#lol this fanfic conflict?

[booasaur]

The Morning Show - 3x01

[desertfangs]

Valenfangs - Day 5 - Red Wine

🍷Red Wine 🍷

Daniel/Marius - Mature - 2733 words

Daniel stops in a wine bar to stare down a glass of red. Marius, worried he's out so late, comes to find him and ensure he's okay.

This is mostly fluff and banter with some kissing and light vampire murder, and Daniel having some lingering angst about his madness.

This is obviously for the Valenfangs prompt "Red Wine."

Short Excerpt:

Daniel sat at the back of the wine bar on a hard wooden bench that had been carved into the wall, with tables arranged very few feet. A glass of red wine sat in front of him, untouched. It smelled of fruity with the acerbic tinge of alcohol. He was sure it had a slight bite to its flavor. He tried to remember the taste of red wine. He could almost conjure the flavor in his mind, but it felt distant, like trying to remember the details of a dream. Wine had never been his drink of choice, but he’d enjoyed it with meals, particularly steak. 

Now, of course, he had only one preferred vintage. The waitress came by to check on him and he smiled, forcing himself not to stare at her neck, not to listen to the flow of blood in her veins that made his mouth water.

When she left, he relaxed. He needed to hunt, but he’d stumbled in here out of some strange need to hold a glass of wine, smell it, and be close to it. Such a strange desire and yet he could not let the urge go. 

It scared him a little, truth be told. Inescapable urges, no matter how reasonable, were a hallmark of his madness. He’d come out of it but little things like this could be seen as a sign he wasn’t completely recovered. Or it was just a strange burst of nostalgia. Daniel had always been impulsive.

Daniel was surprised to se Marius approaching his table. He was tall and slender, wearing a button up shirt and slacks. His long blond hair was tied back into a ponytail, making him look a bit like an art professor. The paint under his fingernails added to the impression.

Marius sat across from him. The waitress scurried over, her blood so aromatic Daniel held the bench while she took Marius’ order, and only let go when she’d gone. His veins tightened with need. He was pushing it again, pushing himself. He used to enjoy pushing his hunger late into the night, but these days, given his recent issues, doing so could be risky. 

And yet he loved how tantalizing the smell of blood was when he got this hungry, the way his veins constricted in his body as they cried out for that welcome relief of blood flowing through them again.

“Nice place,” Marius said, looking around. The wall to the left had a carving of grapes on a barrel etched into the wood. 

Daniel shrugged. It was fine. A classy wine bar that served bottles in all price ranges and a variety of tapas. The kind of place he might have gone as a mortal with Armand, to try different vintages while Armand rooted through his thoughts, trying to pick out the different flavors. His stomach flipped at the memory of his maker. He wondered what Armand was doing right now, back in New York City, which was lousy with places like this. 

The waitress brought Marius’ wine—a crisp white—and left. He smelled it, smiled, and set the glass down.

“What brought you here?” 

Daniel didn’t really know. “Seemed inviting.” 

Marius laughed. “So it does. Though it would be better with a nice roaring fire.” 

Daniel gave him a look. “It’s eighty degrees outside.” 

“It would still add to the atmosphere,” Marius said. 

[mermaidsirennikita]

sometimes it drives me literally insane to see romance requests that are like

--I want a romance wherein it's basically the happy epilogue throughout the book

--I want a romance that has great communication and they never withhold anything from each other ever

--no "miscommunication trope"

The last thing is just a general gripe about how so many of the things people say are tropes are not tropes, and it's pedantic and snobby but like. Miscommunication is so broad. It's not a trope. People are miscommunicating. WHAT are they miscommunicating about? Is one of them keeping a secret identity from their partner? Because a secret identity romance iS a trope. Is one of them withholding their feelings out of fear of rejection?

Because people DO miscommunicate. Often writers do write it clumsily. If people miscommunicate for no reason, sure, whatever. But if they miscommunicate BECAUSE of a REASON--like, often it's not even miscommunication lol. It's the hero keeping his dire supernatural secret from his wife because she'll die if she finds out (honestly, valid to me, but whatever). It's the heroine finding it difficult to trust the hero with her heart because her dad left when she was young (maybe cliche in theory, but actually a very real thing that happens).

