#also tempted to post to ao3 if people are cool with that

[ace-beef]

Cornetto Secret Santa Gift!!

Eeeee it is here and I have made a gift for @albaharu!! The prompt of yours that I decided to go with was "Andy/Gary full angsty or slightly angsty xmas time after the apocalypse". This was super fun to write and I really hope you like it!! :3

'Christmas in the Apocalypse'

Gary tugged at his coat as he walked, trying to pull it further around him as the wind picked up. It was definitely winter, there was a particularly sharp and frosty bite to the morning air that nipped at his cheeks, the kind that you only get in winter. Gary grabbed at his sleeves, pulled up his collar, anything to try and stop the cold wind from gnawing at his skin. He may be free to do what he wants now, but at least before the apocalypse he had an insulated building with heating to go back to. 

“You guys don’t feel this do you?” Gary said, glancing round at the blanks of his teenage friends behind him. The Blank Andy shrugged. 

“Don’t think so.” 

“What do you mean you ‘don’t think so’?” Gary puzzled, glancing round once more to look at the Blank Andy with a scrunched up face. 

“Well, we know that it is cold but we can’t feel the cold,” Blank Andy explained, matter-of-factly. 

“Yeah, we know what sort of weather and temperature it is I guess so we can blend in with humans, but we don’t get affected by it,” Blank Oliver added. 

“Wild… lucky bastards, wish I didn’t feel weather, “ Gary said. He heard a couple of chuckles from the blanks behind him. 

The group were walking through a lightly wooded area of spindly trees that reached up towards the sky with their spindly fingers, leaves long gone and instead the trees had caught a few pieces of the scraps that endlessly floated around. Their feet loudly crunched through the debris that had made its way to the ground, occasionally one of their boots would step on one of the few leaves left from autumn, the last to fall from the trees. The fog and smoke that hung lazily in the air had barely gotten any lighter since the downfall of the Network, and Gary and his group could only see as far as a couple of trees in each direction, but for those still alive that had become the daily experience for the apocalypse. 

“Wait, so like, can you get bothered by… wet?” Gary continued. 

“Bothered by wet?” Blank Steven questioned, bewildered by the wording Gary had used. 

“Yeah! So you can sense when something is wet right?” Gary said, and all of the blanks nodded. “Okay so does that bother you? Like can you feel the wet?” 

Their chatter was loud, walking and talking casually as if they were confident that they probably weren’t going to encounter anyone else out in the wilderness. It became the kind of moment that Gary enjoyed the most, where the blanks seem to relax and behave a bit more like the people they were built to imitate. They laughed and made fun of Gary’s grammar, subconsciously taking a step away from the programming that the Network had built into them. 

Suddenly, a loud commotion of squawking and rustling and wings flapping startled the group out of their conversation. Just ahead of them, a group of pheasants had erupted into the sky, startled by the presence of the Blank Musketeers. A little bit further from where they saw the pheasants, they heard a voice shout “fuck’s sake!” and footsteps quickly heading their way, but they couldn’t see the owner of the sounds through the fog until he appeared in front of them. 

“Good job! I spent ages trying to find those and when I finally do you-” the man was yelling angrily as he strode over to the group, stopping abruptly when he saw who he was facing. 

“Gary?” 

Gary went bug-eyed as he processed who he was looking at. His mouth couldn’t help but tremble a little. 

“Andy?” Gary had started pacing towards him. 

“Oh my god, Gary,” Andy said. He only took a single step forwards, still not quite believing what he was seeing. 

Gary broke into a run for the last few paces before colliding into a hug with Andy, firmly wrapping his arms around his best friend. Andy clung on just as tight, relieved to see that Gary was okay. The two stayed like that for a moment, relishing in the comfort of it, not wanting to let any of it go. 

They separated and looked at each other, still trying to believe that it was real. Gary opened his mouth to say something, but before any words came out, Andy slapped him. 

“Ow! What the fuck was that for?” Gary exclaimed, holding his cheek with one hand. 

“That was for scaring off my Christmas dinner, and you’re lucky it wasn’t my fist,” Andy replied, pointing at him. He hesitated, before saying “and it was partially for disappearing again.” 

“Oh come on now, that wasn’t really my fault and you know it,” Gary protested. 

“Yeah but you didn’t really make an effort to find me again, did you?” Andy said, pointedly. Gary looked away, his expression sheepish. 

“Yeah, I could have tried harder with that I guess… I’m sorry man.” 

Andy sighed. Gary sounded genuine with his apology, which is not something Andy had heard very often throughout their friendship. After a pause, Andy put a hand on Gary’s shoulder. 

“You’re okay Gary, at least it seems like you’re alive and well,” Andy said. Gary then perked up pretty quickly, launching straight into conversation. 

“You know what? I have been alive and well! I have been quite literally free to do what I want and when I want, it’s been pretty great,” Gary said cheerfully. Andy smiled warmly. 

“That’s good to hear,” he replied. He looked round Gary’s shoulder at the blanks behind him; they hadn’t moved from when they were initially startled by the pheasants. “I see you’ve made some… friends?” 

“What? Oh yeah! It’s you guys! So you could say I didn’t make some friends but instead gathered the old ones,” Gary chuckled. When he only got a very weak laugh from Andy, he continued, “okay well I found them, just wandering, and I thought, you know, let’s give them an adventure! It’s the boys! Plus it was getting kinda boring walking around by myself.” Gary let out another small chuckle, looking at Andy with a somewhat hopeful look, as if he wanted Andy to approve in some way. 

“Fair enough. Are you guys having as much fun as we did?” Andy said with a smile. Gary laughed a little at the question. 

“I mean, kinda? It feels like they have the same personalities at their core but it still feels like they have some weird, leftover behaviours and stuff from when the Network was still here,” Gary explained. 

“Hm, that’s odd,” Andy hummed. “Well, it seems like you guys are having a good time, based on how you scared my pheasants off,” he said after a pause, an irritated tone rising in his voice. Gary once again looked a little sheepish. 

“Yeah sorry about that… Why were you trying to hunt pheasants anyway?” 

“For Christmas! I already said that you bellend,” Andy grumbled. 

“Oh huh, I wasn’t listening to that bit,” Gary chuckled. 

“No, you never do,” Andy sighed. 

“So… pheasants! Bit fancy for a Christmas dinner innit? Even more so considering the state of the world,” Gary said in a mildly joking tone, gesturing to his surroundings. 

“Well, I was trying to take anything I could find really,” Andy replied. He seemed rather dejected, tightening his lips and kicking at a few leaves on the floor. 

“Yeah, makes sense.”

The two stood there for a few seconds, the air beginning to thicken with awkwardness between them as they ran out of things to talk about. They had so much they could catch up on, but neither of them were able to land on a topic. The blanks had just stayed where they were, waiting for some kind of instruction saying that it was okay to come forward, but they were starting to get restless and were muttering things to each other. 

“Uh, how’s the wife?” Gary had finally found a topic. Andy’s face suddenly seemed to grow older with tiredness. 

“We split up. Thought it was going to stay better but it didn’t,” he said gloomily, avoiding eye contact. Gary couldn’t help but smile. He tried to stop himself from grinning but he failed miserably. He also wasn’t entirely sure why that was his instinctual reaction, but he decided to ride with it anyway. 

“Man, that sucks,” he said way too cheerfully. He continued to grin at Andy despite being met with daggers. 

“Oi! That is not a thing to grin about you bastard!” Andy’s downcast expression tightened into one of frustration. 

“Right right, of course, I’m sorry to hear that,” Gary said, clearing his throat and holding his hands up in apology. He straightened his face into a more neutral expression, but there was still a playful glint in his eye that he couldn’t hide. 

Once he felt like Andy wasn’t going to assault him again, Gary said, “So um, Christmas dinner by yourself?” 

“Huh?” 

“Well you said that you were trying to get a pheasant for your Christmas dinner, so are you having it by yourself?” Gary was trying to keep his tone neutral. He really didn’t want to once again anger his old best friend and have them part on bad terms; he’d had enough of doing that. 

“Oh, yeah, well I thought I might as well still try and enjoy myself, as it’s Christmas an’ all,” Andy answered, his frustration leaving him. He was tired of just always getting angry at Gary, even if the idiot deserved it. He didn’t want Gary to run away again. 

“Fair enough.” 

Once again there was a slightly awkward pause between the two old friends. 

“You know, as you’re here now, and it has been a long time since we saw each other and an even longer time since we, well, ‘hung out’... fancy coming round to mine for Christmas? Help me get some new dinner on the way?” Andy said, trying to be nonchalant. He wasn’t entirely sure why, but he felt nervous about asking. Maybe he was afraid Gary would leave again, maybe he was afraid that asking was a mistake and that Gary would fuck things up, as he had a habit of doing so. Either way, the question didn’t come out as easily as Andy expected it to. 

“You know what Andy,” Gary said. A smile was slowly creeping up on his face as he looked at Andy with bright, excited eyes that had warmth radiating out of them. “I would absolutely love that!” 

For the rest of the morning, the group gradually made their way back to where Andy was shacked up, occasionally stopping when they found some kind of animal that they deemed worthy of being their Christmas dinner. Most of their hunting attempts were unsuccessful, mainly because Gary didn’t seem to understand the element of surprise and Andy came very close to actually yelling at him. Eventually though, the group got very lucky and found a chicken that had clearly escaped from someone’s farm as Gary managed to scoop it up without much trouble. He then gloated about not needing to sneak up on animals to catch them, and Andy had then punched him playfully in the arm, which made Gary almost drop the live chicken and cause all of them to panic. 

Conversation during this journey was light and pretty easy going. Andy managed to get to know the blanks, and even though it took him a little while to get used to the fact he was interacting with fake teenage versions of his school friends (and one of himself), he reached his house being able to joke with them on the same level that Gary could. 

Andy’s house was a decently sized, makeshift hut. It was something that looked like it had been built by hand, with care, while using any sorts of materials and bits and pieces that could be found scavenging. This sort of house was fairly common since the Network left, but Andy’s was strangely home-y and well laid out. Gary was honestly unsurprised by this, he knew that Andy always had a good eye for organising and planning things out. He noticed a small patch a little distance from the house where Andy was growing a few different kinds of vegetables. Gary let out a small, amused exhale through his nose, admiring Andy’s dedication to a relatively healthy diet. 

“Well, here we are. Home, sweet home,” Andy said after opening the door and leading the group into a surprisingly spacious main room. It contained a few rough wooden chairs and a rough wooden coffee table, all of which looked like they had been hand made. On the other side of the choppy coffee table there was a rather shabby, but still comfortable-looking sofa. It was a tired and washed out green colour, and it looked like it had been scratched by a thousand cats, but the cushions on it still appeared to be somewhat squishy. The hard, wooden floorboards had been covered with a tatty, patterned rug that had half of its tassels missing. 

Gary raised his eyebrows and nodded in approval. 

“Look at this Knightley! You’ve got a pretty sweet home base here,” he complimented. The blanks behind him also looked around and nodded their heads. They too seemed impressed with what Andy had built. 

“Thanks! You guys can get comfortable in here if you’d like,” Andy said to the blanks, waving towards the sofa and chairs. Once the blanks started finding spots to sit, Andy turned to Gary and said, “A’ight, pass me that chicken and I’ll get it started.” 

Gary made a noise of confirmation and handed the now dead chicken to Andy, holding it out with both hands. Once his hands were free, Gary’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“Hang on, what do you have to cook it with?” he asked, placing a hand on his jaw thoughtfully. 

“Ah, follow me out to the back,” Andy said, a knowing smile on his face. Gary raised an eyebrow and gestured with a hand towards Andy, indicating for him to lead the way. 

From the large room they entered, they passed through a smaller room which seemed like it was some kind of kitchen or at least a food preparation area. It contained a large table that was in the same style as the chairs and the coffee table in the previous room; clearly this had also been hand made out of the same materials. In the centre of this table there was a rich, green plant of some kind, growing happily in a chipped and scuffed flower pot. A couple of white, leaf-shaped flowers grew from the foliage. There were rickety counters with cupboards that looked like they had been taken out of an actual house and just propped up onto the walls. Only a few of the cupboards had doors. 

Andy continued to lead Gary through a back door and outside, where a few paces away from the door sat a rather impressive looking stone furnace. It was a very rough circular shape, built together out of random bricks and rocks, with an opening at the front for the food to go into and a small gap near the bottom for fuel to be put into. A couple of twigs poked out of the gap. 

“Andy! This is amazing!” Gary exclaimed, spinning in a circle and stretching his arms out. “Did you build all of this?” 

“Yeah I did! Well, me and, I guess my ex wife now, worked on it all together,” Andy explained, becoming a little pensive. 

“Ah, so she left?” Gary asked tentatively. He fidgeted with the brim of his hat. Andy let out a sigh.

“Yeah. Just walked out and never came back.” 

“Real shame, I’m sorry man. But also, honestly, her loss! Look at all of this cool stuff she left behind! In my opinion, you won,” Gary advised enthusiastically, looking at Andy with a confident stare. Andy seemed unsure at first, eyebrows knitted together, ready to get frustrated with Gary, but he just couldn’t. Eventually a small smile wormed its way onto his face and he felt his body relax. When Gary saw it, he grinned broadly. 

“Don’t know why she would leave a cute thing like this,” Gary said as he turned round to face the hut. “I wouldn’t mind having a place like this to come back to every now and then.”  

Andy felt a warmth in his cheeks. 

“She always said it looked run down and ugly,” Andy said, exhaling sharply as if he was trying to blow out the sudden warmth in his face. Gary spun round to face Andy again, eyes wide and mouth open in a shocked expression. 

“Really?? This is adorable! It feels so…” Gary hesitated, turning back to the hut and shaking his arms and hands in the air, trying to find the word he wanted. 

“Crass?” Andy said, huffing out a short laugh. 

“No!” Gary chided, flashing Andy with a disapproving scowl before returning to facing the hut. 

“Well then what’s the word you’re looking for?” Andy asked tiredly. 

“I dunno, it’ll come to me eventually,” Gary said, flopping his arms down at his sides and shuffling over to Andy. He pointed at the stone furnace. “So how does this work?” 

For the next few minutes Andy showed Gary the whole process of preparing the chicken and cooking it in the stone furnace, even down to him explaining exactly how the furnace worked. Unfortunately for Andy’s patience, Gary never seemed to fully understand exactly how it worked. 

“Wait, but how does the heat stay in? There’s all these holes in between the stones,” he puzzled, pointing at all of the spaces. 

“I’ve explained this already Gary, it’s- you know what, never mind,” Andy sighed heavily, giving up on trying to get Gary to understand. 

The pair of them stood up and left the furnace, deciding to walk back inside and see how the blanks were doing. Once they were back in the main room, they found the blanks just happily chatting away, and the pair of them lingered in the doorway, watching them. Both had affectionate, little smiles on their faces as they watched the four teenages talk in such an ordinary way, reminding them of their far away youth. Blank Ollie still had those short, snappy mannerisms as he spoke, Blank Steve still had that calm and relaxed posture, Blank Pete still fidgeted with the sleeves of his jumper, and Blank Andy still had that boisterous laugh and hearty grin.  

“I can never get over how good the Network were at copying people,” Andy murmured thoughtfully, continuing to watch the blank teens. Gary let out a small chuckle. 

“Yeah, but since they’ve been walking around with me, it’s like they’ve gradually become less how like the Network originally built them and have become more true to the, I guess, originals. As if the true personalities are coming out,” Gary mused quietly, also not wanting to look away from the conversation in front of them. Andy let out a thoughtful, but affectionate hum. 

They continued to watch the blanks natter away for another minute or so, before Andy suddenly seemed to leap with an idea. 

“Oh! Stay there, I’ve got an idea of something we can do while we wait for the chicken to cook,” Andy said, startling the blanks out of their bubble. They all turned to look at him. 

“What? What is it?” Gary asked as Andy started to walk away from him into a different room that he hadn’t gone into yet. Andy skidded round to face Gary. 

“Gary, you will like this, it’ll take you back to those Christmases we would have together with the boys,” he replied eagerly, before quickly heading off again. 

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” Blank Oliver asked, looking at Gary. 

“I don’t know, there was a lot of things we would do at Christmas,” Gary said, throwing his hands up into a shrug. He decided to sit with the others while they waited, so he perched down onto a space on the floor next to the coffee table, crossing his legs as best as he could in his scruffy jeans. Gary undid the strap for his sword and took it off, placing it among the other weapons that the blanks had put in a pile next to the sofa. 

“Are you guys ready?” Andy suddenly came back carrying something under his arm. They all perked up. “Look what I’ve managed to get!” 

“Fuckin’ hell Andy!” Gary exclaimed, eyes wide and a grin on his face. 

