#marrieddorks

Zeitnot by thereshaegoes

I love the idea of time travel, so when I read this fic’s summary I bookmarked it instantly. At first, I thought it was going to be eight chapters of Laurent waking up the day of the battle of Marlas, but the author really surprised me.

I loved that someone died at the end of each chapter (at first, at least) but what really made me go ‘oh’ is when Lauret realizes the Damen from “this new reality” is, in fact, his Damen! 

Damen not being with Jokaste was weird to me, but I shrugged it off as a personal choice the author had made. Then, when Damen was talking about abolishing slavery, I was still in denial. ‘Oh, well, some people don’t like to write Damen as a slave owner, which is cool’. And then, when the big reveal finally came, I was just… amazed. I literally put my phone down and went, ‘okay, this person really knows what they’re doing when it comes to writing’. 

I love the little plot twists. In my head, a plot twist most basic example is ‘oh, X is a traitor’ but… this? This is so much better.

Between the Shadow and the Soul by Anonymous

This work was… insanely refreshing, innovative, transgressive, and outrageously good. It does feature a lot of sex scenes, but at the same time, it felt like sex was the least important part of the story. I don’t know how to explain myself when it comes to this fic (and God knows I’ve tried) but… The sex scenes aren’t there just for the smut of it all, if that makes any sense. 

Auguste as a narrator is so unusual, and yet it made the fic so painful and enjoyable! I loved the way it left you wondering just how accurate his POV was. I loved the sex scenes with actual characterization. This author never, not even for one second, stopped focusing on the dynamic between Laurent, Auguste, and Damen. It could be argued that the Laurent/Auguste bit weighted more than the overall OT3 bit, but still… I had literally forgotten what sex scenes were for until I read this fic.

Sex scenes, especially in this particular work, are not parentheses in the story. They’re not there for the reader to take a break from the “actual plot” or “narration”. They are what holds the story together, and they’re opportunities for the reader to learn more about the characters

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Cherry Wine by SteeleStingray

Yes, I’m back on my bullshit. Yes, I’m talking about CW again. But I’ll make it short because there is no way you don’t know how I feel about this work. If you don’t, check out this comment (which, by the way, is not even a fraction of what I wanted to say to the author when I read the fic). 

What I found innovative and made me go “is this allowed?” about CW is not the idea of an OT3, but rather this particular take on a relationship that consists of three people. I’ve read a few published books that feature similar couples (all of them suck, and when I say they suck I mean it) so I was very hesitant to read this because of that reason. 

Usually, when people write OT3 they pepper in a lot of stuff I don’t like to read about: extreme jealousy, misunderstandings, cheating, weird dynamics that feel stilted, awkward sex scenes where one of the three just sits in a chair and watches the other two like some voyeur from Juan José Saer’s stories. Guess what doesn’t happen in CW? 

Another thing I liked about this work is that it reminded me that themes in fiction aren’t limited to one specific work. This author really likes nicknames. At the time, when I had only read CW, I thought it was just a one-time thing. Turns out, it’s not. An emerald-coloured nightmare also features nicknames. I like this idea that you can tell who wrote something based on little details and narrative choices. It’s like the author is winking at you, going ‘ha, did you get it?’

Ink on Paper by deripmaver

I don’t usually like fics with non-linear narrative because I’m a lazy bitch who can’t keep up. I’d never really seen the point in using flashbacks, scenes from the past, or anything like that because my writing style (oh, fuck off, my writing style, who the fuck do I think I am) is more about references. And then I read this fic. And I was like, ‘okay, I’ve seen the light of not writing everything linearly like an idiot’. 

The Mannequin Gallery by marrieddorks

Yes, I realize I’m talking about all my favorite fics. I feel no shame.

This fic is a Modern AU. Everyone who has ever written a Modern AU knows that one of the trickiest parts is finding characters professions that make sense with who they are/what they like/what they’re good at. This story features Damen as an influencer. That’s it, that’s my whole tweet. 

