#the way i have more outlined for this prompt but i sidetracked myself so

[onlyhereforangst]

11. ellick for the mini fics 🩵

11. things you said when you were drunk

“Another.”

No sense of hesitancy, and someone who didn’t know him like she did wouldn’t pick up the dash of self-directed shame that mixed in to the simple statement. 

The bartender made quick work- not that it was hard, the bottle of scotch hadn’t gone far. The contents had, they’d travelled down the scruff-laded neck with a quick pitstop in the shot glass first. Each gulp smoother yet simultaneously less coordinated, if that was possible. 

“You wanna call it, bud?” the older man behind the mahogany bar asked. And she could tell it was familiar. Not pitying, not fearful, not even largely concerned. Just…familiar. 

He’d done this before. He had this conversation frequently. More than just the few nights she’d tagged along for in the last week. 

Oh, Nick.

He’d been sober when she’d walked away that brisk early summer afternoon. Sober for a few months even. He’d stuck to club soda for a while, she thought, remembering his little joke from a month into it. Poking fun at their earlier selves, when their world was about to upend with news of Ziva’s reappearance, but worrying about who was worrying about who seemed important. 

A calloused fingertip caught a stray drop of ice cold condensation before it could reach the bar top, dragging it back up the path it came from- back to the top of the highball glass filled with none other than- club soda. 

And if that wasn’t the metaphor of her life these past two years. A year under, two to get out. Trapped, desperate to retrace her steps, reverse the path that took her here. Three years later and back in her rightful place, or was she? 

She peered at the damage her fingertip had done—a small drop of condensation that skated around the other tiny beads, slipping away from them, out of sight- out of mind. Except now, trying to forcibly put the drop back in its place, she’d left a wake of destruction. Thousands of tiny beads smeared across the glass surface, a bulldozed path five times as wide as the first, innocent one. 

She may have slipped out of his life, but would coming back destroy more than it would fix? Was it a fool’s journey to try and put something back that probably didn’t belong in the first place?

“…f-fuck, man!” Nick’s slurred but firm timbre was clear as day, even in her seat at the far, catty-corner end of the bar. 

Her vision moved from the messy highball and up to the mirrored bar backsplash, angled perfectly for her to take in Nick’s flared nostrils and the bartender’s relaxed stance. Clearly he wasn’t put off or even remotely surprised by the outburst. Hell, no one in the bar even twitched.

Quieter, more solemn, he continued, “I fucking loved her,” his head sagged and shoulders dropped- like the life had been sucked out of him with those four simple words. The air around her stilled, vanished even. Nothing passed over her slack lips.

She could make out the bartender’s slight tilt of his head, silently urging Nick to continue even as Nick’s eyes never left the empty shot glass in front of him. 

“Ellie,” it came out as a whisper and every muscle fiber in her body froze. But his eyes hadn’t lifted to her spot at the bar, they’d glazed over, unfocused on the present, rather likely focused on the millions of small memories her mind was now flipping through. Each time her name crossed his lips, in joy, in fear, in love, she melancholically surmised. 

“I loved Ellie,” Nick amended his earlier statement. 

And the bartender shifted his weight back, nothing else had surprised the man, but this statement apparently had. It hadn’t been the declaration of love, had it? It had to have been her name. Nick had never put a name to the claim. Never wanted to make it real, she bet. 

What had changed? Why now? She’d probably never get her answers. He loved her, past tense. Three years past. 

Another flicker of movement caught her drifting attention- his fingertip, chasing its own path, circling the top of the shot glass. Round and round it went, never easing up, almost like it couldn’t, like it refused to falter or move on. Circling and retracing, wondering where it all went wrong? she guessed pessimistically. 

Until it paused. 

And his chin lifted. 

Eyes steeled as best the welled up tears would allow. 

“I love her.”

Fuck. 

She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t think. 

“I still love Ellie...” Nick clarified to the riveted bartender. 

Her existence here, in DC at this bar in the periphery of Nick’s life, hung on his next words that came out as a deflated sigh.

