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ascottywrites · 3 years

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AO3 History

That list that I, for some reason, think is valid enough to share. My personal Ao3 History.

Saddle up. The inner interests of my brain are kind of all over the place.

The Basement by My_Write_Life (Wip: 25/? | 40,696) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated E]

Stiles doubles back to the Argent’s house to free Erica and Boyd before making it back home. In which Stiles, not forgetting all about Erica and Boyd very much remaining in the basement saves them, Derek and Peter killing Jackson does make him go through the process of rebirth but he is brought back human and not a werewolf. Allison and her family go through the very legal repercussions of abducting three teenagers and Scott and Stiles friendship is put on hold because of that. Derek’s still the alpha.

Strip by Fessst (Wip: 12/? | 54,439) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated E]

"Singletail whip. Your favorite, isn't it?" Red. Stiles felt nauseated as he bent over the bench. Red. The tremble only increased when his wrists and ankles were secured with leather straps. Red. He heard the Dom behind him give a sample crack of the whip in the air. Red. This would likely pierce his skin. So fucking Red. "What's your safeword?" Red. "Stiles?" "The... the stoplights, Sir."

When Your Back’s Against the Wall by A_Diamond, Michicant123 (Complete: one-shot | 11,976) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated E]

Fifteen years ago, the country of Beacon was shaken to its core when three slaves murdered most of the royal Hale family and one of the politically powerful Argents in the course of a single night.

Six years ago, Stiles Stilinski was forced to grow up fast and hard when his dying mother, herself a freed slave, left him at the head of an abolitionist revolution.

Two months ago, beloved princess-to-be Allison Argent was assassinated; three weeks ago, Stiles was caught and charged with her death.

Five hours ago, he was sentenced to serve the remaining Hales—tyrannical King Peter and reclusive Prince Derek—as a slave for the rest of his life. In a palace where the only people who may hate him more than the king are the ever-present family of the woman he’s convicted of murdering, the best he can hope for is that death will only be a few torturous years away.

Caution: swallowing dick may lead to injury - memoirs of a size queen

raeupchen (Complete: one-shot | 7,115) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated E]

“Derek, can you give me my phone? I want to document this memorable moment,” Stiles said, before making grabby motions in the direction of his phone. Derek – unable to deny the other man anything – gave him the device before sitting back in his chair. He only raised one eyebrow when he saw what Stiles was up to. Apparently ‘documenting this memorable moment’ meant for Stiles to take a selfie and post it online. He showed Derek the picture with the caption ‘Dick sent me to the ER’.

soulmates tbh by bleep0bleep (Complete: one-shot | 1,423) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated Teen and Up]

"It’s been five months," Derek says darkly. "Why am I still getting these proposals? You know these are probably all fake marks."

Five months since the paparazzi had snapped that photo of him with the overzealous fan tugging at his shirt, five months since millions of people on the Internet realized that the birthmark revealed was in fact, the mark, five months Derek was inundated by claims from people who desperately wanted him to believe that they were his soul-mate.

Cornerstone by Vendelin for foreverblue_navy (Complete: 6/6 | 83,738) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated E]

Suffering from PTSD, ex-Marine Derek Hale moves back to Beacon Hills to open a bookshop and find a calmer life. That’s where he meets Stiles, completely by accident. Stiles is talkative, charming and curious. Somehow, despite the fact that he’s blind, he’s able to read Derek like no one else.

The Triskelion Mafia - Volume I by JamesAlexander (Complete: 10/10 | 20,834) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated E]

Derek Aletto saw his family being killed in front of him. Years of ruling the underworld of the organized crime were flushed down with the flames and the shot of a gun. Sixteen years later, under the name of the Triskelion Mafia, the family is back, leaded by Derek. He keeps his most trusted people close, for the Argento family is forever watching, trying to usurp Derek's prestige among the hidden world of New York. And everything seems to go according to plan, until the Argentos set an ambush for Derek's consigliere, Lydia Martini, and in the middle of the rush for survival, she ends up bringing Stiles along with her to the family's hideout.

tipping scales by jdphoenix (Complete: 2/2 | 3,810) Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.: BioSpecialist [Rated Teen and Up]

An early morning emergency wakes Jemma and Grant.

Slick As A Baby Seal by Faradaze (Wip: 52/? | 131,098) Game Of Thrones: Brimund TarthBane [Rated E]

Tormund is in love/lust. Brienne is repulsed, then intrigued. The story begins shortly after Brienne arrives at Castle Black. This is my interpretation and expansion of the greatest ship that never was. Spoilers for GoT season 6, canon divergent as of season 7.

Rich Man, Poor Man by TyReed (Complete: 10/10 | 58,055) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated M]

During a first date gone horribly wrong, Stiles Stilinksi realizes that the snarky guy he's been asked out by is actually Derek Hale, an heir to Hale Industries, one of the most profitable companies in the entire world. Who is, for whatever reason, interested in the son of a teacher and a cop, a loser who spends all weekend watching movies in his pajamas, and who is also possibly one of the biggest dorks on the Internet.

At the same time, after screwing up their first date horribly, Derek Hale realizes that the funny guy he's asked out is Stiles Stilinksi, the warmest and kindest individual he's ever met in his life, with a family just a loving and caring. Who is, for whatever reason, interested in a guy who screws up everything he does, lacks any semblance of a backbone, and who is possibly one of the biggest history dorks in all of the United States.

These rich and poor men will come to experience a taste of each other's lives, and learn where the real blessings in the world can be found.

Bonds of Blood, Bonds of Family, Bonds of Love by TyReed (Complete: 10/10 | 44,003) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated M]

After being beaten up by a door, werewolf Stiles Stilinksi finds himself bonded to Derek Hale, of the Hale Noble Bloodline. For a scrawny, wimpy, Tainted Bloodline werewolf, Stiles runs away, embarrassed and humiliated as he worries about bringing shame to the Hale Family, and even more shame to himself. Because the Nobles and Tainted just don't mix, never have, never will.

Except, things aren't exactly what they seem.

With the help of the (meddling) Hale family, his adoptive (meddling) human parents John and Claudia Stilinksi, and one very persistent Alpha Derek Hale, Stiles might come to see himself as more than just the blood that runs through his veins, and open his heart to find the happiness, friends, pack, and the family that he'd always wanted.

Matenapped by xcaellachx (Complete: 12/12 | 36,671) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated E]

Alpha Derek Hale has known Spark Stiles Stilinski was his mate for over six years. The traumatized Spark had killed the rogue alpha who tried to kill his friend so many years ago and was still scarred by the experience. Now, Stiles was settled in as a magic shop owner and Derek was ready to claim him for his own. The ritual of matenapping was an old but accepted tradition and Derek had his den ready to receive his mate. It was time.

Stiles Stilinski thought Lydia was insane for thinking the sexy alpha wanted to matenap him. He was damaged by his past and determined to stay single so he didn't harm anyone. He kept his magic tightly leashed and couldn't believe that anyone could want him. Not a murderer. Even when the wolf came to see him and touched him gently, winking at him and looking at him longingly, he just couldn't accept it.

Very soon, Stiles wouldn't have a choice but to believe it. Derek was taking his mate and bringing him to his mating den where he would court and woo him until he couldn't help but fall in love with him.

(A/N: This is a lighthearted fic for the most part. This isn't an evil kidnapping/fall in love with your captor type. Not very serious at all, to be honest. Enjoy!)

**I could have sworn I had more eclectic tastes but I guess in 2018 I was firmly about the Sterek.

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cowboyified · 3 years

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Below are some WIPs I’m releasing into the wild. They were all written at different times over the past two years so any mistakes/cliches you can blame on past June, I don’t know them.

Go, be free.

This first one I think is the one I’m most fond of. I had such a vision for it; bottlecaps in trees, river swimming, making out against the fridge, all that good stuff you get with weecest.

The summer Sam is seventeen they stay in one place for long enough Dean starts referring to it as ‘home’.

It’s an old farmhouse, miles from any other structure, bar an outhouse and hay shed. There’s a porch running the length of the front and back, the wooden boards pulled up from their nails, wavy with the weather. Weatherboard paint peeling, wallpaper inside torn and missing in most places.

They’re squatting, technically. The property owned by a family saved by hunters once, friends of friends of Bobby’s, too distraught by what they’d witnessed to raise their kids on cursed land. Dean had told Sam that Dad had been told by Bobby that had been told by Pastor Jim that it was chupacabras. A whole pack of ‘em, feeding off the lambs in the back paddock, tried to take a bite out of the baby girl and Sam had said, “As if man, those things are tiny, I’ve seen pictures, you could kick one and it would limp away like a fucking chihuaha, you scared of chihuahas, huh, Dean?” But Sam still hikes his sheet up under his chin when he hears scuffling under their window between sleep.

There’s remnants of the house’s past inhabitants still scattered around the place. Sam had stood and slid two inches on the wheels of a tiny replica car that had been jammed under the couch the second day they arrived, piffed it at his brother’s head, who’d caught it, exclaimed that it was Camero, dude, treat her with some respect and had sat it on top of the fridge.

The bookshelf in the corner of their shared bedroom holds mostly dust and tattered occult books stolen from libraries from all over the country, left by hunters who have found what they’ve needed and moved on. There are a few of the worst Stephen King novels shoved haphazardly on the top shelf and Sam finds something funny in that, the irony in enjoying bad horror when the real deal lurks behind the screen door.

Dean gives him a look when Sam pulls down and cracks open a copy of The Tommyknockers, snorts, “Haven’t you read that one already?” and Sam says, tucking himself into bed, “Yeah, it fucking sucks, King was royally off his head while writing it, that’s why it’s so good.” Sam finishes three quarters of it in one sitting while listening to Dean’s quiet snores from the other side of the room.

It’s a ten minute drive to the closest town, an off the highway, invisible to the outside world, kind of one-street community. No reason to take the exit if you don’t already know it’s there, one store, one gas station, one bar in an old brick post office building, unfitting, the carpet pulled up at the corners but home to the best fries Sam has ever had in his life.

Sam follows Dean out to the courtyard, neither of them are legally old enough to drink but there’s nothing else to do but to get respectably drunk in a place like this, anyone that has lived long enough in the true country is some kind of functioning alcoholic, so Dean orders a beer and isn’t asked for ID. In a town small enough for everyone to know every intricate detail in the threads of dirty laundry, they are foreigners. No one knows where they’re from or where they’re going and Sam knows that Dean likes it that way.

It’s never been a secret that Sam prefers to feel like he has a part in everyday normalcy. Dean thrives under anonymity, gets a kick out of it because it makes him feel dangerous. He had stopped accompanying Sam to school two states ago, a silent agreement with their father when Dean had come home early and helped John cut splits into the tips of bullets instead. Like hell I’m signing up for compulsory extra curricular activities. What’s the point in making friends with people whose biggest concerns are the answers to whatever bullshit test and who fucked who last Friday?

Finding comfort in a nine-to-five kind of community is a flaw Sam’s been burdened to deal with.

It’s early afternoon, the courtyard is empty and the table they chose rocks on its legs every time Dean slides his drink over for Sam to share. It’s bitter and Sam hasn’t had enough beer in his life to know if it’s supposed to be like that or if it has just soured from the long journey it took to get from the brewery to their glass. He drinks it and doesn’t grimace because his brother is looking at him through the rays of warm country sun.

“Tastes like piss, huh,” Dean says, leaning forward out of the light so Sam can see him clearly again. He takes back the glass.

“S’not that bad,” Sam replies, rubbing the leftover condensation into his hand, doesn’t look at Dean, finds it hard these days, twists in his gut all wrong. Sam knows why.

His brother hums, “There’s gotta be something else to do around here.”

Sam thinks, Dad’s left the car, we can go wherever we want, but doesn’t say it because his brother is loyal to a disastrous fault.

That’s a recurring thought. Sam in the shotgun seat, his brother behind the wheel, driving away. Just away, to someplace else and they’d be okay because they’d have each other and all Sam ever needs is his brother, like water. But John will be back in two weeks, term starts again in a month and he needs his father to sign the enrollment forms. Two more years.

“You see the old dredge outside of town?” Sam asks, remembers passing it when they arrived, all twisted, rusting metal, the bones of it against the setting sun.

“What did I tell you about respecting your elders?”

“You told me that they all smell like porridge and are easily susceptible to sleight of hand. No, Dean, Dredge,” Sam stresses. “Big rusty old machine that pulls minerals out of water.”

“Looking to strike big, Sammy?”

“Yeah, you see, my family is poor, brother at home too dumb to get a job. Our father went to get milk and never came back,” Sam sniffs for effect. “I can’t go home empty handed again, sir.”

“Ah, a real sob story,” Dean nods in understanding, tips his head back and finishes the beer. “Let’s get out there then, sonny. We shan't let that simpleton, downright fool of a brother go hungry.” Dean jabs Sam in the ribs when he stands, hard enough for him to gasp, gets Sam’s head under his arm before he can recover. Sam claws embarrassingly at his brother’s torso, face pressed warm into the side of Dean’s waist.

“I will pray for us young Samuel, for I too, dream of riches,” his brother is exclaiming, tripping them out and onto the street. “I only ask that we share whatever bounty dredged as I saw the most exquisite pony a few miles back and I simply must have it.”

And Sam thinks - with his flushed cheek hard against Dean’s skin through the thin sweaty fabric of his shirt, heart beating too fast against his ribs in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion - you can have it all.

---

Sam’s brother’s perpetual state of being is ten miles over the speed limit; this can be applied to almost every aspect of him. Dean goes and goes and rarely stops. They’re pushing double that out of town, north of their property, into the forever stretch of flat land and Sam loses himself in it. That idea of away, of going and going and that Dean could take him because he’s an expert in the field.

The Impala blasts Born To Be Wild and Sam imagines the lyrics spreading out over the dry grass. He rolls the window down and throws his head out, trying his best to keep his eyes open against the road’s wind. The sun beats down, warmth soaking through and into his bones and Sam laughs as the cattle turn to catch a glimpse of them soaring.

Dean pulls him in, tugs at the back of his shirt, says something along the lines of, what are you, a dog? Should get you a shock collar for all the times you’re a little bitch, but Sam can’t hear him over the roaring of the open window and the look of transparent glee on Dean’s face, it’s loud and assaulting and Sam has to turn away because seeing Dean like that wobbles him dangerously from the nonchalant facade he has going on in relation to how he feels about his brother. But mostly his face hurts from smiling too wide.

Used as a warm up last year. Boyking!Sam

He thinks he’s in Louisiana, maybe. That he got here in the tray of a pickup and that he couldn’t feel the wind in his hair like maybe he should. The driver had stopped for a piss-break and Sam had snapped his neck without his hands.

He rubs them together now, tries to feel guilty but there’s nothing to feel guilty about because his hands are clean; he doesn’t have to use them anymore.

Sam thinks he’s in Louisiana because he stepped out of the truck and into a wet kind of heat. There’s a church with thick greenery growing over the roof and white wood that’s been mold-blackened by the humidity. He laughs to the darkness because it's very funny to him that he’s driven himself subconsciously to a place of grace.

He skips up the steps, two at a time, gleefully. The smell of the bayou and rotting wood has put him in a good mood. The lock snaps when he blinks, the chain unraveling and snaking into a coil at his feet. The doors open for him and maybe he did that with his mind too, or maybe they were just expecting him.

The church has been used recently, its interior better kept than the outside, bibles tucked neatly in the backs of pews, ribbons tied into plaits. The white of the moon falls in blankets through the windows, shadows of leaves moving over the floor like rippling water and the bust of Mother Mary prays for him at the altar.

Sam spreads his arms and addresses her, says to the room at large, “Shall I repent for my sins, oh Lord?” and it echoes, gives him goosebumps, a current under his skin. He has an audience here because God is omnipresent, this is a place of worship and Sam has always been good at that.

A church in Louisiana, standing before a plaster of his mother’s namesake in a church for a God he used to think could have some defying factor in a destiny that was always going to be concrete. It’s funny, blatantly. Sam puts his hands gently to Mary’s cold face, kisses her on her lips before crushing her head, spraying ceramic.

Sam stands behind the lectern, hands red with his own blood now, sticking the pages of the Good Book. He’s read it before anyway.

“Am I to be forgiven?”

Last is a casefic I had planned out in 2019. I didn’t get very far into the actual writing part of it, but I still think the setting is cool, less so the plot I had in mind.

Just outside of Bridgeport, Connecticut there’s a community built on a sandbar. A small secluded semi-island, connected to the mainland by a mile-long beachfront. A town of forty to fifty now abandoned, vandalised residences.

The police find the bodies of the boys there, bleeding out and into the sand, each other’s skin caught under their fingernails.

Sam watches as his brother pulls the sheet back from one of the corpses, laying blue on the steel morgue tray. He’s a kid, a boy, not even eighteen. Hairless, lanky, multiple stab wounds puckered around his belly and Sam thinks he does not look peaceful for someone who is meant to be at rest.

Dean is quieter than usual, his body language stiff. They’ve seen their fair share of dead kids but Sam thinks that this one might look a little too much like an adolescent version of himself. Shaggy brown hair, too long limbs, college on the horizon. Sam blankets the sheet back over the boy’s face and hears his brother exhale in what he thinks might be relief.

The coroner tells them that the other two are the same, besides the youngest one. He’d been blinded, thumbs pushed through his eyes until they popped like grapes. He asks if they want to see him too and Sam says no, thank you, we’ve got what we need.

Which is a whole lot of nothing, but they’ve only just arrived and there’s evidence that doesn’t involve corpses that needs to be checked.

“Pussied out in there huh, Sammy?” Dean says as they’re walking down the funeral home’s front steps, past the manicured roses and trimmed lawn. You see these perfect hedges? We’ll treat your dead mother with the same detailed care!

Sam pulls at his tie and scoffs because he knows he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable standing in the morgue; cases that involve kids always rub them both wrong.

#wip dump #wincest #my words

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willowdove · 3 years

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Eyes Like Fire: A Soulmate AU

A couple months passed by. The green in Katara’s eyes started to morph into a rich yellow-gold. Kya found herself lost in them as she bounced Katara in her lap. Perhaps it was temporary. Maybe they would shift again, into a brown, maybe. Brown eyes, at least, were potential allies. Golden eyes, though- golden eyes were dangerous.

Since there’s been some interest in this I’ve decided to post an update. My work pace is slower than a snail- BUT I haven’t abandoned this WIP by any means. This is not all of the work I have so far (please note that there are chapters in between that are missing) but it is what I’m happy with. I’ve included the first couple chapters again because they’ve been slightly reworked. Hopefully it’s not too much to put it all in one place here.

PROLOGUE

“Her eyes are darkening,” said Kya, watching her two children play nearby. The eldest, Sokka, rolled a ball towards his sister Katara. She scooted excitedly to grab it in her chubby little fist, then spastically hurled it at the ground between them. She giggled with delight when this made Sokka toddle after it.

Kya’s husband Hakoda squeezed her shoulders and kissed her on the forehead. “Sokka’s eyes changed about this time too,” he remarked. When Sokka was born, he had possessed the crystal blue eyes of any Water Tribesmen. But before he was a year old, they had lightened to a pale green. Hakoda claimed this meant Sokka was destined to be an adventurer. He would have to leave home if he wanted to find the person those eyes belonged to.

Katara’s eyes were changing too, but they weren’t getting paler. Green was blazing up from underneath the blue, vibrant and consuming. Green definitely would point to an Earth Kingdom origin. “Maybe they’ll go on their adventure together,” Kya suggested.

Hakoda chuckled. “They certainly do seem to get along,” he said.

***

She must have been staring a little too intently, because Sokka seemed to pick up on her concern. “Katara eyes pretty,” he declared. He clambered up Kya’s knee to sit with his sister and hugged her tightly. Katara popped her thumb out of her mouth to hug him back, babbling happily.

Kya forced herself to smile, kissing them both on the head. “Yes,” she agreed. He was right, they were pretty. But that didn’t stop a dark ache from tugging deep at the center of her being.

***

Kya was preparing sea prune stew for the family when her daughter asked the question. “Mommy, why does everybody look at me funny?” she said. The spoon in Kya’s hand clattered into the pot as she quickly turned.

“Who said people were looking at you funny?” she demanded, bristling.

Katara seemed to shrink in the fur lining of her dress collar. She looked down at her feet, mumbling, “Nobody said. I just see them do it. You look at me funny too, sometimes.”

