#my trauma did not make me funny but it does make me open google docs and go fuckin insane

[machineryangel]

more excerpts on fathers —s.r.m.

[neurodiversebones]

autistic brennan !!!

in my autistic opinion... here you go. a SLIGHTLY more organized version of what i have dropped in the DMs of anyone who is willing to listen, copy and pasted from a google doc i have so eloquently named "bones is fucking autistic" !!

this headcanon is like. 95% confirmed, which kind of makes my heart do a little "!!!" <3 idk brennan means a Lot to me and always did as a young autistic afab person :-) so here you go !! (under the cut)

okay SO here is my explanation for my headcanon, explained in bullet points- this took up multiple google docs pages so i hope you're ready

emotional display:

has absolutely zero poker face- we see this frequently. there are too many instances to count where she cannot hide her facial expressions !! it is also referenced by booth in late season 8, and i think a few other characters have mentioned it throughout the series?

this is especially in the earlier seasons, but her response to stress and trauma is Very Neurodivergent. she rarely has an outward response- it's so rare to see her cry before season 7/8 ?? this could also definitely be a trauma thing but like,,, trauma symptoms and autistic traits are unfortunately hard to differentiate between because autistic people tend to go through more traumatic situations

not exactly emotional display, but similar- she clearly has alexithymia, or something of the sort (basically, she struggles to recognize her own emotions). this is exhibited a few times- the one i can remember right now is "i don't understand what i'm feeling" "you understand happy, right?" (conversation with angela, season 9). this is actually something i have rarely seen in a character- at least not done well. it makes me very happy !!!

empathy:

she struggles to understand why others would think differently than her- her view of the world is Correct in her eyes, and she finds it difficult to look from someone else's point of view. this frequently ends in her criticizing those around her- her view of the world is incredibly black and white, so when others disagree with her, she believes they must be wrong.

extension of the black and white thinking- she doesn't understand concepts, no matter how hard she tries. she needs evidence and proof. examples of this would be her views on god/religion, love (pre-season 6), and marriage (pre-season 8)

despite her lack of empathy toward people, she exhibits a lot of empathy toward animals. this is actually a really common autistic trait?? examples of this would be her emotional attachment to the dogs in 4x04, or her explosive reaction to finding out the tiger was killed in 8x04

social/conversational skills:

this is probably her most obvious and easily recognizable autistic trait- it's what made me go "she's autistic" after watching a few episodes

she does not understand jokes or sarcasm very well- she frequently gets confused by jokes, explaining why they aren't funny or don't make sense, especially pop culture jokes. when she does understand jokes or pop culture references, she gets very excited and explains them out loud, even though everyone around her already understands (just adding- i love this so much ?? her explaining jokes is Very Cute. i'm sorry i'm a simple gay who can't go ten minutes without declaring my love for her)

struggles with small talk and social niceties- this is used as a joke in nearly every episode. she doesn't do small talk well- preferring to talk about topics that are actually important or interest her. she doesn't see the need for most social conventions either, which leads to her frequently being seen as rude.

she misses social cues in conversations- she frequently brings up topics that are probably not Appropriate for the setting (talking about dead bodies in a restaurant, talking about sex while standing over a dead body, etc.)

she is incredibly literal, and doesn't understand metaphorical speak. this goes hand in hand with the not understanding jokes- she takes many phrases at face value, sometimes confusing others

tone:

she frequently comes off as cold or blunt without meaning to be- many people read her as "heartless" or just uninterested because of the way she speaks, even when she is very invested.

i don't know how to explain this other than her speaking pattern is Very Autistic- the way she pauses mid sentence all the time, the facial expressions she makes while speaking, it's all autism babey !!!

intense focus on one topic:

okay it's very obvious that her special interests are forensics and anthropology

she gets hyperfocused, often losing herself in her work and putting herself through the ringer for it. she puts her work above (almost) everything, and has stated on multiple occasions that she would be nothing without her work.

she often explains the things around her with references to anthropology and ancient civilizations- she uses these references to explain her feelings, the situations she's in, and frequently, to solve crimes. things make sense to her when she thinks about them like this.

not engaging with peers in an "expected" way:

she is often showed to have difficulty getting close with people- she doesn't like showing emotion to others, and would rather just talk about the task at hand. this could very well be explained by her trauma background- but i believe it's probably a bit of both.

she finds it difficult to bond with her peers over common things, like pop culture, and rather talks about work or other things. she doesn't open up to a lot of people, even those who she is incredibly close with.

other/misc.:

stimming !! this doesn't have enough instances to get its own section, but i like to interpret that wonder woman scene as vestibular stimming, purely because i love to spin and jump !!!!

detail oriented, to the point of obsession. it's common for autistic people to get caught up in the details of things, which she definitely does.

views on sexuality differ from the "norm"- she is very critical of monogamy during the first half of the series, and does not see the point in marriage. also she's definitely arospec, just putting that out there <3

i am autistic and i love her therefore i'm right

final notes:

i think she's one of my favourite autistic characters to exist- i usually despise the socially awkward detective trope, but it's handled well here. the people around her don't expect her to change the innate aspects of who she is- rather, they love her unconditionally (even if they are exasperated at times- which is natural to feel with people that you love)

i very much like that they didn't go with the socially awkward + smart = unattractive trope either- she knows that she's hot, and so do the people around her. i'm so sick of nerdy girls not being allowed to be hot 😭 especially when it comes to autistic-coded characters- let autistic people have sex lives 2k21

she just,,, holds a very special place in my heart. as an undiagnosed autistic afab kid, she meant a lot to me. i saw a woman on screen who was smart like me and sometimes confused people because of her intelligence, who didn't really get social situations, who didn't know how to express how she felt. she was like me- and she loved herself, and people loved her. she's a very important character to me and has been since i was really young <3

thank you SO MUCH to anybody who read this- brennan is the loml and i will infodump about her until the end of time

[ddaenggtan]

black irises in the sunshine | kth

anger is everything. other gods tease you for the short fuse, but it comes with the territory. people have called you stupid, have called you dumb, oafish, useless, incompetent, insolent, rude, arrogant. all of it. insults and mockery flung at you, but even your skin isn’t thick enough to deal with constant abuse. it’s the exact reason you keep going to the underground, knuckles bloody and bruised, fighting anyone that dared enter the cage. it’s the reason you go to the clubs, surround yourself with mortals and their writhing bodies. it’s there that you see him the first time, voice husky as it rolls through the room. it’s there you find someone who treats you differently than the rest. you just never expected him to be one of the muses. | monsters and gods pt 3 (masterlist)

pairing | taehyung x reader

genre/warnings | greek god au, calliope!taehyung, ares!reader, theres a lot of violence and it does get descriptive so be aware of that, none of the main characters other than ares get hurt and its not uncalled for or anything in a narrative sense, so just be aware of that; there are mentions of other idols, but if you can guess them you get a cookie because they are Vague; suuuuper bisexual Ares, Ares Can Step On Me, like I am SO gay for her it isn’t funny; explicit smut ft: cunnilingus, taeHUNG bc hes got MASSIVE SCHLONG,  some body worship kind of and then just....regular worship? like? idk how to explain that? lots of praise and lots or orgasms

word count | 14k | cross posted to ao3

a/n | HOOOOOOO this has been sitting in my google docs for literal months waiting for an ending and i decided to try to get it out for tae's birthday bUT that didn't work because i have a Job and shit so YEET I GUESS HAPPY FUCKIN NEW YEAR??? LIKE??? YEEEEEEEEEEEEE this fic is very near to me because Ares is my sweet sad angry babie and i love her, and i love tae and i love suho and i love the muses and i just........lOVE this fic like i think this is currently my favorite of the mag series so!! i hope yall also enjoy it!!!! yall are welcome to send me messages about this even tho I'm terrible at replying to them in a timely manner!! thanks to everyone who helped me with this, and everyone who has expressed interest in it, and everyone who has ever read anything of mine, because you're genuinely the best people ever, and this is literally a gift to y'all because you deserve it. 

Fuck, that was too hard .

The guy across from you goes flying, hitting the chain link wall of the cage harder than you intended. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, and even holding back, you've got a better buzz than even the best nectar can give. Your blood sings as the guy gets back up, and you almost wish you could remember his name, because he's put up a hell of a fight. For a mortal, anyway. 

He charges at you again, and time slows as your vision tunnels. You can see the feint as he decides on it, how he hesitates in bringing his left up. You wait, watching him get closer and closer. You start to dart to your left, letting him think he's got you, before you side-step and dart to your right instead. His punch goes wide as you steady your balance and move. The top of your foot connects with his ribcage and the resulting crack of bone is lost amid the cheers and yells of the audience. 

Your opponent steps back and you're proud of the way he doesn't show the pain. He doesn't wince, doesn't move to touch the spot you hit, just tightens his stance and clenches his jaw. It's only you that notices the hitch in his breath, the way he flinches with every inhale. Your eyes narrow at that, zeroing in on the rib. You'd meant to just crack it, had been holding back most of your strength to keep from hurting him too seriously, but as he steps forward, you can see the way he grits his teeth against the pain. 

The fight leaves you immediately, like a bucket of cold water straight to the chest, and you drop your hands. 

"Yield." He just stares at you, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Yield to me, and then go to the doctor."

"I'm not gonna yield," He says. He spits a mouthful of blood out onto the floor. "I'm not weak."

"Seriously, dude," You insist. "You're not gonna win this, and I don't want to hurt you more." 

His scoff has you seeing red. "As if a princess like you could hurt me."

Your fist connects with his face before either of you registers that you've moved. There's a voice in the back of your head reminding you that he's just mortal, he can't take the same kind of beating you can, but it's lost in the haze of fury. The next thing you know, the ref is dragging you away and slamming you into the cage wall. Your opponent is being dragged out - you still don't know his name - and he looks beaten senseless. Victory rolls through you accompanied by a sick satisfaction at the way his blood looks decorating the canvas beneath your feet. 

It lasts for less than an hour. It's always like this; the thrill of the fight, the burn of success, it's gone faster than you can blink. It's what drives you to keep fighting, to keep going to match after match, just to seek out the under-the-table stuff afterwards. It's never enough, not anymore. Back in the old days, they'd let you fight anything. Bears, bulls, lions, giants, anything they could get a noose around long enough to point it at a colosseum. That was a long time ago, though, before all the rights movements happened. You won't lie: you miss fighting beasts like that. The sheer power and strength they have, the survival instinct that makes them such fierce competitors, it's so much better than the rules and regulations of the mortal world now. Fights have gotten dull, rehearsed, more like a performance or a show than an actual fight. People make more money losing than they do winning and it's made the world boring. 

You flex your hand as you open the door to your favorite bar. Something caught it at some point in the last fight, a cheekbone or a tooth, and it stings a little. Doesn't hurt, not exactly, not for a goddess, but it did enough that you feel it at all, which means it couldn't have been anything but torture for the guy on the other end. The bartender waves at you and gets your usual ready as you sit, and you idly wonder if Busted Rib Guy will be okay. It looked painful, for a human, and you'd tried to hold back, but…

Well, you weren't really responsible for what happened to condescending little fucks, were you?

You sip the bourbon, enjoying the burn as it goes down. The lights are dim, tonight. You're glad. You don't want to deal with people looking at you, men coming over to talk to you, trying to advise you on how to properly bandage your knuckles or how to avoid the bruise on your cheek next time. If you had wanted to avoid it, you would have. You'd intended it to hurt worse, honestly, but that first guy'd had a weaker right hook than you expected. 

You look around, wondering if anyone here would provide a decent distraction for the night. There's a pretty brunette in the corner with carefully crafted braids, and as your eyes travel, you imagine what's hiding beneath the silk and leather. You're pulled from the thought by the sound of music, and you curse under your breath. You forgot that it's an open mic night and you'd meant to go to the bar across town instead. Irritation colors your vision; every open mic night is awful, full of lofty poets talking about their trauma and wannabe Taylor Swifts thinking they're on the same level as Sappho. Ah, now that was a girl with a set of pipes. You miss her, wonder what she would say to the butchering of whatever song you're about to hear.

The voice that comes isn't what you expect. It's smooth and deep. The world turns to velvet around you as the voice wanders from one speaker to another, creating a mesmerizing multi-dimensional effect despite the way the singer doesn't ever leave the stage. You turn, knuckles white around your bourbon glass; he's utterly magnetic, every eye in the room trained on him as he purrs into the vintage mic. Long fingers are wrapped around the scuffed metal, decorated with jewels that glitter in the dim light of the bar. You can smell the lingering cigarette smoke from the guy beside you and the Jäger from the girl two stools down and for once, you don't even care. He's captivating, voice travelling between speakers in the bar and coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. 

Your eyes don't leave him, and you wonder if you can memorize the way the blond waves fall against his forehead if you stare long enough. 

The red seeps away from you, slinking back into the corners of your mind, settling once more into a low thrum under your skin. It fades into the background of this man's voice, the charisma that rolls off him in waves as he pulls the mic in close just to push it to the side with a teasing smirk. It settles something in your chest that hasn't been calm since the fight in Athens so long ago. 

