#wrote this in a fugue state this afternoon

[kradogsrats]

whenever I write a sexy fic I always think “okay THAT was definitely the weirdest and most uncomfortable sex scene I’ll ever write” and then the next one somehow manages to be even weirder and more uncomfortable

[immeasurable-depths]

Dorian isn’t sure how long they’ve been travelling for. Dusk had bled into nightfall, and they had continued their trek. Even daybreak hadn’t slowed them down, the watery yellow light cresting over the mountain peaks and igniting the path in front of them. Still they had walked, too exhausted and too broken to really think about anything else; just letting their broken bodies stumble on, on, guided by Opal’s final compulsion to send them away. Away from the fight; away from her; away from the bodies littered on the forest floor, spider and humanoid, the blood leaching into the ground to become an indelible part of the detritus beneath the trees.

One body, in particular.

Dorian doesn’t want to think about it too much - to think about anything, too much. Instead, he focuses on one foot in front of the other, hauling his aching legs up the mountain path in front of him, feeling the fatigue burning through his muscles. This way is easier. Easier than - well, he’s trying not to think about that.

Dariax treads beside him. They haven’t said anything to each other, not since the fight. Dariax seems lost in his own thoughts, only occasionally shooting a worried, sideways glance at his companion. But he doesn’t seem to know how to start a conversation, and Dorian doesn’t have anything to say.

***

Sooo I sat down and wrote this in a blind fugue state this afternoon, it’s super rough and unedited but I might turn it into something more substantial later possibly? Idk I’ve never written these characters before but I felt spurred by the response to my last post (thank you everyone that interacted with it ily ❤️). Anyway, more angst below the cut…

So, they walk.

It’s late afternoon when Opal’s spell wears off. They have been lurching forward relentlessly for a day now, almost delirious from lack of sleep and from trying to crush the swell of grief and loss that swirls deep in Dorian’s stomach. When it fades, there is no flash of magic energy; no rush of sound or light or spider’s webs that signal the termination of her suggestion. Just a creeping emptiness that unfurls inside Dorian’s chest, as the drive to just walk away leaches out of him slowly. Another thing that slips away, silently and irretrievably, from him.

He sees that Dariax feels it, too. Or rather, notices the lack of feeling. Both of their steps falter, progress petering out to a halt. The crashing realisation of why they have been so determined to put distance between themselves and that desecrated patch of forest engulfs them.

Suddenly Dorian’s limbs are like lead, as the total exhaustion floods through every part of his body. He looks over at Dariax, who smiles wearily as they make eye contact for the first time in hours.

“Well. Guess Opal knew what she was doing, huh?” he chuckles, and even with the heavy bags under his eyes, they still crinkle at the corners with genuine warmth.

“I hope she didn’t,” Dorian whispers quietly. He looks away, unable to meet Dariax’s piercing, earnest stare.

“Oh. You’re right. Shit,” Dariax curses, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I just meant… heh, it doesn’t matter.” He trails off. Dorian shrugs, too tired to offer anything else.

Dariax shuffles uncomfortably, before flopping down onto the floor and opening his pack.

“We should eat,” he mumbles, already pulling strips of dried meat and stale bread out and offering them to Dorian.

Dorian can’t help but smile at this. Even in times like this, Dariax doesn’t overcomplicate things. The world might be ending - maybe it already has, for Dorian - but they’re still alive and their broken bodies still need sustenance. He shoots a warm - if slightly exasperated - look at Dariax, and sits on the ground next to him.

He places his palms flat on the floor, digs his fingertips into the damp moss and clenches tight. The ground is cool, and smells a little like mould. A few small insects crawl away from his touch - not spiders, he can’t help but notice, and feel relief.

The ground feels the same as it always did. The sky still shines with the same thin yellow light that tries to fight through the canopy cover. And his friend Dariax is the same as ever, humming a quiet tune to himself as he uses his molars to bite into a piece of overly tough jerky.

But how could this be the same world? A world without his brother in it doesn’t make sense. Though it feels the same on the surface, it is a shadow of what it was before - a grim, dark reflection.

He’s trying not to think about it.

He blinks, hard, and when he opens his eyes again, Dariax is holding out his hand, brandishing an improvised plate in the form of the back of his shield, loaded with crumbling bread and hard cheese and dried meat.

He nods, too overwhelmed to risk opening his mouth to thank him with words, and takes the plate.

He eats.

A few more words are exchanged: now free from Opal’s spell, they have to decide what their next steps are. Where to go. What their purpose is, now that the Crownkeepers have fractured.

Zephrah.

Zephrah seems like the next logical step. They had been aiming for there before… before all of this. Zephrah means some sense of safety, removed as it is from the main civilisations of Tal Dorei; Dorian is relatively confident the reach of Poska and The Nameless Ones wouldn’t extend there, from what Orym had told them about his hometown.

Orym.

Zephrah means the possibility of some connection with - maybe even a reunion with - Orym.

He is trying not to think about that too much, either.

Because how can he let Orym see him like this? How can he bear to face his friend, to tell him that the Crownkeepers were sundered on his watch, that Opal is lost and Fy’Ra is following her to the untimely end of the universe? That without them he is lost, floating aimlessly in the winds without direction? That his brother is dead, and the world doesn’t seem to make sense anymore and every nerve in his body burns with the fiery need for revenge?

“I’ve heard it’s real pretty, Zephrah.” Dariax’s voice pulls Dorian back into his body. The dwarf claps him companionably on the shoulder. “We’ll get cleaned up there, and then we can figure out where to go next. Right, buddy?” He offers a callused hand to Dorian, and Dorian lets himself be pulled to his feet.

Zephrah. He can make it that far. And what comes after doesn’t matter anymore.

[tellthatbrokebitch]

okay so i saw this post about s5 will and nellie from the haunting of hill house and went into a fugue state and wrote this, loosely LOOSELY inspired, more kind of the wisp of the vibe of the post, really. i just HAD TO

Why was he here? Why was he here?

It was five minutes till midnight.

The cold night air bit his cheeks until they turned red, dug its claws beneath the thin sweater he’d stolen from Mike’s closet before leaving the Wheeler’s, the wind tossing his hair where it peeks out from one of Dustin’s borrowed beanies. There were worn boots on his feet, an old pair of Lucas’ that Sue Sinclair had pressed upon him one day when she saw the dirty sneakers he’d been wearing when they left Lenora Hills, but it was like the chill from the asphalt was seeping in through the thick soles and thin socks to nip at his toes all the same.

It was five minutes till midnight, and Will had gotten out of bed, dressed poorly for the weather, borrowed Mike’s abandoned and forgotten bike, had navigated the empty streets, before finally coming to a halt on the road directly in front of the Creel House.

He’s never even been here, how did he even know where to go?

Four minutes till midnight.

He stares up at the house, standing dark and silent before him. Why is he here? What compelled him to leave the warmth and safety of the Wheeler house, the comfort of his bed, the company of his best friend’s snoring only a mere few feet away, for the unpleasant atmosphere of this accursed place?

Only… it wasn’t so warm, was it? They’ve been staying with the Wheelers, Will and Jonathan, while Joyce, Hopper, and El stayed at the cabin, but it’s been months. There’s only so much hospitality a person could extend, and Karen Wheeler was nearly at her limit. Ted was over it almost before it began, making muttered comments his breath about food shortages and spacing issues, and his favorite topic of conversation these days was how much the water bill would cost this month.

And it wasn’t exactly safe, either. The walls of the Wheeler’s home couldn’t keep Vecna’s voice out of Will’s head, nor could it stop the horrible dreams, the fantastical visions, the terrifying hallucinations. He still felt the phantom touch of creepy crawling legs along his skin. He still felt the chill, always in that one specific spot in the basement and nowhere else. He still saw shadows moving out of the corner of his eye, taking the shape of some shadowy form that watched him with human eyes and discorporated when his head swiveled in its direction. He still heard whispers, low enough he could almost mistake it for static if only they didn’t occasionally say his name. He still tasted the familiar fog-like air of the Upside Down if he dared to breathe through his mouth, heavy on his tongue with the taste of decay.

Three minutes till midnight.

The bed he slept in wasn’t at all comfortable. It was an air mattress Karen had managed to scrounge up, as Jonathan had volunteered himself to take the old, springy couch in the basement, leaving Will and his air mattress to set up camp in Mike’s room. This just meant that when Will jolted awake in the middle of the night to a horror-inducing vision of Mike on the ceiling, surrounded by shadow, mouth open in a silent scream that echoed loudly in Will’s head, he couldn’t even turn his head the scant few inches to the side to see for himself if the real Mike was still in bed, locked in a paralysis from which he could not escape. It was a new condition for Will, developed within the first few days after arriving back in Hawkins, a condition that Dustin dedicated an entire afternoon at the library researching and announced was “sleep paralysis”, which he said could be from exposure to traumatic events - which was only the last three years of Will’s life.

And as for his relationship with Mike… well, that was all but gone, wasn’t it? Because Mike knows now. He knows about the painting, knows Will lied, knows that Will… he hadn’t said so, but his stony silence, his avoidance, his averted gaze spoke for him. Mike didn’t need to say the words, because he and Will had always had their own language, and now that language was silence. The last time they’d actually spoken to one another, it escalated into an argument that ended with Mike saying he was going to hang out with El to get away from you, and Will bitterly replying yeah, maybe if you keep showing up where you’re not welcome she’ll take you back. And now, Mike left the house early and came home late, and he faked his snores until Will fell asleep first.

Two minutes till midnight.

It was obvious Will was struggling. Joyce tried to get him to open up, but she had other things to worry about, like getting the cabin ready for the harsh winter they were expecting, supporting El, spending time with Hopper after only just getting him back. Will couldn’t begrudge her that, especially not when the knowledge of what happened to Bob, what he’d done to Bob, still haunted them both. After all she’s done for Will, all she’s given, all she’s given up, she deserves to be happy. Even if Will’s not quite part of that happiness anymore.

Lucas and Dustin had their own struggles. Lucas was clinging onto hope that Max would wake up, spending most of his time by her side, reading aloud to her and holding onto the cast that covered her hand. Dustin was still reeling from his first real loss, a guy Will had never met and couldn’t properly mourn. He lost himself in work, volunteering at the shelter and burying himself in it, pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion every day in order to be able to sleep at night.

After their talk in the kitchen of Surfer Boy, Jonathan had made an effort to listen more, to talk more, but he could only do so much. He couldn’t carry on a conversation when the other party refused to participate, and his attempts to get Will to open up were more and more often met with monosyllabic responses and half-hearted shrugs. Eventually, he stopped trying, seemingly deciding to give Will some space. And despite the fact that he’d pushed for it, Will took this as yet another sign that he was unwelcome.

And El… El perhaps hurt the worst, perhaps even more than Mike. Because while Mike was his heart, a loss he felt keenly all day and all night, El was a part of him. They’ve been connected since that first meeting, or maybe even before then, because when she appeared to him in the Upside Down, as he lay curled up in Fort Byers, he felt like he knew her before he’d even opened his eyes. Something in him had whispered oh, there you are, i know you, a feeling that only solidified when they finally met in person a year later, after she closed the gate and he expelled a monster from his body. There you are. And now she was too busy training, too busy searching the void for Max, too busy looking for a way to save the world. She was too busy for Will.

One minute till midnight.

