#their from a set of 5 but one was unfinished when it got fired (it was the covid semester so everything just got dryed out while we were

[darewolfcreates]

Teeth jars!

[aleksatia]

Five Times the Kitchen Caught Fire (and So Did They) - Request

I've been completely swallowed by work and daily life, and for a long time (even though my hands were itching), I just couldn’t find the time to sit down and write something new. April is coming to an end, and most of my plans are still unfinished. So I’ve decided to focus on your requests first — they take priority — and Songfic Game will come after that.

Picked one of the requests at random — thank you @seris-the-amious for sending it in!

CW/TW: sexual content, explicit language, suggestive themes, alcohol use, mild intoxication, food-related chaos, fire/flood/kitchen disasters, implied nudity, mild injury (non-serious), emotionally charged intimacy, flirtation, teasing, domestic fluff, bad cooking decisions, one named lobster spared.

Pairings: Zayne x Girlfriend!You; Rafayel x Fiancée!You; Xavier x Girlfriend!You; Caleb x Not-yet-girlfriend!You; Sylus x Fiancée!You Genre: Domestic chaos meets romantic heat. Lovers tangled in kitchens, kitchens tangled in disasters. From soft smut to feral tension, from teasing to tenderness. Culinary mishaps, emotional closeness, playful banter, and sex that simmers like a slow-burn reduction. Fluff with bite. Fire alarms optional, intimacy inevitable. Summary: Five different stories, each with their own vibe and varying degrees of chaos — from soft fluff to full-blown kitchen insanity. Some are louder, some quieter; not all include intimacy, but you know me — I’ll make it up to our beloved LIs next time. Word Count: (5 stories) 1.3K | 1.6K | 1.9K | 3.6K | 4.2K

🍷 Cooking with Wine 

You’d only meant to loosen up.

The recipe had three steps. You had two hands. One of them, unfortunately, held a wine glass for most of the night. The other kept getting distracted by those endless cooking reels and the fact that Zayne wasn’t home yet. He was supposed to be. But surgeries run long, and you got bored, then creative, then… clumsy.

The pan got wine. The sauce got wine. You got wine. Somewhere around glass number three, you decided that music and dancing would “help the flavor profile.” You were still wearing his button-up shirt from earlier — a white one, a little oversized, warm from where it had dried on the radiator. Only one button done. Just enough to cover what mattered. Bare legs and fuzzy socks.

The dog watched, fascinated, as you waltzed with a ladle.

When Zayne walked in, you didn’t hear the door. He moved too quietly for that. You only noticed when a shadow passed behind you — his silhouette in the hall, tall and still.

He stepped into the kitchen like a man entering a crime scene. His eyes scanned everything at once: the scorched pan, the bubbling red concoction, the open bottle on its side. The singed towel near the stove.

Then you.

You grinned, wobbling slightly, your wine glass half-full and tilted at a reckless angle.

“Darling,” you said, voice sticky-sweet and delighted, “you’re home just in time for dinner-slash-arson.”

Zayne didn’t blink. He crossed to the stove, sniffed the air once, and exhaled through his nose with terrifying neutrality.

“This is flammable,” he said.

“Like… sexy-flammable?” You fluttered your lashes. “Because I did wear your shirt, which I consider an advanced form of foreplay.”

He turned off the burner. Set the spoon down. Removed the towel with two fingers like it personally offended him. Then turned to face you, arms crossed.

“You put cinnamon in a tomato-based reduction.”

You squinted. “How do you know that?”

“I can smell it.” A pause. “And it’s floating on top like an oil slick.”

“I was improvising.”

“You were drinking.”

You tilted your head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

There was a long pause — like the kind that stretches between heartbeats on a monitor. And then Zayne stepped forward, one smooth movement, and cupped your jaw in one hand. His thumb brushed just under your lower lip, catching the smudge of wine you didn’t know was there.

“You are…” His voice dipped. Barely audible. “Absolutely not allowed near a stove unsupervised.”

You smiled against his touch. “Are you volunteering for the job?”

His eyes met yours — steady, dark, impossible to read. Then his other hand slid to your waist, pulled you forward with quiet precision. His mouth brushed yours. Not rushed. Not rough. Just… intent.

“You look like a disaster,” he murmured.

“Thank you.”

“And you smell like a vineyard in crisis.”

“I bathed in pinot noir for you.”

“Of course you did.”

The kiss deepened. His mouth was warm, patient, and maddeningly controlled — like he was cataloging every sound you made, every angle of your lips. His hands stayed low, anchoring you, guiding you. You arched into him, pressing closer, trying to pull him out of his perfect stillness.

When you moaned into his mouth — quiet, desperate — he broke. Just slightly.

His fingers clenched at your hips, hard enough to leave intention behind. His tongue slid along yours, not tentative now, but searching. Mapping. The clinical calm in him twisted into something rougher. More human.

He picked you up like it was nothing — no grunt, no awkward shifting. Just your thighs wrapped around his waist and the firm press of his hands under your legs as he carried you to the counter and set you down among chaos: wine bottle, scorched pot, an abandoned spoon.

His mouth found your neck next. Soft at first. Then not. His teeth grazed. His breath hitched when your hands found the hem of his shirt, dragging it out of his waistband.

“You're drunk,” he murmured against your throat.

“I’m charming.”

“You are a menace.”

“And you,” you said, tugging him closer until he groaned against your collarbone, “are very overdressed for someone who wants me off this counter.”

He chuckled — low and rare. Then obeyed.

The way he moved was maddening — methodical, as if he were dissecting the moment with reverence. Each button undone on your shirt felt like a soft command. His fingers skimmed your ribs, feather-light, grounding you between warm palms and the cool marble beneath you. He wasn’t rushing. Zayne never rushed. He savored. Studied. Tasted.

He dipped his head and pressed a kiss just above your heart, then lower, catching your breath between his teeth. Your thighs tightened around his hips, pulling him closer — close enough to feel how hard he already was beneath his slacks, restrained and ready. You weren’t sure which one of you was shaking harder.

His hands mapped your body like it was his favorite puzzle — thumbs brushing the curve of your hips, his mouth finding the soft underside of your jaw, then your breast, tongue circling slowly, painfully. You moaned, half a sound, half a plea, and he smiled against your skin like a man memorizing fault lines.

You reached behind, fumbling for the wine glass — still miraculously upright — and brought it to your lips. Took a long, slow sip. He paused, watching you. Sharp gaze, mouth parted.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you pulled him down and kissed him — wet, warm, deliberately messy — and let the wine spill between your lips into his. He didn’t hesitate. He drank from you like he was starved. Like it was ritual. Like you were the altar.

The kiss turned brutal — slick and heady, the taste of red grapes and something feral between you. He groaned into your mouth and pinned your wrists to the counter, grinding his hips forward until your head fell back with a gasp.

“Zayne,” you whimpered, back arching. “Now. Please.”

He didn’t answer. He just shifted, one hand dragging your underwear down your thighs with surgical precision. You didn’t even register when your legs parted wider — it just happened, instinct, need. He undid his belt one-handed, pants low enough for contact, not enough to waste time.

The first thrust was slow — testing. The second made your mouth fall open. The third pulled a strangled noise from your throat that didn’t even sound like his name.

Zayne cursed under his breath and buried his face in your neck. His rhythm wasn’t desperate — he never was — but it carried purpose, weight, knowledge. He knew exactly where to press, when to shift, how to pull your body apart and hold it there — open, high, ruined. One hand locked behind your knee, lifting your leg just enough for deeper angles, and when your breath caught, he did it again. And again.

You held onto his shoulders like the world was tilting. His skin under your fingers was warm, taut, real. His breath stuttered against your ear.

“Say it,” he whispered, voice raw. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“You know I am.”

“I want to hear it.”

You looked up at him, completely undone, and whispered, “I’m yours.”

He kissed you like he’d waited years. His hips stuttered. Your nails sank into his back. His rhythm frayed into something rougher, needier — less science, more prayer. You came with a cry caught in your throat, legs trembling around his hips. He followed seconds later, jaw clenched against your neck, breath faltering like something sacred had cracked open in him.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. His forehead rested on your shoulder, sweat slick between you, hearts slamming like fists.

And then — quietly, from behind you — came a soft drip.

Zayne glanced over your shoulder.

A single string of sauce, still too hot and wildly overspiced, slid off the edge of the abandoned pan and landed with a wet slap on the floor.

He sighed. “You burned the reduction.”

You smiled, still breathless. “But the dessert turned out perfect.”

🦞Omar the Almost-Dinner

You started with the garlic.

Three cloves, crushed under the flat of the blade, then minced until your fingers gleamed and the scent climbed into your throat. A generous pour of golden oil bloomed in the shallow copper pan, already warm, catching the light that poured in through Rafayel’s east-facing windows.

The whole kitchen glowed like watercolor — sunlight moving through glass, catching on polished marble, the sea breathing in the distance. It always felt like standing inside one of his paintings. Too beautiful. A little surreal. Like something sacred might happen if you just held still.

You stirred the garlic with a wooden spoon and whispered, “You’re not going to feel a thing.”

On the far end of the counter, the lobster shifted slightly inside the shallow glass bowl you’d filled with cold saltwater. His long antennae twitched.

You eyed him.

“I’m not going to name you,” you said firmly.

He waved one rubber-banded claw.

You scowled. “That wasn’t a wave.”

Another twitch.

“It wasn’t,” you repeated, softer now. “It was… a muscle spasm.”

You turned back to the garlic. Added butter. A splash of white wine. A whisper of lemon zest.

It hissed. Smelled like summer and salt and the things Rafayel hummed about when he painted early in the morning with one hand in your lap.

You glanced at the lobster. He blinked at you. Slowly. With dignity.

And it hit you.

You were going to kill something. Not just cook. Not reheat, not sear, not pan-fry leftovers.

Kill.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, throat suddenly thick. “It’s not that I don’t love you. I mean, I don’t. Not like — love-love — I love him. But I’m trying. For him.”

You gestured to the pot, now gently boiling behind you.

“That’s for you. That’s how it’s done. It’s quick. Dignified. You go in. You feed him. You become part of something beautiful.”

You paused. The lobster shifted again. Like he disagreed. Profoundly.

You looked down at your outfit.

His silk kimono, white and silver, open at the collar. Your hair twisted up, held in place by one of his old paintbrushes, soft bristles curled with dry cobalt. You’d worn it like a good omen. Like a challenge.

Now it just made you feel like a fraud.

You stepped closer to the bowl. He stared at you.

“…Omar,” you breathed.

Damn it.

“No. No! That wasn’t a name. I didn’t—”

He waved again.

You made a noise halfway between a sob and a curse. “Oh my god, you’re real. You’re someone.”

The pot behind you bubbled louder, as if urging you on. But your hand wouldn’t move.

You looked down at him — Omar. This wet little witness to your culinary ambition and your spiritual collapse. Your eyes stung. You pressed your fingers into the edge of the counter until your knuckles blanched.

“I can’t,” you whispered.

And that’s when the soft sound of bare feet against polished stone made you freeze.

Rafayel stood in the doorway, framed by light. His robe hung open just enough to reveal the fine line of his collarbone, the suggestion of morning skin and sleep-warmth. His hair was half-tied, the rest falling over his shoulders in sea-colored waves.

He took one look at you. At the bowl. At the tears.

And then, very gently:

“…Did you name the lobster?”

You didn’t turn around. You just sniffled — once, pitifully — and stared harder at the glass bowl where Omar sat like a prisoner on death row.

Rafayel crossed the floor in bare, silent steps. He stopped beside you. Looked down into the bowl. The silence stretched, long and gentle.

You swiped a hand beneath your nose and choked, “Ask him. Ask him if he’s mad at me.”

“…Pardon?”

You turned toward him, wide-eyed and red-lipped and clearly unraveling, the paintbrush still skewed at a defiant angle through your bun.

“Ask him,” you repeated, voice wobbling. “I almost turned him into your lunch. Omar probably hates me.”

There was a pause. Then, very seriously, Rafayel looked down at the lobster.

“Omar,” he said softly. “Do you harbor ill will toward my beloved?”

The lobster didn’t move. You looked devastated.

“I think he’s giving me the silent treatment,” you whispered.

Rafayel blinked once. Then, in a voice that was 80% calm and 20% suppressing laughter:

“Cutie… lobsters have extremely primitive nervous systems. Their brains are about the size of—”

“Don’t talk about Omar that way!” you snapped, and slapped his arm.

Rafayel clutched his chest in mock offense. “Forgive me. I forgot he was royalty.”

“He has dignity,” you said with a fierce sniff. “And a name. And feelings.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Rafayel leaned in. Kissed the tip of your nose.

“You are utterly unhinged,” he murmured.

You opened your mouth to argue — but his hands were already at your waist, pulling you into him, your fingers still slick with butter and grief. He rested his chin on your shoulder, eyes fixed on the lobster.

“I was going to boil him,” you whispered. “With herbs. Lemon. I crushed garlic just for him.”

“Of course you did.”

“I ruined everything.”

“No,” Rafayel said, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You just… rerouted the menu. Happens to the best of us.”

You melted into his hold, the silk of his robe brushing your thigh where the kimono had slipped. His body was warm. Steady. He smelled like sea salt and sugar and some ancient perfume no one could name.

“What do we do now?” you asked.

He kissed your cheek, slow and indulgent. Then reached down, lifted Omar from his bowl like a high priest lifting a relic, and turned with regal grace toward the atrium.

“To the koi.”

The koi tank lived in his studio.

Not just because of the light — though it was exquisite in the late afternoon, spilling across the floor in long golden strips — but because Rafayel said the fish helped him “remember the rhythm of the world.” You never questioned it. Just like you didn’t question the fact that he sometimes hummed to them in a language the ocean might’ve forgotten. Or that he had names for all of them: Persephone, Laertes, Blanche, Judas.

Now he stood barefoot at the rim of the tank, the silk of his robe slipping open over his chest, Omar cupped gently in both hands like a waterlogged jewel.

The koi scattered as he approached. Swirls of red and silver and ghost-white fins vanished into the corners of their glass world. Rafayel crouched. Whispered something you didn’t catch. Maybe an apology. Maybe a blessing. Maybe a threat to behave.

Then, very delicately, he lowered Omar into the water.

The lobster drifted for a moment — legs splayed, antennae lifted like tiny banners of defiance — before kicking once and spiraling down toward the gravel, claws first.

You stood behind Rafayel, arms folded over your chest, watching the crustacean establish dominance over a large piece of ornamental driftwood.

“He’s fine,” Rafayel said, not looking back.

“He’s thriving,” you muttered, deadpan. “An icon.”

Rafayel turned, stood, wiped his damp fingers across the silk lapel of his robe. “You know, I’ve hand-fed Persephone for five years, and she still won’t come near me unless I sing Puccini.”

“I relate.”

He tilted his head. “To whom?”

“To Persephone.”

He smiled — soft and sharp at once — and stepped closer. “You cried over a lobster.”

“I cried over almost murdering a lobster.”

He reached out, ran his fingers down your arm. “And why, my sea-witch, were you even attempting culinary homicide?”

You sighed. Shoulders slumped. The knot of shame in your stomach finally loosened.

“I hate cooking,” you confessed. “I hate it. I hate the mess. The timing. The stress. Everything tastes like failure and burnt dreams.”

Rafayel’s brows rose. “And yet you attempted to flambé my emotions alive.”

“I was trying to impress you,” you said, voice quiet now. “Because I love you. And I thought — if I made you something real, something you cared about… maybe I’d feel more like I belonged in your world.”

His face shifted. Slowly. Like a wave gathering itself before crashing.

You swallowed. “But I couldn’t do it. Not to Omar.”

Something unreadable passed behind his eyes.

“...Are you telling me,” he said carefully, “that you were willing to sacrifice your own sanity to feed me something I could’ve ordered from a Michelin-starred restaurant… but not willing to harm a single dramatic sea bug because he blinked at you?”

You looked away. “He blinked with feeling.”

There was a long silence. Then: “I don’t know whether to kiss you or exile you.”

“You could try both.”

Rafayel stepped in close again. The sunlight caught the gold of his eyelashes. “I’d die on a battlefield for you, but a lobster gets your loyalty?”

You tried not to smile. “He had a name, Raf.”

He groaned. “I’m jealous of a lobster.”

You leaned into his chest. “You should be. He’s mysterious. Stoic. Dangerously well-armed.”

Rafayel let out a long, theatrical sigh.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he murmured, “but… I also hate cooking.”

You blinked. “You what?”

“I hate it. I hate heat. I hate measurements. I hate the way turmeric stains my cuticles. I once tried to cook for you, burnt my thumb on the skillet, and immediately painted the pain.”

You stared. He nodded solemnly. “It sold for nine thousand.”

You choked on a laugh. He kissed your temple.

“I’ll order sushi,” he whispered, lips brushing your skin. “It’s what civilization invented delivery for. People like us weren’t made for stoves. We were made for art. For emotion. For love. And for not setting the house on fire.”

“And Omar?”

Rafayel tilted his head toward the tank. “Will be invited to the wedding.”

He paused, watching Omar paddle in lazy circles.

“…But if he ever makes you cry again—” his voice dropped to a murmur, half-affection, half-threat, “—he’s the appetizer.”

🥞Pancakes: Physics & Other Casualties

You woke up too early for no reason. The sun hadn't fully committed to the sky yet, and Xavier was still asleep — somewhere beneath tangled blankets, breathing slow and soundless like only men with nothing left to prove do.

But you had energy. Too much of it. And a craving for pancakes.

You weren’t good at pancakes. Not exactly bad, either — just… experimental. Abstract. Four pancakes already clung to the kitchen ceiling like edible crime evidence, casualties of your first half hour. You had stopped panicking about the first one somewhere around the third. They weren’t hurting anyone. Probably.

The kitchen smelled like butter and mild fear. A playlist pulsed through your earbuds — something upbeat, guilty-pleasure catchy. You danced in place, hips swaying lazily, wearing only Xavier’s black athletic shorts (which barely clung to your waist) and a faded sports bra. Your hair was a mess. Your feet were bare. The floor was suspiciously sticky near the sink, and you were too far gone to care.

You adjusted your grip on the pan, focused like a woman on a mission, and flipped another pancake — up, smooth, controlled.

And caught it with your mouth.

A perfect arc. A clean drop. A hot, fluffy disc of golden triumph right between your teeth.