It reminded me that even when you’re writing a Modern AU (or any sort of AU, really) it’s important to know what the essence of the characters you’re writing is. The way even Jord’s job makes sense… And how it feels like the author didn’t just steal the characters’ names and use them to create a random story (which is valid, too)... and… Okay, this has nothing to do with a plot twist or a narrative device but have you read this Nicaise? Have you? You haven’t read Nicaise until you’ve read this fic.

(and that's why) you're so beautiful now by iwasgonegonegone

This fic is 612 words. It has no plot. One of the tags reads, “listen they're in love and they're cute and that's all i have to say” and I… yes. This fic inspired me to write plot-less stories again. Not only that, it made me enjoy writing them. 

Lately, I’ve been talking to a friend of mine about a new pairing we both like a lot. We go back and forth for hours sometimes just talking about what they’d do, details about the worldbuilding, a billion ‘what-ifs’... and I love it. If one of us sat down to write a story based on all our conversations, it would be a character study fic. It would have, maybe, some plot to it, but… Plot would feel like an excuse to talk about their relationship. And I love that. I fucking hate plot, I hate it, and this… Yes. This fic is like a little slice of life. The author has mentioned before that they enjoy writing poetry (more than longer pieces of fiction) and this story reads like a poem. You know when you read a poem and you get this weird tingly feeling? Read this and feel that, you’re welcome.

The Life We Live by homewithyou

I’ve said before that I don’t go looking for mpreg. Sometimes, mpreg has come looking for me, and I’ve closed my door on its face. I read this fic mainly because I never pay attention to the tags on AO3 (healthy, I know) and I was too busy making myself toast to read the summary. 

I was five paragraphs in and this bit hit me like a fucking electric hammer to the head: “...which had been going haywire more often than not since the pregnancy began five months ago.” I was like, ‘wait, did I—am I reading—why am I—’ and then I just shut my mouth and continued reading. I’m glad I did. I’m glad I didn’t let my narrowmindedness stop me from giving this fic a try. I’m glad people out there are writing stories that they enjoy, about topics a few others would deem controversial. 

This also applies to the Lamen/Auguste fic I mentioned above. What’s the point of writing if you’re not going to take risks and be honest about what you like to write about? It takes honesty and commitment to write anything that strays from the norm. And so I’m glad this person posted this story, because it changed me in a small way (‘what if I shut the fuck up and read more mpreg instead of instantly clicking out?’).

This is another perfect example of how plot is poison and you don’t need it in your life (unless you enjoy poison. In that case consume the plot, write the plot, sniff the plot. And die). A morning in bed, just nuzzling and talking… living life… Again, this made me realize that you can say a lot about two characters just from a morning in bed. It made me want to write 25 pages of dialogue in bed (this and Manuel Puig’s book titled Kiss of the spider woman, which I recommend fervently). 

Plot? In this house? We don’t know her. You’re a strong, independent writer. You don’t need no plot.

For a more general response, I’d say that Steele’s worldbuilding is impeccable and made me look at the setting of stories differently. 

Foreshadowing is always amazing, but I haven’t read a lot of fics where it’s a prominent element (which is not to say authors aren’t good at it, I just don’t read enough fics to give you a good example of this). 

I really like oxymorons and when writers use funny adverbs. GallaPlacidia’s adverbs are to die for, so definitely check out her stories if you’re interested in that. 

I also love the way xlydiadeetz writes archs. She does this thing where she divides the story into different… timelines? archs? I… don’t even know. Amazing.

Jensen’s talking to himself in the bathroom, nothing Jared can actually hear but it’s got that sharp quality of a bad day boiling over. Jared sighs, stretches his legs out and crosses them at the ankles. “How’d your students do on their final?” he says.

“Christ, don’t get me started.”

“That bad, huh?” The Sixers draw another foul and he watches them all square up for the free throws. He wishes he had a beer, but they’ve both been too busy to shop for the past few days. “Is this the behavioral class, or the principles kids?”

