#i don't enjoy formatting fic for tumblr but it's part of the posting process for me
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there's something fiction about the way that reality's going
(read on AO3)
SUMMARY: It's bad enough that Foggy has to spend his Saturday morning giving bad news to some overly-ambitious campaign manager. It's unforgivable that he turns out to be hot, of all things.
[AKA - The West Wing AU]
A/N: here's part 1 of that west wing au i've been talking about writing for months. I put copious notes (including a mild content warning for the 90s as a time period in general) on AO3, so I'd recommend reading there if you want more info. big thanks to @firstelevens for talking me off several ledges during the writing, editing, and posting processes for this fic!
“You know what’s sick, Karen?” Foggy asks, as he rounds the corner of her desk.
“Sick like bad, like the flu?” she asks, not looking away from her computer. “Or sick like good, like a skateboard trick?”
“Sick like disgusting and perverted.”
“Ooh, I am not sure I want to know.”
“Too bad,” he says, as he tosses his duffel bag into his office. It collides with a filing cabinet, but doesn’t knock anything over, which is pretty good from this distance. “I have reached a new level of depravity.”
“Congratulations?”
“Thank you. Ask me how.”
“Must I?”
“Yes.”
Karen sighs. “How did you reach a new level of depravity?”
“I found myself thinking, while flying with the President on Air Force One, ‘god, this sucks!’”
“That’s your new level of depravity?” she asks, unimpressed.
“Karen, I’m telling you I’m bored of flying on Air Force One! The President’s private plane is boring to me. The novelty—of Air Force One—is gone!”
“And that’s all?”
“‘That’s all’?! Karen, I—”
“I heard you the first twelve times," she says. "You’re a real sicko, Foggy, I get it.”
“This revelation means less to you than I anticipated,” Foggy says, idly fiddling with the things on her desk.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” she says, filing something. “I kind of thought you picked up a new, exciting fetish while in Pakistan.”
“Unfortunately, no. At least, not that I’m aware of.”
“There’s always next time,” she replies. “Did you bring me back anything?”
“Also no. In my defense, you didn’t tell me you wanted a new, exciting fetish while I was there.”
“A good boss would know without having to be told.”
“Oh, no. They’ll take away my ‘world’s greatest boss’ mug for this!”
“You don’t have one of those,” she says, frowning.
“And whose fault is that?”
“Looks like we’ve both got some work to do,” she says, turning her attention back to her computer.
“Speaking of that, what are you doing here on a Saturday?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Almost always, but in this case…”
Karen looks at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “Foggy, you have a meeting.”
“I don’t schedule meetings for Saturday mornings,” he says. “And certainly not after I’ve been away in Islamabad with the President for three days and on a plane for 15 hours.”
“Yes, but this is Marci’s meeting,” Karen says. “The one you promised to cover for her, since her cousin had to move her bachelorette weekend up two weeks to—”
“This weekend. Fuck!” Foggy closes his eyes. “Oh, I should not have agreed to this! This was so stupid. I’m so jet lagged right now and I’ve been wearing the same suit for like two days.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Ew, why?”
“I packed in a hurry and I miscounted—you know what, forget it! I would still smell like airplane, regardless.”
She steps around her desk to put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s not even that—Good god! That is not what airplanes are supposed to smell like!”
Foggy sniffs his shirt and winces. He was kind of hoping he was just being dramatic. “Pakistan is a very populous country,” he says, weakly. “And we were in the capitol, so lots of people, in close quarters…”
“So, unless this guy has a sinus infection, he’s going to be able to smell you from down the hall.”
“Karen, please! I am begging you…”
“Do you have another suit?”
“Not one that smells better !” Foggy exclaims. “Do I have time to go out and buy a new suit?”
“Your meeting is in 30 minutes, and I’m guessing you still need to read the briefing packet Marci left you, so you know what this guy wants to talk about.”
“This is the guy from the Bryant campaign? Mitchell…something?”
“ Matthew Murdock, yes.”
“I know what he wants to talk about,” Foggy says, waving a hand at her.
“Oh, just read the damn packet!”
“I need to find something to wear that doesn’t smell like I walked here from Islamabad, okay?”
“I’ll ask around,” Karen replies. “You prep for the meeting.”
“You’re going to ask around ?”
“Yes."
“To see if someone in the building has a suit I can borrow?
“Foggy!”
“I feel like you’re vastly underestimating how weird of a request that is!”
“Not all men are as suspicious as you.”
“Most men are more suspicious than me, firstly,” he says. “And secondly, even if you found someone in this office to accept this absurd request—on a Saturday, no less!—suits are supposed to be tailored. I’m going to look weird in someone else’s suit!”
“What’s worse: looking weird in an ill-fitting suit or smelling weird in this one?”
“Maybe he will have a sinus infection,” Foggy muses.
“Yes, because praying for that is less weird than my plan,” Karen says, with an eye roll. “Wait, you have a gym bag!”
“In my office? Yeah…”
“And last week, that budget meeting got rescheduled and you couldn’t go to the gym after work because it was already closed when the meeting wrapped up!”
“Yes! Why are we excited about this?”
Karen’s practically bouncing on her feet. “Because if the bag is still here but you didn’t go to the gym, that means the clothes are clean!”
“You want me to meet with the manager for a congressional campaign in my gym clothes?” Foggy asks.
“Your clean gym clothes!”
“I can’t meet him in my gym clothes!”
“Why not?”
“It’s unprofessional!”
“It’s Saturday! You’re…laid back! You’re chillin’!”
Foggy shakes his head at her, because it’s extremely clear to him that she’s never said that word in another context before in her life. “Just chillin’ at the White House! Now there’s a TV show I’d watch!”
“ Foggy !”
“It could be like this President’s version of FDR’s fireside chats! You’re a genius, Karen!”
“I’m being helpful and you’re being such a dick about it,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
“You’re right,” he says, putting his hands on her shoulders in a conciliatory gesture. “And I appreciate it. But I can’t wear gym clothes to this meeting.”
“It wouldn’t be that weird! You could come up with an excuse—”
“No, I understand. It’s just—I barely look good in a suit. I can trick people into taking me seriously in a suit. If this guy sees me in basketball shorts, he’ll never take me seriously.”
“You look good in a suit, no qualifiers,” Karen says, firmly. “And honestly, it would probably be charming to him if you were in gym clothes. And lastly, you are the deputy chief of staff at the White House, Foggy. People take you seriously. You are serious.”
“That was wall-to-wall bald faced lies, but I do love you for it,” he says, giving her shoulders a squeeze. “And if I’m being honest with you, I’m nervous about the optics of dressing casually for a meeting where I know I have to give someone bad news.”
Karen frowns. “What’s going on?”
“The campaign this guy is running, it’s Bryant’s campaign in the 21st district in New York State. It’s a district that, historically, a Republican always wins. From what I know, and what Marci’s told me, this guy wants more help from us, and more funding from the DNC, to get Bryant elected instead.”
“But we’re not going to do that?” Karen asks.
“No, we’re not.”
“Why not?”
“Because Bryant sucks,” Foggy admits, with a small, mirthless laugh.
“Worse than the Republican who’s running?”
“He’s the incumbent and we know what to do with him, at least.”
“Still,” she interjects, frowning deeper, “it’s not…great…”
“It’s political maneuvering to be sure,” Foggy says, “but that’s the business we’re in, like it or not.”
“Yeah, so…”
“So, showing up to this meeting looking ready for an aerobics class and then telling this guy he’s up a creek and the DNC isn’t going to throw him a paddle might be a bad look. At least if my suit’s wrinkled and I smell bad, he can write it off as me being an overworked staffer.”
“Which, you are.”
“Exactly!”
“Yeah, okay. I get it,” Karen says, moving back to her desk.
“I have a few minutes?”
“Yeah, read the thing on your desk.”
“I don’t need to—”
“Marci wrote it so you could—”
“Marci’s secretary wrote it, and you know that.”
“And Marci’s secretary’s work has less value than Marci’s because…?”
“Ah, okay,” Foggy says, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’ll read the thing.”
“Do you need coffee?”
“Desperately.”
She nods. “Okay, I’ll get you some, so you can read.”
“Thank you. And while you’re at it, see if Jeri’s secretary is in and ask—”
“Excuse me,” a voice behind them says, and they both startle.
“Hi, can I help you?” Karen asks, automatically and politely, as she turns to face the man.
“I hope so,” he says. “I’m looking for Karen Page.”
“Then I can definitely help you,” she replies, cheerfully. “That’s me.”
“Oh, excellent,” the man says, offering her his hand. “I’m Matt Murdock, from the Bryant campaign. I have a meeting with Mr. Nelson at 10.”
“You’re…from the Bryant campaign?” Karen asks, hesitantly.
Foggy knows how she feels. Absolutely nothing about this guy says ‘campaign manager’ except for the quality of his suit. He’s so glaringly handsome in a professional-athlete-who-also-gets-modeling-gigs kind of way that it takes Foggy a full minute to clock that he’s wearing sunglasses indoors (something a professional athlete/part-time model would do) and carrying a white cane. Bryant’s campaign manager is blind. That’s almost as unexpected as him being hot.
“Yes, I know. I’m a little bit early,” he says, either willfully or obliviously attributing Karen’s surprise to the wrong thing.
Karen recovers quickly, though. “Not to worry,” she says, finally taking his hand and giving it a polite shake. “We appreciate your punctuality.”
“Well, I appreciate that handshake,” Matt offers, charmingly. “Very commanding, very firm!”
Much to Foggy’s amusement and vague annoyance, Karen lets out a hopelessly charmed laugh at that. “Thank you, I—uh, I do my best.”
Foggy gives her a wide-eyed look, and she gives him a helpless and slightly embarrassed one back. He shakes his head before inclining it towards Matt, who either hasn’t noticed him or is avoiding acknowledging him, for whatever reason.
“Would you be so kind as to let your boss know I’m here?”
“That, uh, won’t be necessary,” she says. Karen never stammers. This is so funny. “He’s, um—well, he’s right here! Foggy, are you ready for Mr. Murdock?”
Foggy does his best to hide his smile. “Am I ever!” he says, gamely, and steps forward to shake his hand. “Franklin Nelson, at your service. Everyone calls me Foggy, so you should too!”