Your arms shot into the air, victorious. You wiggled. Spun. Posed like a champion gymnast sticking her final landing.

“YES!” you shouted around pancake.

Then you got cocky.

Still chewing, high on success and maple-scented hubris, you turned to the stove, picked up the frying pan again — and this time, tried to flip the whole pan. Into the air. For fun.

You wanted drama. Flair. Pancake-fueled glory.

What you got was: velocity + physics + betrayal.

The handle slipped from your fingers mid-arc. The pan flipped once, bounced off the edge of the stove, and landed squarely in the mixing bowl of batter you’d set just a little too close. The bowl spun. The counter caught a third of it. Your shirt caught another. The rest hit the floor in one majestic, cold, thick slap.

It was everywhere. Your feet. The cupboard. Your calves. The cat bowl. Possibly the wall. You blinked, slowly, looking down at yourself like someone in a war movie who hadn’t realized they’d been shot yet.

And then—

A breath behind you. You turned.

And there he was. Xavier.

Leaning against the doorway. Hoodie unzipped. Sweatpants low on his hips. Hair tousled, bare chest rising and falling in slow, stunned quiet.

He took in the scene. Ceiling pancakes. The lake of batter spreading across the tile. You, panting, pink-cheeked, wearing his shorts and speckled in something vaguely egg-based.

And — of course — the frying pan, upside down, handle sticking out of the mixing bowl like a flag of surrender.

You yanked out one earbud, breath catching. “You weren’t supposed to be awake yet.”

“I was,” he said quietly, eyes still moving — from your flour-dusted knees to your mouth. “Just listening.”

You blinked. “To the music?”

“To the part where you said ‘YES’ with a pancake in your mouth.”

You paused. Laughed. Bit your lip, embarrassed. “It was impressive.”

“It was.”

He didn’t move. Just… watched. You could never tell if Xavier was judging or processing. His expression didn’t give things away. But his eyes did. Bright and bottomless, pale as ice and just as dangerous when focused — and they were very, very focused now.

You tried to brush a bit of batter off your thigh. It smeared. Worse.

He inhaled through his nose, slow. “Is that my shorts?”

“No.” You lied instantly. “Yes.”

You felt warm all over. Sticky, sure — but also warm. The kind of heat that crept under your skin the longer he looked at you like that.

“I was going to bring you pancakes.”

“I see that.”

“They were gonna be good.”

“I believe you.” 

His voice was calm, as always. But his gaze drifted lower — down your torso, your stomach, to the place where batter clung to your thighs like messy fingerprints. He blinked once. Slowly. Like he was storing you. Like he was learning you all over again in this ruined, ridiculous state.

And then… he moved. Not fast. Never fast.

Xavier walked toward you like inevitability — quiet feet on tile, breath barely audible, but his body all presence. You backed up without meaning to, hip nudging the edge of the counter, hands flexing at your sides. His fingers brushed your chin first. Lifted. Tilted. He studied you like he was reading your pulse through the shape of your mouth.

“You made a mess,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “That’s what mops are for.”

His thumb dragged along your lower lip. Batter. Butter. You.

“I meant this,” he said — and cupped your thigh, palm flat, streaking upward through the sticky warmth that clung to your skin. “You're dripping.”

The breath caught in your chest. He didn’t stop. Didn’t ask.

Xavier slid his hand higher, the glide of his fingers patient, unshaking, as he trailed a line through the batter and up — up, under the waistband of his shorts still hanging loose on your hips. He looked down as he did it. Watched his own hand disappear, like he wanted to understand your reactions in real time.

He brushed against you once. Deliberate. Barely pressure. You gasped.

His gaze snapped up.

Then he kissed you. Not sweet. Not soft. But steady — lips parted, tongue tasting everything you’d ruined. He didn’t devour. He took. Like a man carefully disassembling a weapon he didn’t want to break. His hand stayed pressed between your legs, just resting, while his other came to your neck — not choking, but claiming. Holding you still. Making you feel it everywhere.

“You’re warm here,” he said against your mouth, thumb stroking slow circles at the hinge of your jaw. “Wet. Sweet.”

You whimpered.

“Sticky.” He kissed your cheek. Your throat. Bit your collarbone. “Ruined.”

You barely had time to blink before he picked you up — just lifted, arms under your thighs, your back pressed to his chest. Effortless. Inevitable. Your hands clutched his forearms, nails dragging through soft cotton and into skin.

He didn’t speak again until the bathroom door clicked behind you. Then—

“I’m going to clean you.”

Not a suggestion. Not a tease. A promise.

He set you on the counter. Warm wood beneath your bare skin. He turned on the shower. Steam bloomed in the air — sharp and clean and him. The sound of water filled the room like rising tension.

Then he turned back. You reached for him — but he stilled your hands.

“Let me,” he said. “Don’t move.”

His hands were methodical. Almost reverent.

He pulled off your sports bra slowly, brushing every inch of your ribs with his knuckles. Kissed the space between your breasts like he needed to taste your heartbeat. The shorts followed — peeled down with both hands, batter clinging like reluctant gravity. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t grin.

He studied.

You were a mess. But to him — you never looked more sacred.

Xavier guided you under the water. Hot. Steady. His hands followed, dragging soap over your shoulders, your breasts, the dip of your waist — not rough, but firm. He washed you like ritual, like cleansing a blade before use.

And then his fingers slid between your legs again — slick now with water and shower gel, moving slowly, teasing your entrance in soft, circling pressure. You leaned into his chest, barely breathing.

He kissed your temple. “Relax.”

You tried. You failed — when he pushed a finger inside you. Then another.

His free hand cupped your breast, thumb stroking your nipple as he fucked you with slow, exquisite rhythm. No rush. Just purpose. Just Xavier. You sobbed once — quiet, overwhelmed — and he held you steady, nose brushing your cheek.

“You’re close,” he whispered. Not asked. Stated.

You nodded. Couldn’t speak. He kissed you — deeper, this time — and curled his fingers just right.

You shattered.

He caught you, of course. Cleaned you again. Kissed the top of your head, your hipbone, the inside of your knee.

And when he slid inside you after, slow and stretching, thick and perfect, it wasn’t out of hunger.

It was worship…

You came back into the kitchen wearing one of his long-sleeved tees and a pair of clean leggings — damp hair in a loose bun, skin flushed from the shower, limbs still humming from how he’d touched you. Kissed you. Fucked you.

The kitchen, somehow, was spotless.

The puddles of batter were gone. The ruined bowl had vanished. Even the ceiling looked suspiciously cleaner — except for one very visible pancake, clinging for dear life just above the stove like a martyr to your enthusiasm.

Xavier was at the counter, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, a fresh mixing bowl in front of him. His movements were calm, measured — flour, eggs, a whisper of salt. The cat sat near his feet, round as a melon, looking both satisfied and ashamed. You arched a brow.

“He helped?” you asked.

Xavier didn’t look up. “He tried. Then ate half the batter and went into some sort of existential spiral.”

You looked down at the creature. Its belly shifted slightly with every breath. It made a faint, gurgling noise.

“You’re gonna regret that, buddy.”

The cat blinked once, as if to say: I already do.

Xavier cracked another egg with single-handed ease. You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the long lines of his back move beneath soft cotton. Watching his mind in motion. There was something unbearably tender about how focused he became in small things — your things. How the world narrowed down to a bowl, a pan, and a promise.

“You didn’t have to clean everything,” you said gently.

“I know,” he replied, not missing a beat. “But you made a mess.”

You snorted. “You loved it.”

“I did.” He turned then, just enough to meet your eyes — and the corner of his mouth tilted. “I do.”

Heat crept up your spine. You stepped closer. The stove was warm, a fresh pan already heating, butter melting into golden puddles along the surface. He dipped a ladle into the new batter and poured it slow and steady, hands sure, movements silent.

The moment lingered. The smell, the steam, the soft crackle of potential.

You leaned in beside him.

“Do you want me to try flipping it?”

“No,” he said flatly.

You grinned. “Afraid I’ll outdo you?”

“I’ve seen your technique.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “You liked my technique.”

“Your technique almost destroyed the cat bowl.”

“That was a creative choice.”

He slid a spatula under the pancake — smooth, practiced — and turned it in a perfect arc.

You made an approving noise. “See? You’re showing off.”

He glanced at you sideways. “Someone has to impress the cat.”

It was then — as if summoned by memory or dramatic timing — that the pancake on the ceiling finally gave up.

It dropped. Straight down. Landed with a soft, anticlimactic plop right in front of the stove.

The cat groaned audibly, a single long note of betrayal and digestive despair.

You covered your mouth, shoulders shaking. “He can’t… he can’t possibly…”

“No,” Xavier said, deadpan. “He’s reached the limit of his mortality.”

You watched as the cat sniffed the fallen pancake, whimpered, and slowly waddled out of the kitchen like a man who’d seen too much.

Then, finally, softly — like he couldn’t quite believe it: “…Did you actually catch one in your mouth?”

You stood a little straighter. Chin up. “Yes.”

His jaw shifted — not a smile, not quite — and his eyes sharpened.

“…Do it again.”

🍗“Operation: Wing It”

“You won’t even make it past the marinade,” Caleb said.

You didn’t look at him when you dropped the chili flakes into the basket — just a little harder than necessary.

“I’m literally standing in front of a wall of sauces,” you muttered. “I think I’ve made it just fine.”

“You picked up sesame oil to make buffalo wings.”

You froze. Looked down. Yep. Sesame oil.

“...It's fusion,” you said defensively, and grabbed a bottle of hot sauce to cover the error.

Caleb made a low, amused noise in his throat — the kind that wrapped around your spine like silk and sandpaper.

You hated him. 

Not really.

But in that moment? Absolutely.

He was leaning against the side of the shopping cart like he’d been born in a recruitment poster. Dark jacket open, arms crossed over his chest, that stupid military-issue smirk on his face. Skyheavan’s standard-issue glow made his skin look warmer than usual. More golden. More dangerous.

You tossed a bottle of vinegar into the cart without looking. It hit the bottom with a clang.

He flinched. “Careful. You almost declared war on the condiments.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snapped. “Are your elite commando instincts triggered by aggressive grocery shopping?”

“Just saying, if you treat the chicken like that, I’ll have to call for backup.”

You whirled around to face him, finger pointed. “I can cook.”

“You can make cereal.”

“I can make eggs!”

“Which you set on fire.”

“One time—!”

He stepped closer. His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth — just for a fraction of a second — then back to your eyes.

That same flicker again. The one you’d seen a hundred times. Like he might kiss you. Like you might let him. But neither of you ever did.

Too many reasons. Too much history. Too many what-ifs.

“Tell you what,” he said, voice low, almost amused. “You make wings tonight. I’ll taste them. If they’re edible, I’ll say thank you. If they’re better than mine…”

His smile turned sharp. “…I’ll let you pick your prize. And I won’t stop you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And if they’re not?”

He leaned in — not quite touching, but close enough that you felt the heat of him through your shirt.

“If they’re not, you wear my shirt while I show you how it’s really done.”

Your stomach dropped. Your brain screamed something in Morse code.

You said, with all the dignity you could muster, “Fine.”

“Great.”

Then he leaned down and picked up your bottle of sesame oil.

“And I’m taking this,” he said. “Because even fusion has limits.”

You stormed into his kitchen like a woman possessed. Which, to be fair, you were.

By pride. By spite. By the unholy need to prove that just because you’d once burned eggs didn’t mean you couldn’t conquer poultry.

The countertops were unnervingly spotless. The knives hung in perfect alignment. The spice rack looked alphabetized by military rank.

You glared at the nearest drawer and yanked it open.

Soy sauce, vodka, pomegranate molasses, some kind of unmarked flask, another unmarked flask, two napalm-grade hot sauces and a tin labeled simply: “DO NOT”.

You closed the drawer. You opened another. Hot honey, fig jam, bourbon.

You opened a third. Ketchup. Tequila. Grenadine.

“What the hell — why is the alcohol stored with the condiments?!” you hissed.

“Because they get along,” Caleb said, casually leaning in the doorway, arms folded.

You turned so fast your braid hit your cheek. “Get. Out.”

He raised one brow. “Just offering guidance.”

“You’re smirking.”

“I always smirk when people handle raw meat like it’s a loaded weapon.”

You grabbed a towel, threw it over the bowl of chicken, and marched toward him.

He didn’t move. Not at first. Then you planted your hands flat against his chest — and pushed.

Hard.

Caleb slid backward across the smooth floor in his socks, both feet together, expression going from amused to incredulous to resigned defeat in two seconds flat.

“You are not allowed in here until I win.”

“You mean ‘if.’”

“WHEN.”

You shoved him again just for good measure, slammed the door behind him, and locked it. (Okay, you shoved a wooden spoon through the cabinet handles. Same thing.)

Silence.

You exhaled. Turned. And stared at the raw chicken like it had personally insulted your ancestry.

The marinade was where you’d shine. Probably. Maybe. Hopefully.

You opened another drawer. Dark green bottle. Handwritten label. Spanish text. No clue.

You tilted it. Sniffed. Complex. Herbal. Definitely alcoholic. Like absinthe with a sexier résumé.

You dipped a finger. Touched your tongue. Oh. Oh, that was good. Sharp, rich, mysterious. Like something Caleb would drink while brooding in a thunderstorm.

You’d seen someone marinate wings in beer once. This felt like the same vibe.

You shrugged. “Close enough.”

You poured generously. The chicken hissed like it was judging you. You hissed back.

Somewhere behind you, the spoon wedged in the handles creaked.

You whirled. “Don’t you dare!”

Silence. You turned back to your sauce, defiant.

You were not a soldier. You were not a chef. But you were going to make these wings your battlefield.

By some small miracle — or divine act of petty vengeance — you won.

They came out golden. Glorious.

The kind of golden that made you gasp when you opened the oven, momentarily forgetting the smudge of sauce on your cheek and the streak of oil in your hair. The kind of golden that shimmered, with just the right crisp at the edges and a halo of chili flake scattered like divine confetti.

You stared. You may have whispered holy shit. You may have also done a small, smug dance in your socks.

Then you plated them. Carefully. Triumphantly.

And carried the tray out like a warrior returning from the front lines with the head of the beast still steaming on a platter.

Caleb was already on the couch, legs stretched, looking for all the world like a man who’d never been ejected from his own kitchen.

You set the tray down in front of him with all the grace of a crowned queen.

He eyed it. Then you. Then the wings again.

“…Did you order takeout and hide the packaging?”

Your palm hit his shoulder with a satisfying thwap. He didn’t even flinch.

He leaned in anyway. Picked up a wing. Sniffed it. Turned it over once between his fingers like he was inspecting foreign tech.

Then — slowly, deliberately — bit down. Not a dainty bite. He stripped the wing like it owed him intel. Left nothing but clean bone and a line of sauce glossing his bottom lip.

You blinked. Maybe twice.

He chewed. Swallowed. Raised a brow.

“...They’re edible.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s it?”

A second wing disappeared. Then a third.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said around the fourth, “but I think I might be in danger.”

You blinked again. “From what?”

He looked you dead in the eye. “Falling in love.”

Your face went up in flames. You laughed — too sharp, too loud — and smacked his leg. But you didn’t stop smiling.

Neither did he.

Somehow, between the sarcasm and the second bowl, you ended up shoulder to shoulder, knees brushing. Hands sticky. Bowl empty.

You didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. But when he licked sauce off his thumb and looked at you like you were next —

You forgot every reason you hadn’t kissed him yet.

His eyes lingered on your lips longer this time. No flicker, no teasing half-glance. Just heat. Quiet, anchored heat that pinned you in place like a pressure point no one else had ever found.

“You win,” Caleb said at last, voice barely above a murmur, rough around the edges like it had been dragged across gravel. “The wings. The bet.”

You exhaled, shallow. “That hard to admit?”

His mouth curved, but not like he was amused. More like it hurt a little. “Harder than getting shot, honestly.”

You huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t go anywhere. Not when he was looking at you like that. Like hunger. Like want. Like he'd waited long enough.

“Go on,” he added, that low timbre settling over your skin. “Pick your prize.”

It should’ve been a joke. Should’ve been easy. But your body had other plans.

The ache hit first — low and warm, coiling under your skin. It wasn’t a rush. It was a pull. A slow, molten drag that made it suddenly impossible to sit still.

You shifted, crossing your legs like it would help. It didn’t. Your underwear clung where it shouldn’t. The throb between your thighs was steady now. Treacherous.

You didn’t look at him. “I’ll think about it.”

His gaze didn’t drop. Didn’t move. But you felt it. All of it. Like touch. Like heat.

Silence.

Then, you muttered, mostly to yourself, “Is it… hot in here?”

Caleb’s brow lifted the tiniest bit. “I was wondering when you’d say that.”

He stood. Slowly. The way a soldier moves when every muscle is trained not to betray urgency.

And that was when you saw it. The dark line down the center of his shirt. The way the fabric clung to him. And lower — the unmistakable strain in his jeans.

You shouldn’t have looked. But you did.

He stepped toward the window, cracked it open. The breeze kissed the back of your neck. Still not enough.

When he turned around, you were already watching him. He stilled.

For a moment, nothing moved. Not you. Not him. Just air, trembling between two people who’d been circling this for months.

You swallowed. “You said I could choose my prize.”

He nodded once. You tilted your head. Let your voice drop. “And you wouldn’t stop me.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. “I wouldn’t.”

You stood. Carefully. Your body felt foreign. Heavy and too aware of itself. Of him. Of the scent still lingering on your fingers. Garlic and heat and him.

You passed him slow — maybe too slow — the back of your fingers grazing his stomach as you did. A light touch. Barely anything. But he flinched. Like you’d struck a nerve buried too deep to name.

And then—

His hand shot out. Grabbed your wrist. You gasped. Stopped.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you. Hard. Quiet. Like something had broken loose in him and he didn’t trust it.

Neither did you.

Not the look. Not the breath you just dragged in. Not the heat that rolled through your body like it had a will of its own.

You both stood there. Still.

Then—

His hand slid down. Fingers laced with yours. And he pulled.

You stumbled. Into him. Against him. Your chest hit his, and that’s when you felt it — the pressure. The hard, unmistakable proof that he wanted this just as badly. Maybe more.

That was the moment. The line. And you stepped over it.