“Karla hasn’t finished grading the behavioral exams—it’s the principles class that sucks. Of course, it always is.” Jensen comes out of the bathroom, then, just a towel around his waist, and heads over to the big dresser they share to rifle through for underwear or pants or something, who knows. Jared watches his back move, the game completely forgotten. This is a much better show. “I had this girl email me, asking me to please give her a C, because—I don’t even remember, but I looked up her class score and she earned a 42. I don’t get why these kids think they’re gonna be econ majors when they can’t pass the first class.”

“It’s a mystery,” Jared agrees, calmly. Not the first time he’s heard this one. Jensen slants a glance over his shoulder, and Jared shrugs, all innocence, and Jensen rolls his eyes and grabs whatever he was grabbing, goes back into the bathroom.

Halftime on the game and Jared girds himself, heaves off the bed. His hair—well, it looks how it always looks. He pulls on the nice jeans, the ones Jensen got him for Christmas last year, and a dark soft sweater, good belt, dress boots that Leila from the department complimented him on at the new faculty welcome dinner they’d gone to, when they first arrived. “Hey,” he says, zipping them up, “didn’t you say Leila’s pregnant, again? Do they know yet if it’s a girl or a boy?”

“Girl,” Jensen says. When Jared goes into the bathroom Jensen’s frowning at his hair in the mirror, a navy blue button-down hanging open over his pale chest. Jared finds his cologne in the drawer on his side of the sink, watches Jensen fuss. When it’s summer they need to get home to Texas, get a tan back on that skin. He misses the shoulder freckles. Jensen lets out a short frustrated breath and apparently gives up, though his hair looks fine to Jared. “They should name the baby Thank God for the Delay on My Tenure Clock Abramovitz.”

“I don’t think that’ll fit on the birth certificate,” Jared says, and Jensen snorts, leaning in close to the mirror to look at some imaginary spot. His face is still set into grim lines, though, not really laughing, and Jared knows that Jensen actually does like Leila but you couldn’t tell from how he’s acting.

Back in the bedroom, Jared flicks through some playlists on his phone and then sets it in the stereo cradle, presses play. Jensen vocally hates bright poppy Christmas music, and Jared calls him a Grinch for it but secretly agrees. They compromise on this: the hymns they grew up with done in soft instrumentals, cello and piano and harp. No singing, but Jared can hear the words in his head anyway, and he turns the volume up just enough that Jensen should be able to hear it in the bathroom. He goes and leans against the big window, watches the snow fall. His shoulders are starting to feel tight, and he closes his eyes.

“Damn it,” he hears, sharp. Jensen’s nervous for no reason. His colleagues are relatively easy to get along with and this is just a party at the chair’s house, same as last year. Just one difference.

“Do you not want me to come?” Jared says.

There’s a thump, behind him. “No—what?”

Jared takes a deep breath and turns around, sits down on the window seat. Jensen’s dressed, now, neat pressed slacks and the argyle sweater Jared makes fun of pulled over the top of his button-down, his hair perfectly mussed, his eyes startled. “I don’t need to go,” Jared says. “If it’ll be easier for you.”

“What are you—” Jensen starts, shaking his head, and then his expression clears. “Oh—god, are you talking about Walker?”

The particularly crotchety, unfortunately tenured prick who made what Jensen referred to as a comment after the welcome dinner, but Jensen refused to elaborate on what exactly he said. Jared couldn’t make it to last year’s party, since his own at the firm was the same night and he couldn’t miss a major social event in his first year. This is the first time since then he’s coming to a department event, as Jensen’s giant obviously male date. “I’m not trying to be an equality activist here,” Jared says, shrugging. Jensen frowns. “If it’s too much, if you don’t want to be obvious at work, I’m okay with that. If that’s why you’re—”

He waves a hand vaguely, and Jensen’s frown just deepens. “I’m being a prick, is what you’re saying, and you’re trying to give me an out?”