This, somehow, catches Matt off-guard, which given his otherwise smooth and unflappable exterior, is kind of impressive. He very clearly expected to wait to be seen, and possibly hoped to have more time to flirt with Foggy’s assistant, judging by the looks of things.
“Hello,” Matt says, stiff with awkwardness. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Same here,” Foggy replies. “Delighted to make your acquaintance! I am holding out my hand for you to shake, for the record.”
“Oh, right. I’m so sorry,” he says, as he hurries to take it.
There’s an awkward moment as he sort of guesstimates where Foggy’s hand is before making contact and Foggy’s left to wonder if he could have made that less weird somehow and feel slightly embarrassed that he doesn’t know the protocol for this situation. And he’s already feeling pretty embarrassed that he smells like a 15 hour flight in front of this very handsome stranger, who can probably smell him even more than the average person. Unless that stuff about depriving one sense making the others stronger is bullshit, which it might be. Foggy’s tempted to ask but that seems likely to make the situation more awkward still.
Matt’s palm is a little rough in places, which is kind of nice. Foggy’s is, he knows, not even a little bit rough. He’s got the smooth baby soft hands of someone who has always been an indoor kid and then grew up to be a lawyer. No calluses to speak of whatsoever. It makes him wonder where Matt, likely a lawyer himself, got his from. And now he’s been holding this hot guy’s hand for too long. Perfect.
“Well, why don’t you step into my office?” he asks, dropping it quickly.
“You’re sure? I know I got here before our appointment.”
“No trouble at all,” Foggy says, with more enthusiasm than he feels. “Do you want anything to drink?”
“Oh, yes,” Karen pipes up. “We have coffee, tea, soda, water—”
“I’m good,” Matt says, with another charming smile in her direction. Foggy’s still waiting for his. “Thank you, Karen.”
“Yes, thank you, Karen,” Foggy says brightly, and she sticks her tongue out at him.
“Actually, Foggy, could I borrow you for a second?”
“Absolutely.” To Matt, he says, “You can go right in and I’ll be with you shortly. There’s a chair in front of the desk, where…chairs normally are in an office.”
This, for whatever reason, makes Matt snort in amusement, which is somehow better than getting a smile out of him. “Yes, I think I can manage,” he replies, and moves towards Foggy’s office.
“Great. Be right there!” Once he’s gone, Foggy leans in close to Karen. “What’s up?”
“Just wanted to point out that you should have listened to me and worn your gym clothes after all,” she says, flipping through a file on her desk disinterestedly.
“Yes, yes, I know. Karen Page the Wise, let her instincts never be doubted again,” Foggy says, miming genuflection.
“Do you still want a coffee?”
“I’ll grab it when I’m done. Hopefully, this won’t take long,” he says. He leans in even closer and drops his voice to a whisper. “By the way, is this guy a real campaign manager or is he just auditioning to play one on TV?”
“ Foggy ,” Karen exclaims, with an eye roll.
“I’m sorry, but he’s, like, stupid handsome!”
“I hadn’t noticed,” she sniffs, feigning disinterest.
“Uh huh,” Foggy says, unimpressed. “Well, he noticed your firm handshake, that’s for sure.”
“You really are more perverted than when you left, aren’t you?” Karen says, amused. “Now, get in there and disappoint that beautiful man.”
“Lucky for him, that is something I’m very good at.”
Karen snorts at that, and returns to her work. Foggy goes back to his office and is pleased to see that Matt has managed to find a seat.
“Sorry about that,” he announces, as he settles into the chair behind his desk. “We’re a little bit scattered this morning. I just got back from Islamabad about twenty minutes ago.”
“Well, I appreciate your time.”
“Don’t mention it. Listen, Michael…”
“Matthew,” he says, surely seeing through the power play but not pointing it out. “Matt, if it’s all the same.”
“Right, sorry. Hey, at least, I knew it was one of the gospels from the Bible, right?”
The unbothered, generically pleasant expression on his face doesn't falter as he says, evenly, “There is no gospel according to Michael in the Bible.”
“Maybe not in yours,” Foggy replies, hoping he covers his nerves well enough that Matt can’t hear anything in his voice. “There’s a Saint Michael, though, right?”
“Yes,” Matt says, cracking a barely-there smile. “He’s an archangel, too.”
“An angel and a saint? Sounds like a lot of work. What’s his deal?”
“His ‘deal’?”
“Yeah, like what’s he the saint of?”
“Oh, like his patronage?”
“Yes,” Foggy says, snapping his fingers. “Like is he the guy to pray to when I’ve got a hangnail or a flat tire?”
“No,” Matt laughs, shaking his head. “He’s considered the patron saint of police officers, the military, paramedics, the protector of the Jewish people and the Vatican, as well as Germany, the Ukraine, and Brussels.”
“Wow, can you do that for all the saints?”
“A good amount of them,” Matt replies. He shrugs before adding, “I went to Catholic school.”
“That must come in handy.”
“You’d really be surprised how little it comes up,” he says, drolly.
“Really?" Foggy asks. "Not even when you have a flat tire?”
“I would probably call AAA first, in that scenario. The saints tend to take their time.”
“Solid point.”
“Listen, Mr. Nelson—”
“God, please, like I said: call me ‘Foggy’. I’d do the classic ‘Mr. Nelson is my father’ bit but I’m pretty sure no one calls him that either.”
“‘Foggy?’ Really?” Matt repeats, incredulously.
“Yes, it’s—not important why. It’s just—it’s what everyone calls me.”
“Fine,” he says, leaning forward in his seat. “Foggy, then. As much as I appreciate the opportunity to show off the benefits of my Catholic upbringing and education, I didn’t come here to talk to you about the patronages of various saints.”
“Yes, I knew that, actually. I’m sorry. I was stalling.”
Matt slumps back in his seat at that. “You’re going to tell me you can’t help me.”
“Listen, if this had been my meeting from the start, I would have told you not to bother coming down.”
“In your colleague’s defense, she did tell me that.”
“Well, then, I’m surprised you did it anyway.”
“You wouldn’t be, if you knew me better,” Matt replies, with so much confidence it borders on cocky. He gets five percent hotter in Foggy’s mental estimation from that alone.
He clears his throat. “Your candidate is running for a seat in New York’s 21st district. Democrats never win in the 21st. It’s simple math.”
“Yes, historically, this district goes red in elections, but that doesn’t mean, with the right democrat and proper funding from the DNC—”
“That’s true,” Foggy allows.
“So, what’s the issue?”
“You don’t have the right democrat.”
“I…what?”
“I’m saying, Bryant isn’t the democrat to flip the 21st.”
“According to whom?”
“According to me.”
“Is there anyone else I can talk to, then?” Matt asks, clearly keeping his patience on a very tight leash if the state of his jaw is any indication. Not that Foggy is admiring his jawline at a time like this.
“Unfortunately, no.”
“Foggy, I came down here—”
“A waste of time, as promised, but hey, at least you made a new friend!”
“You and I are not friends.”
“I meant you and Karen," Foggy says, blithely, "but ouch.”
Matt's jaw somehow clenches even tighter. “I want to talk to someone who’s going to take me seriously!”
“You are talking to someone who’s taking you seriously,” he says, earnestly. “Trust me, Matt. It’s not you, it’s your candidate.”
“Well, that’s a new one,” he says, deflating.
“Bryant is a centrist—”
“It’s a Republican stronghold!” Matt exclaims. “Who else has a chance to flip the seat? Do you want to put a diehard socialist on the ballot instead and see how they do?”
“More than anything in the world, yes,” Foggy replies. “But this isn’t about what I want.”
“The incumbent is a right wing clown and he lends legitimacy to their rhetoric. I think the country would be better off with him out of a job. I’m sorry that the White House and the DNC disagree, but—”
“You’re right.”
“I’m right?!”
“You’re right,” Foggy says. “With an asterisk.”
“Oh, boy.”
“Just a tiny footnote, really. He is a right wing clown, and he should be voted out of office, but he’s also a boon to the DNC.”
“How exactly does that make sense?”
“Every time he opens his mouth, the DNC pulls a quote, puts it on a direct mail campaign, and raises tens of thousands of dollars off of their members’ outrage. As long as we keep him in front of a microphone, we can basically print money for ourselves.”
Matt rolls his eyes. “What a reassuring thing to hear from a representative of my government.”
Foggy laughs, unexpectedly, which just makes Matt glare in his general direction. “Technically, we are the only ones who should be printing money, but that’s beside the point.”
“Are we at least approaching the point sometime soon?”
“You’re familiar with the phrase ‘better the devil you know…’”
Matt sighs. “‘Than the devil you don’t’. Yes.”
“Bryant’s the devil we don’t know. Dashwood’s the one we do.”
“Bryant is a democrat, Foggy.”
“Barely, and I don’t want it to be my job for the next six and a half years to make sure he’s not going to be the swing vote on every measure we want to get passed through the House. And it will be my job, Matt.”
“Well, if you keep selling out viable democrats like this, I don’t think you can count on re-election as a matter of course like you just did, so let’s call it two and a half years to be safe.”
Foggy leans forward onto his forearms. “Sweetheart, you don’t have a viable democrat on your hands, and that’s the nicest way anyone in this building is going to put it, so let’s quit while we’re ahead.”
“Easy for you to say,” Matt replies, standing. Foggy mirrors him. “I appreciate the condescension, by the way. No one’s called me ‘sweetheart’ in a long time.”
“No trouble at all,” Foggy says. “Feel free to stop by anytime you need your ego stroked.”
Matt laughs, or really huffs, putting his hands on his hips. He’s either getting a second wind on this argument or they’re about to get into a fistfight. He might have made that last retort too flirty. Some guys, by which he does mean most straight guys, will really take any opportunity. Luckily, a knock at the door cuts their standoff short.
“Foggy, the President wants anybody who’s available in the Oval Office in five,” Marci says as she barrels in without waiting, before her eyes land on Matt. “Oh, sorry to interrupt.”
“Marci, this is Matt Murdock, from the Bryant campaign,” Foggy says, begrudgingly. “Matt, this is Marci Stahl, deputy communications director. I believe your original meeting was supposed to be with her.”