You surged up and kissed him. Open. Desperate. Not gentle. Not slow. Teeth. Tongue. Breathless collisions.

He growled. Hands on your hips, your ass, your spine — gripping, anchoring, consuming. You broke the kiss only to gasp, “Bedroom.”

He didn’t ask. Didn’t tease. Just moved.

Your back hit the wall once on the way there — hands groping, mouths colliding, your braid being yanked just enough to make you whimper. Then the bed.

And then—

Clothes everywhere.

He was on top of you, between your legs, shirtless, flushed, panting like a man starving in a field of food he thought he’d never taste again. You pulled his pants open with shaking hands. He ripped your shirt at the seam.

Nothing delicate. Everything necessary.

When your skin met, it was violence. Beautiful. Raw. Atomic.

His mouth crashed against your breast. You arched into it, crying out, the sound catching in your throat as his hand found its way between your legs — fingers slicking through you like he knew you.

“You’re soaked,” he rasped. “Fucking drenched—”

���Don’t — don’t say it,” you gasped, but your hips bucked against his hand.

“Why?” he murmured against your nipple, tongue circling. “Scared it’s true?”

You clawed at his shoulders. “I don’t know what’s happening—”

“Yes you do.” His voice went rough. “You know exactly what’s happening.”

And he was right. You did. You wanted. And for the first time in years, you weren’t afraid of how badly.

He slid two fingers inside you, slow but deep, and your entire body snapped — taut and trembling, mouth open, no air left to swallow.

You came. Just like that. And he hadn’t even started.

His mouth found yours again. He kissed you through it — through your moans, through the tremors, through the shock of it all. Then he grabbed your leg, pulled it up over his hip, and lined himself up.

He looked at you once. Just once. Eyes dark. Wild. Asking.

You nodded. And he pushed in.

You screamed. Not from pain. Not even from stretch. From the depth. The snap. The way it felt like your body had been waiting for this exact shape, this weight, this claim and had finally found it.

“Jesus fuck,” he growled, pressing his forehead to yours. “I—”

You didn’t let him finish. You kissed him again. Bit his bottom lip. Rocked your hips to meet his thrust.

And then it was chaos. Sweat. Skin. Fingers. Scratches.

He flipped you. Dragged you to the edge. Held your hips and slammed into you so hard the headboard knocked the wall. You met every thrust. Matched every groan.

“Harder,” you gasped. “More — don’t you fucking stop—”

“Say it,” he panted. “Say you want it. Say you want me.”

“I do,” you cried, tears on your cheeks now. “I always — fuck — always have—”

His hand slid up your spine. His mouth found your shoulder. His hips destroyed you.

You came again — helpless, shaking, wrecked. He wasn’t far behind. When he spilled inside you with a ragged, hoarse cry of your name, it was like the room exhaled.

He collapsed on top of you. You both lay there. Sticky. Shaking. Stunned.

Your thighs trembled beneath the weight of him, and his breath scraped out against your neck like he was still chasing oxygen.

You thought that was it. That you’d burned it all out in one glorious, unrepeatable burst.

Until—

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

You felt it before he said a word. Still hard. Still there.

He lifted his head. Just enough to look down at you. Brows drawn, cheeks flushed, mouth slack with something like disbelief.

“Are you—?” you whispered.

He nodded once. Swallowed. “It’s not… it’s not going down.”

You blinked. A beat. Then—

You snorted. Just once. Couldn’t help it. Caleb glared, half amused, half mortified. “I’m serious.”

“I can feel that,” you said, breathless. “Trust me, it’s the one part of you I have no trouble reading right now.”

He dropped his forehead to your collarbone with a low groan. “This is… not normal.”

“Not… unwelcome,” you offered, lifting an eyebrow as your hand slid down his side. “Unless you’re saying you’re done.”

He froze. You tilted your head. Smirked.

“I mean,” you purred, “if it’s too much for you…”

Caleb growled — low and wrecked — and tried to shift off of you. But you didn’t let him. Your legs wrapped tighter. Your hips tilted up. And his cock — still painfully, impossibly hard — slid just a little deeper.

He sucked in a sharp breath. You both did. Then your fingers curled around the back of his neck.

“No,” you whispered. “Stay.”

And he did.

The next round wasn’t gentle. It was raw. Sloppy. Almost delirious. You were slick and open and aching for it — for him — and he moved like he didn’t care if it broke him.

He fucked you like it was his job. Like penance. Like prayer. And you took it. Gave back. Met every thrust with want and teeth and fingernails.

You came again. He didn’t stop.

He flipped you. Took you from behind, your cheek pressed to the mattress, ass in the air, his hand buried in your hair like a handle he couldn’t afford to let go of. You screamed into the sheets when he hit that spot — over and over — and your legs gave out under you.

You came again. He didn’t stop.

The third time, you were on top. Riding him hard, reckless, nails dragging down his chest. His hands were everywhere. His mouth bruising yours. It felt endless. It was endless.

The heat never faded. The pulse never slowed. And neither did he.

You came again. 

The fourth time… you broke him.

His hands fell away. His mouth went slack. His body shuddered violently beneath you as he spilled into you once more, gasping your name like a confession.

He didn’t move after that. Couldn’t. You collapsed forward, your chest to his, your head to his shoulder, your thighs still trembling, your whole body pulsing around the stretch of him inside you.

You didn’t pull off. Didn’t want to. Your breath slowed. So did his.

You lay there, tangled together, limbs shaking, muscles useless, heat still simmering in the air like something sacred. Your hips twitched once more — involuntary. He groaned. But neither of you spoke.

You fell asleep just like that. Still connected. Still inside. Still everything.

Morning hurt.

In the good way. The kind that made you wince when you stretched and immediately smile through it. Muscles sore in places you hadn’t used since… ever. Your thighs protested. Your hips whimpered. Even your toes ached, and you were pretty sure at some point during round three you’d cramped your calf and moaned through it anyway.

The sound of the bathroom door made you stir. Caleb. Out of the shower, towel around his hips, hair damp, beard still glistening with steam. He walked like a man who’d been hit by a truck. You knew the feeling.

You didn’t move until he was gone from view. Then you groaned, rolled out of bed like every joint was filing a complaint, and stumbled into the shower just long enough to rinse off the worst of the evidence. Your thighs tried to fold under you again. You cursed him fondly under your breath.

You found one of his T-shirts — dark gray, soft, oversized, familiar — and pulled it over your head like you had every right to it now. Because you did.

The smell of coffee led you to the kitchen. Two mugs waited on the island.

So did Caleb.

He stood barefoot in front of the counter, head tilted, holding something in one hand. A bottle. Small. Dark. Unlabeled — no, wait. Not unlabeled. The label was peeling. Handwritten. And very, very familiar.

Your stomach flipped.

He didn’t turn around when he spoke. Just held it up like it was evidence.

“Tell me,” he said slowly, “you did not use this for the wings.”

You didn’t answer. The silence spoke for you.

He turned then. Slowly. Face unreadable. Bottle still in hand like it might explode.

“Oh my god,” he said. “You did.”

You lifted one shoulder, sheepish. “I thought it was... herb oil? It smelled good. Kinda spicy.”

He stared. Then he laughed. Not a chuckle. Not a smirk.

A full-bodied, stomach-clutching, almost-hurts-to-breathe kind of laugh that shook his shoulders and made him bend halfway over the counter.

“I told them I wasn’t gonna drink it,” he wheezed. “I told them — I said — ‘That stuff’s basically legal Viagra brewed in someone's grandma's basement,’ and you — oh my god — you cooked with it!”

You stared. “Wait, what?!”

He held the bottle like it had personally ruined his evening. “It’s called Mamajuana. Dominican thing. Rum. Red wine. Tree bark. Herbs. Aphrodisiac-level strong. My unit called it hellfire in a bottle. A guy once took two shots and tried to hump a satellite dish.”

You nearly fell off your stool.

Your face dropped into your hands with a groan. “You are not serious.”

“Oh, I am,” he said, grinning so hard it almost cracked his face in half. “And you marinated chicken in it.”

“I didn’t know!” you wailed, voice muffled. “I thought it was fancy olive oil!”

Caleb took a step forward, grin widening, voice dropping.

“Pip-squeak,” he murmured, “I came four times last night and still had a hard-on strong enough to pass for a concealed weapon. I thought I was dying.” 

You made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a squeak and shook your head, still hiding behind your fingers.

Then — a shift. The humor lingered in his smile, but his gaze softened.

He stepped closer. Set the bottle down.

His hands found your hips, thumbs brushing bare skin where the T-shirt had ridden up. He leaned in, kissed your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Then your neck. Slower this time.

No rush.

Just the warm, quiet gravity of someone who knew you now. Not just your body. But your rhythm. Your fear. Your fight.

His lips hovered at your jaw.

“I don’t regret a second of it,” he said, voice low and real.

You looked up at him.

“Even if it wasn’t all... us?” you whispered.

His smile faded to something softer.

“It was us,” he said. “Every second of it. We just finally stopped holding back.”

You breathed in — deep, full, present. He kissed you again. Longer this time. Deeper. Less fire. More embers.

And when his hands slid beneath the hem of the shirt — yours now — and you sighed into his mouth, the ache that answered wasn’t urgent.

It was wanting.

Wanting more mornings. Wanting this. Wanting him.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “So. That still counted as winning, right?”

Caleb sighed like a man clinging to the last shreds of control. “You’re banned from my kitchen. Permanently.”

You smiled, slow and satisfied. “Guess I’ll have to keep making a mess somewhere else.”

His groan was low, helpless. And yeah. He was already planning the cleanup.

🦆 Fire in a Wreck During a Flood

It started, as most bad decisions do, with good intentions and a duck.

You had this vision — soft lighting, one perfect dish, a glass of red wine, maybe some music playing in the background. A date night he didn’t see coming. You’d even bought a packet of helium balloons from a tiny shop two zones over, planning to float them by the window while dinner simmered.

You never got to the balloons.

The first duck died in the oven around 5:40 PM — shriveled, blackened, and glistening like volcanic glass. You’d followed half a dozen different recipes, all of which disagreed, and all of which demanded equipment Sylus would never allow into his cathedral of a kitchen. In desperation, you tried to dispose of it quickly. The garbage bin felt too disrespectful. The sink seemed... decisive.

You honestly thought there was a disposal switch. There was not.

You shoved the remains down the drain with a wooden spoon and a whispered apology, until the bird jammed in the curve of the pipe with a thud and the faucet made a low, wet, glugging growl.

Water stopped draining. Then it started backing up. Then it smelled like duck murder.

You’d tried to fix it yourself — unscrewed something under the sink with righteous fury and zero plumbing knowledge, planning to just shake out the remains like a normal person with a death wish.

But you picked the wrong pipe.

A rush of foul water hissed up, something metallic clattered loose, and you ended up holding a piece of the sink’s undercarriage like a war trophy.

You didn’t know what it was called. But it looked important.

You called the twins.

By the time Kieran and Luke arrived, you were ankle-deep in soapy panic, drying your hands on a decorative towel that now reeked of soy sauce and grief.

Kieran didn’t laugh — not out loud. He crouched beside the sink, yanked open the cabinet, and muttered, “You clogged a full industrial drain with a whole animal.”

“It was already dead,” you hissed.

Kieran shook his head, flashlight clenched between his teeth, legs braced awkwardly around the open cupboard while his gloved hands vanished into the under-sink abyss.

Luke had wandered off to inspect the rest of the kitchen, humming faintly. You’d made the mistake of leaving the duck's replacement marinating on the counter.

"Is this attempt two?" he asked, peering into the tray. “Bold.”

“I can still save this,” you said, mostly to yourself.

“Sure,” he said. “You got another fire extinguisher?”

Then he noticed the helium balloons — still in their unopened package — and lit up like he’d just spotted a new toy in the sandbox.

“Cute. You gonna blow these up?”

“Later,” you said, swiping a streak of marinade from your cheek. “Romance.”

Ten minutes later, Luke was inflating one of the balloons — not for romance — and narrating in falsetto:

“Quack-quack, darling. Look at me, I’m your third duck. I’m full of air and disappointment.”

You rolled your eyes.

He let go of the balloon. It zoomed across the kitchen with a high-pitched pppbbbt-tap! and smacked the refrigerator. Then he found another. Filled it. This time, sucked in the helium.

“Yoooourrrr hiiiighnessssss,” he squeaked, hopping around behind you. “The kitchen begs for mercy!”

You were up on the bottom shelf of the tall cabinet by then — perched on tiptoes, trying to reach a bottle you knew Sylus kept up there. You weren’t even sure what it was, but it had a gold seal, and Kieran had told you it would “caramelize skin like a dream.”

The cabinet creaked. Your toes curled over the edge of a jar of lentils. Your hand closed around cold glass just as —

POP.

Behind you. Loud. Sudden.

A burst of helium balloon, punctured by Luke's metal straw.

You shrieked. Flinched. And fell.

Flour rained down like snow. A box of penne exploded. The lentils hit the tile like a thousand tiny bullets. Except the tile was underwater — and everything sank, scattered, and swirled into what could only be described as soup. You hit the ground tangled in a tablecloth that had been drying over a chair, splashing like a capsized ship in a sea of your own making. A saucepan bounced once, then rolled.

Luke’s voice piped up from somewhere behind the island: “…she flies through the air, the Boss’s beautiful wife, wings of glory, pasta in her wake…”

“I am not his wife yet!” you howled.

“Nope,” Kieran noted. “But keep this up and you’ll be the reason Boss stays single forever.”

You were covered head to toe in culinary wreckage. Rice in your bra. Penne stuck to your thigh. A tablecloth twisted around your waist like a toga of shame. And standing just past the island, smug as a soap opera villain, was Luke — the one who’d turned a leaky sink into an ecological disaster. 

He was grinning. Still holding a half-deflated pink heart balloon.

You locked eyes. He blinked. You lunged.

“NOPE—!” he yelped, and bolted, scattering flour behind him like smoke from a cartoon getaway.

You grabbed the nearest saucepan and charged.

“YOU THINK THIS IS FUNNY?!”

“I think it’s historic!” Luke squeaked, helium still warping his voice into chipmunk-on-caffeine levels of absurdity.

“You almost killed me!”

“You bounced!” he chirped, skittering backward as you raised the saucepan like a medieval war hammer.

“You popped the balloon on purpose!”

“Science demanded answers!”

“You turned the kitchen into Venice!”

“You’re the one who shoved a duck down the sink!” he squealed, practically wheezing now.

“IT WAS A DELICATE OPERATION—”

“IT WAS A BIOHAZARD,” he shrieked, voice cracking into full cartoon chaos.

You chased him around the kitchen island — water sloshing underfoot, socks soaked, jeans heavy and clinging to your calves. You slipped once in the flood, caught yourself on the counter with a growl, then hurled a wooden spoon like a warning shot. It pinged off his shoulder with a sharp thwack — just enough to make him yelp and speed up.

He skidded around the corner of the prep table, laughing in pure helium-high chaos. “You’re so mad! You’re so cute when you’re mad!”

“I’m gonna crown you with this pan like it’s Excalibur, you little plague.”

He ducked behind a chair.

You faked right, doubled back, and body-checked him as he turned — sending you both crashing into the flood-slicked floor in a splatter of lentils and shame. Water went everywhere. You landed half on top of him, half in a puddle, soaked to the waist and swearing through your teeth as your knee skidded into a floating onion peel.

He wheezed dramatically. “Mercy! I’m just the court jester!”

You raised the saucepan.

“No,” you said sweetly. “You’re the sacrificial goose.”

And with all the dignity of a woman pushed to her limit, you jammed the pot onto his head.

Hard.

BONK.

He squawked inside the metal. “Quack—!”

You gave the edges an extra push, crimping it with both palms like a pastry crust until it wedged on tight.

He flailed. “I CAN’T SEE!”

“You weren’t using your eyes anyway!”

“IT’S DARK IN HERE!”

“GOOD.”

Kieran, still under the sink, gagged on the swampy reek of the drain and muttered, “This is the most effective leadership I’ve seen all week.”

Luke staggered upright, tripped over a bag of dried beans, and stumbled headfirst into the pantry, still yelling “Quack-Quack!” like a demonic toddler trapped in a trash can.

You stood there panting, soaked, hair a mess, one sock gone. The marinade bowl had capsized, the countertop looked like a battlefield, and the floor sloshed with every breath. A spoon floated past like a tiny, defeated boat.

Kieran groaned from under the sink. “I’m disabling the line. If anything explodes, I was never here.”

“Go,” you grunted, waving Kieran off as you turned toward the duck. It was still sitting in its tray on the counter — damp, marinated, mildly accusatory. You grabbed it with all the solemnity of a general sending troops to war, shoved it into the oven, slammed the door, and muttered, “Redemption arc starts now.”

Luke let out a squeak from somewhere behind the pantry, the saucepan still echoing on his head like a helmet of shame. You didn’t even look this time — you just marched toward him, grabbed the sides of the pot, and wrenched it off with the fury of a woman betrayed by every possible element in her own kitchen.

“Put this under the sink,” you snapped, thrusting the pot into his arms. “Catch the fountain. And then scoop.”

“I am not a—” he started.

“—scoop,” you repeated, with full executioner energy.

He obeyed, waddling toward the sink with the pot held like a sacred relic, muttering under his breath in cartoonish despair. You reached for the once-white tablecloth — now steeped in soy, shame, and poor life choices — and dropped to your knees in the puddle. Not to clean. There was no cleaning this. Just to wring it out. One sockless foot sloshed audibly as you shifted. The tablecloth squelched between your hands like it was laughing at you. You wanted to cry. Or scream. Or crawl into the oven with the duck and call it a day.

Kieran, looking like a man who’d just won a duel with Poseidon, finally shut off the main. The next hour and a half passed in soggy penance — you and Luke taking turns scooping floodwater with pots, pans, and whatever wasn’t bolted down. Bit by bit, the tide receded, leaving behind a battlefield of soy trails, bloated pasta, and condiment carnage. 

Kieran dragged in a barrel from the garden (“emergency pickling project,” he said, like that explained anything), and everything — soup, sludge, and the last of your dignity — got dumped there. You considered changing into the dress. A real one. With buttons. But one glance at the twins, the oven, and the duck now sizzling like it had ambitions — and you thought better of it. No way were you leaving the boys alone with poultry and fire. Your stomach growled in agreement.