All eyes in the room were focused on the box of Monopoly that Andy was now holding out in front of him. 

“The real deal, I found it during one of my scavenging trips. It pretty much has everything still in it! Oh, well it is missing a few of the paper notes but that doesn’t impact the game too much. It is also missing a couple of the player pieces but that’s alright because I can always find other objects to replace them. Oh also I don’t think there’s any hotel pieces in here, but that doesn’t really matter because when have we ever got to having hotels?” Andy said before angling a laugh towards Gary. 

“Yeah we always got into some kind of game-ending argument before we got to hotels,” Gary said, laughing. 

So they set up the board and all of the money and all of the pieces out on the coffee table in the main room. Gary yelled dibs to be banker, but Andy quickly stamped out that notion and made it so that he was the banker; he claimed that Gary cheats when he’s allowed to be in that position. There was a slight squabble between Blank Steven and Gary about who should be the race car, but after a quick game of rock, paper, scissors, Gary got to be the race car and Blank Steven then picked to be the boat. Blank Oliver decided to be the thimble, Blank Peter wanted to be the dog, Blank Andy went for the cannon, and then Andy picked up the boot. 

Luckily for Gary and Andy, part of the memories that the blanks had, was knowing how to play Monopoly, so they launched straight into the game. Gary got a strong start with properties, but by the end of the game ended up either having to sell them to others or mortgaged after making poor and impulsive choices with his money. Andy played it pretty safe and ended up having a decent few properties with houses on them, making him a contender to win but not indefinitely. Blank Steven went down a similar route as Gary, buying lots of property in the beginning and made Gary especially mad because he managed to get all of the green properties. However by the end of the game he wasn’t in the worst shape, but he definitely wasn’t winning with his lack of houses. Blank Peter never really got a chance to buy anything that good, with his unlucky dice rolls he missed out on a lot of stuff. He eventually managed to get a few properties that people didn’t want, like the browns, but it meant that he wasn’t in too bad of a position by the end of the game. Blank Oliver was in his element. He was making deals left and right, even being able to swindle Gary into selling some of his good properties to him, and by the end of the game he was the ultimate tycoon. 

“Gary, you have to sell me that property or you’re out of the game!” Blank Oliver said, staring hard at him. 

“No wait! Wait! I can get this back! If I just- fuck!” Gary was scrabbling through his things, desperately trying to find a way to pay the rent without losing. 

“Oh fuck! How long has it been since we started?” Andy suddenly interjected. 

“Probably a good few hours… why?” Blank Steven said. 

“SHIT! Gary the chicken!” Andy yelled, startling Gary out of his desperate state. 

“Huh? OH FUCK THE CHICKEN!” 

In a flurry of cards and fake money, Andy and Gary clambered to their feet and scrambled through the kitchen and out of the back door to check on the stone furnace. 

“Hm… anyway Steven, can I make you a deal?” Blank Oliver asked, turning to Blank Steven. 

Smoke was pouring out of the stone furnace, much more thick, black smoke than there should have been. Andy grabbed a rag from the kitchen and flapped it about as Gary grabbed the emergency bucket of water from next to the furnace. He shoved the water into the fuel gap with some force, putting out the fire that had been cheerily crackling away for hours. Andy took the rag in both hands and frantically pulled out the chicken, only to find a shrivelled and charred lump. The chicken had been thoroughly burnt. 

“Fuck…” Andy said quietly. The pair stood there staring sadly at the blackened blob; it still had wisps of smoke curling off of it. 

“But I’ve been a good boy this year,” Gary said mournfully. 

“The fuck do you mean?” 

“It’s a lump of coal, and it’s Christmas Day,” Gary clarified, trying his best to conceal a laugh and keep the sombre tone. His lips were twitching, itching to burst into laughter. 

Andy looked at Gary, not being able to believe that he made a stupid joke when all that they worked for had just, quite literally, gone up in flames. However, when he caught Gary’s eyes with his own, he had to start fighting back a laugh of his own. 

“Gary. This is not a joking matter,” he said, looking back down at the chicken, trying his best not to splutter. He hoped that avoiding eye contact with Gary would help, but it didn’t, the laugh was still trying to escape and now stronger than before. 

Andy took one last look at Gary, and the two erupted into waves of laughter. It took them a few minutes before they were able to calm down, clinging onto each other and tears streaming from their eyes. 

“WHEW! Okay, fuckin’ hell,” Andy panted, finally being able to catch his breath. 

“Alright… so what are we gonna do about the chicken?” Gary asked after he was able to breathe again. They both once again looked down at the burnt chicken. 

“Ah fuck the chicken,” Andy said, before throwing the entire thing over his shoulder. The pair giggled together. 

Andy and Gary stood there for a moment, looking out into the wilderness, contemplating things in silence, and just enjoying each others’ company. This was the most comfortable they had felt around each other in such a long time, they probably hadn’t felt this content with each other since the 90s… and it felt nice, really nice. 

“Gary?” Andy decided to break the silence, turning his head to his best friend. 

“What’s up Knightley?” 

“Did you mean what you said earlier?” 

“About what?” 

“You know, the thing you said, about how you wouldn’t mind having a place like this to come back to.” Andy had shifted his gaze back to the vast wilderness in front of him, missing the warm smile creeping up Gary’s face. 

“Oh yeah!” Gary said, bouncing a little on his toes as he looked at his boots. “Yeah I meant it.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah!” 

Andy felt that sudden warmth in his cheeks again, although it was more toasty than the last time. He glanced at Gary at the same time Gary glanced at him, and both of them quickly diverted their eyes to something else in their surroundings. 

“Well, since it is just me here now, it gets pretty lonely out here, by myself. So I was thinking, if you wanted to pop back here every now and then, well you’re more than welcome. You can use it as a sort of, home base,” Andy said, once again struggling to get through his words a little. 

“I mean, I do really like it, and I have been wandering around for a long time… it would be nice to rest and just, stick to one place for a bit,” Gary replied, sniffing sharply and fidgeting with the buttons on his coat. 

“Yeah! You’re allowed to stay, you can stay for as long or as little as you want really.” 

“Nice! Um, thanks Andy,” Gary said, finally looking at Andy once more. Andy looked back at him. 

“It’s no problem.” 

The two stood there for a few moments of silence more, but this time not wanting to look away. This was the first bit of real connection that they had felt since… well, an even longer time ago. It felt so, so, refreshing. 

“QUAINT!” Gary suddenly blurted out, causing Andy to jump. 

“Wh-what’s this about?” Andy stammered, bewildered. 

“The word that I was trying to remember earlier! When I was describing your- well I guess now our hut. It was the word ‘quaint’!” Gary babbled. 

“Oh! I see… yeah I guess that word works,” Andy said indifferently. 

“You guess?? I thought it was a great word!” Gary argued. 

“Meh. Also, I’m sorry, it’s ‘our hut’ now?” Andy barked playfully. 

“Yeah! Isn’t that what you were just saying?” 

“I guess so but you jumped on that and got comfortable with it very quickly!” 

“Sooooo what you’re saying is that I’m not wrong?” 

“Shut the fuck up Gary King, you prick,” Andy scoffed, a huge grin on his face. 

“You shut the fuck up Andy Knightely, you twat,” Gary retorted, with a grin just as big. 

#this has been In The Works for like a hot minute #I hope it's okay though!! #I honestly wanted to write the whole Monopoly scene out properly but I also didn't want to make this too long lmao #it's already at almost 5k #also tempted to post to ao3 if people are cool with that #the cornetto trilogy #cornetto trilogy #the world's end #the world's end movie #gary king #andy knightley #beef writes #beef speaks #cornettosecretsanta2023 #cornetto secret santa 2023

[eredins-a-king-aint-he]

Have I ever mentioned that I am simply buck fucking wild for OC content?

#because I fucking am #I love OCs I think they’re so fun and cool #and I wish people did more with them #like I wish it was more widely accepted to write oc/canon or oc&canon fic #I have an origin story for Janom that I started writing ages ago and I’m tempted to post it to ao3 #even though I know most people wouldn’t be interested #I think OCs are such a fun way to play in a world #idk I just wish they were more common and more widely enjoyed #also I’m drawing a new oc and I’m gonna post him as soon as I finish his shading #witcher ocs #we love oc content in this house

[booksandabeer]

Stucky, Fandom Longevity, and "Primacy Bias"

There’s this post that's been floating around the past few days about how the Stucky fandom in its heyday produced fic and art masterpieces like they were all collectively possessed by an unprecedented spirit of creative insanity. It’s a good, fun post and I agree with the person who wrote it. (not rb'ing because I didn't want to hijack their post with something that's only tangentially related).

It was indeed a magical time and the creative output in both quantity and quality in the two-year period following the release of CA:TWS is—with perhaps a few exceptions—unmatched by anything that I’ve seen before and since. However, going through the notes on that post, I noticed something that left me a little irritated and quite frankly sad since it is in congruence with, and to a certain extent the confirmation of something that I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.

For one thing, there are so many people in the notes expressing sentiments along the lines of “it was such a wonderful time; I wish I could go back; I miss these fics; I want to read these fics again,” etc., etc., you get it. And it feels a little silly pointing this out, but…you can just do that? Almost all of these fics are still right there, waiting for you to be (re)read. Yes, a lot of people left the fandom after The Great Devastation of 2019, but their stories didn’t just disappear. It's not like there is now a big, black hole where the Steve/Bucky tag used to be on AO3. So, if you miss these fics and you want to revisit them—just do it. Chances are the authors will be delighted that people are still finding and enjoying their stories all these years later. And—since apparently this needs saying, too, judging from the notes on that post: A lot of people seem to be very concerned with losing ‘coolness points’ for openly admitting that they still miss the ship and often feel tempted to dip their toes back into the Stucky pool. I don’t know how to tell you this, but if someone tries to shame you for simply enjoying or missing something, they are an asshole. Not to mention that all this is happening on tumble.com—'coolness' doesn't exactly live here. And that is a good thing, to be clear. Fandom is not about being cool. It’s about being as enthusiastic, as silly, as absolutely fucking unhinged about the things you love as you want to be. So, stop caring what other people think and enjoy yourself.

The other thing is that there seems to be a pretty widespread misconception that the Stucky fandom hasn’t produced any good fanworks after 2016.

First, that is patently and demonstrably untrue. There is so much incredibly good fanfiction and fanart still out there. Not as much as back in the day, sure, but it still exists. And more is being posted every day! Even some of the OG Big Names are still around. One of the most beloved Stucky series that started all the way back in 2014 was updated as recently as December of last year. The artist, who I believe the op is referring to as creating ‘baroque’ paintings, posted their latest Stucky art not even two months ago.

Second, I find this “primacy bias” more than just a little insulting to the many hardworking and incredibly talented people who are still putting their blood, sweat, and tears into creating for this community. And it’s one thing if people who have long left the fandom believe or say something like this, but it’s frankly irritating when I see people who are still very much active—and therefore definitely should know better—feed into that same false myth. Yes, it sucks that the Stucky ship isn’t as big as it used to be, but that doesn't mean there isn't any 'fresh talent' to be found anymore. I’m also not saying we shouldn’t still celebrate and recommend older works—I do it all the time! And it sure as hell doesn't mean everyone has to reblog absolutely everything all the time, either. Your blog, your rules.

But maybe we should put a little more focus on the good things, on the creators and the community we have now, especially if we want that community to still exist in another ten years. I mean, imagine you’re a person who’s just gotten into the fandom (because yes, there are indeed still new people discovering Stucky all the time) and one of the first things you’re being told is “eh, nice that you're here, but you’re about 7 years late; the big party is already over.” Does that seem like a fun space to hang out in to you?

So. Let’s all—and I do not exclude myself from this because God knows, I love to complain—spend a little less time mourning the ‘good old days’ that are never coming back anyway, and instead focus our attention on enjoying and appreciating both the incredible treasure chest of an archive we have AND the wealth of high-quality art and fic that is still being created by this wonderful community every single day. With this in mind:

🥳🎊Happy Stucky Week 2023!!! 🎊🥳

*I want to make it very clear that this is a general thing that’s been on my mind lately and that I’m trying to work through here—probably not very coherently. I'm not trying to tell anybody 'how to do fandom' and I’m most definitely not vagueposting about any particular incident, person, or group in this fandom. This isn’t a callout post. It’s an I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about this and I don’t know what else do with them post.

#stucky #stucky fanfic #fandom culture #i once again have no idea what to tag this #fanfiction forever #fanart forever

[ofsappho]

treehouse 🔞 (also available on ao3)

tags: smut, pregnancy, 🔞, mental illness, trauma, eventual happy ending

Dream of the Endless | Lord Morpheus x reader

It's a common story; you meet a tall, dark, and handsome man outside of a club and take him home that night. When he leaves, you don't think you'll ever see him again.

Now, what's less common is what happens a couple of weeks later, when you realize you're pregnant. But you only know his name, if that even is his real name: "Dream".

What exactly are you going to do now?

(title from the song Treehouse by Alex G) (originally posted on AO3)

You don’t usually do this kind of thing.

‘Thing’ here refers to venturing out of your apartment, alone, dressed to the nines and in search of trouble. The kind of thing that every other twenty-something you know does on a regular basis.

But it’s always been too hard for you to gather up the energy for such an effort. Depression can do that.

Tonight, though, you’re trying, even though you’re definitely the only person in this club without anyone else to accompany them.

The party feels like something out of that new Batman movie; bass reverberating through the soles of your sneakers and smoke curling through the air, heavy-fingered and tinged blood red from the colored lights.

You had choked down a panic attack on the walk from the train to the club, only making it down those few blocks of sidewalk by reminding yourself that you can leave whenever it stops being fun, over and over.

The ice in your drink is fully melted and in the whole hour you’ve wandered around, you’ve really only spoken to the very pretty bartender. She complimented your dress, and you would’ve complimented her eyes in return, but you’re aware that she was only being polite and doing her job.

Without much fanfare, you abandon your glass filled halfway with water and halfway with vodka sour next to all the other discarded glasses. This has officially stopped being fun, though whether or not it was ever fun to begin with is up for debate, and you take that as your cue to dip.

Once you’re outside, the cool air a pleasant balm on your sweat-sticky cheeks, you quickly snag a cigarette out of the carton in your purse. A raven watches you struggle to light it.

He’s a curious bird, calm as any human, and you win the staring contest between the two of you. When he cocks his head at the sound of your laughter, you swear he can practically understand you. You keep giggling as you crouch down and offer your shitty lighter to the raven. “Well? Are you gonna help me or just stand there making fun?”

“Matthew has always had a sense of humor.” At the sound of someone’s accented voice, as rich and deep as whiskey, you stand and turn to see a man looking at you and your new corvus buddy.

Oh fuck, he’s beautiful.

You go with beautiful as handsome is definitely the wrong word. The stranger is beautiful in a way that doesn’t quite seem humanly possible, like it breaks your brain a little bit to look at his brilliant eyes, to take in his high, sweeping cheekbones and plush mouth.

“The raven’s name is Matthew?”

“Yes.” You’re tempted to ask him if he, like, has a podcast or maybe records audiobooks. If he doesn’t, he should. He’d do super well.

Seriously. It’s catnip to you. The sound unfurls from his throat with a touch of rasp, but still purer and more resonant than any other voice you can recall.

You’re reminded of what priests say the voice of God sounds like. This is a very weird thing to come to mind when a random guy talks, especially as you aren’t really religious like that. He definitely could get a whole lot of people to do as he wished just by asking, you think. A God needs to have that quality. Or a cult leader.

You swallow down the heat inside that stokes hotter with every moment his bright gaze clings to your face, to the curve of your lips. His structured black coat fits across his proud shoulders well; it looks expensive and he appears to have an awfully good tailor.

You decide to go along with the bit. Bits are fun and talking to this man is exactly the kind of shenanigan you were hoping to stumble across. “That’s a good name. Did you give him that?”

He smiles knowingly. “He named himself.”

That’s funny. It makes sense; ravens are as clever as any person, the Internet says, so someone looking at one of those birds and feeling as though it named itself isn’t totally out of left field.

You hope he elaborates on that, but the stranger doesn’t seem inclined to help you out there. But you don’t want the silence to settle much longer. It might drive him away, and you’d like him to stick around longer. Maybe get his number. “Well, I hope he knows it suits him. Hey. You think you could light this for me? You saw me try it with Matthew, but I don’t think he has enough claws to make it work.” You hold out the lighter with shaky fingers, nervousness fighting desire in your veins.

When he takes it from you, his skin brushes yours. It’s almost electric. “…of course.”

You’ve never felt attracted to someone so fast. The wanting hits you like an avalanche; a dream of his palms on your hips and red marks on your skin from his teeth pours through your mind.