Unwelcome, unwanted, unappreciated, a voice whispers in his ear, so familiar an occurrence that Will didn’t even startle anymore. They’ve abandoned you, Will. Your family abandoned you. They’re out there going about their dreary days, living their dreary lives, and they spare no thought to the lonely boy they’ve forgotten. Goosebumps break out along the nape of his neck, and it almost feels like a loving caress. But you don’t need them, Will. You have never needed them. They are the ones who need you, and they will never know how much that is until you’re gone. There’s an awareness of someone standing at his back for just a moment before it leaves as abruptly as it came. I have always wanted you, Will. I have missed you. Come home, Will.

The numbers on his watch tick over from 11:59 PM to 12:00 AM on November 6th, 1986, and Will doesn’t notice. He’s staring at the front of the house, staring at the porch light, which is flickering in a series of dots, dashes, and spaces.

He leaves his bike on the street. He climbs the steps.

He opens the front door and steps inside the Creel House.

And he never leaves.

W E L C O M E H O M E W I L L

[syneilesis]

[fic] Bilateral Agreement

Bilateral Agreement

Who Made Me a Princess | Lucas x Athanasia de Alger Obelia | T | 3.5k words ao3 link

There’s a foreign prince visiting Obelia, and Lucas doesn’t like him one bit.

Also, there’s a threat of assassination, but that’s not at all important.

A/N: Wrote this on a whim, in a caffeine-induced fugue state. It's been a while since I've read the entire webcomic so there may be lapses in canon details. I just read the last 10 chapters as a refresher. Anyway, this is not a serious fic. Takes place post-canon. Athy is 19 here. Not beta'd. Hope you enjoy!

His name is Valerio Giovanni Loredan and he’s the second prince of an island kingdom far, far away – so far that Lucas bothers recalling neither its name nor its coordinates from the map. He’s tall and tan with chocolate brown hair, a perpetual smile plastered on his face that indicates a good-natured personality. He seems to be the sort of fellow who doesn’t get offended even if you insult him and his royal lineage.

Valerio is presenting himself before the Emperor and the Crown Princess, his envoys falling in line behind him. He’s dressed in loose clothing, coat draped like a robe and jewelry covering his neck, arms, and even ankles. From an outsider’s perspective he looks as if he’s insulting the Obelian court with his fashion of choice, but compared with the Emperor on his regular days Valerio’s clothes seem like they belong in the winter collection.

“I am deeply honored and grateful for the kindness and hospitality the Obelian Empire is giving us,” Valerio is saying. “I am looking forward to our stay here in your beautiful country.”

Claude nods and says nothing, while Athanasia smiles and descends from her seat, offering a hand for Valerio to shake.

The prince blinks and – to Lucas’s nascent horror – his cheeks begin to darken.

He has a bad feeling about this.

+

“How long is that prince staying?”

They’re at the salon in the Emerald Palace, the afternoon sun filtering its way through the windows, casting the room a warm, yellow glow. A day after Valerio and his diplomatic mission’s arrival, Lucas appeared in Athanasia’s room to pester her into having tea with him. Athanasia relented after five minutes of needling, and Lucas bit a smirk at the successful thwarting of any appointment she had in the day.

Athanasia pauses in her sip. “Who? Valerio?”

At the mention of the prince’s first name, Lucas frowns.

“You’re already first-name basis with him?”

Lucas has to do a double-take when a faint red tints Athanasia���s cheeks. Something hot and tight builds within Lucas’s chest, and not the good kind. He exhales more harshly than usual, and Athanasia notices.

“What? I mean I have to be friendly to him, you know? In Cornaro, hierarchy doesn’t mean much, so using honorifics is more a rare occurrence than calling people by their first names.”

“Cornaro?”

She looks at him funny. “It’s the name of his kingdom. Were you not paying attention?”

He huffs. “Why should I bother learning the name of his kingdom? It’s unimportant to me.”

He feels her shoot him a piercing glare, and he returns the gesture with an equal level of insouciance.

“In any case, I don’t want you being rude to him and his envoy. You’re the Imperial Magician, which means you’re part of the Obelian Court. Anything you do reflects the imperial family, which means me and Dad.”

She doesn’t have to tell him that. Lucas knows his role in the royal court. Ever since Athanasia’s official appointment as the Crown Princess, Lucas finds himself assisting her in a number of matters, mostly on travel logistics and procurement of materials for her projects. Sometimes, he takes up the task of bodyguarding her despite the Crimson Blood Knight’s presence, which makes the Emperor knot his forehead and cast him murderous looks.

“Tch. I know, I know.” He placates, “I swear not to replace all his things with dust balls.”

Athanasia seems skeptical of that, but the matter is dropped and they enjoy the pastries for the rest of the hour.

+

On the third day, Athanasia gives Valerio a tour of the rose gardens. It’s late spring, so plenty of flowers are in full bloom, painting the place in bright, colorful hues. Athanasia wears a floral dress that matches the background, her jewel eyes standing out more than usual. She looks like a garden fairy dancing among the roses.

Valerio, from where Lucas sourly watches the pair, is two heads taller than the princess. He nods along whatever Athanasia is saying, her hands in an energetic gesticulation that Lucas assumes to be an explanation of how the garden was developed. Valerio doesn’t interrupt her, nods every now and then, and talks only when he’s asked a question. He throws a comment that Athanasia laughs at, delighted, and Lucas feels his brows melting together.

Beside him Ijekiel raises his eyebrows. It’s one of his visits to the Emerald Palace, disguised as an official meeting with the Crown Princess. He and Athanasia would talk in an official capacity for an hour before they shed their public roles and have tea together in an unofficial capacity. On most occasions, Lucas would crash their teatime, to Ijekiel’s consternation. But the worst thing he does is flatten his lips and frown maturely.

“I’m seeing what you mean,” Ijekiel says. If you ask Lucas, he’d say that they’re not friends, but in the years following the coronation they’ve developed a sort of grudging acceptance of each other, an acknowledgment of their places in Athanasia’s life and the extent of where that would lead to (they still remember vividly Athanasia’s loud declaration of not needing to get married). In this limbo, they have since learned to respect each other’s capabilities.

“It pisses me off,” Lucas grumbles. In the distance the tour continues on merrily. Seconds later Athanasia trips on a bramble, but Valerio is quick to hold on to her arm, thus preventing her from falling to the ground. In that moment, Valerio seems to be sparkling in his heroic deed, his hair and his coat fluttering in the non-existent breeze. Lucas finds himself nearly teleporting to them, but seeing as the princess is already fine, he leans back from where he stands, Athanasia’s warning not to interfere clear in his mind. “Really pisses me off,” he repeats.

Ijekiel hums in agreement.

+

It’s on the fifth day that things get exciting.

The palace explodes with the news of an assassination threat targeting the Cornaran prince, who receives the news with a bafflingly apologetic humor. Logically, this development can potentially strain the budding relations between Obelia and Cornaro, because any opposition to their alliance can treat this as an opportunity to smear either kingdoms. One can accuse Obelia of orchestrating an assassination attempt; conversely, one can speculate that Cornaro may have set this up to pin the blame on Obelia.

“But why would we do this?” Athanasia says, her lips pulled into a frown. “What would Obelia gain from it? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t have to make sense,” Lucas replies, swiping a grape from the tray that Athanasia’s lady-in-waiting delivered. He pinches it twice before putting it in his mouth. “Those who hate Obelia or Cornaro would believe that nonsense, regardless of whether it’s true or not.” He pauses as a thought occurs to him. “Where’s your father in all this? I notice that it’s you who keeps entertaining the delegation.”

“Dad? Oh, he actually assigned this to me. It’s my first diplomatic responsibility, now that I think about it.”

“He what.”

He’s plucked another grape as Athanasia was talking, and when she mentions being in charge of the foreign relations, Lucas summarily drops the grape and it bounces off the couch and into the carpeted floor.

Athanasia glances at the grape and points at it. “Pick that up.”

Lucas ignores her. “Why would he assign that to you? Is that why you keep hanging out with that foreign brat?”

“Excuse me – brat? Valerio is a perfectly nice man! He’s very polite and he laughs at my jokes.”

“That’s it? All it takes is a laugh here and there and you’re all smitten?”

“What are you talking about?” Athanasia glares at him before sliding her gaze away and muttering, “You don’t laugh at my jokes.”

“That’s because they’re not funny.”

“Ugh! This is why Valerio’s one hundred times nicer than you.”

That rubs Lucas the wrong way, the heaviness inside his ribs doubling, red-heat in its tightness. He doesn’t realize that he’s gritting his teeth until Athanasia sends him an unimpressed look, already used to his personality. That just angers Lucas further, and he springs up from the couch, grumbles a Tch, whatever, and teleports away.

It’s an hour after he left that he remembers he never picked up the grape.

+

Normally Lucas would be helping Athanasia in her tasks as important as diplomacy, but the recent events prevent him from lending a hand. He skips going to the palace for a couple of days and stays at the Black Tower instead, causing a panicked uproar among the magicians.

By the fourteenth consultation, Lucas decides he can no longer endure their stupidity and jumps back to the Imperial Palace, leaving a magician’s apprentice hanging.

He’s welcomed by none other than Valerio, who’s currently exploring the flora near the lake. Recognizing Lucas, Valerio grins and waves at him, approaching him with guilelessness borne out of ignorance of the knowledge that Lucas had badmouthed him twice already.

“Imperial Magician!” he greets, like he’s not the target of assassination. Lucas has half a mind to teleport away, diplomacy be damned. “It’s an honor running into you today.”

There’s a snarky reply ready on his tongue, but he hesitates at Valerio’s genuine joy at seeing him.

“Your highness,” he allows, nodding at the prince.

Valerio takes that as a sign to launch into an enthusiastic speech about how he’s enjoying his stay in Obelia so far – threats of assassination notwithstanding – how he’s appreciative of the kindness the people here provide him and his delegation, and how he’s learning so much of their culture.

“Living in a landlocked country truly is different from living on an island. I have traveled to so many countries but I never tire of experiencing new cultures. Obelia is a beautiful place that offers so many things, and with such prosperous economy! I hope to secure as many trade agreements as I can before I leave.”

Were Lucas a courteous man he would have complimented Valerio on his aspirations; unfortunately, he’s not, so what he says is, “That is, if you’re still alive by then.”

If Athanasia were present, she would have smacked Lucas by the arm and shouted at him for being so mean. But it’s just him and Valerio, and Valerio’s so blindsided by that comment that he gapes at Lucas for exactly ten seconds before expiring a shocked laughter that evolves into a full-blown cackle that startles Lucas.

“There is no need to worry,” he says after mellowing with a chuckle. “I have not survived the seas being naive and defenseless. Besides, Crown Princess Athanasia is helping me untangle this situation.”

He begins to relate to Lucas his first brush of danger in the middle of the sea. It was storming at the time, powerful winds that whipped at Valerio’s ship, waves almost swallowing it whole. Almost half of his crew attempted to mutiny during those harrowing hours, and Lucas thinks to himself as he listens to the tale, this can be easily dealt with using magic. But Valerio possesses no mana, and only his sincere words and his unconventional problem-solving skills saved him from both the storm and the rebellion.

Valerio’s animated the entire time he’s telling the story, and his eyes catch the lake’s shimmer, making them brighter and him more riveting. Lucas is almost impressed. Almost.

He kind of sees now why many people are so taken with him, Athanasia included. But no matter what happens Lucas will never ever join that camp.

+

“Fine,” Lucas declares later that night, a beat after popping up in the middle of Athanasia’s office, surprising the princess that she curses and drops the stack of documents she’s holding.

Lucas raises his eyebrows. “If your father hears that, you’ll be in trouble.”