Kieran side-eyed the sink with deep suspicion. “I think I fixed it,” he said, then pointed a cautious finger. “I’m turning the water back on. If this explodes, I’m telling the Boss it was divine intervention."

That’s when the duck started to… smell.

Not burning. Not yet. But that turning point — when fat starts to push too hard against heat, and the sugar in the glaze threatens to go bitter. The scent went from rich to ominous in seconds.

“Kieran!” you called. “Duck’s turning!”

His voice floated faintly from the back hallway: “WATER’S BACK ON!”

You barely glanced up, busy pulling the duck out of the oven with the reverence of a starving survivor discovering civilization. It glistened. It hissed. It smelled like victory. Your stomach responded with a growl loud enough to echo off the tile.

Behind you, Luke poured the last potful of murky disaster-water into the barrel with a theatrical sigh of relief.

You straightened, turned to Kieran — who was already shaking his boots dry in the hallway.

“Great,” you said, nodding at the swamp you all still technically lived in. “Now bring something to finish the job.”

A vague gesture at the floor. “Anything. Everything. Make it shine. I want to see my sins reflected in it.”

He gave you a dry salute, walked toward the nearest cabinet, and yanked it open like a man on a mission. Thirty seconds in, he straightened up with a glint in his eye and a bottle in his hand.

It was dark glass, sealed in gold, labeled in some faded print that was definitely not English.

“What is that?” you asked suspiciously.

Kieran grinned. “Back-cabinet treasure. Might be Boss’s old flambé stash.”

You narrowed your eyes. “We’re not lighting anything—”

"Chill. Science time," he said, thunking the bottle onto the counter and grabbing a plate. 

You hovered as he drizzled a bit of the syrupy liquid onto the plate, struck a lighter, and—

FOOMPH.

A perfect, beautiful curl of flame.

You blinked. “…Okay, that’s — actually good.”

“Told you.”

You took the bottle. Lifted it over the duck. Poured — slowly, carefully — just a little.

The skin went golden. Sizzled. Glazed to glossy perfection.

You smiled. “Oh my god. It’s working — Kieran, it’s —”

At that exact moment — as if the chaos gods had been bored for a whole thirty seconds — Luke decided it was the perfect time to haul the sloshing barrel of filthy kitchen swamp water back into the garden. 

He lifted it. He tilted it. He tipped it. 

And the moment it lurched, so did Kieran — who lunged to help like some tragic grease-soaked hero. One foot hit a patch of duck-slick water, and the rest was gravity and shame. He crashed straight into the open cupboard under the sink, which took the betrayal personally and collapsed like a Victorian lady. The freshly "fixed" pipe let out a wet pop, and a new geyser of very enthusiastic water erupted with all the joy of plumbing vengeance.

Your eyebrows climbed to your hairline, and every fine hair on the back of your neck stood to attention. You watched in mute horror as the kitchen — once bravely salvaged — began to flood all over again, murky water rising with gleeful malice.

Luke yelped, pointing toward the stove.

You turned — just in time to see the duck, which had previously been golden and glorious, now engulfed in a column of flame tall enough to make the ceiling nervous.

You lunged forward.

The flambé bottle tipped with a mocking wobble, spilling straight into the swamp forming beneath your feet. The pan followed a heartbeat later, flipping end over end before bellyflopping into the puddle like it wanted to die dramatically.

The water caught fire.

You and Luke screamed in unison and scrambled onto the nearest countertops like startled gremlins avoiding divine punishment.

Kieran, ever the survivalist, dove into the open cabinet under the sink and slammed the door shut behind him like a soldier bracing for impact.

And just when it felt like it couldn’t possibly get worse — the fire alarm shrieked. Two seconds later, the ceiling sprinklers erupted, dousing everything in a cold, unforgiving cascade of water.

You didn’t scream. You groaned — a low, guttural, end-of-rope kind of sound.

“It’s water,” you whispered, eyes wide, voice cracking like a dying prayer. “It’s supposed to go out...”

From above, Luke peered down from the top of the kitchen cabinet, hair frizzed out like he’d licked a socket.

“…That might’ve been the exterior use blend,” he offered helpfully.

And then—

The front doors creaked open.

A gust of cooler air swept into the kitchen, briefly disturbing the rising steam, the smell of scorched poultry, and whatever part of your soul had already fled your body.

He appeared in the doorway like a punctuation mark at the end of the world.

Sylus.

Black coat half open. Shirt crisp. Expression unreadable. Rain still clung to the cuffs of his sleeves, like even the weather knew better than to interrupt him.

He stepped into what had once been his kitchen — a space once worthy of a museum of culinary art — and paused.

You didn’t breathe.

He took in:

The flames skimming across the floor like demons doing synchronized swimming in Hell's spa day.

The shattered flambé bottle oozing fire like it was auditioning for a disaster movie.

Luke, crouched on top of the cabinet like a gremlin, clutching the salad spinner like it might absolve him.

Kieran, inside the under-sink cupboard with the door pulled shut, as if drywall could shield him from divine judgment.

And you — perched on the countertop like a feral kitchen goddess mid-sacrifice, hair wild, one sock clinging to dignity, staring at him like you'd just burned down Versailles and wanted notes on your form.

He said absolutely nothing. He just stood there. Then, finally, Sylus inhaled.

“Kitten…” he said, with the exhausted breath of a man too tired to be angry and too furious not to speak. “Was this dinner... or did the Four Horsemen stop by for takeout?”

You swallowed. “I wanted to surprise you.”

He blinked once.

“I am very, very surprised.”

You tried to smile. It came out crooked. “It started off romantic.”

Sylus’s gaze dragged across the battlefield. “And then?”

“…There were developments.”

“I can see that.”

He stepped forward. Slowly. As if expecting the floor to betray him. It squelched.

You flinched. “Okay — don’t be mad—”

He raised a brow, expression blank. “Oh, I’m not mad. I’m just trying to calculate whether Linkon Crisis Council covers emotional trauma caused by fiancées attempting to recreate the Trojan War using poultry.”

“Technically,” you said, shrinking slightly, “only one duck was involved.”

He looked at you. Deadpan.

“Just one,” he repeated.

You nodded.

There was a pause. Just long enough to remember the first duck — the one you’d sent to an early, crispy grave. You nodded again, a touch too firmly this time, as if doing it faster might somehow salvage your dignity.

Then his eyes narrowed. “Where is it?”

“…Floating,” Luke offered helpfully. “Somewhere near the cabinet of lost hope.”

Sylus exhaled through his nose like a man deciding whether spontaneous combustion was a valid coping strategy.

Then he looked back at you. Steady. Quiet.

“You realize,” he said slowly, “I’m going to have to salt the kitchen. Like a cursed site. Maybe call a priest.”

“Noted.”

“And you,” he added, stepping close enough that you had to tilt your chin up, “are never cooking in here again.”

You tried to pout. “Even toast?”

He didn’t blink. “Especially toast.”

“So you’re not mad.”

“I’m livid,” he said calmly, lifting you off the counter like you weighed nothing. “But I’m not letting you walk barefoot through your own war crime.”

You gasped. “I’m fine!”

He raised a brow. “Kitten, remember that time we tracked an SSR-class Wanderer into a no-hunt zone, and you ended up covered in cave dust, ripped your sleeve scaling a comm tower, and dislocated your shoulder punching it in the optic?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

He nodded. “You looked more put-together then.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and carried you — wet, guilty, and still somehow grinning — straight out of the kitchen, past the still-sputtering pipe, tossing a sharp “Kieran, shut it down” over his shoulder like a grenade on a timer.

He carried you out through the garden door in silence. Past the scorched threshold, past the scent of smoked soy and betrayal.

For a second, you blinked against the sudden breeze, mind scrambling.

Wait. Was he... evicting you? Was this how it ended — dumped in the herb patch like a misbehaving housecat?

But before you could ask what in the horticultural hell was happening, he crossed the lawn with the grim purpose of a man about to hose down a crime scene.

And then — he set you down. Gently. In the grass. Like some tragic harvest offering.

“SYLUS!” you gasped, still clinging to his shirt.

He ignored you. Walked over to the side of the tool shed. Turned on the outdoor hose. Lifted the nozzle with terrifying precision —

And blasted you from ankle to scalp in a cold, high-pressure arc of righteous vengeance.

“GAHH—!”

You squealed, spinning in place like a soaked kitten who’d just been baptized in heresy. Your hair flopped into your eyes. Water ran down your back. You flailed. You slipped.

“Stop — stop it—!”

You tried to dodge. He followed. Calm. Efficient. Not even smiling.

“You wanted fire,” he said, voice maddeningly even. “This is balance.”

You lunged for the hose in protest, indignant and dripping. He dodged, of course. Effortlessly. With the reflexes of someone who clearly wrestled war criminals for fun. Then — just as you swore vengeance — he looped the hose around your waist once, then twice, and pulled.

You went stumbling straight into him with a wet thump, every nerve in your body shrieking indignation. He caught you like you were nothing at all. Warm. Steady. Unbothered.

Behind you, what was left of the kitchen flood trickled into the rose bushes. And, as your soaked shirt clung to his chest, it occurred to you that for the first time in hours…

…his house didn’t have a single drop of water left in it. Except, apparently, in the garden. And you.

“When I leave,” he murmured into your ear, breath warm and infuriating, “I clearly need to tie you up. For public safety.”

You were shaking now — not from rage, but from the cold. Your teeth chattered. Your fingers clenched in his shirt.

He paused. And just like that, the heat in him changed.

He dropped the hose. Silence.

Then — gentle. Quick. Fluid — he peeled his shirt off over his head, wrapped it around your shoulders, and lifted you back into his arms, this time with no protest, no force.

You curled into him instinctively.

He didn’t speak again until you passed through the back doors and he was carrying you upstairs. Not a word. Just the steady rhythm of his breath and your heartbeat thudding against his shoulder. You didn’t know if he was furious or resigned or about to call the national emergency hotline and declare a domestic code red.

Instead, he set you down in the hallway, dripping, barefoot, and blinking at the sudden warmth.

“Go change,” he said simply, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “Before I hand you over to the fire department as evidence.”

He turned, disappeared down the stairs.

You changed quickly — dry clothes, clean skin, wrapped in one of his soft cotton pullovers that still smelled like expensive cologne and accidental forgiveness. When you padded back down barefoot, the scent of smoke had faded. Mostly.

The kitchen... looked almost normal. A bit too shiny in places. A few new scorch marks on the far wall. 

Kieran and Luke stood elbow-deep in soap bubbles, suspiciously well-behaved. Kieran glanced up and winced. Luke saw you, gave you a sheepish wave —

Then broke into a huge grin and threw you a thumbs-up. You squinted.

“Why is he smiling?”

“Don’t ask,” Kieran muttered.

Before you could press, Sylus appeared at your side, as if conjured by dry wit and exhaustion. He took your hand — gently, like you might try to make another kitchen combust — and led you out to the waiting car.

You looked back once. Luke blew you a kiss. Kieran mouthed, run while you still can.

Sylus helped you into the passenger seat with a soft sigh, shut the door, and climbed in beside you. He didn’t say anything for the first few streets. The city blurred past in late-afternoon gold. Then:

“I was gone for six hours.”

You glanced at him.

He looked ahead, face unreadable. “Six. Hours.”

“Technically, it started fine,” you said.

“No. No, it didn’t.”

“There was a plan.”

“There was a flood.”

“Only because the sink didn’t have a disposal.”

“Because you shoved an entire duck down it.”

You scowled. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You roasted a duck in a flaming puddle of floor soup.”

You crossed your arms. “You’re not gonna marry me now, are you? Just because I can’t cook.”

Sylus’s mouth twitched. “That’s not the worst of your flaws.”

You gasped. “Excuse me—!”

He reached over, casually laced his fingers with yours.

“You don’t just not cook. You destroy infrastructure. You violate the Geneva Conventions of domestic appliances. But…” he looked at you, side-glance soft now, voice quiet, “you did it because you wanted to surprise me.”

You deflated. Just a little.

“I wanted it to be romantic.”

He parked in front of the hotel — a high-end private tower you’d never even noticed before. The doorman opened your door. Sylus ignored him.

“You’re going to shower,” he said, voice slipping into command again. “A long, hot one. While I figure out how to rebuild a kitchen from ashes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are we staying here?”

He looked at the sky. “Unless you’d like to sleep on a countertop covered in caramelized soy glue.”

You were still grumbling when the suite door clicked shut behind you. The shower steamed the mirrors. The robe was comically plush — full hotel luxury. You padded out barefoot, towel around your hair, haloed in warmth.

And stopped dead. On the table: dinner.

Steam curled from a silver cloche. A bottle of wine rested in an ice bath. And in the center — carved, plated, perfect: Peking. Duck.

You narrowed your eyes. “You — you ordered this.”

Sylus was by the window, immaculate as ever — hair flawless, suit crisp, a wineglass poised in one hand. He looked like a luxury ad for danger and disapproval. And next to him, you felt like a half-drowned feral kitten someone had hosed off just enough to be allowed indoors.

You scowled. “I hate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He crossed the room, took your hand again, and pulled you into his lap as he sat. The robe slipped open slightly. His fingers skimmed under the hem, along the back of your thigh, warm against your clean skin.

“You had my card,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “You could’ve ordered it. From anywhere. Best in the city.”

“I wanted to do it myself.”

“I know.” His lips brushed your jaw. “And I’d still burn the house again if it meant getting here.”

You turned to kiss him — deep, slow, shameless. He tasted like red wine and something even older. His hand wrapped in your hair. Your legs shifted around him.

Somewhere across the room, the duck sighed.

Forgotten. Cooling.

Probably grateful it didn’t end up as test subject number three.

[fuck-customers]

Fuck people who don't fucking read posted signage and then do stupid shit. Especially when people are told repeatedly about it, and the sign (s) have been up for well over a month.

So, I work at a chain restaurant that sells coffee, breakfast, and donuts. And on New Year's, we opened at 6 am.

Tell me why people are trying to get in and trying to go through the drive thru at 5:11, about 11 minutes after I walk in the store to open? The lights weren't even on. There was no, absolutely zero, indication that we were open. Like, none. No lights. Music was off. It looked like a ghost town, with the exceptions of me and my baker. I still don't get what about any of that said that we were open.

Besides, I can't do anything until the exact opening time anyway. Especially if the store isn't ready to open. Plus, our systems are locked from making a sale outside of business hours. I couldn't if I wanted too.

I had a woman, a regular, even, come through the drive thru at like, 5:30. I tell her we don't open until 6. I have to tell the lady behind her the same thing. She comes back through at about a minute and a half before the store opens. Both store and company policy state that I cannot have her sit in the drive thru, because my drive times, which the head office is obsessed with, will go up if she just sits there. And I have been instructed to prevent that.

So, I tell her that we're still not open, and she goes "We'll, you got a minute." I told her that I still couldn't help her until we opened, and that I also couldn't have her sit in the drive thru to wait out that minute.

Is it stupid? Yes, but it's what corporate wants.

So, she's just like "Fine. I'll just go elsewhere." And I really just wanted to roll my eyes and tell her to go fuck herself.

And, because of the holidays, we no longer accept anything over a $20. Too many counterfeit bills, and corporate has even told us we can't accept them. And I understand that people are gonna get upset when they whip out a $50 or $100 for an order, but I'm not getting fired over people not wanting to pay with card or smaller bills.

I had a guy literally go "you HAVE to accept this. It's legal tender." about a $50. No sir, we do not. We have posted signage, AND, you have not yet received goods, as you are attempting to make a purchase. We don't owe you anything until it's paid for. And we don't accept anything larger than a $20, so your $50 is no good here. No, we will not make an exception. No, we don't have to accept it just because it's legal tender. State and federal law do not require me to take it, as it is considered an offer of payment, not a payment of debt owed.

It's like, has the fuckin common sense left these people? Or do they walk into the store that fucking stupid?

Oh, and what is it with third party delivery drivers just casually reaching behind the counter's set up for delivery and walk in mobile orders, to the little staging area behind, and just taking shit? Especially when there's nothing on the shelf? Like, no, there is a reason it's behind the little shelf for it. It's because it's not ready yet. And then, we get an angry customer call asking why part of their food is missing.

I remember one guy practically yelled at me over the phone for like, 5 or so minutes, and I just calmly asked if he was finished so that I could explain. I then told him that his driver took his unfinished order, even after being told it wasn't ready yet, and that we apologize for him not getting everything, but the driver had been told and refused to listen.

Thankfully, the guy understood, but geez. And of course, I sadly have so many more stories that I wish I didn't have.

Posted by admin Rodney

[impala124]

Bad Buddy Ep 11

My thoughts on Ep 1 | Ep 2 | Ep 3 | Ep 4 | Ep 5 | Ep 6 | Ep 7 | Ep 8 | Ep 9 | Ep 10

Me, at the end of this episode:

Oh, nothing to see here. Just a pair of queer kids running away from home (temporarily?) because their love isn't accepted by their parents.

Okay, where are we now? A zero waste village and a seaside town. Don't tell me we're going back to the architecture volunteer camp town from Ep 6.

They are talking about Uncle Tong. So, they did go back to the camp town from Ep 6.

Junior, their unlicensed couples counselor, is here too!!

My boys clearly didn't plan this trip, and it shows. Thank God for Uncle Tong, who is going to let them stay with him.

Junior doesn't want to leave this little seaside town. I get you, Junior! Boy, do I get you.

"Whoever talks about our parents first loses." Everything's gotta be a competition with these two. I just can't 😂 I mean, given how the last deal (confession) they made ended with both of them winning, I'm looking forward to this.

Pran asking Pat to get his head off his tummy because it's heavy and Pat saying that it's because Pran is always on his mind. Well, Pran, you chose to pine after this boy for years, so deal with this!!

Both of them are hopeless in the kitchen. Pran can at least toast some bread to save his life.

Remember when Pat set the fire alarm off trying to grill some sausages for Pran? yeah.

They'll be eating toasted bread with condensed milk or ketchup until one of them takes some cooking classes.

Junior is clearly the head chef today, with Pran acting as the sous chef, and Pat is just doing his part by not taking part in the cooking.

Their brand of flirting is not kid-friendly, so sir, please calm yourself.

Pran is thinking about his mom while making her special sauce and reminiscing about his time as her assistant in the kitchen. 😭😭😭.