If all you want is plotless nothing wherein everyone is happy and nobody makes mistakes, I personally have a hard time thinking of it as a book, because there is no story. It's just vibes. And essentially EVERY time, people have to mess up and make mistakes in order for there to be a plot.

I just don't understand the point.

[kemendin]

Shattered Sanctum

So! As of this week, I have officially been writing what I’ve been calling Fortress Funtimes - pre-Echoes of Oblivion ‘current’ story with a large flashback segment to, you guessed it, Caspian’s experiences on the Emperor’s Fortress - for a whole year!

This thing is sitting at roughly 40k words right now, and is nowhere near done. Obviously I’ve been working on a lot of other, shorter stories in between, and there has been a lot of strugglebussing over FF, mainly because I’ve never tackled such a long and plot-heavy story before. I have no idea when I’ll cross the finish line on this one.

But - I’m honestly really proud that I’ve kept at it for a whole friggin year, folks! So I thought I’d post one of the earlier chapters as it stands now - not real spoilery except for the canon JK story, but it’s one of my favourites so far.

“By my master’s command - you must die.”

The Emperor’s sanctum sings with the sounds of battle as Lord Scourge, the Emperor’s Wrath, drives his scarlet lightsaber at the two Jedi Knights who, against all odds, have overcome the fortress’ defences to strike the final blow for victory.

Or so they think. They are, in fact, devastatingly mistaken.

One is a young woman, fair-skinned and with auburn hair that flares brighter whenever she dodges through a pool of stark red light. Kira Carsen, former Child of the Emperor - now broken free, yet still fresh in her role as a Knight. 

She is eager, driven, and skilled, but she lacks experience, and it shows in the way she parries and thrusts with her blue-bladed saberstaff. She puts too much of herself into each strike, believing too fervently that she can win, must win, at any cost. It’s a common weakness of younger Jedi, particularly when facing Sith opponents, and Scourge knows how to use it against her. More than once he offers her an opening in his defences, and then sends her staggering back as she goes for the feint and is instantly repelled.

The other Jedi is only slightly older than Carsen, but he is proving himself a noteworthy combatant nonetheless. His green-gold blade has intercepted several strikes meant for his companion, as he puts himself between Carsen and the Sith like a challenge.

Caspian Serapis, the so-called Hero of Tython. By no means the most formidable duelist that the Wrath has ever faced, nor the strongest in the Force, and yet he stands apart. Scourge finds it curious that even here, before the Sith Emperor himself, he can detect no true sign of fear flashing within the Jedi’s pale eyes, or twisting at his dark-skinned face.

That face. Scourge had recognised it instantly on Quesh, with a jolt that wrenched him back across more than three centuries. Where once before he had drawn his lightsaber alongside two Jedi, and a throne room of the Emperor was shattered by a desperate bid to end Vitiate’s immortality. 

They had failed. But within their failure, guided by the Force, Scourge had sown the seed of victory; and here, at last, he has the first taste of its fruit. His wait for the Jedi of his vision, so long ago, has not been in vain.

That Jedi strikes at him again, several deliberate blows that force Scourge into the reach of the other knight, who whirls her longer blade at the Wrath’s side. The two work well together: their relative inexperience is offset by the harmony of their movements, each complementing the other with practised coordination. She is swift; he is tenacious. But Scourge is quicker and more relentless than both, and he deflects Carsen’s attempt to impale him from behind, sending her saber scoring harmless across the edge of his cuirass. Almost in the same motion he swings his own blade at the other Jedi, a forceful blow that staggers Serapis and loses him the few paces he’d just gained on the Sith.

The battle has been going on for several minutes now, and tugging at the back of his brain, Scourge can sense his master’s thinning patience for the display. Moreover, he can feel the rest of the Jedi strike team closing in on their position. As expected, the alterations to the security grid had impeded their progress, just enough to allow Serapis and Carsen to reach the throne room alone. But now the time for stalling is at an end.