The music fades out sooner than you'd like, and he gives a slight bow before wandering into the crowd. You do your best to follow him, but the gold of his hair disappears almost immediately, lost in the throng of people around the stage waiting to speak to him. You turn back around, downing the next bit of bourbon that Suho pours you. 

"I know," He says with a grin. You cock a brow at him, not having said anything he could agree with. "He's good. That's what you were thinking, right? He's why we're so packed on open mics. Got the audio and lighting guy whipped, so he's got all these special effects, too. Drives people crazy.”

"He's alright," You mutter. You toss a few bills down on the bartop and step back. Suho gives you a courteous nod as you leave. The bouncer gives you a dirty look when he spots the lit cigarette between your lips, but he knows better than to try to tell you otherwise. You've taught him better. 

You lean back against the brick wall of the alley and take a drag. The warm smoke fills your lungs and you close your eyes. It's a different kind of burn than you're used to, a distraction from the crawling sensation that drives you to fight. It's calmer, more controlled. Feels like the smoke from Hestia's fires. Feels like home. 

"Never expected to see you here," A voice calls out. It's deep and startling in the darkness, but you don't jump. You just open your eyes, exhale, and look to where it came from. 

The singer stands before you in the same undone white button up and black tee he performed in. He doesn't have a cig, doesn't seem to have much of any reason to be outside. He moves almost lazily, as if he doesn't even need to, just wants to, and when his gaze flicks up to meet yours, your vision fills just for a breath with every opponent you've ever faced lying at your feet. 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" The words slip from your tongue before you can stop them. It's not his fault, the voice in your head says, he didn't mean it that way, but still, your blood is thrumming now that he's here and you want to know what he's talking about. Want to know why he thinks you wouldn't be here when there's attractive people and good bourbon and you've never seen this man before in your life. Want to know why he already seems to think you aren't civilized enough to be at a bar, why he spoke but all you heard was Zeus' voice in your memories.

"Exactly what I said. Should I be clearer?"

"Yeah, probably," you spit. Yet another person that assumes you're stupid, that you don't understand basic languages, as if you haven't been speaking them since the ancient times. As if you couldn't speak circles around him if you wanted. "Unless you want your teeth on the fucking ground."

"Good to know the stories are true." He tsks and you're filled with a strange sense of disappointment and fury, both at him and yourself. Your vision turns red at the edges and the cigarette between your fingers is crushed in your grip. He pays no mind to it, just saunters past with a lazy, swaying gait that draws your eyes to his hips and then down the long leather-clad legs. "See you around, Ares."

"That's not my fucking name," You yell after him. He doesn't respond when you shout your actual name, the one you chose, on your own, as a middle finger to the Olympians. "Get it right next time, dickwad."

He turns the corner of the alley and the streetlight catches his face just enough for you to see the smirk he wears. For once in your life, you're torn; you want to smash his face in, yes, because how dare this random guy speak to you like that when you could kill him with one finger to the right pressure point. You also find your skin's hotter than usual, stretched too thin over your bones, and you want him to run his hands over you until it feels right again.

Until it feels like it did when he was singing. 

How did he know my title?

The thought comes unbidden, days later, with the desperate hit of a palm against your shoulder. You've got the woman in a headlock, patiently waiting for her to pass out completely so the fight can be called, and your mind is wandering. 

How did the singer know who you are? You hadn't thought anything of it at the time, distracted by fury and frustration, but with time comes a special kind of clarity. You've never seen him before, not that you know anyway, yet he didn't hesitate to call you Ares. The only ones who know of your kind are your kind, but you haven't seen any of your siblings among mortals in a long time. You thought you knew the other gods and goddesses, but maybe not. It has been a while since you stepped foot in the golden city.

The woman in your grip goes slack and you release her. You're still lost in thought as the ref calls the match and leads you out of the makeshift ring. The cheers of the audience are background noise at this point, akin to static or the buzz of electricity, and you pay them no mind as you head to collect your winnings. You didn't even get any kind of buzz from success this time, too immersed in the way the singer walked and talked and looked. The image of his smirk is burned into your retinas. 

"Yeah, you didn't hear? He just got out of the hospital. They had to keep him overnight because they thought he might puncture a lung. I heard that if it had been a little worse, they would've had to wire his jaw shut." You stop, fingers brushing over the stack of bills you don't even remember being handed. You look up, making eye contact with the guy whispering nearby. Your suspicions are confirmed when his friend smacks his arm and juts his chin in your direction before they both disappear into the crowd. 

You shove your way outside, frustration creeping through you and coloring your vision. You manage to keep it contained long enough for you to make it to the alley behind the warehouse, but it explodes from you in a rush of thrown dumpsters and sheet metal. 

Fuck , you never meant to hurt him like that. You told him, you fucking told him to yield, it isn't your fault he didn't listen. It's not your fault that he went and insulted you, acted like he was better than you just by virtue of being a dude, as if you weren't worshipped in the old days for the power you had and the blessings you could give. You'd held back, through all of it, you'd told him to yield, and he insulted you. It wasn't your fault. 

You slide to the ground, running a shaking hand through your hair. It isn't your fault , you repeat. You close your eyes and take deep breaths, the way Hestia taught you, willing the fury to dissipate. It's like a fire in your veins, burning and bubbling your skin until you can't resist anymore. You take another breath. It isn't your fault. You tried. You offered an out. It isn't your fault. Fuck, what was his name? 

With a growl that quickly morphs into a scream, you kick the dumpster once more before stalking off into the darkness. You need a fucking drink and you're gonna find a distraction in someone else if it's the last thing you do. 

The club is packed when you get there; you're not usually a fan of clubs like this, too full of people who are too friendly, but they're perfect for nights like tonight. You don't even need to wait in line, just slip the bouncer a 50 as you pass, and the bartenders are quick to spot you. You're pretty notorious in the city for over-paying, which means you're knocking back bourbon before you have a chance to ask for it. There are people everywhere, pressed up against both sides of you while the bass thrums in your throat, and it takes you longer than you're proud of to realize why. 

There's a band playing, apparently. They're not bad; the vocalist isn't anything like the singer from Suho's, but it doesn't make you want to tear your ears off, so you consider it a success. 

You're dancing before you remember deciding to. Everything's a blur when you get the itch in your bones, the need to make someone bleed. To feel something that isn't rage or condescension. People are even closer here on the dance floor, suffocating in their proximity, but there's a woman grinding her ass into you, and it sparks the dying fire in your gut. The beat of the music drowns your own heart, and it's all flashing lights and heat and a body pressed against yours that is all too willing.

She follows when you go back to the bar for another drink, and giggles when you lick salt from her wrist before downing tequila. Her hands are wrapped in the leather of your jacket as she kisses you, your own resting lightly on her hips. She laughs against your lips and says something you don't hear before ordering another drink. Something makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You take the brief reprieve to look around the club, searching for whatever it is that has you on alert. You find him on the upper level of the club, leaned over the balcony with a drink in hand. You can't make out his expression, exactly; it's too far away and too guarded. But you'd know him anywhere now. The singer knocks back whatever's in his glass, eyes never leaving yours. You don't know why he's here, if he comes here often or if the Fates are having a laugh at your expense, but you do know you want to make the most of it.

The girl is back, pressing a heated kiss to your lips and drawing your attention from him. You return it, nipping at her lips and getting a small gasp in return. You smirk and bite your way down her neck. She's breathy in your ear, hitched moans lost in the beat of the music, but you barely hear her as you suck bruises into the skin of her neck. He's still watching you. His drink is gone and he's gripping the bannister of the balcony, rings glinting in the light. You wonder if the cool metal could soothe the burn in your bones. You want to know if he can bring that calmness from before back, if he can soothe the frenzy in your mind with his hands the way he can with his voice. Just imagining it has you soaking through to your jeans.

The girl makes a particularly loud noise in your ear and you're brought out of your thoughts. As if he can sense it, the singer straightens. He gives you one last look before disappearing back into the crowd, and you wonder if you're imagining the disdain in it. You draw back from the girl's neck, about to tell her to find her friends when she slides her hands in your hair and tugs.

The burn in your blood is back, now, and you hope this girl is prepared for what awaits her.

"You're here early," Suho says when he spots you in the nearly empty bar the next night. He's not wrong, either; you skipped the fights tonight completely. There was no buzz last time, no relief, and you have no reason to believe there would be tonight. Not with the way the singer captivates your thoughts. 

Besides, you have enough money leftover from the previous few to last a couple days.

"What, did you decide not to kick someone's ass before getting wasted?" Suho doesn't wither at the look you give him, just pours you a couple fingers of bourbon and slides the glass over. "Or did they just stop letting you in completely?"

"I might change my mind if you don't shut up," You tell him. There's no real heat behind it. You've known Suho for years now, been coming to his bar for so long it almost feels like home. You're almost friends at this point. 

It helps that he knows when to bite his tongue so he doesn't get his teeth knocked out.

"Seriously though, I don't think I've ever seen you here this early. Especially not on mic nights." You're very careful in your lack of a reaction to his words. You'd seen the workers setting up for it when you came in, and even if you hadn't, you know when mic night is. You've spent enough time avoiding it.

"Does he sing every time?" You ask in lieu of an explanation. You don't look away from the amber liquid in your glass, letting the silence hang as the bartender does his best to follow your thought process. 

"Taehyung? Most weeks, yeah. It's been a nice change from the usual drunken karaoke. He goes around to some of the other places in town, too. Apparently he just likes to sing." 

"Taehyung," You repeat. The name rolls from your tongue a bit awkwardly. It's more than you expected, somehow, but you can't place exactly how . Just...more. "Is he always that good?"

"Oh, yeah. We have regulars now for mic night because of him. He's got a whole fan club and everything."

"Hm." You drain the rest of your bourbon and Suho refills it. He leaves you in peace then, serving some others that appear at the bar. 

The place fills faster than you can blink. That's what it feels like, anyway. It's like one moment there's you and a handful of other people scattered around, and now you're being jostled between some dude a million feet tall that definitely doesn't look old enough to be here and a girl with her tits up to her throat and surrounded by a cloud of perfume so thick that it starts a migraine behind your eyes almost instantly. She flirts with Suho a little, likely trying to score free drinks, and you roll your eyes. She pouts at him when he gives her the total, batting eyelashes that go on for miles, and for once, you wish Suho would just give in and comp the drinks. 

"I'll pay for them," You say. She was definitely saying something, maybe you should have been paying attention to it, but fuck , this migraine is only getting worse the longer she stands there. "I'll pay for your drinks."

"Oh, thanks," She says. Her smile is hesitant, and quickly turns apologetic as she takes in the boots and the ripped jeans and the leather jacket. "Um, I'm not...I don't, uh…"

"Do I look like I want to fuck you, sweetie?" She looks a little affronted and a laugh escapes you. You lean closer, letting your breath ghost over her cheek as you speak in her ear to be heard better. "If I wanted to fuck you senseless, you'd know it. And I can guarantee you it would be a hell of a lot better than the watered down rat piss this guy's giving you." 

When you lean back, her face is flushed and she's stammering. You smirk and hand her the drinks she'd ordered. 

"Too bad you’re not, you don’t, huh?" You tell her. The patronizing tone isn't lost on her, nor is your mockery of her earlier words, and she shuts her mouth with an audible click before strutting off. Suho glares at you as he pours more bourbon.

"Can you please try not to run off my patrons?" He mutters. "Some of us actually need money to live."

"Some of us would like decently timed refills and to not choke on perfume," You quip. "And better bourbon, for that matter." He hisses something about what he's giving you being top quality but you tune him out, throwing one leg over the stool Perfume Girl vacated. You'd like to keep just a little bit of personal space. 

Across the bar, you catch a brief glimpse of the girl from the night before and you wince. Her neck is thoroughly bruised, and you catch a peek of bruises and scratches on her back as she shrugs her jacket on. You didn’t mean to be so rough with her, even if she had been into it; you’re usually pretty good about remembering that the mortals are just that - mortal - and as such have to be handled delicately. They’re so fragile, it feels like they could break with a strong wind. Guilt settles in your gut and turns the bourbon in your glass to cough syrup. You’ve half a mind to just leave before she sees you, are about to turn and do exactly that, but the speakers screech to life and the deafening feedback from the mic keeps you glued to your seat. 

The crowd quiets even as the excitement ramps up, all talk silencing but for the occasional hushed whispers here and there. The first few notes of the song echo through the speakers, and a spotlight appears on him. 

He looks different this time, his hair dyed a vibrant blue that matches the glinting jewels in his ears and on his hands. He's an absolute vision and you wonder how Aphrodite has allowed him to live so long when he's so beautiful. His voice hangs in the air and calms you, the same settling in your chest as last time, the same freedom from the burn in your veins. It's addictive. 

The song doesn't last nearly as long as you want it to but the stillness inside you lingers long after he's done caressing the microphone. You place a few bills down for Suho and light up a cigarette as you head outside, ignoring the dirty looks from other patrons as you do. You're on a mission, the thrum of bloodlust returning with every second that passes, and you can't even be sure if he's still around or if he's wandered off already. 

