#shifting lark writing

[fuckthisshitimin]

So, who's writing a sequel to a sequel to a fic that miraculously managed to be short for once?

[green-eyes-and-orange-ties]

Olivia Lark

There's just no time to die

Night Shift Podcast

[moonstruckme]

I've never requested before so I'm quite nervous but may I request something with a reader thats like usually very chatty when coming home from work but maybe someone at their job said something rude or they just feel to tired to talk? preferably with poly!marauders but i dont mind any characters, i love your writing and i hope you have a wonderful day :] no pressure to write this ofc

Thank you for requesting lovely and hope you have a wonderful day as well! <3

Eddie Munson x fem!reader ♡ 677 words

Eddie’s van is idling at the curb when your shift ends. He grins as you get in, swapping his cherry coke to the hand already holding his cigarette to wrap the one closest to you around your thigh. It’s a favored spot. You’re always thinking you ought to trace an outline of his fingers and get it tattooed with “Eddie’s place” inside as a lark, but he’d definitely enjoy it way too much. 

“Hey there,” he drawls, voice saccharine sweet and expectant as he leans across the console toward you. You peck him on the lips. 

“Hi,” you say back. “You taste like cherries.” 

His grin is crooked, goofy in that unabashedly lovesick way that makes your heart stutter. He holds up his cherry coke like he’s making a toast. “T’was the point. You want a sip?” 

“Yes, please.” You take it from him, letting the cool fizziness wash over your sandpaper tongue. You’ve been craving a drink since halfway through your shift, when you’re fairly sure you’d willed all the water out of your body so you wouldn’t cry in the break room. Poor forethought. 

The syrupy sweetness is comforting, familiar like Eddie and summer days and the lake. It makes you feel a bit more normal. You have to stop yourself from gulping it all down, dropping it in the cup coaster as Eddie stubs out his cigarette and puts the van into gear. 

It takes until the first stoplight for you to realize he’s not headed towards home. “Where’re we going?” you ask. 

“To the arcade. We’re meeting Dustin and them there, remember?” 

“Oh. Right.” You’d totally forgotten. At least Robin should be there. 

Eddie gives you a sidelong glance. “Work was good?” 

If you’re being honest with yourself, about 70% of it was totally fine. “Mhm.” 

He hums back at you, short and low. “Okay. What’s wrong?” 

“Hm?” you hum again, unable to help it. “Nothing, why?”

“Don’t play dumb.” He squeezes your thigh meanly, metal rings biting into your skin. “You always want to gossip after work. Something happened, yeah?” 

You toy with your bottom lip, looking out the window. You’re quiet long enough that Eddie gives your leg another warning squeeze. 

“Talk.” 

“It wasn’t really anything,” you say, honestly but forcing a bit more offhandedness into your tone than maybe you really feel. “A customer got all pissy with me because he thought something should be on sale and it wasn’t, but I’m not, like, still sad about it.” 

Eddie doesn’t take his eyes from the road, but his lips purse unhappily. “But you were, huh?” 

“I was,” you allow. “But I’m not anymore. I guess it just tired me out.” 

He glances your way, as if to be sure you’re telling the truth, and hums. “M’sorry, baby. Still down for the arcade, or do you just wanna go home?” 

“No, I’m good.” You wrap your hand around his forearm, running a path from his wrist to the crook of his elbow and back again. “I wanna see Robin. I can rally.” 

Eddie nods contemplatively. The steady rumbling of the van is the only sound for a few seconds, and then he says, “On a scale of one to ten, where are you right now?” 

You think about it for a few moments. “A four,” you decide. 

He nods again. “Okay. By the time we leave the arcade, we’re gonna have you at a six.” 

You grin at him. It’s already easier. Eddie sees out of the corner of his eye, quirking a brow like you’re being a dork but then slipping his hand from your thigh to intertwine your fingers from his. He brings the back of your hand to his mouth, kissing it wetly. You know he's content to sit in silence as long as you need, but you have one more thing to say.

“I feel like finishing off your coke would bring me up to a solid four-point-five,” you suggest hopefully. 

Eddie rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth kicks up. “It’s all yours, sweet thing.”

[alexanderwales]

The worst thing about creative AI right now is that it produces bad results. The writing is bad, the images are bad, and the video is bad. It's impressive, sometimes, that the technology works as well as it does, but it's still bad.

I think if you sit down and go through a few hundred generations, then tweak and edit and inpaint and think intently, you can sometimes get something worth putting in front of people, if you have the right eye for it. I could definitely edit up an AI-written short story into something worth reading, especially if I was the one who had fed it the prompt and gone through the work of having my own ideas to insert. I think at least part of the output would be the AI's, and I could carve away everything that was nonsense or just bad, leaving only a few turns of phrase or some general boilerplate structure ... and this would take more time and effort than just writing the thing myself.

Most people who use generative AI do not want to do any work, and in fact, have no conception of what work would be required. Most of them are consumers, not producers, and they're used to the modes of content consumption, where you don't look closely at the details. Generative AI, in its current state, just kind of sucks when you're in a "press button, get results" mindset.

The stuff generated by "press button, get results" is the vast, vast majority of AI art that you will see, even accounting for filtering effects. There are a lot of people who have no love of artistry producing artwork via machines that are not good at making artwork, sometimes just for a lark, sometimes with profit in mind, and it's threatening to drown out other stuff in spite of being bad.

This is my thesis: generative AI produces bad results, and this is possibly the worst thing about it. If it were able to produce good results, I think that a lot of people would be less opposed to it. If you could get a short story that was worth reading, or a picture worth looking at, for no additional effort of manipulation or prompt engineering or whatever else, then we would be flooded with good art instead of bad art.

When it comes to art, I care about how it makes me feel, and what it's trying to say, and where the intent is, and what ideas it has. AI is not there. Possibly it will never get there. But sometimes I see a picture that the AI has made, and I do feel something in the sweep of the lines, or the composition, or just the juxtaposition of elements. It's just really really rare, and the product of either chance or really careful work on the part of some human. It's not something that the AI can do reliably, at least at the moment. You can also quibble about intent, because the AI "has none", but I find beauty in nature too, which is not trying to make a statement with its sunsets, and whose intents, if they can be said to exist, are mostly about things that are orthogonal to my perceptions, like the plumage of a sparrow or the curved leaves of a fern. To me, art is art because of the way that it can be read and the emotions that I feel when I look at it. Contentious, I'm sure, but I don't find other definitions all that useful.

But the art that the AI makes is, unless expertly guided, bad. And there's a ton of it, and it's impacting the ability of real artists to make superior work.

I think the future I see, if the AI doesn't get better, is one where we have a bunch of cheap shit that's replaced a lot of good expensive things. I am in favor of cheap things, but I'm not in favor of shit. I would love for translation to be as simple as pressing a button. I would love to have a good painting to go with every chapter I write. But we're in a world where the results mostly suck unless you're willing to put in quite a bit of effort and have some expertise in a field of creative endeavor, and that means we're in a world where the products are bad.

I'm interested to see how the conversation shifts if the results start getting better, because that seems to me like one of the sticking points.

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen

TW: nsfw, angst

You wake up to the smell of bacon, coffee, and something sweet in the skillet.

Usually such a thing would mean you are dreaming, and you need to wake your ass up before you’re late for work. But you roll over to look into your tiny kitchen, finding a sight fit for Playgirl Magazine before your disbelieving eyes.

Dear Penthouse, I can’t believe this actually happened to me…

Detective Tom Ludlow is in your kitchen, making pancakes…in nothing but a towel around his trim waist. His dark hair is combed back, still wet from the shower. His broad shoulders are something to write home about–Kansas farm boys had nothing on this beautiful specimen of masculinity.

Had the night before even been real?

As though he senses your return to consciousness–or maybe the weight of your gawker’s stare upon him–he turns to look at you. “Morning, beautiful.”

You blink with surprise, because he is talking to you.

“Hi,” you greet, clever as ever, and goddammit but are you blushing?