“Yes. Hi,” Matt says, cheerfully enough, but the set of his shoulders remains tense.
“Matt, so nice to meet you,” she trills, giving Foggy a wide-eyed look over his shoulder as they shake hands. Of course she immediately clocked how attractive he is. Sometimes he thinks that an unfortunate side effect of them dating and then staying friends for so long is that they basically have the same brain. “I’m so sorry for sticking you with Foggy here. There were some scheduling issues with my calendar.”
“Not to worry,” Matt says, tightly. “Foggy’s taken excellent care of me.”
Marci purses her lips in amusement. “Isn’t he just the best?” she says, grinning at Foggy sadistically. “If I had my way, I’d foist all my downer meetings on him, because he always handles people so gently. Not my strong suit, I’m afraid.”
Foggy rolls his eyes, but Matt beats him to the punch. “‘Downer meetings’?” he asks, deceptively pleasant.
“Yes, well, it’s a pity about Bryant, but you’re young, as I can now see. You’ll have other campaigns, ones you can actually win.”
“We haven’t technically lost this one yet.”
Marci gives Foggy a look, before shaking her head. “So true,” she says, giving Matt’s arm a squeeze. “Anyway! Safe travels! Foggy, like I said, five minutes.”
“I’m in the middle of a meeting,” he replies, annoyed.
“It’s the Cruz case.”
“That’s going to—”
“It came back 5-3 against,” she says, cutting him off with a significant look at Matt. “That’s why I canceled my trip. We’re all hands on deck.”
Foggy sighs, but only because it would be inappropriate to swear. “Okay.”
“Five minutes.”
“I said, ‘okay’.”
Marci nods and departs in her usual cloud of Chanel perfume and hyper competence, her heels clicking down the hallway until the sound fades completely. Foggy rubs his face, thinking miserably about how this is just the beginning of what will most likely be a very long, bad day. He’s going to need to send Karen to his apartment to get him some clothes. He’s going to need twelve coffees, ideally right now, but he’s got to deal with Matt first. When he looks over at him, he’s standing there, shell shocked.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says, because he honestly is. “She’s—it’s not always like this.”
Matt seems to spring back into action like a spell has been lifted. “It’s fine,” he says, picking up his briefcase and his stick. “You have to get going.”
“It’s not—”
“Don’t say it’s not important, for my benefit. It sounds important.”
“I can walk you out,” Foggy says, coming around the desk towards him.
“I can manage on my own,” Matt says, not unkindly but not meekly either. The implication that he wants to end this interaction sooner rather than later is barely implied.
“Of course. It was, uh, lovely to meet you.”
“Sure,” he replies, not reciprocating the sentiment but extending his hand as they pause in front of Karen’s desk. Foggy takes it and gives him a firm handshake.
“Karen, could you—?"
“I’m fine,” Matt interrupts. “Thank you, though. Karen, a pleasure.”
“You too,” Karen offers. “The hallway behind you leads right to the exit. You’ll need to sign out with security.”
“Thank you,” he says, and departs without further fanfare.
“How’d he take it?” Karen asks Foggy, once he’s gone.
“Super well,” Foggy chirps. “In fact, we’re thinking this summer for the wedding.”
“That’s fast,” Karen says, barely hiding her smile.
“What can I say? When you know you know.” He sighs deeply. “Marci told you about the Supreme Court thing?”
“Yeah. You want me to go grab you a change of clothes from your place?”
“Yes, please. You need my keys?”
“I have your spare still,” Karen says, as she gets up and puts on her coat. “Need anything else while I’m out?”
“The world’s largest coffee, with as many espresso shots as the law allows.”
“Got it,” she replies with a nod. She’s already on her way out when he grabs her by the elbow to stop her.
“Am I, like, the world’s biggest asshole?” he asks, earnestly. “And be honest, because I feel like the world’s biggest asshole right now.”
“You’re not,” Karen says, immediately, squeezing his arm. “You’re the best person I know, but you’re jet lagged and overtired and stinky and now you have to spend the rest of your day talking about the death penalty. That would put anyone in a bad mood.”
“Yeah,” Foggy says. “Thanks.”
He lets her go, then, because they’ve all got work to do, but her words don’t reassure him like they usually would.
Foggy waits on the sidewalk out in front of St. Patrick’s the next morning with ten minutes to spare before the 10 AM mass gets out. He finds himself wishing he had cigarettes, which he only ever wants when he’s nervous and needs something to do with his hands. He’s complained about this before, unwisely, with his mother in earshot, which had led to her snapping at him to take up knitting if he needs something productive to do with his hands. The worst fight he can ever remember having with her was when she found cigarettes in his room when he was home from college once. What is it about being within spitting distance of a Catholic church that brings up all his repressed guilt like that?
He probably could have brought coffee, but he’s not sure if Matt declined yesterday to be polite or if he genuinely doesn’t drink it. Either way, Foggy couldn’t begin to guess how he’d take it, so it’s probably better to just skip it entirely. He doesn’t need to bribe him, and he doesn’t need anything to occupy his hands. He’s senior staff at the goddamn White House. He doesn’t need to be nervous.
Over his shoulder, he hears the sound of voices starting to drift over from the doors and of footsteps on the stairs. When he glances over, he sees crowds starting to form at the entrance. He remembers, suddenly, from a few christenings he was forced to attend for various cousins, how much people like to stand around and gab after mass and hopes that, by virtue of not being at his own church, Matt won’t be stuck talking to a bunch of old ladies for too long.
Thankfully, it’s only a few minutes later when he emerges from the crowd, easy to spot with his glasses and his stick, head down and separate. Foggy hesitates for a second, worried this will be an intolerable intrusion on something, well, sacred, but he did go out of his way to talk to him. It will be even less excusable if he doesn’t go through with it.
Matt’s head swivels in the correct direction when he hears his name called and Foggy would guess he’s good at identifying voices, both in general and in his line of work, where schmoozing and networking are so essential. Matt’s already at a disadvantage, not knowing people by sight, so he can only imagine he’s found a way to compensate for it. He’s guessing he knows who it is before Foggy even says, “on your right,” and approaches him.
“Foggy?” Matt asks, and he’s not sure if he’s guessing or just expressing surprise.
“Hi,” he says, and it comes out weirdly shy, because of course it does. Matt’s still dressed nicely, like he was yesterday, though he’s ditched the tie and thrown a sweater over his dress shirt instead. It’s like he knows about Foggy’s childhood crush on Mr. Rogers.
“Hi,” Matt says, with a laugh. “Did we—don’t tell me this is your church.”
“Yes, I moonlight as an organist at St. Patrick’s. Just for the tips, though.”
“I—what?”
“Sorry, I’m kidding. I don’t go to church here. I went to see you at your hotel, I was hoping to catch you before you checked out, and the receptionist said I’d just missed you and that you’d gone to church.”
“She told you where to find me?”
“No, I guessed. I mean, St. Patrick’s is the closest Catholic church—you mentioned Catholic school yesterday, so I figured it was the best bet—and of course, it’s, you know, historic and beautiful, with all that stained glass and the, um…”
Matt tips his head to the side, considering him as he fumbles for words. He looks amused, at least, and not deeply offended, which is probably a good sign. He also looks like he’s waiting for Foggy to admit defeat, which is never going to happen.
“The acoustics are probably also good,” he finishes, pathetically, and Matt laughs, not like he did yesterday, all guarded and cynical with disappointment. He laughs big and unrestrained and maybe even delighted. Foggy gets the sense that he’s a little surprised by it himself.
“Yes, the acoustics were wonderful,” he says, and his eyes are crinkling attractively at the corners.
“I’m an idiot,” Foggy says, in the direction of his shoes. He doesn’t need to hide a blush from Matt, he figures, but he does it anyway.
“No, that was…” Matt takes his time searching for the word, and Foggy’s heart races. He shakes his head, helplessly. “‘Acoustics.’ You're cute.”
“I…” Foggy has fully lost his train of thought. He tries to remember a single time he has said something coherent in his entire life and fails. His brain has shut down, possibly permanently and forever.
“Sorry, that came out wrong," Matt clarifies, after a moment's pause. "What I meant was, that was a cute thing to say.”
The part of Foggy that was wondering if it would be weird to ask a guy who just got out of church if he was, perhaps, a friend of Dorothy immediately withers and dies on the spot. That was the straightest point of clarification he’s ever witnessed in his life.
“Well,” Foggy says, remarkably normally after the emotional journey he just went on, “you don’t know this, since you can’t see, but you were right the first time. I am adorable.”
Matt, thankfully, laughs at that too. “I’ll defer to your expertise on the matter.”
“I appreciate that.”
“So, you were looking for me at my hotel?”
“Yes!”
“Can I ask why?”
“I—right. That is the sort of thing that requires explanation.”
“Yes, it is,” Matt says, patiently.
“I wanted to…apologize for yesterday,” Foggy says, letting the words flow out on an exhale. “You didn’t catch any of us on our best day, and while nothing I said to you was factually incorrect or inaccurate to our position, I feel like you weren’t treated with the respect you deserve and I really regret that. None of that is how we do things, and it’s not who we are. I hope, at my best, it’s not who I am, either.”
Matt doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. After a moment, he says, “I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t worry about it. I fully acknowledge that I ambushed you—at a church, of all places—so I’ll just…”
“I appreciate it,” Matt says, suddenly. “The apology, not the ambush. Although, I guess they’re sort of intertwined at this point…”
“Sure,” Foggy laughs.
“You really didn’t have to—”
“I felt bad. It was badly done, and I wanted to try to make it right.”
“Still, I’ve been in professional politics for almost a decade now, and I can count the number of heartfelt apologies I’ve received on one hand. It’s not the sort of thing everyone does.”
“Well, it’s a thing I do, when I’m wrong. And I was. I’m genuinely sorry.”
Matt acknowledges this with another tilt of his head. “You weren’t wrong about everything, unfortunately.”
Foggy frowns, trying to parse what this means. “I’m not sure I—oh my god! Matt!”
He winces. “Do not gloat!”
“I’m not!” Foggy practically shouts. “I won’t. I promise! But, if I’m understanding you correctly, you know?”
“About Bryant? Of course I do! I work for him!”