“Shut up,” she says, fingers rubbing her temple. Based on the flurry of papers, it seems that Athanasia’s juggling more than seven tasks at the same time. This is on top of the thing with Valerio. “Why are you here? Are you done sulking?”

He ignores that last jab. “I will help you with the investigation of the Cornaran prince’s assassination threat.”

Athanasia’s fingers stop moving and she raises her head with an expression that clearly indicates she never expected Lucas to utter those words. 

“Oh,” she says, tone very much astonished. A moment later her face morphs into something smug – an expression Lucas never expected – his expectation falls somewhere between her beaming at him in appreciation and her thanking him for his extensive generosity.

There’s a small part of him that laments this development between them. Athanasia, at nineteen, has gone through so much that her heart grew sturdy and defiant, and this means that she’s even more comfortable with snarking at Lucas, who never has the patience for people’s impudence. But Athanasia is not just any people; she’s Athanasia, the one who has lived thrice, whose tremendous mana bent spacetime just to grant her desire for love, who faced her ordeals with the steel-strength conviction of someone who has everything to lose and thus has no plans of giving them up.

Athanasia, whose smile is a rose in full bloom, lush and free.

Lucas is not a magnanimous man; he’d rather destroy than cultivate. But for Athanasia he’d temper himself – something he’s never done in a long time.

+

With Lucas offering his assistance, the investigation wraps up sooner than anticipated. Turns out, a small anti-emperor faction is responsible for the threat; they thought that by putting the Cornaran prince in danger, they could frame Claude, and to an extent Athanasia, for it, thus a breakdown of both diplomatic and public relations.

Claude concludes the investigation by putting the anti-emperor faction in prison, where they will wait for their punishment. Lucas guesses that Claude’s all for execution, but Athanasia would probably oppose that and would suggest a more reasonable sentence.

“I am again grateful for the Emperor and the Imperial Crown Princess’s help and kindness amidst this extraordinary circumstance,” Valerio says, the imperial court his witness. He’s standing in full regalia – coat and jewelry and all – and the confidence in his tone and gait captivates yet again the people present.

“You’re welcome, Prince Valerio,” Athanasia replies, friendly smile on her face. “We only hope that this strengthens the relationship between our countries.”

“Of course, Your Imperial Highness.” There’s a pause where Valerio seems to be mustering something, and the shift of his legs alerts Lucas to an inexplicable dread that freezes his limbs. He braces for impact when Valerio says, “If I may be completely honest: Princess Athanasia has displayed such admirable qualities during our stay. She is wise, compassionate, and strong-willed that I find myself inevitably drawn to her. I realize that I have fallen in love with her. And with this I would like to submit myself and ask for her hand in marriage.”

He finishes his speech by kneeling in front of Athanasia and taking her hand, staring up at her with an earnestness that Lucas finds nauseating. There’s a hush that falls upon the court, all wide-eyed and disbelieving nobles unable to avert their gazes at the two figures in the middle of the hall. Across Lucas, Ijekiel observes the scene unfolding, fists and jaw clenched.

For a few moments, the world seems to be suspended in time, drained of color, monochromatic. But slowly, gradually, it returns: the tick of the clock resumes, hues bleed back into the scene, and Claude, who’s perched on his throne, casting his imperial gaze upon the spiraling event, blinks once, twice.

Then he rises from his seat.

The palace descends into chaos.

+

Athanasia watches the Cornaran convoy depart from the Imperial Palace, their carriages eventually disappearing from her line of sight through the office window. After Valerio’s confession, Claude attempted to murder the prince, which was hilarious (to Lucas) because it was the very thing that they had investigated and had wanted to prevent from happening.

Fortunately, Athanasia had managed to convince her father of the disadvantages of homicide, after which she – kindly, gently – turned down the prince’s proposal. Valerio accepted the rejection with good grace and humor, and swore to continue friendly diplomatic relations despite failing in the romantic aspect. This display of political sportsmanship only cemented his good standing among Obelian nobles, some of whom even invited him to various extracurricular activities. Within minutes Valerio had become a popular figure among the court, and Lucas had a dreadful inkling that he’ll see the Cornaran prince more in the future.

Lounging in the settee, Lucas smirks at Athanasia as she makes her way back to her desk, which is still avalanched by piles of documents. She stares at the papers ruefully before she sighs, and moves towards Lucas instead.

“The brat’s finally gone,” he says.

She sits in the settee, at the other end of it, and closes her eyes, slumps like a puppet with all its strings cut.

“Still a brat? You met him.”

Lucas pretends to think about it. “Okay, maybe not a brat,” he concedes. “A big puppy, more like.”

Athanasia hums.

It’s obvious that the past days exhausted her, one responsibility overtaking a number of others, and Athanasia still has to deal with them all within a given timeframe. Anyone would drop dead from the workload.

But Athanasia has been doing this for years. Starting early as training thanks to her father, Athanasia has built up stamina for this kind of work. It also helps that she’s smart and quick-witted, that she takes these tasks seriously. That she takes her third life seriously, but with a love that glows and brightens everything she touches.

Lucas shifts from his seat so he’s now leaning towards her. “You did well,” he says.

One eye opens, zeroing in on him. A corner of her mouth twitches.

“Yeah?” A thoughtful pause. “Thanks for assisting us with the investigation. You really helped a lot.”

Lucas feels his eyes narrowing, his lips curving upward. An idea forms in his head and he’s going to execute it.

“Of course,” he says with a tone that brooks no argument. “I deserve a reward, don’t I?”

This time, both eyes open, and Athanasia stares at him as if she can’t believe what she’s hearing.

“What?”

“You know what I want.”

The line of her mouth contorts in such a ridiculous way that Lucas has to bite a laugh lest she takes offense. But he sees the red blooming on Athanasia’s neck, cheeks, and even ears – like a blossoming rosebud – that a heat of his own burgeons inside his chest and spreads throughout his body, makes a home on his cheeks. It doesn’t deter him from what he plans to do, so he smirks again and closes his eyes.

“Come on, I’m waiting.”

It’s quiet for a while, the loudest he can hear is his own breathing. But then there’s a rustling of fabric, and a body heat not his gets closer.

He waits. And waits and waits until there’s a soft press of lips on his. Lucas locks himself in place, frozen and unable to move due to shock anyway. In all actuality, he expects a kiss only on the cheek. It’s been that way before. But now, this – this – 

They don’t move for many moments. Lucas tries a peek, and a set of jewel eyes welcomes his sight. 

Athanasia snatches herself away, sputtering and stuttering and so damned red in the face. She refuses to turn his way, body curling on itself because of the intense embarrassment.

No, he thinks to himself, and a hand grabs Athanasia’s shoulder, tight and intent on its grip. Athanasia goes rigid for one split second before she shudders.

“L-Lucas? W-What are you doing?”

His other hand cups her flushed cheek. This way she can no longer escape him. Lucas inches closer and closer until their noses almost touch and he peers at her and murmurs, “It’s not enough. You can do better than that.”

So their lips meet again, and this time Lucas moves with purpose. He catches Athanasia’s lower lip with his teeth and then licks it. Athanasia makes a sound that compels Lucas to prise her mouth open and thrust his tongue inside her, and it’s the hottest (and the only) kiss he’s ever had.

When they part, Lucas studies the dazed expression on Athanasia’s face. Her lips swollen and parted, eyes half-mast and unfocused, cheeks stained with crimson, hair slightly dishevelled. Her fingers cling onto his robes. Lucas shuffles his legs and swallows the lump on his throat. The action brings Athanasia back to reality, and he can see up close the precise point when Athanasia becomes flooded with panic.

She jumps from her seat and stammers, “I-I n-need to dosomeerrandsforDadbye!” and bolts from the room, leaving Lucas alone gawking after her.

Stunned, he lifts two fingers to rest on his lips, as if capturing the memory of the lush pressure of their kiss. Unbidden his mouth curves and Lucas grins to himself, a feeling like soaring lighting his veins.

Leaning back on the settee, he exhales a laugh and closes his eyes. Licks his lips.

They taste sweet, like candy.

[cowboyhorsegirl]

End/Start of the year! Means it’s time for an end of year self rec list! If you want.

A top 3-5 list OR rank all the fics you have done this year in a full, completely arbitrary, ranked list of all the ones from this year! Would love to hear your thoughts on your own work :)

Is it too late to answer this or does the almost-end of February still count as "the start of the year" lol

In any case, this was my first year writing fanfic! Writing any fiction at all even, save for the obligatory short-lived YA dystopian novel series my friends and I outlined in the 6th grade together. All that said, I've loved SteveTony for close to a decade now, and I really, really loved getting to explore them even more through my own writing. I'm very excited to practice and create more for them over the coming year :)

Hands down, my favorite fic that I wrote last year was Paradise Blue in 1872, which was written in a fugue state three days after reading the 1872 comics and promptly devouring all the existing 1872 fic on ao3. I love the 1872 verse so dearly (it was the first comic I ever read! biiiiig year for docdracula fandom firsts in 2022), and I had a lot of fun imagining what the nature of Steve's feelings towards Tony might have been before the actual events of the story began. I hadn't really intended to make Steve's devotion to Tony a conceit for religion, but religion tends to come up naturally in my writing a bit anyways so I just leaned into it extra hard for this one. Paradise is definitely the fic I reread the most from my own work by a very large margin, and I think it's some of my best writing, so I'd highly recommend it (and bonus! you don't need to know anything about the 1872-verse to enjoy & understand it other than the fact that Steve is a postbellum cowboy sheriff and that Tony likes to sing to him outside his jailhouse).

Lie de The (Memory Serves Me) is another favorite of mine, a kind of concise summation of the events of Phases 1-3 of the MCU from Tony's 2nd-person POV. I quite enjoyed the more poetic meter and the repeating phrases in this fic. I remember writing this fic in chronological order, largely over the course of one afternoon, and I recall delighting in trying to tie together the later sections with motifs I'd introduced in the earlier ones. It was also a treat to have an idea that I wanted to develop from Tony's POV. I tend to gravitate towards writing Steve's POV, and as far as I'm aware, the only times I've ever written Tony's POV have been in 2nd person. Let's not examine that too closely.

Ralph Waldo Emerson Twilight is another fic that I both loved writing and enjoy rereading! I just feel like there aren't nearly enough stories out there about Steve and Morgan, and more broadly, stories that focus on the fact that Steve has known three different generations of Starks. I feel like there's definitely a lot of inspiration there to wrestle with, if anyone was so inclined to explore those relationships and the way they interconnect further. This was just my small contribution to that endeavor. (And fun fact! The title comes from this ink. The color changes from dusky blue to a deep vibrant mauve with each additional layer of saturation. New meaning with repeating timelines and lifetimes and what not, you know?)

Burn Baby, Burn. I just get a kick out of this one lol. It came to me almost completely fully-formed in an almost divine revelation as I myself was applying sunscreen one morning during the SteveTonyGames. Also make sure you all are wearing sunscreen all year long & don't forget to reapply every couple of hours throughout the day xoxo <3

Stuff Happens was purely a self-indulgent AU of a bollywood movie I used to watch several times a week between the critical ages of like 3-6 years old and which definitely dealt me some form of queer awakening the likes of which I would not be consciously privy to until high school. It was a fun time stevetonifying it :) I will say I know for a fact that this one is criminally underrated bc for the first 12 hours it was up, I had fucked up the tags (Steve Rogers & Tony Stark instead of Steve Rogers/Tony Stark :/ ). So if you're interested in some college AU fluff, I can almost 100% guarantee that you haven't read this one yet.