“...and how fucked is that?” 

[caiminnent]

shadow play [shaundes, rated T]

Prompt: surrender (1/25) [metaphorically speaking]

Summary: A discussion about tattoos and permanence that gets sidetracked in the best possible way.

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed

Tags: Friends with Benefits to Lovers, Relationship Discussions, Mutual Pining, Tattoos

Note: Also written and posted as an entry for @denydesmondsdeathday​, which I seem to have forgotten to tag. #justCaithings

2.4K || Also on AO3.

He likes to touch Desmond’s tattoos in the dark.

It’s not an accomplishment, per se—he is far from the first person to learn the topography of Desmond’s marked skin, won’t be the last—but there’s still an odd pride to it, being able to trace the black lines spanning across his shoulder blades, swirling up his arm without having to see them. Sometimes he imagines he can feel the texture of the art, the shadows and the sharp edges—that he could map out Desmond’s entire upper body with just his fingertips.

Desmond releases a long sigh, hugging his pillow closer, the movement drawing his shoulders tighter in. Whatever has been on his mind, keeping him up, he won’t say—and Shaun can’t ask, no matter how tempted he is. Especially because of how tempted he is. He’s already risking things by letting himself linger, not quite ready to draw the night to a close; he can’t afford another indulgence.

Running a finger down a long line from the back of Desmond’s shoulder, carefully avoiding where it tickles, “How did you end up with tattoos?” he asks instead. He might not be able to give Desmond some peace of mind, but he can offer distraction. That one he’s good for.

Desmond makes an amused grunt. “Thought you’d never ask,” he says with half a mouth, muffled against the pillow. Another drawn-out sigh and he’s slowly pushing himself up on his hands, stretching out his back like a cat. Putting on a show, almost.

He hardly minds.

Desmond settles back on an elbow, mirroring Shaun, barely more than an outline against all the white. He doesn’t speak again, though; the air growing heavy with something Shaun can’t identify but dislikes all the same as Desmond stares at the patch of sheet between them, his expression blurred back into the dimness of the room with the distance.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he offers, heart at his feet. Leave it to him to find the one topic that would make Desmond uncomfortable. Congratulations, really. Very well done.

Desmond shakes his head. “No, no, it’s not that.” He shifts again, this time to reach over the gap and lay a hand down, right next to Shaun’s on the sheet. “Keep touching? Please?”

As if he could deny Desmond anything.

He drags a finger up his wrist, forearm, sliding over that twist of ink over the muscle he can always find so easily. The lines aren’t as sharp here, the angles not as precise. Were they drawn in a hurry? Did Desmond move too much, filled with restless energy or twitching at each bite of the needle?

“I got this one first,” Desmond starts, as Shaun traces one of the longer lines, twirling at the end. “On my nineteenth birthday. I was supposed to work that night, but the boss—bless her heart—she put some money in my pocket and sent me on my way, told me to go have fun with my friends.” He huffs out a little chuckle, entirely joyless. “Only, I didn’t have friends. Didn’t have anyone I could celebrate with, didn’t have anywhere to go except my shithole of an apartment—which I really didn’t wanna go back to. So, I took to wandering.”

It’s easy enough to imagine: Desmond in his teens, walking up a storm on the streets of New York with his hands deep in his pockets, lips curled into that scowl that really only comes out when he thinks no one’s there to see.

His stomach churns.

“Then you saw a tattoo shop,” he guesses, following the same path up.

“Then I saw a tattoo shop,” Desmond confirms. Pauses, before adding, “I know it’s not... tasteful, or anything, but—it was mine, y’know? Something I’d picked for myself that no one could ever take away from me. It was... I dunno.” Shrugs a shoulder. “It was big, at the time.”

He understands the feeling.

In theory, at least. The wish for something bold and tangible and his, a middle finger to anyone who sneered and snickered at him for being who he is and wanting what he wants—that he understands. Getting it etched onto his skin for everyone to judge, however? That takes a kind of impulsiveness he only wishes for in secret.

