#ficcage of interest

[leupagus]

Am I writing this largely because I enjoy the idea of Sansa and Stannis constantly hissing at each other like two belligerent cats? Listen,

x

By the first week of the siege, Sansa was forced to admit — if only to herself —that warfare was far less exciting than she'd imagined. When she had been told of Robb's victories in the Riverlands she had always pictured him triumphant upon a fearsome destrier, sword held high as he cut down his enemies before him. Then he'd been killed and she had lived through the Battle of the Blackwater, waiting either rescue or slaughter by the very man who was now her ally. That had not been exciting, precisely, but it had not been this dull and plodding affair. A far cry from the valiant knights and noble battles she'd read when she was a girl; but she'd had precious little turn out the way she'd been taught.

She slept at the camps near the front lines, in the same soldier's tent she and Brienne and Podrick had shared for the past four months. Stannis had made all sorts of ridiculous protests about "ladies" and "danger" until she'd had to remind him, once again, that her eight thousand men gave her the freedom to dictate her own movements.

"All very well while we're waiting out here, my lady," he'd growled in response, after his requisite glare at her flawless logic, "But when battle joins, you'll be nothing more than a nuisance."

"In which case, I'll be quickly killed and you can have Rickon installed as Lord of Winterfell instead," she'd replied, "as you were hoping to do in the first place." That had shut him up, at least, and he'd gone back to scowling at Winterfell's walls.

Every night when she returned to the camp, she stopped at Stannis's tent and joined the conference with their commanders and lieutenants. It was then that she learned about the waging of war: how men were best deployed, how training was maintained even in the midst of a siege, how sickness was kept at bay so that it did not kill more soldiers than did the battles. Stannis disliked her presence there, too, but she was rapidly coming to understand that he would only be truly happy when she was out of his life for good. Possibly not even then. He did not seem a man much given to smiles.

The men did not share Stannis's view, at least; as she walked through the lines each morning and night they stood to bow to her, and press the back of her hand to their foreheads as she remembered they had done to Mother so long ago.

"They say that the old gods have brought you back to us," Lord Reed told her one day, as he accompanied her on her daily walk to the winter town. "That they were angered when the Starks were driven from Winterfell, and that they're drawing you all back here one by one. They say that Robb Stark may come back from the dead, such is the rage of the gods, and avenge all who wronged your house."

Joffrey had been diligent in recounting every detail of what had happened to Robb's body after Roose Bolton had killed him. She repressed a shudder to think of it and held more tightly to Reed's arm, grateful for the warmth of him at her side. "I hope they are not disappointed if all they get is me and Rickon."

Reed chuckled. "They're well-satisfied, my lady," he said. They walked into the winter town just as the sun broke over the mountains. "You're a sight prettier than the Young Wolf ever was, that's certain."

The winter town was where her real work was done each day. It was the custom every winter for the smallfolk of the North to leave their hides holdfasts and journey here, bringing what they could cart or carry. The winter town would eventually house nearly one in three of every soul living in the North, seeking shelter together to endure the cold.

The Boltons had not bothered to do their duty, laying in no provisions and building no new housing. Up until now it had mattered little; even as the winds had begun to blow, few smallfolk had dared to come take shelter under the banners of the flayed man. The town itself had been all but abandoned, until word of the Starks' return had begun to spread throughout the North.

Now the winter town seemed to double in size with each passing day despite the ongoing siege of the Keep. Sansa had her hands full in directing builders, organizing kitchens, allocating what resources they had to feed and shelter everyone. In this she was aided by any number of friends and allies: those servants and household members who had first escaped during Winterfell's seizure by the Ironborn, or who had endured that but had fled the Boltons' brutal takeover; the households of her lords who had come to support the siege; even Lady Umber and her formidable staff lent a hand before she returned to Last Hearth. Her most steadfast assistants were Rickon and Shireen, who at first had joined her out of boredom but were now her little lieutenants, breathlessly updating her on all events of the previous night as she joined them for breakfast each morning. She received aid also from her men in the armies, assigning their builders to fortify the town in much the same way they were fortifying the siege camp.

Her lords approved of this; Stannis, of course, did not.

"You seek another threescore soldiers?" he demanded one evening.

The siege had now dragged on near a month. Bolton's men showed signs of distress, Lord Flint reported with no small satisfaction; they would not last much longer. But this had brought a fresh concern, and Sansa had broached it during their evening conference.

"We need to build up the palisades along the eastern side of the winter town," Sansa insisted, pointing at the map spread out along the table, with the various pieces representing the various companies all arrayed neatly atop. Stannis's wooden flaming hearts were outnumbered by Sansa's wolf heads two to one, though many of hers appeared hastily-carved from whatever spare wood was at hand. She reached for a flaming heart on the far side of the Keep, well away from the siege. "It need only be for—"

"Give me that," Stannis snapped, snatching it back. "Those men are covering the huntsman's gate, should any of Bolton's forces be cowardly enough to attempt escape rather than stand and fight."

"And you anticipate that happening in the next day?" she demanded, resisting the urge to lunge for the piece the way she used to with Robb when he had teasingly stolen her embroidery, holding it just out of reach. "There must be fifty or sixty men out of twelve thousand that can be spared."

"Why are the palisades in need of building up in the first place?" Stannis demanded, as Lord Glover opened and then shut his mouth to reply to her. "This winter town of yours is folly — you cannot grant entry to every farmer and tinker who pleads for shelter."

Sansa gaped at him in outrage, though even as she did so she was heartened to hear the murmur of her lords at such a comment. "That is precisely what is done, and has been for every winter since before Bran the Builder set stones to build Winterfell!" She glared at him. "This is a refuge, Your Grace."

"This is a siege, my lady," he retorted, looming over her. She thought longingly of the beautiful heeled shoes Margaery wore; she needed only a few inches to match Stannis's height, and see what good his looming did him then. "The smallfolk congregate here at their own risk!"

"My people congregate here because they believe I will keep them safe, and I will do so. With or without Your Grace's help!"

"Without, if it pleases my lady!"

Half-ready to club him over the head with the nearest chair, Sansa grabbed the flaming heart out of his hands and waved it in his face. "What are these men supposed to do, if Bolton and his soldiers escape out this way?"

Stannis looked too near a fit of apoplexy to reply, so it was Lord Cerwyn who cleared his throat and answered, "They are charged to report back, my lady, with some following at a safe distance to see where they go."

"It's perfectly obvious where they'll go," Sansa snapped. "Lord Bolton will make for the Dreadfort."

"Of course he will," said Stannis, finding his voice at last, though he did not try for the wolf's-head piece again. "That doesn't mean—"

"I know three dozen local boys who could hide along the route from the huntsman's gate to the eastern road and bring back reports, without clomping about the forests in full armor," Sansa said, slamming the piece down at the winter town. "And they might be able to bring back some food, while they're at it. Unlike your soldiers, they know how to hunt in the Wolfswood without frightening off half the game."

A few days later, she had her men.