Blue Black. Another 2nd person Tony Stark POV fic, this time set in the aftermath of 1872. I'll be honest, I only wrote this fic because the line "But so too do his handprints still paint your hips from the last time he touched you." popped into my head unbidden and I couldn't just not do something with that.

I'm putting Growth, Freshly Squeezed Sunshine, and Stand By Me all in the same category of fics I'm happy to have written but that I personally do not revisit at all. These are all stories that I don't think I executed as well as I could have, but I'm glad that there are other people out there who have enjoyed reading them <3 Extra love goes to Growth because it was my first fic, I wrote and uploaded it the day I got my ao3 account, which is certainly a fond memory for me. :)

Thanks for the ask anon! Here's to many more years of writing! <3

[tiarnanabhfainni]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: Major Character Death Characters: Sam Winchester, Mary Winchester, John Winchester Additional Tags: Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dead Mary Winchester, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Banshees, Celtic Mythology & Folklore,Fire,Pre-Stanford Era (Supernatural), look fair warning there's a description of mary winchester dying in this fic so keep that in mind!, ghost mary who haunts her family, is something i hold very dear to my heart, also this started as a tumblr post but i have not got the strength to go looking for it on my blog,just know that it was basically just an outline of this, also finally i write something where sam actually gets to feature, bean sí is just the irish for banshee btw its pronounced the same

As the moon at midnight moves through the starry sky Out there in the bog land the Banshee's shrill cry The one seldom heard and that human eyes cannot see Some say the ghost of one who died in agony.

- The Cry Of The Banshee By: Francis Duggan.

For the Prompt: AU on Day 2 of @spnwomenweek

Fire. She is burning and it is pain like she has never felt. Her body is not her own, it is stiff, unable to even react to the agony. Strapped to the ceiling. The smell of her own burning flesh overpowers her. The pain from the wound in her stomach pales in comparison to the feeling of eyeballs boiling in her skull and the skin sloughing off her bones.

She should have known. Hunting is a black hole - an inexorable votex. How could she have ever thought she could escape? Even as her nerve endings fry and her limbs screech in agony, she finds it within herself to hope that at least her family might survive her.

The pain fades away, exceeding the limits of human comprehension. A single-minded purpose takes its place in her consciousness. Her sacrifice will be worth it if it protects her family, if her two beautiful boys never live the life that she has. The deal is done, the demon should have no more business with her family. In her death she can make sure they are safe.

The last thing Mary sees is the horror on John’s face.

------------------------------------------------------

There has always been a ghost in Sam’s life. A woman who exists in the corner of his eyes and flickers when he shakes his head. Her haunting screams are as familiar to him as led zeppelin tapes crackling through the car radio. Together they form the soundtrack of his childhood.

She is pale. Completely washed of colour. Limp grey hair frames her wan face and there’s a suspicious darkness that stains the front of her long white nightgown.

When he was younger he couldn’t understand her erratic and ever changing moods. She seems to flip between disinterested floating to terrified wails between breaths and he can find no rhyme or reason.

Sam would ask his brother if he knew the reason but Dean cannot see her. No one can. He tried to tell Dean - once - after the woman kept him from sleeping for eight hours straight with screams. The response kept him from ever bringing her up again. Shut up Sammy. There’s no one there. You’re imagining things. Don’t tell dad. I mean it Sammy. Keep your mouth shut.

Eventually Sam finds a pattern for himself. His teachers always tell him that he’s clever. She only ever appears when his father is gone on one of his trips.

-----------------------------------------

When Dean finally caves and tells him about the monsters, Sam finally understands the insistence on keeping the woman a secret from their dad. As a ghost she is a part of the supernatural that his father fights.

And since Sam is the only one that can see her then that means - What does it mean?

As soon as the library opens again after the holidays he’s straight in the door and into the folklore section. He needs to understand what (who) this spectre is. After hours of research, there is only one real conclusion to be made. She must be a banshee. A death omen.

Armed with the truth of his dad’s trips, he makes the inevitable connection. She is a banshee and she screams when Sam’s dad is gone. And yet his dad is not yet dead. She has to be screaming for the monsters at the other end of the knife.

An uncomfortable thought drifts into view. If she screams for monsters and he's the only one who can hear her then does that mean that-? No. He slams the book closed and shoves his pile haphazardly back onto the shelf. Dean is expecting home in an hour.

But even as these fevered thoughts rattle through Sam’s brain on the walk home, he still never connects this woman to the other ghost that haunts their family. Mother Mary. Patron Saint of the Winchesters. The spectre that pushes all of them forward on this reckless self-destructive odyssey of vengeance.

She is so changed after death as to be unrecognisable even to one raised on her legend.

------------------------------------------

Sam is relentless now. He sneaks off to study whenever he gets a minute to himself between hunting, training and research. No time to sleep - he just reads. Textbook after textbook until all he sees are diagrams and his dreams are drafted in legalese. Over dinner he scrawls as many practice essays as he can for his final exams and attempts to ignore the sniping from his dad

It’s a struggle to keep his grades up as he moves from school to school across state lines and curriculums and sometimes it’s all Sam can do not to cry. He knows his dad is annoyed that he hasn’t dropped out yet. Like Dean. That he wants a high-school diploma and not just a GED.

Sam doesn’t care. The banshee appears more often to him now. She stands in his line of sight and blocks his view of his family when they hunt. She screams and screams and drowns out all of his doubts. God only knows how his eardrums remain intact.

He knows more now than he did on that first day in the library. Has been on a million hunts. With enough time and research he could probably find her bones and shut her up for good. Salt and Burn. He never does. She is a reminder of all he wants to escape. An omen his dad cannot tell him to ignore.

--------------------------------------

Sam sits on the edge of his bed with his law school acceptance letter in his hands. He’d picked it up from the post office earlier that day. Compulsively, he smoothes the creases over and over again, listening with half an ear to his family clattering around downstairs.

This is a good day. Dad is cheerful. The case had been a simple one - a poltergeist - easy to get rid off. Another suburban home rid of the monster. Dean is happy too. He’s been talking all day about the steaks he’d picked up in the bargain section of the supermarket. Now they can have a small celebration before moving out to a new town.

Sam looks down at the letter and knows that he won’t be going with them.

-----------------------------------------

The fight is world-ending. Of cataclysmic proportions. Sam’s never seen his dad so angry in his life.

He sits on the lonely greyhound bus to California, his only possessions in the bag he’s clutching to his chest. His lungs are still burning, hours after the argument and he can’t tell whether it’s anger or choked back tears or if it even matters.

But even here, alone on the bus, his clearest memory is that of blessed silence as he walked out the door. The woman standing stock still in his path.

She made no sound.

Instead. For the first and only time that he can remember.  She smiled.

[waukrife]

fucking hell

[arrivisting]

I’d love author commentary on basically the whole scene at Ekkaia in all my war is done (or any individual part of that scene, if your prefer). Taken together, it’s one of the most beautiful and emotionally complex and heartrending things you’ve written, from the description of the sea itself, to the difficulties of Fingon and Alqualondë, to Gil and the ocean and his ‘mother’, to Fingon and Gil beginning to tackle the thorny subect of Maedhros.

I should admit something about all my war is done: it's the most fugue-like my writing has ever been. I jotted down a few notes on my commute into work - I was deeply underwater with my PhD at the time, three months away from submitting - and then the idea of writing a sequel to scion seized me so profoundly that I sat down in the Starbucks where my bus stops, took out my laptop, and wrote instead of just collecting my coffee and walking down to my office. I wrote 15k. In one day. In about five or six hours. I've never achieved anything like that before or since - I do have good days where I can knock 2-4k out easily, but not 15k. (You might note that the posted part of all my war is done is only 12k, but I wrote all the way up into the next bit with Fingon in Tirion that you've read, up until Turgon at the dinner table). I didn't sit down or plan events; I didn't actually know much about what would happen: but I knew they were going to Ekkaia and they'd have some kind of resolution there. These are my phone-notes, from that morning:

You can see, I think, something of the way an idea hits me. I note down a few snatches of plot, not necessarily in any order, some lines I think people should say at some point, although I might not use them, sketch out some things (Formenos's ruins were going to feature more heavily, but they're waiting for a later story).

(It makes me laugh, the words my phone doesn't accept - Gil-galad, for one - and the ones it automatically capitalises from where I've yelled enthusiastically about elf things at people. I never stop long enough to correct spelling etc when I'm trying to get something down).

I clearly knew from inception that I wanted Fingon's place to be called the hill of waiting, and had tried out the name in Sindarin; because my verbs are not good, I came up with Amon Dartha. It was when I was redrafting that I realised Amon Darthir had existed actually in Dor-lomin(!!!) and the name was even more perfect symbolically than I'd meant it to be! Did I know that, unconsciously? I don't know.

You can see, too, that the Sea of Ekkaia was almost the very first point to hit me, and that I knew it and the scene there would be important, and that I knew that the story was about Fingon finding a way to tell Gil-galad that he had been loved, and wanted, and that meant talking about Maedhros; and that at the end I wanted Gil-galad to be gently, impersonally, firmly clear that he would not, could not, be staying to wait with Fingon.

Okay, DVD commentary proper - I'm sorry, I remember awfully little about writing this, given the fugue state and my thesis and everything, so I'm not sure how useful this will be!

“Oh,” said Gil-galad when they broke out of the woods and began to ride down over the dune-lands to the rocky shore. “Oh!”

The Sea of Ekkaia was beautiful, in its own way, but that way that was like no other place in Arda, in either Aman or Middle Earth.

It was a dark-blue that was almost black, even in the late afternoon, and the shore was less sand than gravel, a strange inconsistent rubble of rock and broken sea-shells that had been dashed to pieces by the constant fury of the waves. Staring out to sea, one did not see the far-away horizon the way one did on the gentler coast of Belegaer: there was no gentle faraway blue haze through which one might, perhaps, on a clear day, imagine that Middle Earth could be glimpsed, or at least the Straight Path.

No: instead along the horizon there was a seam of silver light, and then a great blackness, where the Sea of Ekkaia met the Uttermost West that was not quite the Doors of Night, but was certainly the end of Aman itself. If you stood on the shore watching, the seam would ripple with a pulse of light, sometimes green and sometimes white.

It was so far from anywhere the Eldar of Valinor lived. While they clustered around the Belegaer like moths to flame, this shore seemed instead to repel them. Was it the sight of the world’s end itself? It might be; yet Fingon thought there was more to why this wilderness was so little visited, this howling black sea lashing itself against a grey shore. It was beautiful, but not in the way Elves liked things to be beautiful: it was too raw, too unfinished, too savage.

It was too close to where Mandos kept his Halls, which were not only a thing of spirit but also matter, at least in the way that things in Aman were both. Too close to where Nienna’s tower looked out into the Void and where she wept, and wept, and wept. It was too close to death and to rebirth, to judgment and to pity.

There's a little Dawn Treader, I think, in this idea of the uttermost West. I don't know why I thought the seam of the world should pulse with strange light, but it's an uncanny kind of geography, so near Mandos and Nienna, and I like the sense that this is the end of the world, but not the end of the universe.