Pat saying, 'We can do anything we want here,' while forcing the guitar into Pran's hands. The parallels between Pran playing the guitar and Pran loving Pat are paralleling.

Who is that uncle with Uncle Tong, and why did he comment on Pran's guitar skills? Is he going to offer Pran a JOB??!!

Pat is definitely one of God's stronger soldiers for allowing Pran to serenade him with company present. I'll leave it there

Junior wants to be like Uncle Tong when he grows up, but his mom wants something 'less tiring' for him. Interesting.

Pat saying, 'Don't believe everything she says. Adults aren't always right', to which Pran can only reply with a noncommittal Hmmm is very telling. Pran, my beloved, What are you thinking??

Junior is running away from his mom. Now, where else can I find boys who are running away from their parents because they too want something else for their kids? No, not here. Okay, I guess I'll have to keep looking.

The conversation between Junior's mom and Pran is something every young adult (at least the Asian ones for sure; can't speak for others) has at least once in their lifetime.

Of course, Pran, my beloved, looks at Junior's mom and thinks of his own.

Junior insists on staying, but his mom wants to take him back as planned. The foreshadowing is so loud with this one that I need to get some earplugs to protect my ears.

Hey, it's the uncle from before, and he's the owner of this bar.

They've clearly reverted to using the BARTER SYSTEM in this town because I've yet to see any money exchange hands.

I've got my theories on Pran looking longingly at the sight of a random guy playing the guitar and commenting that he's great when Pat asks him if he wants to join along. You see, it has everything to do with him feeling UNDESERVING of Pat's love.

I guess Pran wants to finish that unfinished song that he sang for Pat and Junior the other day.

Pat, bestie, what do you mean Uncle Yod (the bar owner, I guess) is offering y'all a permanent job??!! Do you guys have a duration in mind for how long the trip will be? Thank you, Pran, for asking Pat if he wants to stay for a long time.

Oh, Pran just putting the SIM card away after Pat more or less tells him that he, in fact, does want to stay there for some time 😭😭.

Pran, sir, your avoidant behavior is acting up; get it under control.

See, now, I'll be defending Pran wanting to call his mom because Pat informed Pa about his whereabouts, so Pat's family knows that he's okay, which isn't the case with Pran.

Pran's "I don't want to go back now" is very telling with heavy emphasis on the now.

See, relationships aren't easy, and they don't just happen; it takes effort and communication.

Pat is pissed, which he definitely has a right to be.

Now, don't tell me that Pran brought THE SEAWEED SNACK from Ep 6 and offered it to Pat.

He did. Pat, now's the time for payback. I understand that you're mad at Pran, and taking the snack, which is clearly a peace offering, would be giving in, BUT LICK PRAN'S FINGER, damnit. DO IT FOR ME.

Pat didn't give in, bestie; where'd you get that restraint from, and can I borrow it?

'I can be anywhere as long as I have you.' ASDFGHGGF

So, Pat was ready to fold when Pran offered him the snack, so we are kind of in the same boat in the restraint department.

The kiss on the beach is just ADFGSHG. I love their playful kisses, bit the emotional ones just make me go feral.

Now, I'm glad they got to have their first time here, without Pa's bladder interrupting them.

Post-nut clarity is real because they clearly made some decisions, even if they haven't shared them with each other yet.

Okay, Junior is leaving with his mom.

No, but they actually do look like a pair of dads sending off their son to boarding school before the term begins.

'To be with you for at least one more day... ' Who's chopping the fucking onions over here?!

@starryalpacasstuff I guess this is where the faith you told me to have comes into play. I'll take your word for it, bestie, and persist because I don't think I like where this is headed.

Pran is crying, and I'm not OKAY.

They are leaving the next day??!!

Uncle Tong is the unsung hero of this series, and everyone deserves to have someone like him in their corner.

Reusable tumbler, you say? You, Uncle Tong, are an inspiration!!

Pran serenading Pat with a song he wrote about their love is going to be the death of me.

I'm getting glimpses of Pa & Ink, Korn & Wai together—so my ships are sailing smoothly.

"You might think one man can't change the world. But I want you to know that this world can't change someone like me either"—words to live by, especially in these trying times.

'Have you ever pictured what it'd be like if our families weren't enemies?' I'm glad you asked, bestie, because I've been thinking about it since the day I met y'all. You guys would've been like Ink and Pa.

Fam, let it be on record that Dissaya serving Pat her seafood sauce and them feeding each other before their family broke me irrevocably😭😭😭. She didn't even let Pat give Pran some admin documents irl.

Let's go home & Good luck, buddy with tears in their eyes.

I don't know why I'm this affected because this was the only plausible outcome. But this shit still hurts. It's a good thing I planned ahead and can just dive into the next episode now.

The whole sequence of Pat throwing away the SIM card by saying that no one can bother them now, encouraging Pran to do the same by dangling the possibility of freedom in front of him, and Pran following through and Pat revealing that he just pretended to throw it away, which makes Pran reveal that he too didn't throw away the card because he knows Pat just screams foreshadowing with throwing away the SIM cards being a metaphor for severing ties with their parents. Pat is a filial son, to his own detriment at times, and Pran knows it.

Pran's "Being with you already feels like freedom" to Pat & his "Is it even my job to be responsible for your feelings?" to his mom are very interesting, to say the least. There is a lot of emphasis being put on Pran and his desire for freedom. Me thinks Pran is ready to stop letting others, especially his mom, make decisions for him.

They doubled down on the whole 'familial rivalry being an allegory to homophobia' thing in the episode with

Run away to a place where there's only us. Do you think they'll allow it? Our parents won't. But some people might. We like each other. Why does it bother anyone?

Tagging the usual suspects: @shortpplfedup, @incandescentflower, @starryalpacasstuff, @7nessasaryevils, @greenteadumplings, @grapejuicegay, @madworld-bbs, @usodeshou, @tao-moonb, @fanatic-freakshow @desi-yearning. If anyone wishes to be tagged in the future, let me know.

[damoselcastel]

Tagged by the glamorous, @mannatea!

How many works do you have on AO3?

66 fics (but there are more under Anon, that I'll never tell)

What's your total AO3 word count?

500,503

Your Top 5 stories by kudos

Fire Emblem fics, various games

(I shouldn't be surprised 3H stomps FE14)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes, love to! Although on chaptered works I have a rule for myself- gotta get an update posted before I can respond to previous chapter's comments. It's an attempt at an incentive.

Do you write crossovers?

One of my oldest fics was taking FF7 characters and moving them into a hard sci-fi setting (like, space exploration/alien planets). I still enjoy the mental puzzle of fitting together disparate elements, but am more likely to AU these days. Here's an ultra short Dragon Age/FE14 crossover ficlet.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yep, honestly PWP can be good writer's -block breakers for me. But fully admit, the plotty smut is more fun. It's usually about exploring a particular ship's chemistry.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don't know. Maybe? I remember years before AI was a thing, I'd get contacted about turning a fic into OW...but by these shady vanity presses? Was weird considering the particular fic was extremely unfinished and 2 chapters long.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not that I'm aware of.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Totally, I think my first ever was over email with my Jr High bff for Escaflowne (our shared fandom). For posted, the generous @mrmissmrsrandom has been collaborating with me through RPs, and it's been a lot of fun. Building the Dancing verse, I think is the most steady cowriting I've done.

What's your all time favorite ship?

My OTP tag, and I once sailed the (Marx)Xander/Hinoka ship as the sole fandom captain in the early FE14 fanfic days.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but probably never will?

My FE14 longfic Into A Walled Garden. But I fully confess, since I formed my characterization/opinions based on a fanfic translation of Fire Emblem If's Japanese script, my stuff must feel OOC if compared to Treehouse's localization-- which killed a lot of fandom motivation for me. (I'm having OW thoughts where I write the OTP under different names)

What are your writing strengths?

Pathos (getting those emotional plot hits in), dialogue (especially between two charas), descriptive language (been called poetic, for prose), cultural exchange/clash (esp. within romance), and worldbuilding (its just fascinating).

What are your writing weaknesses?

Being too wordy, purple prose... and sometimes when I hit writer's block, I just- can't get over it. I admit, I should probably do more hard outlining, but my motivation can get very negatively effected by IRL stresses (and then, I just don't carve out time).

A different weakness is, having weirdo ship tastes and focusing on stuff that seems to be FAR from popular? Like, I've accepted it but sometimes I wish I could get behind the big fandom-moving popular ships- but almost always my contrarian tastes plain don't vibe with those (rarepair cake baking for life)

What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet, but want to?

Been thinking about 3H's Nabateans.... a Catherine/Rhea post-AM ship fic, or post-VW Seteth surviving Morphis naturalists, or pre-game Flayn having to deal with the cult of the Western Church. Some very different (and two non-shippy) ideas that I like, but haven't found the motivation/time for.

I'd also like to do more non-FE fics, buuuut I guess the ideas tend to grab me less. Got a really good Jinshi/Maomao premise I hope can get postable someday.

What's your favorite fic that you've written?

For a long time Bird's Milk was my fav because I wrote it in one afternoon with little problem, and I adore the spinoff @flutterbatwrites wrote for the AU verse. But, my new fav is probably Shelter From the Storm because the premise for that fic lived so dang long inside my head, so was great to get it written out and see other FE10 fans emerge from the woodwork for it. ...for a fic AFTER 2020 (the year that lives in infamy) I'd say take a gander at Daemoni, cause it's a monster-bender premise I've had a lot of fun with.

Tagging @mrmissmrsrandom , @dithorba , @flutterbatwrites , @hiboudeluxe , @fury-brand and anyone who sees and wants to (also reverse is true, don't wanna don't do)

[rosencrantzsguildenstern]

ask gameeeeee! 2, 26, 41; 5 for death god, 21 for balcony au... teehee (no pressure to answer all of them!!!)

hi joel! yay so many questions! (the game)

2. Go to your AO3 “Works” page, to the sidebar with all the filters, and click the drop-down arrow for “Additional Tags.” What are your top 3-5 most used tags? Do you think they accurately represent your writing habits?

i have fun looking at these myself! rn they are angst (50), fluff (17), hurt/comfort (17), character study (13) and whump (11). i mean... i do love my angst and u can probably attest to that!!! character study was a thing for me when i was a younger writer and not as much anymore, but i still do them. the number might actually be higher than it seems because i tag those sorts of fics "introspection" or just leave off a genre tag now. anyway it's very accurate! i have trends. i will say it doesn't rep how much i write things that i think are funny (bc i don't tag that all the time) or my love for aus (bc i don't get around to actually writing them 😭) and obv my og writing is excluded there, but it has similar trends to my fics in a few ways!

26. Would you rather write a fic that had no dialogue or one that was only dialogue?

definitely only dialogue! besides already writing plays and reading/watching plays, i also think dialogue adds a dynamic energy that's important. a page with dialogue is gonna look more lively than a page without, and it's probably going to be more lively, too, because it introduces an element of back-and-forth and another mode of diction (or multiple new modes!) besides the narration. you can do that without dialogue, but it doesn't come as naturally. keeping it only dialogue knocks out a mode, but dialogue can do a lot of things. (if i wanna cheat, interview with the vampire and chapters in frankenstein are like all prosey dialogue...)

rest under cut!

41. Link a fic that made you think, “Wow, I want to write like that.”

would you like an unfinished voltron fic from 2018. of course you would. here u go : sleeping on embers by szzzt. i read this one as a kid, and it was the point i aspired towards for a long time; i think about it less lately, but i think i still aspire towards it somewhat! they have gorgeous setting description, gorgeous rhythm (which esp shines in the fight scenes in the preceding work of the series) and a really well-used and strong variation in sentence structure, plus awesome like... emotion writing and focus on the right things to convey emotion and all of that. tasty, tasty, angst. back when i first read it, i didn't know how to articulate any of that and just had stars in my eyes like "omgggg this is so good". i think i included it in a 7th-grade choose your subject persuasive paper on why fanfiction is good or something. i was completely starstruck

when it comes to recent fic, i've got to admit i've been seeking a lot of role models in the darker and smuttier sides of things... i actually reread @keicordelle's stuff semi often when i wanna write intimacy, they're a real talent in that area and a role model for something it's harder to get from published books/literature! a g rated fic of theirs that's a gorgeous example of that style is this gaku fic, the truth about love, which really did something to my heart. @psychicwavementality's lustlove is also fucking amazing but uh. it's amazing in that i swear when i clicked on it even just to grab the link my stomach got upset. don't read it unless u want trauma that's greater than any other fic i've read IM SERIOUS but omg. their fic in general, which is scattered across like. multiple different anonymized accs and hard to find lol. is so well written with especially fire sensory description and i'm still trying to catch up!

-

5. What do you wish someone would ask you about [The Death God's Fiesta]? Answer it now!

since it's ongoing, most of the spiciest questions are gonna be answered! but here's one:

-> what did you cut?

i was considering giving musubi, otoharu, and sousuke a whole backstory retelling in the style of sogo; in that backstory, akito hyuga, the songwriter from first beat, is sousuke's district partner and they have heavy beef and issues, to the point where it's a little compelling and interesting. musubi, otoharu, and sousuke (which i call the tsukumo trio in my head but idk if anyone else does because that's a little confusing), end up teaming up, but in the hunger games there are these things called tracker jackers which are HELL to deal with, really hurt and make u trip out of ur mind, and are used for brainwashing too, and musubi gets bit by some of those, starts acting really really erratic, otoharu ends up killing her (in the hunger games, the tracker jackers venom wears off!! too bad for him he didn't know that, just saw his gf in agony...) and then, of course, gets revenge killed.

another thing i cut is that douglas rootbank was gonna be strung up and killed with the rest of the rebels when i described that but... it wasn't so much that i consciously left that out as my brain went "i can't do that to homie doug" and ended up not writing it in kjsldf

21. If you wrote a “missing scene” in [balcony au], what would it be?

--

Tamaki listed to the side.

"Whoa, whoa!" Haruka caught him. "Don't go falling like that. Go take a nap or something."

"I don't need a nap," Tamaki complained. "You saw me sleeping in history anyway."

So had Iori, from his disapproving scoff at that mention.

"Doesn't that mean you need a nap more?"

"Nah, that's when I get the best rest. It's, like, what do you call it. A conductive environ...place. Anyway, who are you to be concerned?"

Who was he—he wasn't concerned—No, well, actually, he should be the most concerned! Touma was sad and worried all the time, biting his nails till they bled because he couldn't get a hold of his stupid other friends, and Ryou was crazy and furiously angry. Last time they'd seen him, something had made him aggrieved beyond belief; he started a monologue, but it devolved quickly into him throwing books, liquor glasses, and whatever else he could find at them until Touma was grabbing Torao and Minami's hands, Minami gripped onto Haruka, and they hurried out of the office and shut the door tight behind them.

Ryou hadn't tried to follow. Haruka had heard the sound of a few more glasses shattering against a wall, and then, a strange, strangled sob.

"Maybe he hurt himself on all the broken glass," Torao suggested.

"I bet," Haruka said vindictively, since the four of them were all scratched up and bruised besides. Really, what that anger and then crying reminded him of more was Kujo; he made his excuses and got out of there as soon as he could, taking the train to go wander around a part of the city that was as far from the Tsukumo Productions office as he could be.

Anyway—"I should be the most concerned!" Haruka said, in the present, to Tamaki.

"Eeh? Why? Hey, Iorin, do you want my pudding?"

Iori had been looking down, but straightened up. "Sure."

"Something is wrong with the universe," Haruka said. "Since when does Tamaki give away pudding?"

"Wait, you're right." Iori pushed it away. "Tamaki, you should have this. I've been seeing you give food away all the time lately!—Hang on, is that why you're not doing well?"

"'M not starving myself or anything," Tamaki mumbled, "'S just that we've been short on grocery money."

Iori was silent. His fingers twitched; like for a pen, or a calculator. "...I know..."

"Then, I can do what I want."

"But don't give up yourself for the sake of others. You're our lead dancer, so you burn the most calories out of all of us."

"Don't bring made-up words into this! What's a calorie and why do I care? Just leave it alone." Tamaki flipped his hair back out of his eyes. "I'll eat it if you don't want it." He started industriously spooning pudding into his mouth.

Haruka wordlessly pushed the rest of his lunch over to them and stood up to go.

"We don't need this," Iori said, "we're not that bad off yet."

"What do I care if you need it! I'm not hungry and it's gross, that's all."

"I don't want to eat gross food," Iori said.

"It's delicious then, fuck you." Haruka tried to storm off, but Iori caught his wrist.

"You're hurt."

Haruka ducked his head down, hiding his face, which sported a taped-on gauze patch. "None of your business."

"What happened?"

"You don't need to pry." He wrenched his arm out of Iori's grip. "We're not that bad off yet."

[sorbriquette]

20 Questions for Fic Writers!

Tagged by @hyperions-light via DMs because apparently my mentions are still broken (womp womp). Thank you muchly <3

Not sure who this has made the rounds to yet outside off who was tagged on the prior post sooooo - feel free to jump on or ignore? Or if you've already done it drop me a link so I can read it? @aeipathism @acethmatic @vicsplinters @alexandracabotswife

Also gonna gently nudge this over to the FE fandom too even though we may not be mutals I know y'all write fic so I wanna pass on the game (sorry if that's weird) @ferditheas @hubernies

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

26 — though 6 of those are unfinished WIPs (and only 2 that I plan on definitely finishing)

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

384,397 — honestly a little shocked by that I could have written like 4 books for all that word count. But oh well it’s all skill building and I enjoy reading my writing back.

3) What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

They are ALL from Carry On and written in like 2018 so the kudos is a reflection of time and the dropping of 2 sequels since posting them, not necessarily quality or anything. In fact the top by kudos was my first one when returning to fic and in hindsight it is not super well written.

The Truth Will Set You Free, Night After Night (this one I tried to update every night for the vibes it was fun times), Catch Me If You Can (explicit - be warned), Follow Your Heart, Not Really

4) What fandoms do you write for?

Currently it’s mostly Fire Emblem because I got hooked again during my existential spiral over xmas. I wooooould like to write some more Dragon Age, but I am not an OC girly really. And I feel like DA fandom is big into OCs.

Most of my backlog is Carry On, but I analysed the text to shit and fell out of a love with it a bit.

