#really avoiding work today

[anna-s-themoonbar]

18,49!

more fic asks here

18. If you wrote a sequel to [insert fic], what would it involve?

Pretty sure you were supposed to specify sweet anon, but what the hell, I'll guess you're asking about no smoke without you, since that's the one that seems like the most obvious request (or maybe you've dug really deep into my ao3 history and you're asking about Gilmore Girls; I don't know your life).

Honestly, I like a somewhat hopeful open ending, so I probably wouldn't write a sequel. I've flirted with the idea of an Ilya-accompaniment, but I'm a little nervous to know what's going on in that boy's brain. Nothing good, I suspect. TLG-style lows without most of the highs.

49. What are you currently working on? Share a few lines if you’re up for it!

I have 12,000 words written on that last year in Boston and Ilya grappling with a new identity, but it's missing a cohesive theme and a narrative drive. Plus, I keep reading stories I love that already capture that era perfectly, so it may get relegated to the fanfic graveyard while I let this grimy winner's room concept take over my brain. Boston-year excerpt below.

(unrelated question: how do you write a winner's room trope with minimal sex? Asking for a friend).

“What if they are not interested?” he asks. It’s the first time he’s allowed himself to voice this thought. He doesn’t like to spot flaws in their plan; better to have faith or at the very least, show faith. 

“Of course they’re interested. You would be the best thing to happen to Ottawa sports in – you would be the best thing that ever happened to Ottawa.” 

“Not every team likes my reputation. Just, if they did say no, what would you do? Would you play for one of the New York teams? Would I go to Toronto?”

Shane frowns at him. “I don’t – I think New York’s cap – look, there’s no way Ottawa will say no. 

"This is going to work. It’s a good plan,” he says. 

Shane's face is fixed with his trademark look of blunt-edged determination, the same one that carried his team to two Stanley Cups. Somebody else might find it overwhelming to be the subject of all that focus, but Ilya is used to absorbing the expectations of others. 

Shane’s arms tighten around Ilya’s waist.  “And neither one of us are going to fucking Toronto.”  

“One year,” echoes Ilya. One year. He’s lived through a lot of bad years. He was twelve once, and after that he was thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. 

For one more year, he will be Boston’s Ilya Rozanov. He was his mother’s first and ever since then he’s been selling himself to the highest bidder. 

Ungrateful boy, loyal to nothing, his father always said, and maybe it was true, because next year he will belong to somebody else again. But he never knew until now how sweet it could taste to give himself away for nothing at all.