A lot of this came together serendipitously. I knew some kind of memorialisation of the river that bore Gil-galad needed to be part of his story; that meant going to the sea; and it's clear from the notes that I had already decided that couldn't mean Alqualonde because of kinslaying reasons and memories. (And that that too would need to be confronted). Therefore: roadtrip to Ekkaia. Therefore, the question: what would Ekkaia be like? We don't really know anything about it - only the good qualities of Belegaer. This was really written by a process of inversion, a way of pulling what we know about Belegaer inside-out, and imagining a place at the world's edge, a place that was empty, a place that was uncannily close to difficult things, to Mandos and Nienna; a place that seemed to repel the Eldar as surely as Belegaer drew them like iron filings.

I was thinking visually about New Zealand, too. I spent my childhood summers on the beaches up north, mostly around Tūtūkākā, which are bright and lovely, with golden or white or tawny sand, with gnarled pohutukawa and blue-green water. Like this:

That's what beach and sea meant to me, and it was a shock the first time I went to one of the black sand beaches where the wind howled and the colours weren't blue, green, gold, but iron, grey, navy, black. I loved it, but it felt so other, so passionate, so strange. That shock and that wild beauty and desolation were things I wanted to get at, though Ekkaia would be far more wild and desolate still.

They left the horses in the thin sea-grass, and their shoes, too, and walked down to the water. “I missed it,” Gil-galad said, and closed his eyes, breathing in the brine. “I missed it badly, all the long years besieging Mordor before I died.”

I think Gil-galad would be very marked by his upbringing first in the Falas and then on Balar; you don't lose that, if you grew up by the sea.

The wind took up his long dark hair and made a banner of it as they walked along the rough crescent of rocky ground where the waves met the shore, and around their bare ankles small stones tumbled back and forth in the lace-edge of the water.

When I was young I used to stand in the water and let the waves bury me up to my ankles, watching the water move in, out, spreading skirts of lace overlapping as new waves came in. I could do it for hours. There's something very liminal about the water's edge, between the solid land and the sea, which is why I put this conversation in it, I think. They're in a liminal space and at a liminal moment. It's the scene the whole story has been inexorably building toward, the point where all Fingon's painful scraping-away of his barriers finally reaches his skin.

“Sometimes in Middle Earth it became very difficult to believe in the Valar,” Gil-galad said, his eyes still closed, “in the blood, and the mud, and the filth. There were so many great and small unfairnesses, day upon day, year upon year.” He opened his eyes and looked towards the Uttermost West where the world ended. “And here it is impossible not to. Look at it!"

This is a little more hopeful than the original version, which I don't have anymore, but went pretty much:

"Sometimes in Middle Earth it was very difficult to believe in the Valar,” Gil-galad said. "In the blood, and the mud, and the filth. There were so many great and small unfairnesses, day upon day, year upon year.”

It was a comment more about Gil-galad's rueful scepticism than wonder - because he fought the Dagorlad before he died, because he spent the last ten years of his life in mud and blood and filth and horror. I work on the First World War - its literary legacy and traces in the decades after, more than its immediate experience or actuality, because there was a ten-year period after 1918 where it was more latent than overt, a traumatic lacuna of silence, a Nachträglichkeit- and I thought in the blood, and the mud, and the filth was a little too on the nose.

I kept it, though, because Tolkien was drawing on his own memories of the trenches with the Dagorlad and the Dead Marshes, with those blurred lines of solid land and mud/bog, the living mixed up with the remains of with the dead, all the themes you see again and again in the war poetry and the officer war-books. (Santanu Das is very good on this, as is Eric Leed). Paul Fussell is a bit old-hat now, but his argument that WWI altered the sensibility of its survivors because of their close, consanguinous co-existence with the dead is something I still find valuable. I think there's a lot of WWI survivor in the way I think of Gil-galad, actually, I'm just realising - not that he survived the Last Alliance. He's detached in a different way from Fingon. Fingon's built himself a thick layer of repression/denial, a kind of callous to protect himself from confronting or thinking about what Maedhros did, and what that means for him and to him; Gil-galad is entirely present, but somewhat detached in some ways, the way people who came back from war could be. Not that Fingon and Finrod aren't also separated from the Amanyar by their time in Beleriand and experience of war and death, but Gil-galad lived there for millennia, and he fought a longer, harder, more total kind of war than they did.

But he's at the Sea of Ekkaia, as west as you can get. So much of Tolkien is about that endless longing glance west, that movement: why is this very westernmost edge so under-explored?

I wanted Gil-galad to be softened by this encounter with the sea, so I went back and let his wonder be as much at the spectacle itself as the sea, like the greater hand at work he had sometimes doubted being visible was something wonderful rather than something to be bitter about. I wanted to position him to be potentially open to, perhaps, the Valar; perhaps, to Fingon. I hope he doesn't come off as closed-minded: I think of him as having a fair mind, and good judgment, but - despite placing him here between the sea and the shore - very clear personal lines between what he thinks is just, and what is not. Certainly, it helps a lot, never having known the Feanorians when they had not fallen.

The seam of the universe pulsed with light, and beyond it was – what?

Unutterable nothingness, something worse than death.

Perhaps Maedhros.

This is an important line for Fingon. He hasn't though the name of his own accord for much of the story, flinching away from it; it's only come in when Finrod and then Gil-galad speak the name. This is the first time he's thought it clearly of his own free will, and this is I think the first signal that he's brought Gil-galad here to be as honest and earnest with him as he can be, however much it hurts, or however much it might drive him away. Because if he isn't, and doesn't, Gil-galad will be driven away anyway, and Fingon wants to be connected with him, the first time he's wanted that kind of bond with anyone since he returned.

(I think of Finrod as someone who just kept turning up, regularly, and forcing Fingon to associate with him; and then bringing Amarie; and then his children; and not taking no for an answer. It bothers Turgon rather terribly that they seem to be friends now, when they were never that close Before: that Fingon pushes him away, but allows Finrod to keep pushing; that Finrod does push. He doesn't know about Gil-galad, of course).

He's brought Gil-galad here to show him if possible that he was wanted, to conjure up lost Ringwil where she might be felt if not found; and to do the same for Maedhros. This is a signal that this journey to the sea is as much about Gil-galad's missing father as his missing mother.

The almost-forgotten tang of salt in the air always mingled with the smell of blood in Fingon’s worst memories, and he was not the only one who remembered. The waves were gentle around Gil-galad’s feet, but they boiled furiously around Fingon’s, delivering small spiteful slaps at his calves.

Spiteful was probably the wrong word here. I don't necessarily mean a dramatic boiling or bubbling; but the water is harsh where it touches him, the kind of slapping roughness you get when the tide is coming in rough.

It took Gil-galad longer to mark the difference, engrossed in the joy of the sea and spectacle as he was, and when he did, his face changed. There was something terribly sad in his eyes when he lifted them from the water to look at Fingon.

It wasn’t why he had brought Gil-galad here; but Fingon didn’t want to imagine the look he would receive if he brushed aside the silent question. “No,” he said. “I am not forgiven.”

“So I see.”

They could probably leave it there.

But Fingon won't, because he's trying. He's really trying to connect after all the time flinching away from it, and he's remembering what Gil-galad said about talking, and what Finrod said about mistakes and silences in their first life.

He said, “You said you loathed the thought of being the son of – a murderer. But my own hands have not been clean since Alqualondë, and death didn’t unstain them. All the time you thought I might be your father, you must have known I was a Kinslayer, too.”

I tried to signal this in their earlier tower conversation with Finrod, and Gil-galad's changing of the topic, but I feel like it's a little abrupt here.

“Yes,” Gil-galad said, and his expression didn’t change. “And when the knights that had served you came to me, they told me that you killed that day in ignorance, that you came upon a battle already being fought; that you took up your sword to save those you loved and didn’t question whether it was just. I heard that from others, too, those who had less reason to bend facts to a flattering pattern; survivors of Gondolin and of Nargothrond. I did ask."

“Ignorance wasn’t an excuse. I died ashamed of it, and I live again with the shame.”

"Good!” said Gil-galad, and there was no forgiveness in his voice, even when Fingon jerked his head up in shock. Instead there was the stern ring of a king used to weighing the ideals of justice against the world as it was, the king who had walked arm in arm with Eonwë the Maia, led his people through many full-fledged wars, and held court and meted justice to them for an Age. “That gives me a far better opinion of you than any of the stories did! I’m glad.”

I remember talking to you about this in the comments, about what it meant that Gil-galad wasn't forgiving him. I think I really meant condone, but I also don't think it's Gil-galad's place to absolve Fingon - he wasn't the one wronged! - and that it's important to me that, because Fingon does truly regret it, he doesn't wish to be absolved, to slide away from it. I don't mean he ought to wallow in it or flog himself with it daily, but I think it would be important to him to shoulder and own that guilt rather than ever allowing himself to put it behind him or have someone else tell him it’s quite all right.

I think this is a moment where I show that they're quite similar, too, because even if Fingon wasn't aware that a bracing, clear assessment was just what he wanted, it was what he needed, rather than people being kind (which he's had a lot of, since he returned; and which hasn't touched that central guilt he's hidden from them, that he loved Maedhros, who had done such terrible things. It's prevented him from accepting kindness made him block people reaching out to him. Gil-galad is not being kind, but just, and still reaching out).

It felt like Fingon had been struggling to take a full lungful of air for a long time, and now something constricting in his chest had loosened, as it hadn’t even after the Valar themselves had judged him. It was only now that he realised that he hadn’t wanted Gil-galad to forgive or absolve him. He had wanted – needed – Gil-galad to be better than him, to withhold forgiveness when it was unmerited; and Gil-galad had. He had become the shining legacy they had all hoped he would be, the thing they had all somehow done right.

The water slapped at his ankles again, in impatient reminder.

This is too brief a transition. I should have fleshed the join out more.

“I think Ulmo would come to you here, if you called. You were a king by the sea in Middle Earth, and you may not remember it, but it was a river who gave you life.”

Gil-galad looked at him as if he’d grown an extra head. “What?”

“I brought you here for a reason,” Fingon said. “Where did they go, the drowned and poisoned rivers of Beleriand? I don’t know; but Ulmo might.”

I've really personified the rivers, but I think it's a clear and easy extrapolation from the Withywindle and the River-daughter in The Fellowship of the Ring that I don't need to justify in order to argue that every river might have had its own attendant Maia-spirit. It does make what happened to the Rivers of Beleriand much worse, though, and I wanted to look at the way a character that was a throwaway mechanism in scion ended up being sickened and dying as horribly as Beleriand did; this story was really about following all those lighter bits in scion home, to the end of the line, and looking at the long-term impacts of something that began more lightly. In this verse, Ringwil was a river, but also a person; and I think of her and Finrod as sharing a strange human-river friendship and overlapping enthusiasms.

He clapped Gil-galad on the shoulder, hoping it said all the things he meant it to say. Affection had been so easy for him once, in the life that had been taken from him by the fiery flails of the Balrogs, but now it came hard, and the sea-smell was in his nose, the terrible memories too close to the surface.

He had surely outstayed Ulmo’s tolerance by now. Fingon left Gil-galad there in the water, and didn’t dare glance back until there was thin sandy soil under his feet again.

Only then did he look once more towards the sea.

Gil-galad was standing in the shallows. His broad shoulders were bunched tight, as if he was readying himself for something very difficult, a confrontation with one of the Valar he had long doubted.

Then he spread his arms out, empty-handed, and tipped his head back, and the light on the horizon grew unbearably bright, whiter than white, more silver than silver; and a face began to move upon the water.

I really like this, honestly. Which I can't/don't say often! The temptation to overwrite this was strong, to show this encounter, to describe the Vala: but I think it's often stronger not to show something numinous, to pull away, to let the mind fill it in.