Jared shrugs, jaw set. “Being kind of a bitch, is actually what I’d say.”

He hadn’t quite realized that he was this irritated. The current song ends and his phone starts playing a soft version of I’ll Be Home for Christmas, and Jensen rolls his eyes but also walks straight across the rug in his socked feet and goes to his knees between Jared’s spread legs. Jared blinks, but Jensen only lays his hands on Jared’s knees, slides his hands up to his hips, his elbows resting easy on the tops of Jared’s thighs. When he finally looks up and meets Jared’s eyes, he looks chagrined. “I want you to know something,” he says.

“What,” Jared says. It’s a struggle to be irritated with Jensen in this position—he’s got too many good memories associated with it. Pavlov’s domestic partner.

Jensen squeezes his hips through the layer of his jeans, his tucked-in sweater. “If I ever let my behavior be affected by fucking Walker,” he says, “I have had my brain dissolved by undergraduates and you should just put me out of my misery.” Jared huffs, and Jensen’s eyes crinkle just a bit at the corners. “I’m serious. You know, it’ll have been a good run, but—sunk cost fallacy. It’s not worth going on if I ever actually start paying attention to Captain Homophobe, we’ll just have to cut our losses.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jared says, making his voice serious, and Jensen smiles at him, even though it’s small. Captain Homophobe, he thinks, and tucks that away. It’s the most he’s gotten out of Jensen since the comment and he wants to ask what that means, but he knows he won’t get an answer. Maybe he can find some way to unobtrusively break Walker’s wrist if they have to shake hands at the party. He leans back against the big poofy pillow in the window seat and Jensen pulls back a little, folds his arms over Jared’s thighs. “So. What’s the deal.”

“It’s—” Jensen shakes his head, drops his eyes so he’s looking through Jared’s stomach. He licks his lips. “Nothing. I mean, not one thing. I’ve got that paper to finish with Traeger, and students are annoying, and Karla is a sweet TA but her paper proposal sucks and I don’t know how to help her fix it without just giving her an idea, and it’s Christmas in like ten days and I still don’t have anything for your dad that will magically make him like me, and I can’t crap out a baby to push my tenure clock back and I’m worried I won’t get anything significant published in the next three years and then, god, who knows what.”

Jared wraps a hand around Jensen’s where it’s fisted against his thigh, and Jensen glances up at him, shakes his head again. “I’m just—bitching,” he says, and pinches Jared’s thigh, and Jared obligingly says ow. Jensen smiles, and leans down to kiss the spot he pinched, a little warm press through Jared’s jeans. “Honest. That’s what I mean. It’s not—anything, really. Just a shitty day, and I’m stressed, and I’m taking it out on you, and now I’m going to make you go to my stupid work party with me, and I feel like an asshole.”

“They’ll probably have wine?” Jared tries.

“I’d rather have about a twelve-pack of Shiner right now,” Jensen says, but he’s watching Jared’s face. After a long moment, the stereo pulsing out a slow jazzy version of the chestnuts roasting song, he sits further back on his heels, puts his hands back on Jared’s knees. “Okay?”

It’s a more serious question than it should be. A little lump rises in Jared’s throat, but he swallows it away. “Yeah,” he says, and takes Jensen’s hands in both of his, helps pull him to his feet and then lifts him by the waist, tugs him in quick with a startled oof and gets a lapful of—boyfriend, for lack of a better word, but that doesn’t seem sufficient. Jensen clings to him for a second, startled, and then wriggles his weight into a more comfortable position. Jared hooks his hands behind the small of his back so he doesn’t overbalance and Jensen leans into it, makes enough space between them that he can look down into Jared’s face.