The man cups his other hand over the flame as you lean in, at last lighting your neglected smoke. Your lungs fill with him, not tobacco smoke. His scent, sharp and comforting all at once, makes you just as woozy, just as lightheaded as the nicotine does. “Thank you, I, um, appreciate it. Do you have a name, too?”

“You may call me Dream.”

Your best friend would appreciate his excellent grammar. Clever of him to use ‘might’; if you were a Fae trying to get his real name, he’s answered in exactly the way someone trying to not get fairy abducted should. These are the kinds of tidbits that amuse you, even if you won’t ever use them. So you’ve spent your life hoarding random information like this, just for funsies.

“Your choice of words there is noted, ‘Dream’.” Your smile warms your voice and he steps in a little closer, close enough that you have to tilt your head up a bit to maintain eye contact. Like staring at an eclipse. That’s bad for your eyesight, you tell yourself. But you can’t look away.

His lashes are as black as his thick, undone hair, framing a lidded and darkening gaze.“Were you just leaving?”

Oh fuck yeah. “Um, yeah, not really my scene. Kinda boring, at least for me. It’s a shame; I was hoping to actually make getting out of the house tonight worth it, but. No dice.” You haven’t done this game in quite awhile, but you still remember the rules. A bit of a tease at the end, just to imply that you’re interested. What can you do? He makes you bold, bolder than normal. You want him to want you.

“Pity.” A pause stretches between you and you feel your heart sink into your stomach, your anxiety revving up again. What if he just walks away and leaves you here, embarrassed and in your head for believing someone like you could attract someone like him?

“Do you still wish to make getting out of the house tonight worth it?” Your words sound out of place in his mouth, too modern.

What’s that joke about how some actors in period dramas clearly look like they know what an iPhone is? Dream is apparently the opposite of that. He seems entirely above petty concerns like lamenting the lack of decent hookups.

The discordance has you stifling a giggle.

You dream some more about his hand tangling in your hair and his body covering yours, his knee between your thighs. And the fire, deep in your belly, burns brighter and brighter. “Depends on what we’re doing.”

When Dream smiles, it’s beautiful and uncanny. He looks like a predator, and you’ve stumbled right where he wants you. It’s hot. You’re good with that. “You know what.”

“…yes.”

You can’t really remember how you got back to your apartment - Dream has been far too busy pressing his mouth to yours, devouring the heady, saliva-slick kisses you’re freely offering up, for you to pay attention to something like that.

As soon as you’ve made it inside the front door, he pins you against the wall to wrap an elegant, long-fingered hand in your hair, tipping your face towards him so he can nip at your bottom lip with sharp teeth. “You are… exquisite,” He murmurs against your lips, pupils blown so large that his eyes look like galaxies with an endless black hole in the center, pulling you towards his gravity.

You grow wetter at the sound of the lust roughening up the edges of his polished voice, at the awe in his words. “Please,” you moan as he bites aching marks into the column of your throat that are sure to bruise purple and red tomorrow. You want them to bruise, you want to have something left behind after this hookup ends, proof he was there.

You’re not even sure how to articulate what exactly you’re begging for. That’s beyond what your mind is capable of right now, as his hand fists in your hair and tightens until it’s the perfect amount of slightly painful and you’re gasping, desperate for more. Your hands have twisted into the collar of his coat this whole time and you don’t let go. The feeling of the cloth rounds you and more than anything, you don’t want him to back away.

Dream seems to understand your pleading - he lathes the bruises with his tongue and you would do anything he wanted, as long as he would do that between your thighs. His other hand trails against the swell of your breast, gently caressing them through your thin dress. You arch into his touch, his fingers rolling over your nipple, plucking at it before palming your chest once more.

You’re greedy - you want even more. With a frustrated groan, you shove your dress off about as fast as you’re capable of doing so, getting tangled in the sleeves in your enthusiasm. A whine escapes your chest - seriously?

You’re so horny at this point that any fumbling delay like this might cause a meltdown, especially in front of someone as hot as Dream, but he simply smiles affectionately and untangles you, soothing your ruffled feathers with his calm, steady touch. The dress flutters to the ground in a heap. “Be still,” He admonishes you, before sucking in a sharp breath at the sight of your body bared to him. “Fuck.”

Your underwear is soaked through and it clings to your thighs as you shift, desperately trying to relieve the yearning need inside.

Dream seems transfixed by you, utterly enraptured by your full breasts and the dip of your waist, the soft curves of your hips. Those pretty, blinding eyes almost glow in the dim light of your living room lamp and as his fingers leave your hair to trail down your neck, a line down your clavicle, his touch relishing in the softness of your skin, you’ve never felt more desired.

Then, he meets your round, hungry eyes. “Do you want this?”

“Yes. Yes. Of course,” You pant. He’s moving too slow for you; you yank him towards you again, your mouth vicious as you kiss him. Dream’s still fully clothed, which seems a bit unfair, but there’s something about the intentional vulnerability of standing before him mostly-naked that you secretly enjoy. He has the upper hand at the moment, and you’re actually pretty okay with that.

Impatience and a bratty touch of mischief briefly win out over the urge to please him, to revel in his affections, so you quickly slip away from his grasp and flee towards your bedroom, with Dream hot on your trail.

Before you make it all the way to your bed, still unmade from earlier today, he catches you by your waist, wrapping his hand around your jaw tight enough to leave fingerprints so he can expose the side of your neck to the burn of his lips.

You fully expect him to toss you down on the bed and have his way with you, but Dream lowers you down carefully with one hand cradling the back of your head and his eyes fixed on your face, possession and lust blossoming in his terrifyingly beautiful smile

You need him.

He peels off his clothes quickly. Underneath all those dark, rich fabrics, his lean, muscle-bound torso gleams in the moonlight like a marble statue of some old god. You’ve always loved Ancient Greece and their perfectly-sculpted effigies.

Then Dream is on you again. He sinks to his knees before you and his position doesn’t feel like submission, not when you’ve fully surrendered to him. His mouth trails down your body and his hands can’t stop touching you; you gasp as you writhe in his steady embrace holding you still.

Your underwear gets discarded in some corner of your room - you’ll look for it later, when your hookup leaves.

He hooks one of your legs on his shoulder and buries his head between your thighs. He’s like, really good at eating you out. You’re sort of shocked, because you haven’t had great experiences with this, but his tongue traces your clit and the overwhelming pleasure from Dream’s touch forces a desperate cry out of you.

He chuckles against your pussy, now teasing intentionally as he traces around your clit, around your dripping core, before returning to his task. Dream carefully sinks two fingers inside of you and his groan at how your cunt flutters around his fingers vibrates through you. You’re so full already, the pressure pinching a little, and he’s careful, so careful when he starts to move in and out of you, sucking at your clit to soothe the ache from the stretch.

You’re moaning, and you can’t even breathe, can’t catch your breath; it’s so fucking good, and you feel the beginning of an orgasm coiling inside you already.

Any pain completely dissipates as Dream’s mouth indulges you, tastes you like he wants nothing more than to eat you out for the rest of time. Your body instinctively twitches away, hips trying to escape his touch. The pleasure burns through your body like a wildfire, and the intensity is almost too much, especially when the pads of his fingers find a sensitive spot inside your trembling, hypersensitive cunt. “Fuck, Dream, fuck-“

When he pulls away from you, his mouth is slick with your arousal, and you watch him lick it from his lips. “Did I not say to be still?” He speaks quietly, evenly, a contrast to the needy whines you make at the loss of contact.

But his fingers don’t let up. Dream keeps moving them inside of you, and it’s hard to find the capacity to answer him when he intentionally brushes against that delicate, tender place.

You’d do anything for him to keep going. Anything. “No, you did, I’m sorry, please, I’m sorry.”

He does nothing for a moment; even his fingers pause as you spasm around him. And just when you think he’s going to completely withdraw and punish you for not following his instructions, he absolves you. “Good girl.”

Dream braces his other arm against your hips so you can’t escape how he pleasures you, and even as your body jerks when he enters you again, picking up the pace and fucking you open, you can’t move away. He replaces his tongue on your clit with his thumb, pressing even circles into your sensitive flesh so he can watch your face twisted in ecstasy and the brilliant flush crawling up your tits towards your throat with hungry, star-bright eyes.

Dream needs you undone before him just much as you want him to take you apart.

You’re so wet that it’s obscene, his fingers dripping with you, and the sound your pussy makes with every movement is embarrassingly loud, almost as loud as your moans.

Your impending orgasm sparks back to life as he patiently builds you back up, your thighs trembling and eyes rolling at a particularly forceful thrust. When he fits another finger inside your soaked core, your eyes roll back in your head as you cry out in surprise. It’s too good, the pain and pleasure bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

Fuck, you can feel it, right there, feel it threatening to pull you under like a riptide, and each movement pushes the breath out of your lungs. It takes a minute to realize Dream is matching his thumb teasing your clit with his careful, gentle pushes against that spot inside your pussy. He knows your body so well for someone you’ve never met before, and in his capable, clever hands, you’re so close to coming apart.

He’s still looking at you, completely enraptured by your back arching off the end and your eyes hazy with lust. Dream takes your clit into his mouth once more, tongue flicking against you as he chases your orgasm.

“Thank you, oh my god, I’m gonna come,” You beg helplessly, writhing and squirming against him, your body wound up so tight that it hurts.

“That’s it. Give it to me.”

He commands, and you obey, coming around his fingers with a drawn-out cry. You’re coming, and it eats you alive, the fall flooding through you like lightning. Dream helps you through it, bearing down, so your pussy trembles through your orgasm on his firm, clever hands. You feel yourself gush around him, and he groans at the feeling of it, slowing his fingers pumping in and out of you without stopping altogether, eking out every last bit of your pleasure that he can.

And Dream instinctively knows when you’re done, when you can’t give him any more, so he finally withdraws and licks his fingers clean of your cum.

You can’t totally feel your legs, and you need to finally catch your breath, but you look at him, pleased and benevolent and still desirous of you, and you know you can go another round.

You prop yourself up on shaky arms to meet his filthy, messy kiss; the taste of your salty musk blooms on your tongue, and he wraps his arms around your sweaty, heated body. “Will you fuck me? Please? I want it,” You ask when you break the kiss. You’re a quick study, and Dream seems to like it when you tell him that you want him.

His eyes are almost completely black when he answers you. “Yes.” Dream’s tone is menacing and dark, and fuck, if you don’t drip on your blankets at the promise in his voice.

You like submitting to him, like how he handles your body like it’s his, and before he can push you down, you flip over and sink down on your knees, back arched and face pressed into the bed. “Like this?” You realize you’re asking for permission, which is something maybe you should’ve negotiated beforehand.

But you shouldn’t have worried; he’s very much on the same page. “Yes.”

You wait for him to shift behind you. You can’t see Dream, and the anticipation sends a thrill down your spine. You’re exposed and vulnerable in this position, and he could do anything.

His hands caress your ass, your thighs, your curves, lingering indulgently. It’s as if you’re precious, as if you’re the most holy thing he’s ever touched.

After pressing a single, sweet kiss on the base of your spine, Dream kneels behind you, and you can feel his hips against your ass. He seems intent on soothing the tension out of you, patiently stroking your heated skin until you melt at his touch.

And when you’re soft and pliant, he pushes in.

He’s pretty big, big enough that even after three fingers and an orgasm, you still feel a pinch as he thrusts deeper. You involuntarily make a soft noise of discomfort; you don’t want him to think you’re not enjoying this, to draw away from you. But Dream takes his time, gently opening you up on his dick as you start to relax.

When he finally seats himself inside you, that slight noise of discomfort turns into a deep, contented sigh. You’re so full, your pussy stretched comfortably to its limits, and you go slack against the sheets. Your cum from your last orgasm is soon matched by a new well of arousal from the feeling of his dick in you, heavy and hard and incredible.

And when he starts moving, your pillow muffles your loud moans. He fucks you slowly at first, mindful of how tight you are. It’s so caring, and it works; you enjoy the leisurely build-up much more. Before long, you’re aching for everything else he can give you.

He doesn’t have you entirely out of your mind yet, so you slot your hips back against his to meet his thrusts. And when you clench particularly hard around his cock, Dream also groans. “Alright,” he says with a hint of amusement. “You can have it.”

He fucks you in earnest now, one hand fisted in your hair and holding you down as he moves in you faster and faster, tears forming in your eyes from how ridiculously good it feels. With each push, he takes pieces of your higher functioning abilities with him, so all that’s left is your body responding to his touches, your mind drunk on his dick. Dream is addictive and so completely good at this; he hits just the right angle that torments you with pleasure.

“Holy shit, fuck, that feels-“ you cut yourself off with a long moan as his dick presses against your most sensitive places. But Dream is fed up with the pillow muffling your sounds. He wants to hear them, wants you to scream and moan and cry out as much as you want, and he draws you up off the bed by your hair as he keeps pounding into you.

Your shaky arms barely support you, but you manage.

Dream keeps moving as he hisses into your ear. You can barely focus on what he’s saying, not when he’s stretching you out with each furious push and forcing you closer to your second orgasm of the night. “I need to hear you. You’ll let me hear you,” He promises before biting at your throat, sucking in another mark on your skin where you’ll struggle to conceal it.

“Yes, yes, yes,” You chant. Anything. Anything he wants.

Dream keeps hold of your hair to arch your spine in such a way that every time he enters you, his cock thrusts against that tender bit inside, and your cunt spasms around him.

He wants to hear you. And you let him. Wailing with every brutal thrust, eyes rolling back in your head. God, you don’t want this to end, but you’re not sure you can take much more; he’s already maxed you to your limits with how good Dream can make you feel at once. You can hear his deep grunts as you start fucking yourself back on his dick.

Your clit aches at the lack of contact, and he gently lets you slump against the bed once more so he can slip his hand around your hips and gently play with the sensitive nub.

Your orgasm is back with a vengeance. You edge towards it so quickly that it takes you by surprise, encouraged and beckoned by his fingers moving on your clit in tandem with his cock ruining you. You keep waiting and waiting to go over the edge before realizing that Dream is gatekeeping you from it, cleverly changing up how he fucks you to stave off your orgasm. To torture you. If you were capable of thought, you’d tell Dream he’s being cruel and beg him to let you come.

But you’re cock-drunk and boneless under him, so you take what he gives you with a pained, longing moan. No more pushing back against him, no more pleading. You just lie there and take it, and there’s maybe some saliva dripping out of the corner of your slack mouth. Yikes -  hopefully, he doesn’t notice.

Dream can tell you’ve just about hit your limit. “Can I come inside you, sweet girl? Do you want me to?” You probably should’ve asked him about that before you started throwing down; maybe gotten out a condom or checked to see if he was clean.

But you’re on birth control, and really if he pulls out of you now, you think you might start crying for real. You want him to come inside you, to fill up your twitching cunt until he spills out of your spent body. Like. That’s hot as fuck. Suddenly, you need it as badly as you need to come.

“Yes, fuck, please.”

Dream begins fucking you in earnest again, and his fingers never let up between your legs. “Then I need you to come one more time. Do it for me.”

“I- I can’t-“

It’s just out of reach. Even though his cock feels incredible in you, even though your legs are quivering and tears run down your face from the pleasure he forces through your body, you can’t quite come. It’s driving you insane.

You get to the point where you stop making any noise at all, so twisted up in the sensations rushing through you that you don’t have the strength to do anything else besides tremble around him.

And then Dream tips you right over into it with a single, soft sentence, murmured into your ear. “I know you can.”

You come with a choked sound, blood rushing in your ears as you spill over around his dick. He rides you through it, fucking you through this orgasm that’s brutally wrecking you, that’s washed you clean of anything other than feeling Dream deep inside your quaking pussy.

He pounds into you once, then twice, before coming from the sensation of you fluttering around him. You feel his warmth fill you up inside, slick and silky. His cum spills a bit from your spent core when Dream finally pulls out.

He’s shaking, too, as he draws you into a tender embrace. You curl up into him on your side, body aching after it all. “You’re good at that. Like, really good.”

Dream smiles into your shoulder, where he has started pressing fond butterfly kisses into your sweaty, flushed skin. “And you are very good. You were very, very good for me, my dear.” You like being good for him. You have a praise kink in general, but being good for Dream somehow feels better, more meaningful, more special.

Just when you open your mouth to ask if he has any plans for the rest of the evening, he cuts you off with a voice undercut by regret and longing. “I cannot stay, unfortunately. My apologies; I don’t wish to leave you here so suddenly. But I have… to go.”

Oh.

You swallow down the quick flash of sadness.

You’re always a bit emotional after sex, and you like cuddling, but Dream doesn’t owe you any of that. He’s been nothing but polite and considerate, and you’ve just met him tonight. Even if you want him to stay, there’s no reason he should.