You stand in the alley for what feels like hours, turning at every sound and smoking cig after cig just so you have something to do. You've almost decided to say fuck it when footsteps sound from the back of the bar, coming closer to you. 

His blue hair is visible even from the other end of the small alley, a giveaway similar to the light at the end of your cigarette and the smoke you blow into the air. There's no way he hasn't seen you, you think, you're making no effort to hide or be sneaky, and yet he's continuing forward as if he doesn't see you at all, eyes focused on a phone in his hand. You wait until he's just a few steps away before speaking.

"How do you know my title?" You ask him. He stops as if he'd always meant to and doesn't even bother to glance up at you or respond. The edges of your vision turn scarlet at the blatant disregard and you're speaking before you can even process the words. "I asked you a fucking question, pretty boy, you're gonna answer me. Unless you want that precious mouth bloodied up."

"And you wonder how I know who you are," He drawls, still not bothering to spare a glance at you. A scowl grows over your face at his sarcastic tone. "If you're going to hit me just get it over with. Otherwise, I have places to be."

He stands, waiting and expectant, but you don't move. He's humming, quiet and to himself like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and the red seeps away from your mind until you're left clear-headed once more. You sigh, long and heavy, and crush your cigarette into your denim-covered thigh to put it out. It tickles. 

"I'm not going to hit you," You tell him eventually. "I just wanna know how you know me. And how you do it."

He cocks a brow at that, finally looking up from the phone in his hand to level dark eyes on yours. "Do what? Sing?"

"No." You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. The words are harder to find than you thought they'd be, lost in the depths of his gaze, in the clarity you're so unaccustomed to, in the way you feel like you can breathe for the first time in days. "I don't care how you sing, that's not important, it's the...fuck, you know what, never mind, it doesn't fucking matter." You push off the wall and step past him to head towards where the streetlight gleams off the bar windows. 

"Tell me." The command has you stopping in your tracks, and you're again flooded with just wanting to know how. How he clears the haze, how he stops you, how he makes you feel real. You turn, hands stuffed into the back pockets of your jeans. "How I do what?"

It takes you several long breaths before you can answer, and you aren't even sure he can hear you over the sounds of people leaving the bar, and you find yourself disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response. Your own words are reverberating in your skull, getting louder with each step you take, and you wish you could just turn it off . 

"How you make me feel like a person again."

You avoid the bar for a few weeks, going hours away from your usual area to an unfamiliar hole in the wall just to make sure you don’t see him. You’re more deadly than usual in your fights, victories coming quicker, injuries piling up along with the guilt, but you can’t bring yourself to return. It’s unnerving, the way everything goes quiet around him, the way you can think, but the worst is the way you can feel. Everything’s calm and steady and blue, and it only makes it easier for the regret and the guilt and the anxiety to curl around your throat and squeeze until you can’t breathe, to clog in your throat while the laughter of your siblings echoes in your ears, and you...can’t. You can’t do that, you can’t let it win, you can’t let them win, they can’t know that you’re everything they think you are and worse. 

You can’t let yourself drown in that, and yet you find yourself back at Suho’s, lost among the crowd while Taehyung’s voice surrounds you. The ache in your bones fades away, chased by the thrum of the fight that still lingers despite the hours that have passed since you felt your opponent’s femur break under your palm and their screams echoed in your ears. Everything is calm again, and the guilt nearly drowns you.

He hasn’t even finished singing before you’re outside, chest heaving as you gasp against the weight on your chest. You broke someone’s femur , and did you even really need to? The fight itself is a blur even now, snapshots playing through your mind like a montage. The way they’d darted at you first, how their foot felt connecting with the backs of your knees, the determination in their eyes when you went down, the jolt of shock as your hands wrapped around their leg, the dull throb of a barrage of hits against your waist as you pulled them down as well and bloodied their face, the blood-curdling scream as you snapped the bone like a pretzel stick.

Your breath comes faster in your lungs, forced out by the growing guilt that lodges there in its place. Images swirl in your mind, chased by a never-ending stream of thought and regret that you should be used to by now. Fuck, you didn’t need to, and you still did it; you lost control, you fucking hurt them, and for what? A couple hundred? Was it even worth it? Who knew when they’d be back into shape to fight, what if they needed the money? They weren’t even half-bad. They got you down, at least, shouldn’t you have gone easy on them? You don’t even remember their face, can’t remember what the announcer said their name was, words drowned out by the buzz under your skin.

Metal crumples under your grip and you spare a half-second to mourn Suho’s dumpster before you slam your knuckles against it. It tingles, not even real pain, and you don’t hesitate to repeat it. By the time the metal is disfigured completely, a distorted mess of paint and steel and garbage, you still aren’t in pain, but there’s a sheen of gold across your knuckles and you feel less like you’re drowning and more like you’re suffocating. The usual. You can handle that. You think. 

You don’t even realize that you’ve slid down to the ground beside the dumpster until the back door of the bar opens and footsteps echo through the alley. You wish you knew how long you’ve been here, how long you’ve sat among empty bottles and stale beer and broken glass, but you can’t be sure. The brief reprieve brought by Taehyung’s voice is long gone, chased away by the guilt and rage that still sits heavy in your chest. You hope you’re not noticeable here, that whoever’s left will just pass by and leave you to piece yourself back together on your own. 

Voices tell you that it isn’t likely, the deep baritone of one too familiar to ignore. The other is new, but you’re familiar with the tone, the inflection, the intent behind it. You've heard it before, in crowded clubs as a guy pushes too close to some girl who can barely stand, in a coffeeshop when a random customer can't take a fucking hint, at the local campus when some professor insists that there could be maybe one thing her student could do to pass. It makes everything in you curdle, the bourbon from earlier threatening to work its way back up; it screams predator , and you absolutely refuse to let anyone fucking talk to someone like that, like they have some right to whatever it is they want. 

You refuse to let someone talk to him that way. 

"Seriously, Kratos, didn't I tell you to leave me alone? Did Aphrodite not teach you your lesson last time you harassed someone?" Taehyung's voice brings a calm that's an unsettling match to the anger washing over you. You're used to the red at the corners of your vision, the tint to everything you see, but you aren ' t used to the way it all turns purple and focused and clear . 

There's no haze this time, there's no abrupt shift of you moving before you know you've done it. You can feel the glass crunching under your boots with every step you take, can feel the way the air has a chill that creeps down into your lungs with every breath, can almost taste the apprehension that's rolling off of Taehyung despite his relaxed stance. The only thing that gives him away is the tense set of his jaw and the mix of relief and fear when his eyes land on you. 

"I'm pretty sure he said no, Kratos." The god turns at your voice and you watch the realization wash over him as he realizes what - who - you are. 

"Been a while since anyone's seen you, Ares." He scoffs a little, not moving from where he has Taehyung caged against the wall of the bar, one hand pressed firmly into the brick. He's entirely too close, and you have no doubt that the stench of him permeates the very oxygen around them. 

"Been busy. Doesn't change the fact that the man said no. Take the loss, walk away." Kratos' eyes narrow at your words and he steps away, but only to move closer to you. 

"Why do you care so much? You've never been one to care about any of us before." Kratos inches closer and the hyper-focus that Taehyung's voice causes starts to melt away with every twitch of your fingers. You've never liked Kratos, all brute strength with no respect for the challenge, no appreciation of the fight, too focused on sheer power and exhilaration. He is the worst of the worst of the worst of your kind, of all the war-focused gods. Every bit of yourself you hate is every piece that Kratos loves about himself. 

"I care that you don't seem to be able to understand when someone doesn't want to be around you, you absolute piece of filth. Taehyung had a point though, I really thought the whole thing with Aphrodite would've taught you how to back off. Or should I pull the video out, I think I still have it saved for when I need a good laugh." Malice and fury twitch across the other god's face and you absolute revel in it. You can feel his anger prickling across you, like needles in your very pores, and you ache for it. It's been so long since you last had a good fight, a real challenge where you didn't need to hold back at all. 

Too long since you fought a god like yourself.

"You're testing my patience, cousin," Kratos spits. It's a little generous to call the two of you cousins - you're several times removed, at best, and potentially closer than that with your family's warped history - but you let him have it. It might make him feel better. "I'm having a conversation, that's all. And if said conversation means that we end up back at my place, then, well, can anyone really blame me for what might happen to this pretty little m-"

Your fist connects with his jaw immediately and the red floods you for the few seconds it takes to register Taehyung calling your name. The calm struggles for a second, warring with the rage, but it wins out eventually. The singer's talking, but you can't make out any actual words. You're too focused on Kratos, the way he's righting and readying himself for a brawl. There's a fire in his eyes that matches the one in yours and everything in you feels alive for the first time in too long. 

This fight is different than your usual ones. There's no blur, no warped sense of time that usually comes with the adrenaline. You're focused and controlled in a way you haven't had to be for centuries, careful and precise and deliberate with every swing and every kick. The red seeps back in slowly and every time you think you're about to lose it, you hear Taehyung, still pressed against the wall of the bar. 

Kratos lunges at you for what has to be the tenth time, clearly trying his best to knock you to the ground - he succeeded, once; you let yourself get distracted, too caught up in thoughts, but it didn't last long - and you sidestep him just in time for him to ram into the ruined dumpster instead. He looks pissed when he turns back around and something in you sings at the sight. He makes for you again and you dodge again, only to be dragged back towards him by the grip he has on your jacket. Fuck, should've taken that off , whatever, he's too close.

Pain explodes in your side and you're fairly sure he's busted part of your rib, but you just slide your arms out of the sleeves and twist to plant your knee straight into his gut and then slam your heel down onto his much-less-safe toes, and then back up to knee him in the groin. It's nowhere near enough to take him out, but his nose is oozing golden ichor and he groans with every shift of his weight, and you've got him pinned against the wall with your forearm pressing hard into his windpipe. 

"Now, you're gonna listen to me you steaming pile of dog shit," You hiss. "When someone tells you no, it's not a fucking negotiation. It means you fucking leave and find someone with loose enough morals or enough internalized self-hatred that they're willing to subject themselves to your absolutely pitiful fucking excuse of an existence for the thirty-two seconds it'll take for you to get off." 

Kratos doesn't respond, just sneers and spits blood at you. It's a miracle you don't actually try to rip his head from his body, because the thought crosses your mind for a second too long. Instead, you just press harder against his windpipe and enjoy the choked gasp that it draws. 

"You don't stalk people either, the way you did with 'Dite. Don't you know it's better to let them come to you sometimes?" You tsk, ignoring the way he claws uselessly at your arm. Gods may not need to breathe, that's a fact, but they feel pain, and there is no way this isn't absolutely excruciating for him when even you can feel the small bones in his neck cracking and breaking. "And if I hear even a whisper of you pulling shit like this again, then I'm gonna find you, you pigshit. And when I do, I won't hold back even the slightest, and do you know what comes after that?" 

His eyes are full of fear now, and only grow wide with terror as you lean in close enough that he can feel your lips against his ear as you whisper. 

"You are going to wish that you could die." 

When you do release him, he disappears instantly, with a cloud of acrid grey-green smoke curling around your ichor-spattered boots. He's only been gone a second when you slump, the adrenaline fading as quick as Kratos had left. Your side is throbbing now, your knuckles are bruised and broken and gold, there's a pain in your leg that you aren't sure what's causing, your head is screaming even through the high of the fight, your face stings in the crisp-cool air. Every breath makes the pain worse so you stop breathing. The brick wall of the bar is rough against your palms, but it's the only thing around that can keep you upright, so you'll take it. 

"Well," a voice drawls from your left. You'd jump if you had anything left in you, but every ounce of energy is gone, spent teaching Kratos what Aretha Franklin meant when she sang about respect - and really, there was another fantastic singer, you really should visit her sometime soon - so instead your head lolls to the side. You aren't sure what it is that jolts through you when your eyes land on Taehyung, fingers curled carefully around the collar of-

Your jacket. That's your leather jacket. You barely remembers shrugging out of it, but you're glad it's not on the ground, trampled and covered in the gold spatters that decorate the rest of your body. 

"Well?" You echo, wincing at the pain it causes. You've definitely got a busted lip, that's for sure from the way it feels different and swollen, and you're pretty sure there's a head wound, too, because you don't remember there being a golden halo around Taehyung before the fight. 

"Well," He repeats, slinging the jacket - your jacket - over a shoulder. "You should get that looked at." He starts walking, making his way to the entrance of the alleyway. He gets halfway there before he stops and turns and cocks a brow. "Are you coming, or do I get to keep this?" Your jacket waves a little, as if he's wiggling it, and it makes you feel like a stray dog being lured off with treats. 

You're never going to tell anyone that it works.

Taehyung's place is as nondescript as the car he parks outside. It's a plain apartment building on the outside - looks like maybe it was a hotel back in the 1930s, based on the outdated carpeting in the lobby and the grate on the elevator he steps into. Even the hallway is plain and unassuming as he leads you to the end and uses an old, tarnished brass key on an older, more tarnished brass knob. You aren't sure what you expected, you can't even begin to guess what Taehyung is like outside of the dirty alley or the stage where he sings, can't fathom what kind of decor he could possibly have. 

