What was it, about the “Twilight” series novels and/or films) that pinged your muse to create so many amazing fics for its fandom? Was it through your work on those stories that you started writing with Carnivorous Muffin?
I’m not a huge fan of smeyers’ books, nor of the films, but I’m a huge fan of fan-made content for “Twilight”!!!!!! Your and Carnivorous Muffin’s fics are fabulous; they’re the reason why I’m now an Aro/Carlisle shipper!
Your stories are beautifully plotted, so I wonder how you and Carnivorous Muffin come up with ideas that are so unique and canon-divergent?!
Thanks for considering my Ask!
Thank you! Look, @theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin, a thoughtful ask and praise!
And the fics all came about as a result of discussion with Muffin. The way it works when we get a little obsessed with something is that we start talking about it, and then we keep talking about it, and then ideas take form. "Hey, wouldn't it be funny if..." or just one of us having a sudden epiphany and sending the premise to the other. On occasion, anons on tumblr gave us the idea.
Yes, the Twilight fics were how Muffin and I started writing together, starting with Carlisle and Bella's Bogus Journey and then getting serious and developing the flow we have now during For the Love of a Woman.
I'm so so flattered we introduced a ship to you, and thank you for the ask!
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It's like every hair on Buck's body stands up straight all at once, goose bumps spreading across his skin as he reads the text from Maddie. She wouldn't send a question like that without a very good reason — but his day has been uneventful; he's spent the past few hours aimlessly scrolling on his phone.
The message is just … ominous. It sets off every silent alarm his body can send him. Buck sits up on the couch, spine rigid, and clicks on the notification banner, thumbing out a reply.
what do u mean?
He doesn't even give her a chance reply before he follows it up with:
????
He almost sends a third text when finally the typing dots show up — just for a split second —before they're replaced by a succint reply.
With Chris?
Buck sucks in a panicked breath. What the fuck? Something's going on with Chris? And how come Maddie knows? Another message appears.
I heard they found him. Just thought I'd check in on you
Reading the words is like — like in the movies when a bomb goes off and everything goes silent except for a steady hum ringing in your ears. A bright light. Everything combining to impair your sensory input.
Found him. Found him? Buck had no idea he needed to be found. Why were they looking? Found him where? How?
Buck doesn't have any memory of standing up, putting on his shoes, grabbing his keys and wallet, but he must have done all those things, because he finds himself outside his front door in a stupor. He shakes his head back and forth like a dog drying off in hopes that it'll clear his mind.
It doesn't, not really. But that's okay, Buck can drive the route to the Diazes' house with his eyes closed. Which. They might as well be.
He locks the door and speed walks to his truck, adrenaline still pumping through his body. His limbs are somehow both heavy and light, numb and buzzing with electricity all at once. He tears his phone out of his pocket and navigates to Eddie's contact as he gets seated, hits the call button. It connects to the Bluetooth when he powers on the truck, and the ringing echoes through the cab.
Buck backs up out of his driveway and sets out toward the Diaz house. He doesn't even know for sure that they're home, just that — he needs to be there. Needs to be with them. Knows in his bones that Chris needs him. That Eddie n — Buck's breath hitches in his throat as a thought fully forms, verbalizing the feeling that's been building in the back of his awareness since he read the text with Chris's name in it. It's: Why do I not know where they are? Why didn't Eddie call me the second he realized something was wrong?
"Hi," Eddie's voice greets.
"Eddie! What's —"
"You've reached Edmundo Diaz, leave a message."
Buck feels a shock of heat across his face, his nose wrinkling. "Fuck," he mumbles, before realizing that it's recording. "Eddie. Call me back. R-right away. I — I, I need — I need to know what's going on. Call me," he demands, as emphatically as he can, and hangs up.
He does his best to stay focused on the road, to be a defensive driver, shifting his gaze between all of his mirrors and the road in front of him. Overcompensating for how stupid — how fucking dangerous — it is to have his phone in his hand while he's actively driving.
Buck hits the call button again, and is greeted by Eddie's "you've reached Edmundo" for a second time.
After the third time the call rings out to voicemail, he jabs the red button to hang up, a frustrated noise escaping his throat. He pushes down on the gas pedal a little harder.
—
"I really get it, mijo, I do, but —"
The sound of a key in the lock draws Eddie's ear, and that deep, gutting hole of panic that only just started to abate reopens in his stomach. His head swivels toward the front door as he reaches up with both arms to shield Chris from whoever has the audacity to let themselves in.
"Dad, what the hell?" Chris says, fidgeting as Eddie pulls him in toward his body and down out of sight of the front door.
"I —"
The door bursts open, and for a terrifying moment, Eddie expects to see Abigail, or her parents, or — he's not sure, someone else from their church, maybe — but it's not any of those awful possibilities.