[ladykf-writes]

Sailor Moon ficcage thoughts

So, I originally had access just to the Miss Dream fan translation of the manga (Sailor Moon in whole, plus Sailor V and side stories) and I do still have that. Back in the day I watched the 90's dubs on Cartoon Network though of course they never released Stars so, incomplete even if I'd managed to watch it every day.

Now, I have access to Crystal and I've watched some of it (almost the first two seasons) but I'd need a re-watch if I was to write something from it.

Now, here's the thing:

I have kicked around the idea of writing a Sailor Moon fanfic / series for an age and here's what I would do in a perfect world -- a canon divergent fic series broken up by era and driven by two things. One, a more realistic reaction of the senshi to their trauma. (Yeah automatically darker than my usual, but prime for hurt/comfort.) So that would affect their personality a (extended to Mamoru and you have so much going on between the accident that killed his parents, his loner lifestyle while somehow taking on the mantle of Tuxedo Mask chasing a dream in utter desperation.

Also unfridging the Shitennou, because they're interesting characters who deserve exploration. Also Mamoru deserves the moral support and deep friendships and because, quite frankly, I am an avid Senshi/Shitennou shipper and I want it. #good enough

I also want to explore the family bonds of the Senshi especially. There's just no way they didn't notice changes in the girls and I really like the idea of them knowing and doing something about it.

Leave me a comment / reblog with comments / hit up my ask. You can also add to the poll below. Thanks!

Thanks again!

[tuulikannel]

Today is my fic anniversary! Fic-versary? Well, something. It's been 20 years since I posted my first fic on ff.net. And during that time I seem to have written altogether a bit over 1 million words of fanfiction, posted on different sites. (Thank you, Ghost!Gakushuu fic. I wouldn't have been able to do it without you.) So, here's a Hikago/DR crossover, Danganronpa GO! to celebrate that! XD

Looking at that first fic I ever wrote, though, it sure is quite different from the stuff I write these days. For one thing, it's for a fandom for which I never wrote anything else, and also, it has only oc's. XD No, I'm not gonna link that, definitely not. ^^;;

Anyway, I decided that the proper fic to post to celebrate this anniversary is my Hikaru no Go/Danganronpa crossover. XD For one thing, it's definitely up to the top 3 or so of my wackiest crossovers, and for another, it combines my first fandom and my latest fandom. (Ok, so... in a sense Hikago isn't quite my first fandom, but you could say it's the first fandom I genuinely ever was in, so to say.)

If anyone by any chance would be interested in a fic in which a go player and ghost are added to the cast of Trigger Happy Havoc, the link's up there. (I kinda have a feeling this won't have any large audience, so... ^^;;)

All I'm saying about the plot is that there will be ghosts. A lot of them. (That's beginning to turn into a theme in my fics, huh...)

Well then. Will there be one million words worth of ficcage coming in the next 20 years, too? Who knows, but I honestly feel like I'm still going to be writing fanfics when I'm an old granny in a rocking chair (well, if I live old, I guess), so who knows, maybe. ^^

(Utterly unrelated, please go drop Sai a vote in the dead character bracket, here! His opponent is from Sonic Adventure 2, in case you're afraid of spoilers.)

[fonulyn]

So I'm relatively new to the resident evil fandom but I have picked up some v important things the first of which being that Piers is baby and should be protected, Chris deserves the goddamn world, and Leon is Tired please let him rest. With that said...

I wanted to know your opinion on Ada? Like that has nothing to do with what I mentioned above but tbh that was more an icebreaker than anything lol but people seem to like her a lot and I'm. Very conflicted? She's cool and mysterious and stuff but I hate the way she manipulates Leon so like. I just wanted to know what your thoughts were, since you're one of my fave RE writers!! Speaking of thanks for all your writings I love it allllllll 😍😍😍

ahhh hello!

first of all, welcome to the fandom! :D i hope you’ve enjoyed yourself!

secondly, those are all very important lessons to learn, I’m proud of you for picking up the most essential things already ;)

as for Ada, like you, I’m very conflicted too haha. as a character she is absolutely badass. she’s cool and she’s competent and she takes no shit from anyone. and i love that about her. i like that she isn’t made out to be weaker or less capable than anyone else, and i do think she’s genuinely badass. and gorgeous, tbh :’D

but that aside, i don’t think she’s a nice person. she does help Leon (and others) out sometimes, but ultimately, I think she does what helps her out. and although she isn’t actively working to kill Leon or anything, she isn’t exactly all that concerned for his welfare a lot of the time either so trying to make it seem like she’s always just looking out for him like some kind of a guardian angel is just doing a disservice to both their characters.

(as a sidenote, this is basically why i’m not exactly keen on pairing her up with Leon, because she does keep stringing him on and using him for her own gain even when she helps him, so. i’m not super into that.)

and in a way i think it’s great that she’s such a morally grey and ambiguous character because that makes her all the more interesting and compelling. but at the same time i would really really want them to dive deeper into her characterization and actually shed some light on her motives. because as it is now, it sometimes feels that they make her do something weird or inconsistent and then just wave it aside with “oh she’s working for her true goal” which... is then never explained?? 

i get it, she’s mysterious, she’s an enigma, she’s working towards ...something. but in the end i do think it’d make her a stronger character if she was given some actual motives and her inner workings were clarified a bit. unless they’re working for some big reveal later down the road that’ll tie up everything into one neat package but i’m not exactly counting on that :’D

writing-wise, i personally am kind of all over the place with her just because i can’t decide what to do with her. i’ve written her as a borderline villain, and i’ve written her as a pretty supportive almost-friend, but mostly i tend to settle on something in the middle :’D 

so idk if i’ve actually even answered your question haha but. tl;dr: i like her as a cool, competent character, but i don’t really like her as a person, if that makes sense? 

also thank you so, so much!! i’m super happy to hear you enjoy the ficcage! means a lot :D and if you ever feel like chatting, feel free to throw me a message anytime ;3

[blithers]

I obviously need an IV drip of LwD ficcage (which, thanks for that), but it’s not Yuletide eligible, soooo...You’ve Got Mail AU? Accidental superpowers? Contrived sibling set-up? Improbable talents? Something else marvelously tropey and/or screwball?

This isn’t really trope-y or screwball-y enough, but, ah, here’s something for you!

“So what were you like when you were younger?” Derek asks, and stretches his arms up over his head.

“I don’t know.”  Casey leans back on the couch, thinking about her life before her mom had married George, feeling strangely contemplative.  “I was kind of a nerd back then, I guess.”

“Kind of a nerd back then?”  He lays the sarcasm on thick, but he’s got a lopsided sort of grin on his face too, like he’s mostly teasing her.

“Shut up,” she says, and shoves his shoulder, way more fondly than he deserves.

Derek laughs.  “It’s sort of weird I didn’t know you when you were younger, actually.”  As if he would have ever actually wanted to know a version of Casey with braces and fly-away hair, even though he sounds strangely earnest about the whole scenario.  “Do you ever think about what it would have been like if our parents had never hooked up?”