“That begs the question of why?”
“Why do I work for him?”
“Yes!”
“I’m not in politics just for the love of it, Foggy. I’m a professional political operative, I need the work!”
“Yeah, but Bryant?”
Matt makes a face at him. “Do you imagine there’s a seller’s market out there for blind campaign managers?”
“No, but—” Foggy pauses and really considers this. Matt keeps things upbeat, from what he can tell, brushing off references to his disability easily enough by all appearances, but it must actually be brutal out there for him. “No, you’re right. It’s got to be tough. Even for someone as good as you.”
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not saying it to flatter you. Considering you’re working in a district that virtually always votes red, and you’ve got a dud for a candidate, your numbers are very impressive. I mean, unless you’re handing out headshots at campaign stops, I don’t understand how you’re doing it at all.”
“Headshots?” Matt asks. “Of me?”
“Okay, don’t you dare try some sort of aw, shucks routine with me. I know you know you’re handsome.”
Matt laughs, tucking his chin in a remarkably shy gesture from such a confident asshole. “That’s a good one, though. Headshots. I’ll have to write that down.”
“Maybe the 21st district will flip after all.”
“Okay, I know I’m not that handsome.”
Foggy wants to argue the point, but he’s also done enough embarrassing himself for one day and it’s not even noon yet. He’s got to stick to the matter at hand. “Listen, what I said yesterday—”
“Consider it forgotten. Really.”
“No, uh, what I said reflects the opinion and the decision of the White House, even if the delivery left something to be desired. But the administration, specifically the President, wanted me to be clear with you that, Bryant aside, if you ever found a viable candidate, we’d get interested in a hurry. We remain very impressed by your work, if not your candidate.”
Matt appears intrigued by this. “Did anyone happen to specify a better candidate by name?”
“Well, the suggestion was raised that you might fit the bill.”
“Raised by whom?”
“That I couldn’t say,” Foggy demurs, and Matt does that little head tilt again, so he mimes locking his mouth and throwing away the key before he realizes Matt can’t see or appreciate it. It’s also a very dorky thing to do, so that might be for the best.
“You want me to run for office?” Matt asks, instead.
“It’s just a suggestion,” Foggy says, putting his hands up defensively. “Something to think about for the future.”
“The distant, distant future, maybe…”
Foggy shrugs. “Sure. Either way, you’ve made some friends in D.C. this time around. Your next campaign will be easier, I promise.”
“Well, I have to make it through this one first,” Matt says, grimly, running a hand over his jaw in distress. God, even distressed, he’s still ridiculously handsome.
“Hey, if all else fails, you can always pray to Saint Thomas More.”
Matt gives him a baffled look. “What?”
“You know,” Foggy says, putting his hands in his pockets, casually, “the patron saint of statesmen and politicians.”
Matt’s smile of delight and comprehension is like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, which is a sentiment Foggy would have dismissed as overly and unnecessarily poetic and saccharine probably twenty minutes ago. His words to Karen yesterday— when you know, you know— come back to haunt him and it is so unfair and yet completely expected that this would happen to him, of all people. He’s known this guy for probably thirty minutes total and still, he knows Matt is special. That this is the beginning of something, even though it probably isn’t going to be what he wishes it could be. This is, bizarrely, a talent of his. He knows when someone is going to be important to him, usually right from the start. He knew it with Marci. He knew it with Karen. He knows it now too.
Son of a bitch, he thinks. This might hurt.
“Where did you learn that?” Matt asks, his voice gone kind of breathless around his smile.
“Not to brag, but I have access to many things in my line of work,” he replies, trying to stay casual, despite the revelations, “including several volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica.”
“Fancy,” Matt says, with a laugh. “I appreciate the tip.”
“I couldn’t find the saint to pray to specifically for car trouble, but Saint Christopher or Saint Frances of Rome are the patron saints of drivers and Saint Catherine of Alexandria is the patron saint of mechanics, so any of them would do in a pinch. In case you were wondering.”
“Saint Christopher,” Matt replies, “is the patron saint of all travelers, actually.”
“Show-off!" Foggy exclaims. "You didn’t even have to look that up!”
“Every Catholic household has a medal or something for Saint Christopher kicking around,” he says, with a smile. “You didn’t stand a chance, I’m afraid to say.”
“What gave me away?”
“Oh, everything. I can spot a Protestant at fifty paces, especially the Christmas-and-Easter variety. It’s like the first thing they teach you in Catholic school.”
“Sure. I mean, what else are they going to do with all that time they’re not teaching you how to put condoms on bananas?”
Matt laughs another one of those big, unexpected laughs, almost staggering back with the force of it. “Yeah, abstinence only makes for very short lesson plans.”
“I’m guessing you all managed to figure out the basics anyway, just from the CDC data I’ve seen,” Foggy says, fully blushing all over with the pride of making Matt laugh and his own stupidity at bringing up Sex Ed in a moment like this. Sometimes he just truly cannot stop himself.
Before Matt can confirm or deny that he knows how to use a condom (seriously, what’s the matter with his brain?) Foggy rushes to add, “Also, thank you for giving me the credit of going to church on Easter. My mother will be pleased to know I’m fooling people into thinking I’m a nice young man, rather than being obvious with my true heathen nature.”
“You are a nice young man,” Matt says, softly, with the appearance of having sobered slightly. Maybe Foggy shouldn’t have called himself a heathen. Maybe he was being too obvious, the coded aspect of the code word too unfortunately crackable. Oh, well. “At least, I assume you’re young? I’m guessing, from the sound of your voice.”
“I am. I mean, I guess I am. Is 34 young?”
“For the deputy chief of staff for the White House?” Matt asks, eyebrows raised. “Yes! Are you serious?”
“Well, then.”
“You’re my age.”
“And?”
“You’re very successful.”
“I got lucky," Foggy says, with a shrug. "I was in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”
“Yes, because being in the right place at the right time is something to scoff at in our line of work,” Matt says, looking unimpressed. “And definitely completely negates the fact of you being good at your job.”
“I don’t know if I’d call that a fact, per se…”
“I’ll settle for it being my professional opinion, then, and people generally pay me good money for that kind of thing.”
“Well, I left my checkbook at home, unfortunately,” Foggy quips, and is rewarded with a sharp, almost shark-like smile from Matt. “All I can offer you is my gratitude. I mean, unless—?”
“Yes?” Matt asks, when he doesn’t immediately finish his thought.
“Well, you probably have to catch a flight or a train or something soon, right?”
He nods, brow furrowed. “Yeah, my train is out of Union Station at 1:30. Why?”
“Nothing, I—I’m sure you’ve got to—and I should, probably—”
“You should probably just say whatever it was you were initially going to ask me,” Matt says, head tipped, once again, with interest.
“Right,” Foggy laughs. This is so, so stupid. “I was going to say, if you had time, I could buy you a cup of coffee, to complete my apology for yesterday and to chip away at your consulting fee.”
Matt visibly hesitates, which, of course he does. Foggy made the world’s worst first impression and insulted him yesterday. He apologized for that, sure, but Matt’s still probably not pleased about the DNC’s decision and this wasted trip to D.C. to talk about it. One pleasant conversation doesn’t make them friends or anything.
“That's not necessary," he eventually replies, though not with a great deal of conviction, which is strange. With anyone else, Foggy would assume they wanted him to insist, but somehow he has trouble imagining that's the case here. "I'm sure you'd like to get back to your Sunday plans."
"My Sunday plans are this conversation and going into the office to debate the finer points of the death penalty. You have a pretty low opinion of yourself if you think your company ranks lower than that."
Matt seems to relax at that, oddly enough. “So," he says, with a self-deprecating smile, "this is probably the part where I should admit to an unhealthy amount of curiosity about where you’re at with the Cruz case.”
Of all the things he expected Matt to say, that certainly had not occurred to him, which means he blinks in surprise for what turns out to be a little too long.
“Sorry,” Matt says, mistaking Foggy’s pause for something it isn’t and wincing in apparent embarrassment, “I heard about it on the news. The Supreme Court’s decision, I mean, and I’ve been following the case for a while. When Marci mentioned it yesterday—I shouldn’t have said anything, but—”
“No, not at all,” Foggy says, hurriedly. “I’d honestly love to get your opinion.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I mean, you just admitted to following the case, and you’re a lawyer by training, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“Right, so that, and you know the political landscape we’re situated in at the moment as well as anyone, running this campaign, dealing with the DNC. Even if you want to give me your opinion as a Catholic, I’ll take it. It’s…we’re basically taking all bets, at the moment, if that’s not insulting to admit.”
Matt laughs lightly. “Not insulting. I think on average there was a majority of flattering sentiments in there.”
“Good,” Foggy says, sighing in relief. “That’s how it was intended.”
“I take it the President hasn’t made a decision on whether to stay the execution or not?”
“No, that’s why I’m heading into the office on a Sunday. We’re all trying to figure out our options.”
“Well, I have thoughts.”
Foggy laughs this time. “That’s what I like to hear.”
“I will, however, defer to you on the subject of where to get coffee in this neighborhood,” Matt says.
“Oh, right. Well, actually, if we cross up here—”
Foggy steps forward to gesture in the direction he means before he remembers that it won’t do much good. At the same moment, Matt steps forward too, towards Foggy, and holds out a hand in what looks like a conciliatory gesture. Foggy pauses, waiting to hear his objection or question, and not thinking too hard about how close they are now.
“Could I—that is, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, as we walk, could I hold onto your arm?” Matt asks, and he doesn’t sound embarrassed so much as tired. Foggy gets the sense that he doesn’t like asking for help or relying on people very much. “It makes navigating the sidewalks and everything easier. If not—”
“That’s fine,” Foggy interrupts, feeling only slightly bad that he’s this eager to comply. He’s mostly doing it to be nice, but there is a small part of him that’s excited because a cute guy will be touching him, which feels sort of bad. “I mean, I’m happy to—”
“Thanks,” Matt replies with just a small quirk of his mouth. If he’s noticed Foggy’s eagerness, he’s not calling it out, which is kind of him.
“Do you…know where my arm is?” Foggy asks, like a moron, making Matt laugh.