What you step into isn't anything you could have guessed. It looks like he has the entire rest of the floor to himself based on what you can see, but there's also a spiral staircase tucked into a corner, bookshelves built in under each step that are filled to the brim, and a fireman's pole in another corner, so there's at least one more level above this, but something tells you both the staircase and the pole continue past that. There's artwork everywhere, pieces you recognize and pieces you don't, several van Goghs and a couple from Matisse and you think in the corner you spot an actual fucking da Vinci sketch that's supposed to be somewhere in Europe. There's a gramophone beside a top-of-the-line sound system, an entire wall that's just a record collection, books upon books, framed bits of poetry - including an actual hand-written rupi kaur, a signed Maya Angelou print, and a signed cover of ain't i a woman by bell hooks that you would die to know how Taehyung got his hands on. It's a museum's wet dream and yet it retains a lived in atmosphere. There are mugs left on tables, blankets strewn about as if someone just got up from a nap, an easel propped up by a far window with what looks like an impressionist painting of the cityscape, books tossed down half-read with receipts and coupons and candy wrappers and everything but a bookmark tucked between the pages. 

It feels like a home and it makes your heart flutter in your chest at the same time that something in your stomach shrivels up into itself. 

Taehyung walks like he’s meant to be followed, so follow you do. You spy another man - older, you think, but it’s hard to tell, really - sprawled across a couch, blanket splayed across his lap as he watches some kind of dance show on a flatscreen hung above a warm and roaring fireplace, a couple of girls in what looks to be the kitchen, one sitting on the counter while the other stands between her legs and pretends not to notice the former stealing strawberries from her bowl as she taps at her tablet, and there are footsteps creaking above you, hidden behind walls even as Taehyung leads you up the staircase. They all look up when you pass, but only the man gives you a second glance; his eyes are a weight on your back that doesn’t leave until you’re upstairs and following Taehyung into a large, rather nice bathroom. 

It’s vintage as well, but it’s spacious and well-kept, like the rest of the place. Taehyung pats the marble counter by the sink and you bite your tongue against the urge to tell him you aren’t a dog. You don’t move though, instead watching him as he lays your jacket across a brass bar on the wall and then digs around in a cabinet for a minute or two. When he straightens up, he’s got a somewhat dusty off-white box in his hands, and he frowns. 

“Up,” He says. “I need to look at your ankle.” 

You don’t move, but you can tell he doesn’t miss the twitch of your nose at the thought of being commanded like an animal. Like someone who can’t understand. Like-

He sighs. 

“Please, will you sit on the counter, so I can look at your ankle?” You huff, but you do as he says. 

He doesn’t speak as he works, completely silent except for the odd command - “Roll it for me...alright, now flex that...deep breath...stop fidgeting or I’ll only make it worse…” - and the occasional hum under his breath. It seems to be second nature, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and it endears you more than you’d like. His touch is gentle but firm as he lightly squeezes your ankle and wraps it, lifts your pant leg to rub some kind of cream into a somewhat worrisome golden bruise forming on your calf, darts under your shirt to quickly and painlessly set your ribs before wrapping those as well. He doesn’t say anything at all until he’s almost finished with the cuts on your hands, golden ichor long gone and wounds already on their way to healing thanks to some sort of mist he spritzes on them. 

It only stings once, as he’s spraying something over some kind of cut on your thigh where Kratos ripped through the denim there without you noticing. You can’t stop the hiss as the pain hits, though you regret it when he glances up at you. 

“Sorry,” He mumbles under his breath as he dabs lightly at it with his long fingers. 

“It’s fine,” You tell him. “I’m used to it.” Your voice is rough, always, but softer than usual. You don’t know why. You can’t decide if you like it.

The entire time he works, you wait. For him to tell you it wasn’t necessary, that he can fight his own battles, that he’s not surprised a brute like yourself got into a fight, that you’re no more than what the rumours say you are. You’ve got a million different curses and insults ready to spit back at him when he finally speaks.

“Thank you,” is what comes. It shocks the words out of your mouth, and you actually look up from where you’ve been watching him methodically wipe gold away from a scrape on your forearm. His gaze is concentrated on the injury and his lips are pursed and you wish you could figure him out. 

He must take your silence for the confusion it is, because he continues. 

“I mean it,” He says. “I’m usually not someone that lets other people fight for me, but we both know that I couldn’t have taken Kratos. He’s too strong, and he was counting on that. Until you showed up.” You don’t respond. “Is there a reason you left before my set was done? Or why you were sitting in an alley beside what is possibly the most gnarled dumpster I’ve ever seen?”

You don’t answer him, instead focusing on the way his hands feel as they tilt your chin so he can look at the cuts and bruises and scrapes that decorate your face. You focus your gaze just past his shoulder, content to memorize the pattern of his gaudy vintage bathroom wallpaper, and he doesn't press for more. The distracted humming picks up again every time he stops talking, and eases the storm of guilt shame rage pain hurt grief loneliness in your chest. 

"I fight," you eventually say. Your voice is too loud in the quiet of the bathroom, shatters the silence like a sledgehammer, and you hate the way it trembles. Still, Taehyung doesn't look away from where he's carefully wiping gold from your skin, just cocks a brow, and it's as if a dam breaks in your throat. "Like, real fights. Actual competition, with rules and shit, and...sometimes the bad ones, because they tend to fight differently, it's a different kind of fight, y'know, and it's never really fair, because I'm...I'm me, but I hold back, just for fun, y'know, and it's, uh. It's alright usually, I go in, do my thing, I win, I go drink, and it all gets, I dunno, easier, maybe, for a while, like I can think right, but, um.”

You hesitate for a split second and force yourself to focus on the way the alcohol-soaked cotton tickles the cut on your head. 

“Sometimes it's not...sometimes I can't control it as well, the anger, and I kind of just lose it on people, and a while ago this guy, he almost needed his jaw wired shut, but he was kind of a prick anyway, I guess, so whatever, but, uh, today, I...there was this girl and she was doing really well, actually, y'know, managed to get me down to the mat, which is rare and pretty impressive, and I'm pretty proud of her for it now, but then, I just. I just kinda lost it, like, I just kept swinging, I couldn't stop, and then I just...I broke her leg, for no real reason, just because I wanted her to hurt, and I don't...I'm not sure why I even did it, because I'd already won, right, like what was the point of doing any more, it wasn't even helping at that point, y'know, it's not like the buzz kept up any longer because I broke this kid's leg, and I love the fights, they help clear my head for a second, but I never wanted to actually-"

You words stop short, like there are too many of them to say in too short a time, and it's then you realize Taehyung's hands are in his lap and he's looking at you fully. His expression isn't neutral anymore, it's not the carefully crafted mask of a performer, it's real and open and genuine and all you see there is pain . For you. Pain and understanding and compassion you never expected to find anywhere but the deepest corners of your soul. Looking at him looking at you like that makes you feel like you can breathe again.

"You never wanted to hurt anyone." His voice is rough, like maybe there's emotion clogging his throat as well, and you aren't sure what that does to you, but something in you jumps at the thought.

Tears mar your vision as you nod and you curse under your breath before wiping them away. He catches your quivering hand in his and just holds it for a second. His eyes don't leave yours and there are a thousand things you expect him to say but what he says is: 

"I believe you."

And that...it's more than you can take, and you break, right there on his bathroom counter, sobbing into his chest while he just rubs your back and hums and you remember the face of every person you've ever hurt and the look in their eyes as you left some of them for dead. 

You wake up the next morning curled up on the most comfortable chaise lounge in human history, sitting up and shoving the blanket off of you in a rush before you remember where you are, why you're there. A glance around tells you that you aren't alone; there's two guys bent over a table that you think might also be a tablet, conversing quietly and pointing every so often at whatever they're looking at, a girl balanced along the edge of the staircase holding a lyre - which, wow, you haven't seen a lyre in that good condition in a while - and strumming lightly along it before she frowns and shakes her head and restarts whatever melody she's playing, and the same guy sprawled over the couch with a blanket strewn haphazardly over him while he watches a different dance video on the flatscreen. He's the closest and you don't really want to talk to any of these people but you think you might have to because you aren't really sure how Taehyung got you here last night but you know it was quite a drive. You'd just mist over to the bar if you really wanted to, but your ribs hurt like a bitch still thanks to that fucker Kratos. Anything as intense as misting is out of the question for the time being.

The man on the chaise spares you a glance that feels longer than it should, full of a judgement you have no doubt you deserve and yet somehow fires your anger anyway. 

He rolls his eyes before you even say anything and waves a hand towards the kitchen. You snap your mouth closed and shoot him an irritated look, but you storm in that direction anyway. Healing is exhausting, and you want nothing more than some meat to tear into and a cold beer. 

When you get into the kitchen, however, Taehyung is standing there already, as if he’s been expecting you any minute. There’s a plate in front of him, full of food you barely recognize, and he slides it towards you. 

“Eat,” He says. You grit your teeth, unmoving, and he sighs again. “Please sit, and eat. You need the strength to heal properly.” 

You resist for a split second, but there’s a softness to him now. Something you can’t exactly put your finger on, but that you know is different , somehow, and it changes things. It makes you want to listen, to do as he asks, because he is asking . He’s not telling, he’s treating you like an animal. 

It’s a request, not a demand, and that makes all the difference. 

Taehyung is quiet while you eat. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t watch to make sure you’re doing it, but you have no doubt he’s keeping an eye on you. It’s quiet, but not unbearably so; the air is broken by the sounds of the lyre and the television, as well as the soft chattering of the men at the table. It makes it comfortable, makes it soft in a way you’re unaccustomed to being, like the way people talk about lazy Sunday mornings or that voice they get when they see a cute animal.

It feels like home should be, instead of what yours is. 

“So why’s Pretty Boy giving me the death glare?” You eventually ask past a mouthful of food. Taehyung barely looks up, just glancing past you to the guy laying on the couch. You can feel his eyes boring into your spine, but it’s nothing new. 

“Taemin’s just protective,” Taehyung says softly. “Especially considering the stories.”

“The ones about me, you mean.”

A myriad of emotions passes through his eyes when he nods, and you wish you could more easily decipher them. Maybe in time, you will. 

Maybe.

“Those, yes,” He says softly. “But he’ll learn.” He doesn’t say it, but nonetheless, you hear the words as clear as day. Just like I did.  

Someone hums behind you and you glance over to see a woman - the strawberry thief - making her way into the kitchen. She gives Taehyung a look you don’t care enough to figure out, and they have an entire conversation in the span of five minutes. Something about it irks you, and it only gets worse when they start moving around each other, Taehyung handing her things without her asking. 

It’s ridiculous, and you know it, but the air gets heavy in your lungs and your head starts to swim and suddenly you’re suffocating. It’s too much, there’s too much here, and you can’t take it anymore. 

The force with which you shove away the counter would have slammed it into the wall were it not already attached. There are slight cracks in the granite tops, though, and there’s just enough clarity as Taehyung calls your name for you to feel guilty about it. It’s not enough to stop you though; you have to get out, you need to get out, before you do something worse, and the cracks in the granite are proof of that. 

You’re out the door in an instant, your form coalescing painfully back into solid matter as you reach the hallway. Your ribs ache, screaming with the effort of trying to mist away from this place, this home , and you lean against the wall in the hope that it will help steady you. 

The door opens behind you, the creak of the old hinges deafening in the silence of the hall. There’s a commotion behind it, voices overlapping each other and reverberating in your skull until they’re a twisted mockery of your siblings. 

You stumble down the hall, one hand clutching your ribs to keep them as still as possible despite your movement. It’s not lost on you that there are footsteps following you, but you can’t focus on them now. You’re not moving fast, and you need to be, you should be running , but you can’t. Your vision is already clouding slightly at the edges, the sudden spike of adrenaline waning now that you’re out of the apartment. 

Someone says your name and you swing. 

It’s instinct, the way your fist flies through the air; you can’t control it, not this, not when the red is all you can see even as it seeps away and turns lilac. It doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t make contact with anything but the wall, plaster crumbling around your fist and onto the carpeted floor. 

“That was rude,” Taehyung says softly. He doesn’t sound mad, though he should, considering you almost decked him straight in the nose. “I’ll take you back.”

He drapes your jacket over your arm and walks away, toward emergency stairs tucked into the corner instead of the elevator, and you follow. He hums as he goes, and he lets you lead the way down the stairs, keeping pace with your quick steps until both of you step out a side door into an alleyway. 

Out of habit, more than anything, you light a cigarette and put it between your lips. You don’t miss the disgusted scrunch of Taehyung’s nose, but you do ignore it. The smoke is familiar in lungs, comforting, and he doesn’t understand it, won’t ever understand it, but he doesn’t have to. 

“Sorry, Tae,” You say after a few minutes of silence. Taehyung shrugs one shoulder and moves to lean beside you against the stone of the building. 

“Are you okay now?” You nod, taking a deep breath, remembering how Hestia had taught you, so long ago, how her hand felt against your chest, the warmth and love it held. “Then you’re forgiven. And you can call me Calliope, if you want.”