“Gross.  Never use the words hooked up about our parents, I don’t think I can deal with that.”

“Fine then, if our parents hadn’t fallen in loooooove.  Boring, totally platonic old person love.”

“I used to.  I used to think about it a lot, actually.  I didn’t want to move here and I thought - I guess I thought Mom was trying to ruin my life.  Which is dumb, I know it’s a dumb thing to think, but that’s what I felt.”

“Do you think we would’ve met anyway?”

“What?  The two of us?”  She points back and forth between the two of them, like the whole concept of the two of us needs further clarification.  Derek nods.  “Not really.  I mean, how would we have ever met?”

“I’m playing hockey at an away game,” Derek says quickly, like he’s actually thought about this, and oh no, Casey is so screwed, “and you’re acting like a normal person with normal interests for once in your life and decide to go to the game, and I get a hat trick, and you’re like, whoa, who is that amazing hockey player, I have to -“

She interrupts him, feeling like her skin is too tight for her body, because oh god, she has the terrible feeling this is this some kind of fantasy or something of Derek’s.  “Am I seriously a hockey groupie in this scenario?  Have you ever even met me?”

“You don’t know what this version of Casey is into!”

Casey sniffs, trying to hide her nervousness.  “I feel like I know her better than you do.”

“Whatever.  So anyway, you’re like, sweet moves, man, and then I’m like, thanks.”  Derek puffs out his chest a little bit, in the sleazy way he does with all the girls, like he’s flirting with this fake, alterna-version of Casey that he’s made up.  “And then, I don’t know.”  Derek clears his throat.  “Maybe we don’t hate each other or anything at that point.”

Casey seriously doesn’t know what to say to any of this.  She settles for gaping at him, mouth open wide.  “What.”

Derek shrugs, and his eyes flicker awkwardly away from her for a moment.

“Anyway,” he says finally.  “Maybe it’s something like that.”

[internutter]

Impossible Encounters, 2,3,4,5! And Fifteen Little Words 2,9,11,12! I love your work 💙

I love that you’re enjoying my work. Answers under the cut because this is probs gonna be long. I ramble.

Impossible Encounters

Some Preamble about the making of: There was a LOT of Dadko art flitting around on Tumblr at the time, and the germ of Taako being accidental parent to Angus was born. Also the math necessary for Angus to exist means he was born around the time Lucretia betrayed her crew. This factlet became important in other ficcage.

2: What scene did you first put down?

I hate to disappoint, but I’m a linear writer. I don’t start in the middle or anything interesting. However, the image of Taako screaming ‘my baby’ at a travellers’ caravan was foremost in my mind for a long time. Likewise the picture of a very small boy comforting a grown-ass Elf was just… irresistable.

3: What’s your favorite line of narration?

He’d been in kindergarten when Taako had come through Rockport, and he still remembered the world’s most delicious cookie, despite the fact that it contained the dreadful raisin. 

I remember being a kid and hating raisins with a vengeance. Turns out people in the comments share a similar experience.

4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue?

“Who’s going to look after the doggie?” – I made myself laugh out loud thinking up that one.

Same with “Just walk this way,”/”I can’t walk that way, my legs are too long.” Sometimes the hoariest of hoary old jokes are the best.

5: What part was hardest to write?

The entirety of chapter 12. Figuring out the transition between being exonerated, rescuing Ango from a murder plot, and the start of Here There Be Gerblins… That was trouble for me

Fifteen Little Words

I have always looked askance at soulmate AU’s but this idea wouldn’t leave me alone since I codified the angst potential. I’m glad more than one person took the idea and ran with it. That way, I’m not alone.

2: What scene did you first put down?

I think I wrote the entirety of chapter 1 without even thinking about what I’d do about it TBH. It sprang from my noggin like a weird deity.

9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

Sorry but no. This whole thing flew out of my fingers fully-formed as is.

11: What do you like best about this fic?

Lup and Barry. In denial. Freaking out about it for forty-seven years or more. Meanwhile Krav is quietly going bonkers trying to figure out how a death criminal is going to say he looks like salt and Taako’s given up on finding true love. It was delicious.

12: What do you like least about this fic?

I can’t really point to any particular part of this fic and say, “I hate that part in particular.” Like - reading through it again, I wish I’d been a bit clearer on how skeletons can blush other than Rule Of Funny, but that seems a little bit on the pathetic side.

I’m not saying I’ve written the perfect fic. I’m learning as much about writing in my 40′s as I was as a teen [Yes! I’m an old fart! Amazing!] and I still haven’t quite reached that level of “Holy shit! X wrote something!” and have a flood of chatter about it. Maybe I never will… and that’s okay.

As long as something I made gives someone else joy. That’s good.

[phoenixwaller]

bowldeepfannish replied to your post: Challenge!

Soooo… my writing Muse deparred years and fandoms ago but if anyone is interested in Venice ( Italy) ficcage I’ll link my personal birth city gigantic folder of pictures and draw the related Victuuri In Venice pic XD.

Aw, you can do it!

On a side note... VENICE! So pretty. I want to go again. I was able to visit in '97 when a high school group I was in went to Germany for 3 weeks and Italy for 1.

Of course I TOTALLY want to be a tourist during Carnival too. Last time I was there late spring/early summer.

[leupagus]

Still working on the "No Seriously, If Crowley and Aziraphale Ever Did Have Sex, They'd Have So Many Weird Conversations About It First" fic

"You already have a penis?" Aziraphale demanded, his hands on his hips. "Since when?"

Crowley tried to recall. "Turn of the nineteenth, I think?" he ventured. There'd been a fountain, and a lot of wine, and Jane challenging him to see which of them could hit the fish statue in the middle.* Afterwards he'd kept it — it was fun, being able to take a piss if you felt like it. Not to mention you could stir up a lot of trouble in public toilets if you were in a mood.**

"Really?" Aziraphale looked halfway between surprised and intrigued. "Don't you find it a bit — floppy?"

"Eh, a bit," Crowley admitted. "But they do amazing things with underpants these days."

Aziraphale laughed, the startled hiccough he gave sometimes when he wasn't quite ready to be out of his sulk. It was one of Crowley's favorite noises. "Very well," he said, adjusting his waistcoat. "Let's have a look."

"What? No," said Crowley. He'd been looking forward to showing off his cock at some point, but Aziraphale was eyeing him like the Queen about to inspect the troops.

"Why not?" Aziraphale whinged, his lower lip puckering dangerously near a pout. "We're going to have to take our clothes off when we have sex. Unless — actually, I think that's on the list of kinks, you know, sex with your clothes on, but it seems terribly awkward, not to mention you'd have to get everything cleaned afterward. Although I do have a rather good 'dry cleaner,'" he made the inverted commas with his fingers and everything, "Who's an absolute miracle worker." He paused. "Well, not a real one. At any rate, come along." And he gestured at Crowley's crotch.