The air went out of Kya and guilt pricked at her like a barb. She knelt slowly, taking her daughter’s face in her hands. Katara resisted the gentle tug at first, but quickly gave in and met her mother’s gaze with wide, golden eyes. A stranger’s eyes. “I’m sorry, baby. We’re just… worried about you.”

“Is something wrong with me?” Katara asked, tears welling up on her thick lashes.

“Oh, sweetie, no,” she shushed, giving Katara a tight hug before holding her out by the shoulders. She struggled to put together the words she needed. “…Has anyone told you what a soulmate is?”

Katara sniffled loudly, but managed to contain her tears. “Gran-Gran said it was someone special who will love me forever and ever.”

A thankful smile quirked at the corners of Kya’s mouth as she nodded. “Do you know that until you kiss your soulmate, you’ll have each other’s eyes?”

Katara’s brows furrowed in confusion for a second before she gave a little shriek, pressing her fingers into the top of her cheeks just under her lower eyelids. “These aren’t my eyes?” she asked, horrified.

Kya had to laugh a little at the unexpected outburst. “No, those are your soulmate’s eyes,” she reiterated.

“Why?!” Katara demanded.

“Well, it’s to help us to find each other, I expect,” she explained.

Katara considered that for a long moment. She walked over to her mother’s bed furs and pulled out the mirror. Her fingertips brushed lightly over the metal as she peered studiously at her reflection. “My soulmate… isn’t from here, is he?”

“No,” Kya answered softly.

“Are people worried I will have to go really far away?” she asked.

Kya followed and kissed her daughter’s forehead fiercely, trying to blink away the tears that were welling in her own eyes before Katara could see them. “They’re worried… you’ll have to go to the Fire Nation,” she replied.

“Oh,” Katara said, “Well, I won’t then. I’ll just tell everybody I’m not gonna go.”

The ache in Kya��s chest was so great that she could barely breathe. “Ok, baby,” she agreed, “I’ll try not to worry so much anymore.”

***

CHAPTER 1: THE SOUTH POLE

When the black snow began to fall, Katara felt her heart seize. The last time she had seen such snow fall was the first day Katara ever saw eyes like hers. It was also the last day she ever saw her mother.

She ran to the middle of the village, to stand with her brother. He was the only man left in the tribe, and she was the only waterbender. They were only two, and untrained, but it didn’t matter. They were all that stood between their people and the enemy.

The Fire Nation steamer that had carved through the icy harbor to their port was small compared to others that had come before, and alone. Still, it was formidable looming over the tattered remains of their village. Its stern detached with a metallic hiss, then slowly lowered to form a ramp. Sokka tensed beside her, his club raised. A figure in red metal plate began to descend the ramp.

Sokka gave a yell and charged forward as Katara started to gather water into her palms, but inexplicably he stopped midway up the ramp, casting a look of fear and confusion over his shoulder towards her. The armored stranger stopped in front of Sokka. Both boys were about matched in height, but the stranger’s position on the ramp allowed him tower over her brother. Sokka pressed his club into the center of the boy’s chest, muttering a low warning. The stranger growled something in return and pushed past him roughly, nearly knocking Sokka off the side of the ramp in the process.

Once he got closer, Katara had to stifle a gasp.

His eyes were as blue as the heart of a glacier. Water Tribe blue.

She stumbled backward, reeling, reflexively bringing her hand up to shield her own eyes. He hadn’t looked at her directly yet. He hadn’t seen.

“Where is the Avatar?” the stranger demanded. The villagers in the square shifted uneasily. Many of them were casting worried glances between him and Katara. She pulled the hood of her parka close to the side of her face.

The stranger reached into the small gathered crowd to grasp her Gran-Gran’s wrist. “They’d be about this age-“ he started to say. Panic and fury spiked hot in the pit of Katara’s stomach, and she forgot herself. The ice beneath the stranger’s feet lurched upward like a living thing; twin maws swallowed his feet whole.

He looked at her then. Her hood had fallen away and a few strands of hair had come loose from her hair loops. She was panting with exertion, the air in front of her fogging like smoke from a dragon’s mouth. Their gazes locked, and her eyes were like fire.

The stranger’s brow furrowed. He had since dropped Gran-Gran’s wrist, and he brought the now free hand to his good cheek, as if he could feel the color of his eyes through the pads of his fingers. His other cheek was marred, a thick red scar beginning there, traveling over his left eye and ending just above where an eyebrow should have been. As she studied him, steam started to issue from the ice encasing his feet and rivulets ran down the sides as it melted.

“Who are you?” Katara asked.

The stranger frowned harder, his gaze dropping to the snow between them. His jaw ticked, but as it did, something in his demeanor seemed to fall away. When he looked back up at her, it was with such unguarded, raw hope that it took her aback.

“I’m Prince Zuko,” he answered, finally. “Will you help me find the Avatar?”

She was so startled by his vulnerability that she almost let it sway her. A part of her was drawn into the depths of his too familiar blue eyes. But he was Fire Nation, and she was Water Tribe.

So she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nobody’s seen the Avatar in over 100 years.”

It was as the surface of his open soul froze over, suddenly, so that it hissed and popped and cracked. His face twisted into hard, angry lines, and fire burst from his clenched fists.

“I know you’re hiding him. I saw the light!” he insisted.

Katara took a wary step back, reaching for the snow on the ground and trying to pull it into her grasp. It shifted, turning to slush, but it did not flow up to meet her. She tried desperately not to let her panic show. More Fire Nation soldiers were descending the ramp, hands ablaze and ready. There were too many. She had shared a grim look with Sokka, who reached behind his back for his boomerang.

And from out of nowhere, a powerful gust of wind guttered out all the flames. The Airbender had returned, and he landed himself protectively in front of her.

The stranger- Zuko’s fighting stance faltered. “You’re the airbender? You’re the Avatar?” he asked with disbelief. “But you’re just a child!”

Aang tilted his head to the side. “Well, you’re just a teenager,” he pointed out.

Zuko shook his head once, and then with a surging roar punched a fireball at Aang. Aang spun his staff to disperse it. The prince let loose a couple more fireballs, one high and one low, before launching into a torrent of blows. Aang was able to dodge and deflect all of them, but Zuko’s soldiers started to draw in from his sides, and the villagers behind him started to press together in fear.

“Wait!” Aang said. Zuko paused midform, his arms still flexed and ready. Aang held his glider out to his side, his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “If I go with you, will you promise to leave everyone alone?” Aang asked.

Zuko looked over the villagers again as if he had forgotten they were there. Straightening, he nodded.

“Aang, no! Don’t do this!” Katara cried, rushing forward. Zuko gestured wordlessly to his men with a jerk of his chin. The soldiers encircled the Avatar, taking away his staff and roughly grabbing him to restrain him. Zuko stepped around them in order to block Katara’s path to the boy.

“You can come with him,” he offered, almost quietly. With me, he implied, unspoken. His too blue eyes pierced into her, confusing her, beckoning her. She had a kinship with those eyes. They looked like… they looked like her mother’s.

“You should leave him here,” she countered. A blaze of indignation was starting in her chest and clawing its way up her throat.

“I’ll be okay, Katara,” Aang assured her. The soldiers started dragging him up the ramp to the ship. “Take care of Appa for me while I’m gone!”

Zuko held Katara’s eyes for another moment before he ripped himself away. Her heart guttered with an inexplicable feeling of loss. “Head a course for the Fire Nation,” Zuko called to his helmsman, “I’m going home.”

***

After Zuko finished doing the rounds to make sure his ship was in order, he retreated into his private cabin. After three years of hard, fruitless searching, they were finally underway towards his true destination. He was supposed to be feeling triumphant. He was supposed to be feeling relief. He had accomplished an impossible task after all.

But he didn’t feel that way. Nervousness eddied around him like the tide washing over a rocky shore. He felt unbalanced. How would his father react when he brought the Avatar home? What if something went wrong along the way? What would be the young boy’s fate once he was taken from Zuko’s hands?

That last thought disturbed him most of all. He leapt from his seat on the bed and began pacing, trying to force his mind to quiet. Instinctively he reached out to the torches along his wall, connecting their energy to his breath. In, and out. Ebb, and flow. Rise, and fall.

Panic crashed over him when he heard one of his soldiers call out, “The Avatar has escaped!”

Zuko began to rush for the door when he spotted the boy’s staff sitting in the corner of his room; he’d had that delivered to his quarters for safe-keeping. The boy had used to fly into their first encounter. There was a good chance he would come back for it, if not out of nostalgia, then out of necessity. Zuko could use it as bait. He hid himself behind the door and waited.

The Avatar child flew into the room without even looking. It should have been easy to trap him; Zuko immediately shut the door after him. But somehow the young boy had deflected all his attacks and wrapped him in a tapestry. Zuko had to chase him up through the control room to the main deck, and only just barely managed to catch him by the ankle before he flew off. He moved to pin his opponent, with a fiery hand raised in warning, but he was interrupted by a loud, guttural lowing.

Zuko and the Avatar both looked up. “What is that?” Zuko asked in shock.

“Appa!” the Avatar cheered. Two of the Water Tribesman were mounted on a giant, floating, furry… thing. One was the boy who tried to rush him. The other was his water-bender girl.

But Zuko wasn’t one to lose focus for very long. The Avatar had shimmied his ankle out of Zuko’s hold and was moving to get up. Zuko kept the newcomers in his peripheral as he blasted incapacitating shots at the Avatar. The boy was able to deflect most of them, but the force of the last one sent the Avatar tumbling over the edge of the ship. He hit his head on the way down.

The Water Tribe girl screamed. Adrenaline surged in Zuko, who immediately began shucking off his armor in preparation to dive in after the boy. He had tossed his shoulder guard aside and was reaching for the clasp on his breast-plate when a strange white glow came from the water.

A raging waterspout surged forth to tower over the ship, the Avatar at its top. His narrowed eyes and tattoos were glowing with white light, and his face was crossed with a severe frown. He was different than he had been before. More powerful. Angry. The icy cold spray from the waterspout bit into Zuko’s skin. He took a step back.

With a wide circle of his arms the Avatar flowed down to the deck, bringing the water with him in a great protective sphere. Gathering his determination, Zuko made to advance, but a torrent of water was sent blasting into his chest and he was thrust backwards. His back hit the rail and suddenly he himself was spinning towards the Arctic water below.

His outstretched hand banged against a protruding metal bar. The service ladder. He forced himself not to flinch away so he could catch the next one down. Pain exploded in his shoulder as his fall was yanked to a stop, but he managed to haul himself into the curve of the ship, planting his feet on the ladder.

On the deck he heard the water slosh to the ground and a soft thud. The Water Tribesman jumped aboard, calling out to the Avatar in concern. Zuko gritted his teeth and climbed.

His waterbender appeared at the rail above him just before he was able to pull himself over. He thought he saw relief flash in her eyes, but that emotion was quickly followed with concern and fear.

If it was anyone else he would have yelled at her to move. Instead he simply requested, quietly, “Get out of my way.”

Her eyebrows creased. “No,” she said. They looked at each other. Zuko reached across the rail and shoved her to the side.

She stumbled and he hauled himself onto the deck of the ship, now slick with ice from the Avatar’s water attacks. Zuko turned to face the direction where he’d heard the Avatar fall. The Water Tribesman was helping him fend off attacks from Zuko’s soldiers.

“No!” his water bender repeated, planting her feet. She siphoned ice from the deck to form globules of water that she suspended from her hands.

Zuko growled at her in frustration. “This isn’t your fight, peasant!” he snapped, gesticulating. Why did she keep trying to stop him? “Get out of my way!”

She scoffed with clear distaste, saying, “My name is Katara!”

He found himself committing that to memory. Katara. Katara.

The Avatar and the Water Tribesman were able to retreat onto the giant fluffy monster. They flew around the nose of the ship to Zuko’s side of the deck. The Water Tribesman reached out his arm to scoop the water bender into the saddle.

There was an odd look of regret on her face as she swung out of his reach.

The fluffy thing was getting away fast. “Shoot them down!” Zuko ordered frantically. His soldiers coordinated together to launch a huge fireball after the fluffy beast. As it arced through the air Zuko’s heart went into his mouth. It needed to hit them. But it couldn’t hit them. He didn’t want to hurt them, not really, he-

At the last second the Avatar gusted it off trajectory, right into a cliff above the port-side bow. Zuko barely has time to jump back out of the way before snow and ice came crashing down in an avalanche onto the deck.

***

CHAPTER 2: KYOSHI ISLAND

Something compelled Zuko to look over the rock.

Katara hoped faintly that it hadn’t been the force of her eyes on him. She and Aang had been smashed against the shore by the Unagi’s wake, beneath a large outcropping of rock. Unfortunately the prince’s ship had landed just to the other side. And he was headed this way, flanked by more komodo-rhino riders.

“Katara!” Zuko called. Lightning shocked through her stomach at hearing him say her name. She tamped it down, frantically shaking Aang’s shoulder to rouse him from unconsciousness. The boy gave no sign of waking. His head lolled to the side. Katara‘s gaze flicked around with growing panic, finding only sand and rock and surf, before lighting back on Aang. She started digging through his pockets.

“Surrender the Avatar!” Zuko demanded, his rhino just stepping around the rock. The sun glinted off the tips of his metal helmet as his soldiers filled in around him. Cloth, cold metal discs, slippery round marbles, fluffy lint... Katara‘s fingers closed over something smooth and wooden. “Step away from him!” Zuko demanded again.

Katara gathered Aang’s unconscious body up in her arms, awkwardly heaving his arm over her left shoulder so that she could balance his head against her cheek. With her right hand, she brought the bison whistle to her lips, and she started backing up into the sea.

Zuko let out a sharp breath. He tapped his heel into the side of his Komodo-rhino and it trotted dutifully into the rocky surf, its great feet kicking up big arcs of water. “Get back!” Zuko insisted, “You have nowhere to run!”

The rocks were uneven underfoot, but Katara refused to turn around. She strained her senses to map the terrain behind her, where the water flowed and caught and eddied. She took another careful step backwards, and another, wincing as her ankle turned just the slightest bit. The water was up to her knees now.

The other rhino riders hovered uncertainly at the edge of the beach. One called, “Permission to engage, Prince Zuko?”

The prince’s eyes were locked with Katara’s. “No! Stay back!” he said quickly. Then, his right hand opening to produce a small font of flame, he added, “Hold your position. I’ll capture the Avatar myself.”

Katara stumbled backwards further over the slippery rocks. The water was lapping at her waist. ”Not today you won’t!” she denied hotly.

“You can’t swim with him like that. Surrender,” Zuko pressed, advancing.

The adrenaline burning her veins was drying out her mouth. She was out of options. She was cornered. She was going to do something incredibly, phenomanally stupid. “I don’t need to swim,” she said, half as affirmation, half as prayer. She tucked her knees, sinking her and Aang both in up to their necks, and pushed.

To her hysterical relief and dread the water flung itself away from her outstretched hand in a forceful jet, just as it had earlier, propelling them backwards towards the center of the lake. Zuko swore, calling for his men to fetch the boats. He dismounted and started shucking his armor.

She stretched and stretched her senses, deep into the water until the reaching wisps of her concentration felt taught enough to snap. Fish wriggled thinly through the net she had cast, and seaweed brushed against it in a whisper. The Unagi was so deep it was almost out of her reach, undulating far below them in the water column, a vast yet smooth obstruction to its flow. Katara sensed it’s head turn to track their movement. It’s great muscled coils tightened beneath it in preparation to launch upwards. The edges of a scream started licking up the inside of her throat. She was going to have to dodge, somehow. At the shore, Zuko was running into the surf. He stumbled. And suddenly, inexplicably, the Unagi’s great head turned towards him instead.

A bellowing roar signaled the arrival of Appa. He landed in the water with a huge splash, and Katara heaved Aang onto the bison’s leg so she could clamber up into the saddle. Sensing urgency, Appa flicked his tail to launch himself from the water as soon as both passengers were aboard, still balancing Aang on his leg. As they climbed, Katata reached down to pull Aang up the rest of the way.

“Back to the village Appa!” she urged the bison, “We have to go get Sokka!”

***

Zuko roared in frustration, slapping the water as the Avatar was carried away on his bison. He had been so close! If his soulmate hadn’t insisted on getting in the way...

It was just his luck. A Water Tribe girl, of course. A stubborn, meddlesome, distracting girl for a weak, honorless, useless prince. Was it too much to ask that she was at least a supporter of the Fire Nation? Zuko had always assumed it would be someone from the colonies- with Water Tribe heritage surely, but a Fire Nation citizen nonetheless. Someone loyal, and helpful, and kind...

Well, it didn’t do to dwell on that now.

“Riders!” he called. They snapped to attention. “You’re letting him get away! Follow that bison!”

Zuko hobbled to shore, blood trailing from a cut in his heel that he had sustained on the uneven rocks below the water. Ignoring how each step ground more sand into his wound, he and threw his armor into a carry sack on his own mount before climbing on, figuring he wouldn’t bother with putting it on again. It would take too long, and besides, it kept getting in the way.

When the riders reached the village, they were met with a wall of female warriors, dressed proudly in green armored dress.

“Halt!” called the one in the center. Her pale amber eyes glinted with mistrust. “Foreign combatants are not permitted on Kyoshi soil. This is neutral ground!”

“I demand to be let through!” Zuko responded with fury. Taking a breath, he ground out, “You are in defiance of the Fire Nation.”

The warriors took a ready stance, their golden fans sharp and gleaming in the sunlight. Their leader continued, “We do not want to violate our peace with the Fire Nation. Dismount and remove your helms, and I will take you to our governor for negotiations.”

Zuko’s scowl deepened. “We don’t have time to talk. You’re in my way. Bring me the Avatar before his bison leaves, or I’ll go through you.”

“The Avatar is our guest,” the warrior hissed.

“Then you’re on his side!” Zuko replied, ordering, “Riders, engage! Break the line!”

Fire surged forth, and the warriors burst into motion. More seemed to pour in from above and the sides, dashing up the long torsos of the rhinos and vaulting over them to strike at their riders. The leader zeroed in on Zuko, slashing at his legs in the saddle. Zuko yanked the reigns to the side, his rhino dodging beneath him as he punched retaliatory fire at his attacker. She followed, making a dash at the komodo-rhino’s side. Zuko angled his foot so he could flick flames from the toe of his boot, unbalancing her approach, and in the same motion dug in his heel to urge the komodo rhino forward. It surged beneath him. But even as he streaked past the Kyoshi guards, a sky bison rose into the air.

He had lost.

***

CHAPTER: THE NORTH POLE

“Are we there yet?” Sokka complained loudly, shaking Katara out of her reverie. They had not seen the Fire Nation Prince for several weeks now. The memory of his face was haunting her. The dark, severe eyebrow, the gaunt, angular cheekbones, the red, leathery scar, and the too blue eyes. She wondered if he was searching the sky for them right now. A shiver ran down her spine at the thought, though whether it was a pleasant or unnerved shiver it was hard to say.

“We’re getting close!” Aang replied cheerily to her brother. “We should be able to see the walls soon.”

Suddenly, they were jolted off balance as Appa careened to the right. Then Katara saw a battering ram of ice launch towards them from the sea on her side.

“Incoming!” she screamed, scrambling back to her spot so she could grab tightly onto the saddle.

Bombarded with icy projectiles, Appa was gradually forced lower and lower until he was snagged by the foot and slammed into the water. The wave that formed from his hapless impact was frozen around his body, encasing him in place. He roared in frustration, the sound reverberating through Katara’s body, and thrashed against his imprisonment. Ships appeared around the icebergs on all sides, carrying waterbenders that hurriedly refreshed the cracks in the ice that Appa was making.

“I thought they’d be friendlier,” Aang said before hailing them. “Hey! We’re here to find a waterbending teacher!”

One of the boats approached closer, headed by a severe old man with a thin mustache and pointed goatee. “Show yourselves, intruders!” he demanded.

Katara and Sokka stood up in the saddle by Aang, raising their arms.

“It’s just me and my sister, Katara,” Sokka said slowly. “We’re with Aang.”

He looked searchingly past them for a moment before accepting that they were the only ones on the flying bison. “I see. I assume not all of you require a teacher?” the old man asked. He looked dubiously at Aang, taking in his pale skin, grey eyes, and bright autumnal attire.

“Well…” Aang began, trailing off as Sokka cleared his throat.

“Aang is the Avatar. My sister is the last remaining waterbender in the Southern Water Tribe. I am not a bender- I came to protect them on their journey.”

The other benders on the boat behind him exchanged an incredulous glance, but the old man appeared unruffled. “And you are?”