“Whacha looking at?” he teases, spatula in hand. The very picture of domestic bliss. God help you, but in that moment you were 300 percent ready to put a ring on this man.

“Just…the most best thing I’ve ever seen,” you admit, knowing you’ll kick yourself for it later.

However, the smile he pays you, smug yet somehow gentle–it fries your brain entirely.

“Likewise, sweetheart.” He crosses the short space with a few long strides to press his lips to yours. “You like pancakes with blueberries?”

You’d bought the ingredients–and promptly stuck them in the cupboards–for just such a purpose, thinking that someday, when you had time, and weren’t bone fucking tired from working 12 hour shifts days in a row, you’d make a point to treat yourself.

Funny, how that never happened, until Tom Ludlow came around.

Here you are, getting emotional about blueberry fucking pancakes.

“Yes,” is the only answer you can muster, and he kisses you so sweetly that it curls your toes.

His soft smile down at you will be the death of you. “Sleep well?”

“Like a well-fucked rock,” you tell him, winning a bark of masculine laughter. 

“Likewise, beautiful. Definitely likewise.” He vacates the couch to flip his pancake. You continue to stare, still dumbfounded.

“Tom?” you ask, still struggling to wake up.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Did last night…actually happen?”

“Sure did. Don’t you remember driving to Vegas? We got the best Elvis in the building.”

You blink stupidly for a few moments, before registering his absolutely shit-eating grin.

“Very funny. And the joke would be on you, if you married me on a drunken lark.”

“Why?” he asks, seemingly amused by your discomfort.

“I told you. I’m a fucking mess.”

“Far as I can tell? You’re fucking perfect, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise.” 

You’re not really sure why this pithy little compliment brings tears to your eyes, your lip quivering. Only a beat later does he notice, and he rushes over again.

“Hey, hey, no crying, baby, I’m sorry. What’s wrong? I was just joking.”

You swipe at your eyes with the heels of your hands, embarrassed. “You’re just..so sweet, and I actually fucking believe you, when you say this shit, ok?”

He blinks, but god bless, it only takes him a moment to assess, and act. He presses his soft lips to yours, then his forehead to your forehead, as though he can will you to accept his declarations through osmosis. “Believe it,” he tells you. “It’s true…well. Not the Elvis bit. We can do that next weekend if you want.”

You know he’s joking…but it still doesn’t fail to utterly melt your insides. This man who manhandled and harrassed you has turned out to be the biggest fucking softy, and you just might lose your shit.

You’ve already cried in front of him too many times, though, so you play it off and act like what he’s saying is no big deal. “Really? I think I’d rather have Michael Jackson instead.” 

You wonder if he misses being married. If he fucked his wife like he’d fucked you last night…you can’t fathom stepping out on him. But then you also know, that sometimes cops can also be married to their jobs. It could make for a difficult threesome. You imagine going without him, while he was working an intense case, would be absolute hell.

Tom snorts. “Whatever floats my lady’s boat,” he answers, flipping another pancake onto the stack. He ports them to the table with a flourish. “Come eat, sweet girl. You gotta work today?”

“Later. Unfortunately.”

He sticks his full lip out in a pout that should be illegal on a grown ass man. “Then eat quickly, because I’m not done with you yet.” he informs you with a wicked smirk that causes a brand new flood between your already sticky thighs. 

He turns, that broad, tapered back on full display, to finish plating breakfast, and you can’t not watch the tight muscle in his butt shift in the thin towel. You get this sudden strange urge to sink your teeth into him and latch on, and wonder if ancient cavewomen bit their partners to lay claims. Because that’s what Tom Ludlow works on—the part of your spongy brain that developed before speech and theory—the part that wants to bite and howl. 

Evolution is a bitch. 

Oh no, he can cook. And cook good. The pancakes he sets in front of you, drizzled with honey and topped with fresh blueberries, taste like a fluffy heaven in your mouth. Even the coffee is splendid, done up blonde and sugary just the way you prefer. “Tom, damn,” you compliment between mouthfuls. “You went out to get blueberries?” It’s selfish, but the thought of him leaving you alone even to run out and grab something for you makes your insides twist uncomfortably. 

“Oh, no, I borrowed some from your neighbor.” 

Of course at that moment you have an entire mouthful of coffee that you almost spray on his bare, beautiful chest. “What?!” 

He adopts a bemused smile. “Very nice lady.”

“Please tell me you had more than just a towel on?” 

“Less, actually.” 

He bursts into laughter and the astonished look on your face. 

“I’m gonna kick your ass, Ludlow.” 

“She asked me something really interesting.” He wipes a little honey off your top lip and sucks it into his mouth, making you dumb enough to forget you’re annoyed. “She asked me if I’m the nightmare?” 

“I have no idea what she’s talking about.”

“You are a terrible little liar, you know that? I can see your tell from a mile away.” 

“Oh, what is it?” You smirk, shove a bite of pancake into your mouth. 

“You’re lucky I’m hungry,” he threatens, playful and promising, sending a thrill through your chest. 

You grab a glob of honey on your finger and kitten lick it off, almost bold enough to make direct eye contact with him for more than five seconds while you’re doing it. “Or what?” 

He pops up from his seat, and your first instinct is run. Run away. You make it two steps before he has you grabbed around the waist and is dragging you back to his place at the table. 

Your squeals of nervous laughter crescendo into a moan when he pulls you down onto his big cock. It surprises you as much as it did last night, how well he fills and stretches you. Not a piece of your fluttery hole unpunished by his silky, maddening pressure. You immediately grind, eager for that pressure to shift and rub and build you, but he stills you with a mitt on your waist. 

Then his big hands bunch in the ruffled fabric of your sundress, which somehow you never managed to remove amidst both of your eagerness to get to other parts of you instead. Slowly he draws it up over your head, tossing it away somewhere across the room. Before you can even begin to think about feeling self conscious he makes a low sound of appreciation behind you, running his hands down your curves. 

“So fucking beautiful. I just wanna stay inside this pretty little pussy all day,” he tells you, smoothing his wet tongue across your shoulder. You arch into him, and he nips your skin for the retaliation. “Feel her throb while I tell you what I wanna do to her. Jesus, you’re soaked.” 

You try to squeeze your thighs together for precious friction on your clit, but he tugs them back open, chuckling at the pathetic attempt. “You wanna fuck yourself, baby?”

“Yes. Fu-uhck.” 

“Want me to pet that pretty clit while you ride me?” He kisses up your neck, into your hairline, tugs your ear between his teeth and you see white fire. 

“Yes, Tom. Yes. Please.” 

“Then eat your breakfast.” 

It’s impossible to focus on the delicious food anymore. The chunks of stuff getting forked into your mouth are no match for the small taste of him. It isn’t long before he’s done with silverware and hand feeding you, making you lick and suck his sticky fingers clean. 

“Atta girl. Keeping me all warm and cozy.” His mouth traces circles on your upper back that make you twitch and gasp while his heavy pointer and index finger rest on your tongue, sweet and salty-pleasure and pain-the desire to move trumping all of it. 

When his fingers trail up your side and land on your nipple, rolling and pinching, you clench your thighs shut again. He grunts at you, although you think it was meant to be a sound of disapproval before you clenched deliberately on his cock. 

“You want to cum?” 

“Yessss.” 

“Then open your legs back up.” 

You obey with a groan of frustration, widening your hips so that the tantalizing pressure is off your throbbing clit. That means all you can focus on is having him inside you, and that would be great if he would just fucking thrust. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He grabs your hips to hold you in place. “You’re busy.” 

“Could be important,” you say. 

“More important than this?” He grinds up, into your cervix, into all the sensitive soaked walls of your cunt, and the answer to his question is no. Absolutely not. There is nothing more important than him or his cock. 

“Tom,” you hiss. 

He sighs. “Alright. I’ll get it. Get dressed.” 

How empty you feel, when you slide off of his cock as you stand on trembling legs. He halts your progress by gripping your hips, pressing his mouth to the curve of your buttocks. You forget about the door, and everything else, turning in his arms so that he can bury his face in your cleavage. “These beautiful–” He kisses one breast cupped in his hand, “Naughty,” a kiss for the other, just beside your nipple, the tease, “titties are in so much trouble.” He sucks on your perked nipple with a pop, making you cry out. 