"Buck," Eddie gasps. He has seen Buck at so many scared, high-pressure moments, both on the job and just — in life. That must be why seeing him now feels like such a sucker punch of relief. If Buck is here, then Eddie is one half of a team. If Buck is here, he isn't alone. Eddie extends one arm over the back of the couch instinctively, reaching for Buck, still keeping Chris close with the other.
Buck's gaze flits frantically between Eddie's hand, Athena standing in the living room, Pepa in the armchair, and Chris, who wriggles his way out of Eddie's loose hold.
"Chris, oh my god!" Buck barrels toward them, grabbing Eddie's hand as he does, throwing his other arm around Chris over the back of the couch. Having Buck here, holding Eddie's hand close to his chest, squeezing it tightly, kneeling down on his bad leg to hold Eddie's son close — it's like Eddie can take his first real full breath since Chris didn't get off the school bus.
Buck pulls back, keeping his points of contact with both of them. His forehead is sweaty, his curls damp and frizzy at the same time. He's in lounge wear — Eddie recognizes the ratty T-shirt as one that Buck once promised he'd never wear out of the house, begging Eddie not to turn it into a rag or throw it away.
"Are you okay?" Buck asks Chris, but before he can answer, he turns to Eddie. "What happened? Why didn't you — why didn't you call me?" He asks it like a scorned parent talking to their ex, like he should've been involved sooner, like Eddie's not good enough to make decisions and take care of his kid on his own.
Eddie pulls his hand back. "Excuse me for calling Athena first! You know, the person with the resources to actually find my son."
Buck straightens up and meets Eddie's eyes. "Not — after that, I mean. You could have …" He trails off, drops his gaze.
"Our Christopher is home safe," Pepa says mildly from her chair. "That is what is important."
Eddie exhales, looks down at Chris. "That's right," he says.
"Right," Buck says, audibly switching gears. "How are you doing, Chris? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Chris says, and there's a stubborn edge to his voice that suggests he's already over all the fuss.
"Do you need anything? Glass of water?"
"Sure, Buck," Chris says.
Eddie waits till Buck heads off into the kitchen before sinking back onto the couch. "You okay, buddy?" he checks, once again taking in Chris's slightly rumpled outfit. "Really?"
"Still yes," Chris says, though he leans into Eddie.
Eddie lets his head fall back against the couch and he closes his eyes. Chris is safe, and close enough that Eddie can feel him breathing. Buck is here.
Buck is here, and he could have been here earlier, except Eddie scrolled through his contacts for Athena's number first thing, and then everything moved so quickly, and it wasn't like Buck could have done anything in particular to help find Chris. The professionals were on it. If Athena wouldn't let Eddie go out looking, there's no way she would have agreed to Buck searching the streets.
The truth is, as Eddie paced his house with his phone in his hand, he knew he could have called Buck. They're both on a forty-eight off. But there was a part of Eddie that thought — he didn't deserve that. The relief and strength that Buck's presence brings. The knowledge that he loves Chris, knows him almost as well as Eddie does.
That kind of comfort is for dads who don't keep losing their kid — over and over and over.
So he didn't call Buck.
And then he got a call from an unknown number and it was Chris whispering that he was at a diner with Abigail, and Eddie stopped thinking about anything except for his son in his arms. Safe.
Underneath it all, Eddie knew the news would get back to Buck at some point. Knew that as soon as he found out that Chris was gone, wild horses wouldn't stop him from rushing over here. And — even if Eddie couldn't ask for it, maybe he was counting on it, just a little. That Buck would come anyway.
What he wasn't counting on was the anger he saw on Buck's face. Anger-fear-hurt. Not calling didn't just hurt Eddie. It hurt Buck, too.
Not for the first time, Eddie wishes there was a more precise term to use for Buck in their life. Best-friend-work-partner-safe-grownup-in-Chris's-life. Pretty long to put on a form or use in an introduction. Years and years ago, it occurred to Eddie that if Buck were Catholic, he could be Chris's godfather. Instead, Eddie did the next best (secular) thing and put Buck in his will. It's not the same, though. You can't really introduce someone as your kid's guardian-in-case-I-die either.
Buck walks back into the living room, balancing two glasses of water. He hands one to Chris, and presses the other into Eddie's hands. His face has smoothed back out to worried-helpful. The hurt is just a little pinch between his eyebrows.
"Oh," Eddie says. "I didn't —"
"Hydration is the enemy of the adrenaline crash," Buck says sternly. "Drink."
As one of his first acts as Ghost King, Danny basically created ghost CPS. Mostly they help new spirits come to terms with the fact that they're dead, but situations like Danny's are a lot more common than the Observants had lead him to believe. People who come back from the dead or are exposed to large quantities of unstable ectoplasm often lead sad, short second lives. Either because they are unable to obtain the nutrients their new forms require, or because their communities turn against them in fear. This is a story about Jason Todd.