Crowley, who'd had millennia of practice with Aziraphale's careening monologues, was still halfway through unbuckling his belt before his brain caught up. "I'm not pulling my cock out in the middle of your bookshop," he said — with absolutely perfect timing, since Muriel chose that moment to come bustling in.

They stood frozen for a moment, blinking at both of them as they clutched at the doorframe. "I think I, erm, heard a… noise?" They smiled, and backed out slowly. "I should go. And check, on the noise, because noises are sometimes indicators of—" Whatever else they were saying was lost with the slamming of the door.

"Small mercies," Aziraphale huffed, and wriggled his fingers; the sign on the door flipped to "CLOSED" and the door locked with a pointed flourish. "Now then!"

*Neither of them had, and it had nearly gotten them arrested, all the moreso since they'd been in Spain at the time.

**With or without an anus.

[leupagus]

Working title is "Aziraphale is going to get a good grade in sex, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve"

"So!" Aziraphale said, plopping himself down in the chair opposite. "Urophilia."

Crowley glowered at him from behind the safety of his third-best sunglasses and his mug.* He hadn't slept last night — he rarely wanted to, these days — yet it was somehow still too early for this. "No," he attempted.

"I know we neither of us go in for the more, er, granular human bodily functions," said Aziraphale, without even the slightest hint of listening. Crowley took a certain amount of comfort in the fact that he still found this annoying as — well, his former employer's residence. He'd worried, in a vague sort of way, that if Aziraphale came back and they worked things out, became a proper us, that he'd start thinking everything Aziraphale did was wonderful. But even true love had its limits, thank — well, his other former employer's residence. "Did I ever tell you, I tried defecating once? Terribly awkward business, I had to make an anus and everything. But Cicero was very obliging in teaching me about the stick."**

Conversations with Aziraphale tended to fall into one of three categories. Either he was humming away in his default cheeriness, in which case he'd burble happily along with whatever Crowley said for hours on end; or he was in a pet about something, in which case he'd be drier than the desert outside Eden and Crowley'd be lucky to escape without injury to his pride or person. Or he was like this, in which case Crowley's participation was purely decorative.

Still, they were getting some stares. Nina hadn't started tutting yet, but she would do soon. "I'm not pissing on you," he said, firm. "And vice versa."

"Oh, all right," Aziraphale huffed, pulling out his spectacles and wrapping the temple tips fussily around his ears. He peered down at the magazine he'd apparently brought with him; even from here, Crowley could see some illustrations. They were… illustrative.

"What," he said with the conviction that he would regret it, "Is that?"

"It's 'Kinks and Fetishes: An A to Z Guide,'" Aziraphale said, handing it over with all the glee of a dog showing off a rotted tennis ball it had found in the back garden. "I've been doing more research, you see. Apparently, there's all sorts of sex we could be getting up to. I truly had no idea there were so many—" he waved his other hand around vaguely. "Configurations."

"Does Glamour have a print edition anymore?" Crowley asked, thumbing through the pages. There were a lot of illustrations.

"Not as such," Aziraphale admitted. "But Muriel found it for me on the World Wide Web—"

"Don't call it that," Crowley sighed.

"—and you know how I dislike reading off of those… screens," he continued, making a moue of distaste. "So I made my own proof copy, as it were."

Under "Tentacles," there was a stern reminder that you shouldn't have sex with octopuses.*** "Angel," he started, then paused. "Vicarphilia?"

"I thought it was something to do with priests and things, but apparently not," Aziraphale said, leaning over the table to point out the next one. "What about whipping?"

"No fetishes that I could've done professionally," Crowley decided firmly, shutting the magazine. He waved it away, out to the Tadfield Library where Anathama would probably find it and laugh for a week, then try at least a half-dozen of them out on poor Newt.

* Nina had set one aside for him after a while, since he didn't mind the permanent stains that had developed along the inside. "Pretty sure those are scorchmarks, actually," she'd complained. "On the outside. What did you do to it?"

** Roman public toilets were aptly named — men would gather to have a bowel movement and a chat, cleaning themselves off with a sponge on the end of a length of wood. Hence the phrase, "Getting the wrong end of the stick," something decidedly less pleasant when taken out of its metaphor.

*** Accompanied by a picture of a young woman doing exactly that.

[leupagus]

Gonna be honest, I'm at the "noodling around instead of buckling down to actually write it" so here have another scene of whatever this ends up being

(From my doc which is labeled "sexnanigans lol")

"Why don't we just get it over with?" Crowley asked, a few days later. He was lying in bed, sprawled on his stomach along the top bit of the mattress with Aziraphale using him as a sort of very angular pillow. Every once in a while Aziraphale would rearrange Crowley's limbs into a new configuration to suit himself; at the moment he was contorted into something that most closely resembled a half-melted curly wurly.

"Mm?" said Aziraphale, his familiar I'm not really paying attention to you but I am recording what you're saying for playback in about thirty seconds, at which point I'll decide if anything you've said was worth listening to sort of "mm". He was reading yet another sexual manual; judging by the age of the cover and the deadness of the language contained therein, it was unlikely to be useful. The etchings were fun, though.

"You've been doing all this," he waved vaguely at the book, along with the half-dozen others piled on Aziraphale's nightstand, "For almost a month. Why don't we try something—"

"Get it over with?" Twenty-seven seconds, Crowley thought smugly, but attempted to school his expression into something serious when Aziraphale turned to frown at him. "I don't think this is something we ought to do at all, if you think of it like that. There's a rather good book, in fact, about enthusiastic consent and—" He reached for the nightstand.

Crowley tugged his arm back. "I didn't mean it like that," he said. "I'm all for it. I even invented some of those positions.* I'm just asking," he added, before Aziraphale could start demanding which positions, and with whom, which he was sure to say instead of who because jealousy in Aziraphale always manifested in creakingly correct grammar, "Why all this… research?"

Aziraphale shut his book, which could either go very well or very poorly; either way it meant Crowley was about to get his full attention. But he just sighed and said, "Do you recall the first time I tried food?"

That memory was too precious to deny. "You decimated an entire ox," Crowley said, not even bothering to keep the gloat out of his voice. "Most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."

"I think you really ought to be embarrassed about how much you mean that," Aziraphale said musingly, and right, this is why Crowley should have been wary about the closing of the book. "And then three hundred and eighty-seven years after that I tried wine, and got comprehensibly — what's the word?"

"Shitfaced."

"Blotto, thank you, is the word I was actually looking for. I had a hangover for two months."

"Wasn't that at my urging, too?" Crowley asked, reaching out to curl his fingers in Aziraphale's hair. "You really were rubbish at thwarting my wiles."

"Well, I was a rather rubbish angel, as it turned out," Aziraphale said, shutting his eyes and leaning into Crowley's touch. "Thank God for that. But that's my point, dearest. Whenever I've experienced the delights of Earth, it's often been — well, to use the old-fashioned term, gluttonous affair at first. Or if I'm using modern parlance, more gourmand than gourmet. And for this I want—"

"You think the terms 'gourmand' and 'gourmet' are modern parlance? D'you think the term 'modern parlance' is modern parlance?"