Knock knock knock.

“Someone’s fucking determined,” he grumbles against your skin. 

Reluctantly you manage to pull away from him, and you remember this state of the art technology in your door called a peephole. Naked as a jaybird, you peer through the tiny lens–and gasp at the sight on the other side.

This clearly interests Tom, his head canting at an angle in question. You shake your head, just knowing a perfect storm is brewing. “It’s no one. Ignore it,” you say quietly, hoping they don’t hear you on the other side, praying they have the sense to go away. You try to distract Tom again with kisses and by trying to pull him towards the bedroom, but dammit this man is solid as a fucking tree when he doesn’t want to move.

“Who is it?” he asks with a lifted brow.

Knock knock. “Y/n? I know you’re home.”

Goddammit.

What can only be described as a wicked grin spreads over Tom’s handsome features. “Oh. Let’s say hello, shall we?” 

[hotluncheddie]

stop being a goblin and let me kiss you

part 3

˚✧₊⁎ ⁎⁺˳✧༚ ⁎⁺˳✧༚

‘ok. ok! you just, you just gotta be cool munson. be casual. chill. just like, vibe, yeah? yeah. no more funny business.’ eddie holds his fists up to himself in the dinky bathroom mirror. a couple of jabs, a quick one two, that’ll clear his head.

clear his head enough to go out and deal with steve fucking harrington again and his stupid stupid face and neck and tongue and like pretty fucking ankle bones. fucker.

see eddies not blind, and he’s not that dumb, he knows he flirts with steve and he knows steve flirts back. he just. cant deal with it just yet. it’s like every time he’s around the guy he blacks out and resurfaces red faced and half hard. but the point at which his vision fades and all hell breaking loose seems to vary so completely that he can’t stop it happening.

their conversations will start normal, a jolly lark, a guffaw here, a story there but then bam! someone said or did something that shifted his functioning brain capacity from 60% on a good day to like -5% and that’s being generous.

he just can’t get his ratty little self to either 1) stop liking steve harrington in a gay, gay, homosexual way. or 2) accept that someone like steve harrington could possibly like aforementioned rat himself eddie munson and actually process his feeling into a reaction that’s more than; red, red, half a boner, sweaty palms, red.

so he took a second to hide in the bathroom. that’s fine, that’s kind even. self care, as robin likes to say when she paints her nails on top of steve’s head when he sits on the computer at work. he likes to make the chair super low because apparently it helps his posture and he need to keep an eye on his posture or else he’ll end up like his great uncle melvin, or something.

self care time is over however because robins knocking on the little bathroom door, hollering about needing to get home to practice for her english presentation tomorrow. so it’s time for eddie to put his big boy pants back on and get in steve’s car.

eddie full body shudders.

‘finish writing you sad boy poems on the stall walls in there? roses are red, violets are blue, i like big dumb jock boys but can’t seem to accept they like me too, even if my very cool very in the know friend robin tells me too. hm?’ robin slings an arm over his shoulder and steers him back to the table.

eddie sniffs, crossing his arms ‘that last bit doesn’t rhyme so, i will be ignoring all of it. F for u buckbey.’

‘not everything has to rhyme perfectly u know. it can still fit together just fine as it is.’ she tugs on one of his curls before slipping back into steve side, finishing off the last of his milkshake and hauling him out of the booth because she ‘has shit to do dingus.’

too smart for her own good that chick. eddie loves her. he’s also going to move away and never talk to her ever again, maybe steal her collection of berets too, become a hat guy, once he reinvents himself. yeah.

steve is putting a few bills on the table, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. ‘just fries tonight ed’s? that makes you kind of a cheap date don’t you think?’ tapping eddie under the chin before following robin to the door, smacking his palm on the frame above on the way out. because of course he does, the neanderthal. all broad shoulders and biceps and ass.

there a second where eddie thinks steve could smack him like that but then he feels his vision spotting. can a guy not catch a break around here? jesus!

the car ride is a blissful reprieve due to cyndi lauper coming on, which had steve and robin performing a duet. which then needed to be tweaked and discussed in detail ready for the next time that specific song came on the radio.

it was honestly nice to watch. eddie had walked to family video that day because his van keeps playing up after it’s stint hidden in the woods. poor girl just needs a day off once in a while so eddie walks and then listens to car duets from two very much none singers. but it nice. makes his heart all yucky and warm.

until robin is leaving. leaving him alone to be a big nerd with a future. leaving him alone to make a fool of himself again. his ego is big and he likes to keep it that way.

‘you coming up here then’ steve shifts slightly, looking as far as he can over his shoulder at eddie huddled behind the drivers seat. ‘no’ he squeaks because last time steve got all up in his face getting his tape box out of the glove compartment. rifling through it while it was on eddies lap. so close eddie could smell the apple from his shampoo and the cigarette they’d shared earlier.

self care.

‘ooh you want the full harington taxi service do you? i see, well then govna, where too is it?’ steve tips his invisible cap and has the most awful cockney accent eddies ever heard, and he did middle school theatre.

‘geeze, just take me home dude.’ eddie shoves through the gap between the seats, landing heavy in the passenger. crossing his arms and trying to hide his smile behind his hair.

‘there he is. out of the shadows.’ steve tucks some of his curls behind his ear. eddie sees the soft smile out of his peripheral. tries to swallow the cotton in his mouth. steve turn back to the road ‘let’s rock ‘n roll’ he revvs the engine, wiggling his eyebrows, before checking his blind spot and pulling away into a cushy 30mph.

eddie looks out the window and hides his grin in his palm.

˚✧₊⁎ ⁎⁺˳✧༚ ⁎⁺˳✧༚

part 1 (eddie) part 2 (steve) part 4 (steve) part 5 (eddie) part 6 (steve) part 7 (eddie)

tags! ( ty for asking to be tagged wow so lovely can’t believe it hehe :3c ) (sry if i missed anyone or u didn’t want to be tagged just let me know!)

@bidisastersworld @sadcanadianwinter @mightbeasleep @butterflysandpeppermint @gregre369 @fandomz-brainrot @satan-is-obsessed @resident-gay-bitch @grtwdsmwhr @forsexyscience

[goddessalthena]

UsaMamo Week 2024 - Day 3/6 - Inspired by a Song/Coffee

Late again, and it's tough to say how late because this is technically two prompts in one. I was originally planning to write this as a song fic, but wasn't really feeling it leading up to the event week. Then last night I read @caelenath's awesome song fic and felt inspired to take another look at my outline.

This is not the whimsical lark that my other UsaMamo week pieces have been (which is why I was torn about writing it) but it's an idea that's been nagging at me for a while now. This is only the first part of three, but I thought it would be nice to post it for the event.

Title: Happier Summary: Mamoru wants a cup of coffee. Rating: T (for language) Words: 1722

“Thirty eight!”

Chiba Mamoru is not a melodramatic person. He is not given to histrionics. Flagrant displays of emotion are simply not his thing. Indeed, he is a calm, composed, and exceedingly rational human being. Life is stressful—his arguably more so than most—and he prides himself on his ability to ‘rise above’. But if this beanie-wearing, mouth-breathing barista doesn’t call his number in the next sixty seconds he might just lose it.

“Thirty nine!”

Mamoru stares down at his receipt and wills the numbers to change. Unsurprisingly, they remain the same. He can transform into a superhero in the blink of an eye, but he can’t change a number on a piece of paper. It may be the caffeine withdrawal talking but this seems…unfair. Unjust. Unacceptable. He is a reincarnated prince, the rightful heir to the planet beneath his very feet, and yet he cannot get a simple cup of coffee.

“Thirty seven!”

Are they counting fucking backwards now? He takes a breath and stuffs the receipt in his pocket so he can run a hand through his hair. He needs to calm down. He’s just tired. He’s had another rough night of precious little sleep and this is just a bad morning. That’s all. One bad morning. At the end of a bad week. At the end of a bad month. He just—

“Forty!”