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

Yes - on newer fics. I should reply to comments on older fics but idk my social anxiety tells me that if I respond to someone and didn’t respond to someone who commented on that thing a year prior - that second person will hate me. Which now that I type it out is insane.

I also did stop responding some time in like 2020-2021 for some reason? I’m not sure why but I sure think I’m an asshole for it.

6) What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

None of my fics have angsty endings. Not my MO sorry.

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

All of my fics get like, half their word count again in epilogue so… they all end pretty happy.

But given the Carry On sequels and that most of my FE stuff is before the end of the war it’s probably Overdue Commitments since that is post war, getting married, etc. And thus the only one that actually takes place after all of the other shit characters have to go through in their actual canon. (Also recency bias)

8) Do you get hate on fics?

I mean one of them got book marked with this “The first chapters are perfect. The rest, not so much. Beware” which is a bit rude. But that’s my no3 by kudos as above so like… not exactly gonna keep me up at night.

9) Do you write smut?

Not often. When I do most of it doesn’t get finished and lives in my drafts. That said I recently dropped a 10k word smut fic that is probably gonna get a sequel because I got some nice comments. And I have a 25k smut fic, and an unfinished one too.

… so that’s probably actually just a yes.

10) Do you write crossovers?

No. Not against it though. I would love to do a The Locked Tomb/Dragon Age but I don’t think I have the writing style necessary to write TLT characters.

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of.

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Maybe? I’ve had people offer and have said I’d be fine with it, but never actually followed up.

13) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

No, but I’m always down if someone’s into that stuff. Used to do a lot of RP, so I do like the collaborative stuff.

14) What’s your all-time favorite ship?

I honestly do not know. There are a lot I like but I don’t know if I could pin down an all-time fav. I’m sure I’ll wake up in a cold sweat to the obvious answer at like 3am though.

15) What’s the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Putting In Effort because goooood I love Marihilda as a ship. But it really didn’t get much traction and Marianne is really hard to write like emotionally/mentally because she is so self-depreciating and depressed. It is not a fun headspace to spend your time in, particularly if no one is reading it.

16) What are your writing strengths?

I like the cadence I write with I think? The “know the rules and then break them” thing. Where my punctuation isn’t technically correct but it produces a certain rhythm in the text. Honestly I don’t even know if readers notice that.

Also I think maybe character voice? But that could be mere cowardice because I will not write a character I cannot hear clearly in my head.

17) What are your writing weaknesses?

Brevity.

I tend to write everything blow by blow. Which can be great for fic romance. But when you need to GET THROUGH A DAMN SCENE??? Impossible. Why do I write everyone individually walking out the door? Must we put up this tent in excruciating detail?? We do not even need this scene. Send help.

18) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in a fic?

I think it’s cool when people do it but I wouldn’t put it in mine because I do not know any other languages. I would maybe make an exception for latin tho because it’s sick as hell and also dead.

19) First fandom you wrote for?

Artemis Fowl, on the fan website at like age 9.

Literally just went looking for it and got a massive blast from the past - but also the website doesn’t work because of a fatal MySQL error. Not that I’d expect to find my stuff there, that would have been like 15-20 years ago now.

20) Favorite fic you’ve ever written?

It’s still a WIP but probably Affection, just an all round comforting read for me. But again I suspect that’s recency bias. Also possibly the fact that it is a WIP and I don’t like endings.

I would like to go back and tidy it up a bit though. Ferdinand von Aegir does not use conjunctions.

[alliluyevas]

Fic Author Interview (meme)

I was tagged by the lovely @heckofabecca. Thanks, Becca :)

1- How many works do you have on AO3?

71...I honestly was a bit surprised it was that many. I guess I've had that account a while and it adds up! Almost all of them are oneshots, though.

2- What's your total AO3 word count?

204,091.

3- What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

They're all ATLA, which makes sense when you think about it. ATLA is probably the second-biggest fandom I've written for other than ASOIAF, but ASOIAF is so big it's sometimes hard to get noticed. That being said, when I sort by hits, three of the top five are ASOIAF so I guess more people are reading those and not liking them. It probably helps that my top-kudos ATLA fics are all Zuko-centric and he's one of the most popular ATLA characters in fic whereas I think the ASOIAF topics I focus on are perhaps a bit more niche.

tongued with fire (728 kudos)

i got soul, but i'm not a soldier (714 kudos)

cold fire (655 kudos)

we die with the dying; we are born with the dead (597)

the sword and the pen (577 kudos)

4- Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I try to! I'll respond to all comments on recently published fic (unless it's a hate comment, which I delete) and for older works I try to respond, especially if it's a substantive comment. I like to engage with readers, especially since I tend to write a lot of really niche fandoms and it's nice to connect with other fans.

5- What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

probably either another atla fic that's set right after ursa leaves zuko and azula behind or this big love fic which has an ending that is... not necessarily angsty for the narrator but super bleak in context.

6- What's the fic you've written with the happiest ending?

I don't typically write fluffy romantic fic (I usually do more bittersweet gen focused on family relationships) but I did when I participated in the Jaime/Brienne ship exchange a few times and this bakery-themed modern AU is probably my fluffiest/happiest ending. Exchanges are kind of fun because this is very much the type of fic I would not have ever written on my own.

7- Do you write crossovers?

I have not!

8- Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yes, lol. My Lannister twins genderswap fic was very controversial among a certain subset of fans who vocally disagreed with my characterization (I will sum this up as them basically believing that genderswapped Jaime would just be canon Cersei which...lol). That's the only fic I've ever got hate comments on, though I did get a really bizarre comment back in ninth grade on FF.net before I migrated to ao3 where the person enjoyed the fic but also used the comment to grandstand against abortion, a topic that in no way was mentioned in my fic. Sir This Is A Wendy's.

9- Do you write smut?

I do write sex scenes but I wouldn't describe them as smut because they're non-explicit and mostly like fade to black stuff.

10- Have you ever had a fic stolen?

YES LMFAOOOOOOOO SOMEONE TOOK A MULTICHAPTER FIC I WROTE ABOUT NINA AND OLEG FROM THE AMERICANS AND SELF-PUBLISHED IT ON AMAZON AS AN EBOOK.

11- Have you ever had a fic translated?

I think someone asked if they could translate one of my fics into another language but it was years ago and I don't remember if they did it or not or which fic it was or even which language it was.

12- Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes, my first ever fic! Me and my best friend wrote it in sixth grade and it's an unfinished sequel to Ivanhoe. We never published it, though. It's really, really bad lol.

13- What's your all-time favorite ship?

Tony and Carmela Soprano. sorry. Not ship in the fandom sense but...relationship of all time. (I honestly tend to write for canon pairings that I want to build on, anyway). In the traditional sense of "wanting them to get together in canon", probably Jaime/Brienne.

14- What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

I honestly don't really have a lot of published WIPs, because I tend to do oneshots and if they're not ready they're just not published. Right now I do have a two-chapter Greek mythology/Iliad retelling I wrote in high school that is absolutely never going to get updated ever, but frankly I don't feel particularly strongly about finishing that. I did have an actual multichapter WIP with the Lannister genderswap fic that I really felt bad about not working on, but I finally finished it!

15- What are your writing strengths?

I think I'm good with dialogue and characterization! A lot of my fic focuses on precanon/younger versions of canon characters ("flashback fic") and I think I'm pretty good at developing backstories. Also if I may say so myself, I write decent prose.

16- What are your writing weaknesses?

Plotting, which is why I tend to do shorter character-study stories. I really struggle with doing actual plotlines. (This is also a problem in my original fiction, lol. I'm always like. Okay I have these fascinating people in an interesting setting. Now what the hell are they going to do).

17- What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

If it makes sense in context, like a bilingual character, sure. I do think it should probably be written so that it's clear what is going on to readers who only know the primary language of the fic, though.

18- What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Other than the aforementioned Ivanhoe sequel, it was Harry Potter.

19- What's a fandom/ship you haven't written for yet but want to?

Can't really think of anything!

20- What's your favorite fic you've written?

I'm very proud of the Lannister genderswap fic because it's probably my most significant achievement in terms of plotting, which as I mentioned is hard for me, and I'm really happy I returned to it after over a year's hiatus and finished it! I'm also really proud of this big love fic because I appreciate the effort I put into fleshing out the characters' world (including historical research) and I think it is a really good work of character study.

Tagging @when-did-this-become-difficult @ofhouseadama and anyone else who wants to do this, I can't think of many mutuals on here whose fanfiction output I'm particularly familiar with.

[wisteria-tarot]

Random royal reading because I'm bored: (Meghan Markle)

Disclaimer: This reading is only for entertainment. Take it with a grain of salt. These are my personal interpretations of the cards with a sprinkle of intuition. Tarot is not set in stone it is not the end all be all of someones life.

What is her real personality?

knight of wands, the sun (rx), 5 of pentacles (rx), 7 of swords (rx), 6 of wands (rx), 4 of wands (rx), ace of cups, the moon:

She’s definitely adventurous, always chasing the next big thrill or opportunity. She’s the type to show up to a party and make an entrance, all energy and passion. But, it’s not all sunshine and rainbows with her. Beneath all of that energy and fiery exterior, she has doubts, she wants to feel seen, appreciated, and celebrated, but sometimes she feels like she’s just ignored. She craves attention but is not always getting it, at least not in the way she wants it. Her confidence can definitely take a hit when she doesn’t get the applause she thinks she deserves. She’s also probably the person who, when she does something amazing, might brush it off or downplay it when nobody notices. She may also have this mystical side to her that no one really sees unless you’re super close. Deep down, she’s super sensitive and romantic, always looking for that deep emotional connection. But don't get it twisted, she’s also a bit of a mystery. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s secretive, keeping some of her real feelings and emotions tucked away. She’s all about love and kindness, but she’s also got a guard up, especially if she feels like she can’t trust the situation. She’s probably the type to hide her feelings and keep people guessing about where they stand. Now her personal life. She might act like she’s got it all together, but when it comes to commitment or finding a stable, secure place in life, she’s got a little bit of a struggle bus situation going on. She might have these dreams of a fairy tale ending or a perfect home life, but there’s a little chaos in the background. She might be the one who can’t settle down, always feeling like something’s missing. She’s had her fair share of feeling like she’s been left out in the cold or just not included. And that’s definitely shaped her. Because of it, she’s learned to bounce back and say “I’m fine, no big deal,” but she’s way tougher than she looks. She hides the hurt, but the moment she feels isolated or like she’s being left behind, you’ll see that fire flare up as she tries to prove herself. At the end of the day, she wants to be happy, bit sometimes it’s hard for her to figure out how to get there. She’s constantly searching for that emotional fulfillment even though she gets a little lost sometimes, caught between dreams and reality. She’s kind of like an emotional detective, always trying to figure out what her heart really wants.

What does she think of all the convos surrounding her netflix show?

king of cups, the lovers (rx), justice, the world (rx), ace of pentacles, 9 of wands, 2 of swords (rx), the magician (rx):

She’s over it. She’s trying to stay cool but, she’s definitely feeling a bit disconnected from the whole thing. The feedback is not matching up with what she envisioned, and she’s lowkey feeling like things are unfair—like maybe the critics aren’t seeing the bigger picture. But don’t get it twisted, she’s not about to lose her mind over it—she’s holding it together as much as she can, trying to find the silver lining. She just wishes that people would just be fair and see it the way she does. Which is interesting because she’s got unfinished business. The whole thing feels incomplete, like the show didn’t land the way it should have. It’s not over, but it’s not the triumShe just wishes that people would just be fair and see it the way she does. Which is interesting because she’s got unfinished business. The whole thing feels incomplete, like the show didn’t land the way it should have. It’s not over, but it’s not the triumphant moment she was hoping for. Still, she’s thinking long-term this is a launching pad for something better, so she’s clinging to the idea that this will eventually pay off professionally. It’s not the triumphant moment she was hoping for. Still, she’s thinking long-term this is a launching pad for something better, so she’s clinging to the idea that this will eventually pay off professionally. Even though she’s exhausted from defending herself, she’s still fighting the good fight. She’s conflicted on whether to address the noise or just ignore it. She wants to control the narrative, but she’s realizing that it’s slipping away, and that’s making her feel a little disempowered.

What does she want out of life?

4 of wands (rx), 3 of pentacles (rx), 4 of pentacles, 8 of wands (rx), king of pentacles, king of swords, 9 of wands, the world (rx):

She’s got big dreams, but she’s not living in an ideal world. She wants stability, security, and all the good stuff that comes with it, but she feels like something is always off or missing. Which makes her frustrated that her plans aren’t moving as quickly as she wants them to feel blocked, and she’s tired of waiting. Still, she’s not one to back down. She’s fighting, strategizing, and trying to build something lasting, whether it’s her career or personal life. She’s definitely trying to secure her financial future and become the boss in her own right, but she also craves the mental clarity to make smart, decisive moves that’ll get her where she wants to go. She’s still working on it. She’s not there yet. Things aren’t complete, and no matter how hard she works, there’s always a feeling that she hasn’t fully arrived at her ultimate goal. She’s a fighter, though, determined to push through obstacles, even when life feels like it's giving her the hardest of times.

What does she think of the hate she gets?

the star, ace of swords (rx), the sun, 9 of wands, 8 of pentacles (rx), 10 of cups, 6 of wands, 9 of pentacles (rx):

It stings, but she’s not going down without a fight. She’s trying to stay positive, hoping the hate will eventually fade into the background, but it gets frustrating, like no matter how hard she works, no one seems to get it. She’s doing her best to keep her head up and stay shiny and optimistic, but misunderstandings and criticism just keep getting in the way. All that emotional labor gets draining, and she’s definitely not as invincible as she’d like to appear. She’s longing for the day when people finally give her the recognition she deserves and can see all the hard work she’s putting in. But don’t worry—she’s still holding on, dreaming of that peaceful, happy life where the negativity just disappears. She’s ready to rise above the haters, but it’s a battle she’s still fighting, one step at a time.

How will her business do in the next two years?

Extras-

7 of swords (rx), 8 of swords, temperance, wheel of fortune, queen of wands (rx), justice, the lovers, the magician:

She might feel a bit stuck or overwhelmed, like nothing is going her way, and she’s hitting wall after wall. But, things will calm down. Patience will be key, and once she finds that balance, things will start to click. There will be a turning point coming where she could get lucky with a big breakthrough, a major opportunity, or some unexpected success. But she needs to be careful not to let self-doubt or a lack of energy hold her back. She might go through a phase where she feels a bit unfocused or uninspired, but if she can reignite that spark, things will go much smoother. There’s also a lot of justice in the mix so if anyone has tried to screw her over, karma is coming for them, and she’ll get the fair treatment she deserves. There will also be some important partnerships or decisions that will shape her success. She’ll have the skills and power to create the business she wants. With determination, creativity, and focus, she can definitely turn things around and make her business flourish. But it’s all about getting through the tough stuff to get to the golden opportunities.

strength (rx), ace of wands, queen of swords (rx), 8 of pentacles, 6 of wands (rx), knight of cups (rx), 10 of wands, 6 of pentacles (rx):

How many seasons will her netflix series have?

The series might not be around for a super long time. It has potential, for sure, and could start strong with a lot of excitement, but there’s going to be a bumpy road ahead. People involved might burn out or get tired, and there could be some behind-the-scenes drama or creative disagreements that cause the show to falter. Plus, while the cast and crew will put in effort, there’s a sense that they’ll struggle to maintain momentum. Eventually, it might fizzle out due to lack of enthusiasm, mismanagement, or just the weight of too many demands. So, realistically, it could probably manage around 2 to 3 seasons, but after that, it’s likely to fizzle out unless something changes dramatically behind the scenes.

3 of cups, 7 of wands, 2 of wands (rx), queen of pentacles, the star (rx), death, 7 of pentacles, the empress:

How will the show ending affect her company if at all?

The end of the show could bring a sense of community support or shared success with her audience or fans. There’s likely a sense of bonding around the show's ending that could carry over into her business. But personally it could initially feel like a challenge for her. She’ll be fighting to maintain her position and handle increased competition or pressure. She may feel unsure about the future direction of her business, and it could take her some time to figure out what comes next. She will definitely go through a period of self-doubt or even disillusionment, especially if the show was central to her public image. However, she has the stability and practicality to weather the storm and keep her business grounded. She'll most likely reinvent her business or pivot in a new direction. There’s potential for growth and expansion, especially if she brings creativity, abundance, and nurturing energy to the table. After a period of evaluation, she will likely find ways to thrive and grow her business, even without the show as a focal point anymore.

[siambre]

Hi! I just finished binge reading ‘Through Fire and Vows’ and loved it! Usually a fic being unfinished is a dealbreaker for me, but I read some of your other zutara fics and had to check it out. I just had one question, what happened in this au that makes it so different from canon? Sorry if this is a little confusing but, in canon, Lu Ten and Azulon died and Ursa was banished, leading to Ozai taking the throne. Is this au different because Lu Ten never died and it never triggered those events? Did this impact the SWT because there seems to be no Avatar around, therefore Katara and Sokka never found him and never stopped the war? Also, Zuko was scarred but wasn’t banished, right? Or did he find the Avatar, succeed in his mission and come back just as ignorant? Sorry if that’s too many questions. Usually when I’m reading an AU set in the atla world, I get carried away thinking about how it diverges from canon. Anyway, I’ve been enjoying the fic so far and can’t for the yearning-stage in this fic, especially since you write enemies so well! ❤️

hi!!! thank you so much for giving the fic a shot ❤️

no need to apologize for asking, i really appreciate the questions! the au is actually quite canon compliant in regards to the FN lore and royal family, but there are a couple major divergences:

1. this au takes place in the year 99 AG like canon — the difference here is we've sort of gone back in time to when Iroh was still besieging Ba Sing Se, and Lu Ten and Azulon were still alive. so basically all of those events happen when Zuko is a young adult instead of a child

2. he did have an Agni Kai with Ozai when he was 13, but he wasn't banished since Ozai wasn't the Fire Lord at the time and Azulon prevented such an over-the-top punishment

3. the reason Zuko is much more arrogant here is because he wasn't banished and is older, therefore he's been indoctrinated for a lot longer and never got the chance to broaden his worldview via the exile

4. he's also less important in the grand scheme of things since Lu Ten has 2 children in this au, so he's further down the line of succession (for now)

5. the Avatar does exist here, but idk yet if Aang will ever get out of the ice since Katara isn't there anymore to break him out. we'll see how she'll work with Zuko to end the war 😌

hope that answered all your questions. if you have any more, please don't hesitate to ask! i love getting to chat about my work ☺️

[azures-grace]

i give you two options

a. the entire list of questions

or

b. 2, 5, 14, 20

Challenge MCFUCKING accepted

Questions at the end

1. 4 published, but technically I worked on The Shadow of the Wicked but didn't publish anything for it.