“Sokka, son of Hakoda.”

At this he did seem surprised, his eyebrows raising just a fraction of an inch. “The Avatar AND the Chief’s children. Of course. You can verify this?”

The question silenced Sokka, who looked at once alarmed and perplexed. Katara reached tentatively for her necklace. Aang shrugged, then jumped off of Appa’s back towards the man-made ice sheet that extended a couple feet all around his bison. In the span of an instant the old man dropped low, and as he came up, an ice spear flew forward from the water in the direction of his thrusting arm. Wide-eyed, Aang produced a gust of air to propel himself backward. The ice spear stopped just short of where he would have landed.

“I was only getting down to show you my airbending,” Aang protested, clearly a little shaken.

The old man retracted the ice spear, straightening. “We don’t have many… pleasant visits here. I have to assume that you’re attacking when you move that suddenly. Next time, give some warning. In any case…” he signaled to his crew members and to the boats around him. “Chief Arnook will want to deal with this matter personally. I will escort you." He brought his arms together in front of his face, hands clenched into fists above his head and, exhaling, released them so his palms were open towards the ground in front of his hips. With that release, the ice around Appa melted and crashed back into the sea.

Katara tried to file away how he moved, and watched enraptured by the easy way the waterbenders propelled their craft through the sea. The bending that had been displayed to apprehend them was more powerful than she had ever dreamed it could be. Once they reached the city she would finally be able to find a teacher. She eagerly searched the horizon for a sign of the gate. When it finally appeared out of the maze of ice, it took her breath away.

The structure was absolutely immense, carved into a towering glacier at least 500 feet high. Even with the aid of master waterbenders, the construction of this glittering behemoth must have been a massive undertaking. And everything in the city beyond those gates had to be cut from the heart of the glacier itself. Beholding it filled Katara at once filled with profound awe and profound loss. THIS was what it meant to be Water Tribe.

They were waterbended into the city through a series of several draining lock chambers which emptied into a series of canals. Inside was a glittering expanse of buildings that stretched so far it took Katara’s breath away all over again. She watched with wonder as Appa floated them down current.

***

Sokka had studied scrolls on the history and architecture of both the Southern and Northern Water Tribes, so he had had a fairly good idea what to expect when they passed through the gates. Still, seeing the grandiose, glistening city in person was moving. He had to admire the sheer craftsmanship of it all, particularly in the detail work. It was while he was considering ways to replicate the building of a small tower they had passed that he saw her.

The most beautiful girl that he had ever seen was riding in the back of a small rowboat, being guided along the canals by the smooth motions of a waterbender. She had a rounded face and full lips which were quirked into a serene smile. Her shockingly white hair was coiled in sections, one high atop her head and two in plaits that hung almost to her waist. There was a regal bearing about her- her back was straight, her shoulders squared, her chin held high. The most entrancing thing about her, though, was her wide, black eyes.

Sokka had to shake himself out of a daze as they were finally brought before Chief Arnook.

The throne room was just as vast and dazzling as everything else in the city. At its center sat the Chief upon a stark white, tall, crystalline throne draped in blue furs. The Chief had a wide, open face and a strong square jaw. His posture was entirely neutral as they were herded before him, his gaze appraising. “I hear we have distinguished visitors,” he said by way of greeting, “The Avatar. Sokka and Katara, children of Chief Hakoda.”

“Uh, yes, that would be us-” Sokka confirmed as Aang zipped forward, holding out his hand enthusiastically for Chief Arnook to shake.

“My name’s Aang. Super nice to meet you. Do you think you could help us find a water bending teacher?”

The Chief seemed a little taken aback by Aang’s brashness, but he took his hand nonetheless, a smile stretching across his face. “Indeed. I will be happy to arrange adequate accommodations and tutelage for your group. In fact, Pakku,” he addressed their escort, “As you are our best instructor, I will charge you with the Avatar’s instruction.”

“Yes, Chief,” he replied.

“Katara, you will report to Yugoda in the morning. She will be notified that she has an honored guest joining her female class.”

#eyes like fire au #zutara #atla #katara #zuko #Avatar The Last Airbender #update #soulmate au

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sunsetcurvecuddles · 3 years

Note

n and u if you're still answering from the fanfic asks

thank you so much anon!! from this ask game

N: Is there a fic you wish someone else would write (or finish) for you?

ooo there’s a few specific wips or fic ideas from friends of mine that i’m just DYING to read (no pressure at all but YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE). of my own works i desperately wish someone else would write the fic that lives in my head rent-free where reggie and ray talk about breaking the cycle of abuse as parents and ray tells reggie that he thinks reggie would have been a good dad :(

U: Share three of your favorite fic writers and why you like them so much.

this question is really really hard because there are so many amazing authors to pick from! i legitimately couldnt narrow it down to 3 even just from the first ones who come to mind so have 5 sdlkfjsdlkfjs THIS IS STILL NOT ALL THE AUTHORS I LOVE NOT AT ALL NOT EVEN CLOSE. should i make an author rec post. would anyone appreciate it if i did that. ANYWAY here

@sweetheartreggie i feel like this is a given but a) kat’s fics are wonderful, the way their characters totally embody the “it’s rotten work” “not to me not if it’s you” energy (their BOGGIE my GOD!!! their bobby the original petname fiend) but then the cute stuff is so fluffy and satisfying and warm and like home. plus the endless amounts of co-creating we do that never sees the light of day... plus the fact that essentially everything i write is totally interwoven with things we make, from obvious cowrites like molars to the fact that every reggie i ever write has our endless hours of discussion about him stamped on them like a wax seal. kat is in every corner of my work and i want them to stay there forever. ily kat

@chickwiththepurpleguitar hi lilly this should be obvious LOL but genuinely the way that lilly’s writing can pull the rug out from under your feet and just devastate you. unprecedented. sometimes i will sit in google docs and watch lilly write in real time and the dialogue literally leaves me breathless as it appears. the way characters look after each other in her fics (sickfic ICON for the record), the way that when i first read longfic i had to roll over and muffle my face in my pillow and scream multiple times out of sheer agony, etc. lilly’s characters make real mistakes, the kinds where you scream YOU IDIOT as you read but you also totally, completely get why they’re doing it, and they’re so raw and vulnerable in the best ways. also, lilly’s alex characterisation my beloved. also the bobbyrayrose dynamic she has painstakingly built not only lives rent-free in my head, i am paying rent to the bobbyrayrose dynamic. it’s got a whole little business up in here. it’s the landlord now.

@arolou new player on the scene but not in my heart old fandom friend <3 do you want to cry? do you literally want to bawl your eyes out over the sticky, tight-in-your-chest, complex feelings about how hard it is to be friends and to love other people well and to talk to them about it? ALTERNATIVELY do you want to laugh and be filled with joy and sunshine? BOTH OPTIONS ARE AVAILABLE. i love the .. idk if grit is the right word, because it’s not quite that rough, but her characters feel like they have something tangible and real and sometimes bitey about them that makes me love them all the more. my favourite line about alex ever written is in one of her fics. also genuinely amazing aro rep. ily so much

@joyandthephantoms FIND ME A MORE UNDERRATED JATP AUTHOR YOU CAN’T. it’s the total mastery of twisted-up, angry, loving, amazing feelings for me. it’s the characters fucking up and caring and doing their best and doing badly and realising and trying again and doing better for me. it’s the tumbling whirlwind of feelings getting stopped in its tracks by the gutpunch of sudden awareness for me. it’s the catharsis for me. i can’t genuinely do justice to joy’s fics in my own words so like, just, read them and have a better life.

@julies-butterflies lydiaa what always knocks me flat is this: lydia is a total package author like other authors dream of being. lydia’s fics can be funny or absolutely heartbreaking, her prose is GENUINELY from another dimension of good, like, some of my favourite sentences in the english language but they’re just every other paragraph and it’s like being punched in the face with beautiful words, but also then things will be SO . FUCKING. FUNNY. lydia writes my favourite julie in the entire world, has mastered atmosphere so much that i feel like i breathe the same air as these characters, and is my go-to when i need to read something that feels like an actual hug is happening to me.

SORRY THIS IS SO LONG I JUST LOVE MY TALENTED FRIENDS

#ask game #anon #ask #fic rec #Anonymous

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ibelongtonegan · 4 years

Text

Triple Play (Negan/Reader/Simon one-shot)

This fic was originally intended to be my entry for @flames-bring-a-ton-of-ash’s birthday challenge ages ago, but then life and a moody muse turned it into a forever WIP. And yet I just could not get story idea out of my head and did not stop until it was completed.

My prompt was “Technology – Walkie Talkies”.

Summary: some secrets are better left untold…or are they?

Characters: Negan x Reader x Simon

Word count: 5,616

Warnings: angst, dirty talk, smut, swearing

Tags (tagging my forevers and those who expressed interest in this fic at some point): @negans-network, @i-am-negan-trash, @emoryhemsworth, @ridingmoxley, @ladysyn, @sleepylunarwolf, @letsby, @tatertotandcassie, @annablack1102, @genevievedarcygranger, @daisysouthmoore, @hughxjackman, @ofxallxwexlost, @negans-wife

I appreciate feedback and most days don’t bite. So don’t be shy to comment, message or ask me anything!

“Okay, Y/N, your turn. Dwight, Negan, Simon,” Laura chirped, her voice hissing with static.

Your lips curled up into a wide grin as you raised the radio to your mouth.

“Fuck Negan, marry Simon, kill Dwight.”

“Damn, girl. That was quick!” Arat’s laugh echoed through the speaker. “You could have at least pretended to think about it for a minute.”

The Virginia sun was beating down with all its might as you made your way through the field in the knee-high grass. You retrieved the water bottle from your backpack, but the few gulps of lukewarm water did little to wet your parched throat.

Negan had sent out a search party for two workers who were stupid enough to break into the storage room and steal various supplies, but not smart enough to take a car to make their escape. It was just a question of time before they were captured, but you hoped it was going to happen before dinner. It was Friday, and tonight’s menu was going to be mac ‘n cheese. A hot meal and a cold shower, you craved nothing more.

You wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand while scanning the tree line for movement, but everything looked peaceful. Despite a badly decomposed walker that stumbled out of the forest about an hour ago, the search was uneventful. To kill time, Arat proposed to play ‘Fuck, marry, kill’ on the back-up channel, which she swore was safe from prying ears since nobody ever used it.

“Poor D, why would you hurt him?”

Laura could not hide the reproach in her tone. She had had a crush on Dwight since forever but didn’t dare to make a move on him, not even months after Sherry had married Negan.

“He’s a good dude, but not my type, sorry, not sorry.”

“Okay, what about Simon?” Arat chimed in. “I didn’t think you were the marrying type.”

The chorus of cicadas fell silent in the background as the transmission ended.

“I’m not, but I can’t fuck him too if I marry Negan.”

“Wait...what?”

An amused smile spread on your lips at the frantic reaction.

“Well, you know the rules. If you marry Negan, you can’t be with anybody else but him, right? But what if I want to fuck both him and Simon? The only way is to marry Simon and cheat on him with Negan. Or better yet, to coax them into a threesome.”

“Okay, I get Simon. He’s funny, has a killer swagger and that moustache must feel like heaven on your pussy,” Laura pondered. “But Negan…I mean, he’s hot, but also volatile, dangerous, and rough. He must be an animal in bed. I bet even his cum-face is scary.”

“I choose to accept the mission and find out for your peace of mind. I think he made Sherry come at least three times last night. Lucky bitch,” you sighed with envy recalling the sinful noises you overheard from Negan’s room.

“Then why don’t you volunteer to become a wife?”

“I worked my ass off to become a Savior, and will not give it up to sit around in the wives’ lounge, eat candy and paint my nails all day. I’d rather keep my job and fantasize about Negan and Simon while rubbing one out at night.”

The conversation was interrupted by your radio emitting a long beep, pulling you back to reality and the task at hand. You stopped in your tracks and switched to the primary channel.

“The search is over, we have the sorry shits in custody,” you heard Negan’s gravelly voice announce, his patience evidently worn thin. “Everybody get the fuck back to base now!”

You felt a pang of sorrow for the escapees. They were no doubt going to receive a painfully thorough ironing after dinner.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

An hour and a shower later you were on your way to the canteen with Arat and Laura in tow. The scent of melted cheese and spices filling the corridors made saliva pool in your mouth.

You devoured the plate of pasta within minutes and chugged two glasses of water to quench your thirst after the savoury meal. Feeling full and sleepy, you rested your chin in your palm, while Arat and Laura engaged in a heated debate over which of the newbie Saviors they wanted to fuck, marry and kill respectively.

“Evening, ladies,” Simon stopped by your table, his hands resting on his hips. After giving the two girls a quick nod, his eyes settled on you. “He wants to see you, Y/N, in his room.”

You furrowed your brow in confusion. Negan didn’t summon anyone but his wives at such a late hour and he had never asked to see you in his room before.

“Something wrong?”

“Everything’s A-Okay. The boss man just wants to have a word with you in private. Let’s not keep him waiting,” Simon gestured towards the door, his usual smirk never faltering.

You stood up from the table and gave Arat and Laura a wink before following Simon out of the canteen.

“I thought he was going to punish the escapees after dinner,” you stated rather than asked while trying to keep up with Simon’s long strides.

“Tomorrow,” he muttered under his breath. “There’s another matter he wants to deal with tonight.”

His curt response caught you off-guard, but you attributed it to him being hungry, since you had not seen him at dinner earlier.

Simon led you to the top floor and stopped before a large mahogany double door. Knocking twice, he turned the knob without waiting for an answer, and motioned for you to step inside.

Negan’s quarters looked nothing like other parts of the Sanctuary. It felt like entering the suite of a five-star hotel and you couldn’t stop looking around in amazement. The room was lavishly furnished with furniture and accessories from an expensive interior design store the Saviors had looted on your first run. There was a giant four poster bed to your left, decorated with grey, satin bedsheets and neatly arranged pillows, and to your right a comfortable black leather couch with two matching armchairs surrounding a coffee table. A bar area was set up in the corner complete with leather stools and a selection of spirits. The private bathroom was hidden behind a black door on the opposite wall, but you imagined it to be just as extravagant. Negan had a taste for the finer things in life, like beautiful women, good food and his luxurious apartment was no exception. Your room looked like a mouse hole in comparison.

Negan was sitting behind his desk, several papers splayed out before him next to a tumbler filled with amber liquid. His leather jacket was draped over the back of his seat, but his signature red scarf was still draped around his neck. The soft glow of the desk lamp cast an eerie light on his face. He looked up from the ledger in his hand and beckoned you closer, pointing at the chair in front of him.

Simon strode over to the couch behind you and plopped down, the leather squeaking under his weight. You were surprised to see him stay, but Negan didn’t seem to mind his number two’s presence in the room. He took a small sip of his drink and leaned back in the armchair, studying you with an unreadable expression.

Negan had always treated you fairly, appreciating your scavenging skills and rewarding your hard work. You climbed the imaginary career ladder at the community from common worker to lieutenant thanks to your tenacity, courage and ability to handle Negan’s short temper and crude humour. Along with Arat and Simon you were one of his most trusted soldiers, carrying out his orders and accompanying him on runs. You had been infatuated with him from the start and often found your eyes lingering on your formidable leader, but seemingly he had never expressed an interest in you.

With Simon your attraction began on your first run to Alexandria, when you were assigned to ride in the same truck and hit it off right away during the long journey. Simon was funny, smart and cute in a rugged way, and soon the two men occupied your dreams, with the three of you ending up having hot, messy sex on every vertical and horizontal surface imaginable. Yet, you did your best to act professionally around them, not letting your secret obsession interfere with your work.

“Something you wanna tell me?” Negan jolted you from your thoughts. “Anything you’d like to confess?”

“I’m not a religious person, sorry,” you pursed your lips to suppress a smile.

Simon snickered behind you, but Negan seemed unfazed by your cheekiness. He swirled his whisky a few times, his touch leaving random marks on the foggy surface of the glass.

“Okay, forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I took an extra serving of the apple pie at dinner last night. It was too delicious to resist.”

Negan narrowed his eyes at you and stroked his chin, his gloved fingers scraping his salt-and-pepper stubble.

“Or if this is about the crime novel I haven’t returned to the library, I know it’s almost a month overdue, but I still have two chapters left and want to know who the killer is.”

You heard the sound before your eyes could register the motion as Negan slammed down his glass on the desk. You expected it to shatter into a million pieces, but the tumbler miraculously survived the impact, the ice cubes clinking against each other in protest.

“Careful, Y/N. You don’t wanna test my patience.”

You gulped hard, feeling an uneasy chill go down your spine. Negan was usually up for jokes, but he was evidently not in the mood for them now, and you could not shake off the thought that you were the reason for it.

He stood up and keeping his gaze fixed on you rounded the desk before leaning against it, resting his hands on the edge. His crotch was level with your eyes, and you straightened up in your seat to avoid having to look at the impressive package in his pants.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you opted for honesty.

Negan pushed himself away from the desk and started circling you. His looming presence behind you made the hair stand up on your back, but you fought the urge to turn around.

“I don’t take lightly to my Saviors keeping secrets from me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you asserted but regretted it immediately when Negan’s face appeared in your peripheral vision.

“Bullshit!” he snarled against your ear. “What about that little girl talk over the radio this afternoon?”

His words made the blood drain from your face. Closing your eyes, you wished the ground would miraculously open and swallow you up.

“Imagine my surprise when during today’s run, I heard one of my top gals confess over the back-up channel that she was fantasizing about me and my right-hand man while rubbing one out at night.”

If the blood had gone from your face before, it now rushed right back up as you felt your cheeks grow hot.

“That shit made me very, very disappointed.”

Negan stepped back in front of you, and crossing his ankles leaned against the desk. The intensity of his stare made your heart sink. You tried to guess how much of your radio conversation with Arat and Laura he could have heard. If luck was on your side, he only caught the last part. If not...

…you didn’t even want to go there.

“We were just…joking. A silly chat between us girls to pass the time,” you shrugged, feeling perspiration bead on your forehead.

Negan studied your face intently weighing your words.

“What do you make of this, Simon?”

“She’s lying, boss,” came the merry retort from the couch.

You head snapped around in protest but Negan grabbed your chin with his gloved hand, forcing you to look at him.

“I think you’re right,” he mused in a sing-song voice, his face so close that you could smell his body wash and the faint trace of whiskey on his breath. ”Get over here and give me a hand, will you?”

You heard Simon’s heavy boots cross the room and stop behind you. Negan gave him a knowing look and before you knew it, your arms were yanked back, and held firmly behind the chair.

“Where were we, doll?” Negan let go of your chin and crouched down in front of you, resting his hands on your knees. “Oh, yes. You fantasizing about me and Simon nailing you.”

He licked his lips slowly and your eyes followed the motion instinctively.

“What’s the matter, Y/N? Cat got your tongue? You were very talkative over the radio earlier,” Negan taunted sardonically.

You closed your legs to put some distance between your bodies, but Negan squeezed your thighs in warning and forced them further apart.

“Tell me what you thought about last night.”

You squirmed in your seat, Negan’s command ringing in your ears in the deafening silence that followed.

“You said that you were listening to me fucking Sherry. What did you think about to get off?”

Your eyes went wide like saucers and you desperately tried to come up with a plausible excuse, but your mind went completely blank. Sharing a kinky fantasy over the radio with your best friends was one thing. But confessing it face to face to the very subjects of it?

“Careful, Y/N,” Negan warned sensing your stalling, his mouth tightening into a thin line. “I want the truth on this one.”

You went limp in Simon’s grip with an exasperated sigh. As much as you hated to admit defeat, they cornered you. You held your head up high and gave Negan a defiant look. If he wanted to hear the truth, you were going to tell him just that, consequences be damned.

“We were in the meeting room, at the usual Monday briefing for the lieutenants. I disagreed with your order, and we got into an argument over it. I knew that I was pushing your buttons but the more riled up you got, the more it turned me on.”

Negan looked at you with a faint smirk, as if the same idea had crossed his mind before.

“You decided that if I was bold enough to backtalk in front of your men, then I would also be punished in front of them. Simon pinned me down on the meeting table, and the two of you took turns having your way with me.”

Negan’s pupils dilated, the primal reaction urging you to continue.

“All the lieutenants were watching us with hunger and envy that they could only look, but not touch or taste me. I was completely exposed and at your mercy, and yet felt safe and in control of the situation, because that was exactly what I wanted. To be taken, dominated, marked and used for your pleasure. You kept teasing me, edging me, until I was a begging mess. And in the end, you came inside me, breeding me.”