“It’s, well, it’s in this general vicinity, right?” Matt’s middle finger ends up jabbing into Foggy’s stomach, which is ideal, of course. Now Matt knows he doesn’t have abs of steel, a thing he was definitely going to pretend to have until directly contradicted. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Foggy says, and just grabs Matt’s hand to get it over with. It’s not important or monumental in any way—they shook hands yesterday, so it’s not even the first time they’ve touched—but his pulse starts to race nonetheless. He places Matt’s hand on the crook of his elbow as quickly as he can without making it weird. Except that now he’s trying to remember the last time he held hands with someone and upon consideration, he thinks it’s been a while, which makes him sad to think about.
“That’s my elbow,” he says, stupidly, because anything else he could say at this moment would somehow be more embarrassing, which is impressive.
Matt laughs, just a little huff of amusement, but his eyes crinkle adorably again and that’s good enough. “I figured that out,” he says. “Thank you, though.”
“Right. Um, so as I was saying, if we cross the street here, I know a place only a few blocks away. Hopefully, it won’t be too busy on a Sunday morning for us to get a table.”
“Okay,” Matt says, nodding. “I’ll follow your lead.”
“Great,” Foggy says, but doesn’t move. He stands there awkwardly for a moment, not sure where this temporary immobility is coming from. “I, uh, I’ve never done this before.
“Gotten coffee?”
“No, uh, that I’ve done, actually, if you can believe it," Foggy says, with a laugh. "I’ve never led someone before? I just don’t want to make you trip or anything.”
“It’s just an extra precaution,” Matt explains, calmly. This is probably something he explains a lot, Foggy realizes with some amount of shame. “I can get around fine on my own, but especially someplace new, this helps.”
“Should I point out obstacles or something? Does that help at all?”
“You’re taking this very seriously,” Matt says with a smile that might be at his expense. In which case, Foggy thinks, it is fully worth it. It’s a good smile.
“Yeah, sorry, I just—”
“You can point things out, that’s fine, but I trust you won’t lead me into any open manholes or anything like that.”
“That’s a lot of trust, man,” Foggy says, and Matt laughs. “I mean, you’re talking to someone who loves some Looney Tunes shenanigans.”
“Well, then I guess if someone paints a wall to look like a train tunnel, we’re both in a lot of trouble.”
“I’ll try to be strong,” Foggy says, “and vigilant.”
“That’s all I ask.”
Foggy realizes this is probably the moment they need to actually start walking, otherwise they’re just two guys who have linked arms outside of a church. He moves hesitantly in the direction of the crosswalk, tugging Matt gently along with him, and it doesn’t feel anywhere near as awkward as he was expecting. It just feels nice.
“You see?” Matt asks, leaning against his arm. “It’s just like walking with a person!”
Foggy digs his elbow into Matt’s side in retaliation, which just makes him ping-pong away from him before bouncing back, already laughing. “Have all the fun you want,” Foggy says. “Just remember, your life is in my hands.”
“And how very capable they are,” Matt says, mildly, still grinning.
Foggy feels himself blush and he’s very thankful at this moment that Matt probably can’t tell. It’s the only advantage he has in this situation. Naturally, of course, he decides to cancel out that advantage immediately by saying something stupid.
“By the way, this is what I normally smell like,” he says, as they wait for the walk signal.
Matt raises his eyebrows at him. “Oh?” he says, while giving nothing away, like a total bastard.
“There’s a lot of good reasons not to take a meeting straight off of a fifteen hour flight, it turns out,” Foggy says, trying not to die of embarrassment. Maybe Matt hadn’t noticed. He thought he’d just been too polite to say anything. “I want it on the record that I, you know, shower regularly and wear deodorant and everything.”
“Noted,” Matt says with another cryptic smile. He might even inhale a little bit deeper, though Foggy might be imagining that.
“Fine, I might even smell a little better than normal. But that’s all you’ll get out of me!”
So what if he had put on cologne that he usually forgets to wear? It was a drop if it was anything. And he only did it because of what a clusterfuck yesterday had been. He’d felt he had something to prove to Matt after that conversation went so poorly.
Matt, of course, seems to be enjoying himself immensely. “I’m impressed,” he says, as they cross the street. “If you’re willing to go to these lengths for the likes of me, I can only imagine what you’d do for someone important.”
He doesn’t mean it like that, Foggy reasons. It wasn’t intended to make him sound like, well, a bit of a whore, but it lands like that, for whatever reason. Like he’d been strategically deployed by his superiors to smooth things over, to butter Matt up to avoid burning a bridge they might want to cross someday. But, as much as he’d love to slather him in butter right now, that is not the case and, unfortunately, it’s also not a way that Foggy’s allowed to think about this person.
“You’re important,” he says, after a moment’s pause. “We’re fucking democrats, Matt. Our whole thing is that we think everyone is important, right? And, even if you somehow weren’t, I’d still be here. Even if no one asked me to be.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Of course not,” Foggy says, more breezily than he feels. “But my point still stands. I know all this stuff with the DNC is discouraging, but don’t let it sour you on all this. You could very well be the future of the party.”
Matt laughs, nervously. “I don’t know about that.”
Foggy shrugs, which he trusts Matt can feel. “I’ve been told I have good instincts for this kind of thing.”
“Now that I can believe,” Matt says.
When Foggy turns to look at him, he finds Matt already regarding him with interest. He thinks again of his conviction from earlier that this is no irrelevant run-of-the-mill meeting—one of dozens he'll take this week, and hundreds he'll take this year—but rather the beginning of something important. He feels certain that this won't be the last he sees of Matt Murdock and wonders if the same thing is going through Matt's mind too as they walk together. If he's willing to be honest with himself, he can admit that's not just something he suspects will be true; it's something he hopes will be true too.
🏳️🌈 💖
#i don't enjoy formatting fic for tumblr but it's part of the posting process for me#in case some people prefer to read here#anyway please enjoy and happy pride to whatever these two got going on#daredevil#foggy nelson#matt murdock#karen page#matt x foggy#mattfoggy#ship names remain my mortal enemy when it comes to tagging#whatever yall call it...it's them....the BOYS#the west wing au#this is my first non-prompt fill fic in literally so long i've forgotten how i format this stuff normally#homelywenchsociety#that’s my writing tag! don’t worry about it!#series: a more perfect union
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Fun Facts with Espi!
So I'm writing this as I have officially loaded the last chapter of my Charles/Max/Pierre Soulmark AU into AO3 and I feel like doing a fic debrief?
I'm weird about a lot of things and long author's notes are one of those things so I'm here rambling on Tumblr instead. For those who may or may not be interested.
Anyways, writing this fic was a process. I had the idea a long time ago, stopped it to write the entirety of my Piarles Mermaid AU, picked it up again, paused to write 90% of the Carlando Coffeeshop AU that's a companion fic to the Mermaid AU, picked it up again, paused to write 'A Gift for a Gift' in a fever dream, picked it up again, paused to write some of an A/B/O fic, and then finally had the motivation to finish it.
(So, if anything feels disconnected, I'm sorry. I tried my best.)
Fun Fact #1 - The Brain Cells Discord chat was the first part of this fic I wrote and is honestly one of my favorite scenes. I just love the idea of all of them being chaotic horny gremlins in a private online space. (Also, my Google Doc is just called 'The Brain Cells')
Fun Fact #2 - I planned for this fic to be rated T, which is why all of the early Piarles scenes are all 'fade to black' kind of sex. Then Chapter 16 happened and all three got horny for each other. So fuck it, it's an Explicit fic now. I don't make the rules.
Overall I'm really happy with how this fic turned out. It's the longest thing I've posted and I did enjoy writing it. Write what you want to read and all that.
Fun Fact #3 - Speaking of, I don't post WIPs because I don't read WIPs. That's a personal preference and I have a ton of admiration for the authors with the confidence to post works in progress. That's awesome and I can't wait to read your fic when it hits Complete status.
I've just been burned one too many times by fantastic stories where the author stopped updating for any number of reasons, so I never want to be that sort of author.
If I start posting a chaptered fic that's not a snippet/side-story collection, know that the full story is written and will be posted pending editing and/or nuclear apocalypse.
So, for anyone who likes my stuff (???) and wants to know what's coming up, here's what I've got in progress, in no particular order:
The previously-mentioned Carlando Coffeeshop AU (with background Piarles). It's a companion fic (not a sequel) to my Mermaid AU, takes place at roughly the same time but covers a lot of the on-land activities and Lando being a disaster over Carlos. It's almost finished, pending literally half an epilogue, so if that sounds fun then come yell at me to finish it.
The previously-mentioned A/B/O fic. I honestly thought I would never be the sort of author to dip my toes into A/B/O but I was bit by an inspiration bug. It's a Maxiel fic (AU-Non-F1 drivers) with Max POV for the whole thing. There is also plenty of established Piarles and Carlando, with Lewis, Alex, George, and other familiar faces rounding out the pack. That's a much longer way off, sitting at maybe 50% right now, but the broad plot is outlined and I have scenes occupying real estate in my head.
A Max/Pierre kinda-soulmark oneshot. It's an AU in an interesting world that I want to keep exploring in prompt/snippet format. This one is actually finished, but I want to wait to post it until I have the time to respond and write the companion snippets & prompts I might receive from you lovely people. Or from my own head.
Companion oneshots to ~this~ Soulmark AU. I already have one completed that's Danny Ric POV that takes place between chapter 16 & 17. Basically, Daniel wants to be a good friend and comfort Max after the Saudi GP, busts into his hotel room, finds a mostly-naked Pierre, assumes that Pierre is cheating on Charles, then very rapidly has the truth paraded in front of him. (I mean, come on Daniel. Really? Pierre is so horny for Charles that it's not funny.) This one is also finished and will likely be posted in a couple of days.
The other companion oneshot I have floating around my head is Charles POV and is just PWP, filthy explicit sexy times between the three of them. If you liked Chapter 16, yell at me to work on this one next.
Another PWP explicit sexy times threesome oneshot, but this time it's Carlos/Charles/Pierre. Inspired by a comment I saw on that one pic of Pierre grabbing Carlos' chin during a press conference. You know the one. It's half-finished and I'd kinda like to have it done to post in time for kinktober. (There's bondage. It's fun.) I don't really have the inclination to ~participate~ in kinktober, but I figure there's no harm in increasing the general smut that's available.