You know that the sadness and accompanying feelings of loss and inadequacy will soon build into something more substantial, messed up, and all-encompassing. And you’d rather not have Dream around when the dam breaks. He doesn’t have to do anything, and you have no right to make demands on his time.

You should get his phone number or something. But your phone is somewhere in the living room where you dropped your purse, and you really don’t feel like getting up.

Already your body is starting to crash now that the endorphins are gone, and you realize just how exhausted you are. A stroke of genius comes to mind. “It’s all good, don’t worry about it. You’ll leave your number for me? On the notepad by the door?”

“I- yes, I‘ll do that.” He looks at you for a long moment as if he wishes he could stay longer. Dream’s genuine remorse softens your heart. He’s a good guy, and it’s unfortunate that your time together had to be so short.

“I’ll see you around then,” You murmur quietly, asleep before you get to see him out.

#treehouse #i'm trying out posting the full chapters here on tumblr #obviously this is also available on ao3 #sandman #the sandman #sandman comics #the sandman comics #sandman netflix #the sandman netflix #dream of the endless #lord morpheus #morpheus #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless x you #lord morpheus x reader #lord morpheus x you #morpheus x reader #morpheus x you #pregnancy fic #fanfiction #sandman fanfiction #sandman dc #the sandman dc

[cheesybadgers]

Narcos Fic: Old Habits Die Hard (Chap. 22)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 23, Chapter 24

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Pairing: Javier Peña x Horacio Carrillo

Words: 6,985

Summary: As Horacio's and Javier's stay in Manizales comes to an end, Elena has some words of wisdom and an unexpected offer for their future.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Discussions of coming out, grief, parental loss, canon-typical violence, religious themes, brief non-explicit sexual references, smoking, swearing.

Notes: As promised, here's the second half of their Manizales adventures. I'm still wrestling with editing chapter 23 at the moment, plus life has been kind of busy/stressful lately, so not sure when it will be ready to post. But the finish line is definitely within touching distance now ❤️

Thank you once again to anyone still reading/commenting/making moodboards and playlists or drawing, I'm blown away when my fic inspires others to create. I'll be making a proper masterlist once the fic is finished, where I'll link to everything people have made or have suggested playlist songs etc., plus there'll be my own playlist and moodboards.

Feel free to drop me a comment, whether it's about the new chapter or an older one, I'm always happy to chat 😊

I’ve also added to my OHDH trivia post to cover this chapter if anyone is interested.

Chapter 22: Past, Present, Future

The early morning mist transformed into drizzle in the time it took Horacio to run around the farm boundaries, the spray cooling his clammy skin as he worked up a sweat. He left Javier to wake and shower at his own leisurely pace, a routine they had settled into since arriving here. Although two mornings ago, both Javier and Alejandra were suspiciously worse-for-wear, and Horacio didn’t see much of either of them until after lunch.

Today, they planned to join one of Fabián’s tours, which included a coffee-tasting session. So, even if the exercise hadn’t woken Horacio up, the caffeine certainly would.

The rain eased off once back at the finca, sunrays now straining to break through the low clouds as Horacio showered and dressed, somehow still beating Javier.

Tempting aromas from the kitchen let Horacio know his Mamá was already up and about after making the children breakfast before Alejandra dropped them off at school.

As he sat down at the kitchen table and poured himself a glass of orange juice – his usual coffee would wait for later – both cats, Caturra and Bourbon, took turns rubbing themselves against his legs.

“You and Alejandra loved that stray cat when you were young,” said Elena, who had appeared from the larder with her arms full of eggs, chorizo and arepas. “What was her name?”

“Estrella.”

“She was the next best thing to a jaguar, and you were desperate to see one back then.”

“I remember. Never did, though.”

“Not many get the privilege these days.”

“Can’t say I blame them for keeping out of sight.”

Horacio remembered his Abuela Margarita telling him stories of how the jaguar, snake and condor were the original creators of the world and how the jaguar was tricked by man into parting with its power of fire. The feline creature was forced to survive on its cunning and strength alone, prowling around the mountains and jungles of Colombia, waiting patiently to exact revenge.

For too long, Horacio had stalked, clawed and mauled his prey all over Medellín, seeking vengeance on those who betrayed his country and its people. He was an apex predator maintaining balance and order in the food chain, not out of choice but necessity. A reluctant warrior backed into a corner until a palpable sense of duty kicked in when the threat was too real to ignore.

But whatever the unseen truth was, jaguars gained a reputation as ferocious killers, feared by humans until they became the hunted rather than the hunter, gunned down and chased into hiding and a life of solitude. An act of cowardice by the jaguar on the face of it, but these days, Horacio liked to think of it as an evolutionary advantage, the opposite side of the fight-or-flight coin.

“It’s understandable, yes. But a life in the shadows has its drawbacks.”

“True. But there can be a certain kind of freedom in the dark. Especially when those with flares want you dead.”

“Not everyone offering light wants that, Mijo.”

Horacio, who had focused on the floor for most of the conversation, finally looked up, hazel eyes mirrored back at him with extra shades of wisdom. His dour expression softened, and his shoulders sagged in concession. “I know.”

“Whilst I’ve got you here…” Elena trailed off, disappearing upstairs before returning with a small wooden trinket box.

She sat down at the table and extracted a gold chain from the box. “He’d want you to have it.”

Horacio stared at the pendants that swung back and forth like a pendulum clock as Elena held them out towards him. His cheeks hollowed, and his lips formed a sharp pout from how tightly he held his jaw in place. “Mamá, I can’t. Not after everything. Not after I ran away.”

“What are you talking about?”

“After I was injured, I went into hiding...in Laredo, Texas. And I quit.” He grasped his hands together and bowed his head as though in prayer, but he wasn’t sure even God could help him now he had confessed his sins. “I’m sorry I kept it from you. And I know you’re probably wondering why I went –”

“Javier.”

Horacio froze, undecided if he was caught off guard by the mention of Javier’s name or how he could hear his Mamá’s smile as she said it, as though it was the most glaringly obvious response anyone could ever have given.

“It’s okay, Mijo. You don’t have to explain yourself. He told me about the ranch whilst you and Alejandra cleaned up on your first night here.”

“That’s how you knew?”

“Well, not only that. I might be older these days, but I’m not blind.”

Elena chuckled, but Horacio could tell it wasn’t at his expense. So, he allowed his jaw some leeway, unclenching his teeth and facial muscles, almost appreciating the ache left behind. A chain reaction surged through his body, tension unknowingly carried for decades ebbing away now the secret he once believed would follow him to his grave was not only out but wasn’t being held against him.

And so he threw caution to the wind and let the floodgates open. He told his Mamá about Madrid and working on the ranch, about their plans for the future, about life in Laredo and even the crucifix, just in case she had noticed its absence and assumed the worst.

Talk of the crucifix prompted Elena to take one of Horacio’s hands in hers, where she deposited her gift of gold before he could refuse. “Take it. Please.” Her hand formed a dome over Horacio’s, fingers gently squeezing.

Once Elena withdrew, Horacio unfurled his palm and stared down at his very own El Dorado. “After my injury, I’d dream about this sometimes. And the stories you and Abuelita Mirabel told us about Bochica. I wish it’d been as easy as striking a staff to stop Escobar.”

“Bochica might have saved his people from drowning, but he couldn’t save them from the conquistadors and their gold-digging.”

Horacio rolled his eyes and sighed. “I know you don’t approve of Madrid, Mamá. And I know I’m no Bolívar, but –”

“Mijo, what are you talking about? I know you had your reasons for Madrid – even the second time. That’s not what I meant. And no one’s asking you to be Bolívar.”

A salient monument dedicated to Simón Bolívar stood in the centre of Manizales. The statue was half-man, half-condor, each entity synonymous with the other as national symbols of freedom and sovereignty. It still stung for Horacio to be reminded he had worn the Colombian coat of arms on his uniform sleeve every day, the proud condor flying above the motto Libertad y Orden (Freedom and Order) with Dios y Patria (God and Country) sworn beneath. But unlike Bolívar and Bochica, Horacio was unable to liberate his people.

Instead, he had sought refuge in two countries that had interfered the most with Colombia's autonomy. He had made a home on the land of the former Empire and used the gringos to his advantage when it suited him, never mind allowing one of them into his heart and bed.

Elena pressed her hand tenderly to Horacio’s cheek, the conflict in his mind apparently written all over his face. It was an action he had been on the receiving end of throughout childhood, but one that still had the power to soothe him as though no time had passed since.

“You’re also forgetting Chibchacum’s role in Bochica’s story,” she continued. “He was the one punished to carry the world on his back for creating the flood in the first place. Bochica did the best he could in terrible circumstances, and that’s all anyone could ask for.”

Memories re-surfaced of Abuelita Mirabel sitting between Horacio and Alejandra on the sofa, a blanket spread across the three of them, where she told of how every time there was an earthquake in Colombia, it was the weight of the world shifting on Chibchacum’s back. Little did Horacio know that would become a feeling he was all too familiar with when he was older.

But his Mamá was right; he wasn’t Chibchacum or Bochica. And he certainly wasn't Bolívar. But neither was his Papá.

So, he took a deep breath and raised the chain to unclip the fastening. From there, he attached it behind his neck, letting the deity and the angel finally rest against his skin.

“Beautiful,” Elena said, her eyes suddenly glossy and the corner of her lips twitching.

“Thank you.” Horacio held his Mamá’s gaze until it was necessary to look away and clear his throat. “What else is in there, anyway?” He swiftly motioned towards the box.

Elena passed it over to Horacio so he could look for himself. Nestled inside were his Papá’s wedding ring and lapel pins, his Abuelo Ignacio’s St. Michael’s cross, rosary beads, an old pack of Deportivo Independiente Medellín trading cards, a postcard of an orange grove with handwriting Horacio recognised as his Mamá’s on the back, and a black and white photograph of a young boy draped in a police jacket that was far too big for him. Behind him stood his father in the rest of the uniform the jacket belonged to.

“Is that Papá and Abuelo Ignacio?”

Elena laughed. “Of course!” She got up again without explanation, re-appearing with a photo album this time.

She flicked through it until she found what she was looking for. “Where do you think we got the idea for this from?”

She was pointing at an almost identical picture. The two boys in the photos had the same thick dark hair and charcoal eyes, a resemblance that would carry through into adulthood – although Horacio built up more muscle than his father ever did.

Horacio smiled. “I remember that being taken. It was my first day at school.”

“It was his idea before you set off for school, and he set off for work. He made sure I was ready with the camera when you came downstairs in your uniform.”

“I never knew it was his idea.” The dejection was evident in Horacio’s voice, even if he tried to hide it.

“He might not have said it much, but he was so proud of you, you know. And so am I.”

Horacio swallowed hard with his eyes shut, anything to hold himself together. “I used to take this when you weren’t looking,” he managed to get out, gesturing towards the photo album. “Same with some of the other old albums we had. Well, I kept a couple of them, actually.” He chuckled at the thought of the albums currently residing on a shelf in Madrid. “I always went back to the photos and his uniform for some reason.”

“You didn’t have to hide it from me.”

“Neither did you with us.”

“I know. But you were both so young. You didn’t need that burden on top of everything else.”

“You could never be a burden, Mamá.”

“You and Alejandra were busy forging your careers. I had to stay strong at work, helping people worse off than me. So, I saved most of it for my prayers and Día de Todos los Santos.”

Horacio remembered attending Mass and his Papá’s grave every Día de Todos los Santos. But it was different to Día de Muertos. They weren’t welcoming his Papá home; they were praying for those in purgatory and heaven. And as much as he liked to think his Papá was a saint, there was always a part of him terrified that if he didn’t pray hard enough, his Papá would never be cleansed of his sins.

“I was in Laredo for Día de Muertos. Javier’s father – Chucho – had a box like this for Javier’s mother – Mariana. He used it to make an ofrenda for her.”

Another piece of the puzzle seemed to click into place for Elena in a look that combined realisation with sympathy. Another loss, another parallel, another explanation.

“A beautiful tradition,” she concluded.

“Yeah, it is. One that remembers the people we’ve lost as we knew them and welcomes them back home.”

“A bit like this, you mean?”

“Something like that.”

“Whilst we’re here…there’s something else I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“Go on.”

“Money from the house sale in Medellín has been sitting in a bank account since I moved here, along with some left over from your Papá. The plan was to split it between you and Alejandra when I’m gone, but…why wait?”

“What? But Mamá, that’s your money.”

“Technically, half of it is your Papá’s. But he’s not here. And who better to put that money to good use than his children?”

“Even though I wouldn’t have children of my own to return the favour one day?”

It was a question that had lingered on the tip of Horacio’s tongue since arriving here. A question he had tried to ignore for a long time before that, if he was honest. He learned of Juliana’s first pregnancy from his Mamá, who had heard the news from a friend of a friend. That was all she said on the matter, but Horacio was never sure whether he imagined the traces of disappointment in her voice that it wasn’t his child.

“Horacio, do you really think that matters to me?”

There was no disappointment in Elena’s tone now, just incredulous confusion that made Horacio regret his words.

“Even if I wasn’t surrounded by my amorcitos every single day, I would want you and Alejandra to make your own choices. Live your own lives. If that doesn’t involve children for you, then so be it.”

Horacio nodded, his lungs expelling a freeing breath he hadn't been aware was trapped in the depths of his rib cage. “Have you spoken to Alejandra about the money?”

“Not yet. But I know the farm needs repairs, and they’ve always got plans for this place. Same as the ranch.”

“I don’t own the ranch, though, Mamá.”

“No. But from everything you’ve told me about Chucho, he obviously trusts you with his business. And I don’t imagine you and Javier will want to live in a guesthouse for the rest of your lives. Visas don’t come cheap, either.”

Of course, she was right on all three counts. Horacio had a lot of on-the-job training ahead of him. He would effectively be starting from scratch again. But Chucho had welcomed him with open arms into his home and livelihood. It wasn’t implausible that if Horacio had ideas for the ranch, Chucho would take them on board.

They hadn't discussed living arrangements yet, but Horacio was confident neither he nor Javier had envisaged the guesthouse as a permanent solution. And then there was the small matter of Horacio’s visa. The paperwork upon which their future in Laredo hinged. He tried not to think about all the different ways it could go wrong or what they would do if it did. But that was a problem for another day. A problem that would no doubt be made easier with extra money in tow.

So, he ignored the whispering ghosts of his ancestors because his Mamá was right; he wasn’t doing this for his Papá. And he certainly wasn’t doing it for the people of Colombia, past or present.

“Okay,” he said in the end. “But only if Alejandra agrees to it, too.”

The sound of a throat being cleared caught them off guard and drew a temporary line under the conversation.

“Morning,” Javier greeted as he hovered by the kitchen door. “Hope I’m not interrupting.” Of course, he knew he was and an apology with his eyes was all he could offer Horacio for the time being.

“Good morning, Javier. And on the contrary! How do you feel about calentado?”

Whatever Javier had been expecting Elena’s response to be, for some reason, it wasn’t that. He looked towards Horacio for the slightest hint about what he had walked in on.

Horacio wanted to explain everything – and later he would – but for now, he ushered Javier to sit down.

“Er, sounds perfect, thanks,” Javier told Elena as his foot found Horacio’s under the table.

And as the three of them chatted and helped prepare breakfast, Horacio had to admit Javier was right.

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

The coffee tour took up the rest of the morning. It was no wonder Horacio had always been particular on the subject when he knew which were the best beans and blends to be found in Colombia. He still had occasional pangs for his former life, but the weak instant shit the gringos brought with them to Carlos Holguín wasn’t one of them.

Naturally, the heavens opened before the end of the tour – bad for the tourists but good for the soil – and by the time they had returned to the finca, another shower was required.

They showered together, the finca empty for a change. Plus, they had nothing to hide anymore – at least not with the people that mattered the most. That hadn’t quite sunk in for Horacio even after he told Javier everything. Even when his last defences buckled, and he broke down in Javier's arms, letting himself be held. Even when he was kissing Javier, slow and deep, in his family’s bathroom, their breaths heavy and desperate in such a confined space.

One thing could easily have led to another as Horacio pinned Javier against the cold tiles, bare skin seeking out bare skin, emotions running high. There was no doubt they wanted it to, and in almost any other circumstance, it would have.

“Not here,” Horacio whispered, his voice shaking and his forehead falling against Javier’s as he was hit by a sudden clarity of thought. “I’m sorry.”

Javier hushed lightly, cradling Horacio against his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay.” He kissed across damp hair, running his fingers through thick strands that always became curlier when wet. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Light strokes soon morphed into lathered hands as Javier washed and rinsed Horacio’s hair, massaging the shampoo into his scalp and soothing away stubborn remnants of tension.