What would that be like, even? Doing things without twisting yourself into knots? Deciding that you want something and just—getting it?

Desmond brushes the back of a finger underneath his wrist, oddly reassuring. “Is that the good kind of silence?”

If only he knew. “It’s not the bad kind,” is all he can allow. “It sounds... terrifying, is all.”

“Terrifying?” Desmond repeats on a low laugh.

“I mean...” He waves a hand vaguely, racking his brain to find the right words. “It’s a tattoo,” he settles on at last—rather lamely, he might add. His way with words never stepped outside of a classroom door, much less inside a bedroom. “It’s permanent—or as close to it as it gets, I suppose. It’ll be there long after us—after you, even—and you decided to get one on a whim. I don’t think I could ever be so…”

“Reckless?”

He rolls his eyes. “I was going to say spontaneous. Though, yes; that, too.”

That finger is still running back and forth, a teasing touch right under his pulse, starting to build something warm low in his belly. He wants to kiss Desmond. No secondary intent, not to get anywhere; kissing only to enjoy the feeling, Desmond’s warmth against his—and maybe fall asleep in the same bed after, just once. Just to see what it would be like to wake up there, curled up around Desmond or Desmond curled up around him, nowhere to rush to or run away—

Well, if that’s not his cue to get the hell out of here before he makes a fool of himself.

Rolling onto his back, he reaches for the alarm clock on the nightstand and slides it over with his fingertips to squint at the numbers, just this side of careless—even he has his moments. Well past one in the morning; earlier than the weight settled onto his bones suggested, late enough to be his excuse.

“Looks like we’ll have to leave the story of the back piece to another day after all,” he says, putting it back down in favour of the light switch above—blinks, the sudden brightness stabbing at his brain.

“You’re leaving?” Desmond asks—oddly put off, by the sound of it. What else did he even expect?

Throwing the covers off himself, “I should if I want to get some sleep,” he points out, stepping out before he can change his mind. Before the temptation to stay under the covers becomes too great.

Glasses, phone, his bag over by the door, his coat on the rack—where the hell are his clothes?

“In the closet,” Desmond says before he can ask. “I put them away while you were in the shower.”

Huh. Since when does Desmond care about tidying up?

“Thanks,” he says anyway, heading over to the closet—where his shirt and trousers are carefully placed on hangers, the bottom two buttons of the shirt done up like he prefers, his sweater sitting neatly folded on the rack above.

Something not unlike foreboding twists in his gut.

See, he has never seen the point of not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Call it paranoia; he cannot receive something nice and not poke and prod at every opening until he’s sure it’s meant in kindness. He doesn’t like surprises, doesn’t like getting caught off-guard—he does not like not being able to read Desmond’s expression as Desmond watches him through the full-length mirror, sitting up against the headboard with the covers pooled in his lap.

He needs to get out—fast.

Turning away from the mirror, he puts his focus entirely on dressing out of Desmond’s clothes into his own, buttoning up his shirt like he’s being timed on it. The very air is tense with anticipation—for what, he can’t tell, nor does he want to find out. For once, he doesn’t.

“So, after us, huh?” Desmond says—apropos of nothing, for all that he sounds as if continuing an interrupted conversation.

It takes Shaun longer than he would like to admit, to figure out what the hell Desmond’s talking about. “What of it?”

“That really what you think?” Desmond asks, serious like he never is. The feeling in his gut intensifies. “That this—” Gestures at the room as a whole, the open space between them. “—is temporary?”

Bitter laughter bubbles up in his chest. He pushes it down before it can escape, the pressure making it difficult to breathe. Is this what you think, Desmond asks—like what he thinks matters. Like what he thinks changes any damn thing here. It must be a joke, right. It must be a joke, because Desmond can’t be bloody serious.

If it is a joke, though, it’s a very cruel one.