Another chaptered threesome soulmark-AU, but this time featuring Lefrere incest! It starts off Pierre/Charles with a very platonic, brotherly Arthur being jealous (envious?) of their relationship/soulmarks. He pushes those inappropriate feelings down (or tries to) until he gets a soulmark that matches theirs. They all panic and have to navigate ~whatever this is~ together. This is also finished, but I know people are weird about incest and doubly weird about RPF incest. Honestly, I felt weird writing it but it was stuck in my brain and demanded to be written. If this sounds like something you'd read, let me know and I'll consider posting it.
Anyways, that's what I've got going on right now. If you've made it this far, congrats! (Also, why???)
Like, I'm still reeling over the fact that people not only read my fics? but leave kudos?? and comment??? It's so nice what the heck????
Again, I write what I want to read and it's mind-boggling that other people want to read it too.
If you made a comment on AO3 that you actually want me to reply/respond to, ask me here on Tumblr! I mostly lurk, but you might be able to drag me out from under my rock.
Fun Fact #4 - I'm very awkward about replying to comments on AO3. I do see them and am deeply appreciative for everyone who takes the time to comment. I just don't like increasing the comment count by replying. Something about that makes my brain itch. I love authors who interact with their fans directly in comments, I'm just never going to be one of them.
So, if you like, let me know your thoughts! Anything you want me to respond to about this Soulmark-AU? Who do you think Lewis' soulmate is? Is Max actually a full-time problem? (Yes.) Is there a particular fic in the list above that you're more interested in than others? Want to know what else I'm weird about? Ask away!
Do I need to write shorter posts? (Also yes.)
#Espi rambles#fic writing#omg I've finished posting a fic#piarles#fanf1ction#f1 rpf fic#no seriously what is the Charles/Max/Pierre ship called?#Lestappsly? Piarlax?#(that sounds like a drug you would see on an infomercial)#(side effects may include writing full chapters on your notes app while you're at work and supposed to be working)
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i would be super interested in hearing about what your writing process is like! e.g. do you write large amounts in a few sittings, or sporadic bits across lots of sessions? do you edit as you go, or do you go back at the end for a once over? do you reread your work after it’s been posted? how do you get yourself to write when you may not be in the mood? how do you combat writers block? how do new ideas come to you? what’s your biggest motivation to write? etc. etc. etc. (that’s a lot of questions oops—don’t feel pressured to answer them all!!)
Hi anon! I love talking about my writing on here, so happy to answer.
I usually write large amounts. Generally speaking I will have a draft going and then I'll keep coming back to it, but most of a fic will be written in like three big spurts. It really depends on the piece. What often happens is I will work on it in bits and then finish the entire second half all in one sitting because I get impatient and I just want it done. I do not edit at all really. I do my best to catch typos, and after it's posted if I notice typos I will go back and try to adjust, but I don't sit and read through to edit. I also post it the SECOND it is finished. It's the reason I don't use any fun art or fancy formatting. I swear to god, it's like if I don't post something the MILLISECOND it is out of my brain I will jump out of my skin so I just yeet it into the void of tumblr and take a deep breath.
I reread my work all the time. The day I've posted something I'll usually read it because I kinda blackout when I write, so it is super fun for me to read and go "wow, that's cool, I like that" because I sort of disassociate. It feels like someone else wrote it because I don't remember writing it usually lol. And then I'll reread an old fic if someone reblogs it or engages with it and I realize I don't remember it well.
First and foremost I write for me. I write what I am entertained by, I write what turns me on, I write what I fantasize about. That's why, despite my definitive intention to write inclusive reader characters, I predominantly write fem!reader - this is wish fulfillment for me and I do it to benefit me lol. So I enjoy rereading my own fics because they are tailormade to my taste, my kinks, my preferences. Not saying I do it constantly, but yep! I read them.
Inspiration is easy. Everyone on here is just as feral as I am and I am lucky enough that people send me in really juicy requests and thots and would you rathers and those are amaaaaazing jumping off points. My problem is that people send me way more good ideas than I have the time to write so my inbox and drafts are FULL.
As for writing and getting in the mood - I do not make myself write if I'm not in the mood. This is not my job. Nobody is paying me to do this. I only do it because I feel like it, so if I don't feel like it, I do not force myself to do anything.
With writer's block, that only happens on part 2s and 3s. It's the reason I am mainly a one shot bitch. The pressure builds and gets to me and it makes it easier to put writing off. I'm trying to become better about it, but also be kind to myself because, again, I am doing this for fun.
What's lucky is that I often AM in the mood, so that's not an issue. Inspiration comes from reading other people's fics to be honest. I LOVE reading fic, even more than writing it, so I consume a lot. What often happens is I'll read a fic and expect it to go a certain way and if it doesn't I'll go "hmmm...well now I will write that." Or if I realize I like a tone or something, I mentally begin riffing on it and decide to write it my own way. I read a lot of romance novels, too (many of which are a LOT shittier than some of the amazing fanfics I've read) and that keeps me well versed in tropes and conventions and I like to try my hand at different ones.
Last but not least....I'm very horny and very repressed and very bored lol.
I've said it before and will say it again - I write this stuff because I don't have it my life and this is my kind of manifestation. <3
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I hope you don't mind me asking, but do you have any tips for anyone starting their own x reader(s) blog/doing requests? If not, I hope you have a nice day either way. :)
hey lovely!! this is such an interesting question omg. i don't mind at all!!
i do have some thoughts based on my own personal experience (i, in true citrine fashion, went full babble mode on this so that'll be under the cut!) but i think the tl;dr of it is have fun and be willing to experiment. (also if any of you lovely folks reading along at home want to drop your two cents in the replies or otherwise add to the conversation please feel free! i can only offer my perspective and i love hearing others)
if you have any follow up questions or want more specific advice, feel free to shoot me a dm! i don't bite, i promise.
okay. hi.
first thing's first: starting an x readers blog!
right off the bat, my absolute most important advice is this: be gentle with yourself. you're trying something new. even if you've been writing your whole life and been on tumblr since it was founded, this is a new way to combine those things. new adventures have bumps and blocks and you'll have trial and error before you really find your way (and likely after you find your way, too!) and that is fine. take your time, try to enjoy the process, and be kind to yourself.
for me, a lot of finding my way- and i mean A Lot- was just looking at other imagines blogs and asking myself what i liked about them. for example, for me, i get inspired by angelz-dust's incredible dialogue and use of details in her writing, beautiful desktop theme, a super user friendly masterlist, and clear and concise rules page. i also love unmotivatedwrit3r's intro post with both masterlist and rules, grounded stories, and that their blog is super easy to navigate. (i could go on and on, but my point is, look at your favorite writers. why does their writing appeal to you? why does their blog appeal to you? how can you incorporate parts of how they run their blog into how you run yours (obviously without stealing other people's work, haha.))
shaping your blog takes time, but can be a really fun process if you let it!
some of the things i find most useful for my blog are a good desktop theme, a useful pinned post, a masterlist, a mobile masterlist, and a tagging system i'm very comfortable with.
(idk how tumblr savvy you are, anon, so if you would like advice on any of those things specifically please let me know!)
technical tidbits
something i've found super helpful as both a writer and a reader of imagines is when a fic has an intro. as an example, i'll use my fic cat. the section at the top tells the reader what they're getting into; in my case, i like to list any qualities i've written the reader with (in this case, the reader is not referred to by gender!) so the person reading knows if it's something they can relate to (or, if not, if it's something they're interested in anyway). i also include what character i'm writing about, how long the piece is, any fun facts or relevant information i think the audience should know (like thanking my darling angel for being my beta reader/enabler/cheerleader), and also any content warnings i think apply. in this case, i also linked the next chapter of the fic.
if the post is long, throw a read more/cut on there! (i do this for posts that are longer than 1000 words, but you can use any measurement.) it makes navigating your blog (and any tags you post in!) muchhhhh easier.
back up your work. no, seriously, save often, and save your fics in a secondary location. i use google docs, but you could use word, a private discord server, your notes app- just make sure to save it! and just a heads' up, tumblr drafts can be a bit of a gamble. i've had posts post themselves prematurely, posts disappear entirely, and formatting glitch. (also? be prepared to reformat your posts.)
(i also save drafts i hate or can't get to work. sometimes i find a way to recycle them later on!)
don't be afraid to use tags, but try to stick to relevant ones. tagging your fics with unrelated characters or fandoms is unlikely to get your work any extra attention- and if it does, it's not likely to be good. i use several different imagines tags (because people call imagines lots of different things- [character] imagine, [character] x reader, [character] x you, and [character] x y/n are my go to tags.).
i also find it really helpful to use consistent content warning tags (such as "fire cw" or "blood cw").
self reblogs are a great thing. i have a queue i maintain almost religiously, so i queue mine, but you don't have to! but don't be afraid to reblog your work. people follow you to read what you post, and they may not see it the first time around! (i usually post at night, reblog the following morning, and once again the following night.)
accepting requests.
disclaimer: requests aren't my main source of inspiration. i write from movies, music, things i see irl, my literal dreams- i say this because i've seen a lot of writers get discouraged by a lack of requests (especially early on) or frustrated because they can't complete requests as quickly as they'd like. i think it can be really refreshing to take a break from them occasionally and write from another source of inspiration, if you can.
that being said! to answer your actual question, the biggest suggestion i have is to set basic rules. if you are asking for requests, what are you willing to write? what's a hard no?
it's okay if those things take time to figure out- or if they change with time! but having some basics down can be a huge help for requesters.
also! you're more likely to get requests if you allow anonymous asks. (this was, last i checked, not allowed by default. i would recommend switching them on in your tumblr settings if you would like to take requests.)
i really hope some of this helps- and again, if you have any questions or would like any other input, please feel free to send another ask or dm me <3
#citrine responds#oh anon#you got a novel#i tried to make this as digestible as possible but i have soooo much that i've learned with this blog#and from watching far more competent experienced writers run theirs#i hope this isnt overwhelming 😭#also!! when you start your blog 👉👈 if you feel comfortable sharing please lemme know! i'd love to see :)#i am... gonna go to bed now. its midterms season and it is very late and i am very tired.#MWAH#mailbox#anon
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Hi, friends. I've gotten a few likes and follows, which I truly do appreciate. I had wanted to respond to the comments, but my experience with Tumblr has mostly been as a lurker. I didn't realize that a secondary account (which this is) couldn't do social functions as itself. I'm really at a loss as to how to proceed.