He just really needs some coffee. It’ll be ready soon. So long as they serve him in the next—he checks his watch—four minutes he can still make it to the hospital before his shift starts. He thinks. He’s only just started at UoT and he’s still not used to the bus transfers. Getting to Keio was much simpler. He didn’t have to get up so early, and the coffee shop across the street was much faster. Not to mention better. He misses that coffee. He misses Keio. He misses sleeping. He misses…a lot of things.

“Forty one!”

Lucky number forty one strolls up to the counter to claim their prize. They walk away with a tall plastic cup full of frothy green liquid that looks like it was poured directly out of an infected nostril, and Mamoru can’t help but shudder when they take a long, noisy sip from the straw. Who comes to a coffee shop and orders…whatever that is? This is apparently a trend now—ordering non-caffeinated beverages at coffee shops—because the last ten people who have walked away from the counter have had similarly ridiculous drinks. Why does everything have to be dessert, or snot, in a cup nowadays? What’s wrong with a regular cup of coffee?

He needs to find another coffee shop.

“Forty two!”

He needs them to call his number.

He pulls out his phone to distract himself and scrolls through a list of notifications: weather, junk mail, update reminders—up to forty five now, he’s got to get around to doing that—and one text. His thumb hovers over the blue bubble for a moment or two before he eventually presses down.

Training session Fri or Sat ppl. LMK work schedules ASAP. No ghosting Chiba. Ur old ass is getting rusty. 👴

As Mamoru rolls his eyes three little dots appear at the bottom of the screen. He holds his breath.

“Forty three!”

He doesn’t look away from those three little dots, doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe. He just watches them, transfixed, until finally—

I’ve got a shift at the restaurant Friday night, but I can do AM Sat wide open

He releases the breath he’s been holding in a quiet sigh. Just Makoto. Not— His thumb hits the back button of its own accord then scrolls down through the list of chats, until…there, near the bottom. Sandwiched between an old banking verification and a number he doesn’t even recognize. He reads the date to the right of the name and winces. Again, his thumb hovers.

“Forty four!”

He taps. A string of texts populate his screen. He doesn’t need to read them again, he knows them by heart. But he reads them anyway. Like he always does. He can’t help it. He’s weak; in these moments at least. When no one can see. He should stop looking now. Should close the window. Should delete the whole thread while he’s at it. But he won’t. He can’t. He can do a lot of things—has done a lot of things—but he can’t delete those words.

I love you, Mamo-chan.

“Forty five!”

I’ll always love you. Even if you’ve stopped loving me back.

“Forty five!”

I wish I knew why though. I wish you would tell me what I did wrong.

“Forty five! That’s four five, people. Four five!”

I’m sorry, I get it now, I won’t bother you anymore. Be happy, Mamo-chan. I want you to be happy.

“For the last time, forty five! Going once, going twice…”

Mamoru’s head snaps up. Forty five. Fuck. That’s his number.

He stuffs his phone in his pocket and rushes up to the counter and beanie-boy does not look happy. Mamoru begins to mutter an apology then stops as the barista shoves a large mug topped whipped cream, caramel, and chocolate shavings toward him. Mamoru looks from the mug to the mouth-breather and back again as his brain tries to comprehend what is happening. After an eternity of waiting they finally called his number and yet…this is not his drink.

The barista is staring at him with a bored, somewhat vacant expression and Mamoru can clearly see that he is wondering why Mamoru isn’t taking the mug and walking away. Apparently the barista can’t tell from Mamoru’s assumedly apoplectic expression that he has no intention of taking the mug. This mug is not his. It’s not what he ordered. It’s not what he wants. Apparently that’s just his life now. An endless string of miserable disappointments that he’s supposed to suffer through silently. But he’s fed up with being silent.

He wants his damn coffee, and he wants it right fu—

“Oh, hello, uh, hey, sorry, excuse me but…I think that’s mine actually.”

Mamoru blinks as a cheerful man with sandy blond hair steps up beside him. He points to the confectionery concoction on the counter and shoots Mamoru an apologetic smile before turning to the barista. “Yes, chocolate macchiato with caramel, right? I believe that’s mine and not this gentleman’s.”

Beanie boy looks from Mamoru to sandy-hair and blinks.

Sandy-hair glances at Mamoru and shoots him another overly apologetic look. “Right, umm, well, if it’s all right, I’ll just grab this and get out of your way.” Mamoru steps to the side and sandy-hair takes the mug and hurries away. Presumably to overdose on sugar.

Mamoru turns back to the barista.

Barista scratches his temple. The beanie must be itchy. Mamoru hopes it is.

“So…what was your order again?”

“Large. Black. Coffee.”

“Right. That’ll take a couple of min—” Beanie boy must have just learned to read facial expressions because his eyes widen and he takes a step back. “I’ll go get it now.”

Mamoru feels a little bit of the tension ease in his shoulders and he breathes a weary sigh. He’s being an asshole. He’s doing that more and more often now. He keeps telling himself it’s the long work hours and the lack of sleep, but he knows what the real problem is. It’s her. He misses her. But there’s nothing he can do about that so he needs to find a better way to cope than being rude to baristas. And co-workers. And neighbours in his apartment building.

The barista comes back with his to-go cup and Mamoru tries to smile and thanks him for the drink. The guy nods but appears otherwise unaffected and that’s fine. Mamoru’s not looking for a new friend, he’s just trying to be a decent human being. A tinkle of bells sounds as he reaches for his cup. A gust of air follows, and a familiar tingle between his shoulder blades compels him to turn. He follows the innate instinct before his mind can warn him against it.

The unmistakable sight of blond odangos makes his heart soar before the inevitable sensation of crushing gloom comes down hard upon his ribs. Just when he thought his morning couldn’t get any worse. He can’t handle this. Not right now. Not again. He’s not strong enough to face another awkward meeting, another painful interaction, another agonizing opportunity to break her heart. Why are they always bumping into each other? Why, in a city as big as this, can he not get through one single week without running into her? Why?

Mamoru knows why. Because they’re soul mates.

He looks around for an alternate exit, a side door, a window, anything so he can avoid being seen. Before he can consider hiding in the bathroom he realizes she’s not approaching the counter where he stands, she’s rushing over to a table. She’s out of breath, her cheeks are pink, and she’s spouting a string of apologies. He’s seen her look exactly like this countless times before, and he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face as the memories replay.

His smile disappears as a new memory implants itself in his mind.

Of Usako, rushing up to a table where a man with sandy blond hair is standing in wait. Where a man with sandy blond hair is taking her hands. Where a man with sandy blond hair is pulling her forward. Kissing her cheek. Making her blush.

“Don’t worry,” sandy-hair says, “your timing is perfect. Your drink just came out. I wasn’t sure if you wanted a muffin, a danish, or a doughnut, so I got one of each.”

Usako laughs with delight.

Usako laughs with delight.

Usako laughs with delight.

Mamoru heads for the door like the building is on fire. He doesn’t hear the barista calling after him, telling him that he’s forgotten his coffee. He doesn’t hear the tinkling of bells as he shoves through the door or the loud rush of traffic as he hits the sidewalk. All he can hear is Usako’s laughter play over and over in his head.

When was the last time he heard her laugh? When?

Mamoru doesn't know when. He can’t remember.

***

Ain’t nobody hurt you like I hurt you But ain’t nobody love you like I do Promise that I will not take it personal, baby If you’re moving on with someone new

***

Happy Birthday, Mamoru! Sorry bud, this is a breakup fic. What can I say? I both love and hate the breakup arc. The song that inspired this fic is Happier by Ed Sheeran.

Thanks for reading! ❤️

Be sure to follow @usamamoweek for all of this year's content!