"I want," Aziraphale continued, relentless, "To savour it, this time. Savour you."

Crowley said, "Oh," and couldn't think of anything else to say. 

Aziraphale watched him for a few moments, those clever eyes seeing far too much, then made an absentminded tutting noise and maneuvered Crowley's elbow into a truly preposterous position before he resumed reading. 

Crowley let him.

[leupagus]

BRB giving all the Lannisters a way more satisfying story arc than the one the show foisted on them

x

The wedding celebrations for Trystane's brother Quentyn and his new bride Desmera Redwyne lasted for nearly a fortnight, with dancing and feasting and even fireworks set off over the bay at the Water Gardens. Every noble in Dorne (and half the nobles of the Reach) had come; even Prince Doran had attended, and it seemed to do him good. His pain-lined face had been wreathed in smiles and he had sat at the head of the table at nearly every meal, coming out from his seclusion for the first time in ages.

Trystane noticed, too. "I don't think I have ever seen Papa so happy," he whispered, leaning toward her during the feast on the last night.

"It's because he has got rid of one troublesome son," she teased him, tapping her finger on his nose. It was true enough: tomorrow, Quentyn and Desmera would travel back to the Arbor where they would take up their duties as heirs to Paxter Redwyne.

Trystane scrunched his nose and moved closer to her on the bench, sliding his arm around her waist. "Soon he will be got rid of another," he murmured in her ear, kissing her gently on the cheek, then the neck.

"Ah, ah, this is not your wedding yet, little brother," warned Arianne as she briskly tapped them on their shoulders, pushing them firmly aside so that she could sit between them. "Room enough for the Mother, if you please."

"You're my sister, not my mother," Trystane grumbled. "And there isn't enough room for your backside!"

"Trystane!" Myrcella protested, but Arianne had it well in hand.

"If I were Mama, I would spank you on yours," she told him, and swatted at him anyway. Trystane yelped and hit her back, and their end of the table erupted into chaos as brothers and sisters, cousins and friends all shrieked and jabbed at each other, tickling and pinching as one can only do to those one truly loves.

Arianne and Myrcella had been thick as thieves when she had first arrived at Sunspear, still dreadfully homesick and afraid. Uncle Tyrion had promised her that the people of Dorne would treat her well; but though everyone had been kind, it was only Arianne who had truly been a friend at first. She had sneaked into Myrcella's room and hid behind drapes or under the bed to jump out at her, shown her the sights of the Water Gardens and Planky Town alike, even encouraged her to speak with Trystane, who at 15 had been terribly spotty and sulky.

Then Arianne had gone to visit her mother and her family, in far-off Norvos. It had been planned for only a few months, but the time had stretched on and on, and only Quentyn's marriage had brought her back at last. Myrcella had missed her even as she had grown closer with Trystane, and part of her dreaded their marriage that would take her away from the drowsy warmth and comfort of Arianne's company, even as it would deliver her back to her family at King's Landing.

Later that night, Myrcella crept into Arianne's chambers and hid inside the great wardrobe, keeping the door half-open as it had been already. (Arianne was shockingly untidy for a princess, and refused to allow any servant in her quarters to deal with the resulting mess. She used to drag Myrcella to her rooms once a month or so and make her sit on the bed, while Arianne picked up the clothes strewn about the floor or flung over the backs of chairs and complained about her own bad habits. Already, Myrcella thought, Arianne could do with a good cleaning.) A short while later the door to the chamber opened and Myrcella readied herself to jump out, just as Arianne had done to her so often.

But Arianne was not alone.

"—Yronwoods aren't pleased by the match," someone was saying. "Lord Anders thought Quentyn would marry Gwyneth, after being fostered with them for so long."

It was Ellaria Sand. She hadn't been seen overmuch at Sunspear since returning from King's Landing two months ago, Lord Oberyn's body in tow. Since then she'd avoided the court, instead spending time with Oberyn's daughters. The few times Myrcella had seen her, Ellaria had been as warm and friendly as before, but with a knife-edge to her smile that Myrcella recognized all too well from the courtiers in the Red Keep. She'd had taken care not to be alone with Ellaria, nor with the Sand Snakes, since then.

"Then Lord Anders is a fool," said Arianne in her sing-song voice, "and should be regarded as such. Gwyneth is a lovely girl, but she is far too little for a Prince of Dorne. The Arbor is a more valuable holding and the Redwynes far more valuable allies."

"And once Trystane is married to his blonde bastard girl, you will have both your brothers safely out of Dorne," said Ellaria. There was the sound of clothing being moved about, and Ellaria sitting down. "Really, dear, you ought to have someone clean in here. There could be mice, for all you know."

Arianne laughed, as though Ellaria had only insulted her housekeeping. Myrcella's hands clenched into fists. Was this what Arianne truly thought of her? And in Dorne, of all places! Where Ellaria herself, and all her lover's daughters, carried the last name of Sand! Ellaria had made much of the Dornish saying that bastard children were born of love and passion, and thus as trueborn as any child conceived by wedded parents. But clearly she held Myrcella in as much contempt as any of the rest of them would back home, if they knew the truth.

They never knew King Robert, the man who'd never once looked at her or her brothers but with resentment and bitterness. None of her mother's children had been loved, not by that oafish lumbering stag who saw them all as shackles that tied him to the Lannisters he hated so much. What shame was there in knowing her true parents, at least, loved each other? And loved their children, even if only one could dare show it? Myrcella wanted to burst out of the wardrobe and declare that she would gladly call herself Myrcella Waters — Myrcella Lannister — and dare anyone to judge her for it. 

But she huddled further into herself and listened, to hear what else Arianne might say.

"I've stayed away too long," is what she said, "if you're this comfortable calling poor Myrcella such names. She's done nothing to you—"

The scrape of a chair signaled that Ellaria had risen once again. "Her family murdered your uncle, who you seemed once to love—"

"—and yet I have been informed of a certain present you sent to Queen Cersei just a few days ago," Arianne overrode her. "A snake, with Myrcella's pendant in its mouth. Hardly subtle, my dear."

Ellaria did not answer, and Myrcella put her hand to her mouth to keep her own silence. Her pendant had gone missing during the wedding celebrations, she had thought a victim of one of the more energetic dances on that first night. But Ellaria had got hold of it somehow? And sent it to Mother as a...threat, it seemed. Or a warning.

"What do you want, Ellaria?" asked Arianne with more gentleness than Myrcella felt capable of. "The Lannisters have already suffered, even if not by our hand: their patriarch dead, their firstborn dead, their brother Tyrion probably dead and certainly dead to them. Even Casterly Rock itself is in dire straits, from what I've heard. You've spoken to my father a great deal of vengeance — but where will it end? Will it be satisfied with Myrcella's death? Or do you need every child of theirs to die, before killing Cersei and Jaime?"