Although a niggling knot remained, an unspoken question and an uninitiated conversation. “When I was talking with my mother earlier…” Horacio began, closing his eyes and tilting his head back to let the hot jets cascade down his neck and shoulders.

Javier hummed in encouragement, his lips following the water droplets, enveloping Horacio in a blanket of warmth from all angles.

“She reassured me she wouldn’t be disappointed if I never had children.” Horacio let his words hang in the white noise of the shower, giving Javier time to adjust to the change of subject.

“Did you think she would be?”

“It crossed my mind. So much has been passed down through the Carrillo side of my family. From my Abuelo to my Papá. From my Papá to me.”

“Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but four of your nieces and nephews are around here somewhere.”

Horacio let out a light huff. “Like I could forget. But…they’re Alejandra’s, not mine.”

“I know. But I think you’re forgetting the real question here. Would you be disappointed?”

“Back when I was younger, when I was with Juliana, I might’ve said yes. More out of expectation than anything else. But with you…I think we ripped up and threw away the rule book a long time ago.”

“Thank fuck for that. We’ve never been very good at following rules anyway.”

It didn't take long for them both to laugh at such a flagrant understatement.

“So, you do feel the same then?” Horacio asked in earnest.

“I was less than an hour away from getting my very own white fucking picket fence. If I’d wanted it, I could’ve had it. But that wasn’t my idea of the American Dream.”

Horacio turned in Javier’s arms, and the last seed of doubt was finally plucked from his mind. His lips captured Javier’s again, a statement of intent for their future. A future they no longer had to hide from their families. 

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

Javier seated himself in the large wooden gazebo at the end of the garden, which doubled as a viewing platform over the steep valley below. For once, sunlight had won the battle against the mist, and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue. It made it possible to see for miles, giving the illusion of being high amongst the surrounding trees alongside the raucous birdlife living in their branches.

It was their penultimate morning in Manizales, upon which Javier had changed a habit of a lifetime by getting up with Horacio. They had penned in some sightseeing of the city later. But for now, Horacio had gone for his usual run, and Javier started the day with possibly the best coffee he had ever drunk.

“May I join you?”

Javier looked up from his cup and cleared his throat. “Oh, er, of course.”

As Elena sat down, the sun glinted off the silver jewellery bonded to Javier’s chest, making them squint at its reflection. He instinctively brought a hand to his neck in a fumbled effort to shove the crucifix beneath the open collar of his shirt.

“You don’t need to do that, you know.”

Fuck. He'd been busted.

However, Elena's voice contained no traces of judgment, and it quickly put Javier at ease. He lowered his hand to his knee, giving a brief bob of the head before taking another sip of coffee.

“I still wear these.” Elena raised her left hand, showing off a sparkling diamond ring above a plain gold band. “The amount of awkward questions about the whereabouts of my husband these have caused over the years. Yet I still can’t bring myself to take them off. Although…”

With her right hand, she took hold of the top ring and wiggled it off her finger, then did the same with the second ring, with more force required this time.

Javier wasn’t sure what was happening until the dappled morning light fell on the inside of the ring he held up to his face.

Suerte que encontré a mi media naranja

(Lucky that I found my soulmate)

“It’s beautiful.”

“Eduardo wasn’t a man of many words, but he had his moments.” Elena’s smile took on a wistful appearance as Javier passed the ring back.

“My Pops is the same with his wedding ring. He insists on wearing it every day, which isn’t really compatible with the day job.”

“I can imagine. I hear it became Horacio’s day job, too?”

“Yeah,” Javier said with an involuntary grin. “I know it might be hard to believe, and I know it’s not what he expected, but it suits him.” Literally as well figuratively, he managed to stop himself from blurting out.

“I can’t remember him ever saying he wanted to be anything other than a police officer. My parents ran a textile business, and Eduardo’s mother was a nurse. But Horacio followed his father, who followed his father like it was their birthright. I always worried about Eduardo, especially if he was running late or was called to an emergency. Then it was the same with Horacio, too. So much blood spilt on our doorsteps, on our streets, in our churches.”

Elena promptly picked up her cup, the balm of hot fruit tea required before she could continue.

“Whenever the phone rang – or I heard a knock at the door – I prepared for the worst. It happened to so many friends and neighbours. So why not my husband or son? Of course, it was Eduardo’s heart in the end. But once Search Bloc made Horacio a walking target, it was only a matter of time. I’d spent years expecting it, but what I hadn’t accounted for in all of my fretting, pacing, and prayers…was you.”

“Me?”

“He told me what you did. How much trouble you and your partner got in for it. How you got injured yourself. How…you saved my son and his men.”

“We couldn’t save them all,” was Javier’s sole response to the lashings of praise he still wasn’t convinced he truly deserved in light of how the ambush came about in the first place.

“You saved more than your superiors were willing to, by the sounds of it.”

Javier scoffed. “Well, I can’t argue with that.”

“Good. And as for the ranch…he’s always liked to keep busy. Just like his father, he could never sit still and relax for long. I can see it. I bet he looks the part.”

“He does, actually.” That was allowed, Javier told himself.

“I thought something had changed after his injury, even if he wouldn’t tell us much. I hoped he’d seen sense, but I knew he was prepared to die for that mission of his – that obsession. I’d almost accepted it, to be honest, especially without Eduardo around to stop him. So, when he told me he’d quit, you were the only reason that made sense.”

“Ever since my Mamá passed, I tried to change things – or control them, at least. Anything to not feel that…helpless again. But it didn’t work like that. Walking away was the only choice left.”

“But it was a choice you both made. That can’t have been easy. I may not have known you very long, but it’s already clear to me you’re good for each other.”

“Even though I’m a gringo?”

“We all have our flaws.” Not only did Elena catch the humour in Javier’s eyes, but she matched and surpassed it with her own. “But to answer your question properly…I would say the complicated histories of our homelands have more in common than meets the eye.”

Javier hummed as he had flashbacks to high school of learning about Laredo starting life as a Spanish colonial settlement before a bloody tug-of-war between Mexico and America – and independence from both – had broken out. There was no denying he had benefited from certain privileges of owning an American passport, and he’d always accepted the gringo label without much pushback. But deep down, he knew it was only half the story.

“You’ve shown each other new paths,” Elena continued. “Safer and happier ones. And that’s what counts.”

“Not quite sure what my new path is yet, to be honest. I’ve spent so long running away from Laredo. I’ve forgotten what it means to live there.”

“It took me a long time to accept my place was here now rather than Medellín. Whenever there was a bombing, or a shooting, or a kidnapping, I had to stop myself from getting on a plane. But Horacio worried I’d be a target because of him. He didn’t want me there. And what could I have done anyway?” Elena let out a self-deprecating huff at the mere thought.

“You wanted to protect your son.”

“Yes. But it wasn’t just that. Medellín was my home and my work. And many of Eduardo’s friends and colleagues were killed. Their wives were sisters to me after his death. But I couldn’t return the favour from down here. Not in the same way, at least. I sent cards, flowers, food parcels, even money sometimes. But it never felt enough.”

“It never does.”

“No. It doesn’t. But I did what I could. And being there for Alejandra and the kids made me feel useful. I got involved with the church again. Worked for a small charity. Even though we’ve been protected from the violence here, the repercussions of it spread far and wide. So many displaced families in need. At least I was making a difference somewhere.”

“I thought I was making a difference. And maybe sometimes I was. But I don’t think it was ever really my fight.”

“Perhaps not. But maybe it helped lead you to the right one.”

“Maybe.”

Javier’s mind drifted back to the family history his Pops told him over the phone in Madrid, not just about his Mamá but his grandparents too. Not to mention all his Pops had done for the local community over the years. He thought of the stories Señora Romero had shared and the kindness she had shown him and Horacio. They had all made a difference in their own ways. And they had done it without leaving their cities, let alone their countries.

As Elena excused herself to ensure Mateo and Sofía weren’t starting another civil war in the kitchen, Javier nursed his coffee cup and surveyed the meandering scenery below. For the first time since he told Stechner to go fuck himself, he could see the outline of a path emerging in front of him. He wasn’t exactly sure where it was leading yet, but at least it was something. Something closer to home.

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

Their last day in Manizales came faster than Horacio had expected, presumably a side effect of waiting for the other shoe to drop any minute. Miraculously, it never did.

“Knock knock.”

Horacio looked up from the bed where he was wrestling with the zip of his suitcase – and currently losing. “Morning.” Another tug, but it wouldn’t shift. “You just gonna watch me?”

“Because you’re usually so good at accepting help.” With a dry smile and shake of the head, Alejandra came to the rescue with less heavy-handedness than her brother, unjamming the zip in seconds.

“I’m better than I was.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“And thank you, by the way.” Horacio stood up, lifting the case from the bed and bringing himself face-to-face with his sister. “For everything.”

Alejandra nodded, maintaining eye contact with Horacio long enough to be distracted by the sunlight dancing across the gold chain around his neck. “It suits you.”

“Thanks. Better than it collecting dust in a box.”

“I don’t just mean the necklace.”

The subtle glow of Horacio's pupils mirrored Alejandra's before he stepped forward, pulling her into a tight embrace. “Take care of yourself, okay?” He leaned down and kissed her on the top of her head.

“You too. And don’t leave it so long next time.”

“We won’t. I promise.”

“If it helps, I can sweeten the deal with a stay at one of the hot springs around here. They’re always giving me freebies for supplying their coffee. One of them has private thermal pools and everything.”

“You don’t have to bribe me to visit.” However, the thought of it being him, Javier, and a jacuzzi was enough for him to re-think his position on taking bribes. “Plus, I wanna see what you do with the place.”

“So you can take inspiration?”

Horacio rolled his eyes. “You wish. If you think you can handle the Texan climate, you know where we’ll be.”

“Don’t worry, I can and I will.”

“We about ready?” Javier appeared in the doorway with the rest of their luggage, pausing at the threshold. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” Again.

“It’s okay; your boyfriend was just inviting us all to the ranch.”

It had only been an innocuous comment, but Alejandra managed to stop both men in their tracks with one word, a bashful look passing between them at the novelty of it.

“Oh, er, that’s great. The more the merrier.” Javier recovered just in time, although the flush in his cheeks showed no sign of abating. “My Pops always makes enough food for the population of Texas, so you’d be more than welcome.”

“Likewise here, Javier. As long as you bring more aguardiente next time.” She winked and drew him in for a hug.

“I think that can be arranged.” Javier broke away first so he could look at Alejandra properly. “And thank you…for everything this week.”

Alejandra gave a bob of the head once more, her smile widening as she glanced from Javier to Horacio, the depth of their gratitude beyond words but written all over their faces. “It’s what big sisters are for.”

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

After eating enough breakfast to last them for most of their journey to Medellín – the rest supplemented by Elena’s homemade empanadas and cocadas – they were stood back on the front porch again.

There was a chorus of goodbyes this time, ones that didn’t have the foreboding air of finality about them as they had done in the past.

Horacio allowed his Mamá to clutch him with all her strength, the scent of her perfume transporting him straight back to childhood.

“You take care of each other, you hear? And keep me updated on your visa. You know where I am if you need anything.”

“Don’t worry, Mamá. I will.”

“Y no olvide su español.” (And don’t forget your Spanish)

“No lo haré, Mamá.” (I won’t, Mamá) Horacio barely managed to suppress a tone of amused exasperation, given that he had been surrounded by almost as many Spanish voices in Laredo as in Colombia.

“Javier, you heard all of that. So, don’t let him forget.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Javier received the same treatment as Horacio with a bracing hug.

“Don’t be a stranger, Mijo. And don’t fret about finding that path. Just remember to follow your heart.” 

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

The light was fading fast, leaving behind a watercolour blend of ambers, yellows and reds that blazed against a backdrop of purple haze and the ethereal silhouette of ancient mountains. The glimmer of city life below felt distant, as though they had left this world altogether and now lived above the clouds.

Which was fine by them as they caught their breath; Horacio draped over Javier’s lap in the passenger’s seat, the culmination of their release glistening across their stomachs.

“Just like old times,” Horacio panted as trails of kisses became interspersed with heady laughter.

“Well, not exactly.” Javier’s thumb and forefinger delicately held the silver and gold pendants at their chests before untangling the chains that had become knotted during their tryst.

“No.” Horacio brought his forehead to meet Javier’s, an instant tonic to the painful twinge gripping their hearts as memories of their last visit to this spot resurfaced. “I told you we’d make up for lost time this past week, though.”

“Yeah, I figured you meant in the hotel. Or even back in Madrid. Not the minute you parked up in Medellín.”

“Like you were complaining.”

“Fuck, no, I wasn’t. Less likely to be overheard up here than in the hotel anyway.”

Once Horacio had regained enough feeling in his limbs to dismount and sit back in the driver’s seat, Javier reached for the glove box. He took out their emergency stash of cigarettes and lit up.

Horacio attempted to clean himself up as best he could and did the same for Javier. “So, this is why you brought those with us.” He nodded towards the cigarettes.

“Obviously.” Javier took a long drag and exhaled with a deep sigh, his body latching on quickly to the nicotine, his mind still blitzed.

They passed their shared smoke back and forth in comfortable silence, basking in their afterglows and the aftermath of the last few days.

“You still like it up here then?” Horacio asked after stubbing out the butt in the ashtray between them.

“Yeah, I do. Don’t think I’ve ever seen it looking so beautiful.”

“Me neither. Funny how the same view can look completely different in a new light.”

Javier hummed in agreement, their gaze now fixed on each other rather than the windshield, the irony not lost that they were back in the same spot where it could easily all have ended.

"I can think of a way to make it even better, though.”

“Go on.”

In a flurry of movement, Javier zipped up his jeans, pulled on his shirt and got out of the car. He rustled around in the trunk until he retrieved a couple of spare towels they had packed for emergencies, along with their jackets. It wasn’t quite the thick blanket from the ranch, but at least it was a mild night.

They sprawled out on the grass behind the car, lying atop the towels and wrapped in their jackets. Javier propped his head on a folded sweater with Horacio resting against his chest at an angle that allowed them both to take in the cityscape below.

“How about we just stay here forever?” Javier rasped between slow, sensual kisses.

Horacio moaned against Javier’s lips as he went back for more. “Don’t tempt me. At least we didn’t book an early flight tomorrow.”

“Good point.” Another string of kisses, each more addictive than the last.

“Although,” Horacio began once they had calmed down, his fingers tracing patterns across Javier’s torso, "we’ve got a lot to sort out once we’re back in Madrid.”

“I know. But at least we ripped off the band-aid.” One of Javier’s hands found Horacio’s and slotted their fingers together.

“I spent so much energy worrying about this trip; I was almost expecting something bad to happen.”

Javier raised their linked hands to his mouth and brushed his lips over Horacio’s knuckles. “But it didn’t.”

“No. In fact…I think I know what I want to do with the money.”

“Oh yeah?”

“If you and your father agree to it, that is. And I can find a good lawyer.”

Javier lifted his head slightly and turned in Horacio's direction, urging him to continue.

“I was thinking….what if we bought the corn farm? The three of us, I mean.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah. I think I am.” Horacio couldn’t help but laugh now he’d said it out loud. “Like I said, I’d need to check everything with a lawyer about my visa first. But there is an option for investors. And you still have some of your money from the ranch, right?”

“Yeah, I do. And obviously, you can count me in. But…shit, Horacio. Are you sure? I mean, it’s your inheritance.”

“It's nothing Alejandra isn't doing with her share. And well, if your father bought it outright, an empty cottage would go to waste on our doorstep. Last I looked, it needed a bit of maintenance, but it wasn’t in bad shape.”

Now, it was Javier’s turn to laugh. “Got it all figured out, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“It’s funny, ‘cos, er...I’ve been thinking, too. About something your Mamá said.”

“About what?”

“About looking closer to home for a new path. And I think I might have found it.”

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

They only meant to stay until they got too cold, but their shared body heat let them doze until sunrise. The watercolour skyline re-emerged from behind the mountain tops, gradually bathing Medellín in a heavenly half-light, stirring them awake as it reached their hideaway.

The plan was to freshen up and have breakfast at the hotel before dropping off the hire car and heading to the airport after lunch. But there was something Horacio needed to do whilst the city wasn’t fully awake, whilst the low sun felt like a gift from God Himself.

As they pulled up a stone’s throw away from Horacio’s old family church – a few blocks down from his childhood home and former apartment that Trujillo had cleared after his hasty exit from Carlos Holguín – Javier hesitated, unsure if this was something Horacio needed to do alone.

“Come with me,” Horacio said after stepping out of the car as though he had read Javier’s mind. “Please.”