2. One shots!

3. Fallout lmaoo

4. 2, Skyrim and Fallout, 3 if you wanna get technical and say My Father's Name is FNV and Too Much has Fallen in Mine is Fo3

5. Butchicity.... Goober n Gore......

6. Butch DeLoria and Moira Brown

7. Yeah! Started writing for Fallout, and the new ships would be Moira and Lissy and Butch and Lissy but that technically hasn't actually come up in any writing yet. There's stuff I've been writing for it tho.... But for later.....

8. TMHFIM, it was really special to me because it was like... The first thing I was able to write after being really depressed for a long ass time. God bless antidepressants.

9. Ooh... Hard question. I was really happy to work on all of them, but I think Let me hold you until I soften your hands made me the happiest because it's just. Pure fluff.

10. One of the oneshots, I'm a whore for unfinished long fics nshdjejdbd

11. Uncanny Blood, mostly because I wanted to work on later parts a lot and had to figure out travel times and then had to write a whole extra chapter even though technically I had 2 chapters after it written, so currently the fic is at a standstill because I have to write chapter 3, even though I have 4 and 5 ready to go 😔😔😔

12. None of them lmaoo. My Father's Name, probably. I know the beginning of New Vegas pretty well.

13. Shortest: My Father's Name, Longest: TMHFIM

14. Depends on when in the year I was? I've got a couple character playlists n stuff sorry for the terrible answer lmao djsjjzbd

15. TMHFIM, I was stuck between several titles, but I'm using at least one of them for a later chapter, so all is well.

16. Let me hold you until I soften your hands. Makes me emotional

17. "Evenings by the fire were always their favorite part of the evening." Or "Her father had been… distant lately." I feel like both of those set up the tone of the story pretty well. And I giggle at the sentence mistake in the first

18. Well. I've only got two of those. But it's " “I think I'd like that, blood.” " which makes more sense in context. I'm gonna go cry about it now.

19. Eheheheh my favorite part. I have 2

“Hey,” Amkar said lightly. “Even if there's no real information here, at least it's very pretty to look at. Those Nords sure were on to something…”

“Weird to hear that from a Thalmor soldier,” she pointed out, pulling out her journal and beginning to sketch the crarvings.

“Just because I'm a racist doesn't mean I can't enjoy art,” he said.

She took a long pause trying to figure out if he was being serious or not. “Are you joking?”

And

“Hey!” a voice shouted from above.

She looked up, shading her eyes with her good arm. “Hi?”

“Are you a raider?” the voice called down.

“What's a raider?” Felicity asked, flabbergasted.

“Sherrif! You should get over here, there's some weird girl covered in blood at the gate!”

20.

“Oh? Family? You're not some deranged lunatic who spawned into Tamriel with a poor haircut and a strangely lovely taste in music?” Caryalind had pushed himself up onto his elbows to look at her.

21. I don't think so...? I think what surprised me most is how terribly Bethesda's characters in Skyrim are developed, I guess? At least for the minor ones and the general factions. Too many bandits. So I gave them personalities.

22. Google docs 😔

23. Felicity punching Moriarty, no question about it.

24. Nope

25. I didn't, I guess? Just... Fell into a writer's block and then came back months later.

26. Looooots of fanart, my azure arted tag has almost all of it.

27. None in the fanfic world, but I had 2 art trades this year and that was fun! I'd love to do more in the future.

28. My friends who listened to me ramble about my characters :]]

29. Finish up Chapter 6 of TMHFIM!

30. Oughg more TMHFIM and maybe a New Vegas fic or prequel that covers Celeste? Those would be fun...

[kinglysock]

music asks (there’s a lot, you don’t have to answer all of them):

 A song you liked as a child

 A song that features an element (earth/fire/water/air)

 A song you’d choose to introduce someone to your favorite genre

 A song you’d put on a playlist for a character you love

 A song you think most of your followers won’t have heard before

 A song that makes you think of a family member

 A song you know every word to

 A song from a soundtrack

 A song in a language you don’t speak

 A song that makes you feel relaxed

 A song that makes you dance

 A song from the 90s

 A song by a performer you’ve seen live

 A song you love to sing along to

 A song you’d play for a toddler

 A song that makes you think of an old (or current) crush

 A cover song

 A song you’d play to set the mood on a date

 A song that makes you emotional

 A song you’d put on a playlist for the person who sent you this ask

Completely forgot I got this lol. I will absolutely be answering all of these bc I’m extra like that.

(1. Love Somebody by Maroon 5. Been listening to that song since it came out on radio

(2. Does Stick Season by Noah Kahan count? I feel like it counts

(3. Message In The Wind by Carole and Tuesday. It’s not in Stardew Valley but I once saw an animatic which the song featured and it honestly brought me to tears, the song fits the vibe of the game so well.

(4. Battle Cry by Imagine Dragons for Ari, the mc in my novel :) he actually has his own playlist but it’s unfinished

(5. I’m lazy so I’m gonna say the song from 3, I feel like no one has heard that song unless they saw the animatic I saw lol.

(6. End of Beginning by Djo. Pretty hot song rn, reminds me of my grandpa.

(7. Cinderella by Steven Curtis Chapman. Makes me weep like a baby everytime and fun fact: this was a father-daughter song at my parent’s wedding. My mom and PapPap danced to this.

(8. Rainbow Connection by Kermit from “The Muppet Movie” Soundtrack <3

-skipping 9 bc I unfortunately listen to all English music-

(10. Home by Good Neighborhood

(11. Just Dance by Disco Curtis. Shut up I want no hate 😭

(12. Hotel California by Eagles. I know, I know that’s the 70’s not the 90’s but the literal only song from the 90’s I could find on my playlists was Californication by Red Hot Chili Peppers and that’s barely a 90’s song.

(13. MMMBop by Hanson. Hanson is the only band I saw live. My mom loved them and would’ve gone on her own but the concert was at Disney so she took me with lol. Honestly barely remember it, I hated loud noises back then even more than I do now so I was pretty miserable. For those of you that were there and Do remember, my mom was sitting right in front of where they threw their guitar pick. We searched the bushes for like 20 minutes but couldn’t find it.

(14. Literally any of them, especially the first 5. (15. 8 because I could vibe and culture them at the same time.

(16. Remember That Night? By Sara Kays.

(17. I believe 11 is a cover song!

-skipping 18 bc I genuinely don’t know TvT none of my songs are date worthy-

(19. Dear God by Dax. That shit is like if every bad thought in the back of your head was made into a song. Ain’t gonna make you cry it’s gonna have a breakdown but I really vibe with it when I’m sad. Also the religious trauma side of me find it somehow relieving.

(20. You’re Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, may or may not be a teaser at your birthday present. And hint: There’s another song from these questions that’s also on your playlist ;)

[frostbitepandaaaaa]

20 questions for fic writers

tagged by @quarantineddreamer and @astromechs. thanks friends! <3

1. How many works do you have on ao3?

44

2.  What's your total AO3 word count?

654,506

3. What fandoms do you write for?

currently riding the Andor/Rogue One wave. i've also written for X-Files, Avatar the Last Airbender, Game of Thrones and Mad Max: Fury Road

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Ozymandian (3,322) GoT. my albatross. my unfinished season 8 speculation fic. jon/dany

Thumbprint Scar (1,514) GoT. modern au, my pride and joy honestly. i love this fic so much. jon/dany

Built to Love (1,174) GoT. arranged marriage fic. jon/dany

Symptom of Time (815) GoT. soulmarks/soulmates. jon/dany

Fire & Brimstone (517) GoT. pacific rim au. jon/dany

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

yes! it might take a few days/weeks/months, but yes! i am always so grateful to anyone taking their time to leave a nice comment, no matter how brief or incoherent (sometimes those ones are the best ones lol)

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Not Now, Not Then for sure, but i'm a fucking wimp and left it ambiguous anyway. also if they die together it's fine right? this is fine.

also, Ozymandian might also work for this because it's not finished lmaooooo

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

that's tough considering i try to end all of them happily. i'll probably say Symptom of Time, though, because at the end soulmarks and the magic behind them returns to the world. it's kind of ironic, too, considering that is probably one of my angstier fics.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

not since i wrote for Thrones, which is to be expected. but even then, i never got much.

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

yes and it only ever seems to be intense and emotionally charged. it's all pretty vanilla, comparatively, i feel like. lots of oral sex is always involved and safe sex and hearty consent are my kinks, so.

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

do crossovers include like... fandom crossovers or like... aus? because if it's a fandom crossover, then no. but i've written a pacific rim AU for jon/dany (GoT).

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not to my knowledge.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

non but i would literally die. i've had a few of my fics turned into podfics though and that was fucking surreal. (thanks @adecila).

13. Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

yes. i am not good at it lol. (sorry @ashleyfanfic)

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

you know, recency bias and all that... but rebelcaptain seriously has me body and soul. i am pretty certain that i will never be over them. they just have everything-- two lonely, touch-starved, traumatized loners who finally feel some modicum of safety among each other (even if it was only for the briefest of moments)? two warrior babes with competency kinks? doomed by the narrative? one of them with a fucking abandonment complex and the other the one who always comes back? THE ANGST THE YEARNING THE UNHINGED-- okay i'll stop sorry. SO UPSET i never got in on the ground floor with these morons with Rogue One came out. (although, tbf, i was deep into the max/furiosa feels when RO came out and they're second place for my favorite ship.)

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

Ozymandian *sobbing*. i really, really wannt to but season 8 just stole all the wind from my sails my god.

16. What are your writing strengths?

imagery/setting descriptions. worldbuilding to a certain degree. i like writing dialogue but how good i am at it is another manner all together.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

inner dialogues. i feel like i either go overboard or never give enough. i'm also pretty shit at plot lmao. vibes?? i got you. plot?? fuckingn forget it i'm out.

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

not sure if i understand this question?

19. First Fandom you wrote for?

Harry Potter, un-fucking-fortunately. hi, i am a fraud.

20. Favorite fic you've ever written?

Thumbprint Scar i just love it sm. it has a special place in my heart and i did exactly what i wanted with that fic annd i think i mostly did it well. anyway.

tagging: @justwandering-neverlost @ashleyfanfic @andorerso @fulcrumstardust @luciechat @mosylufanfic and anyone else who wants to join in!

[thespoonisvictory]

Another reason why trw feels weird with what it tries to fit into its runtime (and also just generally falls short of its potential) to me is that, by its nature, I can't help but compare it to both acoc AND exuc. And neither of those comparisons put it in the best light. Comparing trw to its in-universe counterpart of acoc makes trw look so much less dark and so much more clunky with its attempts to show complex political machinations. But then you also can't help but see Matt Mercer open with "Water" and remember Brennan's "Fire" and. Suddenly, you're holding up this story that feels like it's sprinting to cover multiple years, shoving aside characters and plot beats that would've been cool to really hone in on because for some reason we have to go go go! You're holding that up against what is to me a genuine masterclass in storytelling that delves as deep as it possibly can into The Worst Single Day Ever. And yeah. Of course in these contexts, trw is going to come out feeling even more janky to me. It's got so many good bits to it, but when held up against acoc (its universe partner) and exuc (the Big Dark Prequel Short Series DMed by Another Guy Covering A Major Event in History)... Its whole vibes feel out of place.

intentional comparisons to both properties by both matt and brennan have been made, so I think it's fair game with the caveat that obviously it isn't a 1:1 at all.

I agree completely with this! It feels like the rushing is also compounded by the fact that trw has a bit of an identity crisis over whether it wants to be an acoc in terms of being an in-depth political fantasy with Big Consequences and Realistic Stakes, or exu calamity in terms of being about antiheroes getting up to shit who are hit with a potentially world ending or changing event, real grand fantasy stuff.

The issue with that is that on top of the rushed timeline, you're also trying to shove two radically different stories and tones in. the first half of the season, we're largely focused on the source of the blackmail, the political aspects of the FDA, and the killing of Pamela Rocks. Then in the back half (particularly eps 5 and 6) we take a wild shift into underground mushroom society that never really... shifts back to finish the political stuff. for sake of brevity, I'll just say that both storylines suffer from having to share space. the political aspects are left unfinished or unexplored after setting up some really cool stuff: the cheddars are left untouched, amangeaux's child is never brought into the plot, we barely get to know karna's deal. the fantasy aspects feel a little out of left field and underdeveloped, with no pcs except raphaniel feeling a well tethered connection to it.

in a longer campaign, I'd love both of these stories! at this length, it really probably should have been just one.

matt is a really talented storyteller, but it doesn't get to shine here because so much of trw feels spread thin. I love what we got! it just needed more clarity and focus, and a lot of elements simplified.

for tying back to the ask, exu:calamity made the very smart choice to start with 6 pcs who already knew each other, in one city, in the course of less than 24 hours. the political aspects are thrown out the window bc nothing will matter in the apocalypse, which clears the way for brennan to really narrow in on the aspects he wants, namely go crazy with the religious and scientific plots

[wolfprincesszola]

The Fate of the Marked Six Chapter 5

Happy Thanksgiving! Sorry for the late update (no i don't have a valid excuse), but here it is now! Hope you enjoy! ——————– Summary: Virgil moves into a new town and meets Roman, a ghost that he promises to help in finding the unfinished business needed to pass over. However, Roman's past seemed to be deeply muddled with trouble, an uncurable disease that has started to affect a classmate, and a certain tight-lipped valedictorian. Friendships are made and Virgil finds himself thrown into a situation far more complicated and twisted than he signed up. Hopefully, with the help of his new five friends, he can find a way to bring peace to the town once and for all.

Trigger Warnings: None

Content Warnings: Swearing, Slight Suggestive Language

<Masterlist>

<Previous> <Next> ——————–

Chapter 05

Someone moved next to Janus’s house, but considering he hadn’t seen the people, he just assumed the people moved were a young couple looking for a new way of life. He didn’t bother to try and introduce himself because the last two tenants had moved out, claiming the house was “haunted”. There was no explanation to why or what was haunting it, because even mediums that had been hired to look into the house claimed there was no one there. No one in the spiritual world, nor anyone in the real world.

He came back home to see someone else coming home from his neighbors. Deciding he wanted to see who it was, he parked his car, staring at the now-parking car across from him.

Janus was expecting a young couple, but what he got instead was Virgil himself coming out, and his mother on the driver’s side.

“Huh. What a weird coincidence.” Janus snorted, mumbling to himself as he called to Virgil, “Virgil!”

Virgil turned his head before his eyes flushed in embarrassment. He only went over once his mother pushed him towards the boy. "Hey, Janus. What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“Oh." Virgil replied, blinking at Janus before pointing to his house, "We just moved here."

Janus could tell Virgil's expression screamed of wanting to get out of the conversation, so he decided to grant Virgil that wish.

Janus ended the conversation, nodding, "I see that. I hope you've unpacked and I'll see you later."

“Yeah…see you later.”

Janus nodded, breaking away from looking at Virgil to walk into his house. He had forgotten for a second to stop making eye contact with Virgil, and during lunch that day, he had seen Virgil’s fate branded onto him, something he wished no one would ever have to experience.

㾓.

With that word, it had to have context. In some cases, it meant fatigue. In others, it meant melancholy. The worst way it could control Virgil’s fate was hatred.

Janus had seen it only once before in that context. An actor had it branded on his head when Janus had bumped into him by accident in real life. Years after he bumped into him, he ended up giving into the hatred of himself and of others. The actor died in a house fire he set off himself, killing 15 other people.

The others he had seen it in were elders, who more resonated with the idea of fatigue, or kids who had to grow up too early. In teens, it was melancholy, clearly having to deal with the loneliness.

He hoped for Virgil, the case was fatigue, something that could hopefully be changed.

He promised himself that as soon as he helped with Remus’s fate, he would find a way to change Virgil’s into something less tragic.

“Hey, what are you thinking about?”

Janus blinked, looking towards the voice to see his mother smiling at him.

“Oh, nothing.” Janus murmured, “It was just a long day at school.”

“Did you meet the new neighbors?”

“Just did. One of them is the new kid at my school.” Janus shrugged, “He’s chill.”

“You have nothing else to say about him?”

“I dunno. What do you want me to say?” Janus asked as he put his backpack down.

“I mean, their family seems really amazing, but I was wondering if maybe they’ll be staying. I mean, the last neighbors didn’t even last a week.”

“Well, they’ve been moved in for about a week.” Janus shrugged as he grabbed a couple of things out of his backpack, “I think they’ll be okay, especially since Virgil has magic.”

“Does he now? Is it magic like yours?”

Janus shuddered, “Oh universe, I hope no one has a power like mine. It’s already bothersome for me to deal with it. Imagine if there were more people like me.”

“I was just suggesting! You don’t normally have a lot of friends, so I just thought that maybe…”

“Stop it, Mom.” Janus rolled his eyes, “Re's enough, and sometimes, he’s a bit too much. Virgil's chill, and he has medium powers, so I’m sure that haunted things won’t really scare him too much.”

“Oh, that’s nice.”

“Now, I’m going to cook some pasta. Call me if you need anything.”

-+=~=+-

Janus had tried before to see his fate, but the problem was he couldn’t see anyone’s fate through mirrors or screens. When he looked into one, he was faced with a sense of normality where he could see people without the impending fate hovering above their forehead.

He could only get glimpses of it through the reflection of people’s eyes, but usually, they didn't keep their eyes on Janus long enough for him to read what it said.

That was why he got sick of not knowing his fate and called Remus up to come to his house. He arrived soon, as Janus had said it was an ‘emergency that he would only be able to solve’.

“Janus!” Remus’s voice sang throughout the house, “Your savior is here!”

“I'm so not glad you're here, Remus.” Janus sighed in relief as he motioned for Remus to go into his room.

“2 inches!” His father yelled as soon as the two disappeared into the other room. Janus couldn't blame him for the comment, considering how many sexual comments Remus had made about Janus at the dinner table. By this point, their family knew the two would be far from instigating it, but still made the comments just in case.