In any case, I have seen your interest, and it really has helped. I started this account because I wanted a place just for this story. I thought that just by putting it out into the world, even where almost no one would find it, would re-motivate me to continue working on this fic. And I knew if I put it somewhere where a lot of people might find it, like AO3, I would feel super pressured and it would never happen haha.😅
It just so happened that shortly after deciding to do it this way, my Chromebook died. Fortunately, I had the files in shared online locations, so I edited and posted them from my phone. So feel free to point out any glaring issues in the formatting or grammar.
I'm currently on forced time off from work, as my office is closed for 2 weeks around the holidays. Knowing I was going to have so much time on my hands, and no way to continue writing if I wanted to, I broke down and bought a new laptop on a payment plan. It arrived two days ago, and I'm learning so much about laptops that I probably should have known already. But I've been using either a really old desktop or my Chromebook for several years. And before that I had a really old netbook that I used for writing, because it really couldn't do much else lol.
But I came here to say that I have seen the likes, follows, and comments. I do appreciate them, and they are working. I am working on the fic right now. Because 2:30 a.m. is just prime time for creative vampires. I don't want to post it until it's complete, because I hate WIPs that never get finished. I'm going to date myself here, but I had a Twilight WIP that I never finished, and it has been haunting me for a decade. And I would truly hate for even one person to actually read and enjoy my story and only get half of it. Especially when I have the entire thing figured out in my head already.
There are some twists and turns and things I've never seen before that I'm really excited to share. I really like them and I hope you like them too.
I'm really trying to figure out how to motivate myself. It took me 5 plus years to finish my novel. Well, one year to write the first draft and for some reason think it was ready. Another 6 months or so of rejection. And then a few years on a shelf and then 2 years of intensive work again before I was actually happy with it as an adult. Even then, I got burnt out after the nth revision process. Never resubmitted it to agents or anything. And only a handful of people have read it. At least one of them is very angry because she doesn't think I'll ever write the sequels.
So thank you for being part of my exercise and dare to myself to actually complete something. Small amounts of low pressure motivation and poking are welcome.😅
tl;dr: Thank you for your interest. I am working on this story, and will post it (here and elsewhere) when it's done.💜
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Fanfic • agere • Batman + Superman • hurt/comfort • Regressor! Bruce Wayne, Caring! Clark Kent & Alfred Pennyworth • AO3
《 Finally posting my regressor Bruce fic! I'd super appreciate it if y'all checked it out on AO3 (probably better to read it there cuz it's long & Tumblr didn't take well to my formatting), but I thought I'd post it here too. Also, big thanks to the folks who helped me edit this, @idioticpaperclip and @batboysstuff !!Thanks for waiting, enjoy! 》
Sometimes, the aftermath of crime was almost worse than the deed itself. It was brutal, but it was part of the job. Regardless, it still made Superman's heart ache when children had to see their family members hauled away in cuffs or, lord forbid, on a gurney. Tonight was one of those nights. It hit Clark hard, but there was someone he knew it hit much harder.
He turned to his partner, who was standing stoic - but not in his usual way. Not strong, numb. Behind the mask he could see his friend stare blankly at the sight below, a storm brewing behind his eyes. He wanted so badly to reach out, but he knew better. Bruce did not like being touched. He'd just have to wait.
Clark sighed and shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off.
"Clark?" The voice was quiet, soft. Uncharacteristic of the bat.
"Ye- yes?" Clark couldn't help but stumble. The air between them grew heavy as he waited for another sound.
"I'd like to go home." Bruce's head was hung low as he turned to Clark, taking resigned steps toward him. It took Clark a second to make the connection.
"Oh, of course. Do you want me to take you?"
A nod. He cautiously reached out for Bruce, who stepped into his arms to be lifted, as he'd done on the way there. The flight to Wayne manor was silent, devastatingly so. He didn't know what to say. He didn't think there was anything to say.
He touched down on the manicured back lawn of the manor, spying Alfred still in his prim suit despite the late hour. Alfred pushed open the grand glass doors and met them outside, extending a hand for Bruce to take while he got down from Clark's grip. Clark had never seen such worry in the old man's eyes, and he wondered how he knew what happened. The whole exchange was alien, just slightly off from the Wayne duo he knew. Bruce's head still hung low as he stepped to Alfred's side, the older man's hands moving up to hold his ward's arm.
"Thank you, Mr.Kent, We'll be retiring for the night. Have a safe trip home."
Clark's mouth moved before his brain.
"Are you sure you don't need me here? I've -" he slowed himself down as he caught Alfred's confused glance, "I've never seen him like this."
Clark picked nervously at his costume. He hadn't felt this cocktail of emotions in quite a long time, finding it akin to speaking out of turn to his pa's boss as a child. The seconds of silence dragged, and he wondered if his Kryptonian brain could alter time.
He noticed an exchange between the two in front of him, if not a verbal one. A look from Alfred to Bruce, then from Bruce to Clark. When Clark caught his eye, he noticed their peculiar glossy look. Bruce looked back to Alfred, then to the ground once again. A decision had been made.
"You can stay if you wish to, Mr.Kent."
The two turned heel and headed back toward the manor. Once Clark processed the sentence he felt a weird rush of pride before remembering the situation at hand… What even was the situation at hand?
•
Alfred made tea, like he always did. Clark always marveled at the resolve the Brit had for making tea in any situation - he could be meeting Satan himself and he'd still offer tea. The smell was nice though. Clark had really never cared for hot tea, but this brew was rather nice. It had a hint of mint and lemon, which made the smell more hospitable. He expected to take a seat at the long dining table as he had many times before, but he found Bruce at the kitchen bar. It was almost funny. The bar was an unofficial kid's table at super meetings - usually relinquished to the titans or other young sidekicks while the adults hatched plans. Well, it's his house I guess, Clark thought, he can sit wherever he wants.
He pulled up a stool, not too close to him but not so far to seem distant. Clark knew Bruce well by now, and the first thing he learned was his regard for personal space. Not a rule Clark particularly enjoyed, the hugger that he was, but one he would deal with. Bruce had already changed out of his costume, now sporting the same blue pajama set he wore every night. Clark chanced another look at him and his heart sank a little more. It was a night of firsts, apparently, because this was definitely not an expression he'd seen before. Bruce was watching Alfred prepare the tea very closely, worry brimming in his eyes. Why would he be worried? If there was a task he could count on Alfred doing safely, it was making tea. But it wasn't just that, it was mournful. Lonely. Scared. Clark found it completely bizarre - like Bruce was convinced his right hand man would disappear at any moment.
A morbid thought crossed Clark's mind. Considering what had already been taken from Bruce, the worry made a little more sense.
Clark was snapped from his thoughts by the clink of fine china on a silver tray.
"Perhaps we should sit in the drawing room, by the fire. It was quite cold out tonight, hm?"
Alfred laid a hand on Bruce's shoulder, and waited for his small nod before leading the trio to the drawing room.
Like everything in Wayne Manor, the room was large, gothic, and expensive. He pulled at the collar of his suit as he took the host's lead sitting down - this was not the type of furniture you sit on, this was the type of furniture your grandparents put plastic on and told you not to touch.
The only light was the roaring fireplace, which Clark didn't really mind. He always loved fires like this, though he was more accustomed to the camping kind. He could stare into them for hours, basking in their warmth, which was a welcome distraction from the otherwise eerie quiet.
"Clark?" Bruce broke the silence with the first thing he'd said in hours. Even Alfred's tired eyes widened in surprise. Clark fumbled with his cup, narrowly avoiding spilling the piping hot liquid into his lap, but managed to speak up.
"Y-Yeah? What is it, B?
Bruce raised his head to look him in the eye, that same desperate look returned to his features.
"...Would you mind staying the night?"
Clark was glad he didn't need to breathe, because he hadn't in a good thirty seconds. He looked into his friend's eyes, now misty and tired, and felt a knot deep in his stomach.
"Of course, B. Anything you need."
Relief washed over Bruce's face and Clark felt his chest rise again. He could hear a quiet, breathless thank you under Bruce's breath, like he'd just saved him from a burning building.
Alfred collected the now tealess cups back onto the tray, ready to return them to the kitchen. Before he left, he took a knee next to Bruce's chair and gently laid a hand on his leg.
"How about you show Mr.Kent your screening room, Master Bruce. I bet he'd love to see your collection."
Those blue eyes seemed to light up at the thought, a tiny smile creeping onto Bruce's lips.
"That's a great idea. Clark, do you want to see?"
Bruce looked up at him hopefully, and Clark marked another first on his list. For one, as silly as it sounded, he didn't know Bruce had interests. Five years of knowing each other and this was the first Clark was hearing about any collection. He'd shown Bruce his stamp collection the second time he came to Metropolis, he could've at least mentioned it- Clark pushed aside the thought for later. This was no time to criticize. He mustered his warmest smile.
"Of course, lead the way."
•
Bruce's screening room was stripped back compared to the drawing room, more modern. It held a few rows of black leather reclining seats, and a floor to ceiling screen to project onto. It wasn't purely of the era though, an old fashioned film camera taking the place of the usual projector. By the time Clark was done marveling, Bruce was already lost in the shelves of old film reels, shuffling his way through the boxes. Clark found him on the floor, looking through a box that was significantly more beat up than the others. He took a seat beside him, but before he hit the ground Bruce was already questioning him.
"Pretty cool room, huh? I've collected the films from a lot of private auctions, the one over there is from Taiwan. Do you like the Grey Ghost?"
Clark had to recover from the whiplash of the last 20 minutes. Bruce had graduated from somber silence to three consecutive sentences - a new record outside of league business. Once he'd regained his shred of composure he answered -
"I read the comics, but I don't think they played the show in Kansas. I think I saw some reruns once."