Scourge believes in the will of the Force, in the vision granted to him - just as Revan had believed, centuries ago. But he also believes in leaving little to chance. After three hundred years of biding his time, he’s not about to let it all unravel the instant he can sense the final goal within his grasp. He’s had a taste of his opponent, and he’s not been disappointed. Now Scourge must ensure that the Jedi’s destiny - and his own - are not brought to a premature end within the stronghold of their enemy.

With that in mind - it is time to shift the tide in favour of the Jedi.

The Sith lowers his guard, then, and allows the two young knights to press their attack, driving him slowly back towards his master’s throne. It’s a plausible turn in the battle; despite their shortcomings, the Jedi have held their own remarkably well against him, and have both managed to pierce his black armour at least once. With enough time, it’s entirely possible they might have overcome the Emperor’s Wrath by their own hands.

But time is not an asset that any of them, including the immortal Wrath, still possess.

Assaulted on both sides by the fierce-eyed Jedi, Scourge makes a show of succumbing to their onslaught at last. He keeps his focus on Serapis as their lightsabers flash and strobe in deadly reflections across the polished floor, now marred with the glowing scars of their fight. He feels Carsen dart in behind him again, trying to deal an incapacitating blow while his back is turned - and for an instant his pride reasserts itself. No, he snarls inwardly. There is now only one in this galaxy he will allow himself to submit to.

He snaps round, catching her blade with his own and twisting it away with enough momentum to send the weapon spinning out of her hands. Before she can recover he strikes at her with the Force, sending her tumbling away after her weapon. Her cry of surprise echoes through the cavernous chamber.

But he’s left himself vulnerable before Serapis, and an instant later pain sears through his body as the Jedi’s verdant blade plunges through one side of his armoured torso. Not a death blow - even fighting his way through the fortress, this Jedi in particular has seemed averse to killing - but it is more than enough to drop Scourge heavily to his knees, his own lightsaber falling from his hand.

The pain of the wound lances through him as he fights to catch his breath; a sweet, exquisite agony anchoring him to his flesh where usually there is only a void. He relishes it, he revels in it, even as he kneels and bows his head before the vision of his destiny.

“You’re beaten,” says Serapis flatly. The tip of his lightsaber hums warily near Scourge’s throat. “It’s over.”

No, Jedi, thinks Scourge. It has only begun.

The Sith lifts his head again, staring up impassively into the face that had, for a brief time, hovered every night in his dreams, before his dreams themselves were stripped away for good.

“You are nearly the Jedi’s finest,” he says calmly, and pauses for a fraction of an instant. “It is not enough to save you.”

“We’re not the ones who need saving.” Carsen has picked herself up and limped over to stand beside her fellow knight, taking a moment to kick Scourge’s lightsaber out of reach in a decidedly petty act of retaliation.

Serapis is breathing hard, his brow gleams with sweat, but otherwise he is still impressively controlled. “We’re here for your master, not his lapdog,” he tells Scourge tightly. “The others will be here in a moment. If you want to live, you won’t interfere.”

Scourge narrows his eyes, and his lip curls at the Jedi’s arrogance. That, he decides, is something they will have to work on.

“Even in defeating me, you haven’t earned an audience with him,” he replies softly. “Be careful what you wish for.”

But even as he says it, he senses his master’s presence stirring, casting a shadow through the sanctum. He watches as the other Jedi invaders arrive and rush through the door, only to draw up short, buffeted back by the sheer, overwhelming darkness of the Sith Emperor. Carsen shrinks back, her gaze wide. Only Serapis stands his ground, his face taut as he raises his eyes to the Emperor.

Good, thinks Scourge. He will need that resolve.

A dark figure unfolds itself from the throne suspended like a drop of blood on the precipice before the Jedi. The Emperor is a void, faceless and unfeeling, and yet his disdain radiates throughout the sanctum.

“Misdirected passion. Such a waste.” His voice is cold beyond measure - not the chill of ice, but the emptiness of the space between stars.