That was all the confirmation Javier needed to follow.

They walked silently along a well-kept pathway that forked off in multiple directions. It was maze-like and disorientating, but Horacio took purposeful strides despite how long it had been since his last visit.

He halted at a large marble slate engraved with a crucifix and the CNP emblem. There were some dried old flowers in a vase at the base of it, where Horacio knelt down and swapped them for the fresh bunch of marigolds he’d carried from the car.

“A gift from Mamá,” he whispered. “She’ll be back again soon.”

Horacio remained on the grass and brought his hands up to the back of his neck, where he unhooked the gold chain. He studied it between his fingers, then clasped it in his palm and bowed his head.

The cemetery was empty at this time in the morning, the loud rustling in the trees drowning out the murmur of traffic beginning to burst into life.

Javier watched wordlessly a few feet behind Horacio, almost beginning to feel like he was intruding.

“Pray with me.”

“Are you sure? What if someone –”

“I’m sure. No one’s here but us.”

Javier checked around them once, then twice, just in case. Even if someone did happen to come by, two men praying over a grave wasn’t exactly the most compromising position they could be found in. But it was better to be safe than sorry.

Once satisfied, Javier joined Horacio on the grass. They couldn’t get away with how they had done this in private, but Horacio dropped his right hand to the floor beside him, palm outstretched.

Javier took the hint and discreetly placed his left hand over the top, encasing the gold necklace between them.

With heads lowered and eyes closed, they prayed. An unspoken acknowledgement of all they had lost and how it had led them here. They honoured memories made, those that would never be, and those they could still make together despite everything.

Horacio’s eyes fluttered open as the sunlight fell on the headstone above him, forcing him to blink away a glassy sheen. His hand stayed connected with Javier’s on the earth, his present and future by his side, giving him strength to finally make peace with his past.

He rose to his feet and made the sign of the cross on his chest before running his fingers along the embossed letters of his father’s name. “Te quiero mucho, Papá.”

Javier gave as much time as was needed until risking a gentle squeeze of Horacio’s shoulder. “You ready?”

Horacio looked from the gravestone to Javier, the charcoal of his irises burning with the fire of conviction. “I’m ready.”

#Narcos fic #Narcos #Javier Peña #Horacio Carrillo #Carrillo #Javier Peña x Horacio Carrillo #Pedro Pascal #Maurice Compte #Narcos fanfic #Narcos fanfiction #Narcos fan fic #My Fan Fic #My Narcos Fic

[swaps55]

20 Fanfic Questions

Tagged by @cchickki. Thank you!

Tagging @urrone @westernlarch @bioticbooty @commander-krios and anyone else who feels so inclined!

How many works do you have on AO3?

47

2. What's your total AO3 words count?

944,833

I haven’t checked to see if Mezzo’s current word count will put me into 7 figures, but if it doesn’t, it’s close.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Mass Effect. One trick pony right here.

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Sonata – Sam and Kaidan fake dating.

Cantata – The Making of Commander Shepard, aka, a group of misfits find a home in each other. Also it’s an epically slow burn friends to idiots to soulmates.

Celestial Navigation – One of the rare times I wrote smut. The entire time I worked on it I was the equivalent of a hissing cat stuck in a tree.

Pieces Form the Whole – A collection of mshenko shorts, prompts, etc., featuring more or less a proto-Sam Shepard who isn’t Sam Shepard but eventually became him.

Fugue – Alchera and the 2 year gap. A story about finding hope in grief.  

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes! Sometimes I go through a low spoons period where they sit for a bit, but I have a rule that I cannot post anything new until I have responded to everyone who took the time to share their thoughts on a thing I wrote. Community is the best part of fandom. Having others to yell and flail with about the fictional people in my head is fucking incredible.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

A short in Pieces Form the Whole called Faraway, So Close, which is the only Angst Without a Happy Ending thing I have ever written. It is the fic that kicks puppies. It is less than 1,000 words and I will never write anything like it again.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Not sure I have ever written about two happier people than Sam and Kaidan at the end of Sonata.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Nope. The occasional odd comment, but I haven’t gotten any hate, thankfully.

9. Do you write smut. If so what kind?

When a story calls for it, I write it, though I’m too ace to write much smut for the sake of smut. I don’t have anything against it; smut just doesn’t interest me much unless the conditions are right. Couldn’t tell you what the conditions are. I just know them when I see them.  

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Crossovers and AUs aren’t usually my thing, but I have to admit I have been mildly tempted to write a Mass Effect/Stargate AU, because I sure wouldn’t have to work hard to set it up, and Sam Carter and Sam Shepard breaking physics would be tons of fun.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I am aware of.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not translated, though I’ve had a couple of stories podficced, which is insanely cool!!!

13. Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

Once, and it taught me rather painfully that cowriting is not something I am cut out for.  

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

Shepard and Kaidan, to the surprise of no one.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

It’s pretty rare I start something I don’t finish. My head explodes if I try to work on more than one project at a time, so if I get invested in something it generally gets finished. I have a story called Cadenza that isn’t currently doing anything – because I can’t work on 2 things at once – that I really want to finish; I just don’t know when I’ll get there. But I really hope I will.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue and combat are two things I have a very good time with.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I suck at setting. If reading that surprises you in any way, and hopefully it does, it is because I have worked very hard to suck less at it.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I have long envied the ability of others to write in other languages, and write dialect. I would love to be able to do it, but I suck at it. So add that to #17, lol.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Technically, it was The Black Stallion. I was probably eight. I sent The Black and Alec Ramsey to space.

20. Favourite fic you've ever written?

Aww, don’t make me choose between my children. I love my stories. But gun to my head, long fic is probably Cantata. It was such a joy to write, and watching other people fall in love with OC characters I figured no one would care about was proof magic is real.

My favorite one shot is probably The Words That Change Us, an N7 day story that became the catalyst for all the Sam and Kaidan First Kiss AUs. Writing that story was an insane experience – I couldn’t write it fast enough. At one point I had two completely different conversations unspooling in my head at the same time. It’s so much fun to go back and read.

#mememe #meme replies #how writing is written

[rockitmans]

Blaine Anderson Vs. Valentine's Day (4/14)

Summary: Blaine drunk posts on his Instagram asking for a date for Valentine's Day. He gets one.

Notes: Written for the @klaineccfanficlibrary Valentine Challenge. Today's song is I'll Never Not Love You by Michael Bublé

Be sure to also check out the collection on AO3 and Stick Season by @blurglesmurfklaine I'm finding it so fun to write as part of a community event. Seeing other people post theirs really keeps me on track. And all the lovely comments of course!