Again, this is Gil-galad as I imagine him: still somewhat distanced from the Valar by the Dagorlad and the things that happened there (and I think perhaps doubly unhappy in that he lived through the end of an Age once before, and that time, at least, the Valar came: they did not come in the Second, nor send so much as a messenger, and such obscenities as the fall of Ost-in-Edhil and the drowning of Numenor had been allowed to happen, and Men and Elves were left alone to come together and break Sauron's grip). Doubting, but not angry; doubting, but still curious. Open to listening.

a face began to move upon the water is of course a deliberate sideways reference to

And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.

-

It took a very long time. Fingon could not watch; his eyes dazzled.

Can you tell I was teaching The Duchess of Malfi at this time? Cover her face; mine eyes dazzle; she died young. That sense of a light too bright and white to look upon; that sense of guilt; that faint reference to life lost untimely. This wasn't meant to be a direct intertextual reference, but that net of meaning was there, lightly. Again, I wanted to under-write rather than over-write. I know I have a tendency to over-write.

And of course - there's a sense here that Fingon is refusing the kind of close enoucnter with Ulmo he could/might have. There's water in his eyes. From the wind?

-

“Thank you,” Gil-galad said when he rejoined him at last. His eyes were glowing, and he whistled Ceredir to him from where he was tearing ropey roots of sea-grass from the dunes with great relish. “Thank you for bringing me here;” and he didn’t say it the way he’d thanked Fingon for the horse, or the armour, or the sword, or even the lance.

Because this is a real gift, something that means something to both of them, something more honest/painful. Fingon's been trying to connect through gifts but not serious conversation or sharing, like some estranged parents do, throwing money at the problem rather than giving of their time or their selves, and however well-meant, it hasn't worked.

“I didn’t truly do anything."

“You brought me to the Sea. I know – I could see – how difficult it was for you."

"Well,” Fingon said lamely. He cleared his throat. “What did Lord Ulmo say about – oh, I can’t call her your dam! – the Maia who bore you? Did she – was she there?”

The dam pun is Finrod's. Don't blame me.

A little of the light dimmed, but it didn’t quite fade away. “No, she’s gone. Back to the Timeless Halls, he says; but one with him again, Ulmo, at the same time.” Gil-galad made a noise. “I don’t pretend to understand any of it, all the metaphysical nonsense of the Ainur! But he was kind to me, and he told me something of her – that she delighted in the making of me.” The corner of his mouth turned up. “I left the flowers we gathered earlier in the waves for her and the sea didn’t dash them back onto the shore. I’m sure Ulmo broke a few laws of Arda there.”

I like this image of the flowers suspended in the water. I had it clearly in mind from before I began to write.

"You were wanted.”

“I’m beginning to believe it,” Gil-galad said.

“You should,” Fingon said. He took a breath. Talking is how you sort things out; and a long time ago, Fingon had been known for his valour. Gil-galad deserved to know how much he had been wanted, who had called himself a political compromise given birth. The truth of that had stung.

And it was less than the truth. Fingon could still remember the first time he had opened his mind to Maedhros over the leagues between them and let him see Gil’s small face through his own eyes, holding nothing back. He had shown Maedhros the dark long lashes and the squashed baby nose, the milk-blister on the bow of Gil’s upper lip, the way his whole head turned an alarming red when he wailed; shared with Maedhros Gil’s fondness for being tossed in the air, his splashing joy in his bath.

This is is me trying to describe a baby without being too sentimental about it, because Fingon wasn't all, oh look at the toesie-woesies, or my son, my son: his eye was more detached, and you see him in scion thinking of Gil-galad as it.

I've been thinking about why Fingon in no way allowed himself to consciously dote on the baby, why that streak of denial that's so strong in his second life was there in his first light, and really: it would have been dangerous to let himself love him, to see Gil as his son and Maedhros's. He was born at a time of terrible loss, after the Flame, when they all expected they could die themselves. He was moved around Beleriand like a game-piece. Fingon was always going to lose him: he wasn't going to get to raise him, after all, until and unless Morgoth was defeated. Maedhros wasn't going to meet him, until and unless &c. It was easier not to let oneself get attached than it was to confront those hard facts and let oneself be hurt by them. Easier to think of him as a baby Finwean prince, and that only: a political pawn, not a son.

Conversely, Maedhros maintains a physical distance, but not an emotional one. Here's a bit from Maedhros's perspective:

Finrod had told him that. They had written, back and forth, in the long months as Ringwil’s belly swelled, as the child formed, as it began to move and stretch and turn frog-like inside her. They had corresponded constantly during the first months of the child’s life in Nargothrond, and during the first months of his life, Finrod had sent long scrolls detailing every change in Artanaro’s weight, his length, his hair colour, his eye colour, how much milk he’d consumed each day: screeds winging forth to Himring until the child was old enough to survive the secret trip north.

Fingon’s letters had been infuriatingly spare of useful information while the child was fostered at Barad Eithel. Beloved, ineloquent Fingon: Fingon, who had nevertheless shown him the child as no reams of paper could.

Fingon had given him forever the rounded bloom of his full cheeks, and the pursed mouth, sullen in sleep: the feathery, rather cross-looking eyebrows, and the small hands with their deep dimples and smaller fingernails, curled into the edge of Fingon’s furred mantle.

Maedhros had felt the way Fingon hovered between wonder and confusion at what they’d wrought: the way he couldn’t quite manage to think of the child as his own, this thing spun out of air and calculation and freshwater into heavy, solid life. He could have loved him so desperately, Maedhros knew that. He was halfway there, hovering in terror on the edge, afraid of falling. If the baby had stayed in Barad Eithel longer; if Fingon had watched him begin to creep around on fat little knees, to pull himself up on the furniture and to take his first steps – to hear the baby babble turn into words and speech – his heart would have opened to him like a flower, and the child would have become the centre of his universe, the sun in his sky.

Fingon had never known what to do with Idril as an infant, either, but he’d easily become an adored uncle as she grew up. If they’d had more time – if the child had been permitted to stay with Fingon even a month longer before being sent for safety to Cirdan –

Well, they’d never had enough time.

There had been few walls between them then, so he had felt Maedhros’s bright joy, the painful love, in its moment of birth: swelling and swelling like a cloud with rain, as though his heart was growing and his blood was leaking out of him at the same time, transmuting into pure tenderness and iron purpose.

I like this because I think of the Ekkaia scene as a cloudburst, full of emotion that has been swelling and swelling and now released. This is one bit of the breaking-through.

He had never needed to ask whether Maedhros considered Gil-galad a son.

“I don’t want to talk about – him,” Fingon said with difficulty, and the salt breeze stung his face, his eyes. “I know you loathe him, and rightly; and I do, too. I do hate him; or I hate what he did. I do! But you should know – you deserve to – that he wanted you, badly, although he never met you; he never wanted the shadow on him to touch you or to taint you.

And this. You can see here where I spun off into cliffs of fall, which isn't a scion story, but sprung out of this speech. It was already there in those sketchy notes, too, a lot of what Fingon's saying here: this important line about hating Maedhros, or what he did (that movement from clear certainty to trying to separate the deeds from the loved one; to urgent reptition - I do! I mean it, I really do! - which means he doesn't, can't: this is the heart of Fingon's guilt, because he wants to hate Maedhros utterly, but he can't, and he is profoundly in denial about that).

“He always wanted children; I took that from him even before the Oath did, but I gave it back to him with you. I loved you first of all for that, but he loved you for yourself. Because you existed, against all hope and possibility and fate and chance; and because you were ours.”

Gil-galad said nothing. There was still a wildflower tucked behind his ear, but the brilliance had quite left his eyes.

“Well,” Fingon said at last. “I needed to tell you that. You should know that you were never – not only – you were wanted very much."

Beloved ineloquent Fingon, &c.

-

They were some miles from the beach when Gil-galad said, “‘Ours’?”

“Yes."

-

I was trying to let the gaps and breaks talk for me in the text. Under-writing.

The beginning was full of these little breaks, too, because they didn't yet know how to talk to each other; now at the end, that connection, and their conversations, are breaking down again. It's echoing that ride together at the beginning very strongly, but now it's not Gil-galad trying to become acquainted and Fingon giving light, unsatisfying answers. These are the real questions/answers at last, and the whole story has really been about getting to the point of Fingon and Gil-galad in Aman where they actually could have the kind of conversation Gil-galad was trying to have at the start.

-

Some miles further, Fingon said, “Did you ever meet him in Beleriand? After I died. I always wondered.”

“No,” Gil-galad said.

It didn’t seem like he was going to speak again, and Fingon had begun to assimilate that knowledge, that pain – that Maedhros had never seen him, had only ever known him through Fingon’s own eyes – when he added,

“But I saw what he did. Have you ever seen a whole city ruined, and known the ruiners to be Elves? It wasn’t even a city, poor Sirion! It was a refuge, a place for the desperate, as far to the West as they could get, as close to the safety of the Sea. They had so very little. No great stone palaces, no towers, no spires. Little enough fresh food. They were able to grow so little, and they lived on fish, and sea-weed, and what brave hunting parties would bring back; and hope. They lived on hope, and they thought Elwing wore it around her throat, but the Valar didn’t come for them: Maedhros Fëanorion and his brothers did instead, and they burned and killed and ravaged. I’d say they salted the earth, but it was salt already. To fall on any innocent Elven city would be a horror: on poor Sirion it was the greatest cruelty I ever saw, and entirely pointless."

They said nothing more.

I like this, too, actually. You see a little here of why Gil-galad might be healthily sceptical of the Valar - they didn't come for them: Maedhros Feanorion and his brothers did instead - and that very post-war experience of seeing a descrated, destroyed town. Worse when you had seen it when it was whole, when you knew the dead and fled.

Sirion is, I think, the worst thing the Feanorions did. I find it worse than even Doriath or Alqualonde (though they're all awful!). These were desperate survivors, huddled together at the edge of the sea for protection. So many of their leaders had been killed or lost. Idril and Tuor had disappeared; Earendil was away; Maedhros and the others struck while only Elwing was there, and she was so young, and so alone, and so damaged already by what they'd done in Doriath. And now they’d come again. There's something about the revictimisation that gets me. It's awful.

I wanted it to be weight and counter-weight - that soft, painful, remembered moment of Maedhros seeing baby Gil-galad through Fingon's eyes, something Fingon has clearly not deliberately thought about since he was reborn, but dredges up now for Gil-galad, because he should know: and which is echoed in the beginning by Fingon's question to Finrod. But Maedhros is still the person who did the things he did, and I wanted to set that soft moment of truth against his deeds at Sirion, another truth, to point out clearly why Gil-galad would recoil so hard from this offering, this honesty Fingon wants to be able to give him. This is the dichotomy at the heart of the story: reconciling Maedhros and how one felt for him with what he did, and how one feels about that. It is irresolvable, at least for Fingon, at least at the moment I've ended it at for now.

I don't know if this is quite what you wanted, @warrioreowynofrohan, especially because like I said, I wrote this story in a frantic fog, but I hope this in some way suffices!

[hmslusitania]

Just putting this out there, after binging this show... twice... in three months... earlier this year, I fell headlong into Buddy fanfic but never really filled my tumblr with 9-1-1 blogs. Yours was now the first one I followed and I am using it to find other blogs to follow, sorry for piggy backing.

Also, I just saw that you wrote/are writing a Dragon Age fic so I will heroically take a break from Buddy fics and go... read that. Or maybe I will do it after reading your 9-1-1 fics, the choice is still unclear. Anyway. Dragon Age for the win!