The leader of the Jedi team is a Kel Dor master who now pushes forward, struggling against the weight of the Emperor’s condescension. “It will not be a waste, if you cooperate,” he says. “Please accompany us to Tython.”

In that moment Scourge wishes he could remember how to laugh, because even with his life still held at saberpoint, the incredible audacity of this request - the ignorance - would have had him rolling on the floor.

“An infantile display, Tol Braga,” says the Emperor, his tone hollowed with contempt. “Reckless pride, limned by self-righteousness. You have been a fleeting amusement. Nothing more.”

“You’re wrong.” It is Serapis who speaks this time, lifting his chin in defiance. “We’ve done what no other Jedi could do. We’ve infiltrated your hidden fortress, broken through your defences, and defeated your Wrath.” He flourishes his lightsaber towards the Sith still knelt at his feet, his voice hard. “One way or another, we’ll bring an end to this. To you, and to the poison you spread throughout the galaxy.”

A fine speech, thinks Scourge, but that is all. Brazen words that hold no basis in the reality of this situation. 

With the Jedi distracted by their futile attempts to negotiate, the Sith shifts lightly in place. He can feel the biochemical implants embedded in his body already at work, mending muscles and organs and skin where Serapis’ lightsaber had scarred him. In only a short time, he will be fit to fight again. But he doesn’t expect to need to. No, the Jedi, all of them, have already lost, and the pitiful part is - they can't even see it.

The Emperor leaps forward from his throne and descends to the metal platform below, bearing with him all the weight of a dying star. The impact of his feet hitting the floor sends ominous shudders through the throne room as his dark visage turns its weight upon Serapis.

“You mistake me for your own weak flesh. I do not end.”

He reaches out, grasping with one black-gloved hand. Serapis gasps suddenly from where he stands above Scourge, his eyes going wide and his grip on his lightsaber faltering.

 “You stand there because I allow it. Because I do not fear. But now - now you will know nothing else.”

The Emperor’s words sound like a death knell through the chamber, and almost too abrupt to follow, Serapis is cast forcefully back. He slams into the polished floor and goes skidding away, coming to rest at the feet of his fellow Jedi.

“Cas!” cries Carsen, and she rushes recklessly towards the Emperor, only to be thrown after the other knight.

Scourge drapes an arm casually across his knee as he watches the other Jedi igniting their lightsabers, watches Serapis and Carsen pulling themselves to their feet. Admirable of them to keep trying, but too little, too late. He already knows how this will end. He knew before they even set foot within the fortress. They are not the first to have foolishly made this attempt.

The Emperor spreads his hands, and the air itself seems to darken, before a crackling cascade of Force lightning engulfs the far side of the room. Unprepared and overwhelmed by the Emperor’s power, most of the Jedi fall after only a few moments, their scorched bodies thudding limply to the floor, one by one.

But at the front edge of the storm, Serapis has caught the tongues of lightning against his blade. Teeth gritted in desperation, he tries to force ahead towards the throne, fighting to hold the Emperor’s will at bay. He gets in one step. Two steps. Three. Scourge’s gaze is rapt with attention as he observes the young Jedi’s trembling form. He has to concede - he is impressed. He’s not seen such resistance to the Emperor’s power since Revan.

Four steps. Five -

But here, in the heart of the Emperor’s fortress, the twisting torrent of the dark side is still too strong. Serapis’ hoarse scream is lost in the storm as it closes in around him, burning through his armour and clothing and into his flesh. Only steps away from Scourge, the Jedi falls to his hands and knees, and then collapses into unconsciousness. His lightsaber clatters down beside him as the sound of the tempest sucks away into ringing silence.

The Emperor’s Wrath at last rises to his feet, straightening the fall of his cape as behind him, his master surveys the singed bodies strewn across the smoking floor.

“You are mine.” 

The Emperor’s voice echoes through the sanctum as it wraps itself around the fallen Jedi, seeping into the cracks of their scattered minds. Even Scourge feels the edges of his awareness crumbling, caught in the oppressive cloud of his master’s will.