Suddenly self-conscious with words like us hanging over their heads, he turns away from Desmond and the mirror both, back to the closet. “More lovers than you could keep track of,” he lists as he shoves his legs into his trousers, no trace of the resentment gathering and thickening in his chest making it to his tone, thankfully. “Not knowing how to do the ‘domestic stuff’. I’ve never learned how to stay still. I can read between the lines, Desmond.”

“I’m not denying what I said,” Desmond says—dares to sound upset, as if Shaun is being the difficult one here.

Cinching his belt, he reaches for his sweater. “Then we’ve got nothing to talk about.”

Behind him, the bed groans as Desmond steps out of it. He can’t help tensing at the slow approach, Desmond’s footsteps too loud in the still of the night.

Desmond touches Shaun’s arm, hardly more than a caress.  “I think we do, Shaun.”

He panics.

There’s no other word for the fist that grips his heart and throat both, his hand tightening instinctively around the fabric of his sweater. God, of course. Of course he’s already fucked up, given himself away—how could he have not? He’s transparent, obvious, subtle as a brick to the face and Desmond—

Desmond’s too gentle to let him down any other way.

“Shaun?” Desmond urges softly, his hand a light pressure on Shaun’s arm—not a weight but an anchor, grounding. “Look at me, please?”

He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to face Desmond, doesn’t know what his face will do if he does. If this is the end, he’d much rather leave with at least some of his pride intact.

Nonetheless, he turns.

Desmond’s watching him with open wariness, as if Shaun is a bloody caged animal, something to tread carefully with—the door a mere three steps behind Desmond. He could leave. Desmond wouldn’t follow if he did, just walked past him out of the room, the house. Avoided Bad Weather and anywhere else they could potentially come across, left this all behind.

He couldn’t, though; he knows he couldn’t even as he’s thinking it. He’s too greedy not to latch onto this—too needy to let it go.

“Look, it’s fine,” he sighs before Desmond can get a word in, running a hand through his wild hair. “You didn’t sign your life away by kissing me first; that’s not how this works. We don’t have to be more than—whatever the hell we are now.”

“But you want to be?”

Christ, Desmond can be worse than a bloodhound on a trail sometimes. “What does it even matter? I’ve already said I’m not going to tie you down. It’s fine.” Nothing has to change. Just leave it.

The slow smile that spreads over Desmond’s face is a rare kind, small but no less bright for it. He brushes tentative fingers over Shaun’s lips—Shaun’s breath stutters against them, his heart seizing. “What if I don’t want it to be fine?”

Oh.

Perhaps he’s been a bigger idiot than even he thought.

Desmond slowly slides his hands down onto Shaun’s chest, thumbing the top button. “I know what I said before,” he murmurs, meeting his gaze briefly, as if for permission, before he undoes it. The next one. The next. “You have every reason not to put faith in me. But—things have changed. For me. In here.” He rests a hand on Shaun’s chest, sizzling on the naked skin and there’s no way, no way, that he can’t feel the stupid beat of Shaun’s heart under his palm, hard and rabbit-fast— “Is it bold of me to hope they did for you, too?”

He can’t breathe.

He should be happy. Hell, he should be ecstatic, dizzy with joy instead of the wet, cold fear latched onto his insides, rooting his feet to the spot. It’s not usual for him, is the thing. To get what he wants. This—it can’t be—nothing is ever so easy. These things always come with a catch, some sort of a trap—consequences he can’t always foresee. He’s not like Desmond; he can’t just leap into things.

Desmond’s smile is dimmed with the hesitation creeping back into his eyes, his hand pausing over the last button above his waistband—and Shaun did that, right, with his paranoia. His useless anxiety.

Must he talk himself out of every good thing?

Swallowing against the burn up his throat, he lays a hand over Desmond’s; not an apology, not quite, but the closest thing to one he can give. “Do you even know what you’re offering?” he asks, matching Desmond’s tone. Do you even know what you’re getting yourself into?

“Not really,” Desmond admits on a quick, breathy laugh. “Think we can find out together?”

He’s not ready for the jolt that passes through his heart, nor the weight in his chest that he’s not quite ready to name—too light to be what it was, too deep to be anything else. Insufferable and exhilarating at the same time. Too familiar.