On the other hand, I already read Leave the Lights on AND HOLY FUCKING SHIT, THAT ONE WAS SO GREAT!!!!!! Broke my heart, nbd, but OMFG

First off, thank you, welcome, you're describing my experience with watching this show since March. Don't apologise for piggybacking, I like to think I have good taste (well. acceptable. well. not abhorrent) so hopefully you'll find some seriously quality people here somewhere. I know I have (I'd try to directly rec some blogs except I know I'd forget people and feel horrible about it).

Secondly, thank you for your kind comments about Leave the Light On! It sure was an emotional wreck for me to write, so I'm always glad when it's got that same effect on the readers.

Thirdly, good luck with What a Lovely Way to Burn! It's...unknowable at this time if I'm ever going to get back to it, but I do still absolutely love it. I wrote everything available to you while I was in grad school in sort of a two month fugue state when I was supposed to be writing papers.

And now, I am actually going to go play Dragon Age, because I'm halfway through an Inquisition playthrough!

Have a nice day/night/afternoon/time-zone experience!

[queenlua]

i realized that Simon Blackquill and Kristoph Gavin canonically overlap their prison terms for like 20 months

and then i went into a fugue state and just wrote a bunch of ridiculously self-indulgent Kristoph And Simon Sniping At Each Other. enjoy

************************************

They bring the new prisoner in while Kristoph's enjoying his afternoon tea.

He tries to be discreet as he watches, stealing little glances between sips, watching over the top of the book he's reading.  The new prisoner looks rough, and roughed up, with a long bruise marring his jawline, and his long hair arrayed in tatters.  But he hardly looks beaten, walking with huge strides that the guards have to jog to keep up with.  When one of the guards unlocks the cell directly across from Kristoph's, and the other moves to shove the man in, he dodges the shove with an enormous shrugging motion that, bizarrely, sends the guard cowering backwards.  Then the man laughs, and walks into the cell of his own accord.

One the guards leave, Kristoph realizes there's a bird with him.  With the prisoner, there in the cell.  The sight's so improbable that for a moment Kristoph thinks it's some medieval bit of grotesque: a hungry bird left to peck the man's eyes out, or to nip at his toes when he tries to sleep.  But it must be a pet, Kristoph realizes at length, watching how it clings to its shoulder, and then how it clacks across the floor, and walks close around the man's feet.  O thin men of Haddam...

The man doesn't acknowledge Kristoph—doesn't even turn around to look at him, just stands in the center of his cell and stares at the wall.

Strange.  But Kristoph's seen stranger.

When Kristoph's watched long enough, he clears his throat.  "So.  What did you do to get yourself locked up here?"

Here, meaning, the solitary cell block, far from the rest of the prison.  He knows better than to expect someone to confess to their real crime outright.

The other man turns and stares long enough that Kristoph assumes he's going to be one of those tedious, taciturn types who speak only in grunts and two-word sentences.  Then: "Some new fellows arrived a few days ago.  Apparently they didn't care to break bread with a former prosecutor."

"Ah.  So you're here for your own protection."

"No," the man says with a savage smile.  "For theirs."

Kristoph looks closer.  The bruise on his cheek is a slight thing; and the ragged cut of his hair, upon closer inspection, appears to be some sort of fashion choice.  

The man is still smiling.  You should see the other guy.

And, improbably, that's the moment Kristoph realizes he knows this man.  The hair's different, the frame heavier, but the long face and those dark eyes are much the same.  A man he remembers from melodramatic headlines some years ago, prosecutor confesses to cold-blooded murder: "You're Simon Blackquill."

The other man nods.  "And you're Kristoph Gavin."

Kristoph stiffens.

Simon smiles again.  "The Macnamara case.  I never forget a face."

Yes.  Blackquill did prosecute that one, didn't he.  Kristoph doesn't care for the way the man's eyes are glittering, now.  He can't quite remember how that case played out; it's been years.  He smiles blandly and says nothing.

At ease now, Simon leans back in his little chair, hands behind his head as he scrutinizes Kristoph's abode—what he can see of it, at least.  Taxidermy.  Flowers.  A violin.  "Interesting," he decides at length.  "And what about yourself?  How were you brought to—" he reads a plaque "—Solitary Cell 13?"

"Oh, by request."  When Blackquill raises a brow, Kristoph laughs: "Please.  I'd hardly fit in with the riffraff down there in the main block."

Simon smiles thinly.  There's an evaluative glimmer in his eyes, hawk and man staring at Kristoph as one.  At last he says, mildly as though discussing the weather: "I should think a murderer would fit in quite well with his fellow murderers."

Oh.  So he knows.  Kristoph scowls.  "So you're not an illiterate.  Which paper reported on it?"

"None that I read," Simon says with a smirk.  "I only had a hunch.  Which you so kindly confirmed."

The arrogant little worm.  Kristoph's right hand clenches around his teacup, unbidden.  How he'd do anything to wipe the smug look off this man's face, how he'd like to—no, he reminds himself.  Patience.  He relaxes his hold on the cup, sets it back down primly.  They have nothing but time, after all, and at the very least that time now promises to be more interesting.

************************************

At two o'clock each day, the guard shift changes; Peterson and Mendez walk out, and Flynn walks in.  Faithful Flynn, who brings Kristoph fresh loose-leaf tea each day, who brought him the water boiler and the teapot to fix them properly.  Who's been receiving striking little bonuses in his bank account for the past six months.

Each day, Simon watches Kristoph drink, his expression inscrutable.  The man's too much like his bird, Kristoph thinks.  Too at ease staring and sitting still.  He imagines the effect would serve him well in the courtroom, but here it's just tedious.  Doesn't the man have something to read?

Still.  After a few days of wordless stares, Kristoph whispers some instructions to his man.  Flynn bites his lip.  He doesn't like it.  He does it anyway—finagling with the cell locks in a way that almost doesn't look like he's unlocking the things, then wandering down the corridor to very firmly look the other way.

"Would you care for some tea?" Kristoph calls across the hall to Simon, gesturing grandly at the little table and chairs he has set up.

Simon stares.  "I haven't the taste for it."

"Come over to visit, at least.  Your door's unlocked."

Simon scowls at that, like Kristoph has just confirmed something Simon already knew and didn't like.

"What, are you concerned about breaking some... rule?  I assure you Flynn here is quite discreet."  Kristoph nods at the guard he's been paying off for the past six months.

A flicker of contempt passes over Simon's face—Kristoph sees it, and is fascinated to see it.  Even in prison, Simon must still have his precious little principles.  He'd known the DA's office to have its share of honor-bound fools.  He hadn't expected that spirit to survive in here.

"Come here," Simon says.

"What?"

"Bring your tea over here instead."  Simon smiles apologetically.  "I can't abandon Taka, you see.  He screeches most piteously when we are parted."

Bring the damn bird over here, then, Kristoph thinks, then thinks better of it, because that creature probably molts or defecates or tears up furniture.  No.

And besides—it's not about the bird, is it?  That's just the excuse.  He simply doesn't want to be the one to move.

They could stare at each other, see who caves first.  But that could well end in stalemate, which is a far less desirable income to Kristoph than even his own concession, so—he stands, abruptly enough that Simon startles.  He crosses the corridor, tea tray balanced perfectly in his left hand, opens both doors and closes them both neatly behind him.

Simon stands, relinquishing the dinky little chair he'd been sitting on with a gesture: "Please."  Kristoph looks around for a place to set the tea tray—the only spot's a desk that's nailed into the wall, an awkward distance from the bed where Simon's sitting now.  But it will have to do.

Simon doesn't drink the tea.  But they talk a little.  Trivialities.  A book Simon is reading.  Some chess puzzle Kristoph is working on.

The bird doesn't take his eyes off Kristoph the whole time.

************************************

The tea becomes a regular occurrence.  Always in Simon's cell, and Simon never drinks a drop.

"It's not poisoned, you know," Kristoph says once.  Simon's only answer is a grunt.

Kristoph tolerates it—the brusqueness, the lapses into silence, the random glares—because he knows full well it will fade with time.  Cannot help but fade with time.  In the solitary block there's no one else to see, nothing else to do; they all take their exercise and their meals on their own.  Who else can he talk to, have as a... friend?

Maybe Simon knows it, too.  Because when Kristoph tries to touch him—in passing, during a conversation—Simon responds by grabbing him by the waist and hurling him onto the floor.

It happens so quickly Kristoph only barely has time to process it.  One moment he's managed to get an actual chortle out of Simon, and he's reaching out to graze the man's cheek—then, the next, his head's cracked against something hard, his vision's streaked with violent darkness, and there's a sandaled foot pressing against ribcage.

He hears a quick flurry of footsteps and a metallic fumbling.  Flynn, to the rescue.  "Stay back," Kristoph wheezes, still lying on his back.  "I'm fine."

Simon casts the guard a look of such blistering contempt that Kristoph's certain the man will be provoked, certain he's going to shout for help and rush in to wrestle Simon to the floor and make some huge tedious scene, from which Kristoph will have to claw back what little privileges and entertainments he's secured for himself, an utterly untenable waste—

But, no.  The guard stays put.  At length, Simon removes his foot, and Kristoph sits slowly, achingly upright.  Simon's fists are clenched at his sides; he rather looks like he'd enjoy any excuse to punch.  “Simon," he manages at last.  "I thought we were friends.”

“Did you,” Simon says, flat as the back end of a blade.

"I was only going to wipe away a bit of dirt," he says, reaching out again—Simon flinches away, before Kristoph can touch, eyes narrowed to slits.

"No.  You weren't."

Kristoph sighs as though talking to an unruly teenager.  "Really, Simon, you must admit you're at least being a bit touchy—"

"You don't remember how you lost the Macnamara case, do you?"  He doesn't give Kristoph a chance to answer.  "These little tricks of yours, all these little manipulations—I mastered them first."  Then he tilts his head upward, looking the guard dead in the eye.  "I think it's about time for Mr. Flynn's shift to end.  Don't you?"

Mr. Flynn stammers.  And, so help him, if Flynn answers to anyone other than Kristoph he will wring the man's neck personally.  "Flynn," Kristoph announces sharply, "I'll be returning now."

"I bet you will," Simon mutters, smirking.

"Yessir," Flynn says.

"I'll be back later," Kristoph says, with forced brightness, but Taka ruffles every feather on his body in answer.

[bibliosauruswrecks]

Holy shit, y’all.  I don’t know what happened, but apparently I entered some kind of fugue state this afternoon and proceeded to write for five hours and actually finish something?

I finished something.  I wrote and finished a story.  For the first time in half a decade?  I don’t know if I should be proud, or scared.

It’s rough, and probably needs some revisions before I release it on an unsuspecting public, but it’s finished!

Would anyone be interested in beta-reading a wintery, Christmasey Rumbelle fic written during a disassociative fugue state to “Concerning Hobbits” on a repetitive loop?

[waveridden]

oh actually I do have another one because holy ghost has been living in my head for a week now: give us the forbidden lore on either your favorite scene to write from that or!! the details behind the Egg concept 👀

my favorite thing about holy ghost is the timeline in which i wrote it. i first heard mike townsend (knows what he’s gotta do) on monday afternoon. went into a fucking fugue state and wrote that entire fic. posted it around noon on tuesday. went to class. got out of class and jaylen had killed three people. like that fic is fascinating to me because it includes a lot of interpretations and thoughts i don’t necessarily stand by now, but that’s because the narrative has changed so much. idk i don’t have any coherent thoughts on that i just think it’s interesting because if i tried to write something similar now it would be WILDLY different, but just because of the timing it is a very kind and very sad story

i actually don’t remember where i came up with the egg concept! i just knew that i wasn’t (and generally am not) interested in writing about Physical pain, but i wanted there to be some element of sacrifice, and just because of the mike narrative being so based around nobody accepting him, i wanted to play into that. and so the egg was born!