There was a lot Jazz loved about her job. She loved helping young ghosts find acceptance. She loved matching cases with foster Fraids. She loved meeting new people. She loved the rare excuse to travel dimensions. But some days, Jazz was intimately reminded of why this program was formed in the first place.
Knock, knock, knock.
Jazz looked up from her laptop. “Come in!”
Apple – the ghost of a dryad whose tree was chopped down two summers ago – poked her head in.
“Uh, Lady- I mean, Ms. Phan-, no,” Apple took a shuddering breath. Jazz smiled encouragingly. The girl had only been working here for a season, and already she was making excellent progress. “Ms. Jasmine, there’s a city spirit here to see you, uh, on behalf of a uh, potential client.”
“Thank you, Apple, you can send them in.” Jazz said.
Apple flushed green, closing the door with a sigh. Jazz guessed she had about two minutes before the impromptu meeting began. She used the time to sweep some papers off her desk and into a drawer. It had been some time since she’d had a walk-in like this. Jazz had a strict open doors policy when it came to her office, despite the technical fact that her door was often closed; it was just easier to focus that way! She had no idea why most ghosts preferred to submit claims by mail, really it was much better for them to speak with an officer in person.
Thirty years ago, Jazz would’ve had trouble describing the spirit that walked through the doors. Fifty years ago, even looking at it would’ve been painful. But Jasmine Duchess Phantom had been living in the Infinite Realms for almost eighty years now, and liminal senses reached out subconsciously, cataloging scents and colors that her mortal mind would have balked at.
The shape of a steel-colored skeleton peered out at her from a billowing cloud of grey smoke, which curled around its feet and seeped across the floor. Jazz tasted gunmetal and sugar, smelled stale urine and burned bread, felt desperation-fear-hunger-love crash violently against her. Like a cliff to a wave, Jazz stood her ground, letting herself be tested. This spirit was old and afraid; when it spoke, it spoke in a million overlapping voices.
“My apologies for barging in unannounced, Your Grace. I come before you with an issue of great import. One I have reason to believe our King may have a personal interest in.”
Jazz nodded, “My doors are always open, City Spirit. I’m always happy to help. But before I hear your petition, may I know who I am addressing?”
The skeleton did not move that she could see, but Jazz heard windchimes like chittering laughter.
“I am Gotham, Your Grace. My apologies for my rudeness. I have little reason to travel these days and am unaccustomed to necessary introductions.”
Jazz nodded, committing the name and its taste to memory. “No need to apologize, Gotham. Your situation is not unique amongst your kind. Have a seat,” Jazz gestured at the plush couch across from her desk. “What troubles you so, to bring you so far from home?”
There was more windchime tittering, and Jazz wondered if the spirit was laughing or just readjusting itself on a plane she could not see. A nervous tick, perhaps? Maybe she could send Apple for something to make Gotham feel more at ease. Bullet casings or chocolate chip cookies would be equally soothing to this entity, Jazz guessed.
Gotham folded into itself, form blurring slightly before reforming on the couch, leaned forward with elbows on knees. “Many years ago, a mortal man pledged himself to my service. I accepted him as a City Guard, my mortal Champion. This man has many children who have likewise pledged themselves to my protection.”
Jazz smothered the urge to interrupt. She loathed the idea of child Guards; the fact that this City Spirit was here now asking for help meant that this instance had gone just as well as it usually did.
Unaware of her internal judgement, Gotham continued. “The second child died and revived some seven years ago, I…” This time, the rattling sound emanating from Gotham shook the room with the force of a thunderclap. “You have to understand, I don’t claim kids as champions, so technically he was never even under my protection. And when he came back, he ran! I don’t have power outside the city, you know, so even if, well, it’s not like there was anything I could have done differently,”
Jazz was aware that she was frowning. She could only guess what her aura felt like to Gotham, whose smoky aura was rapidly thickening. A bird puffing itself up to look bigger. A cheap trick. If Jazz were in a more compassionate mood, she might have felt embarrassed at such a juvenile display from a spirit decades older than herself.
“You neglected a child, or-” she cut off Gotham before it could protest, “allowed a child to be neglected. For seven years. What changed? Why petition him now and not then?”
Gotham chittered, “Well, you see, he came back to me just over a year ago, retook his pledge and everything. And, well, things were rough, I thought the fraid was just readjusting itself, but, er-”
“Tell me.”
“Well, the problem is I don’t exactly know what the boy is anymore, but he’s more ghostly than not, and his fraid’s fully human. If this infighting between my Guards goes on for any longer, it’ll tear me apart. I figured The King might want to step in, considering this boy might be a halfa, maybe he could help him and the fraid get back to normal.”