Sucking in his bottom lip, Desmond meets his eyes again—it’s the same everything cluttering up his insides reflected back in them; the hesitation, the uncertainty. The fear. “You don’t have to say it. I don’t need pretty words or promises. Just—” The last button, undone—leaving him bared. “Stay.”

“Okay,” he whispers—and isn't that an admission. “Okay.”

[notsoguiltykpop]

FIRST LEMMA SAY hot cocoa is so cute!! and the latest to the tenth floor OMMFMFgbut anyways a while ago i said you inspired me to get back in writing but do you have any tips? i find that i write like, three sentences an hour >_

I’m so happy you liked it!! I honestly don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to writing, but I can definitely try to give you some tips I’ve found work for me! 

My number one rule for myself is to try not to edit while I type. Nothing slows me down more than trying to fix mistakes as I go. Don’t worry about how stuff is spelled or even basic grammar to begin with, just focus on getting your thoughts down. When I’m struggling to keep going and keep changing my mind about how/what I’m writing, I turn off spell check and grammarly so the red underlined words don’t distract me. Alternatively, I grab a notebook and pen so I can’t keep re-wording and just write (unrelated, but I also do this with timed essays in college because I have to work with what I’ve already written, and then I edit while I transfer it from paper to a word document.).

If what you’re working on isn’t going the way you want, don’t feel bad about setting it aside. Sometimes the words just aren’t flowing for a story, and that’s normal. Admin Bread recently reminded me that Jordan Peele stopped writing “Get Out” more than twenty times. While I don’t recommend quitting, I do think it can be really helpful to work on something else if you get stuck on a part. I write snippets of a nameless couple’s life when I feel like writing but none of the stories I want to work on are going quite right. Sometimes even just typing out how I feel helps to get the words flowing!

I never time myself, per se. Years ago, back when I first tried NaNoWriMo, all my friends told me that the best way to write fast was to set a timer and write as many words as possible. This never worked for me–I ended up with random words that usually didn’t even relate to what I was originally trying to say. This doesn’t mean it won’t work for you, only that if it doesn’t, that’s okay too! Instead, I like to set aside designated time to write. Like I’ll look at the time and say “I’m going to focus on writing for the next hour,” put my phone on silent, and close the other tabs on my computer. I take breaks, but they’re usually to make more tea/coffee or stretch, avoiding looking at apps/notifications so I don’t get distracted. 

If I’m at a loss for ideas of what to write next, there are a number of things I do! Prompt blogs are a great place to start–I recently discovered @hellsdemonictrinity and highly recommend checking them out!

Most of my series ideas come from asking myself strange questions, and answering them with illogical answers that are way too detailed. For instance, I have this one Hoseok wip that all started because I was looking at laundry lines and asked my sister “Okay but what if you hang up your laundry and your neighbor just keeps stealing your socks?? Only the left one’s, of course. What would you do? Leave notes in them asking them politely to cut it out?” She told me to shut up, but I just kept on until I had this whole story about neighbors stealing socks and starting a passive-aggressive note-leaving war that eventually leads to romance lmao. Anyway my point is, asking yourself questions can help with the creative process. If I’m in the middle of something and get stuck, asking “why is she feeling this way?” Or “what if he secretly loves elephant plushies?” can lead to some fun answers that get me going again.

Story planners are also really helpful for me! I get terribly sidetracked lol (one minute I’m writing about JK the race-car driver, the next I’m off on some tangent about Jimin the adorable cop whose best friend is a drug dealer rip I get so off topic), and knowing exactly where I’m trying to go with something helps with that! When I find myself just staring blankly at the page like “where am I supposed to go from here?” or just can’t get the words out, I can look back at it and see a clear path of what happens next. There are some great apps out there for free to help with this, but I usually just grab a piece of paper and sketch out a basic outline of the main points.

I keep a notebook with me at all times to jot down ideas or funny phrases as they come to me, so when I’m writing slow I can look back at them. 