You’re both quiet after that. He doesn’t make fun of you, he doesn’t judge you, he just silently drives you back to Suho’s bar, which is when you remember that he doesn’t know where you live. You’re fine with it; you don’t want to see him in your run down hovel. It’s not much, especially compared to his own apartment, but that makes sense, too. 

What could ever live up to the home of a Muse? Not even a muse, really. The Muse. The Head of the Nine Muses, the one called on most often by those in need, the one that everyone knew, the one that Hephaestus just put statues of in the gardens of Olympus, according to the rumors that Apollo sent you. 

The calm that he brings lasts until you get back to your apartment, nearly ten full minutes after you disappear into the alley beside Suho’s bar. It’s the longest the calm has ever lasted, and the view of the city tinted lavender is one you think you love. 

If you can love. 

Things get clearer, somehow. The weight on your shoulders lessens, makes you feel less like Atlas and more like you, how you were all those years ago in the now-ancient days when things made sense. When people fought for honor and glory and justice more than they fought for oil and death and greed. 

It could be because open mic nights are frequent around the city, and you’re able to figure out his schedule pretty well. You don’t go every night that he sings, just when it gets to be too much, when the scarlet haze starts to bleed into your irises like a flag in front of a bull. It helps, for a while, lets you settle long enough to pull the pieces of you back into a shape that vaguely resembles yourself. 

It could be because the fights happen every night, and Taehyung is no stranger to where to look to find them. He watches every one that he can, when he isn’t singing, and his presence anchors you. Focuses you, so that you can pull your punches just enough, so that there’s less hurting and more fighting. It doesn’t work every time, you still lose yourself in the rage and do more damage than you ever mean to, but it helps enough. And when it doesn’t, he’s there, to slide a hand across your shoulders in that exact same way that Hestia used to, that Apollo might if you let him close enough to know you’re alive, that Artemis would , were she anywhere but where she is. 

It’s a strange feeling. You’re not used to companionship, you don’t know how to have friends. You still say the wrong things and do the wrong things and he still speaks to you like he expects to be listened to, but you both are learning. You apologize more often, and he corrects himself quicker. It’s a slow, fragile thing, this friendship, but it’s there. 

Until the night when it’s not. 

You aren’t sure how it happens. It’s been weeks since you last saw Taehyung; he mentioned some project he was working on, something or another that would have most of his attention along with that of several of the other Muses. You had brushed it off when he said it, some snide remark about how you don’t need him there to win. 

You would take it back if you could. 

Because you were right, of course, you don’t need him there to win; you can do that on your own. And your control has gotten better, stronger, over the last few months, but complacency is what always leads to disaster. 

The guy deserved it, is what you tell yourself as you’re pulled out of the ring. He was a piece of shit anyway, you remind yourself as you call Apollo with shaking hands. He didn’t deserve your mercy, you tell the golden gold after you’ve begged him to help save the man’s life. Artemis would have done the same, you insist to him, long after he’s hung up the phone and left to follow the ambulance to the hospital. 

You don’t go to Suho’s. You can’t bear it, not when he might be there, not when he would read it on your face in a heartbeat. You don’t want to watch the disappointment crumble into something more familiar, something worse, you can’t watch him look at you with the knowledge that your siblings are right, that they’ve always been right, that you’re nothing better than a crazed animal. 

The club is packed full when you get there. The bartender starts to pour you a drink and you just take the bottle, leaving a too-thick wad of bills in return. The bourbon tickles as it goes down but it warms your stomach and distracts you from the haze in your mind, the repetitive beat of they were right they were right they were right they were-

“Whoops, sorry,” someone says, a second before they knock into your shoulder. You’ve been around long enough to know a fake fall, and you scowl as you glance towards them. 

He’s cute. Taller than you, with skin that would hide the marks you so love to create, and hair that looks like it would be soft in your hands. His clothes fit well, and they look like they were chosen for comfort over style despite the way he walks like a model in them, which you always find attractive. 

The smile that slips onto your face is familiar, as is the way you bring your hand up to rest on his hip in an effort to steady him. 

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” You tell him, not being subtle in the way you eye him. He looks soft; you love them soft. “You headed to get a drink?”

“I might be,” He says teasingly, a coy grin forming on his lips. 

“I’ve got something better, if you’re interested.”

His eyes roam along your body, his breath drawing somewhat quicker when he notices the scrapes on your knuckles. “I might be.”

It takes five minutes to get him to a corner quiet enough to talk. Less than three to get your lips on his. One and a half to start sucking a mark into his neck that makes him moan so pretty you can’t help but want to hear it again. 

One of your hands is up his shirt, playing with the pebbled buds and the metal pierced through them, while the other teasingly massages the skin of his hip when he’s torn away from you roughly. 

“What the fuck?” Your voice growls as you look up. The guy is standing there, looking for all the world like he’s ready to run, but he isn’t watching you. 

No, his eyes are on a familiar sight; Taehyung, his hair now a pretty lavender that makes you think of a home you don’t have, even as he doesn’t look at you. 

“Taken,” He growls, releasing the collar of the guy you had every intent to make cry with pleasure. The guy scurries off before you can stop him, though, and you don’t bother to hide your disdain. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” You demand, already lighting a cigarette as you head outside. Taehyung follows, pulling it from between your lips and crushing it in his hands before you have the chance to get your lighter out.

“Me? You looked like you were about to eat him .” He follows you all the way to the street outside and down the sidewalk, pulling each cigarette out of your hands before you can light it. He waits until you’re a decent distance from the crowd outside the club before he stops you, one hand lightly encircling your wrist. 

Your boots scuff against the ground as you stop, not turning to look at him. You’re too afraid to, too worried he’ll see it all on your face and just know that you’ve fucked up, maybe beyond repair. 

“Apollo called me,” is what he says instead. “Said I might want to find you tonight.”

You should’ve known. That little fuck, of course he would rat you out. 

“I didn’t-” 

The words choke in your throat. You want to say you don’t need him. You don’t need him to come running like you’re some scared little girl who can’t control her strength, you don’t need him to piece you back together because you aren’t broken, you don’t need him because you don’t need anyone, you never have. 

“I know you didn’t,” Taehyung says quietly. “I know he deserved it, I know what he did, and I know you didn’t mean to.”

Something inside of you breaks and you find yourself shaking. 

“He hurt her , Tae, I heard it, I heard her telling her friend about it on the phone, I saw her crying, I saw her clothes, okay, he-”

“I know,” Taehyung says, pulling you into a loose hug. “I know you did, it’s okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s not gonna escape his punishment from that, you didn’t send anyone to Hades today. It’s okay.”

The cloud struggles, for what feels like hours. Guilt settles like lead in your stomach, and you wish you weren’t so used to the feeling. The rage returns every time you remember what that girl looked like, what she sounded like on the phone, how you felt when you realized it was your competitor who had done that to her. 

There’s no honor in that. There’s no justice, no glory, in beating an opponent who was never aware they were in the ring, and it makes your blood boil all over again. Taehyung’s voice soothes you, slightly, makes the edges of your vision turn indigo, but it isn’t enough. 

It’s never enough. 

“I have to go,” You say, pulling yourself away from him. “I need- I have to find-”

“A distraction,” He finishes for you, too aware that you can’t find the words you need. “Some mortal that you can bruise and break and bang until you feel less like a monster?”

That’s exactly what you want to do, what you had been about to do with that guy at the club, and it’s only Taehyung’s voice calling your name in that soft, sweet way of his that makes you wonder if that’s not a good plan. 

“I’ll be a distraction, if you need one.” You whip your head around, staring at him, but he doesn’t flinch. “I’m sturdier than the mortals, I can take more. Let me be your distraction.”

“I…” You hesitate. You don’t know why. You shouldn’t even be entertaining this idea, it’s not a good one, but then...when have any of your ideas been good? “I can’t fuck in a house with eight other people.”

“You have an apartment,” He says easily. “Let’s go there.”

It’s a bad idea. You don’t do that, you don’t fuck people at your apartment, you don’t have people in your apartment, it’s your space. It’s a bad idea, it can only end in disaster. 

“Okay.”

Taehyung’s lips are soft against yours, yielding and pliant just the way you’re used to. His hands are big and warm against your ass, even through your jeans, and the feeling gives you the courage to slide your own under the ridiculously patterned button-down he’s wearing. 

He lets you lead the way through the door, kicking it closed behind you with slightly too much force. Your apartment is small, a studio with a bed tucked in the corner for the rare times that you need it. 

You push Taehyung onto it and slide yourself onto his lap, already grinding down onto the hard length you can feel there. He's not quite as enthusiastic, but his fingers are like steel against you, pulling you down with every rut of your hips. 

This, you can do. This, you're familiar with. 

You push on his shoulders, doing your best to get him on his back so you can have better access to the clasp of his jeans, but he resists. You try again, firmer, using a harsh suck against his skin as a distraction, but he still doesn't go. 

Frustrated, you pull back. 

"Not like this," He says. His voice clears some of the fog, and you frown. 

"Do you want to be on top, then? Because I don't mind, I just need it," You tell him. He sighs a little, but he flips the two of you over so he's kneeling between your open legs and your back is cushioned against the mattress. 

"How long has it been since you spent the night with someone who knows who you are?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he sits back on his knees. 

You shift, uncomfortable. "A while. Why does that matter? Just fuck me."

"No," Taehyung says, voice gentle but firm. You cock a brow at him and move to get out from under him, but he stills you with a hand on your thigh. 

"You are a goddess," He tells you, trailing his hands down so he can undo the laces on your steel-toe boots and slide them off. "You have held Victory in your palms and set her free." 

His palms burn through the denim on your thighs, but you welcome it as he slides your jacket over your shoulders to the bed beneath. 

"You are the winner of wars. You are the one who grants battlefield wishes. You are the dead's escort to Hades." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek and then down your throat. 

He pulls back as he gets to your collarbone, eyes blown wide with unfamiliar desire, and it makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You," Taehyung tells you, with desire in his eyes and belief in his voice, "Deserve to be treated like the goddess that you are, with the respect you have earned, and the care you deserve." 

As often as you fuck people, it's been a very long time since anyone wanted to fuck you for any reason beyond your appearance and the personality you show them. But this? This look in the muse's eyes as his hands settle on your knees as he waits? 

Taehyung wants to fuck you because you're you. Not despite it, not because he doesn't know . He has seen you at your worst and yet he keeps coming back, keeps showing up as you fall apart. Each time he stays, hands you a basket so you can pick the pieces of yourself up off the ground, holds the tape so you can mash it back together, and is ready to help steady you when you start to crumble again. 

He's here for you , to treat you in a way no one has ever treated you before. He's your friend.

He cares.

You nod, however tentatively, and his lips are on yours in an instant. They're firmer now, less pliable and more controlling, but you don't mind. Not this time. 

Not with Taehyung. 

His hands don't hesitate as he strips you both of your clothes, but you can feel it each time he checks to make sure you're okay. The way that he watches your expression, the tense of your muscles under him, the cadence of your gasps for air between kisses, he reads all of it as clear as if it's a book in front of him. He slows down before you can stop him, his lips drawing back from the kisses he draws across your thighs, and he speeds up as your thoughts start to drift, swiping his tongue and two fingers through your folds to tease and bring your attention back to him. 

His fingers bury themselves in your heat, crooking slightly to brush against that soft part of you that makes the world spin, and it's all too intense. His lips are hardly even touching your skin, just pressing gentle kisses against the skin of your thigh, a gentle complement to the way he glides his fingers in and out of you, slow and steady and delicious, but it's absolutely intoxicating. 

He's talkative, too; he gives you constant praise. He tells you how well you take his fingers, how good you look with his fingers inside you, how absolutely fantastic you taste on his tongue, how he'd live between your thighs if he could. 

It's too much, and you can't be sure why, not when your orgasm is approaching quicker than it ever has, not when your walls clench around him and you soak your sheets, not when he's cleaning your cum off his fingers with his tongue.

"Good," He purrs. "Now you're all warmed up." 

His mouth hits your heat without hesitation or warning, before the aftershocks are even finished, and your hips buck upwards. His arms slide underneath your thighs only to grip them and bring them back down. You can't move much in his grip except to grind your pussy against his mouth, which he seems to enjoy, if the muffled grunts that escape him are any indication.

He doesn't stop until his tongue is buried inside you with one finger drawing lazy circles on your clit and you're cumming again, hands gripping the soft strands of his hair so tight that you would be afraid of pulling it out if you could focus on anything besides the feel of him against you.

He lets you ride the aftershock, this time. Waits until your pants die down slightly, until you're back in your mind. 

"Good?" He asks you. His voice is deeper, rumbles instead of slides, but it breaks through the post-orgasm haze long enough for you to nod. “More?”

“More,” you agree, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a heated kiss. You haven’t been this clear-headed in a while. Every sensation is clear and crisp, every sound heightened, everything is simultaneously more while also being exactly what it’s always supposed to have been. 

Taehyung’s cock is everything you could have expected from a muse; thick, long, beautiful, and it fills you in a way that’s indescribable as he slides inside. He groans at the feeling, deep and throaty and beautiful, and begins his thrusts nearly immediately. 