Read on AO3 or below

~~~~~~

He can't just leave it like that. Hi. What was he thinking? He quickly taps out a follow up without letting himself doubt it too hard. 

Blaine: Bold tactic to assume that poem would get my attention and not just end up being deleted

He immediately throws his phone face down on his bed and paces around the room several times, trying to breathe. He can do this. He can talk to other humans. Even ridiculously gorgeous ones that for some reason seem interested in him. 

Barely a minute passes before his phone chimes and he tries to tell himself to be chill and not answer straight away but the anticipation is killing him. He grabs his phone. 

Kurt: And yet here you are. Interesting. 

God. He actually answered. And he's so cool . It's going to take him less than thirty seconds to realise how lame Blaine is. Blaine doesn't have game. He doesn't usually even realise when people are into him. He's fallen into every relationship he's had so far fully because the other person has spelled it out to him. 

This was clearly a mistake. A horny error in judgement. He's half tempted to just delete the app right now and pretend this never happened. The Philippines is nice this time of year.  

But then his phone chimes again and Blaine grins stupidly as he reads the message. 

Kurt: It was a gamble. I'm happy it paid off. 

Blaine: Well. It was helped by the fact that I am very interested in these claims that you can pick me up. 

Kurt: Oh no. That was my roommate's suggestion. She's going to be insufferable now. 

Blaine: Your secret's safe with me

Kurt: Thanks. But she's also much cooler than me if I'm being honest. I may prove to be a disappointment. Flirting with strangers on the internet is all fun and games until they actually reply 😅

Blaine blinks. He hadn't thought about it that hard, but if he had, he would have assumed that this was going to turn into sexting, getting off, and then mutually agreeing to never speak of it again. Or at least he assumes that's the way this sort of thing goes. He doesn't really know. 

But maybe that isn't what this is. Interesting.

Blaine: And do you make a habit of flirting with strangers on the internet?

Kurt: I want to be really smooth and be like 'only the cute ones 😉' but fuck it. No I don't usually. I'm like an honest to God Broadway romantic. I need at least dinner before I can consider getting my dick out. 

Kurt: And I realise a simple no would have sufficed 

Blaine huffs out a laugh. Okay. Definitely not sexting then. He's kind of relieved. It would have just been a way to let off steam after the emotional bomb that was Sebastian's betrayal. He hasn't really had time to sort out his feelings about Sebastian yet. Sam's solution to the problem was to get him spectacularly drunk and there's been little time for introspection since then. And that's mostly been on purpose.

He knows if he starts to think about it, it will bring every scrap of his hard earned self worth under a magnifying glass. He'll sort through all his insecurities for the reasons why Sebastian might have cheated and probably invent some new ones just for fun. He doesn't want to be terrified to love again. He doesn't want to lose his ability to love quickly and generously and all in. He doesn't want this to break him. 

And right now that means chatting to a cute guy that doesn't want to just get off with him. And regardless of anything else, it will be a funny story to tell Tina later. 

Blaine: Ah yes that well known Broadway hit, "Dinner for dick." We all know it

Kurt: Say what you like about Barrett Wilbert Weed but she smashed that one

Kurt: Listen you don't have to keep talking to me. I understand my mouth was putting out checks that my ass can't cash. Literally. 

Blaine: I want to keep talking to you. A gorgeous guy that's into Broadway and fashion? Maybe that wish journal I kept when I was thirteen really did have magical powers after all

Blaine: Although I'm still not a superhero so perhaps not 

Kurt: I never had a wish journal but I did have a hope chest. I cut up magazine pictures to compile my perfect man and it obviously looked outlandish and not like you at all

Kurt: But I am pretty sure I made my perfect man a musician 

Blaine: Well thank God I have that going for me at least

Kurt: You have a lot more going for you than that

Blaine: And I thought you said you didn't flirt with strangers on the internet 😉

Kurt: You're right

Blaine gets a jolt in his stomach, terrified that Kurt is about to promise to cut out the flirting or even stop talking to him all together. But then the next message comes through.

Kurt: Maybe we should become not-strangers so I can flirt with you without fear 

Blaine bites his lip against a smile, feeling the flush creep all the way to his ears. Who even is this guy?

Hopefully he's going to find out. 

Blaine: Sounds perfect 

#fic: ba vs valentine's day #klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #my fic

[danggirlronpa]

Since polyships are on the table... 🍑 Mahiru/Hiyoko/Ibuki or 🍑 Mahiru/Sato/Hiyoko (I have a feeling this one will go horribly, as I tend to headcanon Hiyoko as being very jealous of Mahiru's affection towards Sato; both Sato and Hiyoko are definitely in love with Mahiru meanwhile can't stand each other. I imagine Sato also dislikes Hiyoko because she reminds her of Natsumi - however fair or unfair that comparison is, I definitely feel like Sato has a hatred of bullies. Meanwhile I think Hiyoko would have a soft spot for Ibuki; she would at first try very hard to push her away and prod at insecurities, but once that failed I could see them getting close. Plus, Hiyoko is attracted to kindness - something that she sees in both Hajime (platonically) and Mahiru, which makes her have a soft spot for them - and underneath her jokey-ness, Ibuki is very kind. And I don't even have to explain why Mahiru/Hiyoko works in this equation, lmao - Ibuki/Mahiru is probably the relationship between the three I've put the least thought in, but, I feel like they'd be amicable.)

Also, my Natsumi rarepairs.... 🍑 Chiaki/Natsumi and 🍑 Mikan/Natsumi... I know they don't interact but Chiaki and Natsumi are very much foils for each other & how they affect Hajime, so I think its a damn shame they never interact... plus Mikan/Natsumi would be so tragic.... finding your girlfriend dead... realizing your friend, Sato, killed her..... selling Sato out to your dead girlfriends brother.... Mahiru having such a favorable view of Sato and negative view of Natsumi & Mikan having the reverse.... the biased narration of Mikan (and Mahiru too).... the thought of my girlfriend was nice to me, a real angel, so she COULDN'T have been bullying you.... and then a year later, meeting a demon in the form of Junko Enoshima, who reminds you so much of your dead girlfriend, who tells you that Hope's Peak is corrupt, didn't look into her death to avoid a scandal with the reserve course so the funding to their pet project doesn't get shut down... and you're angry, you're so angry, that was your girlfriend and they don't even care.... why not let the devil tempt you into revenge? Don't they deserve it? I am so crazy about Natsumi/Mikan and NO ONE is tapping into their potential, the only fics on it on ao3 are my own.... I adore them 😭

I've been holding onto this ask because part of me doesn't even want to touch on a response so it can just stand alone as a testament to the ships. I LOVE seeing people talk about their rarepairs, absolutely fuck yes. Please don't think I'm ignoring you when I'm brief or my thoughts differ from yours because this RULES.

Mahiru/Hiyoko/Ibuki: Neat! Every dynamic in here is fucking stellar. I definitely also think this is a ship that centers on Hiyoko, which in and of itself is sort of fun. Danganronpa fans HATE her. But women LOVE her 😏

Mahiru/Hiyoko/Sato: Basically Canon. I'm biased about this because Mahiru/Sato is my real True SDR2 OTP and I consider both it and Mahiyoko to be Basically Canon on their own. But ALL TOGETHER. BOTH IN LOVE WITH MAHIRU. You know that tumblr post that's like "superhero and supervillain but theyre both friends with the same civilian so when their buddy invites them all out together as civilians they just have to silently seethe at each other across the table"? Yeah

Chiaki/Natsumi: Fine. This. And I'm going to be exposing a lot of things about myself as a person here so everyone just be cool. This is a kismesistude. And I will leave it at that.

Mikan/Natsumi: HELL YEAH. This might only appeal to a niche audience but hear me out, okay. You know yakuza mangas that are like. Oh No I Am A Sad Abused Young Woman/Twink Who Has Been Sold To/Become The Caretaker Of A Child In/Married Into/Reincarnated Into/Otherwise Somehow Become Involved In The Yakuza! im so frightened! what does this mean yakuza want with me!! a heart of gold?! could it be??? oh but because of my abuse i feel like i dont deserve this but through this yakuzas unrelenting instant love for me and very violent vengeance upon my abusers and also some gang drama to force us into compromising situations will i be forced to learn self esteem through the power of love?? THATS WHAT I WANT FROM THEM. THATS THE AU IVE WRITTEN IN MY HEAD. AND ALSO WAY OF THE HOUSE HUSBAND AU

#asks #anon #mod hangout #mod ships #talk to the mod #chiasumi #natsumiki #mahiyobuki #mahisatoyoko

[virgilisspidey]

Hey, hey dude-

Wanna see how hard I can cry cuz omfg????? Your hashtags on my propaganda post made me wanna lowkey bawl you don't understand.

KANDOCJEOCJOFG

Okay gather up people! Here's a story time!

Before Rise Movie came out I was in the process of rewatching tmnt 2012 because i just felt like it. It happens like, once every year where i rewatch something i suddenly remember existed and it was the turtles rotating in my brain this time.

So when the Rise movie actually came I actually told myself "No, i'm not gonna watch it, i'm fine with 2012" and also because i am young and i havent gone through my share of watching a tmnt cartoon/movie/comic come and go when a new one comes in (even tho i literally managed to watch tmnt 2003 before tmnt 2012 but then again i was a child and i was traumatised BY THE BRAIN— anyways i am getting off track)

So like, i resisted.

Until i was so bored and reading i really wanted to read something but there's nothing that's giving joy so i decided to just watch

The irony is that i watched it before Shy did (i think) and she's like, already dipping her toes in the fandom while i know nothinh about it until the movie.

And i fell in love.

AND SO I SEARCHED FAR AND WIDE FOR FANFICTION AND THEN BY THE STARS I WAS IN LUCK

I found A Universal Collision on ao3 after refresh after refresh after refresh

AND THEN FELL IN LOVE AGAIN

I share all the cool fanfics i found to shy and she loved it as well

I was on the moon for crossover after crossover but mainly stuck with reading and writing for the 2012 boys until Shy told me about a crossover idea she had.

And i promised myself i won't write anything Rise related since, well, your guy hasn't watched anything Rise related until the movie

BUT THE IDEA WAS SO GOOD

And then i remembered your crossover and i became very VERY tempted to just do it

AND THE TEMPTATIONS WON

So yeah, Two Souls was born

All because the universe blessed me with a crossover that doesn't have bashing

#rottmnt two souls #believe me if i didn't find your story whatever crossover with Rise i make might be fueled by pure spite instead of love #And Two Souls is built out of love for both iterations #Like how yours is #And i knlw it's corny but thank you for existing

[peachonified]

tagged by @mayalaen and I couldn't resist :)

20 questions for fic writers

First, my AO3

How many works do you have on AO3?

202 - that was more than I expected!

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

1,067,968

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Mainly Kuroko no Basket and Haikyu!! I was very prolific in Supernatural (and I feel the urge returning tbh), and I keep umming and ahhing about writing in BNHA. In my past I have also written for Glee, Sherlock, and Harry Potter. And that's like, one fic for each fandom xD

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

To Make A Nest A Traditional Family Sammy's Little Boy Not Meant to Be This Omega is Mine Unsurprisingly, they are all SPN fics!

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I do! I love responding to comments. Sometimes it takes me years (I have honestly responded to comments that are 6 years old) but to me, it's about community, and I won't to share what I love - which is my fic! It's like I comment on peoples art and stories cos I want them to feel the love, and I love that you can become friends when they respond back! that is how I've made most of my fandom friends, and (especially) in this time of reduced interactions, I want to keep it going.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I don't do angst. I don't. But it's probably Sammy's Little Boy. That is one of the few true non-cons I have written and it doesn't end with it being good.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

They pretty much all have happy endings. Like.. that's my jam. but I guess Friday Nights (KagaKuro/AoKi) is pretty happy and Handkerchief Hijinks (AkaBoKuroo) Great and Striking Actions which Dazzle the Eyes (Destiel) is like, the funnest sort of crack fic but honestly a lot of what I write is pretty light.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

oh gosh yes! I once got death threats and it was awful. In retrospect they were an anon coward, but wow that was an experience. I think that antis are more vocal but they've been there forever. There's an element of such an idiot who can't not like something without informing everyone.

9. Do you write smut?

*nods* I do

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I have never written one, but I have one started at the moment! I have the first chapter and some general plot points. It's a KnB/HQ dystopian d/s verse. I think it's really cool, and I am SO TEMPTED to post the first chapter, but it can take a while to get back to some of my fics...

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I have. A couple of times. It's the height of rudeness tbh. Just write your own stuff.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes. A few.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I wrote a few years ago but haven't in a while. I'd like to do it again!

14. What’s your all time favorite ship?

I don't have one. I don't! I have characters who I ship with everyone (Kise, Bokuto, Dean) and I love them with everyone! I lean towards polyships because I think that everyone should be happy. At the moment I am definitely feeling AkaKi... but I still Kise is everyone princess. Dean is everyone princess.... slight wincestiel leaning, and Bo is (you guessed it) everyone princess. If I end up dabbling in bnha Kirishim will be... is everyone princess.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

I think I'll finish them all.

16. What are your writing strengths?

World building. Humour. Polydynamics. all things I want to read. Honestly I'd write less if I could read more!

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

finishing things. omg is finishing things hard!

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I add japanese words to things. for the japenese characters. like where I don't like the direct translation, or the word conveys much more than the english translation.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

I think it was Glee?

20. Favorite fic you’ve written?

I refuse to choice. I love them all. I especially love the polyships in d/s and omegaverse settings.

honestly, I tag anyone who is interested! this was a fun one, cos there was lots of opinion, not just stats!

#duck stuff #duck writes #my fic

[victhinks]

On How To Live Your Life Alone

For Lockwood & Co. Angst Week Day four: Miss Missing You | loneliness ; @lco-angst-week

Also Posted on AO3

TW: Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Grief

The house was empty. Lockwood was alone and it was so much colder than he thought he could bear.

Lockwood awoke with his pillow clutched tightly to his chest. It was the closest he came to a hug nowadays; he was utterly alone.

The house was too big for him, the emptiness so oppressive he kept most of the doors shut to create the illusion that he was inhabiting a much smaller space, not his family’s home. 

It did not matter anyway, they were dead and he was the only one left. That thought turned him frigid from the inside out, a cool whisper of death creeping up his spine and settling in his skull, whispering he’d be better off dead as well. 

There was no remedy for the ever present chill in him and he feared he’d never get warm again. Did he fear it, though? No. He wished the freezing claws of death would take up permanent home in him and lead him back to the people he’d lost.

The house was empty. Lockwood was alone and it was so much colder than he thought he could bear.

It was tempting to remain lying in his bed until darkness — blissful oblivion — overtook him once more. There was a semblance of warmth here, the illusion of a soft embrace, but Lockwood was never one for self indulgence, so he heaved himself up. 

Immediately he felt the chill settle, seeping deep into his bones. It felt like a physical pressure being placed upon his chest, turning his breaths heavy, arduous and bitingly cold. Lockwood got up anyway.

He did not know why he bothered. There were no responsibilities for him to take care of — none he truly cared about anyway — and he had no obligation to anyone. He was alone in the world, deserted. 

This gave him the freedom to do as he pleased, Lockwood supposed. 

There was no one to lecture him, no one to teach him better. No one would care about what he did, whether he put the empty cup of tea on the counter or washed it up, whether he locked the front door with all the appropriate latches or left it invitingly unsecured — no one would care whether he lived or died.

And although the thought made his heart constrict painfully, leaving the taste of ash, decay and death on his tongue, it felt oddly soothing as well. 

He was entirely untethered to the world around him and the calmness that replaced the frantic terror of facing it all alone — when Lockwood reminded himself he could simply choose not to anytime — turned into a stonier and deeper apathy with every passing day. 

Whatever he chose to do, it would hurt no one but himself. And heaven knew he deserved it. Why? Because he was alive and they were not. 

So he left the empty cup of lavender tea on the counter because no one would care. He left the front door unlocked because he hoped for someone — dead or alive — to haunt him down and spare him the trouble of taking the knife in hand himself. 

After all, what did it matter? He was alone in the world. 

But he was not dead yet — had not been able to muster the courage yet, coward! — which meant he had to take care of himself somehow. That was the hardest part, living.

Lockwood had to cook for himself, which meant he barely cooked at all, opting instead to go for a cup of tea or skip meals altogether. 

The frailness his body began to take on, a skinny and lanky form that would stay with him permanently from now on, was of no concern to him and if his face turned drawn from the lack of nourishment he did not mind. He would die soon anyway,

What was there to live for in a world so haunted?

His very own house was haunted with the echoes of his family. When he was particularly desperate, he could hear their voices echoing through the halls. 

Sometimes they called out to him, praising him, telling him of how strong he was, how brave — but the praise rang hollow. He was still alone.

Most times, they called for him to join them — Come, Anthony. Be truly free at last — and scared him more than anything he had left to fear. Because when he did not, the voices turned harsh, taunting him, cursing him, screaming that he was worth nothing now, since he was all alone. 

He knew that already, of course, but it was a different thing to hear it said in his mother’s voice.

Sometimes he wondered if grief had turned him mad and found no decisive answer. It seemed clearer every day, however. When he was reminded with every waking moment of his loss, of the void his life had turned into, he felt mad hysteria whisper to him. 

There was no one to hold him after a nightmare, reassure him that ‘it was only a dream, Anthony.’ No on to comfort him after an anxiety attack, when his chest constricted enough he was sure there was a steel grip around it, choking him and making his heart drum violently. No one to talk him down from a panic attack, when there was not enough air in the whole of London and he could not shake off the cold claws of wrong, leave, hide burying into him.

He had to face it all alone. And he was so very tired of it all.

“I wish I were dead,” Lockwood declared to no one in particular, staring at the family photo on the wall opposite him. There was one picture left in the living room. He had cleared out all the rest. The oppressive feeling of loneliness every time he had stepped into the living room to be engulfed in the cold dead strings of past family happiness were enough to make him spiral for days on end. Now he did not have to look at them.

He wished there was someone left. Anyone he could share his grief with. Anyone who would understand his loss. But there was no one here. 

And there was no need for him to be, either. 

Untethered. Unbound. Free, at last, from everything.

The bottom of the Thames had never been such an alluring place to be. I wish I were dead. 

Lockwood closed his eyes, the family picture had been burned onto his eyelids ages ago. He imagined himself jumping, falling, drowning — water flooding his lungs and choking him, burning from the inside out and making him feel warmth he had long since been lacking — hollow, freezing, alone. 

No one would care either way.

And neither should he, but he could not die yet. Something would not let him, so he had to endure, keep breathing, keep living.

And it was only a vague sense of duty that made him get out of bed at all in the morning, lounging on the sofa all day staring at the ceiling until it was evening and he retired to bed again instead of going out — leaving the home that had felt more like a grave since their passing and take the leap over the railing.

He could not yet do it because he had decided to give it — life, living — one last shot. 

The last ditch effort to save himself, make something of his life and not waste away completely, was his own agency.

And against all odds, it worked. 

There was Lucy, there was George and he was settled, content, happy even. 

For a time at least.

He should have known the cold would not stay away forever. He should have known that once the claws of loneliness had buried themselves into him — his body, mind and soul, marking him for all eternity — he would not escape them fully ever again in his life.

Lucy had left for a few days, saying something about visiting an old friend of hers. Lockwood did not know she had any friends worth visiting from her time before Lockwood & Co. but he did not press her. So she left.

George had gone to visit his mother for her birthday, opting for a physical congratulation because of her deteriorating health. They did not know how long she had left and George wanted to spend time with her properly before the inevitable. So he left.

Where did that leave Lockwood? Alone. 

And when they went they took the warmth they had gifted him with them, a setting chill remaining in their wake. 

There was no place where the other side called to him quite as desperately as his parent’s grave and while he gazed upon their headstone, he wished his name would be on it, too. 

It was the loneliest place in the world for him, their grave at the cemetery, because he was the only one grieving them. He was the only one left. 

Alone, until the end at last. 

#lockwood and co angst week #anthony lockwood #save lockwood and co

[sapphicsandscience]

20 questions for fic writers

Not going to lie - no one tagged me in this lol - but I am doing it .

1. How many works do you have on ao3?

47.

2. What's your total ao3 word count?

322,829.

Crazy number for me. I know some have literal millions but I can’t believe I’ve written that much in like the last two or three years??

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Currently Star Trek (TNG/VOY/PIC & some DS9). ER and Criminal Minds more so in the past. But ER I’ll never leave you.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Aster

- my labor of love - no pun intended.

- i WILL finish her (manifest it pls).

A Flame In Your Heart

- going to be honest writing post s3 isn’t something that interests me the most.

- however, this is a cute story and i wish i had some more ideas for it as i feel like i lack direction.

I Should Have Moved Moons For You

- ahhh.

- a fic I really should have pre-written before posting but i do have fun with it.

- i am half confident she will be finished in time but it stresses me out thinking about it and my outline lol.

- but like most of my WIPs the chapters are all outlined and i do have semi-concrete endings for them or at least know the main plot.

A Lot Of Things Can Happen In Two Months

- like the concept but i think i could have written it better ?

- feels a bit messy but also there are a lot of feelings in it.

- but happy i got it finished !! and i am proud of it overall.

Eighteen Minutes

- ngl I forgot I wrote this lol.

- the only one-shot here.

- def benefited kudos wise from being posted after the second episode aired.

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes! And I love to give comments regardless if I get a reply from the author. But personally, I like to reply back as the commenter has taken their time to do this. And you can have some really lovely and funny interactions in the comments haha … I just love talking about fic.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Well…it would have to be either of the ones I killed Beverly in - Last contact or Too Late.

Not sure which is more angstiest?