"Oh, neat. I watched all the episodes when they were on, then I met the Grey Ghost - well, I met Simon Trent, he played the Grey Ghost but he wasn't him in real life - until he was, which was really cool - but that's how I got all the reels. Oh, and these are the only ones from Mr.Trent's personal collection. What episodes did you watch?"
Clark considered the possibility he was dreaming. It was like he was talking to a different person. Was this the fabled 'Brucie' persona? He couldn't imagine that was the case, he had a sense for dishonesty and this was the most earnest he'd ever seen Bruce or Batman. In his state of shock he hadn't realized Bruce had continued rambling on.
"- or it could be 'The Jade Railway', which is the one where the Grey Ghost tries to stop a museum heist but ends up getting kidnapped and his assistant has to save him. Those are the only episodes that are open to syndication because an editor had the backups at his house when the studio burned down. Was it that one?"
"Oh um, I don't know, it was a long time ago. Sorry, bud," he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to remember if it was okay to call Bruce 'bud'.
"That's okay, we can watch the first episode then. It's not very different from the rest of the episodes but this one goes over the Grey Ghost's origins in the first half, usually they summarize it in the introduction." Bruce pushed himself off the ground and sidestepped the still seated Clark, going straight for the projector without so much as a glance.
As if on queue, Alfred stepped through the door, cradling a neatly folded blanket and set of clothes in his arms.
"Before we get that started we should let your friend change out of his suit," Alfred handed the clothing to Clark. "If you're going to stay the night I assume you don't wish to sleep in your cape. There's a bathroom down the hall, we'll be here."
Bruce eagerly took the blanket and wrapped himself up, earning a fond smile from Alfred, who took a seat beside the smiling Bruce. Clark couldn't help but share the expression as he walked off to change.
•
Clark hadn't actually seen the Grey Ghost's origin story. He picked up the comics somewhere in the middle of the run, so he knew the broad strokes but not the detail. Bruce, however, clearly had the whole thing committed to memory. It was surreally endearing the way he quoted every line under his breath, leaned forward in his seat, his expression a mimic of whoever was speaking. Clark learned more of the story from Bruce's expression than the show itself. Once the credits began to roll he was met with Bruce's blue eyes yet again, this time filled with more joy than he'd ever seen them.
"That was pretty neat, huh? Actually, this story is a little different from the comics because in the comics he was going to a movie when he got stood up, but in the show-"
Clark was barely following but he nodded nonetheless. As Bruce rattled off his facts he played with the blanket draped around him, feeling along its seams and frayed edges. Clark watched as his fingers halted in their well-worn track, noticing the sound had stopped as well. He looked up at Bruce and hischest felt hollow.
"I'm sorry, am I boring you?"
Clark had never responded so fast.
"No, no, of course not! It's really interesting that they changed that detail, why did they do it?"
Pride filled Clark's chest again as the glint returned to Bruce's eyes.
"Oh, well the director thought that seeing him watch a movie would break the immersion because…"
•
By the next hour of their marathon, Clark was truly beat. He'd already been exhausted when he stepped foot in the manor, but he didn't have the heart to stop Bruce's fun just yet. He'd never seen him so excited about something, it was a whole new side of him that Clark just adored. He wasn't the only one who was tired though, as Bruce's monologues had slowed down to accommodate his yawns. When the credits rolled on the next episode, Alfred reached over and tucked Bruce further into his blanket.
"I think that's quite enough for tonight. You can show Mr. Kent more in the morning,"
"What?" Bruce rubbed at his eyes and stifled another yawn, "But I'm not tired yet," he lost his battle with his sleepiness and stretched out his whole body in a yawn.
"Well, a certain butler would love to get some sleep tonight," Alfred chuckled and lowered his voice to a whisper, "Besides, it's far past your bedtime, young master."
Bruce hummed in agreement, "I guess so, Al. Good night, Clark" Rather than stirring from his comfortable spot, Bruce turned over into the recliner, inciting another chuckle from Alfred.
"That will be terrible for your back, my dear boy. Let's get you to bed,"
Bruce mumbled, pulling the blanket back up over his head. Clark got up from his chair and stretched, finding some way he could be of assistance.
"Come on Bruce, I'll getcha' there."
He knelt down on his knees and extended his arms as he'd done many times before, and Bruce fell into the familiar hold. He nodded to Alfred to lead the way, and they journeyed off to Bruce's bedroom.
•
Clark took a moment to admire his handiwork. He had gotten Bruce, who was known to have to be heavily sedated to get a proper amount of sleep, tucked into bed snoring soundly. The credit wasn't entirely his, of course, the main mother-er currently arranging a chair beside the huge bed.
"Don't tell me you're gonna stay here all night? You need some sleep too, Pennyworth."
Alfred let out another tired laugh as he brushed a few stray hairs from his ward's face.
"Just until I know he's sleeping soundly"
Clark took in the sight. He knew how dear the two were to each other, but it was nice to see their familial bond in action. As relentlessly formal as the two were, sometimes even Clark worried things would be left unsaid between the two of them.
"Thank you, for the clothes and everything." Clark was always taught to be gracious to the host.
"Oh, it's you I should be thanking," Alfred sat back in the seat and looked to Bruce again. "It can be so hard, so…lonely, when he gets like this. He truly is lucky to have a friend like you."
Clark tried to contain his pride. He was many things, a son, an alien, a superhero - but by far this was what he held in the highest regard; a friend.
#agere#fandom agere#agere fanfic#dc agere#batman agere#storytime#< redoing my fic tag cuz i don't like the other one#this is a personal fave of mine; its very dear to me :")#also the os deeply not the last you'll see of baby bruce lol
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I'm aware of your post "to be detailed", but I just thought that maybe you could give them like a more organized one where there's specific keywords that they're sure (vivid). Also mostly they don't put the site even though you (admins) mention it.
About the date and time, it can be vary to people since the time on tumblr is set according to your account (especially xkit that only display it if it's on ur dashboard or open in your own page(?)). The only way to see the time that blog owner post is when you visit that blog (which can be vary to the blog theme as well).
I'm just clearing things, so thank you for hearing me out. It's still up to you guys though, I mean no harm (I'm sorry)
Also apologies, I forgot to mention that I'm using mobile app, so I guess... just... sorry. I forgot to reconsider that (and I know most people are web/pc user). Though I'm aware of date and time thing on tumblr (cuz I've kind of experiment/research/learn it)
//
hey anon! just to be clear we are not taking any of this offensively, so you don't need to worry about that! we also hope you aren't reading this in an aggressive tone because we don't mean any harm either.
excluding a few outliers, our current ask format seemed to work fine so i'm not sure if a more detailed template is necessary. but if there are a lot of people who think it should be changed, i'll see if i can make some adjustments.
maybe it wasn't the solution you were hoping for but unfortunately the dates and times tumblr gives are all i can offer you. we've retired so we're not supposed to be part of the fic finding process anymore, we're just here to allow people to use our blog as a platform. it's nice that you care so much about the blog though! we hope you can still enjoy btsficfinds even without the admins :)
-admin rumu
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Do you have any advice for posting my first fic when I don't really have any sort of a following? I'm worried it won't really be seen.
hey, sunshine!! CONGRATULATIONS on writing your first fic :DDDDD
hmmm, the early days of posting fics can be a little dry for notes, it’s true. I think my first fic, when I posted it, got sort of 20 notes - it may be that you just have to accept that your first posts aren’t going to instantly get the level of recognition that you’re one day hoping for. I mean I was frankly overjoyed that 20 people liked my first fic... on my third fic, one of them sent me a MESSAGE. a M E S S A G E. but it’s not a bad thing to have sights set on bigger things! and it’s by no means an indicator of where you’ll end up, if you start small, I don’t think.
that said, I do have some pieces of advice!
posting on multiple platforms can help you find more readers! I usually post on both tumblr and AO3, as long as the fic is around 1k or more, but you don’t need to impose a word limit thing on yourself like that at all. if you put links to your tumblr in the author’s notes of the fic on AO3, and a link to the fic on AO3 at the start of the tumblr post, then people can choose where they prefer to read the fic - it’s just a nice way to let readers choose their best reading experience :D
on tumblr, and on AO3, tag, tag, tag. tag your work! for tumblr, use the destiel tag, maybe deancas, maybe destiel fic, or destiel fluff, or destiel angst, or whatever you think applies to your work. on AO3, tag the Castiel/Dean Winchester relationship, what kind of AU it is or if it’s canon, whose POV you’re writing from maybe, and any added details like Fluff, Friends to Lovers etc. This will be how readers find your writing, by scrolling through the tag and coming across it, before you have more of a following!
format your fic prettily! sounds basic, perhaps, but it’s worth it to make sure you have all your capital letters in the right places and speech marks sorted and all that jazz. these things are by no means prerequisites for your story itself being good, but they do make the reading experience easier and more enjoyable. it looks like you took time over your work and put effort into it, too, which makes reading it a more attractive prospect - as a reader, you feel more secure that the plot is going to be well-thought-out and stuff, too :D
consistent uploading is your friend in the early days, or at least it was for me. I’ve said this a few times before and I really stand by it! when I first started posting, I was writing 2k-3k fics and posting one every two days or so - not with the specific goal of building a following so much as just because I was HYPED FOR IT - but I think the regularity of the posts really helped to bring people to my blog and see something they wanted to follow, because it was consistent!
opening up prompts is a really good way to interact with the people who follow you, and make some friends and have fun :D people can send you prompts for you to fill, and then you write a ficlet for them. it’s so fun to do and feels like giving a gift, it’s great - and it’s a good creative challenge, too :D I’m planning to open up prompts again later in the year, maybe around October/November time. I miss doing shorter stories!
I know how comments and notes can seem like the be-all and end-all of the posting process, and whilst it’s true that those things feel awesome, imo it’s important to remember that they aren’t the only reason to post something you wrote. enjoy the sense of accomplishment that comes with having finished something!! enjoy the courage it takes to share a part of yourself, something as personal as creativity. enjoy being in love with the thing that you wrote, and then enjoy realising it could be so much better and feeling determined to make the next one right. if you can find a way to enjoy the whole process in a way that’s just for you, then the reblogs and the comments will still mean the world when they come - but it won’t put you off the whole thing when they don’t roll in right away. be brave!! write on.
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