It’s as slow as he was with his fingers; steady and forceful, but unhurried. As if he wants to take his time. As if he wants to savor it. Savor you . 

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” He mutters, almost as an afterthought. “What you look like right now, what you look like when you’re fighting, when you’ve won and you’re triumphant? It’s fucking addictive, seeing that confidence in you.”

“Shit, Tae, don’t stop-”

“It’s so fucking intoxicating,” He groans, pace quickening. Your arms wrap around him more fully, nails like claws down his back as you arch your back to get him deeper. “You get this look in your eyes, like you can do anything you fucking want to, and it’s so fucking brilliant, because you can , you can do anything and everything you ever fucking want to do, and no one can stop you.”

A whine you’ll never admit to escapes your throat, and Taehyung drives his cock further into you. 

“Let go, my sweet,” Taehyung purrs in your ear. “Let yourself relax, just this once. For me.”

His hand touches your clit and it’s so much, too much , you’re feeling everything so intensely that it takes a solid minute to realize you’re coming down from an orgasm. Taehyung has stilled inside you, unmoving but groaning as you flutter around him, and you push weakly at his shoulder. 

He slides himself out of you, looking entirely too proud of wet spot underneath you and glistening against his lower stomach. You wobble your way up to rest your elbows underneath you, and it’s like he can sense your words before they come. 

“No,” He says simply. “I don’t you to get me off with your mouth.”

“A hand then? I don’t want you to leave unsatisfied.” 

A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he leans down just enough that your lips are almost touching, a not-there kiss that you can only wish for. 

“In what world is fucking you to the point of Elysium unsatisfying?”

The crowd around you is deafening; some of them are cheering for you, but the majority are rooting for your downfall. Such is the life of a challenging the champion, you suppose. 

You don’t know how Taehyung found this place; maybe Artemis had heard rumors, or maybe he searched for it himself. You can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’ve got someone worth fighting on the other side of the arena. 

The sand crunches beneath your feet. It’s hot, hotter than it should be since you’re still wearing your signature jeans and boots - without the jacket this time. You learned from that mistake. 

Your vision tints pink as you size up your opponent; he’s massive, not one to be easily defeated, and you relish the challenge. It’s been so long since you’ve fought a giant. Excitement thrums under your veins as he turns to you. He scoffs. 

If you had a little less control, you might be flying across the arena already. He clearly has no idea who’s standing across from him. Probably thinks you’re some demigod, come to challenge him for the fleece he isn’t supposed to have. 

He’ll learn. 

Something moves in the distance. It should blend in, considering how dark it is, but instead it draws your eye, and you don’t even question why. You would recognize him anywhere, have recognized him everywhere, and his presence calms you. Makes you remember a few nights ago, falling into bed in a hotel in Rome because the burn was to much and you needed him to help you release it. 

“Try not to be too quick, princess,” The giant across from you huffs. You cock a brow and send a look to your muse, who just rolls his eyes, despite the smile playing across his face. 

Violet rings your vision as you ready your stance. The announcer yells something that’s lost over the noise of the crowd. Taehyung leans forward, elbows on his knees, excitement and pride in his eyes. 

The giant swings. 

[characteroulette]

GAME KIDS TIME for Dante Going Fuckin Berserk for the first time (cuz you sent it to me years ago and it's still sitting in my inbox lmao)

ohhhh nice! hahaha. I actually rewrote the whole beginning of that one night because I had the thought of "no, this needs more build up." because it used to just start with the kids in the Game, hearing the singing and then Dante popped.

(I also need to rewrite it again now that the kids are more Aware of Dante's trauma with Hell hahaha)

(here is a read more because I have more to say than I thought I would)

Then Dante's fire sparked up, a hotter and bigger flame. [...] They blasted Frank, Abraham, and Vektor straight out of the game and they hit Petel as he dove into the cover. The burns and the heat around him didn't cease, the waves rocketing out past the visible horizon in every direction.

I did my best to convey Inferno here and I still like it hahaha. getting the same 'fire fire fire' thing that'd probably be going through Dante's head is an interesting challenge, since we're in Petel's pov, but it worked out pretty okay?

There, in the middle of a scorched circle on the ground, was Dante, crumpled on the floor in a familiar way. Though, the only thing recognisable as Dante was the soft, wavy blond hair and the knowledge that Dante had been at the centre and cause of this. Dante's clothes had been torn and were now grey and all available skin Petel could see had been scorched charcoal black.

hey I really like writing character descriptions whoop. also, fun fact! Dante's Berserk aftermath is based off an Elsen (from the game OFF)! that's why he head asplode, actually.

"Why can't he utilise this power into a more constructive gain for us?" Vektor lamented loudly. Knowing Vektor, he was probably also waving his hands about and nearly knocking himself over from the movements. "Every time he shows any kind of prowess in his abilities, it's to our detriment. Every time! He's a jeopardy to the mission."

"Your mission." Abraham's voice came across as cool, but as annoyed as Petel was growing. "He made a mistake, it happens."

I just really still like this exchange, honestly. Abraham being the one to throw that back in Vektor's face was supposed to show his growth, but honestly Abraham is just really friendly and patient towards Dante ;w;

Finally, Dante said, "Sorry."

Petel's response was immediate. "It's okay."

"I-I got scared. And then. I couldn't stop it."

Petel gave it a moment of thought. Back to when all he could comprehend was teeth and claws and making sure every living thing in his vicinity was torn to shreds. He shrugged in the end. "It happens."

even now, EVEN NOW, Dante's still not being truthful about things. he just lies about the root cause of his Berserk because, to him, it's all Fear and Trauma wrapped up in a neat little package (named Orpheus and Hell, but no one would know that since they haven't seen Orpheus yet) and so he just tries to use his Excuse here in a desperate attempt to keep the others out of the loop still. Dante man what the fuck are you doing

One of the Gargoyles dove suddenly, aiming for Dante. Petel managed to claw its wing enough to redirect it, but it still nicked Dante's exposed arm. Dante's mouth opened, a half-formed scream not quite making it out, before his head exploded in a spray of black liquid and a column of black smoke spilled out of his neck. Petel and the two Gargoyles hesitated. For once, Petel sincerely hoped it was just that Dante had been killed, had been logged out of the game. "Uh. Paige?"

"What the hell is going on?" Her voice came over with a stronger terrified tone than she probably meant. "Dante's stats just rocketed up by a 400-times multiplier and he's got 5% health left and the computer's refusing to tell me why it's going mad like this."

The creature formerly Dante straightened itself up, now taller and with broader shoulders. The claws had grown and whiffs of black smoke drifted off their sharp tips with every slight movement, while Dante's legs had curled backwards and the clawed feet had become stumps, nearly hoof-like. A constant stream of black smoke and spurting blood oozed from the stump of Dante's neck. Petel had nothing better to say than a succinct, "Dante's head came off."

At this, the rest of the crew spoke in unison with Paige. "What?"

head asplode! god I love this scene a lot hahaha. the Gargoyles hesitating, like Petel, is meant to be significant! but Petel can't really pay attention to that right now since their friend's head just exploded. I struggled, also, for a long time on how much exactly to jack up Dante's stats and then went "fuck it, 400x is broken" and settled on that hahaha

Petel desperately wished he could explain it better, but his words were caught in the back of his throat and he knew that if he tried to force them out, all that he'd manage would be whimpering and whines. Dante grabbed the remaining Gargoyle as it tried to escape and tore its wings off, then tossed it away as it dissolved into code. Then the thing turned towards Petel.

Petel had no other instinct. His tail tucked, ears flattened against his head, and he ran.

[...]

Of course, Dante was right there behind him. It didn't seem like Dante could fit in the checkpoint or even get inside, but it didn't stop for a second. It slashed at the checkpoint with those sharp claws, making the structure shake and fizzle and actually damaging the thing. After a few slashes, Dante then dragged its claws along the ground, tossing up some sludge-like lava that splattered against the openings of the checkpoint but was kept out by some invisible force. The walls continued to shake and Petel whimpered quietly. "Paige. Paige, please."

Petel showing real fear!! also very good. also very significant. Dante's coding is so fucked up that it actually breaks some of Petel's coding, too. that Fear is just so palpable that it leaks out and infects those around it. (and also Dante's Warping is just That Bad hahaha, this is why he does his best to be careful all the time)

Frank frowned, slowly tilting his head to the side. "It'd be faster to force the log out, right?"

"What exactly is this risk factor?"

Abraham seemed hesitant to ask and Paige hesitated on answering. That was enough for Petel to figure out the rest. And it wasn't good. "He'd come out without a head. Wouldn't he?"

Paige cringed. Frank and Abraham's jaws dropped open. And Vektor, in fabulous Vektor fashion, rolled his eyes. "There's only a fifteen-point-eight percent chance that the system will mistake Dante's current form for his form on this plane of existence. The odds are in our favour."

"No."

Petel narrowed his eyes at Vektor and Vektor wilted under his glare. Paige twiddled with her fingers. Frank came out of his shock first, giving a strangled cry of outrage. "You'd risk Dante coming back headless and dead just to get him out a little quicker?"

Vektor gulped, voice unsteady. "Technically, he wouldn't be dead. The system would just mistake his current form for your reality." Vektor looked around at them expectantly, but Petel wouldn't budge. Not on this one. [...] Vektor puffed up again, getting huffy. "Look, if we did lose Inferno, why would it matter that much? He's of no great contribution to our mission, anyway."

"Your mission!" Petel growled and surged forward to grab the front of Vektor's suit coat. "Dante. Is not. Useless."

ahh, Vektor. (there's that line again whoooo) I have to rewrite all of this but I always want to show the disconnect between how Vektor treats Dante, because of his built-in muscle memory. Vektor doesn't even understand it himself, but he tends to treat Dante worse than the others just because it's what feels right in his programming.

the rest of this chapter is a lot of me getting the rest of the kids out so Paige and Petel can discuss exactly how Dante's Berserk works hahaha. man, I need to rewrite this...

Dante would get out. Things would be all right. They'd all find this very funny in a week or so. 'Hey, remember that time you went berserk and got trapped in the game for several hours? Wasn't that just a hoot?' 'Not as much as that time you ripped us all to shreds when you went berserk! Ah, how time flies.' They were good enough friends by this point, right?

Petel please what the fuck is this XD

anyway, yeah! those are my thoughts on this chapter as it is in beta form hahaha. the ending is basically Petel reaching a conclusion about his feelings towards Dante and that's why he just thinks of them as dating in the next one (which is also something I need to rework, aaaaaaa) but also showing off the trio as friends!! even though this thing is a couple years old by this point, I still like it a lot!

(sorry to everyone else hahaha if you're really curious about the whole chapter, here's the google doc of it. please don't make a mess of it ;; )

[youknowmymethods]

Content Creator Interview #1

In the very first of a series of interviews with authors and artists in the Sherlolly and Sherlock fandoms @theemptyquarto chatted to @hobbitsdoitbetter about dark Anglo-Irish humour,  how she got started in the fandom, cultural influences, and so much more. 

I hope you all enjoy reading what they have to say as much as I did.

Hello Tumblr!

Back before Christmas 2018 I sat down (metaphorically, in a shared google doc) with the lovely Hobbitsdoitbetter.  Hobbits has been working in fanfic at least since 2006, but came onto the BBC Sherlock scene in 2013, oddly enough (or maybe not that oddly, if you have read her sensitive and universally female-positive fic) getting her start as an Adlock writer.  She switched over to Sherlolly with the brilliant, “Be Near Me When My Light Is Low,” a graceful and touching story dealing with domestic partner abuse.

 After that she was off to the races.  Since then, she’s written many of the most beloved stories in Sherlolly fandom, including: “The Boyfriend Experience,” which yours truly got to beta-read, set in an AU where Sherlock is a high class escort; “Little Goldfish,”a deeply sexy story dealing with the healthy (and unhealthy) use of BDSM in relationships;  “The Rudest Man In London,” a rollicking Victorian AU adventure; and others too numerous to list here.  Currently she’s publishing “Bliss,” another sweet Victorian AU in which Sherlock and Molly have to find their way to one another as partners in a marriage blanc, and a joint fic with Mizjoely called “The Poison in the Honey, the Sting in the Sweet,” featuring crimelord Sherlock, MI5 agent Molly, and an early-1980s setting.

 Before I get into our chat, I’m going to post two reader questions submitted by OhAine pre-interview, since the actual discussion spins off both of them.  

So with thanks to Aine:

(1) You write a very strong Molly, never more so than in “What the blackbird sang.” Can you tell us a little about the process of writing that story, and how difficult was it to walk the line between such a harrowing backstory and the love story you were developing?

 It’s interesting to talk about “What The Blackbird Sang,” and the fic which preceded it, “Be Near Me When My Light Is Low.” It was the first Sherlolly piece I actually wrote, and I was still finding the characters’ voices. Getting John’s voice, in particular, proved a trial; it wasn’t until I wrote him telling someone off that I felt I had him. (I also wouldn’t make Mycroft so heartless if I wrote it today.) I was feeling my way through the Sherlockverse, and when I read the fic now, that’s really the only thing I can see, lol.  