However, as for a multichap ending that ends the most angstiest and wasn’t written to be a character-death-fic - maybe - A Lot Of Things Can Happen In Two Months. Which sucks cause it’s pretty much canon compliant LOL.

Hmm now I am tempted to write another multichap with a less than happy ending…

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Most of my fics that have an ‘ending’ are WIPS that I haven’t finished yet lol.

But maybe Our Turn - it’s just Beverly and Jean-Luc enjoying everything wonderful in their lives <3

8. Do you get hate on fic?

Not really - I doubt anyone cares enough lol. But I am ‘fortunate’ that some of the more ‘controversial’ ships I may write have had writers come before me and take the brunt of any crap :(( but they’ve created a lovely sandbox for the rest of us to play in <3

9. Do you write smut?

Not often but I have yeah…and *deep breaths* … I have no idea if I am even acceptable at it LOL. It’s definitely something I sometimes want to add to my fics and lately I’ve been giving in a little.

Okay, someone tell me if I am terrible and I will stop.

10. Do you write crossovers?

It’s not my go to thing but yes I have. Including the fusion ER/TNG fic that three people have probably read (but three people I love).

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Nope.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No but that would be cool as!

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! With my lovely and supportive ER fic buddies ❤️

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

Not sure how best to answer this. It is very dependant on my current hyperfixation and I am one of those sapphics that very much is into the woman more than the man in terms of interest in f/m ships…

However, at the moment it’s Beverly/Jean-Luc and I can say I am definitely more invested and interested in Jean-Luc’s character than I have been with other men in f/m ships. So that’s another reason.

But I love to read/write Crusher/Janeway ❤️ and LOVE those characters. Kerry/Sandy too is special to me.

Can honestly say apart from helping me give Emily Prentiss a baby in my fics I never cared that much for any of her ships I wrote (sorry 😭).

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but probably won't?

Probably better I don’t answer this. It stresses me out cause I want them all to be done 😭

I’ll answer with a WIP I never posted which was a dystopian AU with Kerry and Sandy. Field medicine, babies (it’s me so ofc) and friends trying to survive together.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Hmm - I think I can come up with some good ideas. I can be good at description and introspection … probably more than dialogue.

And I am very strong in the art of giving Beverly Crusher lots of babies. And also making her go through angsty stuff. But I make up for that with the babies I think.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Long intricate plots ? I would love to be better as balancing many themes and plot points in one story. I struggle with dialogue sometimes as well.

Also I am very word count preoccupied at times which is a hindrance as a writer. I sometimes really struggle to get anything out in a session then can overcompensate later by writing too much? But honestly either way I just let myself go with the flow these days otherwise I stress about it.

Yeah and I probably need to edit better.

And smut.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Is this controversial?? I don’t have any issue with it.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

(redacted)

20. Favourite fic you've written?

These are both not what I would consider my best work (idk what that even is) but probably Gone (Ice)fishing or It Takes A Village.

Both were written as gifts and out of my comfort zone (for different reasons) but I am really proud of them both.

But I also love some of my Kerry/Sandy one-shots I did here on this blog. And Aster is definitely a personal accomplishment in terms of length as a writer. I love it too ❤️.

Oh, also - To Build A Home - cause it’s tragic & angsty but also BABY🥹 - it’s just my brand.

—————————————————

Okay -I’ll shut up now.

Anyone feel free to do this and tag me.

#fic ask #ask meme #fanfiction #writing

[ficbrish]

Weekend Chapter 8

“Epilogue” [AO3]

Rating: Explicit, 18+ only

Tags: During Canon, Mass Effect 2, Post-Horizon (Mass Effect), Pre-Suicide Mission (Mass Effect), Biotic Shepard (Mass Effect), Colonist (Mass Effect), War Hero (Mass Effect), Sentinel (Mass Effect), Paragade (Mass Effect), POV Alternating, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Some Humor, Reunion Sex, Dom Kaidan Alenko, Light Dom/sub, Mutual Pining, Grief/Mourning, Misuse of Biotics, Rough Sex, Kissing, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Masturbation, Shower Sex, Choking, Dorks in Love, I Will Go Down With This Ship

[[TW/CW: Mass death, fictional war crimes, brief graphic depiction of child death, dubcon elements, alcohol use, trauma]]

[Previous Chapter]

[All Chapters]

Estimated 305,000.

The Alliance had sent Shepard to sully her soul.

Kaidan felt a cold pain spread through his body when he read the report.

Every light was shut off. They were galaxies apart.

Darkness covered where she was and where she wanted to be; the shapes and shadows among Shepard in her room and Kaidan in his were acidic like the taste in their mouths. She’d left his side to run to a massacre.

An entire relay system… just gone.

Kaidan sat up in the bed he’d shared with the person who’d done that. Cold sweat crept down his back, making the feeling of sheets unbearable against damp, bare skin. He shivered. It couldn’t be true.

Shepard’s teeth chattering had nothing to do with the chill in the room. She stood at her monitor, searching for perfect words to explain the blood soaking her hands. So close. She’d been so close to getting her life back.

Their sighs reached across space with stretched digits that never met their mark.

Just a week. Everything had fallen into her hands and fell right through in a week.

With restless fingers lingering in slow chaos, Kaidan stroked the surface of his datapad. His touch glided along the smooth glass as he lay face-up in bed, fixated on a ceiling he couldn’t see through all the darkness. The cool tablet was a tempting torture glued to his side. Absentmindedly, shape-after-shape, his fingertips skated lazily along.

Shepard squeezed hers hard into her sides, tucked tight under her arms where their force bruised the soft flesh there. Their bones poked sharply like very dull knives. Her fingers retreated from the impulse to reach out even as they itched with it.

If anyone found such magic words, how could they deserve to say them?

Shepard kept blinking at the screen, face lit bright as it glowed back with an unyielding stare. The fish tank bubbled and hummed. Low light danced off it, making the room dizzy. Her throat was sharp and when she swallowed, the sting of it shut her eyes.

Kaidan opened his to the void, his quarters as dark as the view under his lids. It was disorienting to open them and see nothing. He couldn’t feel his body, couldn’t even feel his own breathing. It wasn’t quite disappointment, or shock. It was… it was like she’d left him all over again. But more; dying and betraying.

And loving.

Very deeply.

Homesick. It was homesick.

Shepard reached down and snatched a glass off her desk. Kaidan leaned over and grabbed a near-empty bottle from his bedside table. Solar systems apart, they each took a desperate sip from something strong, anxious hands clutching the lie of an escape. Kaidan frowned before he gulped the remnants of his; Shepard tossed back the rest of hers without notice.

Batarians.

But it couldn’t have been that! She’d never—Full of civilians! And… oh god, the children…

Hackett said Shepard was a hero.

Unless she never was…

Said she deserved a medal.

Oh god…

304,942 people were dead.

He hung his head in his hands, feeling like the galaxy’s biggest fool. Whoever, or whatever, had been in his bed, it wasn’t his Shepard. Kaidan was shaking.

Across the universe, so was she; Shepard was also thinking about the children. Did their eyes have time to melt before they were turned to ashes?

The white noise from the fish tank pelted Shepard’s ears like a thousand shrieks. Her eyes stared ahead, perceiving nothing. When she focused them… those fucking model ships... She’d put so much energy into collecting those little toys! Cheap, plastic versions of the real thing.

A replica, nothing more than fantasy.

But her eyes had been the same. Everything about her had been the same. Why was she not the same? How was it possible to be so real and not the original?

A sick, creeping feeling grew from the pit of his being and wound its way around his neck. Kaidan’s deep, cavernous sigh assaulted his blaringly silent room. The end of it broke off with a shudder.

He’d really thought that was the real Shepard.

Anderson was the one who’d forwarded Kaidan the files from Hackett’s report. The message he’d sent it with read: Hackett believes in her, and so do I.

Maybe that would have been enough for him one time, but they’d hidden her return, stonewalled him. If they didn’t trust him with that information then, why should he trust what they said now? His leaders stood by her words, but her actions were unforgivable.

Hackett didn’t blame her, he’d been afraid of war. Still is. Especially now.

Then what had it been for?

He’d sent her there. A personal favor that somehow turned into saving the universe, and the sacrifice required... Humanity struck again, stole more, and she was the hand that snatched it. Their presence among the stars wrenched Batarians out of council space, directly or indirectly, and she’d personally taken away part of whatever the exiles had left.

No!

The Reapers were coming!

According to the Batarian Hegemony, civilians didn’t even make up half that number. Only about 90,000 of them were free. The rest of them were people they’d enslaved, their own species and a spattering of others. The Hegemony considered their deaths to be destruction of property.

About 215,000 stolen people, and she didn’t save them. Had any of them been hers? Is that where they—But that fear was disgusting too! How dare she feel worse if two of those 215,000 happened to be people she’d lost long ago.

She’d killed them just like the rest.

The Reapers killed them. Reapers! They were coming and they had to be stopped.

How many more would be dead? Aratoht would have been the first one hit. Her hands had to be stained; she’d chosen the path that saved more people. She’d preserved more than she’d lost!

She deserved to explain herself.

She is the real Shepard. Anderson had insisted over the comms. You of all people should know that, especially after—

But she’d die before doing something like that!

You’re not getting it, son. She saved everyone.

Not everyone.

304,942. When that number blared across the console’s display, in that very first second, she’d looked at it confidently. She always managed to save everyone.

It had been so close…

Her message never went through. And if it had? They’d already run out of time to evacuate. Two days… She’d slept away their chance.

Shepard cackled, refilling her glass just to empty it immediately. Dead was dead. They were dead because she’d failed.

She was Cerberus’ cruel joke: Destroyer of worlds.

He’d warned her Cerberus was like this. No one could walk into an organization like that without compromising who they were. Her hatred and resistance couldn’t form a barrier strong enough to keep its poison from seeping through.

Not Cerberus. It had been Hackett, the Alliance, who’d sent her there.

They should have never left bed. Heaven existed there, and Hell waited everywhere else. For one moment they didn’t have to move on. They could cling to each other and continue living.

The blight that had blocked their sun was nestling back into place.

Shepard couldn’t stop her body from brimming with the memory of his touch.

Aching for it felt ridiculous, but it didn’t stop her thighs from creeping into Kaidan’s head. How they felt, the way they looked under his hands as he stroked along them, the way they tasted.

It was impossible now. They were hard people in a hard world. Rough and ragged, they lifted everyone else’s heaviness on their shoulders and carried along, alone.

Shepard took another sip but forgot how to swallow. She spit out her drink and coughed, covering herself in the rejected mouthful. She asked the ghosts if she looked pathetic.

Kaidan clutched his datapad, holding it in front of him. Shepard put her fingers on her keyboard.

Maybe it was just a message away.

They each took a deep sigh. The same few seconds in the universe passed.

Kaidan pressed the tablet tight against his chest. Shepard took her finger away from the keys.

No. No, that would be the very worst thing to do.

He needed to pay attention to the facts. Hackett and Anderson were blinded by sentiment, so he had to resist or there’d be no one left. Kaidan had to keep his head.

It wasn’t about caring for her. Anderson and Hackett were generals who’d lost sight of the cost in face of the result. They didn’t care how she did it, just that she did it.

Shepard was part of that world now, the galactic political machine. Maybe always had been. Whether for Cerberus, the Alliance, or the Council, she was somebody’s tool. It would have made her laugh if she could laugh. Like Thane, she was a weapon. Unlike Thane, she felt the blame was still on her.

Whether a mass murderer or a lie, Shepard still sat in his skin. She’d seen him so recent; her cells could still be mixed up with his. The heaviness in his heart would lighten at the thought, then plummet with reality. But for that second… It wasn’t what she did, it was who she was.

That’s why Kaidan couldn’t talk to her; it really didn’t matter what she did.

And it made him feel very sick.

But not as sick as her.

The remnants of her haunted Kaidan from under his bed. He hadn’t washed her clothes yet—his clothes that she wore while she was with him. They sat there underneath in a pile that was unlike him. He’d moved them from their place on his pillow as soon as he heard the news.

And who would he be to grab one last smell? He found himself a monster kneeling at the side of his bed, reaching for Shepard. His deep breath was like a sob as he said goodbye. And then, with that final sensory memory tucked away, he finally threw her in the hamper.

Shepard opened a drawer in her desk with reverence.

She still hadn’t thrown it away, his hair. That one strand, her creepy treasure. A stray bit of Kaidan that landed on her. This was all she’d ever have of him now. The hair and the picture, her beloved Cerberus threat.

She took good care of her crumbs, so she didn’t lose them too. The picture she never touched or placed anything nearby. And the hair she kept tucked away safe, except for moments like these when she just held it and stared.

304,942 bodies bled between them within the same week they’d spent together. Or just about.

Kaidan tossed his datapad under the bed, not trusting himself to keep it nearby.

Shepard shut down her monitor and turned lifelessly to another task.

She found him just to lose him.

Shepard had forgotten who she was. Cerberus made it so explicit, but the Council and the Alliance... It was all screaming loud in her face. Anderson wasn’t her father, and Hackett wasn’t her grandfather. Even the lives she’d saved; those people didn’t know her, didn’t take care of her. They just continued living while she did all the work and bared the burden of all the consequences.

Used. There was that word. It was the weight scattered in pockets under their nerves and sitting on their stomachs.

What did Cerberus want from him? Sure, Kaidan had dealt a few big blows, but not enough to make things this personal. And why would they go through so much trouble to create a genocidal sex bot that was indistinguishable from the real thing?

But why would Shepard let him believe all this time—love someone she wasn’t? If she wasn’t the real Shepard… then those couple days had been a deception. Cerberus had… But if it was the real Shepard who’d done that, then she wasn’t the person he’d loved. Being between both possibilities left him feeling the effects of both.

Shepard hoped that, somehow, he knew the truth of it. That what he felt for her and knew of her was strong enough to see through everything she was forced to do. Maybe then…

Aragn oil and sweat, the scent he left on clothes and sheets. His thumb in the crook of her thigh, breath hot on her neck. The deep, clear amber of his eyes drinking her in, sinking her being into his. A fire, a hearth, a wave of the impossible—

She knew what she had to do. She just wasn’t strong enough to do it.

But that’s what Kaidan was always good for, giving Shepard the push she needed. He reached under his bed and took back the datapad. It was like someone else was doing it, and he felt it happen to their body. Reaching, grabbing, pulling, typing.

He watched it appear on the line, the only thing he could manage to send: Why?

The notification made Shepard jump and turn to the monitor like it possessed her. She didn’t know what she'd expected, and stared at the single word splayed across her screen.

Then she did what she always did when the moment was too big to handle. Bad poetry here we go… and sent her reply.

She didn’t wait for him to respond, just shut off her monitor, buried her treasure back in the drawer, and walked away.

Kaidan didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that. He couldn’t take his eyes off the screen, as if looking longer would answer all his questions.

Instead, the words just sat there on the page, and they didn’t even sound like she’d wrote them.

They just said: Eurydice looks back.

[All Chapters]

#shenko #angst #estrella shepard #kaidan alenko #Mass Effect #mass effect 2 #arrival dlc #full fic #fshenko #kaidan x shepard #Shepard x Kaidan #weekend fic #BrishFics

[karizard-ao3]

Once again, I should be trying to finish up my wip but it was a long day and the Google Docs app was all fucky, so I couldn't work on it during my breaks at work, and I think I just need a few minutes to get into a writing headspace. So, how about instead of working on my fic I write about it?

My two greatest struggles in writing (besides creating a structured outline) are coming up with a title and describing the contents of the fic. I don't do those photo collages that people like to put with their fics, but I probably couldn't do a good one of those either. Where would I even start to know what pictures to use? I'm useless. I see these people posting their updates with their gorgeous collages and these lyrical synopses and I'm over here like, "So, um, in this fic Eren and Mikasa are, like, into each other? But they're also dumb?"

Side bar: My kid just informed me he found a Lego on the ground but he put it away so neither the cat nor I would choke on it. So thoughtful.

Anyway, so in my wip Eren and Mikasa are, like, into each other?

Essentially, Mikasa is a bit of a fuckgirl, and by a bit I mean she is absolutely the biggest fuckgirl at school (college). She doesn't date, she doesn't do romance, and she definitely does not do commitment. Along comes Eren Jaeger, wife guy in training, who has had a handful of serious girlfriends in the past and can't do casual to save his life. They meet. Sparks fly. Mikasa is suspicious of the sparks. Eren thinks they're neat. They decide that maybe they can meet halfway and casually date. Maybe.

Then, to complicate things more, throw in doppelgangers from other universes, a stalker, a potential cheating scandal, amnesia, Mikasa's former fuck buddy Colt Grice, three secret boyfriends, Eren's former girlfriend and current romantic rival Historia Reiss, violent nightmares, Eren's soccer teammate and other current romantic rival Jean Kirschtein, widespread and flagrant misuse of Hange's insomnia medication, a smidge of bi panic, and don't even get me started on Armin, and you've got... something I cannot for the life of me describe succinctly.

Honestly, I might need to change the title of the fic to Clusterfuck. (I'm not going to. But it's tempting.)

So yeah. That's the fic. Worst case I'll just copy/paste that description into AO3 when the time comes, I guess. But also, wouldn't it be cool if I could write something artsy?

#wip stuff #writing wip #fic writing #aot #eremika #fanfic #current wip

[omni-scient-pan-da]

I was talking to May about art and writing, because I am very much a writer and May is an artist, and how we both are just in awe of the other art form because neither of us wants to tempt the devil and try and be good at both

And like, idk, I always used to be jealous of my sister, who is also an artist, because she would just create these masterpieces, she'd think of an image and just be able to draw it as she got good enough to not have to constantly look up references

And when she was done you could just... See the art she had created

When I finished writing a piece, I'd have to convince someone in my family to take the time to sit down and read what I wrote, not to mention it might not be in their particular genre, or it might not be as good as I thought it was and be totally unclear to the reader what's going on

But my sister? She could just hold up her really cool drawing of an angel and we'd all be like "woah, holy shit, that's a really cool angel" and immediately be able to appreciate the time and effort she put into her drawing

But then I thought about it, and like, I posted a Christmas fic to ao3 a couple weeks ago, and I got a comment that said someone was going to make it their yearly tradition to read my fic (which is the biggest accomplishment ever in my opinion) and it made me think about like

Yeah art gets the immediate value of being seen and people being to appreciate it, instead of people seeing a fanfic that's thousands of words long and being like "I'm not reading that" but writing gets people to come back to it

How many times have I seen a cool art piece, reblogged it once, and then continued to go on about my day? I'll bookmark a piece of art sometimes and come back to it when it's a really impactful piece but I don't come back to it to appreciate it

I don't look at it a second time and zoom in on the small details and wonder how many hours it took the artist to get it right or how frustrated they must have gotten and almost given up but pushed through anyways to post a piece of art

The only time I see people coming back to art is when they want to demand more of the artist, make it similar enough that I still like it but new enough that I'll be impressed by something different

I dunno it made me think of how I look at art differently and I think I'm going to start reblogging art pieces when I see them and then queuing them to reblog again for a year later, because I think everyone deserves to have their art looked at more than once no matter what piece of media it's made on

And I think instead of just being like "Woah cool art" when I see cool art and reblogging, I'm going to reblog and then take the time to really look at the art piece that someone has taken the time to work hard on and post

And that's not exactly something I can show the artist that I'm trying to appreciate their art ""more"" whatever that means, because it's not going to give them another like or a reblog by another blog but I mean... I dunno

It feels like taking the time to appreciate art is worth it anyways, especially in this day and age when you get people with nfts and ai art stealing artists hard work

I dunno if this makes any sense but from a humble writer in awe of the things all artists create, thank you for what you do, and I promise to appreciate your works more <3

#panda posts #art #art positivity #textpost #artist appreciation #art appreciation #writer artist solidarity #artist writer solidarity

[portlandwithyou]

I get extremely sentimental when I see works that have been orphaned on AO3. I always wonder what that author’s doing now, why they chose to orphan something.

Did they believe themselves to be a different person, different from the one who wrote the story?

Was embarrassment? Of the fact it’s fanfiction? Of the quality of the work?

But if they had a problem with quality why not simply delete it? A certain fondness for that different version of themselves?

Or perhaps it was external pressures- society? Family? A falling out with that fandom at large?

I was tempted at one point to do the same with my oldest Sherlock fic. For me it was a mixture of things- I was 17 when I wrote it and when I read it that fact is apparent to me. But also I had quietly moved away from the fandom after season two; I had a lot of life happening obviously and I didn’t know how I felt about the show anymore. And then there was the cool factor, because when I got to college it was pretty clear to the people around me that Sherlock was a lot of things I didn’t know about or think about then. Some of their criticism was good and some was bad. It was queerbaiting. It was racist. It was poorly written. It was precocious in an unbecoming way. And I’d burn with embarrassment knowing that these people would think less of me if they knew about that fanfic sitting out there on the open web.

But I was stopped from doing that by something YouTuber CGP Grey said. I can’t remember if it was in a video or a blog post or maybe even on my beloved and much missed Hello Internet. In any case, he proposed the idea that the concept of you is always dying. That people change so much their former selves can become alien. It helped me come to peace with that version of myself that had been frozen in time via a published work. It reminded me that I can never go back to being that person. It made me want to preserve it for a time when I could be kinder to myself.

So I didn’t orphan the work. I let it sit there. Now, nearly 11 years after publication I can even say I feel a certain fondness for it. It’s not perfect and I’d never publish it today but I can respect the teenage version of myself who took one of many fics she wrote and finally put it up on the internet.

I hope the authors who orphaned their works are doing well. I hope they can find a small spark of pride for their work. I hope they feel some joy that what they wrote is still out there being read and being loved.

#I'm in that kind of a mood #fandom #fanfiction