Many thanks to our awesome hosts @random-mailbox and @lilliebellfanfics for making this possible. 😘😘

[kaseyskat]

i feel like i have a new au to share every time i have writing to share for wip weds but tbh thats just what its like in my head anyways uhhhh happy wip weds! this is an au im calling the reset au- where the kiddads as of the end of s2 are sent back to their childhood selves specifically in the ravenloft castle with the doodler no longer involved, giving them a chance to make things better for themselves and their families if only they would take it :)

plain text under the cut:

"We don't know how much time we have," Terry reminds them all. "I don't remember how long after Grant's arrival it was before our dads were showing up. We should make a plan." 

"The plan is to survive," Grant says bitterly, and his pacing only speeds up, making him almost dizzying to watch. "I mean, what else can we do? Pray to God and hope we can go back?" 

Sparrow makes a muffled noise that Terry can't quite interpret. Lark grimaces, and he shifts a little, pulling Sparrow even closer into him. 

"This sucks," Nicky complains, and when Terry glances at him, he's fiddling with his fingers, staring at his arms with wonder and confliction. "I don't even know if I can help. Or if I should." 

Right. Because the last time they saw each other, it was fighting in the depths of hell after being reminded of the way they had all betrayed Nicky and his trust of them. Terry winces. 

Nicky didn't forgive me, but he said it was a start and we could grow from that, he reminds himself with a shudder. Besides, we have to work together to get through this, right? 

"Terry's right," Sparrow rasps, and he peeks up from Lark's chest with a hollow expression that looks wrong on his twelve year old face. "We have a chance to make things better this time around, we cannot waste it. Maybe then we can go back." 

"Link must be so afraid," Grant frets, and he groans, finally sitting down on the floor and hanging his head. "This is so messed up. I don't want to be twelve again!" 

[outtoshatter]

Writing Patterns

rules: share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able and see if there are any patterns!

tagged by @rosieposiepuddingnpie and now i kinda feel like I have the energy for tag games again, yay! Here we go:

The Devil in the Next Room (sterek) The fog over the city of Amber Bay was thinning out, pulling back from the buildings and the people it clung to.

Window Smudges (Nark) Nick glanced down at Lark's face.

Interstellar Dance Stylings (Nark) "No." Lark's voice was flat. When Nick's face fell, he tried to soften his voice. "I just- don't dance."

Ice Cube Kisses (Nark) Tick tick tick. The fan groaned on each turn, working hard to keep the thick, sticky air moving.

Frigid (Nark) Lark was ripped from Nick's hands the moment they tumbled through the portal.

Car Chase (Nark) "Hit the gas," Lark bellowed.

Molten (Nark) "You'll be okay," Nick rasped. "You're okay, it's okay." He repeated the words like a magic spell, like that would make it true.

Instant Potatoes (Gen/Lark & Sparrow shenanigans) "I just think-" Sparrow paused, jaw working as if he was chewing on his next words- "there are better ways to get back at the neighbor."

Impulse Control (Nark) The impulse was too hard to resist, even though Lark knew better.

Vessel (Nark) Slow flashing green lights cast shifting shadows over the window, across Lark's face, and the cages behind him.

Not sure if I see a pattern, but there's a wide range of genres here 😅😅

tagging @2dents @noxnthea @giraffeskull @raisesomehale @dappledawndrawn and whoever else might like to play

[sword-dad-fukuzawa]

see what happened is that in January of 2023 i started watching TRIGUN stampede which quickly kickstarted a thriving twitter community of folks who were absolute unabashed twincest and kink enthusiasts and also Older than me, demographically, so now i’m friends with a lot of severely cool and talented people who have passed the hysteria of their twenties and so are by and large very normal and supportive about taboo fantasy, which opened the door for me to become a very dead dove erotica writer with more encouragement and genuine enthusiasm than I’ve seen in my life.

and this derangement over what is effectively doomed twincest yaoi lasts until about June or July of this year, at which point i watch death note for a lark and trip and fall headfirst into a violent fixation on lawlight, which somehow takes my existing pervert tendencies and makes them impossibly worse, so now I’m an even more severely dead dove erotica writer. pre TRIGUN i wrote almost exclusively T/G rated fluffy romances/platonic fics with only a few tangents into real intensity and depth of feeling. post TRIGUN I have mostly written things that i feel very sincere about writing. to me the change was less in genre and subject and more in how strongly I felt about what i was writing. this fandom shift coincided with a lot of developments in my personal life (getting into kink) which neatly dovetails back into the subjects i was writing about. jazz hands

[y2ksnowglobe]

Deep appreciation for episode 30 (Van on the Run)

This is a long post where I just ramble on all the moments that make me love this episode.

The dethroning of fleshlight tag as the worst thing that anyone ever said.

The "Hey Andrew" story

Big old butt crack down the middle of the orb

Terry Jr. asking why Ron isn't wearing pants

"I'd better write that down as a note. Terry Jr., easy to lie to."

Lark literally taking a note about how unpaid interns die sometimes. (This turns into my firm belief that Mae Hailes is a paid intern)

Ron insisting Paeden is his half-brother. "My dad is my dad too!"

just gonna weep and tear my hair out real quick over that one.

Ron's insights on the patriarchy

"My stepson is here, and I am looking at him in the eye right now and it's not weird at all. It's not weird. We're just making eye contact right here." "It's a little weird. You have not blinked in several minutes." "Now it hurts to blink, so I'm not going to ever…" "That's not how it works. You have to blink." "No. It's like my eyes are getting…" "Dad, blink." Like what a way to start normalizing Terry Jr. calling Ron "Dad"

Sparrow's stealth hug

Just...starting to really see the dead inside Grant is both heartbreaking and really funny.

Nick's shaky fist bump makes me wanna cry.

I am always there for a good low perception roll joke.

Reveal that Ron just carries to lure that killed Willy around with him.

"Yeah! Your dad is George Washington!"

THEORY TIME: Like this episode is where we get most of our information about the kids' time in Ravenloft, and like...I don't buy it. Looking at how the kids phrase things, I've been solidly convinced that the O-Dads have Geas'ed the hell out of these kids so they can't give any specific details about what was done to them, but I feel like there's a loophole where they can talk about things that weren't done. So, for example: Nick specifies that Bill ignored him. I'll keep coming back to this as we keep going.

Weird detail: Darryl is with Glenn on the murder Henry's dad train at the start.

God I love to hate Barry Oak so much, he makes me skin crawl and he is in top form in this episode.

"I AM DRIVING WITH MY FRIENDS, FATHER! I'LL TALK TO YOU LATER!" It's such a teenager-y thing to say and I feel like it really gives a snapshot into what their relationship was like back in the day.

I really wanna get a snapshot into Nick's mind as he hears his dad completely lose his cool about Barry. Like, my boy did such a good job trying to act unbothered and brave, and then Glenn just is deeply and visibly upset about Barry almost killing him (which is valid, I just feel like it's a new experience for Nick)

Lark and Sparrow jumping in to drive when Henry lets go of the wheel. Like, not sure what happened with Sparrow, but Lark has been an epic driver from the get-go.

ANOTHER THEORY: Sparrow is really interesting in this episode. He willingly covers his ears when asked by Henry, and he's the one who hits the brakes when Henry tells them to stop the car. He's also just weirdly chill and forgiving, and like...I do not buy this as love wolf shit, he is clearly under some kind of magical influence to make him more compliant. You do not get the Sparrow that looks scared in the drone footage in episode 28 to this remarkably chill and forgiving kid without magical interference.

Freddie putting his foot down that Glenn would not mess with firearms while drunk

Barry's "Oh kakaw kakaw" when he's shot is probably in my top ten vocal stims from this show.

Lark enthusiastically supporting Glenn shooting Barry makes me so happy

Henry going from trying to be firm and calm as Glenn loses his shit, and immediately shifting to "ooooh, I hate you so much" as soon as Barry starts talking to him is so funny. Just all the ideals fly out the window.

Find it super interesting how Henry cites "respecting his choices" as a thing here considering what happens later on with the bracelets.

I both do and don't want to know if Anthony already had the idea for the Lark and Sparrow homunculi when Barry offers letting Henry take his kids and run and giving up all the other kids. Like regardless of whether or not it was planned, I do love the idea that Barry is giving this offer because he knows he's got the real ones tucked back in Oakvale.