”You exist only at my command. You are my instruments - servants, slaves, weapons - and you will obey.”

The last word reverberates through the chamber. Scourge has to let the weight of it pass before he can move to retrieve his lightsaber; then he strides back to face the throne, and bows deeply. Already the movement barely aggravates his injury; in a way, he wishes the pain had lasted longer.

“What is your will, my lord Emperor?”

“Take them. Train them. Turn them.” The Emperor’s reply holds such deliberate malice as he considers the Jedi. “Scatter them across my Empire and let them do my bidding.” 

Scourge flicks a glance over his shoulder, at the inert form of Caspian Serapis. “And what of this particular Jedi?” he asks, and though he cannot feel the shame of defeat at the hand of a near-novice, still he lets the thought of it rise to the surface of his mind, where his master can skim it away for examination.

The Emperor turns his attention back to Scourge.

“That one I give to you, my Wrath. See that he is broken beyond all salvation. Take the Jedi’s greatest hope, and turn him into the ultimate weapon of despair. He will be unleashed upon his own kind. And they will fall.”

Excellent. That will give Scourge the time he needs to truly test what the Force has sent him.

He bows again before his master, the very embodiment of a loyal, obedient servant.

“As you command, my lord Emperor.”

But the Emperor hasn’t finished with him.

“This is your second failure in recent months, Lord Scourge. First you return without the traitor Sajar, and now you allow yourself to be overcome by two mediocre Jedi.” The Emperor lifts his hand, and Scourge finds himself forced to his knees once more, like gravity is suddenly bearing down on him from above instead of dragging from below. A rough hiss slips from between his teeth. It feels as though every piece of his body is being slowly compressed inward, his muscles flattening, his bones cracking, his vital organs threatening to burst beneath the pressure.

“Perhaps you tire of your role, after all these centuries. Perhaps you need a reminder that you live only through my gift to you.”

With his forehead nearly touching the floor at his master’s feet, Scourge knows better than to speak. Protest, resistance - they will only bring a harsher punishment. He learned long ago that the only path forward, through this half-life beside the Emperor, is submission.

And so with the skill of long, bitter practice, he bites back his primal need to scream, as the Emperor brings him back to that day when a young Sith Lord became the Wrath, and Scourge’s blood turns to fire in his veins.

[marioboyy]

'Royal Struggle'

(Movie-verse Mini Fic)

One whole month passed since the Princess of the Mushroom Kingdom accidentally travelled to another world for the first time.

A place so weirdly fascinating she visited multiple times after, where she was finally surrounded by others like her and the Mario brothers.

Humans, she had seen lots of humans now, lots of faces, and yet only the image of one kept arrogantly living in her mind rent free. Mario's.

Her heart and eyes had been feasting on the small big man since the day Peach first met him. The guy had features she couldn't overlook; prominent strong cheekbones, bright blue eyes.. and ohh his dashing personality was something else too; so brave, determined, sweet.

When she could manage to think about it with a clear mind she had contrasting emotions to say the least.

The young woman felt weak, exposed; the mere thought someone had the power to take her focus away, it never happened before, she was starting to get worried. That was definitely new. Never had she gone through such stress, not even that time a forced marriage with the Koopa King seemed inevitable. How could THAT be possible..

"Is this what they call-? No it isn't, or.. maybe?" She wondered one day in her room, walking back and forth, almost frantically. "Naah, it's not that, and uhm.. even if it is; who cares, a ruler doesn't have space for that in its life. I don't." Peach finally dismissed her own train of thoughts. It was time to go back to the planning room with a smile and work like the efficient princess she's always been. No more thinking about him, today was gonna be different! She's sure of it.

"HEEYY, MY BEST BUDDY MARIOO!" screeched a known Toad's voice from the hallway. Peach just whined in frustration like a kid.

[allylikethecat]

K, L, E!!

YES OH MY GOSH HELLO ANON thank you so much for indulging me and sending questions from the Fanfic Ask Meme!! As always, I LOVE chatting about fic (mine and other peoples!) and I get so excited when people send me these! If anyone wants to send anymore, or reblog it themselves, the list can be found HERE.

