~visual storytelling~). And there's something in the fact that the first time we see him fight with it he injures himself! And yet he tries to keep it! Why! This is the interesting thing about him holding the Darksaber.

Compare it to Din and Grogu. No, Din did not set out on that bounty to end up with a kid. Really, he's not looking to keep the kid at all, but he has a damn conscious and then he goes and bonds with him. So season 1 is watching him struggle with unwanted fatherhood and bonding with the kid despite his best efforts. Season 2 is him struggling with this newfound connection he has with the kid with the looming idea that Grogu does not belong with him and needs to be returned to his own kind. Him winning the Darksaber from Gideon adds in another but similar conflict--something powerful is now in his possession, how does he respond to this new responsibility and how does he feel about it. PLUS really if you add in the fact that the Darksaber is famously a Mandalorian AND Jedi artifact and gee wizz guess whose a Mandalorian who just gave up his kid for Jedi school (thematic relevance anyone???).

So Season 3 was initally set up as yet another step in Din's conflict with what he wants internally VS the responsibilities that are giving to him. His kid is gone, he doesn't have to worry about him anymore but he's gonna. Meanwhile, he now has the opportunity to claim leadership of a scattered people but does he want to? Where does his personal code point him? Towards his former foundling Grogu (who by Creed his no longer his responsibility) or to his scattered people (who by tradition he is now the leader of)? Plus just the surface conflict of Din, who grew up in a traditionalist covert and yet has no knowledge or connection to this traditional artifact and yet is now it's wielder by right? That's some good shit right there.

Anyway tldr it's not about Din actually becoming the Mand'alor or not it's about not getting to see him struggle with the responsibility at all.

[waitineedaname]

I currently have five separate fics completed and waiting to be edited and posted. New hyperfixation is a hell of a drug