Negan tsked with a shake of his head.

“And you were hiding all of this from me? Not cool. You have no idea how not cool that shit is. But don’t worry, we will rectify the situation right now.”

Your heart dropped as the meaning of his words sank in. This was it. You were going to be demoted, lose your friends, the respect of the Saviors and could never go near Negan and Simon again. Or they would kick you out of the Sanctuary even. And all of this because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut. Now you knew why the ironing of the escapees had been postponed. Negan had deemed your punishment more urgent.

“You wanna pay close attention to this, because I’m only going to say it once. Hearing your dirty little confession over the radio made me and Simon hard as steel. So we decided to make your wish come true.”

You blinked twice, expecting to wake up from what seemed to be the weirdest dream you had ever had. You were never going to stuff yourself full of food before bed again.

“But I have two conditions. Are you with me, doll?”

You nodded weakly as Negan’s fingers drew a zigzag pattern on your jeans.

“One: as much as the thought of fucking you in front of my men is tickling my balls, I am not letting those fuckers lay their eyes on you. It’s going to be just you, me and Simon.”

The offer sounded more than fair to you.

"Two: you know well I don’t share my gals with anyone, except for when I have a moresome with my wives, and I only allow them to fuck each other because I get to watch. What’s mine is mine.”

Your breath hitched as he moved his hands further up, the tip of his fingers skimming the apex of your thighs.

“But since your fantasy involved my right-hand man as well, I’m willing to bend the rules just this once.”

Heat pooled in your belly as you watched him, mesmerized by his usually hazel eyes darkening to dark chocolate.

“So, tonight I get exclusive membership at your pussy bar, no exceptions. You will be my little breeding bitch only,” he stroked your clothed centre, eliciting a pathetic whine from you. “As for other parts of your body, sharing is caring.” Negan looked up at Simon flashing his pearly whites, before his eyes settled back on you.

You stared at him at a loss for words. One part of you was cheering you on to seize the opportunity and accept the indecent proposal, while the other was adamant that you were going to wake up any minute. Negan lifted his gloved hand to your cheek and traced your lower lip, expecting an answer. You let your body do the talking and opened your mouth to run your tongue over his thumb, tracing a shiny path on the black leather. If this was indeed just a dream, you were going to make sure it would be a wet one.

“Damn, Simon, I knew she was going to be trouble from the moment we met her,” Negan drawled, his eyes heavy with desire.

Grabbing the back of your head he pulled you up and claimed your lips in a passionate kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth possessively. Simon pushed the chair out of the way and pressed himself into your back trapping your body between him and Negan. Even through two layers of clothing you could feel the outline of his hard-on, earning a low moan from you.

“Easy, Simon,” Negan grinned wickedly, sucking and nibbling on your neck. “We don’t want her to cum just yet.”

Closing your eyes, you rested your head on Simon’s shoulder to offer Negan easier access to your skin. Lost in the pleasure the two men were showering you with your right hand went to cup Negan’s bulge, while you grabbed the back of Simon’s head with the other and arched your back against him.

“Looks like someone’s eager,” Simon murmured grinding into your ass.

“She’s not the only one,” Negan hissed. “Let’s get her out of these fucking clothes, before I blow my load in my pants.”

He lifted your shirt over your head, and Simon unbuttoned your pants and pulled them off your legs along with your boots. You felt self-conscious standing before the two men in nothing but your underwear but Negan’s lustful gaze and the appreciative rumble in Simon’s chest chased all your insecurities away. Simon unclasped your bra and you dropped your hands to your sides, letting it slide down onto the floor. He went for your panties next, but Negan stopped him with a grunt, reminding him of the exclusive territorial rights he had established earlier.

Simon seemed unfazed by the setback and put his plan B in motion peppering your neck with sloppy kisses. He placed his right hand on top of yours, and guided it from his crotch to your front, tracing your belly button with the tip of your fingers, before slipping them inside your panties and brushing your slit.

His ingenuity impressed you, but Negan didn’t share the sentiment.

“Hands off, Simon, her pussy is mine,“ he bared his teeth at him.

The primal gesture combined with the possessiveness in his voice made your insides coil with anticipation. Simon held his hands up with a smug look and licked his fingertips, his eyes closing in delight as he savoured the taste of your arousal.

Negan yanked your panties down, the disapproval over your complicity in Simon’s crime evident on his face. Simon kneeled on the ground and lifted the garment to his nose to take a whiff, before letting it fall on top of your discarded clothes.

“I think we should catch up with her, Simon” Negan suggested, his eyes drinking in your nakedness.

He took off his shirt revealing tufts of dark chest hair and various tattoos, some faded, some more recent looking. You heard Simon unbuckle his belt behind you and looked back over your shoulder to steal a glance. He was bulkier than Negan, his muscles defined, and chest fully shaved. You watched the piles of clothes grow by their feet until they stood before you completely naked, their cocks standing proud against their bellies. Simon’s was thick and veiny, Negan’s long and smooth, but both impressive in its own right. You bit down on your lip, yearning to taste them.

“Like what you see, doll?” Negan flicked his tongue suggestively at you. “Get on your knees and show Simon what that smart mouth is capable of,” he instructed pointing down on the ground. “But don’t make him cum yet.”

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” you purred.

“We shall see when you choke on his dick,” Negan replied darkly before turning to his right-hand man. “Show her who’s the fucking boss here.”

Simon didn’t need to be told twice and placing his hand on your shoulder pushed you down on the carpet. You grabbed his cock and gave it a few pumps before licking off the drops of pre-cum oozing from the tip. He sighed out loud, as you closed your mouth over the head and sucked gently, enjoying the salty taste. You swallowed him inch by inch, tracing every vein with your tongue, until he was buried deep in your throat. His hands tightened in your hair to keep you still, eliciting a muffled whine from you, your lips vibrating around his length. When you could no longer fight the need to gag, you began to move, bobbing your head up and down.

Opening your eyes, you searched for Negan and found him getting comfortable in the chair you had been sitting in before. He was watching your every move, legs wide open, stroking himself lazily. You mirrored his pace instinctively and sucked on Simon in sync with his palm fisting his dick. Negan sucked on his teeth as he watched your cheeks bulge rhythmically.

You pulled back and swirled your tongue around the crown like catching drips from a melting ice cream cone. Simon lowered his hand to the back of your head, spreading his fingers wide for a solid hold, and started fucking your mouth with abandon. Your throat was contracting and burning with every thrust but you didn’t mind the discomfort, feeling a rush of blood go to your core from him using you just like you had imagined.

“That’s enough,” Negan barked, but Simon was too far gone in pleasure to listen, his eyes closed, and head thrown back. You kept your eyes on Negan to show him that you had heard him and doubled your efforts, forming a ring with your thumb and index finger around the root of Simon’s shaft, and cupping his balls in your free hand. You knew that you were playing with fire, but the thrill was too tempting to resist.

Negan’s mouth twisted into a snarl and he jumped up from the chair to advance on you, his manhood swinging with every step like a metronome. You felt a sharp tug on your hair and let Simon slip from your mouth, a string of saliva hanging off your chin.

“I said, enough!” Negan repeated and pulled you up into a standing position. “Simon, take a time-out before you bust a nut.”

You felt him swat your ass hard and yelped in surprise.

“This may be your fantasy, doll, but I call the fucking shots here and will not hesitate to dole out some hard punishment, if you don’t follow my orders,” he seethed.

Still holding you by the make-shift ponytail he pushed you towards the bed and showed you down on the mattress.

“On your back, arms above your head.”

You laid back down against the pillows as you were told. Negan knelt between your legs and spread them apart by your knees.

“Well, would you look at this creamy little mess in here!” his eyes gleamed with unadulterated joy.

Getting on his elbows, he traced your mound with his lips, his mouth barely touching you, the combination of the scruff of his beard and his warm breath tickling deliciously. Your hands fisted the sheets as he licked your pussy from bottom to top, before dripping the tip into your opening, and lapping up your juices with relish. He peeked up at you through his long lashes, watching your reactions. His lips were sticky with your arousal as he ate you out shamelessly as if you had been his last meal on Earth.

You looked to your right to find Simon sitting on the couch, watching the two of you with drowsy eyes. He was trying hard to comply with Negan’s orders, but it was evident how much he wanted to touch himself as he fidgeted in his seat, his cock begging for attention.

Negan moved his tongue to your clit and sucked it between his teeth, the sensation exquisite and overwhelming at the same time. You cried out and digging your heels into the mattress lifted your body to move away from him, but he wrapped his fingers around your thighs holding you in place. His tongue continued its sensual assault alternating between slow, soft flicks, and fast, greedy slurps. The variation of the tempo and intensity combined with the thrill of not knowing what his next move would be was driving you crazy with want.

You bucked your hips to maximize the contact between your bodies, he, however, had other plans and sat back on his heels. Pulling you down by the waist until he was kneeling between your thighs, he lined himself up at your entrance and began grinding against your heat, coating his length with your wetness.

“Negan...” you whimpered and raised your pelvis to make him slide inside you, but he restrained you by putting his hand on your stomach.

“Not yet.”

Getting impatient you reached for his dick, but he slapped your hand away.

“I said, not yet! Simon, come here!”

You felt the bed dip and calloused hands pinning your wrists down on the mattress. Tilting your head to the side you continued to suck on Simon, eager to finish what Negan’s intervention had interrupted earlier.

You arched your back off the mattress as Negan pinched your right nipple and rolled it between his fingers. He grazed your left nipple with his teeth, before sucking it into his mouth and blowing on the stiff peak, his saliva feeling like a cool ointment against your overheated skin.

“Please...” you gasped, not sure if you were asking him to stop or to go on.

“I think she’s learned her lesson,” Simon gritted his words, the sensory overload of your lips on him, and the sight of Negan toying with you pushing him dangerously close to the edge.

“I don’t think so, Simon. But it looks like she will milk you dry any minute, and I want to fuck this pretty pussy raw finally.”

Negan positioned himself at your dripping cunt and slid inside, inch by inch. You cried out in ecstasy from the sweet pressure of him stretching you wide. When he was buried to the hilt, he remained still, and taking hold of your ankles, spread your legs wide.

“Look at that, Simon, how she is taking my big, fat dick like a champ?”

He finally began to move in a painfully slow rhythm, enjoying as your warmth enveloped him. Crossing your legs for a closer fit he placed your feet on his shoulder, the penetration so deep that you let out a cry with every thrust. Your entire body was covered in a thin layer of sweat and your damp strands of hair stuck to your forehead. You were exposed and at the mercy of the two men, but had never felt this free and complete. Tension was building in your stomach and you closed your eyes to absorb yourself in the moment.

Negan, however, pulled out abruptly, earning him a frustrated mewl from you that he rewarded with a slap delivered on your swollen clit.

“On all fours, doll. I want to fill this fertile pussy full of my cum.”

Simon let go of your arms and sat back against the headboard. You rolled over lifting yourself up on your elbows, barely able to support your own weight. Negan lifted your ass up and placing his palm between your shoulder blades pushed you down in Simon’s lap. When he was satisfied with the angle, he rammed into you again, his fingers digging into your hips.

“Are you going to cum on my cock, like a good girl?” he growled and spanked your ass hard.

You cried out an affirmative and continued to pleasure Simon while chasing your own release. A few seconds later you felt every nerve ending in your body tingle and warmth spread to your core. Your toes curled inward as your body surrendered to the inevitable and waves of ecstasy washed over you, dulling your senses for what felt like several minutes. The vibrations of your moans around him made Simon succumb to his own climax. He started twitching and throbbing, before spurting his seed down your throat. You swallowed every drop hungrily before releasing his softening member from your mouth.

Negan let you ride out your high, and then picked up the speed again. Fisting your hair, he pulled your head back twisting your body in an unnatural shape as he continued to pound you. His hand curled around your neck, his fingers squeezing hard enough to make black spots appear in your vision and blood drum in your ears. Drops of sweat fell from his chest to your ass tickling down to your sides and onto the sheet as he rode you, not losing his rhythm for a second.

His moves became more urgent, until he buried himself inside you one last time. He groaned a series of expletives under his breath before biting down on your shoulder as he came inside you, coating your inner walls with his cum. His fingers released their grip around your throat, allowing much-needed oxygen to fill your lungs and a second orgasm, even more intense than the first, consume you. You collapsed on the bed all strength leaving your limbs, as the room came back into focus, your heightened senses perceiving everything all at once.

Negan rolled off of you onto his back, his arm resting over his eyes, as Simon laid down against the pillows, a sly grin plastered over his face.

“Damn, boss,“ he wiped his brow with his thumb. “If only all dreams came true.”

Your reply was a tired but satisfied hum of agreement. A girl could dream, but making it come true was so much better.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

You stirred awake at the break of dawn. Taking in your surroundings you realized that you were still in Negan’s bed. It was dark outside, but the first rays of the sun peeked through the heavy curtains. You felt spent and sore, your skin sticky with the remnants of sweat and dried cum. The bitemark on your neck was still tender, but you wore it with pride as proof of Negan’s claim over you. Turning your head, you found him lying sprawled out on his stomach, his breathing deep and even, but Simon’s side of the bed was empty, the wrinkled sheets cold already.

You sat up carefully, searching for your clothes in the dim light, when you felt a strong arm circle around your waist.

“Where do you think you’re going, doll?” Negan’s raspy drawl made you shiver.

“Back to my room?” you looked at him over your shoulder.

“Nuh-uh,” he pulled you back against his chest. “You are staying. I want you all to myself for round two in the morning. And after that I may even change my mind about fucking you at the Monday briefing.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” you tried to untangle yourself from his hold but were easily overpowered after a playful struggle and his expert fingers finding your tickle spot.

“Just sass me, doll, and you shall see, along with all the filthy ideas I have on my mind.”

The alluring promise made you relax against him, dark words whispered in the twilight lulling you back to sleep, and another fantasy taking shape in your imagination already.

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jadeile-writes · 3 years

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Fanfic Writer Interview! Got tagged by @umbreonix

Not tagging other people, but feel free to consider yourself tagged if you want to do this.

How many works do you have on AO3?

33. I also have 88 in ffnet (which includes 31 of the stories also found in Ao3), and a bunch of unpublished google docs too, as well as actual docs sitting in my laptop files.

What’s your total AO3 word count?

310,978. I once calculated the word count for the Finnish fics I have (only in ffnet) and it was 157,664, so if I add that to the count in Ao3 I end up with 468,642, which is... still not the true number, because I have a bunch of English fics that only exist in ffnet too, but ehhh... let’s say roughly 500k and call it a day.

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

19 fandoms iirc. All Hail King Julien, Avatar: The Last Airbender, Batman the Animated Series, Death Note, Dragonlance, Forgotten Realms, Fruits Basket, Fullmetal Alchemist, Hazbin Hotel, Hetalia - Axis Powers, Justice League, Legend of Zelda, Lemmings, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Naruto, One Piece, Pillars of Eternity, Pokémon, and Sonic the Hedgehog. Out of which Pokémon, Dragonlance, and AtLA aren’t available for public unless you know where to look, which you don’t.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Zora Courting (Sidlink); Shit, the Radio Demon is a part of my afterlife (Radiohusk); Lesson in Kissing (Sidlink), Hah, our afterlife is the most hilarious bushwa, dearest (Radiohusk); Touchy-feely (Sidlink).

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Sometimes. At one point I responded to every single one I received, but I got so many that it burnt me out and I stopped responding to any for a long time as a result. I recovered eventually and now I respond occasionally, when I feel like it - usually when someone leaves me a comment in practically every chapter of a longfic, or if someone leaves me a very long comment, or if someone asks me a question. Sometimes for no reason other than “I just really want to right now”.

What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Blood in the alley (Husk&Alastor)

Do you write crossovers? If so, what’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Not usually. Adventure Gone Mini is the closest thing, but like... it’s the combination of two Zelda universes, so I’m not sure if it actually counts.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Yes, on one fic, and the comment actually amuses me rather than offends. The fic is a horror/gore fic that is marked M (E in Ao3) which means you have to specifically search for it, its genre is horror, the summary blatantly says it’s horror/gore, the actual *name* of the fic has the word “horror” in it, and still one person commented “W.T.F. sick psychopath” on it. To me that’s hilarious : D

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

I have privately written a few things, but I don’t publish any. Most of the time I’m way too repulsed to even think of writing smut, so I wouldn’t be able to handle seeing the fics in my daily kudos emails or receive comments on them on the reg.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not to my knowledge.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes, a few of them in a few different languages. Doesn’t count, but I’ve also translated some of my own fics from Finnish to English just cause I’ve felt like it.

What’s your all time favorite ship?

Can’t pick just one, because I’ve been at this for decades now and some OTPs just stick forever, so I’ll list a few. In no order: Gaara/Lee, Batman/Joker, Batman/Flash, Jarlaxle/Entreri, Kang/Slith, Snufkin/Moomin, Legolas/Gimli. I ship Alastor/Husk a lot, but it’s recent enough that I’m hesitant to count is as an “all time favourite” at this point. Same goes for Link/Sidon and Link/Revali.

Whats a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

Yöpala (FMA) and Drakolaisen Valinta (Dragonlance).

What are your writing strengths?

I’m funny and I can spin anything into a working story if I want to. I could actually list a lot of things here, but ehhh. This is my writing blog and you’re reading this thing carefully enough to see this sentence; you already know I’m amazing and don’t need my convincing ;)

What are your writing weaknesses?

I’m slow at writing in English. There are probably other things too, but if I knew what they were I’d work on fixing them, right?

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

If it’s justified and makes sense in the story itself, go for it. However, it only applies to the occasional single sentence, not entire conversations, which should either be like:

They switched to Spanish. “Hey, I’m speaking Spanish now and it’s in italics for clarity!”

He had no idea what the people around him were talking about; he was pretty sure they were speaking in Spanish or maybe Portuguese or something, but he didn’t speak it himself so it was pure gibberish to him.

If the character whose POV we’re on is supposed to understand it, keeping it in -insert language- is pointless. If the character doesn’t understand it, spelling it out is usually pointless and makes your readers frustrated and confused in a not-fun way if it lasts for too long.

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Pokémon; I was 11 or 12 and only my mom and maybe my big sister read it after I literally printed it out. I still have the print, but the file hasn’t existed for two decades. As for online fandom, Sonic when I was 16.

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

Either “Shit, the Radio Demon is a part of my afterlife” or “What boundaries?”

#asks and comments

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teriwrites · 3 years

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2020 Writing Wrap-Up

Something that I do every year on the 1st is go back through absolutely everything I’ve written throughout the previous year and compile it into one massive word document. Everything from outlining notes to unfinished short stories to my NaNo project wind up in that file, where I like to read back and reflect on what I’ve gotten done through the year.

Every year, I end up having written more than I expected, and this year was no different!

Total for 2020: 203,119!

This is the first recorded year (I think it’s year 4 that I’ve done this for?) in which I’ve cracked 200K! It’s also the first year I’ve ever actually followed through on my resolution to share some of my writing online! So as rough as 2020 has been, I still somehow managed to break some personal records in writing. Which probably has everything to do with the fact that I joined this community earlier this year, and it’s been incredibly encouraging and supportive!

I also branched out a bit more this year in a few ways. I worked on some poetry and prose, which is not something I’ve put a lot of time into before so tends to be a challenge. It’s nothing that I’ll be posting anytime soon, but it was fun to work on in the moment, which is especially important in such a wild year as 2020.

One snag that I definitely hit was the fact that I have a lot more unfinished work than most years. A majority of the short stories I started working on never got finished. But I can’t even be too upset about that, because I totally loved being able to read back on even the fragmented pieces I ended up with. And while I do think a large part of that (for me) is discipline over inspiration, I’m willing to accept that, sometimes, things will remain unfinished. And it’s okay to stop working on them.

My overall focus shifted a bit this year, too, which was interesting. I worked more on longer things than most years - started out the year by finishing my first draft of Castle on the Hill, continued making some edits and reworking its outline, did a large part of Beneath Alder Creek’s first draft in November. Right now, I’m working on what I expect to be a novella by the time I’m done with it. It’s a big contrast to the usual, short and snappy short stories that fill most of my previous wrap-up files. But I still definitely write those sometimes, and it’s nice to be able to try stretching and testing my own boundaries.

This is the part of my wrap-up where I go ham throwing in some of my favorite out-of-context quotes from a variety of different things I’ve worked on. Some of them might be familiar, a lot probably won’t. I’m going to post it beneath the thing so this doesn’t become even more absurdly long!