 I was very aware of the morality of discussing something which affects people in real life, and of the ways in which some behaviors are presented to young women as welcome or romantic in popular culture when they’re actually creepy and controlling. Domestic violence is often presented in fanfic as an excuse for a character to be saved by another (male) character, or as an excuse for whump, angst or hurt/comfort, and I didn’t want to write anything like that. I wanted it to be realistic, and to be respectful of the experiences of people who have suffered from it. (I do know a couple of people who have survived DV, and I know their kids). I also wanted to show some of the things which younger readers should look out for as red flags, and give accurate information on what resources were available to them if they were in a situation which was dangerous. In short, I wanted the story to be useful as well as entertaining.

 In order to do that, I looked a lot at real life cases of DV; almost everything which Molly’s ex does to her in the story is based on something from real life, including leaving the little bloody dolls on her doorstep. I also looked at the ways in which people with PTSD deal with panic attacks and flashbacks; I wanted to be honest and respectful, as I said, and I wanted to make sure that nothing I wrote glamourised or romanticized the abuse or the trauma. I suffer from anxiety and depression, and I know how difficult it can be to try and manage someone else’s reaction to your illness, as well as your own: that’s why I chose to give Sherlock prior experience with dealing with panic attacks. Writing the story itself wasn’t difficult; because I had given myself an obligation to be realistic, I had an in-built set of brakes. I couldn’t put in anything too fantastical, and that certainly helped. As for writing the romance, well... I think one of the things I like about Sherlock is that he’s not led around by his libido. I figured that if anyone would be willing to give Molly a chance to heal before things become physical, it would be him. I also felt that, given how bewildered he is by interpersonal relationships sometimes, he would be able to sympathize with someone who was also feeling emotionally vulnerable. And dealing with the physical abuse helped Sherlock grow up a bit, because he couldn’t just charge in on a white horse and then disappear off: if he wanted to help, he had to stick around and do some things which he felt uncomfortable with, like being emotionally open. It meant that he had a through-line in the story which wasn’t just about being strong or powerful. He had to change and grow, and I felt that was important. It also meant that he had something to do besides be in love with Molly, and I do think that helped keep the story from becoming too saccharine or concerned with romance.  

 (2) I often think when I’m reading your Victorian stories that there’s a very certain quality that Molly shares with Irish women, that there’s a quietness and dignity to her strength that I saw in women of my mother’s generation: rather than being given it, they took power where they could find it. How much of your characterisation of Molly has been influenced by the women in your own history?

 It’s interesting that you mention the women of our mother’s generation as regards Victorian Molly, because I do think there’s an element, not so much of quietness (I come from a long, LOUD line of Northside Dublin matriarchs) but I do think there’s an element of, as you say, taking what power you can rather than waiting to be given it. (Because if you’re waiting to be given anything in life, you’ll be waiting a long time, and it can always be taken back). Maybe it’s the feminist in me; I am painfully aware that surviving as a woman in the past was not easy. It was a great deal more than pretty dresses and dashing men in carriages. Poverty had dire consequences, and you had to be tough if you were to survive, particularly when you had no legal rights. So I do think that I bring that attitude to writing about the past: I’m a bit cynical about it.

 I also don’t like writing passive characters: one of the things I like about Molly is that while she may be quiet, or shy, or sweet, or clumsy, she isn’t passive. (I suspect that’s the influence of Lou Brealey on the way she’s written, but that’s just a personal opinion.) Molly does things, actively: she decides to help Sherlock, she orders him to say ILY first. She’s not waiting to be saved, or to be loved; she accepts life and gets on with it. She has a sort of sweet stoicity that I like. And again, that stoicity may relate back to the women of our mothers’ and grandmothers’ generations, and that get on with it mentality that they had.

 And with these tantalizing tidbits, I sat down with hobbitsdoitbetter for our chat.

 Quarto:  Hi Hobbits!  Thanks for joining me!

 Hobbits: I am here whenever you’re ready!

 Quarto:  Awesome.  So, let’s get started with a spinoff of one of the questions OhAine submitted and that you’ve already answered.  You started writing Sherlolly with “Be Near Me When My Light Is Low,” which deals with domestic violence and in which the love story is really more of a side subject.  Can you talk about how you got the inspiration for this fic?  What in the show led you to create the material?

 Hobbits: It’s an odd one, that, because I don’t really remember deciding to write it. I do remember reading a piece of fic online by a very young writer, who was still learning her craft. She was doing that thing we all do at the start, which is ramping every reaction up to 11! But because she was talking about Molly feeling unhappy with how Sherlock spoke to her, she didn’t seem to realize how it came across. It came across, I remember thinking, as if Sherlock were being verbally abusive. A lot of it was in the reactions written on Molly’s behalf; one person’s sarcastic banter is another’s hurtful barb, and there didn’t seem to be a recognition of the difference. I messaged her privately and asked her about it, and she didn’t seem to see the difference (again, starting out and making a common mistake we all make). But there was a lot of stuff about Molly putting up with shite from Sherlock that I just didn’t see her putting up with, and which seemed to me to be quite… Let’s say unhelpful.

 Quarto:  I think it can be difficult to balance that sort of stuff in fic, particularly when you’re writing for a show like “Sherlock” where the wit is so pointed and exaggerated for dramatic effect.  In the context of the show it’s funny but then when we try to capture it in fic it comes off like it would IRL, as “Wow, these people are massive assholes.”

 Hobbits: Well, some of that is, I think, cultural differences. British and Irish people will say stuff to one another messing that the rest of the world is horrified by. We have a dark sense of humor as a matter of course. BUT the big thing is how the person you say it to reacts; Mycroft and Sherlock don’t get upset at how they speak to one another and they can be sarcastic little bitches. But if, for example, you say something to someone (as Sherlock does to Molly in the SIB Christmas scene) which hurts them, the appropriate response is to apologize and not do it again. I think that’s why we stick with Sherlock through so much, because you can tell that he just blurts stuff out, or gets so wound up in his own cleverness that he doesn’t stop to think about how it sounds. But if you’re portraying someone as upset, and that that’s a normal or desirable reaction to a character because they’re Just That Awesome, then I look at it a bit askance. In fairness to that writer from long ago, I don’t think it had occurred to her how it sounded; that’s something that comes later in writing, I think, when you no longer have the massive panic attack that is trying to finish something and put it out there, which is the first, scariest and bravest step.

 Quarto: I’ll want to get back to the experience of authorship in a minute but before I do I’d like to talk a little bit about culture and how its influenced you as a writer, which also ties in with one of the reader-submitted questions.  I wish I still had that email chain we did when you were writing “The Boyfriend Experience” but in one exchange we had that I recall, you disagreed with me (an American) that the story was dark.  And you attributed your perception of it as not dark to your Irishness.  And I kinda… have to stand by my original opinion of your writing, which is that you definitely operate a bit more on the grim end of the spectrum (with obvious exceptions).  Do you think that your heritage and your culture are really determining or influencing the things you choose to write?

 Hobbits: I remember that! I was terribly worried I had offended you :-( But I do think that the cultural assumptions that come from being working class and Irish determine your world-view, and what you think of as dark. (Infamously, Irish writers and playwrights are always writing dark plays and I have spent the last ten years working in a theatre, lol). But also, the reason I didn’t feel “The Boyfriend Experience,” was dark was because I didn’t necessarily feel prostitution or working through trauma were dark, they’re just facts of life. I do have stories I feel are dark, because they’re about hopelessness: Be Near Me… is one, as is Little Goldfish. I would say they’re dark because they take place primarily in very dark places where there’s no light coming in. Molly is being abused, Sherlock can’t move past his own hang ups and traumas. Those seem to me to be dark. But other things, where there’s a bad experience but people are managing to survive, or thrive, those I always find really life affirming. The other thing is that, as someone who deals with depression and anxiety, putting a label on something as dark has always seemed to me a way of making it seem more frightening and debilitating. But if you write about bad stuff that happens, but people survive it then I find that much more life affirming, particularly if you, The Reader, are dealing with some of those things yourself. It’s my way of saying, hey, this doesn’t define you. You aren’t helpless, you can get through this. Not “you must, because if you don’t then you’re weak,” but more, “even if you don’t entirely beat this, there are things you can do. You are more than a label.” Sorry, I’m not sure if I’m getting my meaning across there :-(

 Quarto: Nah, you’re doing fine:)  And at the point I made the original comment I don’t believe I knew how you were going to end the story… which you did with “recovery,” basically, rendering what comes before it a necessary process rather than “Oh fuck that’s a downer.”   When you’ve tried to write horror, though, I will say that you do very well with it, possibly because of that attitude.  The “Eurus thing” ficlet you wrote in “Bumping Back” is one of the creepiest short pieces I can recall reading in this or any fandom, and the bleakness of it is definitely part of that.

 Hobbits: Well, one of the things about writing horror is it’s the only genre I give myself permission in to go to town with the darkness, lol. Every other genre, I always try to have some light at the end, but with horror it’s like, nah, bring it on. I also love writing horror to do with children, because it’s immediately making the adults uncomfortable- Nobody wants to imagine a child in that position. And of course the scariest things for most of us have roots in childhood; Pan’s Labyrinth scared the Bejayzus out of me, Crimson Peak not so much. And it’s because the things which imprint on us in childhood carry that same massive emotional weight throughout our lives. So if you tap into that with a reader, you tap into the child that reader was, not the fully grown up and confident person they’ve become. You can really up the ante emotionally in that way. I’m glad you liked the Eurus Thing btw, though my favorite of that series is probably The Other Tenant, just because I loved the idea of Mrs. Hudson having her own life which is every bit as interesting as her boys’. That’s how I like writing side characters, and I learned that in the XMen fandom: write everyone as if they have something just as interesting going on just off camera/page… Mwah ha ha!

 Quarto: It’s a crime that there’s not WAY more Huddersfic.  She’s had a fascinating life and there’s almost infinite room to give her adventures.  Can we talk about how your life in the theater influences your writing a bit?  You work as far as I can tell exclusively in the present tense… is that a reason why?

 Hobbits: Mmm, that never occurred to me, but you may be right :-) I suppose I got used to writing in the present tense when I first started writing fanfic, because my earlier attempts at writing stories or novels (I emphasize attempts) were all in the past tense, so when I started in fanfic I wanted to experiment, and that was one of the experiments that worked for me. I loved how immediate it made everything. It’s funny, now, twelve years later, that I write so much more fanfic than I do regular prose (I mainly write plays now). I mean, I started in fanfic as a way to experiment with voice, since I had trouble with it when I was younger. I had a tendency, even then, to just write dialogue and nothing else, so I started writing characters I knew well, but who weren’t like the talkative characters I created. That’s one of the reasons I loved writing Logan in X-Men, for example: He’s so bloody gruff and uncommunicative. And then what started as a writing experiment became not only a place to learn my trade, but also a place to experiment with form, to make friends, and to write the sort of things I wanted to write without having to please anyone except myself. It was incredibly liberating, and really important in helping me find my voice and my confidence. I can genuinely say that I wouldn’t have had the confidence to have written my plays, or put them on, without the support of the fanfic community.

 Quarto: You do have a very distinctive authorial voice.  As someone who has been mistaken for MizJoely, Gettingovergreta, and Sunken_Standard on multiple occasions, I am slightly envious of this.  Do you have any authors, fan or professional, who you think have influenced your style?

 Hobbits: Well, in terms of style I can definitely cite Miabicicletta and OhAine as influences, in terms of the way they write and the subject matter they choose. Out here in meatspace, I love writers like Jim Butcher, Ben Aaronovitch and Leigh Bardugo, because they’re experimenting with genre and making it their own. I also love playwrights like Marina Carr and Mark O’Rowe, who again have that authorial voice down pat. As soon as you hear a speech by Marina Carr, you know it’s her. Same with Mark O’Rowe, a man whom even I think writes some dark stuff.

 Quarto: I’m not familiar with him, but I’ll check him out.  And now that you say it, the gritty modern-day fairytale vibe of the Dresden Files does definitely have some hobbitsy nature to it:)

 Hobbits: God bless Harry Dresden, saving the world one random act of destruction at a time!  

 Quarto: Let’s talk shipping a bit.  You started off with Adlock, and one of the things that I have liked about your fic is that you have preserved the importance of that relationship to Sherlock even though you’re obviously writing Sherlolly.  What made you switch?  And when did you start?

 Hobbits: Well, I was asked to write an Adlock fic, which is how I got into the fandom. I had just finished a Darcy/Steve Rogers fic which was about them experimenting with D/s and Wicked Wanton got in touch with me on ff.net and asked me to write about Sherlock and Irene’s first time, specifically because I had written domme!Darcy. Once I wrote that, I started reading stuff around Sherlock and basically stumbled across Sherlolly, which I then fell in love with as a ship. I also felt that Irene, as much as I loved her, wasn’t the sort of person who would have a traditional HEA with Sherlock; my feeling about them was that they would kill one another, long term. Irene is nobody’s love interest, and I couldn’t really make stories which featured her in such a role fly with me. She seemed far too big a character to fulfill a role like that. Whereas with Molly she could have that sort of relationship with him, and not feel constricted. It wouldn’t be out of character for her, which I felt it would be for Irene. But I like Irene as a character, and for that reason I like having her in stories, and I treat her and SHerlock’s past together with respect. It’s entirely possible to love someone and know you can’t live with them. It doesn’t mean Sherlock loves Molly any less, or that he’s settling, they’re just a better match.