I love the word abscond, okay?

Love Barry framing his failure as a father as disappointment in Henry's choices. I want to kick him in the face.

Mr. Mustache calling Ron "Honey"

"No. You just exasperatedly asked why a bunch of times. A.k.a. the Henry Oak special."

Geas theory follow up: Lark telling them they forgot to feed them fits into the loophole of being something the granddads didn't do, so they're allowed to mention it. Also this part of starting to hint at what exactly went down is so just *chefs kiss.*

Freddie's "WHY?" When Matt asks if Darryl can perceive that Ron peed his pants.

Freddie being told the charm needs to be in an enclosed space and immediately going "What if we had an umbrella?"

Freddie picking the first audio result for Fantasy Tavern for the sound.

"Bring us your hottest moms!"

This next bit always slays me and I don't even know why:

The jokes about the level one adventurer group is beautiful. I hope things turned out okay for that fighter and four rogues.

Henry making up Mr. X only for Mr. X to be real.

Ron thoroughly describing the fake voice he's going to do, only to reveal it's just his normal voice.

Ron's whole exchange with the other rogues.

Henry describing Glenn's fantasy voice as Italian

Anthony trying to keep up with what the crew are trying to do as they're attempting to get a room.

Also, everything is in shillings now for no adequately explained reason?

The random bar patrons who are gonna be so disappointed when they make it to the other side of town to find out that Hi I'm Ron is not playing.

The start of the NPCs realizing they could have asked for more money gag.

Glenn almost going to see what's up with Mr. X but then getting bored.

Anthony doing a C3P0 impression

Geas Theory update: Grant phrases it as "they weren't nice" and the most detail we get from Grant is that "Willy's really mean" only for him to then say, "It was fine, I guess." Terry tops out at saying that Willy "shouted at them a fair number of times" and that's as intense as any of their descriptions get. Like this is sus as heck. Especially since at minimum, we know that Lark and Sparrow got homunclui'd and that somehow, Barry got the twins to sit quietly. The boys are underselling this and the only one that would be in character for would be like...Nick (who we already saw was super shaky). Darryl even prompts Grant saying it's okay if it was rough and they were scared and we still get no further information.

Ron's scary story is so good for so many reasons. Like the way he tries to make it spookier by making Willy a man with a fishingpole for an arm, by calling fish "food that breathes underwater" like that mixed with the realization that he's telling the story of how Willy died is just...an excellent combo of scary and not scary and it's just a baffling bunch of weird that is pure Ron.

Terry being baffled by Ron asking if they want to sing Rock-a-bye Baby, only for it to turn out Ron doesn't know the words.

"You find more knives than not knife in his pants."

The fact that Lark was smuggling knives for a breakout attempt is just so lovely, go off my murderous little weirdo.

Also seeing Henry taking weapons from his kids knowing where this ends up is just (collapses into a ball of sad)

Henry deflecting from the werewolf questions by just switching to the topic of puberty, only for Sparrow to be too receptive to wanting to learn.

Darryl overhearing Paeden saying that Grant's dad is cool only for Grant to not say anything in response.

"Did Ron kill his dad?"

Seeing Darryl be actually upset about the fact that he's the only one who'd want to see his dad, but his dad's not there. And seeing Darryl actually grapple with the idea that he doesn't understand Glenn, Henry, and Ron's relationships with their dads, and like the weird feeling of not being able to relate being isolating, but still realizing it's an isolation you should be thankful for.

Ghost football ft. George Washington and one of his slaves

"Dude, that was the entire snarling id of the American masculine psyche in one image…It was like football, George Washington, your dad, and the Sword of Damocles that is slavery."

Glenn in the dream space

Bill Close calling Glenn tiger is just like such a small detail but it's like one of those moments that we really can actually see him being a dad, I think?

The gut punch of "Do you love me?" and "You wake up." like God DAMN!!!!!

Like this episode is such a buffet of character dynamics, and jokes, and lore, and room for theories, and I LOVE IT SO MUCH!!!! WHY DID IT TAKE ME SO LONG TO REALIZE IT'S MY FAVORITE????????

[fuckthisshitimin]

And this last chapter concludes @green-eyes-and-orange-ties's gift. Hope you enjoyed!

[calaisreno]

Eloquent

For @notjustamumj May 5 prompt: Purple

John Watson is no writer of purple prose. 

He finds a couple adjectives he likes — brilliant, amazing — and wears them out. He writes short, choppy sentences. And while he may know enough about plot to keep from spoiling the big reveal, his awkward sentimentality, expressed in blocky, stumbling prose, makes me sigh with relief when it’s over. 

I may have expressed my distaste for his stories on one or more occasions. He is my blogger, though, and there is no one else who would bother to write up our cases, much less make me look like a hero. I’m no hero, but this doesn’t stop John from wearing out his adjectives, trying to make me one.

Lately I’ve given up grumbling about his writing, though. He takes obvious pleasure in it, and it actually has brought us quite a few clients. Writing makes him happy, and who am I to complain about that?

There’s another reason, though. 

John Watson has an eloquent face. If his writing were half as eloquent, he would win prizes. Though he certainly has no idea that his every thought passes over his expression like wind on water, I observe it with fascination. 

It was at his wedding that I first began to hope. 

He was happy, overwhelmed, and uncharacteristically giddy, even before the champagne was poured. I stood at his side, my broken heart temporarily mended at seeing his happiness. I gave my speech, played the piece I’d composed for the occasion, and stepped back to watch.

I wanted to soak in his joy, the reason I had done everything for this day. 

Mary at his side, he was being congratulated by various people, laughing and smiling. He turned to Mary and said something, still smiling. 

And I realised: I had never seen him look at her the way he looked at me. 

John, at Angelo’s. Do you have a boyfriend?

John, gazing at me across the police tape, a small smile on his lips. 

John, his eyes admiring as I explain how Lestrade had got everything wrong.

John, too far away to see his expression; hearing his broken voice: You could. 

John, at my grave: You were the best and wisest man…

John, the night I returned. Angry, for sure. But that mask cracked, and I could see his sorrow, all the grief he’d suffered, thinking I was dead.

John, asking me to be his best man: Of course you’re my best friend. 

John Watson is not a hugger. But he’d hugged me during my speech. I was too startled to hug him back, and now I wished I had.

I watched him then, gathering more data. He cared for Mary, that much was obvious. But the smiles on that expressive face told another story. He thought he loved her, believed that he should love her. He liked her, was grateful to her, and had asked her to marry him precisely because he thought I didn’t love him. Because I had more or less told him that I couldn’t, over and over. Not much cop, this caring lark.

He looked up at me then, just as I was realising this. I don’t know what my face showed him. I was sad, I suppose, and maybe he could see that. But the look he gave me was of utter despair, like a man who’s lost everything meaningful in his life. 

That was when I knew that he loved me. And that he didn’t love Mary.

His face shifted, flickered into a smile as he looked back at Mary, but it was a smile devoid of love. He’d seen my face, too, and knew now. 

I left the wedding shortly thereafter. I’d wanted him to be happy, and he wasn’t. But I felt hopeful as I walked away. I loved John, and he loved me, even if he couldn’t admit it. 

It wasn’t so simple, of course. The mystery of Mary Morstan caused us both a lot of anguish. 

John still writes up our cases these days. And he talks about his feelings, though he reminds me that he finds that sort of stuff difficult. It doesn’t matter how prosaic his words are. His eyes are constantly telling me, I love you.

This one got out of the 221b manacles and ran. 😮

Tagging: @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @elwinglyre @jrow @meetinginsamarra @raina-at @lisbeth-kk @mydogwatson @elwinglyre

Thanks for reading ❤️ I keep forgetting who's been tagged, but the invitation is still open! Read or write, and tag some people!

[goodluckclove]

migration patterns - scott/edgar intimacy: sad child edition

i'm sad so here's a scene i've been thinking about for a week and finally got to write. enjoy. it's a major rough draft so excuse any pronoun fuckups or name inconsistencies.