Some of the ~highlights~ of 2020:

First Thoughts in the Morning: wow the sexual tension between me and the alarm clock right now. Later Reflection: wtf? (a literal note on my notes app that I included because I Cannot remember writing any of this and it made me laugh)

Edriele’s gaze trailed down to the woman’s armor, and her stomach twisted. “Where did you find your attire?” The woman glanced down in surprise, as though she’d forgotten she was wearing it. “It was fitted to me when I gained my ranking. I suppose it draws attention, but after my confrontation at… you mean to ask me whether I’m impersonating a Knight!” “The thought had crossed my mind,” the Sister replied dryly. (novella WIP)

“Do you need to make a stop at your house before we head to the chapel?” Leslie asked as they started off. “What for?” Winnie asked. Leslie looked pointedly at the tip of her galoshes poking out from beneath her dress. With another roll of her eyes, Winnie sighed. “Oh, I suppose so.” (Beneath Alder Creek)

When the third meeting for the Society of the Hidden Immortal Tribe was called for the decade, I knew heads would roll. Gathering the entire society together took months. Everything had to be hush-hush; that was the entire point of spreading ourselves out. Plus, every time a letter arrived in the mail, it was a reminder of the idiot who had decided we needed a name change. Everybody agreed that being deemed the ‘S.H.I.T.’ was humiliating, but nobody could agree on a better title, so it had remained the same for nearly a full century. That was the problem with living forever. You always had more time to make decisions, and, in the end, nothing ever got done. (S.H.I.T.)

When she leaves, I’m not sure I remember a word of what she’s said. But as the stresses of the semester wash back in, and my mind clears like being pulled out of a dream, I suddenly understand how one could crash upon the rocks without realizing they’d ever changed their course. (A Modern Siren)

When Georg arrived later, he found Klaus leaning forwards onto the table, staring vacuously at one of his textbooks. "Studying hard?" he taunted as he approached and dropped into the seat Ingrid had been occupying. "I talked with Ingrid," Klaus explained. Georg's eyebrows shot up in genuine surprise, but he quickly recovered and looked pointedly at Klaus' posture. "Go that well, then?" "She said I'm arrogant and completely self-involved and that I never take what a girl says into account whenever I'm on a date." With a haunted gleam in his eye, Klaus stared up at his friend. "I think she's right." "Well then it's a good thing somebody pointed it out," Georg offered, and he turned to his work. (Castle on the Hill)

Takemoto Hana rested a hand over her face. She couldn’t see the swirling of darkness over her head, but she heard the whine behind its words. With a wry smile, she asked, ‘Do you not know how to brew tea?’ ‘Of course I know how to brew tea!’ The dark spirit’s voice boomed with a defensive defiance that rang false in the funny little woman’s ears. (The Funny Little Woman)

“None of us want to be here right now,” Edgar called out to the hall. “None of us want to go back through the handbook and listen to the steps of proper etiquette in immortality. But it seems that, once again, it’s necessary.” “Dammit, Dave,” muttered the man next to me. I said nothing, but I couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment. Dave was… how do I describe Dave? To call him an idiot would be underestimating his craftiness. To call him a genius, I’d have to ignore all of his dumb antics. Cruel was too strong. Misguided was too innocent. Mischievous fit best, but even that fell short. Dave was a trickster god, if ever one existed. (S.H.I.T.)

Ridiculous, he told me with a self-conscious laugh of someone who didn't expect to be believed. I smiled, but I didn't join in. (The Little Roads)

“Hey, where did Alina go?” Lorelai asked. Zoe shrugged, but Jaiden cleared his throat. “I think you crossed one of her boundaries, Lo. She specifically asked not to involve her girlfriend in this, and then you did anyways. I know we needed the help, but friendships have to be built on mutual trust, my dude. You should’ve at least let her know your plan before you went behind her back.” The two women stopped and shared a look. “Hey, Jaiden,” Zoe asked. “Do you know the capital of Canada?” He shook his head. “I dunno, Ontario?” “Amazing.” (Mirror, Mirror)

"We had a bet going over whether you'd make it in time," Hans told him. "Did you win or lose?" Josef replied. Hans flipped a 5-Deutsche Mark coin over to Peter, who grinned as he pocketed it. "I'm glad you have so much faith in me." Josef's voice dripped with sarcasm. (Castle on the Hill)

Taliesin reached over his head and grabbed at one of the low-hanging bows, picking leaves from it. “I’m not sure.” Winnie stopped. “What do you mean?” “I mean that I don’t know.” (Beneath Alder Creek)

While she attended to these, the man beside her began to stir. Ella could see him out of the corner of her eye, attempting to push himself up into a sitting position. ‘You may want to lie back down,’ she told him, scrubbing uselessly at her skirt. The man continued to sit up anyways, pressing a hand against the side of his face. ‘Am I killed?’ ‘No, but your savior may be.’ Ella threw her skirt back to the ground. ‘When the Madame sees the state of me, I’ll be spending my future afternoons off making a new dress out of the fabric scraps.’ A frown crossed the man’s face as he considered her words, followed by a scowl of understanding. ‘You work for them. The bourgeoisie.’ (Cinderella)

Ingrid took the seat and began digging through her bag for a book. As she did so, she explained, "There were no other tables open in the building - even in the quiet section upstairs - so I figured that I would just ask the first person I recognized if I could sit with them, and well... here we are." "Don't worry about it," Georg answered when Klaus found himself dumbstruck again. "Just ignore the oaf, he'll leave you alone." Ingrid shot a grin at Georg, and Klaus suddenly wondered whether it was a good idea to have the two of them sit together. (Castle on the Hill)

Up ahead, I could see the glass walls of the bus stop. Usually, I waited for the bus leaning against the metal frame of the stop, leaving the seats inside open for children on their way to school. But the seats were empty now. I still avoided them. (Flo’s Magical Emporium: The Pandemic)

Now, I ask that you do not feel too much self-pity. For as easy an error as it may be to mistake a visiting aristocrat’s son for the hired help, the true talent in such a display causing his immediate departure lies within you alone. And to think that the meeting was the work of your father’s tenuous sway over the court! Well, I am sure the time away will do him some good, lest you begin to consider that you’ve ruined his position as well as your prospects. (Dearly Detested,)

Edgar was at the front of the lecture hall, and standing beside him was Dave, smirking as though at some private joke that only he was in on. He was wearing sunglasses, despite the dim lighting of the room, probably because he thought he looked cool. I rolled my eyes. What a tool. (S.H.I.T.)

The work is different now. Countryside pathways winding through the forest lie forgotten for years without the familiar steps of a traveler. Off beaten paths in the city are never unknown for long, and sometimes streets that were once crossed by thousands a day fall back into obscurity. (The Little Roads)

“How much time will you give me to think on it?” she asked suspiciously, wrapping her arms around herself as though afraid they’d reach out to him if not kept in check. “You have all the time in the world,” the golden man said. “The boy’s, however, runs out with every passing second.” He extended his hand. (Beneath Alder Creek)

You ever met a rich person? Not comfortably wealthy. Not ‘my Uncle Kenny is a lawyer’ rich. Not even ‘widow answering the door to her manor on a hill dressed in fine silk’ rich. No, I mean proper, so-much-money-you-literally-can’t-spend-it-fast-enough rich. They say it isn’t worth Bill Gates’ time to pick up a $100 bill off the floor because he’ll have earned more in the time it takes to grab it. That kind of rich. They seem to be bred for times like these. Their houses are a source of endless entertainment – movie theaters, bowling alleys, personal gyms with a view of the sprawling landscape they overlook like cruel dictators. There’s no need for them to leave during a pandemic; they have access to the equivalent of a luxury resort most families have to save up month to visit. Necessities can be stockpiled in one of the useless extra spaces in the house. I mean, I once had to hide out in a luggage room for a contract. That’s right. An entire room dedicated to holding luggage, bigger than some of the apartments I’ve rented. I thought their residential labyrinths were my greatest source of grief. But social distancing? I’m one bad contract away from retirement. (Bounty Hunter During a Pandemic)

Shaking his head, Detlef pulled a new sheet from his notebook. “Look, I’m just saying, if we can get the satire right, we can be a modern Jonathan Swift.” “I don’t want to be a modern Jonathan Swift, I want to be a student actually passing his debate course!” Peter snapped. (Castle on the Hill)

Moonlight illuminated the German’s fair hair and pale skin, the effect more malevolent apparition than man. (Face on the Other Side of a Dark Window)

Back then, he’d been known for commissioning the exact same portrait of himself every hundred years, hanging them in a hallway in his manor and trying to pass them off as his line of ancestors to any of the locals. It had been a far less skeptical age, and Dave had earned himself a small band of worshipers before Jeff Goldblum himself had been forced to intervene. (S.H.I.T.)

Clara stood before the board of advisors assisting with her thesis. She was one, very intense paper away from her M.A., and she wasn’t about to risk it all by being too proud to ask for help. When she’d made the appointment to meet with them, she expected a series of questions surrounding her topic. Instead, they’d opened by offering her a job. “You want me to steal from the school?” Dr. Pye wrinkled her nose at the suggestion. Next to her, Dr. Pritchard said, “Don’t think of it as theft, dear. It’s merely redistribution.” Clara hadn’t amassed tens of thousands of dollars in debt to be lectured on the definition of robbery. “Either way, it involves me sneaking into the Chemistry department and taking a huge risk to get you some new toys to play with.” (Origins: The Ghost)

“Why is undermining Pryderi so important to Queen Ceridwen that she would risk breaking a timeless alliance just to dismantle them?” Her stomach twisted into a knot, protesting against the answer. “There are few members of the Dusk Court that we know by title.” A shadow passed over Enid’s expression. “The Lord of the Undernell is second only to the Queen.” “Great deeds build the reputation of one in their own court. Cruelty builds it in both.” Taliesin buckled under Winnie’s weight as she suddenly leaned against him. (Beneath Alder Creek)

“Why are all my friends so quick to endanger themselves?” I muttered as I packed up Midas’ crate. Natalie swiveled around from the candy aisle. “So you’re finally willing to admit that we’re friends?” “Save it.” (Flo’s Magical Emporium: The Pandemic)

#writeblr #writing #my writing #writers of tumblr #teriwrites #writing wrap-up 2020 #my wips #I forgot just how much I missed my boys from CotH until I was reading through it #wow I would die for those funky little dudes #also feel free to ask about anything for some extra context since I've never talked about half of these projects #anyways that's all folks

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flowerfan2 · 3 years

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One Night in Milwaukee - Ch. 2

Friends, you asked for more... so now the angst continues in Florida. This is now officially a WIP, with three chapters written and more to come. Please reblog or otherwise let me know you’re on board!

Read on A03. David/Patrick, 7k.

Chapter 2

It’s chilly on the airplane, but most people seem thankful for the early morning flight after spending the night in the Milwaukee airport. Patrick watches from his window seat as David charms an older woman, ticket in hand, convincing her with his best customer service smile to take David’s seat two rows back so that David can sit next to Patrick.

Despite everything, Patrick keeps finding himself staring. David looks so good, even on just a few hours of sleep. Patrick can hardly believe he’s right there, with his ripped jeans and twinkling eyes, breathing the same recycled air as Patrick.

“You traded an aisle seat to sit next to me?” Patrick asks as David wedges himself into the middle seat, twisting and turning to get his leather jacket off without elbowing Patrick.

“Hm, yes, questionable decision,” David says, flashing a quick look at Patrick before digging underneath his leg for the seat belt.

There’s some more shuffling as a young woman settles herself in the seat next to David. She promptly sticks airpods in her ears and closes her eyes, so all things considered, it’s the best case scenario as far as a potential seat mate.

Once all the announcements are over and the plane takes off, David’s attention turns back to Patrick. It’s uncomfortable in a way it never used to be, and suddenly Patrick can feel how their years apart have scarred them. He wonders if it’s a mistake, this spur of the moment decision to spend more time together. To <i>be</i> together, if his own words are to be believed.

Maybe it wouldn’t seem so overwhelming if it didn’t start off with literally being pressed together, thigh to thigh, for the next three hours.

“How are you feeling?” David asks, his eyes flickering over Patrick’s face.

Patrick remembers the sharp pain of a booted foot impacting his body. He can’t seem to stop remembering it. Taking in a breath, he pushes away the wave of fear/anger/shame that goes along with the memory. “Okay. Kind of sore.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Patrick shifts a little, and winces. David of course sees it, and the whole mess just gets more uncomfortable, a feedback loop of sympathy and pain. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Want to try and get some sleep?”

Patrick’s head lists obediently towards David’s shoulder, as if it has a life of its own, but the movement makes his ribs twinge painfully. Patrick’s injured right side is next to David, unlike when they were sitting in the airport, so it’s not going to be as easy to lean against him.

David looks him up and down and frowns, then fiddles with the seat arm in between them until he can raise it up and out of the way. He shuffles a little closer to Patrick, his body close and warm. “Does this make it easier?”

Patrick leans carefully, not needing to tilt as much, and breathes out slowly. “Yeah. You sure…?”

“Yes,” David says firmly, without even waiting for Patrick to finish his sentence, assuming Patrick was even able to finish it. “This is good. I mean – for me, this is good, I shouldn’t have assumed, only if you’re comfortable-”

“It’s good,” Patrick says quietly. He sets his hand on David’s thigh, palm up. He can feel the frayed edge of his jeans, the ripped opening right under his hand, and the warmth of his skin underneath.

David places his palm against Patrick’s slowly, reverently. “Try to get some sleep,” he says, his voice wavering. “We’ll be there soon.”

Patrick closes his eyes, and takes slow, measured breaths. He wants to breathe deeply, to inhale David’s scent, but his ribs ache more now than they did yesterday, after over twenty-hour hours without being able to stretch out in a bed. Not that he’d trade anything for his cancelled flight, given what happened as a result.

After some uncertain amount of time he feels David’s breathing slow, and opens his eyes to take him in. David is beautiful when he sleeps. Patrick always loved waking up before David and getting to look at him, his face relaxed and deprived of all its usual armor.

Patrick studies the new lines on David’s face. There are little ones that have crept in despite David’s careful skin care routine. His scruff is longer than he likes it, as a result of not having shaved this morning, and it gives a bit of a rugged edge to his jaw. Patrick is seized with the urge to nibble on David’s earlobe, to wake him up with a whispered request, like he used to do, and laughs to himself at the thought of doing that on a plane – even if they were there yet, which they are not. Which they might never be.

He’s not sure where they are headed. Their melodramatic meeting in Milwaukee, as alliterative as it might be, can hardly be relied upon to set the groundwork for a stable future relationship.

David hums, mutters something about sunscreen, and settles back down. Patrick wants to kiss his mumbled words, tell him not to worry, shush him back to sleep. But he just keeps still.

When the flight attendant comes by asking if they are sure they don’t want something to drink, apparently not influenced at all by the fact that people don’t generally tend to drink anything while sleeping, David rubs his face and blinks.

He’s adorable, making the same disgruntled expression he always did when faced with the cruel reality of waking up, but then he looks at Patrick and his eyes brighten.

“Hi,” David says, his lips pursing, happy but trying not to show it. It still kills Patrick that David censors his own happiness.

“Hi,” Patrick replies. “Have a nice sleep?”

David frowns. “You were supposed to sleep too.”

Patrick shrugs, which is actually sort of painful. David, of course, notices.

“I can’t believe you’re traveling right now,” David scolds him softly. “Do you even have any pain pills? If I had known, I could have found something useful in Alexis’ medicine cabinet.”

They both ignore the fact that neither of them had any clue that they were going to meet up, and that Alexis probably doesn’t have that kind of stuff around the house anymore.

“There’s some extra strength Tylenol in my backpack.” Patrick realizes as he says this that he hasn’t taken any since the night before.

“Okay, give me a sec,” David says, then turns to the woman next to him, who decides it’s a good time to make herself scarce for a few minutes. David tugs Patrick’s backpack down from the overhead compartment and finds the pills. “Need anything else from in here?”

Patrick shakes his head, and David puts his bag away.

“Want to go to the bathroom before Ms. Earpods gets back?”

Patrick is starting to feel like a child, with all David’s questions, but he knows David’s just trying to help.

“No, I’m good.”

David disappears down the aisle, whether to visit the bathroom himself or bother the flight attendants Patrick doesn’t know.

It’s the first time they’ve ever been on a plane together, which is kind of funny given the length of their relationship. They probably would have flown somewhere for their honeymoon, if they had made it that far. Patrick’s glad at least that David doesn’t turn out to have any kind of flight-related phobias or complaints, although chances are he probably does and is just keeping them to himself for Patrick’s sake.

Patrick doesn’t doubt it, actually, because it’s clear that David is still in full-on guilt mode. He’s laser-focused on taking care of Patrick, and not saying a word about his own concerns. Patrick’s not sure what to do about it right now, but he knows they’ll have to talk eventually.

David returns with a fresh bottle of water for Patrick and a plastic cup of something fizzy for himself. “Want to stretch before I sit back down?”

But Patrick is stiff, and sore, and is sort of afraid that he’s going to scream a little when he finally stands up. While stretching now might make it better later, he just can’t do it. “No, still good.”

David slides his way back into his seat.

“What did you get?”

“Ginger ale. I always used to like to get it on flights. If vodka wasn’t an option.”

“No vodka available this morning?” Patrick jokes. “You could have a Bloody Mary.”

Something flickers over David’s face. “Not in the mood, I suppose.”

Patrick stores that away for a later conversation and tries to settle himself in his seat.

“Still hurting? Anything I can-” David sees the look on Patrick’s face and cuts himself off. “Sorry. Too much, I know.”

“No, it’s all right. It’s just gonna hurt for a while, you know?”

“Maybe. But I don’t have to like it.”

Patrick feels a rush of affection for David, one he hasn’t felt in years, and it warms him deep inside. He takes David’s hand and weaves their fingers together, then leans back, closes his eyes, and tries to doze his way through the rest of the flight.

After what seems like forever they land, and Patrick manages to hobble out of his seat and off the plane. He does start to feel better once he gets moving, but he doesn’t object when David take over luggage duty, tugging Patrick’s bag off of the carousel. There are a few trying moments when David’s suitcase is late showing up, but eventually they drag themselves and their belongings out to the waiting area and into an Uber.

Patrick finds himself staring again as David effortlessly loads their luggage into the trunk of the car – he knows his own bag is way too heavy, but David hardly notices, chatting away with the Uber driver. David looks up and catches him staring, and Patrick feels his cheeks warm.

He gives in when David climbs into the car next to him, and runs a hand up David’s arm to his shoulder. His muscles are more defined than they used to be. “You’ve been working out,” he says, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

“Well, when you reach a certain age and want to maintain your appearance, there aren’t many options,” David says breezily, but Patrick can tell he’s pleased.

“I’m impressed.”

David gives Patrick one of his crunched-up smiles, dimples even making a brief appearance, and Patrick knocks their knees together.

It’s like a drug, he thinks, being with David again. Everything seems easier, more fun and less dreary. Of course, being in the Florida sunshine doesn’t hurt, but even the palm trees don’t raise Patrick’s spirits like one sideways smile from David Rose.

The drug metaphor proves its relevance when they finally arrive at the house, and Patrick stumbles as he gets out of the car, coming down. David is at his side in an instant, leaving their suitcases in the driveway as he supports Patrick with an arm around his waist and helps him inside.

“I think I’d better lie down for a while,” Patrick says, and David nods as he looks around.

“Where to?”

Patrick had tried to figure this out earlier, but hadn’t really come to any conclusions. His parents’ retirement home is a style common to this part of Florida, one of many similar homes in a neighborhood filled with snowbirds fleeing to warmer weather every winter. It’s got a master bedroom, a second bedroom with a queen bed that Patrick used on his visits, and a small third room that his parents treat as an office and a spot for their lonely treadmill.

Either Patrick takes his parents’ room and gives David his own, or puts David in his parents’ room. Neither solution seems perfect, but then again he’s not about to make David sleep on the pull-out couch in the office.

Patrick leads David down the hall and pauses in front of the door to his room. David has been glancing into doorways and smirks at Patrick when they stop.

“It’s a bit of a dilemma, isn’t it?”

Patrick snorts. “Somebody’s got to sleep in there.” He nods towards his parents’ room. “They haven’t been here since last April. It really shouldn’t matter.”

David sticks his head into the second bedroom. “I’ll take this one, you take the king. You’re injured.”