I do try to write every day, but not always for stories. Recently I’ve been emailing colleges constantly and working on transfer essays which have taken up most of my writing time. 

And of course, don’t pressure yourself. Writing can be therapeutic and relaxing, but if you get too caught up in “I have to finish this chapter today” or “I need to write 2k words every day” it gets stressful and the fun drains right out of it. I find that I’m much more productive when I simply write what I feel like when I feel like it rather than give myself unnecessary deadlines.

I am not a professional, and have so much more to learn, but I hope some of these helped! Sorry it’s so long, I was trying to think of as much as possible that I do that might answer your questions. Every writer is different, and it’s really a matter of trial and error to figure out what works for you. If there’s anything else I can help with please feel free to ask!

[a-raccoon-in-space]

Writing Questions Meme

Tagged by @acequeenking, who I still owe a prompt fulfillment to

Is there a snack you like to eat while writing?

Not one that’s specific to writing. I have a bad habit of using snacking as stimming, so odds are I am snacking, just not on any consistent thing.

What time of day do you write?

I do most of my writing on transit, so like 7am-8am and 5pm-6pm.  Or 10pm and later because kids.

Where do you write?

The train, mostly. It’s actually a pretty awesome place for it, I’ve discovered. Otherwise at home with a movie or something on for noise.

How often do you write a new fic?

Disciplined I am not. It oscillates wildly. Sometimes a bunch in the span of a few weeks, sometimes I go months without putting something online. I think it has a lot to do with other creative stuff I do - D&D in particular. If I’m writing a few thousand words a week in session prep it doesn’t leave a lot of time or headspace for fic.  This is one of the reasons I love doing fic exchanges - they’re a great way to generate a bunch of output and force me out of my usual material.

My Mass Effect Big Bang story is my main focus right now, and Spectre Requisitions is coming (anybody want more Hackett/Zaeed?). And I really need to finish my Hannibal pirate story.  Plus a bunch of claimed/offered prompts I should move on....

Do you listen to music while you write?

Not really?  I find I often get sidetracked trying to decide on what to listen to. If I’m doing something more planned like NaNoWriMo I’ll make a playlist specifically for the story, but most of the time I prefer a movie I’ve seen before.

Paper or laptop?

Tablet. I’ll sometimes do planning or outlining in a notebook, but generally if I’m writing it’s straight into Word.

Do you have a special pre-writing ritual?

Panic.

Okay, not really. Only sometimes. For anything that is relatively short or standalone I’ll come up with a general idea and a key scene or two and then just spout it out as fast as I can and see what sticks.  Longer stuff I’ll write a loose outline for and then refine it as I move through the story.

What do you do to get into the writing?

Find the thing that I respond to on a personal level.  Once I’ve got a scene or gag or even just a bit of dialogue I find the rest of the story flows much more smoothly.  Then it’s about finding the next such thing and figuring out how the two connect.  I know a story isn’t going to work out when it becomes a chore to start connecting the story beats.

On a purely mechanical level, I really like having goals to reach. Again, part of the reason I like fic challenges and exchanges is that a concrete deadline and target forces me to get into it in a way that isn’t there for purely personal writing.

Do you have a reward system for word counts?

The words kind of are the reward. I’ve always really struggled with maintaining discipline and routine in my writing, so just have words on the page is intrinsically enough for me.

Is there anything else about your writing process your readers don’t know?

I mean, probably. I don’t consider any story complete unless it contains at least one really obscure reference or execrable pun. I cannibalize almost all my locations and location descriptions from real-world places. I have to force myself to include dialogue tags or my scenes become line after line of dialogue without clarification of who is speaking.  I love getting cute/needlessly clever with names but never say them out loud so I often end up with names that are either an unmemorable mouthful or ridiculous.  Two of my biggest influences are David (and Leigh) Eddings and Bernard Cornwell - which probably explains all the intestines. I have always been convinced I use “grin” too much, but I also write a lot of smart-asses.

Tagging anyone interested?