“Can I tell you something else I want to do?” Edgar asked him, still uncertain – but markedly less so.

Anything. I love you. Talk to me forever. I will do anything you ask of me. You are so safe and good I will shift the orbit of the earth if it would ensure your security. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Scott nodded, without a word. Edgar hummed happily and leaned down again, pressing his chest against Scott’s as he whispered

“I had a funny dream last night, Lark.”

Scott turned in their bed with the covers drawn up to their chin. From beside him on the mattress, Eddie’s wavering golden form sparkled serenely like sunlight over the ocean. He was smiling one of his smiles that were sweet, yet weighed down heavily by weariness and anxiety. Eddie always seemed to smile like new mothers smiled, or older witches who tried to mask how much pain they were in.

“I like dreams,” Scott told his dearest companion. “Sometimes I have dreams that I’m not even in. It’s weird – isn’t that weird?”

Eddie nodded knowingly. He was very smart. Still, he seemed nervous. “It was funny,” he continued, “because you were there. Like – really there. With me.”

Scott grinned and felt warmth seep into their chest. What a wonderful dream that must’ve been!

“It was also funny, because…” Eddie darted his eyes away from Scott and pressed his lips into a straight, hesitant line. “Because in my dream, I kissed you.”

He paused and twisted his face in a cringe. Scott didn’t understand the reaction. Maybe it was from something he was seeing or feeling in his part of the world. Still, the same thought echoed in their heart: what a wonderful dream that must’ve been!

“That sounds nice,” Scott said, their smile softening.

Eddie looked like he wanted to say something, but then he didn’t. He looked up at Scott and teetered on the edge of a frown. “Boys aren’t supposed to kiss boys,” he said.

This was new information to Scott.

“I’m not a boy,” Scott told him.

“But you said you might be in the future.”

“Yeah, but I might not be. I haven’t figured it out yet. I might be a girl, or I might be – something else,” they widened their eyes slightly as they remembered what he confessed to them a few months before. “You said you might be something else too, right?”

Even though their friend was only visible in slightly differing shades of gold, Scott was now able to recognize the glimmer of amber that appeared whenever Eddie blushed. “Uh-huh,” he murmured into his hands. “I think so.”

Scott tried not to look too victorious. “Right! So it’s different. And even if it wasn’t, I think whoever told you that was confused. Boys kiss boys all the time.”

“Sure, but you aren’t supposed to.”

“Why not?”

Eddie didn’t answer. He looked confused. He looked like how Scott felt whenever he watched most of Tenzin’s favorite movies. Eventually he sat up and just stared ahead at something Scott was unable to see.

“You can kiss whoever you want if you really love them,” Scott sat up too, thinking. “Sometimes people do it to people they don’t love. Like in movies! Except I think even then the good ones at least like each other.”

“It’s different for me,” Eddie said, suddenly very serious.

He did that sometimes. He was like a little boat bobbing along, very sweet and light – only occasionally some stronger, menacing force would rise up from the depths and drag him under for a few moments of immense despair.

“Nobody loves me like that,” he said to the empty space ahead of him. “That’s probably the funniest part of all.”

Scott took a moment to remember the speed at which they were directed to blink. The way Eddie said that, the certainty in his voice, made Scott’s stomach churn and ache. Still, they tried to smile.

“I do, Eddie,” they told him.

Eddie looked across at them. There was no specific expression on his face. Scott found that one of the most impressive parts of his faraway friend.

Finally, he furrowed his brow. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Because I might be a boy?”

“Because you don’t know me.”

Scott fidgeted his hands very gently, mostly to have something to do. “I know you’re nice. You’re really smart. I feel happy when I talk to you,” he cast Eddie a smile, “I could probably lie in bed and just look at you and never go to sleep again, so I figured it would make the most sense to love you.”

The amber returned to Eddie’s cheeks. If a moth landed in the luminescent mist that made up his body it would be frozen in time for eons and eons.

“I didn’t know that’s what it meant,” Eddie said, a little vaguely. “You know, to love somebody like that.”

“I think it could be. I think it can mean all kinds of things!”

Eddie shifted his body, and Scott mimicked the motion until they were sitting face to face. “Do you think..?” Eddie chewed on his bottom lip, eyes grazing the ceiling. “Do you think that, if you look forward to seeing a person. And you think about – that person – even when you aren’t talking to them. And you wish that you could be around them whenever you wanted,” he paused to draw in a much-needed breath. “Do you think that means you love them?”

Now it was Scott’s turn to feel their face grow hot. “Um,” they said. “I think if you want it to be.”

“What if I do? What if I really, really do?”

“Then I think it is,” Scott murmured with a smile.

The two of them stared at each other for a short while of silence. Only there was something in the silence, a soft buzz of excitement and a sparkle of confusion.

“You know,” Scott said, trying for the first time in their life to be casual, “if you want, you could try doing what you did in your dream.”

It was always when Eddie widened his eyes that Scott was reminded that his friend was a birthright too. A wave of motion passed through his body – not so much a recoil as a sudden swell of life.

“You don’t –” Eddie grinned, mostly out of panic. “I can’t even touch you.”

“We haven’t tried,” Scott reminded him. “Not really.”

Scott was staring down at the wrinkles of the quilt serving as their bedspread. Their mind went someplace wistful, someplace sad and dusty. It would’ve stayed there too if not for this sudden pinprick of comfort and contentment that pierced them on the cheek in a burst of sensation and rapidly filled their small body with light. They shot their head up just as Eddie quickly pulled back his hand.

“I’m sorry!” He said. “Did I hurt you?”

The light of Eddie’s body felt like his touch. Scott’s mind felt a little dreamy and he felt like the heat in his face might now actually have a real, tangible glow.

“No,” Scott said. “It felt. I – I felt it, and it...was really nice.”

Eddie smiled. He looked proud. Then he wasn’t, and then he no longer smiled. His eyes lost focus slightly and he just stared, frozen in place.

Now it was Scott’s turn for movement. They leaned forward slightly and reached out a hand, moving carefully to brush against the glow of his companion’s form without diving straight into it. Immediately there was a reaction. Eddie’s face twisted and his eyes clenched shut. It was a response so close to pain that Scott moved away and waited, suddenly afraid for the both of them.

Eventually, Edgar relaxed. After that, the slightest shape of a smile touched his lips. In some innate part of Scott’s very being they knew this was a good thing that was happening. Some instinct that was forged from materials foreign to Scott’s being told them to move forward. Asked them to touch their palm again to the outskirts of Eddie’s light. Begged Scott to press their face over the sad, golden boy's, right where their lips would touch if they were two physical bodies in the same room.

The feeling was like connecting two wires and lighting up an an entire house – no, a whole city. Scott wanted to stay in it forever. They wanted to surround themselves in the amber glow until any concept of any darkness at all was nothing more than a silly, distant dream.

Eventually Scott pulled away. Eddie did not move this entire time, but when their vision adjusted to the dark of their bedroom again Scott saw he was smiling.

He was smiling, and he was weeping.

“What are you thinking about?” Scott asked.

Eddie swallowed hard and wiped his eyes. “I’m thinking...I-I’m thinking that you just gave me the best feeling I’ll ever have, and I have nothing to give you in return.”

Grief wracked Scott harder than someone of their age and size was fully capable of handling. Tears sprung to their eyes, but for some reason they found themselves starting to laugh.

“Eddie,” they said, struggling to keep their voice calm, “you give me everything in the world every time I see your face.”

“Everything?” Eddie wiped his eyes with the ball of his hands. “What do you mean?”

“Feelings. Thoughts. The moon. Every bird. Warm stew –”

“I love you,” Eddie paused, blushing again, but broke out in another weepy smile. “I-I would really like to be in love with you please, if you don’t mind.”

Scott took what felt like the very first breath anyone had ever taken before. “I would like that very much,” they spoke happily.

They exchanged a mutual grin and another deeply-felt silence. This time, though, what broke it was Eddie touching his ethereal hand to Scott’s. The golden glow fully bathed over the entirety of Scott’s hand, rushing into their bloodstream and staining every inch of them with dusk.