Patrick nods, and then feels a pang of disappointment – had he wanted David to suggest sharing a room? Yeah, he realizes, he sort of had. Well, time enough for that, assuming David doesn’t head right back to the airport once they start to talk for real about what ended their relationship.

He climbs into bed, reassures David that he doesn’t need anything else, and falls asleep before he even has a chance to remind David to bring their luggage inside.

When Patrick wakes up, the whole afternoon is gone. His suitcase is set out on the other side of the bed, saving him the trouble of having to bend over to get to it. He finds his toiletry kit and fresh clothes and shuffles into the bathroom.

Before he can get into the shower, he has to deal with his injuries. He peels the bandage on his head away slowly, relieved to see that the redness around his stitches is fading. Unwrapping his ribs is painful, but not unmanageable. Carefully, he eases himself into the shower, and stands under the hot water until it starts to cool.

Clean and dressed in a white t-shirt and joggers, he makes his way out of the bedroom, a little nervous. He put a new bandage on his head, to cover the stitches, but it would be silly to put his hat back on. David’s just going to have to deal with it.

David is standing at the kitchen island, tossing what looks like a Caesar salad. There’s a platter with some sliced chicken breast, and a bowl of strawberries. He glances quickly at Patrick, his eyes widening a little at the sight of his head, but he doesn’t comment.

“What’s all this?” Patrick asks, looking at the spread.

David shakes his head dismissively. “I heard you get into the shower, so I figured I’d get dinner ready.”

“But – where did the food come from?”

David’s mouth curls up at the side. “I think here in the States they call it a supermarket. You can come with me next time, it’s pretty remarkable.”

“Very funny.” Patrick takes a plate and helps himself. “This looks great, David. Thank you.”

David nods, pleased by the compliment.

“I take it you found the car keys, then?” Patrick’s parents bought a used Camry specifically to leave here and use when they visit.

“Yeah, they were very carefully hidden in the glove box.”

Patrick groans, and David smiles at him, and Patrick is suddenly torn between eating this very lovely looking salad and kissing David senseless. Since there’s a fork full of romaine on its way to his mouth, he decides that the kissing will have to wait until later.

They spend what’s left of the evening on the couch, browsing through Netflix until they land on a new cooking show neither of them have seen before. Patrick tries not to think about watching television back in his apartment in Schitt’s Creek, David stretched out with his head in Patrick’s lap while they planned a wedding that never happened.

“Want some popcorn?” David asks after a while. He’s been fidgeting over on his side of the couch, and Patrick figures it’s just as well to give him something to do.

“Sure.”

“What kind?”

“What are my options?”

David goes into the kitchen, which is separated from the living area only by the island, and opens a cabinet. “Microwave movie theater butter, or kettle corn. Also some of that cheese stuff you like.”

Apparently David’s shopping trip had been thorough. “Smartfood?”

“Um, yes.” David doesn’t like cheese popcorn because of the way the coating sticks on his fingers, and threatens his knits.

“Kettle corn, please,” Patrick requests.

David ducks his head and smiles. Kettle corn is David’s favorite, as they both know.

David sits a little closer to Patrick this time, the popcorn bowl on his lap, positioned so they can both reach it. When they polish it off, David puts the bowl on the coffee table and then clasps his hands together, turning to Patrick.

“So, um, I know this has all been rather, well, sudden, and I was thinking that maybe we should talk about-” David starts, but Patrick cuts him off.

“Actually, could we not do this tonight?” His words come out abruptly, and he winces.

“Oh.” David straightens and shifts. “Of course. That’s fine, it’s been a long day.”

Patrick hates that he shut him down, that he rejected David’s brave and healthy attempt to treat their relationship like the fragile thing that it is. He fixes his gaze on the television, expecting David to excuse himself and go to bed.

But he doesn’t. David’s arm comes up and around Patrick, slowly, giving Patrick plenty of time to decline, and then settles gently, David’s fingers stroking the side of Patrick’s neck. Patrick closes his eyes and leans his head on David’s shoulder, trying to feel like he deserves this.

They have been given an unexpected chance to right the wrongs that led to their breakup. But Patrick knows that he hasn’t done his part yet. And what he said to David in Milwaukee might have even made it worse. Patrick didn’t lie, but he didn’t exactly tell the whole truth. And he’s petrified that when it comes out, David might not be willing to brave the alligators for him anymore.

#Schitt's Creek #Schitt's Creek fic #David Rose #Patrick Brewer #David x Patrick #Schitts Creek #angst in the land of snowbirds

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emptymasks · 4 years

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Wither and Wilt

Pairing: Rudolf von Österreich-Ungarn | Rudolf Crown Prince of Austria/Der Tod | Death

(as in Rudolf has a crush on Der Tod, it’s up to you whether Der Tod truly returns his affections, I wrote it that he does truly like Rudolf but you’re welcome to interpret it anyway you like)

Words: 2032

Rating: General Audiences

Read on Ao3 @ emptymasks. I can’t put the link or tumblr blocks the post.

Notes: Death is based on Uwe Kröger's Der Tod from the original 1992 production, with a little bit of inspiration also drawn from the Hungarian production's A Halal. You could probably picture anyone as Rudolf, I kept imagining Andreas Bieber and Lukas Perman's portrayals while writing it. Death is genderfluid in this because 1. I'm genderfluid and I see Uwe's death as genderfluid and that representation matters a lot to me , and 2. Uwe literally descried his Der Tod as fluid in gender and sexuality. So there's your canon genderfluid, pansexual Death.

So... you will most likely laugh when I say how i got the idea for this fic, that after having several WIP's for various Elisabeth fics, I ended up writing this because, right, I was playing Animal Crossing and of course I've made several of Uwe's and Máté's Der Tod costumes for me to wear in the game and while wearing my 'Uwe Tod Jacket' I put a white wildflower in my hair and literally had to leave the game so I could right this because the idea came straight away.

It was unusually sunny for April. Sunlight peaked in out of the tree branches of the gardens, casting speckles of stained glass windows onto the grass. The many flowers and shrubs only sought to pair with the weather and make the most pleasant day of the year so far.

It was the weather that had driven Rudolf outside. He loved the fresh air, loved feeling it on his skin, despite how his family would prefer him cooped up inside. (Though they always seemed to want him inside when he wanted to be outside, and outside when he wanted to be inside. Forever wanting for him whatever he wished for the least.) He'd forgone a jacket or coat, allowing the breeze to flutter against his white shirt that billowed out as he moved.

A glimpse of sunlight and a walk alone through the gardens was one of the few pleasures in life Rudolf had at the moment. One of the few things that was just his. He was fortunate that the spring air hadn't coaxed anyone else outside and he got to enjoy all of it to himself.

Although... there was one person who couldn't damper his walks, only increase the joy Rudolf found on them. And as if he'd been waiting for Rudolf to think of him, the wind turned bitterly too cold for a moment and a pair of footsteps were at his side.

They didn't speak for a while. They didn't need to. Rudolf found comfort in his old friend simply being by his side, he needn't do anything. They walked in tandem until they came to a small clearly populated by wildflowers and Rudolf could feel the wind high on his cheeks.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" His voice was quiet, as if afraid it was a stupid thing to say.

"Quite," Death's reply was soft and it called to Rudolf like a siren and he turned his head to find Death wasn't staring at the clearly, he was simply starting at Rudolf.

Rudolf felt his mouth part and cheeks flush and he didn't know how to prolong the moment and he definitely didn't want to say anything that would cause Death to leave. He walked a few paces more.

"Would you like to sit with me for a while? It doesn't have to be long, I know you're always busy, and you shouldn't feel like you have to spend any time with me and..." Rudolf trailed off as Death sat down at his feet.

"I assure you, Rudolf, I wouldn't be wasting my time by spending it with anyone I like."

"Oh..." He winced at how stupid he sounded. "Alright then."

He sat down opposite Death, not close enough to touch, afraid of what would happen if they did but also longing to know. Death turned his head and looked out across the gardens and Rudolf took the chance to stare.

Out of all the times Death had come to him, only a couple of them had been outside of his bedroom. (Not that that had any implications, he pleaded at his heart). The few times they'd been outdoors had been at night or in the evening, the light low and dark, Death rivalling the moon with his glow.

This was the first time he'd ever seen Death in the daylight.

Rudolf felt like he had to hold his breath as he gazed. The sun made Death's hair a more buttercup yellow, more colourful than he'd ever seen it, and only highlighted how pale his skin was even more. Where human's skin would darken a red colour, his seemed to be... blue. Rudolf thought about how impossible that was, but this was Death. For all he knew Death's blood was blue, if he even had blood at all. Light gleamed off his skin and it almost looked as if there were tiny, intricate crystals along his cheekbones, glistening and shimmering.

He didn't know what Death could be looking at, and realised Death very well might not be looking at anything at all. He may just be content to let Rudolf stare. And so Rudolf tore his gaze away and looked down. The more colourful flowers had given way to ones of pure white and Rudolf plucked one up with an idea. A stupid, childish idea that Rudolf found himself acting on.

“Here,” Rudolf reached up, the pale white flower trembling in his hand, and tucked it behind Death’s ear. “White looks nice on you.”

Death’s face cracked for a second, broke out of its usual cold and calm expression into one of quiet shock, and then the smallest smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Why, thank you, my little prince,” He spoke and Rudolf thought about how often Death’s voice sounded like it was only for him, as if everything Death said to him was their own little secret. A black gloved hand reached towards the bundle of white wildflowers in Rudolf’s hands. “Why don’t you match with me?”

Rudolf’s hands jerked back and Death’s face morphed back to looking cold. He tilted his head. Always so curious about humans and their funny little worries.

The cold gaze lingered on Rudolf, he could feel it baring down on him as he looked at his hands.

He hadn’t meant to react as quickly and sharply as that. Should he explain himself? He wished sometimes Death would just ask him things more often, but Death was so content to just sit and wait until Rudolf was ready to share and that just caused more anxiety to swirl around in Rudolf’s stomach. What if Death wasn’t really waiting until he was ready to speak? What if Death just didn’t want to know and if Rudolf opened his mouth he’d just be bothering another person, disappointing another person, words and ideas tumbling out of his lips before he can stop them, his passion seen as immaturity and naivety. What if Death was merely humouring him, and as soon as Rudolf spilled his heart all over porcelain skin and black velvet, he was met with jeers; His mother sat on her throne as Death coiled around from behind her and leaned into her ear, lips brushing against skin, heat and temptation and desire pouring out of his mouth as she looked down on him in scorn.

A sudden coldness brushed against his hand, then slowly pressed down and Rudolf fought the urge to shiver.

Death’s hand laid bare against his own.

He knew of course, that all that was ever under those gloves were hands, just ordinary hands (well ordinary looking hands), but he half had expected something monstrous. Perhaps gnarled or scared skin. Perhaps a blue glow that seemed to linger around Death just as he would enter or leave his visits. Perhaps claws.

Instead pristinely manicured nails decorated the soft, albeit cold, skin that rested against him. Death was a prideful being. He still had his head slightly tilted, eye’s deciphering a puzzle.

“This is about more than you not wanting to wear flowers in your hair…?” Death said it like he himself quiet sure he was asking a question.

“It’s…” Rudolf felt like he’d surfaced out of water and had the urge to take gasping breaths. “It’s not that I don’t want to… It’s… It’s not something a man does.”

“According to whom?” Rudolf forced himself to keep still, even as he thought he heard Death almost chuckle.

“Grandmother said-”

“Oh, your family and their silly, little ideas-”

“Grandmother said that men don’t wear flowers. Flowers and pretty things are for women and girls to wear and for men to admire.” Rudolf was surprised at how he continued to talk over Death. From anyone else he would have received a reprimand, but Death looked proud.

“…You’ve put one in my hair.”

“Yes, well, to be honest I’m never really quite sure if you’re a man.”

He didn’t mistake Death chuckling at that.

“I’m never quite sure of that myself, either. I find it tends to change with the wind," And Death got Rudolf to chuckle in return. "So, tell me,” He leaned forward and got that glint in his eyes as if he’d just spotted an opportunity to gain something, some new piece of information or emotion. “Is it wrong for me to be wearing it? Or are you seeing me as a pretty woman to be admired by your masculine gaze?”

Rudolf could feel his face heating up.

“Or perhaps, my dear prince, you don’t think it’s only women who should be admired?” Rudolf tried to pull his hands back, but Death had a firm grip on them. “It’s alright, it’s quite alright. I’m truly flattered. And, let me tell you this because I think you need to hear it, it’s perfectly normal. There’s nothing wrong with it. Your grandmother’s opinions on the other hand… Who is she to say what you can and cannot wear? My future emperor,” Death reached out with his gloveless hand and brushed his fingers over Rudolf’s cheek and he shivered. “Only you are in charge of what you do, how you choose to dress, and who you choose to be.”

He held Death's gaze for what felt like an eternity. Everything seemed to be waltzing around them as they themselves where held captive in their own dance, twirling as the world fell down around them.

Death seemed like he was waiting for something. Rudolf sat, frozen, and Death retracted his hand.

"I think you'd look rather fetching..." Death murmured as if talking to himself, but well aware that Rudolf could hear him. His fingers skated over the flowers standing proud from the ground, ghosting over them but never touching. The flowers almost seemed to bend out of his way, as if they knew who he was, what he could do.

Their eyes met with a challenge in Death's that said 'pick one'. Rudolf's hands moved blindly as he wrapped his fingers against what he hoped was a flower and tugged. He'd thought his hands had been shaking when he tucked one behind Death's ear, but it was nothing compared to how much they were quivering now.

"Will you...?" Rudolf held his hands forward and Death hesitated for a moment, fingers twitching. Was there a reason why he hadn't just picked one himself and placed it in Rudolf's hair? Rudolf knew what Death's kiss could do, and he'd wondered if the reason Death wore gloves was the same. But he'd just been touching Rudolf, and he was still alive.

Death's eyes flickered between the flower and Rudolf's eyes, before he leaned forwards. He picked the flower up carefully by its stem and slid his finger and thumb together, causing the flower to twirl around. He watched it with a curiosity Rudolf would have described as 'child-like' if it wasn't Death he was trying to describe.

He was almost mesmerised by the spinning of the flower that he almost didn't notice it at first. The flower was drooping ever so slightly. He thought perhaps Death's group was just squashing its stem, but it seemed to keep drooping and drooping. Death moved his hand and Rudolf followed with his eyes as the flower was drawn up to Death's face.

White petals brushed over cold lips.

The flower yielded.

It furled in on itself and faded, the top of the stem turning a pale, rusted brown. Death's hand moved and Rudolf was amazed that the petals didn't fall out. Perhaps somehow Death was keeping them in there? Rudolf expected cold brush against his ear, but none came. Death was still moving, picking and plucking more flowers, and as he wove them together they cried out and wilted. He closed up the chain and held it up, inspecting it, before shifting his gaze back to Rudolf.

Death raised himself up into his knees and placed the circle dead flowers on Rudolf's head.

"There," Death said. "A crown fit for an emperor. My emperor."

There was a sound like the ghost of a snapping branch and Death turned his head.

And then he was gone, and Rudolf was alone, frozen as the petals started to fall from his head.

#elisabeth das musical #der tod #elisabeth the musical #elisabeth musical #todolf #crown prince rudolf #mywriting #mine

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gra-sonas · 4 years

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A Kiss a Decade in the Making

Pairing: Malex, Alex Manes/Michael Guerin

Words: 4.8K | Rating: T | On AO3

"Is Jenna going to schedule snogging rehearsals for us?”

Alex smiles at him.

“It’s a fair question to ask. How do we, two people who’ve only just met, play two men who’ve been in love for a decade?"

Initially, the story stems from the question how the actors - who hadn't met before filming the pilot - may have worked out the 'logistics' of the Malex kiss in 1x01, and whether there was something like a snogging rehearsal. Any similarities between the characters and the actual actors are - of course - purely coincidental. ;)

A couple of dialogue snippets from the original Roswell New Mexico 1x01 script have made their way into the fic, they are displayed in a 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚗𝚝.

This fic has been sitting in my WIP folder for months and initially I had no plans to ever post it, but thanks to the wonderful encouragement and helpful beta works of @i-never-look-away & @cosmiceverafter, here it is. Love you, guys! ♥

~*~

When they get up to leave showrunner Jenna Cameron’s office, there’s a moment of hesitation as they arrive at the door at the same time. Michael takes the initiative and opens the door. He can’t help himself and bends his knee in a ridiculous half curtsy while he gestures at Alex to walk out first. Alex looks slightly bewildered for a moment but then he smiles.

“Thank you, Michael.”

Michael perks up. Not many people call him Michael, there are way too many Michaels in the world, that’s why he goes by Guerin everywhere.

“You can call me Guerin, it’s what everyone does.”

Alex nods.

“I’ll think about it. I like it though. Michael. It’s a good name. Suits you.”

He walks off and leaves a stunned Michael behind. What does that even mean, he’ll think about it? Michael’s just a name. Not a bad name, he also considers it a lucky name, after all it has landed him a role that could very well be his first leading role in a major network TV show. At least that’s what he likes to think.

For that to happen, the show just needs to get picked up to series. After reading the script and hearing Jenna talk about what she envisions, he’s even more confident that the show has great potential. If they are going to do this right, they will be picked up.

Doing it right is the thing though. He already loves Mikel Rath, sees a lot of himself in him, and a lot of things he can at least relate to. The quick wit, the anger issues, the sarcastic and funny side of him.

There’s just one thing he’s unsure about. The thing with Alistair. The Alistair & Mikel thing. He wonders what their moniker would be? Milistair? Or Alikel? Do they have to come up with one themselves, or will they leave that to the fans? He makes a mental note to ask Jenna about it.

Michael has a bunch of LGBTQ friends, he’s even part of the community himself (although he’s never acted on it, which sometimes makes him feel like he’s not allowed to claim membership), and he’s lived in LA long enough to be aware of the significance of LGBTQ representation on screen. He knows how important this relationship is going to be to many people. How important it is to get it right. From what Jenna’s just told them, she has a lot in mind for these two characters, but only if there’s going to be a show Aliens of New Mexico .

The pilot only gives them one shot at selling it. It won’t just be on their shoulders alone, of course, Liz and Max will have to do most of the heavy lifting with their characters, but he has a feeling that this Alistair and Mikel thing will still play a vital role in TV executives making a decision that could change his life forever.

Michael takes a deep breath and slowly walks back to his trailer. On the way he recalls the meeting he had with Jenna and Alex. Jenna’s awesome, he’s met her before back in LA, and she’s also responsible for hiring him. He met Alex for the first time in Jenna’s office just now, though. He hasn’t had much time to get to know the man yet.

Alex had been earnest during their meeting, notes written in the margins of his script and post-its marking some pages. He’d asked Jenna a lot of questions during their read through of the Alistair & Mikel scenes.

It had been interesting to listen to an experienced TV actor asking all these questions. Michael had never been an avid watcher of Charming Young Deceivers, but even he had heard about Gemma & Mic’s popularity. Referred to as Gemic by fans, they’d been crowned Best TV Couple in almost every online poll for several years, and Alex Manes had won three Teen Choice Awards for his portrayal of Mic, plus two others with his co-star for Best Couple. They’d also won three awards for Best Kiss. So, no pressure.

When Michael had found out that Alex Manes would play Alistair, he’d almost felt a bit giddy because he instantly knew what face went with the name.

He’d then done what he imagined most people would've done in his position: he’d gone and looked up Alex Manes in news and on social media. Since Instagram seemed to be his personal favorite, he went there first. Impressive follower count, very curated content (gorgeous photos though), cute dog (a beagle called Buffy, Alex had tagged her ‘Love of my Life’ in several photos). Alex seemed like an interesting guy who was not only very photogenic, but also had great taste in interior design, music, and he loved to travel. Michael had been looking forward to meeting him.

Then he’d read Alex’s Wikipedia entry. Like the character he was about to play, he came from a military family, his parents got divorced when Alex was in middle school and he’d grown up with his mom, while his three older brothers had stayed with their dad. He’d filmed a couple of indie movies and to Michael’s surprise, had released a number of singles. Michael’d listened to all of them and really liked them. One song had stood out to him in particular, a duet with Rosa Ortecho, a household name in the LA indie music scene. Michael was impressed.

Reading about the incident in Afghanistan, where Alex had been visiting US troops and lost part of his leg when their convoy had been attacked, had made Michael swallow hard. He’d then gone back to Alex’s Instagram account and looked through some of his more recent pictures. Now that Michael was aware of what had happened, he’d noticed a crutch in the background of some of the pictures. And there was a photo of Alex in a German military hospital, a beautiful dark-haired woman (probably his mom) by his side.