K: What’s the angstiest idea you’ve ever come up with?

This is a hard question because I feel like all of my fics are pretty angst heavy? I know I published it anonymously, but I think Immoral in a Stranger's Lap was probably one of the most painful, especially because it didn't really have a resolution or a happy ending, the same goes for (Sometimes). It's still in the early stages of outlining, (and I'm writing it because I am firmly in the we need more mpreg in this fandom camp) but the Teen Dad Fictional!Matty fic is also shaping up to be pretty angsty - it's looking like it's going to be a split narrative alternating between 16 year old Fictional!Matty dealing with teen pregnancy and present day thirty something year old Fictional!Matty trying to get pregnant on purpose and struggling to do so which I know deals with a lot of really heavy and painful topics.

L: What’s the weirdest AU you’ve ever come up with?

I feel like all of them 😂 But I guess, since it's not really popular in this fandom I'm going to say omegaverse even though it was very common in my other fandom experiences.

E: If you wrote a sequel to [insert fic], what would it be about?

I'm choosing to talk about Small Bump because I was working on Make Way for Ducklings earlier and clearly have mpreg on the mind. If I were to writing a sequel to that one, it would be dealing with Fictional!Matty's postpartum depression.

Thank you so much for sending these in! Thank you so much for reading and taking the time to send this ask, and for your continued support! I'm really grateful for the people who have not only taken the time to read my fics, but who have also taken the time to engage with me! I really appreciate you! I hope your Wednesday is going well and that you have a great rest of your week!

❤️Ally

[yonemurishiroku]

Fun fact I went through a breakup recently that was really jarring and left me feeling super alone and one of the coping strategies I found was to pretend that the previous versions of myself were there to comfort me. So I'd literally imagine different younger versions of myself from like 6 months, 1 year, etc ago being there and being like "hey, the fact that you were around the see the breakup means that you survived the pain we were going through, right? So that's good. And you'll survive this one." Sometimes I imagine them all sitting around my room and having a council, or I imagine them walking behind me when I feel unsure of myself. I also imagine them embracing me or bandaging my wounds when I really need it. Anyways, I support the Nico x Nico fic you're talking about writing-- self-love can hit the hardest, especially when it's the only kind of love currently within your reach.

Oh my god... I'm so sorry you have to go through such a horrible thing, and your coping mechanism is making me tear up. 😭😔 I hope you would feel better soon, pal.

And I really, really appreciate your support for the Nico selfcest AU! 😭 Fun fact for you too! I'm also an enthusiastic resident of a selfcest-based (?) fandom, and ofc, selfcest is a whole thing in there. It's my sanctuary and I have been the priest for as long as I can.

And Selflove Nico has been my religion since the first day I set foot into this fandom.

So yeah, I know what I'm doing. 😘🤩 I can't guarantee that I'd articulate it into a fully written fanfic - just bc I don't have the patience nor the willpower to come up with a multi-chaptered plot - but I'll try my best to deliver it the best way I can!

I would be glad if my crazy ideas make you feel better somehow.🥰 Wish you all the best, and please, keep loving yourself like that. You're doing great, friend.

[good-beans]

Summary: Lucina and Inigo are cast as Clara and the Nutcracker in an emergency production of the show. With opening night approaching, tensions arise.

Happy holidays to @ nymphlings on twitter, I was your secret santa for @nagamas ! I always love a good ballet au, this was so much fun to write 😊🩰

[introvertgoat]

ron/hermione/the weasleys/etc bashing of any sort is always so extremely boring and repetitive to me in harry potter fanfic omg like no instead of dissecting and examining these flawed and interesting characters in an intriguing and/or different light u decide to stoop to turning then into shallow, barely fleshed out characters 😭😭😭😭😭😭 and 9 out of 10 times it’s so harry can be some OP, dark, usually slytherin, badass like no i’m sorry i can’t