Jazz grinned. “Rest assured, Gotham, The Crown will indeed be taking special interest in your case.” Words dripped from her lips, caustic even to her own ears. “Now, why don’t you go outside and give Apple the rest of the details. I have some visits to make.”
@jemariel and i are comin' atcha with a brand-spakin'-new destiel AU fic! dropping just... as soon... as i can... finishing... tweaking... the author's note... 😂
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Long time no see, but hi! We're making progress on Songs of Decay, our eldritch audio drama! We'll be sharing some of the process as we go into draft 4 and plan to post more on YouTube later this year!
Long lashes blink against against her cheeks and unlike all the other times, she awakes rather dully. No sound, no shock, or urgency. Just a body sitting up in its usual bed and eyes looking to the same clock hanging on the wall across from it. One that had long since stopped working, but she wished every time she awoke that it would...every time except now.
The antique hands on it frozen at twelve-fifty. A constant reminder of when her world had changed forever. That the long life she was doomed to live would be one spent alone. A curse she hadn't thought much of until she'd met him- no!
Her fingers clench around her sheets and it takes her a bit too long for one as old as she is to gather herself enough to unclench her fist and rid herself of blurring vision. She knew the stakes of falling for a mortal, had heard the stories and seen those like her drive themselves mad doing so, and while her own heart bled for what once was...she couldn't let herself sink further.
As the laws of the universe dictated- they were gone and she remained. As it was always meant to be.
Still, as she forced herself out of bed once more- despite the wish to bury herself back in the covers that had long since lost his scent, her eyes lingered on the clock. It was his favorite and his one and only gift to her. One he had said would bring her joy in his absence and held a secret that she would one day find. But she had lived through forty mortal lifetimes and had found not a single one.
Yet, this didn't stop her from walking over to it. Gliding her fingers over the crystal like surface, and pressing her forehead to the deep golden frame. She would have to clean herself soon and wander into the- what was it now? A village? A city? She could not keep up with the many changes the mortals seemed desperate to make, eager to cram what little their life spans would allow into objects time would demolish and rebuild anew, leaving no trace of their existence like they had hoped.
There is a tightness in her chest and she sighs. "At least I could keep you." Her only act of defiance to the wills of those above. Time was allowed to take everything...his scent, his smile, what clothing he'd left, the letters he wrote. Even his full memory could not be preserved, but this clock...the clock was the only thing time had been unable to claim.
Pulling away, her fingers gliding off of it, and makes her way to a door on the left side of the room. Pushing it open she steps in side. A marble sink sits in the middle of the room, her reflection greets her in a mirror that hangs just above it. To her right is another door that leads to the toilet and to her left is a glass door shower. The black and grey tile under her feet is cool to the touch, but she doesn't jerk away and instead walks forward, bending low to reach under the sink cabinet. Reaching into a bucket and pulling out a rag, before grabbing a bottle that holds strange blue liquid. A mixture he took time to teach her and she'd never forgotten.
Finally she straightens and heads back into her bedroom and as if to further prove her defiance, she sprays the blue liquid, that somehow comes out clear against the crystal face of the clock, and begins to wipe at it with a rag. Humming to herself. The tune sad, but her eyes held too much joy as she did so for it to be truly sorrowful.
edited a conversation between two of our characters into something passable as an excerpt! this is being cowritten so not all words are mine. context: bonding between two outlaws on the run from the crime syndicate run by mara's father. she used to work as a smuggler traveling between atlantis and earth.
After a moment of pondering, Ry decided to switch topics. They could come back to the discussion of families later. Enough had been said on that for the moment in his opinion.
"You mentioned your mother's family is in Aegina, so I assume you crossed the portal at least twice? What's it really like?
"Oh, I've crossed a number of times," Mara said with a wry laugh. "It's like..."
How to put it into words? The nothing, the everything. The creaking of wood. The pressure in the back of one's mind, so tight you can feel it crawling up your throat. Her visible eye darkened as she thought of it, hunger and fear both.
"It's like nothing else. My mom was afraid of it, that's why she never went back. It fills you up."
Ry shivered as he listened to Mara describe the space between the worlds. He had always wondered what it was like, but had never been brave enough to attempt the crossing. And Mara had done it several times? She was made of stern stuff.
"Do you have any particularly memorable crossings? Any encounters that stood out?"
Mara tilted her head and bit her lip as she thought. Every encounter was memorable, in its own way. In its own, horrifying way. She sorted through her memories, tossing aside anecdotes that might give Ry trouble sleeping the next night.
"Once I thought I saw myself," she said after some time had passed with her limping along. "A rare time in which a group was passing the other way at the same time as us. From Aegina, I think. They all had hoods on, eyes on the ground—the smartest way to do it—but one looked up as they passed. We made eye contact. And I swear... Two preserve me. I swear it was my own face under that hood."