Now that they’ve met, Michael is not sure what to think of Alex, who seems to be so much more than the handful of “facts” Michael had gathered from the internet. Alex had been nothing but friendly during their meeting with Jenna, he’d often looked at Michael, had tried to include him in the conversation (it had seemed like he’d been aware that Michael didn’t come with the same kind of TV experience under his belt as he did), had asked him questions, had listened with great attention when Michael spoke.

All things considered it had been a great meeting. It had given Michael much needed input to get a better idea of the Alistair & Mikel dynamic. And yet her he is, still feeling somewhat insecure about it.

There’s one line in the pilot script that stood out to him in particular when he read the script for the first time, and it’s been nagging him ever since.

𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎, 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 -- 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢’𝚛𝚎 𝙺𝙸𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙽𝙶

Muscle memory springing to life? How are they going to pull that off when they barely know each other?

When Michael reaches his trailer, he looks around. Max’s trailer is to his left, Isobel’s trailer is to his right, Liz is right across from him. Valenti’s trailer’s right to Liz’s, and if memory serves him right, Alex’s trailer is to Liz’s left.

With just an idea in his mind, Michael crosses the short distance and knocks on the door of Alex’s trailer.

“Come in.”

Michael opens the door and is hit by a waft of warm air that smells rather nice. He quickly enters the trailer and closes the door behind him. He looks around and although they’ve all arrived in Albuquerque just 48 hours ago, Alex’s trailer already looks very cozy and lived in.

A set of what must be scented candles is burning, set on a wooden plate on the sideboard in front of the big mirror. Something slow and jazz-y is playing over two small speakers, and Alex, clad in gray sweat pants and a soft looking baby blue hoodie, lounges on the recliner, a beautifully patterned quilt in earthy colors draped over his lower legs.

He’s looking up at Michael, carefully placing a bookmark in the pilot episode script he'd been reading when Michael entered the trailer, before he places it on the table in front of him.

“Michael, good to see you. Can I offer you some tea?”

Michael is not much of a tea drinker, but it’s cold in Albuquerque this time of the year, and if Alex’s already offering to make tea, this could be a much-needed bonding experience. He smiles.

“That would be great, thanks. Can I help?”

His mom Mara has raised him right, he never expects people to just serve him, but Alex is already up and heads over to the small kitchen area. He busies himself with boiling water and placing cookies in a ceramic bowl. He looks over at Michael.

“Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Are you warm enough? I can turn up the heating some more if you’re cold?”

Michael plops down on the comfy chair offered to him and shakes his head.

“Thanks, I’m naturally running hot, I’m good.”

That remark earns him a raised brow from Alex. No kidding, Alex Manes is capable of raising just one brow. It gives his face something almost diabolic for a second, until one corner of his mouth twitches and he smirks.

“You’re running hot, huh? Good to know.”

Michael blushes. He honest to god blushes. Holy shit. Is Alex Manes flirting with him? He’s not sure. Alex is so different from his group of friends and the people he’s worked with in the past. They are usually just taking the shit out of him (and vice versa). With Alex it's all new and unknown terrain.

He’s being pulled out of his thoughts when Alex returns to the table and puts a mug of steaming tea in front of him. And of course, he doesn’t just place it on the wooden table, he’s putting a coaster underneath. Because Alex Manes is a cultivated man who brings his own quilt, scented candles and fucking coasters to a 3-week-shoot in the desert.

Michal is impressed, but also intimidated. His usual crowd is loud and rambunctious, and it suits his outgoing personality perfectly. Alex is only three months older than him, but he almost feels like an insecure kid meeting a man of the world. He shakes off that mental image and waits until Alex is snuggled up under his quilt again before he takes a cookie. It’s chocolate chip, and it tastes divine .

“Holy shit, these are amazing. Where did you get them? I have to buy three boxes.”

Alex chuckles.

“I don’t usually do orders, but I can give you the recipe, they’re quite easy to make.”

Michael is in awe. He loves food more than almost anything in the world, and he knows his way around a stove or oven. He’ll figure out a way to make these cookies.

“Didn’t take you for a baker, but you sure know what you did with these. They are incredible. I’d love the recipe. I’ll send it to my mom. She’ll be so excited.”

He must’ve said the right thing, because Alex’s smile turns warm and genuine for the first time since they’ve met.

“Moms, right?”

Michael couldn’t agree more and nods enthusiastically. He picks up his mug.

“To amazing moms.”

Alex picks up his mug and toasts back.

“To amazing moms.”

They both sip some tea and for a moment the music in the background is the only sound in the trailer. Michael is careful to place his mug on its coaster before he picks up the conversation again.

“Okay, now that we’ve established that we’re both momma’s boys, I hope we can take it from there and get to know each other better and maybe build something for our Alistair and Mikel dynamic. What do you think?”

He’s nervous all of a sudden. Alex is an experienced actor, he’s been doing this professionally for more than a decade. When Michael sees Alex’s face soften, he’s feeling better immediately.

“I think that’s a great idea. There’s this one sentence in the script that shows how close they are, or at least how close they must've been at some point, and I think it would be good to find that closeness somehow. And then we’re going to show the execs what a kiss a decade in the making looks like.”

Michael laughs.

“You won’t believe it, but that’s been my thought process on my way from Jenna’s office to your trailer. I mean, Liz and Max still have the biggest responsibility to convince the higher ups, but in my opinion, Alistair and Mikel are just as important and as much of a selling point.”

Encouraged by Alex nodding in agreement, Michael continues.

"The scene you mentioned, is our springboard, that’s the moment where the audience has to realize that this isn’t just a spur of the moment thing. These two men have history. We may not know about that history yet, but it has to be clear that they know each other. It’s really helpful for me that Jenna wrote that bit about muscle memory into the script. The question is, how do we get to a point where we look like we’ve done this before? Is Jenna going to schedule snogging rehearsals for us?”

Alex bursts out laughing. On the one hand Michael’s delighted that he’s managed to make Alex laugh, on the other hand that he’s worried he’s made a stupid suggestion.

“Uhm, sorry if that was dumb. I’m just a very hands-on guy. I often approach my roles from as much of a physical perspective as I do from the emotional perspective of my character.”

Alex smiles at him.

“You didn’t say anything dumb. It’s a fair question to ask. How do we, two people who’ve only just met, play two men who’ve been in love for a decade? I want this to be every bit of convincing and true to these characters as you. In all honesty, I might have an even bigger interest in it, given that I’m part of the community who will watch this part of the show very closely.”

Michael knows that Alex is gay, in his research he’s found articles and an interview that had been released after Charming Young Deceivers ended. Media and fans alike had been in a frenzy over the coming out, especially after Alex had been part of one of the most beloved straight couples in TV history.

Michael looks at Alex as open and honest as he feels.

“I’m bi myself, so this story means a lot to me, too. I want to do it justice, and I want to do right by a community I know is marginalized in many, many ways. They - we - deserve me giving it my all. And that’s what I want to do. That’s what the script demands. And I think Alistair and Mikel have the potential to be as important and relevant as Liz and Max’s characters. Maybe even more so.”

Michael’s run out of breath at this point, something that barely ever happens, but this is important to him, and he hopes Alex understands what he means. Going by the look on Alex’s face, he does. His eyes seem to glisten, but maybe it’s just a trick of light.

Alex clears his throat and takes another sip from his mug.

“You know, I’ve had the hardest time making the decision whether to take on this role. After seven years on my previous show and coming out after we wrapped, I took a year off. I just needed a break from pretending to be someone I’m not for way too long. The media just always assumed I had to be straight because I played a straight guy on TV. I knew it was risky to come out when the show ended, it could’ve ended my career as well, but I couldn’t live the lie by omission my life had become any longer. I did a lot of soul searching and focused on myself. I was at a point where I didn’t know if I should continue to work in this business, when the accident happened. After that, I didn't know if I could continue to work in this business. I’m sure you know enough about the industry to understand how hard it is as an able-bodied, assumed-straight, assumed white male actor.”

Michael nods, he knows all too well how hard it is. He’s been driving Uber and Lyft for more than a year to make ends meet, and as a talented mechanic, he’d also done the odd car repair job for friends or people recommended to him for extra cash, he’d spent on more acting classes.

Alex puts his mug down and rubs at his eyes with the palms of his hands before he looks at Michael again, his gaze intense.

“Well, after playing a straight white guy for years, people now know that Alex Manes is actually a gay man, who’s half Native American, and also disabled. I’ve worked my way up in LA for years, until my name was one casting people and show execs would recognize. Expectations were always high, but the longer Deceivers went on, the pressure to replicate the success got bigger every year, and the media wanted to be fed with the same narrative over and over again. Especially in regards to my personal life.”

Alex shakes his head, probably thinking about gossip magazine headlines questioning whether his female co-star of seven years and him were banging in real life. Michael shudders in sympathy.

“When the show ended, I just couldn’t continue and pretend to be the guy they wanted to write about. If someone had asked me one more time what my dream girl would have to be like, I can’t guarantee I wouldn’t have committed a murder. And now they know that I’m really not that guy."

Alex points at the script on the table.

“When I got this, I’d more or less made my peace with the idea of never being able to act again, while simultaneously worrying about what to do with my life instead. This role, this story, came at the right time. I read the script and I knew immediately that I wanted to play Alistair. That – to a degree – I am Alistair.”

Alex takes a steadying breath.

“I’m not going to make this about me all the time, don’t worry, but I wanted you to know where I’m coming from, and that there’s the potential that some part of my story will bleed into Alistair’s story. Mentally I’m still a bit ‘all over the place’ right now, I’m more emotional than usual, and I still struggle with the decision of having signed up for a project that could turn into yet another commitment of several years. But I think the show has the potential to be really good. For myself, and for many people like me.”

Michael gets up from his chair and walks over to the recliner. He reaches out to Alex with both arms.

“Man, would it be ok if I offer you a hug? I know I could use a hug right now. It’s ok if you don’t want, of course, but I thought I’d ask?”

Alex looks at him with big eyes, but then he untangles himself from the quilt, gets up and steps into Michael’s open arms. Michael wraps his arms around Alex’s upper body, while Alex’s arms slowly wind around Michael’s mid-section. It’s only awkward for a second, then both men give in and melt into a comforting embrace. They just stand there in the middle of Alex’s trailer for a long time, holding each other, breathing in and out in perfect sync.

They lose track of time, but eventually Alex bends back a little to look at Michael’s face from close up.

“Momma’s boys and suckers for hugs, I have a feeling, things between us are going to be just fine.”

Michael snickers.

“I’m warning you, I’m a cuddle slut. I can fall asleep on people’s shoulders, or I will sloth-hug them from behind when I’m tired. Feel free to tell me no at any time though, I know not everybody’s comfortable with that kind of invasion of their personal space.”

Alex smiles.

“Thanks, I’m trying to listen to my needs more closely. In general, I do enjoy a good hug, but sometimes it can be too much. Boundaries are hard.”

Michael nods.

“Don’t I know it. I mean, I’m not having a hard time to accept or notice other people’s boundaries, it’s more like that I often ignore my own boundaries in an effort to please everyone. Leaves me drained and exhausted, but then life demands that I’m being me again, and I never seem to have enough time and space to recharge.”

They end the hug, but when they sit down again, they do so on the recliner side by side, their knees touching. Michael’s right leg bounces.

“So, after we’ve bonded over some emotional stuff, how do we get to the muscle memory part of our characters’ connection? Kissing boot camp? I’ll admit, although I know I’m bi, I’ve never kissed a dude before. I don’t expect it to be that different from kissing a girl, but I can’t be sure. I’ve looked up your filmography and saw that you did this cool musical film where you played a seemingly gay man. How did you and your co-star approach that thing between your characters?”

Alex laughs.

“Did you see the movie?”

Michael shakes his head.

“I didn’t have the time to watch it, but I saw the trailer, and, uhm, there’s a making of clip of one rather steamy scene on YouTube, I watched that.”

Alex smirks at him.

“Did you now? Interesting. Well, in general we talked with the director of course, how they wanted the scene to go, stuff like that. We did a screen test where we kissed before the shoot. Colton’s also gay, so we both had no trouble with the ‘kissing a dude’ part. But as it is with any kiss on screen, kissing a stranger is never easy.”

Michael nods.

“Okay, that makes sense. Maybe they’re going to do a screen test with us, too? To make sure we’re compatible? Jenna didn’t mention anything, right?”

Alex shakes his head.

“No, she didn’t. I don’t think there will be a screen test. This is just a pilot, and they’re on a tight budget. They’ll expect us to knock it out of the park as soon as the cameras roll.”

Michael swallows around a lump in his throat that wasn’t there a minute ago.

“Good, that’s cool. I mean, looking at you, it’s not exactly a hardship to imagine how great it must be to kiss you. I’ll do my best to make it not awkward.”

Alex smiles at him, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. He’s careful with his next words.

“If it makes you feel better, we can do a screen test without cameras? Figure out how to embrace without colliding? I mean, we don’t have to kiss, obviously, if it makes you uncomfortable or you think it’s not necessary. But we could work out some kind of choreography and develop the ‘muscle memory’ for the kissing scene?”

Alex doesn’t look straight at Michael when he makes his proposal, only when he ends, his eyes are back on Michael with full focus. Michael feels like he’s blushing furiously, although he really hopes that isn’t the case.

“Uhm, okay, that’s a great idea actually. A choreography. I like that. I’d rather not knock you unconscious with my thick skull just because we both go for the same side.”

Alex laughs and stands up again. He holds his hand out to Michael.

“Come on then, let’s try.”

Michael takes Alex’s hand and lets himself get pulled up into a standing position. Alex doesn’t release his hand, so Michael follows him to the middle of the trailer where they have enough space to move around without bumping into furniture. Alex takes one more step until they stand opposite from each other.

“Is there anything off limits with what you’re comfortable with? Like, do I have to know about any particularly ticklish spots, is it ok to touch your hair? That kind of stuff.”

Michael thinks about it for a second, then he shakes his head.

“I can’t think of anything. How about you?”

Alex shakes his head.

“I’m pretty ticklish, but I don’t think you’re going to tickle me. Should we just act out the scene like it’s in the script and see how it goes?”

Michael nods. He picks up his script from where he’d placed it on the table earlier and quickly reads through the instructions for the scene’s set-up.

“Okay, why don’t you take the chair from over there, and I enter from the kitchen area?”

Alex nods in agreement. He pulls out the chair from under the desk and props up his right leg on the seat. He pulls up the leg of is sweatpants and pretends to adjust something on his prosthesis.

Michael’s stepped back into the kitchen area and looks at Alex. His hair is tousled and he looks warm and slightly flushed. For a moment, Michael glances at the metal of Alex’s leg reflecting the light, but then he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He’s Mikel Rath now. An alien who’s lived in this town for ten years while the love of his life went to war. They are not on good terms, but there’s still love.

A love that’s been tested over and over again, but never went away. Michael opens his eyes and looks at Alex. Alex, who’s Alistair Jessup now, a decorated war veteran. Not the same person Mikel fell in love with a decade ago. Not a boy anymore. Alistair is a man now. But the love, oh the love, it's burning just as bright as the first day he’d laid eyes on him.

Mikel takes a step forward into the room, as per description “belt buckle first”.

"𝙽𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚒𝚊’𝚜 𝚊 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑, 𝚑𝚞𝚑."

Alistair adjusts the leg of his pants and puts his foot back on the ground. He looks at Mikel, his eyes dark and questioning. He sighs.

"𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙸𝚛𝚊𝚚, 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎."

Mikel feels embarrassed all of a sudden. Alistair is right, it’s been ten years and he’s still stuck in the same place, wasting his life, just like Alistair said earlier. But then Alistair doesn’t know why he never left, what kept him in their hometown, or rather who. Mikel is tired, and his shoulders drop. He sounds resigned.

"𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝? 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘?"

Alistair shakes his head, he also looks tired, his eyes are hollow.

"𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛."

The ‘what I want never mattered’ is hanging like an unspoken truth between them. Mikel takes a step forward, his eyes on Alistair. Alistair in return, takes one step in Mikel’s direction. They are close now. Very close. They look at each other, their eyes telling an entire story while they remain quiet.

When they both start moving at the same time, there’s no need to figure out a choreography. Mikel’s arms reach for Alistair’s head, his fingers slotting around his neck just so, while Alistair’s hands go underneath Mikel’s arms and wrap around Mikel’s torso. They both pull the other in until there’s no space left between them. Mikel takes another breath before he closes the last inch of distance between them and their lips meet in a searing kiss.

They are swaying back and forth, their lips pressing firmly against each other. They are Alistair and Mikel for a long moment, until Mikel Rath slowly turns back into Michael Guerin and Alistair fades back into Alex Manes, and now it’s them kissing all of a sudden, and no longer the characters they are supposed to play.

Michael doesn’t know how to stop. He doesn’t want to. He’s holding onto Alex’s face and looks at him like he’s searching for something. When he sees what he’s been hoping to find, he closes his eyes and lets his lips go soft, his mouth turning into a pliant invitation

When he feels Alex’s tongue nudging at his lower lip, he opens his mouth and lets him in.

#malex fic #malex #alex manes #michael guerin #roswell new mexico #my fic #rnm 1x01 #rnm fic

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siarven · 4 years

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Fluffcember #4 - Ocean

Fluffcember Prompt list! :3

WIP: Hope Beyond Characters: Phaedra, Morgan, Alia POV: Phaedra 2592 words. Rest and Tags below the cut! :3

In which Phaedra, Morgan and Alia force their way through one mile of wild forest to see the sunset over the ocean (which, in Morgan’s and Alia’s case, is seeing the ocean for the first time in general).

"Today", Phaedra promises, smiling to herself. "I think we should make it by sunset, actually." She looks back at Alia in the rear-view mirror, and then at Morgan, sitting next to her. Morgan hasn't been able to take her eyes off the road in what feels like forever. They've driven through fields, quaint little villages, huge, booming towns, majestic forests of all kinds, even through the mountains. Phaedra can’t fault her, and she also can’t suppress the small, soft smile that makes its way stubbornly onto her lips every time she doesn’t pay attention.

And now, today, they will reach the ocean.

The best roadb trip of all time... not that Phaedra would know, of course. She's only been on one, this far, and that was after she'd finished school, with her then-friends.

Funny, how time is both faster and slower than expected...

"Today!!!", Alia echoes her, her voice brimming with happiness and excitement, “today we will reach the ocean!"

Also funny how the perception of a person changes, the more time you spend around them. She doesn't even seem strange to me anymore, Phaedra thinks to herself, and that thought makes her happy, in a gentle, motherly way. After all, if this is how she feels, others must, too?

"Today", Morgan whispers, and finally turns away from the window. Her eyes are wide open, brimming with...something. Something Phaedra can't really put her finger on, but it makes the small smile disappear.

"My parents wanted to take me to see it, before..." Morgan's voice dwindles away, and then she's quiet again, turning back to her window.

Phaedra doesn't like this quiet one bit.

"No", she says. "Screw that. Morgan? Look at me. That's in the past, and we don't care about the past. It's gone, alright? The past doesn't matter anymore, because we've got to look forward! Take a deep breath. The future is what matters, and what you do with it. And we're going to see the ocean today, at sunset, and it's going to be glorious." It better be.

After a few moments Morgan finally turns, nods. "Yeah", she mutters. She still looks weird, but then she offers a tentative smile. "Thanks for the pep talk, grandma", she says. Phaedra makes a shocked face, but on the inside they happy smile is returning.

"Just living my best life", she says, and it's true. This, right here? This is the best place on earth, in this car, with these two. There's nowhere else she'd rather be.

It does take them until almost-sunset to reach the ocean. Well, to almost reach it. Thing is: the road is pretty close to it, but it doesn't quite reach it. There's still forest in between. A forest full of pitfalls and tangling shrubs that don't want anyone to move through it, and while there are also the tracks of various forms of wildlife, they aren't really all that well-suited for people.

Still, Phaedra doesn't even have to ask. Morgan is already pulling her hiking boots on, a very determined expression on her face, and Alia looks like she's ready to climb through thorny undergrowth with bare feet. She’d probably pull it off without hurting herself, too.