[marley-manson]

i keep seeing vagueposts about bj fans or haters or both or something, so my hot take is that bj tends to be idealized in fic, at least the fic i’ve read, and tends to be demonized for fun in shitposts and memes, so if this is like an argument about whether bj gets demonized or idealized then both sides are both right and wrong

and serious meta seems to be a balance of both from what i’ve seen. you got your fans who explain almost everything he does as catering to hawkeye in some way, including episodes like joker is wild lol, and you got your fans who see him as a genuinely wholesome good dude in a situation that makes him behave badly, and you got people who mainly focus on his flaws either because they don’t like him or because they’re what makes him interesting

there’s something for everyone

[filet-o-feelings]

December prompts - day 13 (candles)

Patrick walks through his house in awe, but mostly in confusion.

It’s beautiful; a bit of a fire hazard maybe, but beautiful.

But where did his husband get so many candles? Patrick has spreadsheets with all of the inventory, and they don’t have a fraction of these in stock, so he must have made a special trip or two to Elmdale without him, or placed a special order a while ago.

He steps carefully to avoid knocking any over, he’s going to have to talk to David about fire safety. But not until he shows him how much he appreciates the effort.

It really is breathtaking, as long as he tries not to think about how easily they could lose their home if just one of the candles was to catch a curtain or topple over.

He heads up the stairs, stopping near the top to take in the view from above, and when he turns back, David is standing there waiting for him, his face lit in the glow of the candle light and he’s perfect.

“David-” he starts, but David cuts him off.

“I’m sorry, Patrick.”

Patrick’s eyes soften and he smiles. He’d been so enchanted by the candles that he forgot they had even been fighting.

“You know I can’t stay mad at you,” he says, taking the last couple of steps to the top of the staircase and greeting his husband with a kiss. “It might take longer to forgive you if you burn down our house a week before Christmas, though.”

David rolls his eyes and bends over to pick up the nearest candle, blowing it out. They work together to extinguish all of the candles, and Patrick can finally take a deep breath again.

Well, figuratively speaking, that is. There’s a lot of smoke, and they have to open several windows and turn on the ceiling fan to air it out despite the chilly temperature.

Gathering several of their fluffiest blankets from the closet, Patrick directs David to the couch where they curl up under the weight of them until they are able to close the windows.

He’ll never tire of the over-the-top gestures from his husband. He takes the blame; he certainly set the bar with the monthly anniversary gifts, and the gifts to win him back after the unfortunate incident with Rachel at the barbecue, but David has his own ways of showing Patrick affection.

[read on AO3]

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

never learned to read your mind

season 1 AU | 1k words | general audiences | pre-MSR | AO3 | tagging @today-in-fic

i.

She leaves after their second-ever case together, after he ditches her at the motel in Idaho and gets his memories wiped at Ellens Air Base. He can't even blame her; he wonders if he hadn't gone off on his own, if she would have stayed. He isn't angry at her, tries not to be bitter, except that he is just a little bit. He'd thought Scully was different, laughing in the rain with him and listening, truly listening, when he confessed his past to her. She apologizes when she tells him, over and over again, and he lies and tells her there's nothing to forgive.

ii.

The next time he sees her is three days after Christmas, when she walks into the office with a knock and nervous look the way she had that first day six months ago. The basement feels emptier now than it had before she came and left. He's surprised to see her again.

"Anything I can help you with, Agent Scully?" He asks, maybe a little brusquely. He kicks himself for being unnecessarily snippy; she had no reason to stay, he can't hold her choosing to move on in her career against her.

She shuts the door behind her like she's telling a secret before she tells him that her father is dead, before she asks what he knows about visitations, before she lets him reach out and cup her cheek; it's a gesture that both asks for forgiveness and offers comfort. He doesn't know her well enough to know how to do either properly.

She says she needs to work, and there's something raw open in her eyes, and on a whim he invites her to South Carolina with him. She notes his skepticism towards Boggs with a hint of curiosity breaking through her sadness and tells him her father's funeral is today, she'll get a flight and see him tonight.

"I'm sorry about your father, Dana," he says, before leaving her in the office like she's meant to be there. He thinks he hears a filing cabinet open as he walks up the hall.

iis.