 Quarto: Sort of going along with what you were saying earlier about wanting to fill in the stories of the supporting players more than the principals?

 Hobbits: Yeah. I also found Molly more relatable in some ways, because she is the girl next door in a way that Irene isn’t. Molly is extraordinary, and a very specific type of female character who tends to get piled on by certain elements of fandom, so I like writing her. It’s partly wanting to give the side players more space and partly the fact that I loves me an underdog. And the reaction to her character was also soooo tied in with some of the issues fandom has had with misogyny (in the same vein that people reacted to Mary) that I wanted to write something which was pro-woman and pro-ordinary woman. We treat female characters as if we need an excuse to pay attention to them: either they’re naked or suffering or sexy. If they’re not fitting into any of those very specific niches then they get treated like they don’t deserve our attention or respect.

 Quarto: It can indeed be difficult to relate to Irene “Stupidly beautiful, ten steps ahead of everybody, wearing $10,000 outfits” Adler sometimes.  So let’s talk about your Molly a bit… you relate to her being the most “ordinary” woman in the show.  Martin Freeman talked about how John is the “ordinary” man, but is in fact quite accomplished and has had a very interesting and adventurous life.  Do you think something similar applies to Molly?

 Hobbits: Yeah, absolutely. I think that when we talk about “ordinary characters,” in the Sherlock universe, it can be helpful to think about them, not in terms of who they are but what they want. John, Molly and Greg are all normal people who are very good at their jobs/have an amazing skill set, but they want relatively normal things. Happy home lives, a comfortable living. Their version of happiness would look a lot like us viewers’ version. Whereas Sherlock, Mycroft, Mary (to a certain extent), Eurus and Irene all want extraordinary things, as well as being extraordinary themselves. Sherlock wants to be able to tell the truth of someone just by looking at them; Mycroft and Eurus both want to be able to fit this massive, messy world into a box of order which they can understand. Irene wants to see just how far she can push everything, (something she has in common with Sherlock). John, Molly and Greg are ok with having lives more like us other poor schlubs, so long as they’re happy. (Of course, there’s a whole can of worms to be  gone through whether John actually wants that, or thinks he wants that and deep down doesn’t). But I do think Greg and Molly are certainly happy to be Extraordinary Ambitions Adjacent, rather than having those ambitions themselves. They’re not quite so… grandiose, lol.

 Quarto: I can’t believe I’m actually going to type these words, but… I’d argue that Molly is a John mirror (ughhh, m-theory) in some regards.  Because Molly had the opportunity for “normal happiness” with Poor Tom Who Did His Best, and for somewhat ambiguous reasons ended it. Much like John thought he wanted a normal domestic life and accidentally married a superagent?

 Hobbits: I so sometimes hate how much of what should be straight-forward fandom theory has been co-opted. I don’t know if I see her as a mirror for John, because I think if anything she’s a mirror for Sherlock. She’s who Sherlock might have become, had be had a different, more normal set of circumstances. (IE not being the sibling of The British Government and The Greatest Criminal MInd of The Millennium.) Whereas for John, I do think he doesn’t realize that he’s a weirdo like the Holmeses, until it’s staring him in the face. Molly isn’t an image of who he is, so much as who he thought he was, and in that way so are Greg and Stamford. A true mirror might be Sherlock himself, in his addicted-to-danger guise. Hmm, not sure that makes sense… :-/

 Quarto: No, it makes sense, but it’s not a point of view I’ve seen many people espousing, even in Sherlolly fandom.  When you’re writing them do you use the idea that Sherlock and Molly are recognizing some sort of internal similarity to themselves as part of their attraction/interest in one another?

 Hobbits: I do think there’s an element of that, because a lot of what I write has Sherlock being a bit bewildered by emotion, particularly things like tenderness or attraction. Like, the purpose of the whole in-show thing with Irene was that The Woman was dangerous and not to be trusted, which is the message that Mycroft has always seemed to give Sherlock about feelings. So for me Molly represents for him a gradual realisation that feelings aren’t always big and terrifying; they can be sweet, and welcome, and kind, and they can add to your life. They can be safe. The concept of safety gets a bum rap in modern culture, but I think it’s a fundamental part of loving someone, and being able to be with them. Sure, it’s exciting to wonder whether your partner is going to put a knife in your back, but it’s a lot more pleasant (not to mention workable) to be with someone you trust.

 Quarto: Mind if I ask a follow-on question about some of your sexy writing?

 Hobbits: Sure, shoot :-)

 Quarto: You’ve written several BDSM-themed fics with this pairing, I think exclusively with domme!Molly… does that go along with your ideas of “safety” as a critical component to their relationship?

 Hobbits: Yes, in so far as I don’t think BDSM is necessary to feel safe in a relationship, but I do think that the attraction of BDSM in relationships can be that it’s rooted in safety. The submissive gives their control to the dominant, and trusts that the dominant will not take advantage, and will give them pleasure. (One of the reasons I ship Sherlolly more than Adlock is that I don’t think Irene could be trusted, at this point in her life, to do this for Sherlock). If you take that as a given, then the BDSM relationship is very up-front in its terms, and there’s very little grey area. You don’t have to interpret, you’ve already discussed what’s wanted, and where the lines are. There is also a procedure to follow if you need to pull back or change tack. I do think that all couples have elements of submission and dominance (or maybe trust and hand-over is a better way to phrase it), it’s just that D/s couples are more forthright about it. And as someone who sometimes has trouble reading social cues, both I (and, in my writing, Sherlock) appreciate the lack of ambiguity.

 Quarto: You know you bring up a very interesting point and one that I never really thought of.  Your Sherlock, consistently, needs to have trust and safety in his relationship with Molly.  BDSM-fics or otherwise.  And you wrote a lot of them before we knew that he was recovering from such horrific trauma that he suppressed and rewrote the memories of huge segments of his childhood.  What did you see in the character that made you almost prescient about that?

 Hobbits: Hmm… I think it’s because he was, from the beginning, presented to us as someone who was running from something. When you’re ok with where your thoughts are at, you don’t crave distraction in the way Sherlock does. He also didn’t seem to be able to handle his feelings, and that seemed to be tied into the way Mycroft had raised him to think of them: When there isn’t anything dark in the background of a character’s story, they learn to handle their emotions like a normal person, which neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had. It became even more pronounced when we met their lovely, slightly batty but seemingly emotionally healthy parents.

 To be honest though, even if Sherlock hadn’t had the experiences we found out about in S4, I would have thought that the way he’d been raised had traumatized him a bit. Like, Mycroft probably thought he was doing a good thing, but telling a child that their emotions- which they cannot be without, and which act as an early-warning system for abuse and trouble- are not to be trusted is going to mess a kid up. And then there was all that stuff about “do not forget me…” in TAB, and that constant visual about Sherlock being submerged in water… The visuals of the show seemed to be hinting at something even before they came out with it. I am pleased that I called Eurus’ gender before S4, but that’s about the only thing I thought was just me being clever. The rest seemed common sense- If you’ve spent any time around traumatized people, which I have.

 Quarto: You mentioned in your response to the reader questions that you now wouldn’t write Mycroft as being as heartless as you did in, “What The Blackbird Sang.”  Is that just your perception changing or the addition of new material about him to the canon?  Because that is the opposite of how I’ve felt about him:)

 Hobbits: Partly, it’s because I think Mycroft has changed a bit from how we see him in S1, so that by S4 he’s more of a tragic figure. He’s that bloke who thought he was so much cleverer than everyone else, and then you realize that it’s just a cover because he has been asked to deal with things he has no idea how to deal with. And his sticking with keeping Eurus on Sherrinford, and not telling his parents, shows that. (In my HC, Rudy was her initial jailor, since Mycroft couldn’t have been old enough to make it happen). Mycroft reacted like a little kid who has done something wrong: hide it, contain it, don’t tell anyone about it. Make sure, as far as possible, that Eurus is ok, but that’s all. He puts all this pressure on himself, because he doesn’t know what else to do. One of the things which I loved about TFP is when Mummy tells Sherlock, “everyone knows you’re the sensible one!” Because yes, Mycroft is the elder and seems so much more put together, but in that family Sherlock is actually the emotionally healthy one. He’s grown and learned over the years, which Mycroft hasn’t. And that’s a real shame, because it damages Mycroft, and Eurus, and his parents.

  (At this point in the interview Quarto ran a word count, realized this was getting lengthy, and decided to do some more rapid-fire Q&A.)

  Quarto: So where do you see your future fics going, at two years into the long (and possibly unending) hiatus?  Any things you’re wanting to write that we haven’t seen yet?

 Hobbits: Well, I suppose I’ll stop writing when I stop having ideas for fics. I mean, that’s the thing about fandom, it’s a self-replenishing medium, so even if a new piece of canon doesn’t inspire you, a new fic or piece of fan art might. I do have a couple of pieces I wish I had gone back to (The Copperbeech Identity, Red Door Black and No Capes! Are the ones which spring immediately to mind.) Obviously, I want to finish Bliss and The Sting in The Honey… And I do have an idea for a Sherlolly AU which is set in a theatre during the production of a new show. (Seriously, you wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen in the last week before curtain-up, lol). At some point I’ll get to it, hopefully. For the time being though, I’m happy where I am. The only way I’d move on or step away is if I find something which grabs my attention more, and at the moment that’s not happening. So I am here for the time being, and I’m hoping that, even if I stop posting fic or fan art (something I’m dipping my toe into) then I will still be able to keep in touch with all the friends I’ve made in the fandom.

 Quarto: I’d love it if you finished “Red Door Black.”  I reread that one while prepping for this and had forgotten how much I loved it.  And I’m here for your theater AU.  Any fics you wish you’d written differently, or things you’d change?

 Hobbits: I would have written Mycroft differently in Be Near Me… as I said. I might have written some of Rudest Man... differently, because I felt it ended up being very finicky as a plot. I had so many balls in the air, I’m not entirely sure I kept them all in motion in the best way. But that’s what happens when you give yourself 4 main pairings, two villains and permission to bring in any universe elements you want, including Torchwood and Tarzan, lol. Also, Sally and Henry Knight’s day will come, I tell you!

 Quarto: Lol, I’d forgotten the little Lord Greystoke cameo in that one.  What’s the best thing you’ve written?

 Hobbits: Ah jaysus, you can’t ask an author that! I have some stories which I love, but which haven’t gotten much attention: Sense and Sensitivity, for example, in which Eurus runs away with the Guardians of the Galaxy, for example. Occasionally I just write weird stuff which makes me laugh. I think And A Garden… and What the Blackbird Sang are probably the two best structured stories. There’s nothing superfluous in them, nobody is out of character. I love the emotion of The Coffin-Maker’s Lullaby, because it was kind of like my thank you to the show; I had assumed that after S4 there was no chance it was coming back, at all, EVER, so that was my goodbye in a way. (Although, of course, then the fandom just kept going, and we found out there might be more, eventually. So it ended up being less a swan-song and more a high five)

 Quarto: The original version of that question, FWIW, was “what’s the worst thing you’ve written” but I’m being positive today:) Any tips for fic writers just in general, or for people writing Sherlolly, or Molly specifically?

 Hobbits: I have to admit, if I think something is bad then I’ll pull it. So anything I have up, I feel fairly happy with, even if I can see little niggling things I might change, not be happy with.

 I think in writing, the thing I always say is do the first draft. Do the first draft and be happy that it’s shite, that’s the first draft’s job. You only get better if you write that first draft, and then improve on it. You only learn if you do that, and it’s trial and error. There’s a Miles Davis quote I love: “It sure does take a long time to sound like yourself.” And it’s true, it does. So give yourself the time. Don’t be worried about not sounding like anyone else: you only have to sound like you. If you’re writing in fandom, don’t stay in a fandom which is nasty to you or negative; you want to be in a place which is supportive. The Clois, Rogan and Sherlolly fandoms were all supportive and kind to me, and I couldn’t have developed as I have without them. I also couldn’t have continued to write the fic I write, which is feminine-positive, in a nasty or anti-feminist place. My one rule for my fic is that one of the female characters, somewhere, must be either getting what she wants, or on the way to getting it. That should absolutely be a thing in writing, and never be embarrassed or sorry about wanting that.

 As for Molly, I think the writers have done an amazing job with her over the last few years. She went from being a walk over to an interesting, multi-faceted character in her own right. And she did it without having to become something she’s not: Molly will never be a Strong Female Character, and thank god for that! She’s more human and more interesting than that tag would ever make her.

 Quarto: Words of wisdom.  Hobbits, thank you for talking with me today!

 Hobbits: It was my pleasure. If you need anything else, just let me know… And merry Christmas from Dublin :-)

So much thanks to Quarto and Hobbits for giving their time and energy to this project.

Next week: 

Our next interview, featuring @lilsherlockian1975 and @mrsmcrieff, will be posted on Friday 22 February.