He’s so beautiful. Jared doesn’t say that out loud, much, not least because it makes Jensen flush and then hit him, but it’s true. Almost five years together and he’s still amazed, sometimes. Jensen left his top button undone and Jared carefully brings a hand up, parts the shirt more so he can see the soft hollow of his throat. Leans in and kisses there, and feels Jensen’s heart beat solid and steady under his skin.

A hand cards through his hair, soothing. “I was thinking,” Jensen says, and Jared lays his forehead against his collarbone, hums in response. Jensen’s fingers work against his scalp, long dragging pulls, and it’s draining the tension out of his shoulders. “Maybe, when I get back from the conference in January, we could look into getting a dog.”

Jared pulls back. Jensen lets him, but he keeps his hand in Jared’s hair. “But—” he says, and shakes his head. “We talked, about—how it wasn’t fair, in the apartment, and you had that whole speech about picking up dog shit in the snow.”

“I still think it sounds like hell, yes,” Jensen says. He tucks Jared’s hair behind his ear, drags his thumb over his fresh-shaven jaw. “But then I thought, well. I can deal with hell. And I thought, hey. It’d make you happy.” He shrugs, thumb still moving idly against Jared’s jaw. “Seems like as good a reason as any.”

Jared covers Jensen’s hand, turns his head and presses a kiss into the palm. “Jen,” he says, kind of helpless. “You—really? You’ve been thinking about this?”

“That weird-shaped present under the tree is a leash,” Jensen says, smiling down at him. “So you can stop making filthy guesses about harnesses or whatever, freak.”

“That totally won’t stop the filthy guesses,” Jared promises, and then leans up and kisses him, for real, sliding both hands up his back to keep him in place. Jensen’s mouth parts all startled under his, but he’s as sweet as ever, plush mouth and tender lips, mint on his tongue. Jensen fists both hands into his hair and holds on, lets Jared control the kiss, and Jared wishes very much, just now, that they didn’t have a work function to get to. When he finally pulls back, Jensen’s mouth is a pretty damp red, his cheeks flushed. He runs a thumb over the lovely swell of Jensen’s bottom lip, takes a deep breath. “When we get home,” he says, flicking his eyes up to Jensen’s. “I’m going to lay you out and show you how thankful I am for my present.”

He’s half-hard just imagining it—the snow outside and the two of them warm together, and the half-light from their lamps, Jensen’s skin creamy pale against their dark blue sheets. He’s going to take his time, like they haven’t been able to for weeks and weeks.

Jensen’s eyes are dark, and he kisses the pad of Jared’s thumb—but then he climbs backward off his lap, takes a visible deep breath and glances at his watch. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says, and he’s so flushed and perfect that Jared surges to his feet and kisses him one more time, leaning down and cupping his face between his palms.

The snow’s not too deep, but it’s still freezing, and Jensen tugs on his boots while Jared grabs their coats and scarves. Jensen’s phone beeps just as Jared’s putting on his gloves and that means the cab’s waiting downstairs, and they’re almost out the door when Jared realizes what he’s hearing. “Shit, hang on,” he says, and trots back through the apartment to the bedroom where his phone’s still pumping out music—Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, now, cut off in the middle when he yanks the phone out of the holder and shoves it in his pocket. Jensen’s already called the elevator, and so it’s only a few seconds for Jared to lock the door and then they’re in the car by themselves, sliding down to the snowy Chicago street outside. Jared watches the numbers tick down, like he always does, and so it’s a surprise when Jensen’s gloved hand finds his and squeezes it, briefly. Jensen’s not the hand-holding type.

When he looks over, Jensen’s still just a bit flushed, or maybe he’s flushed for some other reason. He takes his hand away and shoves it into his coat pocket. “Love you,” he says, watching the falling numbers on the display.

Jared looks at his profile for a second, traces the perfect lines of it, and then leans over and kisses his temple, soft, just once. “How much trouble do you think I’d be in if I poured snow down Walker’s pants?” he says, and grins when Jensen lets out a bright startled laugh. “Tis the season, right? Snowball fight at the faculty party?”