He's grateful to have her along; no matter how broken she might be right now, her doctor's instincts kick in the moment he goes down and the last thing he's conscious of before he blacks out is Scully's voice more steady than he's heard her all day promising he'll be okay. If he knows one single small thing about her, it's that she doesn't lie. He's a little surprised when she takes over working the case, a little more surprised and perturbed when her skepticism slips and she allows for the possibility of Boggs telling the truth; he remembers what she'd said about her father, about visitations, and snaps at her to be careful. He didn't drag her out here just to cause her more pain.

She sits on the edge of his hospital bed and they both watch the clock knowing that right now, Luther Lee Boggs is going to his execution. Mulder asks why she didn't attend, didn't go to find out what her father was going to tell her. "I already know," she says softly, with startling vulnerability and tears in her eyes. "He was my father."

iii.

She's his go-to pathologist, the only person he can trust with the mysteries neither of them can understand. He hovers over her shoulder in autopsy bays at Quantico and thinks that she's different than anyone he's ever known. He's never been around anyone quite like Scully, who catches him off guard every time she teases him because it's so genuine; he's used to being made fun of by others, not having fun with them. She argues with him, maintains both her decision to transfer and her skepticism, but she listens.

Once, in a fit of sheer frustration — not at her, but at their superiors, at Deep Throat, at everyone hiding everything and dragging them on wild goose chases and pointless road trips — he snaps at her, asks her why she's even here; they'd met covertly, trying to discover the truth behind a truck driver's tale, and he hadn't even asked her to come along. That old bitterness resurfaces that he'd first felt when he found out she was being assigned to him; it's a different one than when she'd left. She'd said he's the only one she trusts; he wants to trust her, but he can't make sense of her.

"I'm here for you, Mulder, not aliens or conspiracies," she says quietly, her voice steely. "I wouldn't put myself on the line for anyone but you."

He whips around and stares at her in shock. They aren't even partners, and she insists that's how it should be. But he sometimes wonders where they would be if she'd stuck around.

iv.

He gets her to tag along on another case, claiming he needs a scientific perspective and telling her it'll be a nice trip to the woods. When it all goes wrong, and they're trapped in a cabin in the dark and she's panicking, cracking open in a way he'd only seen after her father died, he starts to kick himself. She shouldn't be here; she'd chosen a transfer because she'd wanted to be safe, and here he is trying to drag her back into the x-files and pulling her into danger. At least she lets him also pull her into his arms, the only thing he can think to do to comfort her.

v.

She saves him. She breaks into a government facility, steals physical evidence of secrets she still can't believe, and she saves him. Mulder has never been more grateful for any person in his life. When the x-files are shut down, after all his arguing with Skinner can't change it, he admits that for all his frustration, he's glad she got out before it crashed and burned. He doesn't want to take her down with him.

She goes quiet for a while, sitting on a bench in the dark, before suggesting he transfer to Quantico. After all this, even after she'd chosen to leave, she still wants to work with him. He will never understand her.

He thinks that if she hadn't left, hadn't chosen to be a pathologist instead of haunting the basement, they would be best friends; he thinks they are anyway.

Sometimes, he also thinks that he wants to kiss her.

[fortune-maiden]

A snippet of something in my head that probably won’t get written, but it was funny

Pei Xiu & Shi Qingxuan are in the middle of an investigation. Officially, SQX is in charge. Unofficially, Pei Xiu is on guard duty.

Pei Xiu: ..... *without warning pulls SQX close*

SQX: alskjdskla???

Pei Xiu: Forgive me, I thought I sensed a killing intent.

SQX: You do. Mine.

[dawsonscreekwasalwaysbad]

is there a fanfic where advanced introduction to finality is like. actually good

[blehblarghblah]

I have like four different endings to The Most Undoing Thing. And While I am a bit of a tragedy guy, and I think happy endings are cliché, I also think that of the small variety in Mama Jinx fics, they deserve more wholesomeness.

Basically, I think my Mama Jinx AU is gonna be happier than even I anticipated. I think we good use some sweeter stories...