“Do you think we could do that again?” Eddie whispered to them. “Maybe...I start this time?”

Scott met his eyes. Their mind felt fully lucid yet fully eased with calm. They nodded.

[kiwiana-writes]

9 books

Thanks @cricketnationrise and @clottedcreamfudge for the incredibly rude, actually, tags, because I have never chosen a favourite anything in my life. (Also, CCF literally tagged me WHILE I WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF DOING THIS after cricket's tag from like two days ago, so I'm digging the wavelength synchronicity.)

Because I'm incapable of favourites, what you're getting is 9 more obscure books, not in a 'I'm cooler than you' way but in a 'please y'all go love these books as much as I do and give me more people to flail with about them' way.

Sevenwaters Saga by Juliet Marillier -- yes I'm listing a whole series as one book, fucking fight me. *Stefon voice* This series has everything! Historical high fantasy! Intergenerational stories! Romance romance romance! A canon side queer couple in fucking fifth century-ish Ireland! Slide into my DMs if you want trigger/content warnings or a more detailed synopsis, I am incapable of being normal about this series. Also if you read my swans fic you'll find parts of the first book in the series very familiar. (Also also, I once did a podfic for this series which has the dubious honour of being the only thing I’ve ever put on AO3 with zero comments, there's your random fact for the day!)

Rōmeo rāua ko Hurieta translated by Te Haumihiata Mason -- yes, this one's niche as it's in te reo Māori, but I'd be deeply remiss if I didn't have Shakespeare somewhere on this list despite me claiming I was going obscure. It translates the essence of the story rather than word for word and has a side-by-side with te reo Pākehā (English) which results in some absolutely delightful idiom usage.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach -- always a good reread if I want to feel like I'm a part of a wider universe. Also the reason for my seagull tattoo!

How to Loiter in a Turf War by Coco Solid -- I don't even know how to describe this one other than a must-read, which seems trite as fuck but here we are.

Meet Me Under The Ombu Tree by Santa Montefiore -- I first found this in my high school library which is fucking wild considering the plot. Another one to slide into my DMs for trigger/content warnings if needed but an incredibly well-written story with some of the most fleshed-out side characters I've read in this genre.

Mouthful of Forevers by Clementine von Radics -- absolutely incredible poetry, like, every damn one.

Nights in the Gardens of Spain by Witi Ihimaera -- another one I found way too early in the school library and the earliest overtly queer book I remember reading!

The C.H.E.R.U.B. series by Robert Muchamore -- idk how popular this one was actually? So this might be one everyone knows, but if not and you wanna read some wild YA about child spies, this will keep you fed.

I Am Not Esther by Fleur Beale and its sequels -- definitely not obscure to my fellow Kiwi but I'm not sure how much play it got outside of Aotearoa. Please read these books. Based on a very real religious cult (the author also wrote a nonfiction book about Gloriavale and how it got started) the shifts in perspectives between the different books in the series really do paint a vivid picture of the realities and nuances of it.

A lot of the usual suspects have already been tagged but I'm a nosy motherfucker so tagging @myheartalivewrites @maxbegone @ships-to-sail @celeritas2997 @rmd-writes @lilythesilly @nontoxic-writes @sherryvalli @orchidscript @inexplicablymine @stereopticons @cha-melodius @daisymae-12 @jettestar @swearphil @laurie-on-a-lark @suseagull04 and literally anyone who wants to share some of their faves with me!

[calamity-unlocked]

Sometimes your zip line park isn't doing well and you have a shift of 4 hours without any people so instead you sit in a tree and write fanfiction on your phone.

Anyways this little thing is based on @manitapaleta 's GORGEOUS art piece, link here if you haven't been graced with it yet.

~

841 words - Nark

CWs: mentions of boldily harm, blood, injury

~

The touch of Lark’s hand was cold on Nick’s face, methodical in the way it moved, but lingering every so often, causing Nick’s breath to catch in his throat.

They were quiet, Lark focused on his task, Nick focused on trying not to wince.

Were the circumstances different, they’d probably be screaming at each other until their throats were torn raw. But Lark was apparently concussed – how he’d managed to achieve that he had refused to disclose – and Nick’s sympathetic nervous system still hadn’t completely calmed down after a full minute of believing his son was dead and then reliving multiple traumas at the same time.

Neither of them were at their best right now, and wanted to prevent getting into a fight that was sure to dredge up painful memories they’d both rather leave locked away alongside the skeletons in their closets. There was plenty of time for fighting later. Right now, the soft, tentative silence between them was being held in place with a mixture of bone-aching tiredness, the desire to keep their children safe, and an all-consuming hatred for Willy Stampler which made their personal feuds pale in comparison.

Willy was still out there. In their fight, Nick had wounded the bastard enough that afterward his semi-light-hearted ‘you should see the other guy’ hadn’t fallen flat. Lark, bleeding from his face and about as talkative as a gravestone, got stuck on demon-sitting duty while the others were chasing Willy, trying to make sure he didn’t get away.

Lark had gruffly asked if Nick was okay with him treating the wounds Willy’s magic knife had caused, seeing how Nick wouldn’t do a great job at it in his armless state. Why he’d offered, Nick couldn’t fathom. Why Nick had accepted was even more of a mystery.

Now, after his arm had been reattached and he’d regained a bit of agency, Nick’s gaze trailed over Lark’s toned arms which were so steadily tending to his face, to the look in his eyes that was too concentrated to be tender, but nevertheless devoid of the burning tenacity that used to always be present there.

Okay. So maybe it wasn’t that much of a mystery.

Nick was holding a bloodied cloth rag he’d previously used to keep pressure on the cut, gripping it tight like a stress ball, betraying how tense he was. He was shirtless and vulnerable, and he shouldn’t trust the man who’d loved him and betrayed him, but for some reason, he did.

Lark had cleaned the long cut running diagonally over Nick’s left cheek, and was now gently applying a layer of antiseptic cream that smelled vaguely like cranberries.

“‘S probably gonna scar,” Lark mumbled, sounding as tired as Nick felt.

“Figures,” Nick said, trying to make his tone light. “Fate’s really trying to turn me into a full-on action hero.”

“Fate’s a bitch.”

“Yeah.”

Lark pulled his shoulders back a bit when he seemed done with the scream, but not his hand. His fingers lingered on the line of Nick’s jaw and he applied a tiny bit of pressure, like a barber moving his head to see the final result. His thumb brushed over Nick’s lips – accidentally? On purpose?

Whatever the intention, Nick’s breath went shallow. Every inch of his bare skin felt hyper-exposed.

Lark’s focus was still on the lower side of Nick’s face, specifically on his lips, as though those also needed his soft-touched care– nope. Cut that thought, Nicky, bad idea. Don’t go there.

The thing was, Nick was pretty sure he could.

He could lean in. He could lean in and close his eyes and pretend that they had both forgotten the past ten years, ignoring how those lonely years had fundamentally changed them as people. He could throw caution and sensibility to the wind, just to feel that spark again.

He wouldn’t. But he could.

He wanted to.

Lark looked up at him, finally. Hesitance and regret swirled in those dark-brown pools, or maybe that was just Nick’s hopeful imagination. He didn’t remove his hand. His thumb stilled on the corner of Nick’s mouth, while his other fingers had trailed down to his neck. His heartbeat pulsed against Lark’s pinkie, betraying the way his body was reacting to their closeness much in the same way as how Lark had seemed to stop breathing altogether.

“Nicky, I…” Lark started.

The door of the med bay slammed open, startling both of them.

“He fucking got away,” Grant sighed, the others coming in behind him, looking bruised but not too worse for wear.

“Shit,” Lark cursed, the hand that had been on Nick’s face a few seconds ago clenching into a fist. The familiar ice-cold determination that left no space for warmth returned to the look in his eyes, and he abruptly stood up and joined the others, muttering in hushed tones about their next course of action.

Nick remained seated on the bench, trying frantically to get his heartbeat under control again, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted iron.

Fuck.