"I—" Ellaria's voice was thick, and there was a long moment of quiet before she spoke again. "I do not know," she said at last, as if confessing.

"Well, I do know," said Arianne briskly, "and I will tell you, if you will listen."

"...I will," said Ellaria slowly. Myrcella hardly dared breathe.

"Good. I did not linger in Norvos for nothing, much as I love Mama. Do you remember Illyrio Mopatis, the magister from Pentos? We met him years ago, when I was a girl and you and Oberyn took me with you to Essos. You were pregnant with Dorea, I think, and Obella and Tyene followed you everywhere with pillows for your chairs. Illyrio then got you a litter and had you carried everywhere."

"Gods, yes," Ellaria said, chuckling. "And he had one to match!"

"Uncle Oberyn kept crowding out the litterbearer in the front so that he could carry you," Arianne said. "At any rate, I saw him — Illyrio. He came for a visit to Mama's estate, and we spoke at great length about certain plans he has been making."

Ellaria's laugh now was sour. "Ah yes, he and the Spider have been making those plans for nearly twenty years, haven't they? Put the Targaryen boy back on the throne with the assurance that this one is sane." She snorted. "They thought Rhaegar was sane, too."

"If by 'this one,' you refer to Viserys Targaryen, his sanity is a moot point," said Arianne. "He's dead. Has been for several years, apparently. But his sister Daenerys has survived. She's been making quite a nuisance of herself in Slaver's Bay. Along with her three dragons, Illyrio tells me."

"Dragons?" Ellaria scoffed. "Illyrio's always said a great number of things. That never made any of them true."

"Which is why I want you to go and find out what is true. Meet with this Daenerys Stormborn yourself. Take her measure. I could only discover so much in Norvos, with Mama's eye always on me. She doesn't approve of Papa's conciliation to the Red Keep, but stories of Targaryen princesses and their dragons aren't to her liking, either."

"Are they to your liking?" Whatever response Arianne made, it seemed to satisfy Ellaria. "Very well. I have two conditions."

"Only two?"

"First, I shall first go to Pentos first and speak directly with Illyrio. He never could lie to me, and if he is so sure Daenerys Targaryen is the true ruler of Westeros then he'll be willing to back that up with coin and supplies. Which we'll need, in abundance."

Arianne sighed. "Very well. Though if you venture so close to Norvos, Mama will insist you visit her."

Ellaria made a prevaricating sound. "Your mother always liked me best."

"She did. And does. What is your second condition?"

"Our daughters come with me. All of them."

"No," Arianne said flatly. "Aside from the fact that it will look strange to have all the Sand Snakes gone, Lorenza is barely seven years old. You would take her across the Narrow Sea to a slave city?"

"Better than leave her here, where Doran can fill her head with his witterings about peace and forgiveness," Ellaria snapped. "If she dies — if any of us die — at least we will not live like your father."

"Take Nymeria and Tyene," Arianne countered. "Obara, if you must. The rest of the Snakes are better off here. What would Sarella do in Meereen, or Astapor, or Yunkai? Those cities do not have a reputation for academic pursuits."

"She can bring her books with her. All of us go, or none. I want nothing of Oberyn left behind for someone else to take from me."

Arianne sighed. "I'll consider it. But I want you to consider, too. If this Daenerys Stormborn is what she is said to be, she will retake the Iron Throne 'with fire and blood.' Take care that it is not your blood, my dear."

They spoke for a bit longer, until the bells chimed the hour and Ellaria departed. How long until Arianne went to bed? Myrcella might stay here the whole night and then what would she do? Who could she tell? Who did she want to tell?

"You are thinking loudly enough to wake the entire palace, little lioness," said Arianne, and opened the wardrobe door all the way. Myrcella shrank back but it was no use; Arianne was looking down at her, shaking her head. "Let's talk, so that you might be a little quieter."

"Are you going to kill my brother?" she asked, not moving.

"No," Arianne said, with a certainty that Myrcella could not help but believe. "Nor will I let anyone else. We do not hurt children in Dorne." She held out her hand, and Myrcella took it.

They sat down on the bench near the window, the one that overlooked the whole of the palace and beyond that, the city of Sunspear itself. The stars here were clear and bright, even with the torches and lights from below burning merrily at this late hour.

"Tommen's in King's Landing, not Dorne," was the first thing Myrcella could think of to say. "And he's not a child anymore." Nor am I, she thought.

Arianne rolled her eyes. "So literal. I forgot this about you. You're right — he's a man grown now, and a husband soon, and already a king. But he is not to blame for the way things are now, anymore than Viserys and Daenerys were to blame for what their father and brother did during the Rebellion."

"My father always said Uncle Stannis should have killed them when he had the chance." She could remember that argument well, as it was one Robert made whenever Uncle Stannis irritated him — which was often. You had only to take them and drown them, and you couldn't even manage that! My brother the great tactician, bested by infants! 

"I very much doubt your father said any such thing," said Arianne tartly, "Though I am sure King Robert said it often enough." She tilted her head as she regarded Myrcella. "When did you first realize? About your parents?"

Myrcella hesitated, but it seemed silly to pretend ignorance now, of all times. "I've always known, I think. When the ravens came from Dragonstone, from Uncle Stannis, saying that we were bastard-born...it wasn't a surprise." Nor had she been surprised at her not-uncle's blunt declaration, cutting himself off from all claims of blood and family. Stannis had always been a hard man to love; she suspected he found it hard to love others in turn. Perhaps it had been as great a relief to him as it had been to her, to know there was nothing that bound them to each other after all.

"I am glad you know," said Arianne, "but that is one reason I wanted you to hear Ellaria's plans, as well as my own. She wants to hurt your mother and father very badly. Her rage has made her blind. My hope is that distance, as well as time, will allow her to see clearly again. But in the meanwhile it is best for everyone if you and she are far away from each other."

"But...those things you said, about Daenerys Targaryen. You want her to come here?"

Arianne sighed and took Myrcella's hands in hers. They were small and soft, dwarfed by Myrcella's long fingers. "Daenerys Stormborn is coming here. Nothing can stop that; sooner or later, she will arrive with her dragons, and she will take the Iron Throne. If your brother and your parents are to survive it, they must have somewhere to go. Someone who will take them in."

Myrcella stared at her. She couldn't mean Dorne; for one thing, Mother would never agree to live out her days here, strolling about the Water Gardens and bathing in the Summer Sea. For another, the Martells and the Targaryens had a complicated enough relationship; even Doran, even Arianne, wouldn't risk the wrath of a new queen by hosting the old king.