(do you ever think about how the only way “egg” is used in blaseball is referring to peanut shells because i do)

[greatcomets]

last night i went into a fugue state and wrote how i think a conversation between me now and me at seven would go and today kitty pryde is trans and this afternoon i have therapy and in a few days i might be able to get out of here and see my friends. best fucking week of 2020 im serious

[judesstfrancis]

just went into a full fugue state and wrote 3.5k in one afternoon so uhh give me a sec to edit and I'll have a fun little thing for everyone to read

[fleetwoodmactshirt]

Just curious, do you have any WIPs? Also, what’s your fave breakfast food?

so tentatively i’m gonna admit to having a few WIPs, but no promises i’ll ever post them:

i want to expand and develop some tags i wrote about frankie morales railing you in his range rover during a sun shower during golden hour into a smutty drabble.

i have some notes on road head with ezra.

i plan to write a follow-up to the ezra somno kink hcs, a reversal with ezra on the receiving end after he’s caught in the middle of an afternoon cat nap.

and i have fugue state which is my thelma and louise/paris, texas (dir. wim wenders)-inspired modern ezra au road trip/motel sex one-shot ?? i’m slowly developing. ezra is a tattered hawaiian shirt-wearing scoundrel, a grifter/con-man vagabond poet who drifts through desolate desert towns in the american southwest. you’re on a solo cross-country road trip and you keep crossing paths with him in bleak, desolate nowhere towns. eventually the both of you fall into a series of grimy motel sex hook-ups, he pounds you into worn mattresses so deeply you forget your damn name, and then maybe you even fall into the kind of wild life-changing romance that shifts your whole perspective/ruins your life.

#fugue state vibes is my inspo tag for it and i’ve written some hcs and some tag drabbles inspired by it.

those are what i’ve actually got notes written for. i also have some ideas i’m playing with, like a southern gothic ezra as orpheus au. and this idea of whiskey fucking his therapist i’m being bullied by @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa into thinking about.

my fav breakfast food is poached eggs, avocado on toast or just buttered brown toast and hashbrowns.

[sevenfists]

I wrote this to comfort myself in the aftermath of Sunday’s game. ~1.7k, rated G, fluff, blini, and Game of Thrones.

The sound of his phone ringing pulled Zhenya from his Counter-Strike fugue. He’d set his phone to Do Not Disturb and there were only a few people who could get through. A glance at the screen showed Sid’s name.

Zhenya took off his headset and abandoned his game. He would probably die and his teammates would be pissed. Oh well.

He scrambled to answer the phone before it stopped ringing. “Hi, Sid.”

“Hey, G.” Sid sounded tired, but it was so good to hear his voice. Talking to him on the phone always gave Zhenya the same feeling as talking with him in bed at night as they fell asleep, like they had temporarily absconded to some parallel universe where no one could see or bother them. “You want to come over? Game of Thrones is on in an hour.”

Zhenya hated that stupid show. There were too many characters to keep track of, and everyone had a bizarre accent that rendered the dialogue almost incomprehensible to him. At least there were tits sometimes.

Sid, accurately interpreting Zhenya’s hesitation, said, “I’ll make crepes. Uh, blini.”

Zhenya covered his eyes with his free hand, overcome by sudden emotion. He shouldn’t still be this knocked for a loop by Sid wanting his company or knowing him well enough to surmount Zhenya’s Game of Thrones-related objections. Well, he’d had a shitty day. No surprise that he was feeling a little raw.

He cleared his throat. “Where’s your parents?”

“They went back to their hotel after the game,” Sid said. “Told them I wanted to be alone. Listen, if you don’t want to come over, that’s fine, I was only—”

“No,” Zhenya said, sharply enough to cut Sid off mid-sentence. “No, I come right now.” He heard his voice going soft without his permission as he added, “I want to see you.”

“Yeah, I’m. I want to see you,” Sid said, equally soft. “Bring the Nutella, eh?”

“Okay, be there soon,” Zhenya said, and went to look for his keys.

He let himself in through the side door with the key Sid had given him at Christmas, once it became clear this was going to be a regular thing and not just an occasional heat-of-the-moment hookup. Walking into Sid’s kitchen unannounced gave him that secret universe feeling again. Sid had a lot of people who loved him, but none of them were here now, with the team facing the brutal prospect of a sweep. Only Zhenya.

Sid was brushing a pan with oil when Zhenya came in, but he set it aside to let Zhenya give him a hug that was more of a defeated full-body slump. Sid was the perfect height for Zhenya to drape his arms over Sid’s shoulders and hunch down to bury his face in Sid’s neck.

“I know, G,” Sid murmured, his hands rubbing soothing circles over Zhenya’s back. “You haven’t been looking at Twitter, have you?”

Zhenya had, a little. Hence the Do Not Disturb and Counter-Strike. “No,” he lied.

“I told you not to,” Sid said. “Everyone on social media is an idiot.”

“I think it’s bad, Sid,” Zhenya said into Sid’s neck.

“Yeah,” Sid said. “Probably. But it’s not over until it’s over, eh?” He turned his head to press an awkward, lopsided kiss to Zhenya’s temple.

They had lost together before, and Zhenya knew how the process went. They would survive it. Life went on; every season opened with fresh hope. But it was hard and awful and embarrassing in the moment, and previous conversations had indicated that Sid was taking it hard, even though he was pretending now to be philosophical about it. Zhenya straightened up and cupped Sid’s dear face in his hands. “You best captain. Maybe we lose, and we upset, but then we win next year, okay? We win together lots. It’s not over.”

Sid rolled his eyes. “You’d rather lose with me than win with anyone else, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes,” Zhenya said, because that was exactly it.

Sid’s face went blank, which meant he was having an emotion and trying to hide it, and then opened up into a heart-stopping, slightly watery smile, which meant he had remembered he didn’t have to hide things from Zhenya now. “Oh, G,” he said, and Zhenya bent to kiss him, dry and gentle, just once, before he stepped away.

“I, uh, bring Nutella,” Zhenya said, offering Sid the jar he had set on the counter. Sid didn’t keep any in his house; he said he would just eat it.

“Okay,” Sid said. “Let’s make some blini.”

Sid had started making blini for Zhenya when they started sleeping together, and now he did it once a week or so, as a special treat. He had gotten good at it; better than Zhenya ever was. Zhenya sat on the counter and watched Sid expertly ladle batter into the pan and then swirl it around to coat the cooking surface evenly. He used a spatula to lift the edges of each blin and then flipped it with his hands, the way Zhenya’s mother did. When the first one was ready, he handed it to Zhenya on a plate, still so piping hot that the Nutella Zhenya spread on top melted deliciously.

“It’s good,” he told Sid, cramming the rolled-up blin into his mouth.

“Give me a bite,” Sid said, leaning toward him and opening his mouth, and Zhenya fed him the rest of it, grinning as Sid nipped at his fingers. This was love, wasn’t it? Feeling this warmed by another person. Being this known. The weight of Zhenya’s feelings for Sid had anchored him all through the rocky season, and now it was almost over. He wasn’t prepared for it to end.

“Hurry up,” Zhenya said to the batter cooking in the pan. “We need to watch show.”

“You’d better speak to it in Russian,” Sid said, his eyes crinkling with his smile. “I don’t think it understands English.”

“Hurry up, my precious little pancake, my calorically extravagant darling,” Zhenya said. Sid grinned and flipped the blin.

They went downstairs to Sid’s media room loaded down with supplies: a plate stacked with blini, the Nutella and a knife, a bottle of white wine, two wine glasses, and a bag of the weird little sunflower seed crackers Sid had gotten hooked on. Zhenya’s favorite throw blanket was still folded up on the back of the couch, where he had left it the last time he came over. He claimed it at once and made himself a nest.

“There room for me under there?” Sid asked, fishing the corkscrew from his pocket to open the wine.

“Maybe,” Zhenya said, by which he meant that he fully expected Sid to snuggle with him and would be disappointed if it didn’t happen. The couch and ottoman were big enough for both of them to spread out, but they usually ended up mashed into one corner together as Zhenya used Sid like a body pillow. Sid was cozy.

They got settled in with their wine and their snacks just as the episode began. Sid was immediately rapt. Zhenya made no effort to follow what was going on. The CGI dragons were impressive. Everyone looked cold. Zhenya ate blini and enjoyed the way Sid reacted with his whole body, tensing when something exciting happened and jolting so hard when there was a jump scare that he spilled some of his wine. “Fuck, sorry,” he said, and Zhenya patted him and got up to find the paper towels.

When the bottle was empty and the blini were gone, Zhenya wedged himself into Sid’s arms and closed his eyes. Sid made low exclamations a few times as things happened on the screen. His hand cupped Zhenya’s shoulder and his thumb stroked a slow repeated path along the back of Zhenya’s neck. Zhenya wasn’t tired, and he didn’t doze, but he passed into a sort of quiet meditative state, thinking of nothing, soaking in the warmth and comfort of being so close to Sid.

“Hey,” Sid whispered after a while. “You asleep?”

“No.” Zhenya opened his eyes. The dragons were flying around, looking cold.

“You know when we talked about Miami,” Sid said. “And I said I needed some time to think about it?”

“Yes,” Zhenya said, immediately a little wary. It had stung a bit that Sid hadn’t immediately agreed to go with him. Zhenya had been trying not to interpret that as a rejection or a sign that Sid wasn’t invested. If Sid didn’t want to go, he would have said so. He liked to think things over before he made a decision. Zhenya knew that.

“If the offer’s still on the table,” Sid said. “I’d like to go with you.”

Zhenya squirmed around until he could sit up. In the flickering light from the TV screen, the angles of Sid’s face were all softened. Zhenya took Sid’s hand in both of his and felt his throat close over. The season would end, but not this. They might lose, but Zhenya would still have Sid: the voice at the other end of the line, the still sleeping body beside him in bed. There might be no end to it.

“Sid,” he managed to choke out at last.

“Hey. I love you,” Sid said, which Zhenya had pretty much known, what with all the heart emojis Sid had texted him in the past few weeks, but hearing it was a knockout punch. He was a soggy wad of emotion after losing that afternoon, the consistency of wet toilet paper, and Sid had just done him in completely.

He lay down again and hid his dopey smile against Sid’s neck. “Love you, Sid.”

Sid’s hand slid slowly down his back and up again. “Maybe we won’t be able to go until June. That’d be nice, eh?”

That seemed unlikely. But Sid was right: it wasn’t over until it was over. Zhenya kissed Sid’s neck. “Yes, maybe.”

“You staying here tonight?” Sid asked.

“Yes,” Zhenya said, deciding to skip all of the usual teasing about Sid’s big ass taking up too much room in the bed. They both knew it was bullshit. Zhenya stayed the night every time he came over after dinner. He loved sleeping with Sid. He wasn’t going to drag himself home at this point. “Now shh, watch show.”

Sid huffed. “Yeah, okay.” The TV made an obnoxious noise that was probably a dragon roaring. Zhenya felt Sid’s attention shift back to the screen. He closed his eyes and snuggled in.