"We will make it", Morgan says. "It's, what, a mile? Pah, that's nothing. We still have..." She checks her watch, and then her phone, which (of course) doesn't have any reception. At least Phaedra’s doesn’t. "Uhhh, I'm not sure if I'm remembering it right, but we should have half an hour. That should be enough, right? We can get there in time. I want to see the sunset..." There's so much longing in her voice that Phaedra doesn't really dare tell her how hard it is to make your way through true, pathless wilderness. Besides, maybe they will make it. Nothing like true determination, really.

"Alia, do you need help?", Morgan asks. Alia nods, so Morgan helps her search for the hiking boots, and after a while they find them stuck under the far right corner of Alia's seat. Morgan grins while helping her put them on. Satisfied that the two can deal on their own, Phaedra gets her crutches, and collects some other things from the back of the car, stuffing them into her backpack. Most of the time she doesn't need walking aids anymore, but now she's glad she brought them along.

When they finally leave, some of the clouds have become slightly pinkish, slightly golden. Phaedra can only tell because sometimes there are gaps in between the huge trees, letting them glimpse more of the sky than a general blueish colour.

It's been a beautiful day, and it will be a beautiful night. There's a slightly elevated space next to where they parked the car, and it's even mostly level, with few bumps, the best wild tenting spot they could've hoped for. According to the signs next to the road it's allowed in these parts, too, so there isn't much they have to worry about in that regard. Good.

The forest is a veritable thicket. There are plants growing everywhere, some thorny thickets, some low and grabby, some too big to fight through. Phaedra did bring her machete, but even that doesn't help very much.

"You're hurting them", Alia says reproachfully at one point, and after that Phaedra stops using it.

All in all, Alia seems to be the one who deals with the plants the best. But then again, she’s the weird magical girl, too. Maybe one of her imaginary creature friends is helping her.

But still.

Even with all of that, Phaedra can't help but be amazed at the beauty surrounding them. There's so much of it, everywhere! The smallest, most fragile flowers, tiny green stalks breaking through the ground here and there, a mouse crossing their paths—

And Morgan helping her every time she almost stumbles.

"If it continues like this we'll be stuck here forever", Morgan says at one point, but there's a wide grin on her face. Phaedra grins back. There’s a freedom to this day that’s far superior to all other freedoms she’s had before. Alia is far ahead of them at this point, but if Morgan doesn't feel bad about missing the sunset, then Phaedra won't, either.

"Thanks for helping me", she says, a bit out of breath. Damn, her army constitution has run out fast. "I used to be so good at this..." Her voice is a bit wistful, and she only looks at Morgan when the younger woman stops.

Morgan's wearing the widest shit-eating grin imaginable. "Remember what you told me earlier? That the only thing that matters is the future? Well, look who's talking", she says. Phaedra laughs before she can stop herself. The sound is much louder than she anticipated, and then the two break out into more laughter at the exact same time, and the only thing that finally ends it is Phaedra grabbing hold of something that is home to too many sharp spikes.

Morgan is still grinning when she pulls her water bottle and a tissue from her backpack. "Who are you to give me advice on things you don't follow yourself?", she says, putting some water on the tissue, and giving it to Phaedra.

Phaedra is still smiling weakly, even if the pain is strangely... painful.

"You'd think that losing a leg is as bad as it gets", she says dryly, ignoring Morgans’ very pointed question. "especially when the phantom pain keeps you awake at night...

But, you see... small and annoying wounds still hurt, and they're also no less annoying."

"So annoying", Morgan echoes, and Phaedra swats at her playfully, missing only because Morgan takes a careful step back.

"Hey!", she protests, "I was only... repeating your wisdom."

"Yeah, I know... repeating my wisdom. Tsk."

"Well, you are very wise, old lady."

Phaedra just shakes her head sadly. "Today's youth has no respect for their elders anymore. What a tragedy", she says. This time when she swats for Morgan, her hand connects with her target. Unfortunately, she's forgotten about several other things, including (but not limited to) the fine art of balance.

Phaedra and Morgan tumble down onto all the pointy thicket plants together, laughing like children. Morgan has come such a long way, too… when we first met, she was so shy. She wouldn’t have dared make fun of me in ten life times. If it hadn’t been for Alia.

"That was fun", Morgan says. Phaedra rolls off to the side, trying to ignore the poking, pointy plants around her.

"I guess", she says, but in the privacy of her thoughts all she can think about are the series of tragedies that lead her to this moment, to this life. These, she thinks to herself, these are my people.

Then: "Maybe we should hurry. And try to figure out where Alia went." Morgan nods. It's the first time Phaedra can remember that there's no sadness lingering around her eyes.

She's truly happy. So many tragedies… and yet all three of us are here. Last year I couldn’t even have imagined one single day of happiness… and now I’m here.

"You know, I always thought I'd die alone, surrounded by a ton of books and a bunch of cats", Morgan says a while later when they're back to fighting their way through the thickets. The sky above them is pink, and gold, and purple, and going by Morgan’s face, she doesn’t regret anything about that, either.

“Funny”, Phaedra says, “I was just thinking about something like that, too. How crazy is it that we’re here? All three of us? I don’t know anyone else who’s gone through as much shit as we have, and yet… we’re here. Laughing…”

“Yeah”, Morgan says, her voice solemn despite the fact that she’s struggling quite literally through a thorn bush, “I didn't think I'd ever find anyone I would actually want to care about. Even my friends were only acquaintances, really. And now I’ve found two of you? In such quick succession?”

“Same… it’s definitely Alia’s fault”, Phaedra says, smiling. “She caught us like fish in a net, and then she made us care again, and open up, like flowers. You can’t… not love, when you’re in her presence. And after the whole army thing... I don't even know. I thought about ending it, when it all came crashing down. I felt so hopeless, and so helpless. I felt like I didn't deserve to carry on when they hadn't.

But I did, somehow, just long enough for you to move in next door, and then that girl decided to utterly trash my self-loathing and self-pity…" She smiles, and again, it's tinged by a strange wistfulness. Soft, and gentle, and sad. But also happy. So much happiness.

"Yeah", Morgan says, looking away. "Everyone kept telling me I would die alone, too", she adds after a while. "'Cause of, you know. All of that. I've never fallen in love. I never wanted that kind of thing. It all seemed icky. And yet here I am, with a daughter and a wife." She grins. "Well, kind of. Very differently from how others might imagine it. But who cares about them. It's perfect. It’s all I never wanted, and all I’ve always needed."

Phaedra grins back at her. "Very poetic”, she teases, “are you sure I'm your wife, though? Maybe I'm your grandmother. Or the aggressively well-meaning step mother. Or something."

This time it's Morgan's turn to retaliate, and she chooses to poke Phaedra in the side.

She stumbles, but Morgan catches her, helps her stabilize herself.

"I’m really glad you made your way into my life."

"Yeah, I know", Morgan says. "Even the cats love you back. Even Purrcy loves you back. And he wants to kill everyone."

"Yeah..."

They continue on in hard-breathing silence. It’s a good silence, though.

"I'm really glad for Alia, too", Morgan says after a while. "You should think that she’s never had a bad day in her life…”

Yeah, Phaedra thinks. I don’t even want to know what she’s gone through. And yet, she’s the biggest miracle out of them all.

“I’m pretty sure that she sees you as a grandmother”, Morgan says suddenly, and again, there’s that cheeky grin. I would’ve thought it out of character if she hadn’t been doing it for weeks now. Phaedra laughs. “Well, I make an excellent grandmother, don’t I?”

“Yeah, you absolutely do. Oh, and before I forget it… I think she wants you to draw her creatures. If you want to. She’s strangely shy about it, I’m not sure why. But she really looks up to you.”

Phaedra smiles softly, feeling a strange warmth blooming in her belly. "I don't know if I'm any good at that", she says, "but I'm definitely willing to try."

And then they reach the ocean.

The forest thins out (has been thinning out for a while, now that Phaedra thinks about it), making way to a rocky beach, or rather: a field of big, round, ocean-smoothed rocks, some small, some huge.

Alia's sitting on the largest one, staring at the spot the sun just vacated, and she looks so happy and peaceful that Phaedra gestures to Morgan, searches through half of her pockets before finding her phone, and then takes a few pictures. References, for later. Still no reception.

"You're both late", Alia declares from her rock, not even turning.

"We are", Morgan admits, making her way over the rocks.

Her eyes never leave the water, though.

This is what awe looks like, Phaedra thinks to herself, and takes a few more pictures. More references, of course.

"No regrets", Morgan says when she finally reaches Alia's rock. She looks like she's going to faint any moment. Like she's sleepwalking. Like she's in a dream, the best dream she could ever have imagined.

Phaedra takes another picture, and then she follows.

Alia's rock is so big that she can't even tell how the girl managed to scale it. Her feet are roughly at the height of Phaedra's head, and Pheadra isn't exactly short. Alia's grin is very wide when she looks down at them, like an empress regarding her subjects. Except she’s too kind to be an empress.

"Did you have fun?", she asks.

Phaedra wonders what exactly Alia is thinking about. Sometimes it's really hard to tell, especially with this particular girl.

"We did", she says finally. "And I hurt my hand. But for now we'll stay here. Let's wait until the stars come out, I know I put the headlamps into each of your backpacks so we don’t even have to worry about making our way back later."

Alia nods enthusiastically. "And when we get lost in the forest, we can just make a sleeping pile. That should work, too. Rhisíl will keep us warm." Her voice is very matter-of-fact about it, too. Like she knows that it’s going to happen.

“Well, we will think about that when it happens”, Phaedra decides, smiling. Alia nods, and grins. It’s already getting darker. Morgan makes her way over to Phaedra, leaning her head against her shoulder (she’s not tall enough to put it on her shoulder). “Thank you”, she says. There’s so much in those two words, so many things she could be thankful for.

Phaedra smiles. “You are very welcome”, she says softly. What did I do to deserve them?

But that’s the thing.

She didn’t do anything.

And then they settle down, and wait for the stars.

@madmoonink @wilde-writing @prismalicht @sincerestaffect @romenna @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword @asttralhell @raiswanson @kittensartswriting @fynniana @lynnafred @klywrites @lady-redshield-writes @tabbykatwrites @ettawritesnstudies @consciousdreamz @writingwordsanddrawingpictures @necros-writings @asherscribbles

#fluffcember #fluffcember 2019 #I hope you like the thing :3 #even though it got long #I wrote it yesterday but it needed some editing and now I'm behind XD #hopebeyondexcerpt

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avanalae · 4 years

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Don't mind me, Imma go with 33, 36, 45, 12, aaaand 1

Okay this took a while. =__= So sleepy...

33. What’s your revision/rewriting process like?

So I'm the type of writer that just writes. Sometimes I'll skip around if I have a specific idea in mind for a scene, but usually I start and write towards the finish, be it a chapter or a oneshot. I do keep an eye out for mistakes as I type, so when I reread it, usually there aren't too many grammatical mistakes, though I do miss one on occasion.

So I read the fic through and make any corrections that need to be done, but also make any small changes I want as I go. If I want to change a scene quite a bit, I'll cut out the original section and paste it at the bottom of the doc so I can use it later or such. Then I write the new scene. But yeah, uh, I don't do too much rewriting or major revision. I just kinda go with the flow, with firm ideas in mind along with smaller ideas and a general thought of where I want to go with it. Then I just start typing and just go with the flow.

36. Post a snippet

Uhhhhhh shoot you're really gonna make me look, aren't you?

...

Okay so this is a snippet from an idea I had for a JayTim Batman/Wish (Clamp) crossover. This is all I had written. Idk if it's ever gonna go anywhere but I spent forever searching and had little luck. I usually sit down and crank out all the writing in one sitting and then post. So not many wips to share.

_ Tim had always admired Jason. Even though he’s a demon. One of Hell’s finest. Angels and demons don’t get along. It’s an unwritten rule. But still. And in their power-saving forms, neither of them can do much to the other aside from small, simple spells. Tim isn’t even angry at the demon for splashing them with that sealing potion. It will wear off in a few hours. But because of it, Tim finally can do what he’s wanted to do without fearing deadly repercussions. His tiny feathered wings flap a bit as his floats next to Jason. The dark being is glaring at him, snapping insults, but Tim ignores it. He dives in and pecks Jason on the cheek. Jason is still, eyes wide and a blush suddenly spreads on his cheeks. Tim’s lips don’t leave Jason’s cheek for a moment, smiling against the skin. But he eventually pulls away, just noticing his hands were clinging to the sleeve of the t-shirt the demon is wearing. Tim smiles brightly at the demon who is staring at him. And he yelps when he’s suddenly tackled by him. They wrestle for a bit, until Tim finds his face cuddled against Jason’s neck. The older man is holding him tightly and Tim blushes at the contact. “You stupid angel.” And warm lips press a kiss to his forehead. _

45. First or third person?

I definitely prefer third person. First person has its place and I will use it on occasion but definitely third person.

12. Which story of yours do you like best? why?

Okay so funny tidbit about me. Maybe because I'm older and had experience writing before I really started writing fanfic, but I can look back pretty far on my work and not think badly about it. I still like a lot of my past fics, and the ones I don't I can appreciate even if I don't think I'd portray the characters that way now/do that trope/etc.

But my favorite of my fanfics? Hmmm. We'll stick with Batfam for this. I think I like Burdensome, Confession, or For the Family the most of my oneshots. As for a series, my favorite is probably Mockingbird. Even though it's been a while... Since I touched it... ehehe...

Overall favorite is Burdensome, though. Probably. I think.

1. Tell us about your WIP!

Uhhh... Which one? >_>

Let's see... I have a few stories I'm focusing on right now, unfortunately they aren't DCU. But I've been getting the itch to write some JayTim or Ra'sTim recently. I have prompts for both in my inbox right now that I managed to find after some excavation. If you're interested in something or have an idea, feel free to message or text me. :)

#ava does things #ask meme #miss-annthropy #Whew that was quite involved #You just had to pick those hard ones didn't you

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kittensartswriting · 6 years

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25 Questions Tag

Thank you @rosecorcoranwrites for tagging me! :)

1. Is there a story you’re holding off on writing for some reason? I’ve been holding of a murder mystery novel I was planning about year? two? ago. At some point I realized I’m not ready for it, not because it would need better writing than fantasy, but more like I felt I didn’t understand our own world good enough yet (does that make sense?) and didn’t yet had the means and patience to do enough research to get the understanding.

2. What work of yours, if any, are you embarrassed about existing? Oh boy... Many. The bright side is, I’m so bad at finishing anything I start that I have never finished a full length novel. (Though I’ve written many and many terrible things that only counts as short stories because of length.) I remember writing starting a fantasy story in high school or primary school where main character was a prince of tyrannical kingdom and suddenly he changed to a black panther (not the superhero) and couldn’t change back. Of course he came across the shape shifting rebels and there was of course this girl that turned into a tiger and of course they didn’t get along but we all know how that ended up. I’m pretty sad that it was so many computers ago it is lost forever.

3. What order do you write in? Front of book to back? Chronological? Favorite scenes first? Something else? Chronologically. As character exercises I tend to write my favorite scenes as I invent them, but usually they don’t end up in the novel or at least without some changing.

4. Favorite character you’ve written? Would you pick a favorite of your own children??

5. Character you were most surprised to end up writing? I’ll go with Valeri. He is not the usual type to end up my main character and that is the precise reason I made him. I don’t want to limit myself with writing only characters I would like in real life. I definitely wouldn’t like him if I met him, but I like him as a character. 6. Something you would go back and change in your writing that it’s too late/complicated to change now? There are no such changes for me. I have started my current wip three times from the scratch. If I feel there is such a big change that should be made I drop the project for a while and think about it. If I still want to write it, I make the change, if I have fell out of love, I move on. (Also as I’ve never get so far as the finish, it is possible.)

7. When asked, are you embarrassed or enthusiastic to tell people that you write? Embarrassed... Usually I’m not shy and I’m pretty confident in myself, not caring really what other think, except when it comes to writing. I’m not really sure what is it, but I think it’s that I’m pretty private person and writing is something I do right from the hearth.

8. Favorite genre to write I like historical fiction so much too (also mystery), but I have to say fantasy. I just love the world building!! At same extend you can’t do that much world building in any other genre (except scifi), and I love it.

9. What, if anything, do you do for inspiration? Read books and read especially non-fiction. Most of the time reality is stranger than fiction. 10. Write in silence or with background music? Alone or with others? Definitely alone and mostly in silence. Though sometimes instrumental music (ambient, classical or movie music)

11. What aspect of your writing do you think has most improved since you started writing? I don’t know, I had so many flaws (still do) that I can’t really say what I was worst at.

12. Your weaknesses as an author? Firstly: finishing the god damn thing. Secondly: action scenes and writing action overall 13. Your strengths as an author? Characters and world 14. Do you make playlists for your work? Sometimes but rarely use them as I prefer silence :D 15. Why did you start writing? I had so many things in my head I wanted to put on paper. It’s my form of self-expression. 16. Are there any characters who haunt you? Currently Valeri. I can’t get him of my mind :D

17. If you could give your fledgling author self any advice, what would it be?

Do and outline, decide ending before starting. Outlining isn’t for everyone but it is sure worth trying. And you start with FIRST draft, it is something like a sketch, so just write it, don’t think too much. Then you can write second, and third and as many drafts as you need.

18. Were there any works you read that affected you so much that it influenced your writing style? What were they? I would argue that everything that I’ve read have affected my writing style, some more than others. Nothing very clear, I think. Of course Harry Potter, almost anyone my age can say that, but I’ve read so little lately that I really don’t remember how each author writes. 19. When it comes to more complicated narratives, how do you keep track of outlines, characters, development, timeline, ect.? With Drive. I have docs where I write all the names of the characters, no matter how unimportant they were, and tell in few words who they are. I organize the docs by area. Then I have a docs named ‘timeline’. There I have all the historical events as well as main events of the story listed by year and month. Also I have list of character arcs and subplots for every main character. And then of course I have list of chapters and events in each, also some notes on the chapter. As you can see I like listing things. I fill all the lists as I go along. 20. Do you write in long sit-down sessions or in little spurts? I either don’t write at all or I sit down straight seven hours and write non-stop. I don’t have in between mood

21. What do you think when you read over your older work Depends how old :D If its a few years old, it’s surprisingly good. If its about five years old it’s in the awkward zone where it is bad, but not bad enough to be funny, reading them makes hurt inside. Everything older than that is just super funny. 22. Are there subjects that make you uncomfortable to write? Not really. I’m not planning on (at least yet) showing my writing for anyone but here in internet where no one knows me and for my boyfriend who know me inside out and I have nothing to lose :D so I feel I can write literally anything. Only thing I can think of is sex scenes. I really like smut but I’m pretty bad at it, as I don’t want it to feel erotica but also I don’t want it to be censored or too vague. 23. Any obscure life experiences that you feel have helped your writing? Hard to name anything specific as I believe that all life experience helps writing. You know, when you write about people and life, I really helps to be people and live. 24. Have you ever become an expert on something you previously knew nothing about, in order to better a scene or a story? While starting to write Saga of a Shieldmaiden, I became kind of a expert on Finnish mythology and life and history of Vikings. My knowledge was very limited on both subjects before that. Also for a murder mystery novel (that I mentioned in the first question) I read a criminology book.

25. Copy/paste a few sentences or a short paragraph that you’re particularly proud of. I answered same question before in another tag game, and I’m now too lazy to translate another paragraph. So this one is from the original Saga of a Shieldmaiden (that I’m now revising). It might be a bit too long though.

Something big was moving around me as I felt the water flowing differently. In the thickening darkness I couldn’t see anything. Or maybe I had my eyes closed, I couldn’t be sure.

It is not the sea that is suffocating you. It is the fear. You reek of it. You are so full of fear, it is dripping out of your throat. So full, your breath cannot flow.

I felt a touch on my throat. It was not a touch of a human. It was not a hand of a human. Massive crooked claw rested on my neck. The claw was rough and stony hard, full of scales. Sharp end of the nail pressed against the skin of my throat without piercing it. I felt a breath of a warm current behind my back. One breath caused so strong tide, it would have wiped me away, if the claw wouldn’t have kept me put.

Let the water into your lungs. Let the salt clean you of fear.

Every moment without air led me deeper into the dark, closer to death. Maybe he was the Death. I turned to look over my shoulder. To my horror I was faced by great, scaled, sharp-fanged head. A head of a dragon. It’s long serpentine body seemed to extend twisting into the endless blackness. The silvery scales glowed in the darkness of the sea and the deep-blue wells that were his eyes looked at me without blinking.

I’ll tag @lady-redshield-writes, @coda-wolf, @alittle-writer, @starlitesymphony and @plaguecraft! :)

#tag game #tagged #my writing #writeblr

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