"Perhaps Highgarden—" but even as Myrcella said it she could see it for the farcical suggestion it was. She'd never met the Queen of Thorns, but she knew the Tyrells had sided with the Targaryens during the Rebellion; Olenna Tyrell would be only too happy to turn the Lannisters right back over to Daenerys should they put a foot wrong, even if Tommen's marriage to Margaery went through. Which left—

"Casterly Rock," she said, and felt ashamed that it had taken her so long to understand. "You want me to hold the Westerlands." It made sense: Jaime was still in the Kingsguard and likely to remain so, and Uncle Tyrion was long gone (and would be barred from inheriting anyhow, given the accusations that he had murdered Grandfather). Uncle Kevan and Lancel might have claims to it, but Tommen's last letter had mentioned Lancel's latest obsession with some odd religious sect that had gained popularity in the Crownlands. Which left...herself, of all the remaining Lannisters.

Arianne nodded. "Casterly Rock. You were raised to be the wife of a great lord. But I think you are better suited to be a great lord yourself." She lifted her eyebrows. "More importantly, little lioness, what do you think?"

All at once she wanted it more than breath: a home of her own, a castle, a people, a kingdom. A chance to be fair and kind and noble not just amongst the simpering painted faces of court, but in a place where fairness and kindness mattered. She could take Casterly Rock and make something more of it than the just golden bank of Westeros. Myrcella could feel a ravening hunger in her that she'd never imagined, that would take all of the Westerlands to sate.

Myrcella held on tightly. She could feel her fingers turning to claws, her hair a wild mane. "Yes," she said, her voice barely above a whisper but roaring louder in her head, in her throat, in her chest. "Yes."

[leupagus]

I'm making kirazi take the blame for this

because she said "what if you wrote a slowburn casefic for Broadchurch" and the entire plot fell into my lap.

~

"I mean yeah," Miller says, waving her chopsticks about, "I definitely would have killed Joe if he hadn't left, but I would have marched right over to that shitty little shack you used to lurk in—"

"It wasn't a shack and I lived there, Miller--"

"And said, 'Oi, sir, just killed my husband, here you go, I brought my own handcuffs.' I was never afraid of going to prison for that. If I'd killed him, you'd've been the first to know."

Hardy stares at her, busily digging through her container of bamee khai. "You'd have called me 'sir' when you were confessing to murder?"

"Ooh, plus, this skeleton's got all his teeth. Joe's got at least two crowns and got his wisdom teeth removed. So, there you go."

"There you go," Hardy agrees. He picks at his food but it's like grass between his teeth, too much work. He tosses it onto his desk and swears at himself when the dressing splatters onto a file, but Miller's already balling up some napkins to throw at him. "I did think for a while that you had killed him," he says, dabbing carefully at the picture of half-rotted shovel.

There's a choking sound; he looks up and Miller's coughing, using some more napkins to press against her mouth. "You what?"

"When you said it'd been handled, right as I was leaving," he explains. "I thought, ach, well, she's a professional, and I thought I'd leave you to it before you decided I needed handling too." He meant it as a joke, but she stares at him, stricken. "I didn't mean—"

"That's not why you left," she says, still staring at him. Staring through him, her eyes unfocused the way they are when she's got hold of some thread on a case and is chasing it down in her mind. "You left because if Joe's body ever did turn up, you'd have to investigate. And you thought if I'd done it that you'd catch me." She blinks, then glares at him. "I'm not sure whether to be touched at your consideration, or outraged at your assumption that you'd catch me if I had done it. Or offended that you didn't think I'd confess right off."

He gapes for a minute, trying to follow her logic, such as it is. "Are you angry with me for—"

"I'd be a great murderer," she insists, stomping to her feet and snatching away his salad and the napkins still held loosely in his hand. "You shouldn't be eating near the crime scene photos," she sniffs, and stomps out.

"What the hell?" he calls after her, scrabbling for some more napkins or tissues or something to get rid of the last speckles of lemon dressing.

[leupagus]

Gonna call this "All This Life" and it's just gonna be 5K of Jade being an embarrassing wife guy about Nate

It's July, which means she's about to lose him. She loses him every year around this point — either he's really gone, off to Barcelona or Milan, muttering imprecations at whatever interpreter they've lined up for him; or he's off in his own head, locked in his office and scowling down at the various football Lego sets that were the parting gift from that off-putting American Nate still has an inexplicable fondness for.

She never really liked Ted Lasso, but she loves Nathan Shelley, and so when they meet at the odd social function or sporting event she'll bestow a smile and a polite interest until he goes away. It never takes very long, which is nice.

"I've almost forgot how terrifying you are when you do that, love," Nate says to her after the Richmond 'do, half-asleep already. He'd smiled broad and warm and surprised when she'd come downstairs in that blue dress she hadn't been quite sure of at the store, worried it might be too tight, worried she hadn't kept the weight off like she'd promised herself. That smile had carried her out the door with a half-hearted "bye" to the babysitter and wrapped round her in the back of the limousine (he's still so weird, always insisting on limos for these stupid things, but he wants to keep his attention on her and not the road). And at the clubhouse, through seventeen variations of "So do you think you can keep Richmond's place in the rankings, what ho?" he'd turn to her and share that smile with her again, and then give a pleasant, twisting answer.

"Mm. Do what," she asks, rereading the last paragraph. She doesn't think much of Croft's translation, if she's honest — Polish is silkier than this, without the porridge lumps of English, but there are better words, better turns to evoke what Tokarczuk means. Still, it's not bad. There's something to learn from, here. Nate likes to say they're both in fields that let them learn from other people's mistakes.

"Give people that 'I'm just waiting for you to go away' look," Nate says, settling and resettling and re-resettling. He'll do this for another hour, trying to find the perfect angle so he can watch her until he falls asleep. He's never yet admitted that that's what he does; she's never yet admitted that that's why she stays up. So she can be watched — can hold onto his attention for those last moments.

(In July and August, though, he falls asleep almost as soon as he's in bed; he's taken to snoring, which she's saving up to tell him until the moment it will make him sputter the most. The beginning of a new season takes him away into new plans, different strategies, hunting for that millimetre of advantage amongst the pack of whatever league he's up against this year. And it's always him up against them; he's not the youngest anymore, but he still stands out in those anodyne pictures they put up of all the head managers. He'll never not have something to prove.)

"You used to give me that look," Nate mumbles, face half-mashed into the pillow. "S'one reason I fell in love with you."

"Your fetish for people who are mean to you is well-established," she says, turning the pages on both copies of Bieguni, even though she isn't really paying attention to the book anymore. Even though he knows she's not paying attention. Theirs is a marriage of hiding in plain sight, of pretending badly not to love each other as much as they do and holding secret and smug the knowledge that they've seen through the other's terrible facade.

[leupagus]

Title: Imminent, Soon, Later Writer: leupagus Fandom: Broadchurch Wordcount: 15K Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Summary: "You all right?" she asks, not really listening to whatever grunt he makes in acknowledgement. His stubble has got tidied up, his neck shaved so that it all looks like a halfway respectable beard. He's wearing a grey suit with a darker grey button-up she's never seen before, but it doesn't look fresh, exactly. It almost seems like— 

"No," she says, suspicion growing along with her grin as she watches him blush. It's a comprehensive one: starts at his neck — more visible now — and goes clear up to his hairline. His very messy hairline, even messier than usual. "Really?"