"Oh, Mr. Wright, don't tease me with a good time~" Remus grinned.

"2 inches." Janus' father warned Remus, ignoring the comment the teenager made.

Remus walked into Janus' room, still shutting the door after Janus walked in despite all the warnings made. He made himself comfortable sitting on Janus' bed before turning to his best friend, "So, did you finally think about my offer to show you a good time?"

"Oh, totally." Janus rolled his eyes, sarcasm dripping from his voice, "Stay still, I want to look into your eyes. Don't make this weird."

"How can I not make this weird, Jan? You're giving me the best material!" Remus complained as he proceeded to make it into a staring contest.

Janus ignored every comment Remus threw at him while he was moving his head to try and find the perfect spot. If Janus could read through Remus' brown eyes, then he could find what his fate was. He could read a stroke or two, but not enough for it to be readable (mainly from Remus’s shifting), and he huffed, grabbing onto Remus’s face, “Can you stay still for one moment?”

That moment didn’t last long enough as Remus screamed, jumping away from Janus’s touch and scrambling to the other side, breathing heavily.

“What happened?” Janus raised an eyebrow, “I brought you here because I thought you wouldn’t make this weird!”

“I'm all for jump scares but how did you do that?” Remus' eyes were widened as he stared at Janus as if he had just seen a ghost, "You’re being weird and touchy and vague, you start staring into my eyes sensually, you texted me saying this was an emergency, and I swore I saw some black Chinese character appear above your head.”

Janus faltered, staring at his best friend, “Sorry…repeat that.”

“What part?” Remus asked.

“The part with the Chinese character.”

“I don’t know. You just held my face and then I saw it, and then I pulled away and it was gone.”

Janus stared at him in silence.

"Jan?" Remus asked nervously.

Before Janus could ease Remus' nerves, Janus' father yelled, "Is everything okay up there? I heard Remus scream."

"We're okay!" Janus yelled before shaking his head at Remus to make sure Remus didn't spill anything.

“Whatever you say. Don’t fool around, or I’m going to supervise you guys. And I thought I said 2 inches, you two."

Janus rolled his eyes, knowing neither would go to open the door. Once he was sure his father was gone, he turned his attention back to his best friend. "Re?"

"What happened? Seriously? Have you been hiding this from me?"

"Let's test it." Janus held his hand out.

“Test what?”

“Clearly, something happened when I touched you. We try it again and see if it’s the same result.” Janus and Remus had never kept physical contact for long enough to look at each other's faces before they let go.

“What does it mean if it’s the same result?”

“Then, there’s a pattern.”

“Are you sure you’re-“

“Remus, my asshole, my unhinged best friend, the light of my life…this is the only time you’re getting physical touch from me, so either capitalize on this shit or we can never know about what’s going on with your magic.” Janus stared at him, “I…think this might be your power, because right as I held your face, I felt power surge through my blood, even if for a millisecond.”

Remus hesitated, but still placed his palm on top of Janus’s. Immediately, Janus felt his power grow, and he watched as the black symbol of death on Remus’s forehead started to fade.

Remus’s eyes shifted to Janus’s forehead, where he murmured something. Soft enough for Janus to barely have heard it.

“Pride.”

“Hm?”

“That’s what the symbol on your head means. Pride.”

“Huh." Janus let out a knowing sigh. His fate wasn't the worst. In fact, it just showed that maybe his pride would end up being his fatal flaw. He wasn't so sure, but it wasn't as bad as what Remus' fate was. "Wait, how did you know what the symbol meant?"

"I thought you were reading the Kama Sutra, so I grabbed it to see what page you bookmarked, but it ended up being a Chinese dictionary. I learned a lot of words from it against my will." Remus shrugged.

Janus had bigger things than to question all of Remus' decisions within that moment, but it still made him wonder. Why would Remus assume that Janus was reading the Kama Sutra? Why would Remus try to steal the book? Why would Remus continue reading and finish the entire dictionary before Janus noticed?

“Hold on, so is this your power right now?” Remus asked, as he glanced around the room before his eyes landed back on Janus’s forehead and the black symbol that haunted him.

“Yeah. My power is seeing everyone’s fates.”

“Oh sick! What’s mine?” Remus flashed a grin.

“Uh…love.” Janus fibbed as he looked away, “How are you feeling?”

“Better than I ever have.” Remus smiled, staring into Janus’s eyes and he knew he was genuine.

Janus watched as Remus’s mark faded completely, almost as if Remus was pushing all of his magic into Janus, and his magic continued to get stronger. Janus watched as Remus’s smile didn’t have as much exhaustion in them, and he watched him sit up for the first time.

“Remus!”

The two jumped at the noise, quickly withdrawing both their hands as they heard Janus' mother coming up the stairs.

“Are you staying here for dinner?” His mother opened the door and peeked her head in.

Remus scratched the back of his head, “It’s okay, I’m probably going home soon anyways.”

Janus’s mother tsked, “Nonsense. I’ll call your mother and tell his that you’re staying here to eat. You two better not be goofing off.”

“We aren’t.” Janus rolled his eyes.

“Good. Don’t commit any crimes.”

“We won’t, Mrs. Wright.”

“Stop that. Don’t call me that.” Janus’s mother rolled his eyes, “I’ll call you two when dinner is done.”

“Thanks, Mom!” The two of them yelled at the same time.

Janus made a face, turning towards Remus, “Don’t ever call my mom that again.”

Remus stuck his tongue at Janus and started to slouch again, the mark of death on his forehead slowly fading in again.

“How are you now?” Janus asked worryingly.

“I’m okay.” Remus forced a small smile, as Janus watched Remus mask the pain, like he probably had done millions of times already. “I think it’s weird feeling the magic rush back into my system.”

Janus was the one that was supposed to lie, so he didn't understand why Remus was hiding this from him. Maybe because Remus cared a little more about Janus that he'd like to admit and that Janus would've worried if he knew what Remus was going to.

“Hey, Re?”

“Hm?”

“Would you ever lie to me?”

“No, of course not. I never hide anything from anyone.”

“Do you have an illness I need to worry about?”

Janus watched as Remus swallowed, giving Janus the most patient smile, “No, of course not. I’m not going to leave you anytime soon. I promise.”

“Pinky promise, Re?” Janus held his hand out.

Remus linked their pinkies, “I pinky promise, Jan.”

Janus felt his heart sink as he watched the mark above Remus’s head start to turn red.

-+=~=+-

Janus felt the need to take a walk after Remus left his house, after a lot of Janus' family shoving food onto Remus' plate, and Remus having to refuse after a while. He loved Remus with all his heart and knew Janus would tell him the truth about anything. Even if Janus had a tendency to lie about a lot of things, it was easier to be honest with Remus unlike how it was with anyone else. Sometimes though, it was a hard pill to swallow to know Janus loved Remus so much that he’d lie to keep Remus happy. He wished it was easier for Remus to also be honest as a best friend, but he knew he couldn’t ask that much from a boy who didn’t even tell most that he was suffering through something incurable.

He walked until he found a park in the neighborhood, which he proceeded to loop around, making sure to avoid the darker areas, and be alert towards any sound.

“You’ve passed by this tree three times.”

Janus whipped his head toward the sound to see Logan sitting at a park bench, staring at him. He screamed, jumping back before staring, “A little warning next time, Logan? What are you doing here?”

“I could say the same about you.” Logan replied as he cleared his stuff off from the bench, “I come here for inspiration sometimes.”

“Inspiration? For what?”

“I want to become a writer in the future. I come here because of that statue.”

Janus turned around to see a small statue with the face of a boy sitting at the edge of the pedestal with a paintbrush and a smile. He looked about their age. “Who’s he?”

“Ah, just a kid who died in a car crash when he was young. His family got the park to memorialize him, and now…he sits here, smiling and hoping that someone else won’t also get hit.” Logan shrugged, “He’s wearing a ‘drive safe’ shirt.”

“Was he an artist?”

“Somewhat.” Logan murmured, “What brings you here, Janus?”

“I’m just getting some air.”

Logan nodded, “Then you can stay here as long as you like.”

“...I’m sorry about what we were saying during lunch. I promise we weren’t being mean to your brother.”

“I know.” Logan’s voice was hoarse, “But unfortunately, my parents don’t believe we should give him the benefit of others talking good about him, and I’d rather not speak ill of the one that took care of me for a long time.”

“You seem really fond of him.”

“I am.” Logan smiled as he opened up his notebook to the last page, where a cosmic sky was painted. It was the first time in a very long time that Janus had seen Logan smile. The last time had to be before Logan had suddenly made the shift to never be close to anyone. Janus wondered what had happened.

Janus looked over at the small white handwriting that was almost unreadable. It was in almost-illegible cursive, but Janus was able to make out the sentence, “You deserve to look at the back of your notebook, and realize that I have wasted the last page of your notebook without your permission.”

“This was the last thing he gave to me before he left.” Logan murmured, shutting the notebook again and Janus watched as the mark of regret on Logan’s forehead--which had almost faded--started to glow.

“You must have a lot of regret regarding him.”

“Ah, it’s nothing.” Logan shook his head, his gaze shifting away from the statue as he changed the subject, “How’s Remus doing?”

“I haven’t found a way to bring it up to him that I know.” Janus looked down, “I just…I want to help him.”

“There’s no cure.”

“Oh come on, you’re the valedictorian. You study for a living. I haven’t ever not seen you holding some form of homework or research. There’s nothing you know about this type of cancer. I can’t find anything.”

Logan hesitated for a millisecond, but it was enough for Janus to catch onto it.

“You hesitated. You do know something.”

“I already broke my oath not to break the rules for anyone.” Logan replied, “I can’t break another one.”

“Why not? What was the oath?”

“It’s not my character to break them.” Logan murmured as he pulled at his sleeves, “I just don’t like telling people information about things they care so much about because often, it hurts them more than it helps them, and at the end of the day, you’ll regret it.”

“No, please.” Janus pleaded, “I can’t find anything on this, and I need to help Re.”

“Why do you care so much?” Logan asked, “I know he’s your best friend, but I don’t think that there would be anyone in this world that I would spend every waking moment of my life trying to find a cure for something that is incurable. I’d just try to spend every moment with them because time is limited.”

“Jeez, that's not bleak at all.” Janus laughed as he saw the symbol on Logan’s forehead continue to glow a faint amber, “As you know, I moved here during elementary school. The 5th grade teacher took one look at me and knew I was going to be the quiet kid. They sat me next to Remus, hoping that maybe he would get me to open up. I swear to God, I wanted to punch him in the face every time he talked…but it was also kinda nice. I didn’t have many friends, and it was clear no one wanted to be friends with the quiet kid, except for Remus. No matter how quiet I was or how much I ignored him, he continued to talk to me, and a part of me felt a little less lonely. Re’s always been there for me, as a best friend. I may not show it, and he may not either, but when I was feeling the most alone, he was always a call away, a drive away, and most importantly, a hug away. He was my lifeline, and I hope that one day, he can depend on me like that too. Maybe this is the way I repay him for helping me through all the hard times.”

Logan stared at the boy before he sighed, going to grab something from his backpack he had put underneath the bench, “Sometimes I hate empathy.”

Janus tried to hide his grin as he let out a "thanks".

Logan grabbed a notebook filled with blue jellyfish out, turning it until he found the page he wanted.

“Michsleif Uchawi Cancer. Michsleif for the first person who got this disease, uchawi for the swahili.” Logan read off, “Originated here in a man named Jaindien Michsleif in 1950, who was known for his Swahili tongue. Magic, which grows from the heart, houses itself in a spot of our body called the fielsog, located next to our heart. People with inactive magic cannot access anything from the fielsog, unless stimulated with potions. People with active magic can access the fielsog, which then turns into the powers that they have. With Michsleif Uchawi Cancer, the growing magic is not contained in the fielsog because the magic is too powerful. It breaks the barriers and starts to consume the entirety of your body. It’s found in 1 out of 5,000,000 people, so Remus just got unlucky. There are symptoms of fatigue, hunger, weakness, nausea, lower body temperatures, coughing, and more.”

Janus tried to recall the last time he saw Remus genuinely well, and was not able to find something in mind. All he got was the memories of Remus always stealing food from Janus, coughing, layering up, and feeling unwell. Remus had been fighting the illness for a long time without his realizing. Then, it made sense why the mark of death had been on Remus so long, even from when Janus first met him.

Logan turned the page, “Surprisingly enough, while trying to find a cure for Jaindien Michsleif, they noticed the magic contained itself as long as Jaindien was holding onto someone’s hand of an active magic user. Instead, the magic would transfer into the active magic user, causing a power surge in their magic.”

“Oh? Was there anything about him being able to use the magic user’s powers as well?”

Logan paused, staring at Janus before scribbling it down, “That’s a new development. I think that might be Remus’s power himself. Jaindien didn’t have any powers even after doing it, and neither did the others. Well…there was one case where it happened that they would be able to see visions once they were holding someone, but everyone waved it off as the delusions of cancer. It might make sense if they were a seer.”

“Huh, so…you think Remus' power is him being able to use anyone else’s powers he chooses?”

“Well…assuming that he has a normal magic system, yes, I assume he would share powers with a person of his choosing.” Logan shrugged, closing his notebook, “I think what you need to do is instead of trying to find a way to save Remus, is to find someone who can help. Maybe contacting someone who has access to talking to people who have passed away with the disease, or maybe talking to someone who might deal with health issues would be best.”

Janus perked up, snapping his fingers, “You’re so smart.”

“I know.” Logan smirked.

Janus turned towards the statue, bowing, “Thank you, dear statue boy for helping clear my mind and understand where I need to go, and thank you, Logan.”

“Yeah, yeah, stupid sympathy.” Logan crossed his arms with a scowl, going back to his original plain dark blue notebook, filled with thousands of words and thoughts that he had in mind. Janus watched as Logan retreated back into his shell, staring at the statue for some sort of inspiration for his writing.

Janus smiled as he walked away, energized with an idea of where to start. ——————– I feel as if Dukeceit is really not dukeceit in this chapter, but there's nothing i can really do about that T-T

If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging! Reblogging helps me a lot and are very appreciated. Check out my masterlist for more, feel free to request any writings, and stick around if you want to see the rest of what I have in store for this! :)

[ghostofafruit]

20 Fanfic Author Questions

ahh my first ask game tag thing, I was tagged by @soulless-angel25 (and i totally didn't randomly wake up at 4am nearly 5a,, and grab my laptop, to check my tumblr notifications and ao3 stats and do this right away nope nu uh you can't prove anything)

1. How many works on AO3?

457, 3 are unfinished, and I think I have two or three unfinished series as well

2. Total AO3 Word Count?

676,555

3. Top 5 fics by Kudos

Family Views, Harry Potter. It's 4562 words, and I'm slowly slowly working on a sequel. I wrote this one when I first starting to get big into marauders era stuff, and was more active on tiktok The Coffee, Good Omens. It's 1044 words, and if I remember correctly I wrote this the same day series 2 came out. I could be thinking of the other I think it was three fix it oneshots I did, but I'm pretty sure this was written in immediate response to the ending after seeing a few of the coffee theory vids on tiktok The Shockwave, Merlin. It's 3998, and it's one of the first fics I wrote after moving from wattpad to ao3 Peter Parker, Totally Not a Half-Blood, it's a MCU Spider-Man and Percy Jackson and the Olympians crossover. It's currently a work in progress but I'm getting there The Reveal, Harry Potter (specifically marauders era), its 1053 words and possible one of my favourites.

4. What fandoms do you write for?

A few, mostly doctor who. A surprising amount of Spider-Man and MCU for someone that would't consider themselves a fan. A lot of Percy Jackson, and a scary amount of Harry Potter stuff aha

5. Do you respond to comments?

All the time! Sometimes it takes a few days, and it has on one occasion led to a comment section under one of my fics being permanently broken, but I do my absolute best to respond to every comment I get

6. Angstiest Ending?

You Deserve Better, it's one of the fics sat in an unfinshed series, and by unfinished it's solo, but one day I'll come back for them. I was deep in my marauders era stuff, I really hurt those boys and I fully intend to finish the job or maybe Burnt Memories It's a thirteenth doctor fic, which my favourite trope of accidental arsonist thirteen in which she accidentally sets fire to the one thing of Rose she has left

7. Fic with the Happiest Ending?

This one's hard. I feel like it's got to be one of my doctor/rose reunion fics, or maybe a captain/havers fic. I really can't pin one down

8. Do you get hate?

If I do, I don't know about it!

9. Do you write smut?

Nope, but I'm lowly writing a few more suggestive fics and may one day branch out.

10. Do you write crossovers?

Yup! The first one I could think of is Peter Parker, totally not a half-blood, but two of my top ten ships are crossover ships.

11. Ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware of, so hopefully not

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope, but hopefully one day I will! I've had a few people leave comments in other languages though which I think is pretty cool

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

No but I wouldn't mind doing it

14. All time favourite ship?

Peter Parker/Butch Walker (Percy Jackson), I singlehandled created this ship and wrote like 47 oneshots for them

15. WIPs you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

I doubt I'll ever finish anything! But that's self doubt for you. Realistically I probably won't ever actually finish It's Not Really a Secret, a Merlin fic that has one chapter up currently but I really hope I do eventually get back round to it

16. Writing Strengths?

Fluff, pure simple minded fluff, I'm great at it. It's my safe spot. If I'm having a hard time, I'll fall back on the fluff

17. Writing Weaknesses?

Tagging, even after years I still struggle with it Ending, it's a rare event I'm actually happy with an ending Finishing longer fics Drafting things out

18. Thoughts on mixed language dialogue?

I suppose in a few contexts it make sense, but it can be tricky for readers. It's a sort of complicated thing I suppose

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Harry Potter, on wattpad when I was 12

20. Favorite fic you've ever written?

It's had for me to pick, but I'll go with a more recent one that I adore just so much Your Face, Masked Away in my Memories, it's 1546 words, and it's a Peter/Butch fic set post no way home. It's angsty with a hopeful ending and I love it. I'm pretty sure I've done a sequel to it, or there's a sequel sitting half finished in my drafts

I don't really have anyone to tag but if you see this and write fanfic, do it yourself! (I'll warn you now it takes a while. My dad was sound asleep but now almost an hour later he's just driven off to work yes and nearly 6am)