[leupagus]

Three-Legged Puppy Fics

List five of your least-popular fics, as well as when/why you wrote them.

Home to the Weary: Merlin, Gwen/Morgana, 2010.

I wrote this at the request of a friend who wanted, I think, something Gwen-centric. Because I was not a fan of the show I decided to focus on an AU in which Gwen backflipped out of that whole situation and founded her own sort of kingdom, only meeting the terrible trio years later. It was really fun and was the first time I'd ever tried writing a fic that hinted at a larger world going on around the characters, if that makes sense. This one's a little pretentious but you can definitely see my "style" as it were.

Treads on the Ground: Babylon (not the sci-fi show, the short-lived british cop show), Liz Garvey/Finn Kirkwood, 2022.

This was written during my Bertie Carvel phase where I'd watched "Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell" and was desperate for something, anything, that didn't have him wearing terrible prosthetics or playing a psycho. He still sort of plays a psycho in this show, but he looks super hot and angry all the time which is really all I needed. (Also bonus hilarity: Liz's boyfriend in this show is played by none other than James Lance, playing "louche asshole" to the absolute hilt.) Anyway I wrote this because I really wanted a fake dating AU for these two AND a "Finn is secretly in line to the throne" fic and this was the perfect way to combine these two. I'm still legitimately really proud of thsi fic.

The Bright Relief: 1776 musical, John Adams & Thomas Jefferson (and a little bit of / in there, if I'm honest), 2010.

I wrote this because my friends waldorph and screamlet and I were having the Summer of 1776 Feelings and we all wrote various (wonderful) crimes and misdemeanors in that fandom, mostly revolving all the ways in people who love John Adams make fun of him. That was a truly terrible summer but made a whole lot better by those two, and by William Daniels being the most John Adams to ever John Adams. (I actually rewatched the miniseries a few months ago and Paul Giamatti does a great job but that thing is SO DREARY. Although I will say Stephen Dillane first caught my eye in the role of TJeff, aka once again playing a guy who's down real bad for someone smarter than him (in this case both Abigail AND John). The scene where he first meets Abigail is just nonstop flirting, with John making faces in the background. It's great.)

Happy Tails To You (Until We Meet Again): SGA, Rodney McKay/John Sheppard, 2009.

Oh lordy — probably the worst fic I've ever written, but I can't quite bring myself to delete it. I've been on the periphery of fandom for most of my adult life (what up X-Files yahoo groups and Prodigy Star Trek RP rooms), but SGA was what made me start thinking of writing fic after a long period of only reading it. (Yes, there is college-era gus fic out there. No, I'm not posting it on AO3.) I never quite got a handle on Sheppard or McKay but I did enjoy writing this and the other SGA fic I wrote, but yeah this deserves its obscurity.

Honey Now I'm Not One To Complain: Dalgliesh, Adam Dalgliesh/Kate Miskin, 2022.

Another one of my "Bertie Carvel is extremely attractive when he's sad and/or a cop" flash-fandoms, although I wrote a pretty good primer on the first season that I think gives a good case for the show as a whole. I wanted to write that largely because the show is so resolutely grim and I prefer stories that are... not grim, so I gave myself the challenge of putting these guys into one of the classic tropes. I did toy with the fake dating/marriage trope but honestly I think this was funnier, and I would always rather commit to the bit.

Tagging uhhh let's see, @laiqualaurelote, @themardia, @sadcypress, @auntieclimactic, and @eyebrowofdoom, if they (or anyone else) wants to do this.

[leupagus]

Would Hardy say "breasts" or "tits" in his narrative voice, I can't decide

His mobile goes off at half-four on a Sunday; the whole drive up to Kingsgrove Wood he has his mum's voice echoing in his ears that it's God's day, for rest and prayer and not mucking about in the woods. The voice gets louder as he's lead further in by a pair of constables, their torches flailing through the darkness for nearly twenty minutes before they arrive at the scene. 

Miller's there already in a full noddy suit, talking in low tones with Brian as she juggles her phone, her notebook and a thermos just outside the forensics tent. "Go away," she says cheerfully as Hardy finally stumbles into the clearing.

Brian glances over his shoulder, makes a face, and disappears back into the tent. Hardy's about to follow him inside when Miller gets in his way. "Miller," he warns.

"Listen, we're all overjoyed at the prospect of seeing your smiling face at… five oh seven in the morning," she says, glancing at her phone, "But this is why you've got a DS. I can brief you later."

"Brief me now," he says. She sighs and thrusts the thermos into his hands. "This for me?"

"No, lesson learned there, you'll just leave it on your desk until it gets mouldy." She waves her hands a bit — noddy suits don't have pockets — before unzipping just enough to slip her phone into her bra. She then flips her notebook open and peers at her handwriting, nudging him out of the floodlight positioned above the tent. "All right, a pair of adventurous young people were out here 'for a walk' at just past eleven, saw 'something weird' sticking out of the ground, poked around and found a jawbone, which I'm fairly sure wasn't how they wanted their evening to go. They've been statemented and released; Katie's running them home under protest."

"Under protest? Why?" Harford's got better in the past six months or so — Miller's oddly fond of her now, Hardy will never understand people — but if she's whinging again about basic aspects of the job, he's not above giving her a bollocking. He's cut back on caffeine, but shouting makes for a passable substitute.

"The lad was sick all over his own trousers." Miller grins. "And he had vindaloo last night."

Hardy uncaps the thermos and takes a whiff — burnt coffee, which seems to be the only kind Miller drinks. "What about the jawbone?"

"'Human' is about as far as they've got; they're digging up the rest now. We did take pictures of what the area looked like before they got their trowels in — looked completely undisturbed. This area doesn't have much in the way of footpaths; it's part of one of those preserves that's been popping up all over this area the past twenty-odd years. Makes me wonder a bit about how our outdoorsy friends just happened to trip over it, to be honest."

"Seems a bit out of the way, aye." He wouldn't be surprised if this was the most people who'd stood on this ground in the past few centuries.

"Mm. Something else odd. From what SOCO's got so far, the body was definitely buried — about three feet deep — but with the angle of the hill here and all the rain we've been getting—" She makes a complicated gesture; her phone lights up her breasts in a very distracting way. He frowns down at the thermos. "And there's another thing," she adds. "We haven't found the actual… head part. Yet."

Hardy forgets about her bioluminescent chest for long enough to glare at her. "You lost the skull?"

She glares right back. "It's probably rolled down the hill! It's pitch dark! We'll find it, it's just—"

"For God's sake—"

"Oh, don't 'for God's sake' me at this hour, we're doing the best we can!"

"Minus the skull!"

"Which might not have even been buried with the rest of the body!"

He hands her back the thermos, keeping his eyes off her glowing tits. "Find it, all right?"

"Dawn's still an hour off," she shouts after him. "We don't even know how old the body is! It could be from the bloody Bronze Age for all we know!"